Can You Feel The Silence? The lyrics of Van Morrison

 

                                                           

 

THERE is a new book by Van Morrison, and, at least as far as he is concerned, it is a book with a difference. It’s by him. That is, a book of his words with a guest introduction. It has been published by Faber & Faber (what would T.S. Eliot think?), and it’s called (appropriately) ‘Lit Up Inside.’ I haven’t seen it anywhere, otherwise I would have bought it. There is a signed limited edition that looks fabulous, but it’s very expensive. So I don’t really know what is in the book- it is ‘selected’ lyrics only, not all of them- but I’m sure I can guess some of the song/ poem titles. I know enough of Van’s music to know that when I do find it, it will make a great collection. Not ‘painterly’ like Joni Mitchell and Leonard Cohen, but more raw, and often about emotions and thoughts about the past and some occasional social criticism, especially about the music business scene. I have found myself lately thinking about Van’s words in connection with other artists I greatly admire, especially Lennon and McCartney. If one had to compare them, Van is definitely more Lennon than McCartney. Lennon has the raw emotion, although probably not as spiritual. McCartney liked to make up people and make up scenarios- like Desmond and Molly Jones, a ‘Paperback Writer’, poor Eleanor Rigby, the lonely woman who suffers in ‘Another Day’, the woman ‘protected by a silver spoon’, and the naughty boy who goes to court with his silver hammer- the list is endless. Van seems, most of the time, to be writing about himself, and for me the best songs deal with this spiritual, sometimes religious journey, often evoking gardens and water and rain and mountains and the spiritual benefits of music.

As I said I haven’t come across a copy of Van’s book of lyrics as yet, but following is what I would put in there as a showcase of his best, most beautiful, most meaningful work. I’m starting with the album ‘Astral Weeks’ simply because of I’m fairly ignorant of ‘Them’ and what went on before. And I’m ending as early as 1993 and ‘Hymns To The Silence.'

1.       ASTRAL WEEKS (ASTRAL WEEKS)    

                

The first solo song then (if we discount the unfortunate mess that is ‘Blowin’ Your Mind’) is the title track of ‘Astral Weeks’, and musically and lyrically a lot of people would say it is one of his greatest songs:

‘If I ventured in the slipstream
Between the viaducts of your dream
Where mobile steel rims crack
And the ditch in the back roads stop

Could you find me?
Would you kiss-a my eyes?
To lay me down in silence easy
To be born again, to be born again

From the far side of the ocean
If I put the wheels in motion
And I stand with my arms behind me
And I'm pushin' on the door

Could you find me?
Would you kiss-a my eyes?
To lay me down in silence easy
To be born again, to be born again

There you go standin' with the look of avarice
Talkin' to Huddie Ledbetter
Showin' pictures on the wall
Whisperin' in the hall
And pointin' a finger at me

There you go, there you go
Standin' in the sun darlin'
With your arms behind you
And your eyes before
There you go

Takin' care of your boy
Seein' that he's got clean clothes
Puttin' on his little red shoes
I see you know he's got clean clothes

A puttin' on his little red shoes
A pointin' a finger at me
Standing in your sad arrest
Trying to do my very best

Lookin' straight at you
Comin' through, darlin'
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Yeah, yeah, yeah

If I ventured in the slipstream
Between the viaducts of your dreams
Where mobile steel rims crack
And the ditch in the back roads stop

Could you find me?
Would you kiss-a my eyes?
To lay me down in silence easy
To be born again, to be born again
To be born again, to be born again

In another world, darlin'
In another world
In another time
Got a home on high

Ain't nothing but a stranger in this world
I'm nothing but a stranger in this world
I got a home on high in another land
So far away, so far away

Way up in the heaven, way up in the heaven
Way up in the heaven, way up in heaven, oh
In another time, in another place
In another time, in another place

Way up in the heaven
In another time, in another place
In another time, in another place
In another face

 

Here is the unusual method of describing the way someone can get inside your mind. It’s mostly sweet and romantic but the muscular images of ‘steel rims’ and the ‘ditch in the back roads’ harden this. The bits about Leadbetter, and whispering, and being ‘born again’, as well as the reference to ‘silence’ are all so very much what Van Morrison is about. He will repeat these themes again and again, but usually in different ways each time. The ‘born again’ is about transcendence which Van loves, the ‘silence’ is a beautiful motif appearing in a number of songs, the’ Leadbetter’ is an early example of the way he shows respect or homage to the singers who influenced him and the imagery associated with the pictures and what’s going on in the hall are like dreamscapes that are lovely in their vagueness but paint a picture of strong connectedness with another person. It is the sense of meaningfulness in the connection which somehow seems impressive. The ‘nothing but a stranger in this world’ reminds me of something Van Gogh once wrote. John Densmore tells a story about the genesis of this song which is worth reading. It is about sitting on the couch with Van at some sort of party or get together, and Van sits totally detached from what’s going on around him and is writing the words that begin this song on a notebook and Densmore, looking over his shoulder, is probably wondering what it will come to be.

