I don’t think we ever talked the whole truth. It’s more fun to talk about people that aren’t members of the band than are. It’s more fun to talk about the idea of recording than the actual recording. (In the same way that all the good recording happens when you don’t mean to be). It’s more fun to talk about the stories than the actual songs. The realities are ludicrous. “At 4.45pm I stood three inches from a Rode NT-1000, suspended from a metal mechanism – not unlike a microphone stand – set up in the corner of a small booth in xxx studios, between a BP service station and a fruit juice store and sang about death/love/magic/dreams until the alarm on my phone reminded me to move my car before I got another fine. I could have been watching a TV through a window on a lunch break. It came out months/years later. We took a portion of your $25 and ate fish and chips in Bunbury. Wearing black.” Talking about it is boring. Doing it is mostly boring. Reading about it is interesting.

I’ve wondered whether it’s better to tell the truth. Show it. Be open, opaque – honest. I don’t know. It’s impossible to be honest here, though. The second the red light is on you’re not being honest. It’s theatre. And practice of it. So the logical extension is embracing it, using that to expand what you do, hoping it sits alongside the kernel of what you’re trying to get at. The best outcome is maybe it becomes more than the sum of its parts. The more likely (and regular) outcome is that you eat your own tail. You’re not an extension of yourself any longer. What you’re getting at is the act. You’re an act. Shaping it. Telling others about it in a way that makes it sound like not what it is. Tweeting about it. “Unleashing” it. Mmm. We should have showed our faces. We should have been more true. We should have contracted some help, at least. This could go on. This wasn’t what I set out to say at all.


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