Anyway, this particular setback to my innocence happened on a rainy day at the
family farm (Mendip Hills) in North Canterbury, two or three hours north of
the now blighted city of Christchurch. Mendip Hills was the jewel in the crown
of the Rutherford family, our forebears on our mother’s side. Our grandfather,
Norman Rutherford, had inherited the Rutherford homestead, which, as he was
the youngest of the seven Rutherford brothers, was not strictly according to
the dynastic script and may have been the cause of some ill-will between Norman
and his elder brothers. Mind you, I’m only guessing this because I was
too young to appreciate the intricacies of family politics at the time, but
our grandmother only maintained regular contact with one of his brothers after
Norman’s premature death as far as I know.
The importance of Mendip Hills for the young, innocent version of me was that
the rambling Spanish stucco homestead was surrounded by Australian natives of
all persuasions and had enormous gumtrees lining the road into the property,
evidence of the affection the Rutherfords felt for their previous home in South
Australia. There were photos of the Australian landscape hanging on the walls
and we were read Snugglepot and Cuddlepie stories before we fell to sleep –
I can still remember being terrified of the Banksia Men. Perhaps that’s
why Melbourne felt relatively familiar when I arrived here fresh-faced from
Christchurch back in late 1966 – looking back on it, it almost felt like
coming home.
Mendip was also where I discovered how sheep ended up as roast lamb on the family
dining table, an experience that convinced me that domestic animals, while obviously
not obsessing about their mortality over a skinny latte or on their blogs, are
just as aware as humans of their imminent demise, especially when being herded
into an abattoir by blood-spattered blokes wielding large knives, a philosophical
position I’m both amazed and ashamed to say is only now being considered
by thinkers in the West.
Those kind of things can weigh heavy on a young mind and I think it might’ve
even turned me vegetarian – for one meal at least. But there are other
more positive possibilities that excite young male minds. I’m sure we
all must’ve asked our fathers at some stage if we could drive at the fastest
speed displayed on the car’s speedometer. The fastest speed on my Mitsubishi
van’s speedo is 180 kph. The Mitsi is designed for Japanese conditions
where they apparently drive at a sedate 40 k round the city and perhaps an impressively
restrained 60 or 70 k on the open road. Driving at the suggested top speed on
the Australian ‘open’ road of 110 kph has the motor screaming in
indignation and when I occasionally surge to 120 kph it practically bursts into
tears. 180 k is out of the question; it’s simply a dream, a fantasy.
Maria’s Renault’s speedo cheerfully bypasses 60 kph and goes straight
to 70 k with typical Gallic indifference. The poodle’s top speed is allegedly
a stratospheric 250 kph, at which speed the unhappy marriage between plastic
and steel would undoubtedly be dissolved spectacularly and completely.
Now that I’ve grown into an accredited grumpy old bastard, I’m wondering
why these aspirational speeds are even suggested on our (analogue) speedometers
in the first place? Do car manufacturers imagine that we really believe their
vehicle can actually reach the speeds that are suggested on the speedometer?
Even if they could go that fast, just where in Australia would this be? In actual
fact, more legible detail on our speedos round about the legal speeds would
be appreciated by punters who can be slugged mightily for straying over the
prescribed speeds by a mere couple of k. And while I’m at it, why do we
have this malarkey of speedometer checks dotted along the major highways telling
us that our speedos are unreliable at 100 – 110 kph by a factor of about
7 k? Of what use is this information?
I concede that not flying along an almost deserted freeway in my (fill in your
personal dream car) at fantastical speeds with a girl by your side and the wind
blowing through your hair is a minor disappointment in the scheme of things,
(having bugger-all hair for the wind to blow through is actually more irksome),
but, staying with the theme of disappointment, the other night I went to Bluetrain
at the invitation of Brian ‘Frog’ Harris from the Songland Records
in Canberra. I was sitting next to Joe Camilleri and was intrigued to listen
to his stories of actual fame and accomplishment. He reminded me of the last
time we met, (which was at the Beach House, his joint enterprise with Paul Hester),
but I actually remembered a time before that back in the ‘80s when the
Mike Rudd Quintet was doing a season at the Botanical Hotel.
Incidentally, I’ve always been impressed with Joe’s various bands,
(he reminded me that the Falcons often supported my bands over the years). Joe
writes great songs and he’s got a gritty and malleable voice that he’s
not afraid to use. I suppose you could say that I’m a fan although I’ve
never actually bought any of his records – which makes me a crap fan,
of course.
I know he keeps on putting out records, but I was flabbergasted when he said
he’d put out a massive
one hundred and forty five records over
the years! I’d just been moaning about how difficult it was to get motivated
to finish off the current bleedingly obvious blues album that I owe to Bill’s
memory. (Honestly - what more motivation could I possibly need?)
Anyway, at the time of Joe’s chat with us at the Botanical I was most
likely having the very same motivational issues and Joe said it was all about
having a dream and pitching that dream to those poor benighted bastards that
were incapable of having a dream
i.e. record company executives.
I came away from the Botanical singing
Happy Talk from South Pacific
to myself.
Happy talk, keep talking happy talk,
Talk about things you'd like to do,
You gotta have a dream, if you don't have a dream,
How you gonna have a dream come true?
Which is inspiring and true, but for some reason my life seems best described
by another song lyric, Leiber & Stoller’s Is That all There
is?
Is that all there is?
Is that all there is?
If that's all there is my friends
Then let's keep dancing
Let's break out the booze and have a ball
If that's all there is..
Post Script
There is a nod to Joe Camilleri's band, Bakelite Radio, in the pic of the
bakelite radio at the head of this P&W, of course, but the following anecdote
may stretch your credulity a bit. The hit version of Is That all There
is? was sung by Peggy Lee, (incidentally orchestrated by Randy Newman),
and there’s the faintest of connections here between Peggy Lee and,
well, me, because in 1978 Bill and I were holidaying in California when I
was invited to a guitar collector’s house in Long Beach. The most interesting
guitar in the collection that I played that night belonged formerly to Peggy
Lee’s guitarist husband, Dave Barbour. I’d never seen anything
like it - and I never will again, because, unlikely as it may sound, the one-off
beautiful creamy-coloured arch-top guitar was made entirely of.. bakelite..