 

2.       BESIDE YOU (ASTRAL WEEKS)

The next song from Astral Weeks, is about pure love or pure affection for somebody else who could in reality simply be somebody’s brother or sister. It’s as simple as that, and this explains to a fair extent why for me the lyrics are so successful:

‘Way over on the railroad
Tomorrow all the tippin' trucks will unload
Every scrapbook stuck will glue
And I'll stand beside you
Beside you child
To never never never wonder why at all
No no no no no no no no
To never never wonder why at all
To never never never wonder why it's gotta be
It has to be
Way across the country where the hillside mountain glide
The dynamo of your smile caressed the barefoot virgin child to wander
Past your window with a lantern lit
You held it in the doorway and you cast against the pointed island breeze
Said your time was open, go well on your merry way
Past the brazen footsteps of the silence easy
You breathe in you breathe out you breathe in you breathe out you breath in
you breathe out you breathe in you breathe out
And you're high on your high-flyin' cloud

Wrapped up in your magic shroud as ecstasy surrounds you
This time it's found you
You turn around you turn around you turn around you turn around
And I'm beside you
Beside you
Oh darlin'
To never never wonder why at all
No no no no no
To never never never wonder why at all
To never never never wonder why it's gotta be
It has to be
And I'm beside you
Beside you
Oh child
To never never wonder why at all
I'm beside you
Beside you
Beside you
Beside you
Oh child.’

 

So here then is an early example of Van’s repeated phrasing which is often very magical as it is in this case, but doesn’t particularly look like much on the printed page. I have always been drawn to the trucks unloading ‘every scrapbook stuck with glue’ like people’s dreams are being thrown away. I don’t know if this is what it is about, but it hardly matters. It is the vagueness of the image that I am drawn to. There is the ‘silence easy’ of the previous song and the statement so beautiful in its simplicity, stated over and over- ‘to never, never wonder why at all.’ How many of us have had the overwhelming emotion of gratefulness simply for sitting right next to someone that we feel connected to? In this situation there really is no need to wonder.

 

3.    SWEET THING (ASTRAL WEEKS)

 

This one is all pure, unadulterated joy:

‘And I will stroll the merry way
And jump the hedges first
And I will drink the clear
Clean water for to quench my thirst
And I shall watch the ferry-boats
And they'll get high
On a bluer ocean
Against tomorrow's sky
And I will never grow so old again
And I will walk and talk
In gardens all wet with rain
Oh sweet thing, sweet thing
My, my, my, my, my sweet thing
And I shall drive my chariot
Down your streets and cry
'Hey, it's me, I'm dynamite
And I don't know why'
And you shall take me strongly
In your arms again
And I will not remember
That I ever felt the pain.
We shall walk and talk
In gardens all misty wet with rain
And I will never, never, never
Grow so old again.

Oh sweet thing, sweet thing
My, my, my, my, my sweet thing
And I will raise my hand up
Into the night time sky
And count the stars
That's shining in your eye
Just to dig it all an' not to wonder
That's just fine
And I'll be satisfied
Not to read in between the lines
And I will walk and talk
In gardens all wet with rain
And I will never, ever, ever, ever
Grow so old again.
Oh sweet thing, sweet thing
Sugar-baby with your champagne eyes
And your saint-like smile....’

 

It is the closest thing to a simple love song on the album, and the images are incredibly fresh and joyous and romantic. It is a great song to run to because it is so uplifting. There is the first reference (as far as I know) of gardens wet with rain which is a signature Van Morrison image of freshness and vitality. The cool clear water comes up many times in his songs as well, as an image of rejuvenation, but for me the image that really nails it is the one of the chariot being driven down the street with the exalted lover shouting ‘Hey, it’s me and I’m dynamite/ And I don’t know why.’ The chariot is an ancient image that somehow seems more fitting than, say, ‘car’, and the disarming way the lover cries out is also charming. Again, there is no need for introspection- just ‘dig at all’ and don’t ‘read in between the lines.’ Just infatuation and exaltation; no melancholy moody love here.

 

 

4.    INTO THE MYSTIC (MOONDANCE)  

 

Lyrically, Van’s second album is a complete departure- more simple, less impressionistic, more raw lyrically, and musically for that matter too, less jazz and more blues. This one is the pick. Van writes about boats and the sea really well. They can act as an escape for him:

‘We were born before the wind
Also younger than the sun
Ere the bonnie boat was won
As we sailed into the mystic

Hark, now hear the sailors’ cry
Smell the sea and feel the sky
Let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic

And when that fog horn blows
I will be coming home
And when that fog horn blows
I wanna hear it, I don't have to fear it

And I wanna rock your gypsy soul
Just like way back in the days of old
Then together we will float into the mystic

When that fog horn blows
You know I will be coming home
And when that fog horn whistle blows
I gotta hear it, I don't have to fear it

And I wanna rock your gypsy soul
Just like way back in the days of old
And together we will float into the mystic

Come on, girl

Too late to stop now…’

 

Besides finishing with the lyric that provides the title for his first big live album, Into The Mystic provides us with the image of long ago seafarers. It might be about sailors coming home from war in WW2- Van was born at the end of the war. The woman at home is anticipating the fog horn possibly on the Belfast docks. It’s beautifully sensual- ‘’smell the sea and feel the sky’- and the long absence provides a union that becomes a mystical experience which is lovely and uplifting.

 

5.    ST DOMINIC’S PREVIEW (ST DOMINIC’S PREVIEW) 

 

                  

Shammy cleaning all the windows,
Singing songs about Edith Piaf's soul.
And I hear blue strains of no regredior
Across the street from Cathedral Notre Dame.
Meanwhile back in San Francisco
We're trying hard to make this whole thing blend,
As we sit upon this jagged
Storey block, with you my friend.

And it's a long way to Buffalo.
It's a long way to Belfast city too.
And I'm hoping the choice won't blow the hoist
'cos this town, they bit off more than they can chew.

As we gaze out on, as we gaze out on
As we gaze out on, as we gaze out on
Saint Dominic's Preview
Saint Dominic's Preview
Saint Dominic's Preview

All the orange boxes are scattered.
We get to Safeway's supermarket in the rain.
And everybody feels so determined
Not to feel anyone else's pain.

(You know that) No one's making no commitments
To anybody but themselves,
Hidin' behind closed doorways,
Tryin' to get outside, outside of empty shells

And for every cross-cuttin' country corner,
For every Hank Williams railroad train that cried,
And all the chains, badges, flags and emblems
And every strain on every brain and every eye

As we gaze out on, as we gaze out on
As we gaze out on, as we gaze out on
Saint Dominic's Preview
Saint Dominic's Preview
Saint Dominic's Preview.

And the restaurant tables are completely covered.
The record company has paid out for the wine.
You got everything in the world you ever wanted
Right about now your face should wear a smile.

That's the way it all should happen
When you're in, when you're in the state you're in;
You've got your pen and notebook ready,
I think it's about time, time for us to begin.

And we're over in a 52nd Street apartment,
Socializing with the whino few,
Just to be hip and get wet with the jet set.
But they're flying too high to see my point of view.

As we gaze out on, as we gaze out on
As we gaze out on, as we gaze out on
Saint Dominic's Preview
Saint Dominic's Preview
Saint Dominic's Preview.

See them freedom marching,
Out on the street, freedom marching.
Saint Dominic's Preview.’

We can see the preoccupations - Edith Piaf, cleaning windows (unearthed again later on, on Beautiful Vision), the ‘Troubles’ in Northern Ireland, as well as the vagaries of the music industry. But what I like most is the vision that the singer perceives, almost like it’s from a rooftop, of this protest about the events going on in Belfast that was apparently being held in this San Francisco church.

 

6.    ALMOST INDEPENDENCE DAY (ST DOMINIC’S PREVIEW)

 

I can hear them calling way from Oregon
I can hear them calling way from Oregon
And it's almost Independence Day
Me and my lady, we go steppin' (we go steppin')
We go steppin' way out on China town
All to buy some Hong Kong silver
And the wadin' rushing river (we go steppin')
We go out on the, out on the town tonight

I can hear the fireworks
I can hear the fireworks
I can hear the fireworks
Up and down the, up and down the San Francisco bay
Up and down the, up and down the San Francisco bay
I can hear them echoing
I can hear, I can hear them echoing
Up and down the, up and down the San Francisco bay

I can see the boats in the harbor (way across the harbor)
Lights shining out (lights shining out)
And a cool, cool night
And a cool, cool night across the harbor
I can hear the fireworks
I can hear the people, people shouting out
I can hear the people shouting out (up and down the line)
And it's almost Independence Day

I can see the lights way out in the harbor
And the cool, and the cool, and the cool night
And the cool, and the cool, and the cool night breeze
And I feel the cool night breeze
And I feel, feel, feel the cool night breeze
And the boats go by
And it's almost Independence Day
And it's almost, and it's almost Independence Day

Way up and down the line
Way up and down the line...

 

Two songs later, on the same album, and a kind of companion piece, this is an early version of Van’s wonderful rambling, scat approach to singing, filled with imagery that connects to how he was feeling at the time. At any rate It is very optimistic and very moving to hear of the symbols of liberation- the fireworks, the marching, the shouting, and the beautiful and mysterious breeze and lights and harbor noises. It takes you right to San Francisco, and has echoes of being restless and homesick for your country (a common VM theme), and might even be a kind of beckoning towards the singer’s own sense of personal liberation as he was becoming more confident as a songwriter and musician. As often with Van, the repetition of lines signals something close to ecstasy or a sublime moment.

 

7.      HAUNTS OF ANCIENT PEACE (COMMON ONE)

 

 

‘Beside the garden walls
We walk in haunts of ancient peace
At night we rest and go to sleep
In haunts of ancient peace

The love and light we seek
The words we do not need to speak
Here in this wondrous way we keep
These haunts of ancient peace

Let us go there again
Oh, when we need some relief
Oh, when I can't find my feet
When I need rest and sleep

The Sunday bells they chime
Around the countryside and towns
A song of harmony and rhyme
In haunts of ancient peace

The holy grail we seek
On down by haunts of ancient peace
We see the new Jerusalem
In haunts of ancient peace

Oh, when I can't find my feet
Oh, when I need, I need some relief
I want to go there one more time again
You know I want to go there one more time again
Be still in haunts of ancient peace

Be still.’

The first song from a greatly underrated album, the first of a golden decade of great records for VM. I’m no Bob Dylan expert, so I’m not sure what the 80’s was like for Dylan, but I know for Joni it was (according to these ears), her worst decade. The title of this song is apparently from a poem by a reasonably obscure poet called Alfred Austin. The ‘Jerusalem’ reference is probably connected with William Blake, but it is the yearning at the end that I find the most impressive- ‘I want to go there one more time again…’ The words in this song are optimistic and soothing, and it brings in a new, sustained phase of reflective moods and ongoing search for fulfillment. The rhyming in the ‘Sunday bells’ stanza is the only clunky, unconvincing aspect of the song. Van’s long song/ poem called ‘Summertime in England’ also appeared on this album, and introduced my favorite phrase of his, repeated shortly after- ‘Can You Feel The Silence?’

 

8.      CELTIC RAY (BEAUTIFUL VISION)   

 

 

'When Lewellyn comes around
And he goes through Market Town
You'll be on the Celtic Ray
Are you ready?

When McManus comes around
On his early morning rounds
Crying "Heron 'a' lay"
You'll be on the Celtic Ray

Ireland, Scotland, England and Wales
I can hear the mothers' voices calling
"Children, children, children"

When the coal brick man comes 'round
On a cold November day
You'll be on the Celtic Ray
Are you ready? Are you ready?

Ireland, Scotland, England and Wales
I can hear the mothers' voices calling
"Children, children, children"

Listen Jimmy, I want to go home
Listen Jimmy, I want to go home
I've been away from the Ray too long
I've been away from the Ray too long

All over Ireland, Scotland, England and Wales
I can hear the mothers' voices calling
"Children, children, come home children"

"Children, come home on the Celtic Ray"
In the early morning, we'll go walking
Where the light comes shining through
On the Celtic Ray

Come home children
Come home on the Celtic Ray…’

This song appears to be about the diaspora of people living in exile in various parts of the world away from Great Britain, mostly, I suppose, from Ireland. I love the section about the poor mothers’ voices calling for their children, who in some cases may never return to their homeland. I listened to this song with great joy and melancholy when I was sad and alone on the Isle of Wight during my first trip away from Australia. I guess I was missing home. Romantically, I was imagining mother calling my name and wanting me home.

9.      IRISH HEARTBEAT (INARTICULATE SPEECH OF THE HEART)

 

‘Oh, won't you stay
Stay a while with your own ones
Don't ever stray
Stray so far from your own ones

For the world is so cold
Don't care nothing for your soul
You share with your own ones

Don't rush away
Rush away from your own ones
One more day
One more day with your own ones

Yes, the world is so cold
Don't care nothing for your soul
You share with your own ones

There's a stranger
And he's standing by your door
Might be your best friend, might be your brother
You may never know

I'm going back
Going back to my own ones
Back to talk
Talk a while with my own ones

This old world is so cold
Don't care nothing for your soul
You share with your own ones

This old world is so cold
Don't care nothing for your soul
You share with your own ones.’

Another ongoing theme of Van’s- his connection to Ireland and his past- and a theme that I think resonates in a lot of others people’s lives, and certainly my own. The idea that it is your own people who care for your soul and care the most about you, is very simple and very beautiful. The fifth stanza (or bridge),  has a number of sources, but particularly the bible. Let this person who is knocking on your door in- you never know who it might be that you are turning away.

 

10.  INARTICULATE SPEECH OF THE HEART NO. 2 (INARTICULATE SPEECH OF THE HEART)

‘Inarticulate speech
Inarticulate speech of the heart
Inarticulate speech
Inarticulate speech of the heart

Inarticulate speech
Inarticulate speech of the heart
Inarticulate speech
Inarticulate speech of the heart

I'm a soul in wonder
I'm a soul in wonder
I'm a soul in wonder
I'm a soul in wonder

Inarticulate speech
Inarticulate speech of the heart
Inarticulate speech
Inarticulate speech of the heart

I'm just wild about it
I can't live without it
I'm just wild about it
I can't live without it

Inarticulate speech
Inarticulate speech of the heart
Inarticulate speech
Inarticulate speech of the heart

I'm a soul in wonder
I'm a soul in wonder
I'm a soul in wonder
I'm a soul in wonder

I'm a soul in wonder
I'm a soul in wonder
I'm a soul in wonder.’

This is ISOTH No.2, because there is a No.1 which is an instrumental. It’s a mouthful to say, but strangely it works, and is very melodic. This is Van at his most spiritual. The words lift me up incredibly. The concept of being a ‘soul in wonder’ is so beautiful partly because it is so simple. Is it love of another human being? Or poetry? Or music? Or all of these things?

11.  OH THE WARM FEELING (NO GURU, NO METHOD, NO TEACHER)

 

‘Oh, the warm feeling
As we sat beside the sea
Oh, the warm feeling as I
Sat by you

Like a child within the kingdom
As we sat beside the sea
Oh, the warm feeling as I
Sat by you

And it filled with devotion
And it made me plainly see
And it healed all my emotions
As I sat by you

As we sat inside the sunshine
And we sat beside the sea
Oh, the warm feeling as I
Sat by you

And it filled me with religion
And it gave great comfort to me
Oh, the warm feeling as I
Sat by you

Oh, the warm feeling as
We sat beside the sea
Oh, the warm feeling as I
Sat by you.’

From the mid-80’s, and from arguably the best two or three albums VM ever produced, another simple song but so effective in its storytelling. It hearkens back to Astral Weeks’ ‘Beside You’, but adds another religious or spiritual element that is touching.

 

12.  A TOWN CALLED PARADISE (NO GURU, NO METHOD, NO TEACHER)

‘Copycats ripped off my words
Copycats ripped off my songs
Copycats ripped off my melody
It doesn't matter what they say
It doesn't matter what they do
All that matters is my relationship to you

Gonna take you out, get you in my car
We're going for a long long drive
We're going down to a town called Paradise
Down where we can be free
We're gonna drink that wine
We're gonna jump for joy in a town called Paradise

We're going up the mountainside
Child, you can look for miles
And see the vision on the west
We're gonna swing round
And look from north to south
Swing round from east to west
And go round in a circle too

And we're gonna start dancing
Like we've never done before
I'm gonna take you in my arms
I'm gonna squeeze you tight
Everything will be alright

We're gonna get that squealin' feelin'
Gonna take you down to a town called paradise
Down where we can be free
It doesn't matter what they say
It doesn't matter what they do

All that matters is my relationship to you
By the river we will linger
As we drive down to be free
We're gonna ride all night long
All along the ancient highway
Gonna be there for the mornin' comes.’

The mood begins a little bit sour, even bitter, with its reference to ‘copycats’ (echoed again on the last track, ‘Ivory Tower’ with its reference to ‘don’t you know the price I have to pay just to do everything I have to do’), but strangely enough becomes incredibly soulful and joyous thereafter: ‘We’re gonna ride all night long/ All along the ancient highway.’ This is a song about the desire to escape, and reaping the benefits of getting away from everything, especially, I am guessing, the music business where the copycats reside. Another lovely expression of unbounded joy.

 

13.  IN THE GARDEN (NO GURU, NO METHOD, NO TEACHER)

‘The streets are always wet with rain
After a summer shower when I saw you standin'
Standin' in the garden, in the garden wet with rain

You wiped the teardrops from your eye in sorrow
As we watched the petals fall down to the ground
And as I sat beside you I felt the great sadness that day
In the garden

And then one day you came back home
You were a creature all in rapture
You had the key to your soul and you did open
That day you came back to the garden

The olden summer breeze was blowin' against your face, alright
The light of God was shinin' on your countenance divine
And you were a violet colour as you sat beside your father
And your mother in the garden

The summer breeze was blowin' on your face
Within your violet you treasure your summery words
And as the shiver from my neck down to my spine
Ignited me in daylight and nature in the garden

And you went into a trance, your childlike vision became so fine
And we heard the bells within the church, we loved so much
And felt the presence of the youth of eternal summers in the garden

Alright, and as it touched your cheeks so lightly
Born again you were and blushed
And we touched each other lightly
And we felt the presence of the Christ
Within our hearts in the garden

And I turned to you and I said
"No guru, no method, no teacher
Just you and I and nature
And the Father in the garden"

Listen, no guru, no method, no teacher
Just you and I and nature
And the Father and the Son
And the Holy Ghost in the garden wet with rain

No guru, no method, no teacher
Just you and I and nature
And the Father and the Son
And the Holy Ghost in the garden
In the garden wet with rain

No guru, no method, no teacher
Just you and I and nature
And the Father in the garden.’

This is one of those complete songs, where you imagine the writer/ musician has put their pen/ instrument down and looked back on it and felt completely satisfied. It is possibly Van’s most perfectly realised statement of tranquility, transcendence and enlightenment. The line about being a creature ‘all in rapture’ is the most vivid for me, but all of the images, from petals, and breezes, and bells are beautiful. The line about gardens being wet with rain is a favorite of Van’s.

 

14.  CONEY ISLAND (AVALON SUNSET)

 

 

‘Coming down from Downpatrick
Stopping off at St. John's Point
Out all day birdwatching
And the craic was good

Stopped off at Strangford Lough
Early in the morning
Drove through Shrigley taking pictures
And on to Killyleagh

Stopped off for Sunday papers
At the Lecale District
Just before Coney Island

On and on, over the hill
To Ardglass in the jamjar
Autumn sunshine, magnificent
And all shining through

Stop off at Ardglass
For a couple of jars of mussels
And some potted herrings in case
We get famished before dinner

On and on, over the hill
And the craic is good
Heading towards Coney Island

I look at the side of your face
As the sunlight comes
Streaming through the window
In the autumn sunshine

And all the time
Going to Coney Island
I'm thinking, wouldn't it be great
If it was like this all the time?’

This song reminds me a little of a later song about Van’s own neighborhood, but it’s not as good as this latter day one. Still, it evokes some lovely images and I can’t help being drawn to it because of a romantic attachment. It was around 1993 when I drove around Downpatrick in search of all these villages mentioned in the song. They are all in a similar area, and the most surprising aspect of the journey was Coney Island itself. Here, the poet provides his full imagination to his memory of a locale (as McCartney did with Penny Lane), as the whole song is built around the destination and the pleasure it provides. However, to me, as a tourist and outsider, Coney Island was just this little hamlet that was very ordinary and non-descript, and here I was expecting something completely magical. I also found the fish shop in Ardglass, a famous fish shop, that sells potted herring and mussels, so that was a buzz. The final image in the poem is lovely and personal- you can’t help imagining the features of this compelling face in the sunshine.

 

15.  SO QUIET IN HERE (ENLIGHTENMENT)

 

‘Foghorns blowing in the night
Salt sea air in the morning breeze
Driving cars all along the coastline
This must be what it's all about
Oh this must be what it's all about

This must be what paradise is like
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here

The warm look of radiance on your face
And your heart beating close to mine
And the evening fading in the candle glow
This must be what it's all about
Oh this must be what it's all about

This must be what paradise is like
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here
So quiet in here, yeah, so peaceful in here

All my struggling in the world
And so many dreams that don't come true
Step back, put it all away
It don't matter, it don't matter anymore
Oh this must be what paradise is like

This must be what paradise is like
It's so quiet in here, so peaceful in here
It's so quiet in here, so peaceful in here

A glass of wine with some friends
Talking into the wee hours of the dawn
Sit back and relax your mind
This must be, this must be, what it's all about
This must be what paradise is like

Oh this must be what paradise is like
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here

Big ships out in the night
And we're floating across the waves
Sailing for some other shore
Where we can be what we wanna be
Oh this must be what paradise is like

This must be what paradise is like
Baby it's so quiet in here, so peaceful in here
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here
So quiet in here, so peaceful in here
So quiet in here, you can hear, it's so quiet.’

Yet another VM song about freedom and escape and the search for fulfillment that I am helplessly drawn to. The images are simple but powerful- the ‘evening fading in the candle glow’, the ‘talking to the wee hours of the dawn’, but my personal favorite is near the end- the ‘big ships out in the night’, and especially ‘sailing for some other shore…’ and the restlessness that is implied. We are often thinking about some other shore and wondering if it might be better. The baggage of all those things connected with ourselves and our profession stops us from really being ‘what we wanna be.’ To escape all of that, even for a short time, is often a relief.

 

16.  HYMNS TO THE SILENCE (HYMNS TO THE SILENCE)

 

‘Oh my dear, oh my dear sweet love
Oh my dear, oh my dear sweet love
When I'm away from you, when I'm away from you

Well, I feel, yeah, well, I feel so sad and blue
Well, I feel, well, I feel so sad and blue
Oh my dear, oh my dear, oh my dear sweet love

When I'm away from you, I just have to sing my hymns
Hymns to the silence, hymns to the silence
Hymns to the silence, hymns to the silence

Oh my dear, oh my dear sweet love, it's a long, long journey
Long, long journey, journey back home
Back home to you, feel you by my side
Long journey, journey, journey

Yeah, in the midnight, in the midnight, I burn the candle
Burn the candle at both ends, burn the candle at both ends
Burn the candle at both ends, burn the candle at both ends
And I keep on, 'cause I can't sleep at night
Until the daylight comes through

And I just, and I just, have to sing
Sing my hymns to the silence
Hymns to the silence, hymns to the silence
My hymns to the silence

I wanna go out in the countryside
Oh, sit by the clear, cool, crystal water
Get my spirit, way back to the feeling
Deep in my soul, I wanna feel

Oh, so close to the one, close to the one
Close to the one, close to the one
And that's why, I keep on singing baby

My hymns to the silence, hymns to the silence
Oh, my hymns to the silence, hymns to the silence
Oh, hymns to the silence, oh, hymns to the silence
Oh, hymns to the silence, hymns to the silence

Oh my dear, my dear sweet love
Can you feel the silence? Can you feel the silence?
Can you feel the silence? Can you feel the silence?

Hymns to the silence, hymns to the silence
Hymns to the silence, hymns to the silence
Hymns to the silence, hymns to the silence
Hymns to the silence, hymns to the silence.’

I still remember buying this record and being so excited to listen to it- a VM double album! This one is one of my favorite latter day VM songs. A lot of repetition- ‘burn the candle at both ends’, the lovely ‘clear cool crystal water’ again, the emotional pull of the word ‘silence’ which sums up VM more for me than any other word, especially combined with the majestic phrase ‘can you feel the silence?’ which, when I hear it, I want it to go on forever.

 

17.  PAGAN STREAMS (HYMNS TO THE SILENCE)

‘And we walked the pagan streams
And searched for white horses on surrounding hills
We lived where dusk had meaning

And repaired to quiet sleep, where noise abated
In touch with the silence
On honey street, on honey street

What happened to a sense of wonder?
On yonder hillside, getting dim
Why didn't they leave us, alone?

Why couldn't we just be ourselves?
We could dream and keep bees
And live on honey street

And we walked the pagan streams
In meditation and contemplation
And we didn't need anybody, or anything

Then, no concepts being free
And I wanna climb that hillside again with you
One more time

As the great, great, great, great, great, great, great
Being watches over
And we repair, repair, repair, repair, we repair
To honey street, to honey street.’

Freedom, escape, ‘meditation’, ‘contemplation.’ And a sense of being watched over. A sense of wonder. And silence. ‘Why couldn’t we just be ourselves?’ Once again it’s all there. And very dreamy.

 

18.  ON HYNDFORD STREET (HYMNS TO THE SILENCE)

‘Take me back, take me way, way, way back
On Hyndford Street
Where you could feel the silence at half past eleven
On long summer nights
As the wireless played Radio Luxembourg
And the voices whispered across Beechie River

In the quietness as we sank into restful slumber in the silence
And carried on dreaming, in God
And walks up Cherry Valley from North Road Bridge, railway line
On sunny summer afternoons
Picking apples from the side of the tracks
That spilled over from the gardens of the houses on Cyprus Avenue

Watching the moth catcher working the floodlights in the evenings
And meeting down by the pylons
Playing round Mrs. Kelly's lamp
Going out to Holywood on the bus
And walking from the end of the lines to the seaside
Stopping at Fusco's for ice cream

In the days before rock `n' roll
Hyndford Street, Abetta Parade
Orangefield, St. Donard's Church, Sunday six bells
And in between the silence there was conversation
And laughter, and music and singing
And shivers up the back of the neck

And tuning in to Luxembourg late at night
And jazz and blues records during the day
Also Debussy on the third programme
Early mornings when contemplation was best
Going up the Castlereagh hills
And the cregagh glens in summer and coming back

To Hyndford Street, feeling wondrous and lit up inside
With a sense of everlasting life
And reading Mr. Jelly Roll and Big Bill Broonzy
And "Really The Blues" by Mezz Mezzrow
And "Dharma Bums" by Jack Kerouac over and over again
And voices echoing late at night over Beechie River
And it's always being now, and it's always being now

It's always now
Can you feel the silence?
On Hyndford Street where you could feel the silence
At half past eleven on long summer nights
As the wireless played Radio Luxembourg
And the voices whispered across Beechie River
And in the quietness we sank into restful slumber in silence
And carried on dreaming in God

 

Here, then, is Van’s most poetic ‘song’- that is, the one that most closely resembles poetry, mostly because it is merely spoken, with just a lovely crooning guitar in the background. As in the case of Coney Island, the real thing, to an outsider, seems completely underwhelming. Cyprus Avenue, around the corner, is a lot nicer.  I remember, on that same trip in ’93, standing out the front of Van’s old house on Hyndford Street, and meeting a longtime neighbor, incredulous that Van would have a fan visit his home from a place as faw away as Australia. I told her about this song, and she laughed at the Mrs Kelly reference, and she told me about how the kids would run around Mrs Kelly’s streetlight next door. Something as innocuous as that! These are all magical memories, probably heightened by the distance of memory, full of music and poetry and God and all the places nearby. Many of those early songs from the Astral Weeks period are involved. And the silence. ‘Can you feel the silence?’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

New Digs, Again

Ch Ch Ch Ch Changes

 We sold our house a bit more than a year ago and have lived in another apartment until now- a smallish two bedroom one just off a busy, busy street. The people surrounding us were either quiet and non-judgemental, inhabiting their innocuous spaces, or they were friendly and harmless, agreeable benign apparitions in our small garden. Living in tight and predictable enclosed spaces doesn’t agree with me. I am glad to be away from it. I find renting is unsettling, but it’s not just that. It’s the lack of mystery and openness. I like some things to be secluded and hidden and undisturbed.

So we have left the little apartment behind, which, for all intents and purposes, was pretty kind to us in its uncomplicated style. We have spent our first night in the new place. A proper house with stairs and enough rooms, and a bit of mystery and seclusion, and little places to put things, and these lovely stained glass doors and windows. It feels like a lucky house- or at least, that it might be when the finishing touches take place. It still needs plastering and painting, and we cannot put some things away in their proper places because we know that the air will be disturbed again by noise and workmen making messes in the name of making things look better.

But who’s complaining? I can tinker away in my upstairs study surrounded by some beautiful books. I have these large picture books by Umberto Eco near me. One of them, called ‘The Infinity of Lists’, has a lovely picture by Burne-Jones on the cover. A detail from ‘The Golden Stairs.’ There is a Munch biography on display next to it featuring an intense self-portrait on the cover. Munch is staring in anguish holding a cigarette in his right hand. The three Thames and Hudson volumes of the ‘Complete Letters of Vincent Van Gogh’ sit underneath it. These are books that were purchased for me in December 1986, and will always be with me for their sheer beauty. The new Edinburgh University volumes of Katherine Mansfield’s works are also lovely. The first volume of her complete stories features a browny-purple cover, and has a photo of KM from 1910, at the age of 22, living in London like a bohemian and looking almost Maori. She is wearing a smug expression. The second volume is a rich blue, and its cover features a photo of KM from 1920, living in a hotel in Menton, France, at 32 but looking more middle aged and more mature than this, wiser, with barely three years to live. It is the year of the great volume of stories called ‘Bliss.’ I even have all my old diaries at my feet, the first entry of the first diary dealing with my turbulent emotions after the assassination of John Lennon.

 

 

 

Already this study feels like it has been with me for a long time. I can see a portion of the outside street from the window above my desk. Dusk is invading the street and there are some people outside somewhere talking. There is a tall plane tree in the right hand corner, its branches filled with ferns that are reaching upwards towards the sky. There are empty boxes around me and everything else is ghostly quiet. I can think and feel and breathe better than I have been able to do for a long time. It’s a quarter to nine at night. In the Australian summer there is still some light, but soon much of the light will be bluish, glowing from the computer screen.

 

 

Paul Cox at Duneira, and 'The Diaries of Vaslav Nijinski'

 

THIS new post brings me back to the hugely underrated Australian film director, Paul Cox. His films are out of fashion, and have been for years. Rarely do they make much, or any, money. There are never any car chases or guns; rarely is there a well- known face amongst the cast; the films have a very small budget; they are not fast-action paced; they do not feature sudden loud bursts of music and product placement; heads are never blown away and limbs are never severed; it is doubtful anyone would ever buy ‘the soundtrack; the editing is often slow-paced and the viewer often receives more than a second or two to think about what is happening on the screen; often there is no murder or mystery or particularly strong intrigue; often the people in his films have basic jobs and live fairly ordinary lives. He is certainly no Quentin Tarantino or Steven Spielberg, but he is no Ken Loach or Mike Leigh either. Paul Cox’s film, if anything, resemble those quiet, reflective films of Europe- (think Krystof Kieslowski and Ingmar Bergman) and Russia (Aleksander Sukorov).

I like Paul Cox’s films because they are uncompromised and beautifully shot. Watching his films is a meditative and rewarding experience. And you know that he has put his heart and soul into the project, and thought more about the integrity of the end product rather than the amount of money the film might make. Now that has to be a good thing, doesn’t it? Maybe it’s also good that not every director is like Paul Cox.

This, my fourth Paul Cox-related adventure, took place on Sunday at the beautiful ‘Duneira’ property at Mount Macedon. We sat in the front row on the right, on a lovely soft couch. There were about 50 people there, and I think we were the youngest. Some people looked very arty, like they may have been in one of his films before. Initially I felt like I was gate crashing a party, then after a while I fully relaxed and felt the buzz of being a part of everything.

He spoke briefly about the making of ‘The Diaries of Vaslav Nijinsky.’ Then he showed the film, a small projection on the wall using a small projector. It would have been more glorious on the big screen, but it was still very captivating, and reminded me of his film ‘Vincent.’ There was a lot of imagery, and stills of Nijinsky, and many dancers, both male and female, representing him and his world. The voice over was by Derek Jacobi (an inspired choice, as was the choice of John Hurt for the Van Gogh letters in the earlier film). Jacobi read from his posthumous diaries. Nijinsky’s world became quite chaotic, and this was captured in the at times seemingly random projection of images. Nijinsky’s diaries consist of an ongoing critique of the world and an obsession with truth and beauty. I read them years ago, and was fascinated by the way they chart the slow mental deterioration of the man when his dancing career was finished and he was surviving the post-war years of WW2. These were heartfelt and beautiful sentiments. A repeated motif was the sad photo of Nijinsky as Petrushka, the traditional puppet from his ballet of 1911, as well as shots of flying birds and grainy images of trees silhoutted against the sky.  Much of the film was made in France. It was a success in Europe, like a number of Cox’s films, and had that real European sensibility that would make it impossible to pick Cox as an Australian director.

 

Nijinsky, along with Vincent, is a hero to Paul Cox. Cox himself has much in common with both of them, not the least their uncompromising view of things and their critical eye on what they perceive as the injustices of the world, as well as their unique artistic vision that is seemingly always out of fashion and ahead of its time. In one tragic scene Cox shot an actor acting out a chaotic dance of Nijinsky’s in a nightclub, depicting his failing grip on reality and his diminishing powers. His wife, Romola, sat, in the audience, looking embarrassed, perhaps ashamed.

At the end of the film, Cox spoke to all of us about his herculean act of editing such a difficult project and how it nearly made him become just as mad as his subject. There were the caustic comments about the banks and capitalism that I have heard before, the madness that is parts of the United States (its insane worship of guns in particular), the sorry state of the Arts in Australia (his disbelief that George Brandis is the Arts minister in the current government), his anger on the subject of film censorship, and the way in which the premiere of this particular film was cancelled on the afternoon of September 11, 2001.

Just as Paul Cox got to know the great grandson of Vincent Van Gogh- (the filmmaker and activist Theo Van Gogh who was murdered several years ago), after this film he also came to know Kyra Nijinsky, the daughter of Vaslav Nijinsky. In his pocket he carefully keeps as a talisman a black Jesus pendant given to him by Kyra, which once belonged to Vaslav himself. Perhaps not coincidentally, Cox’s daughter is also called Kyra.

Before too long Paul Cox disappeared, and I left him with a carefully constructed Van Gogh card ‘(Oleanders’) as a token of my appreciation. On the card I thanked him and wrote of my Vincent pilgrimages, and incorporated some quotations from Vincent’s letters.

At the end of all that the mind feels incredibly enriched. The pettiness of the modern world suddenly seems far away, until you creep back to the city again and you discover that the Reserve Bank has generously kept interest rates on hold.

The best review of this film can be found at: http://sensesofcinema.com/2002/feature-articles/nijinsky/ 

 

 

Tragic events, different outcomes

                                    

 

Robert Farquarson left the road and drove himself and his three kids into a dam near Geelong in 2005. Oscar Pistorius killed his girlfriend by shooting her several times through a locked bathroom door in 2013. How terrifying for the young boys, Bailey, Jai and Tyler, and how terrifying for Reeva Steenkamp. The Farquarson kids drowned whilst their father swam to safety on Father’s Day. Pistorius opened the bathroom door and found his wife’s bleeding body on the bathroom door on Valentine’s Day. What is the significance of these dates? Were these actions deliberate, and therefore callous, cold-blooded murder? Pistorius got off- manslaughter rather than homicide, the judge in Pretoria unsure whether or not he was aware that it was his wife on the other side of the door. Farquarson was not so lucky. After three trials and various judges and men and women of the jury, he was found guilty of deliberately killing his children, and is currently serving a minimum of 33 years in jail. What a conversation the pair of them could have if they were ever able to get together over some hearty jail food, watching the world go by through thick, black iron bars, or having an intimate stroll together around some prison yard in their bright orange clothing watching out for the menace of bald, tattooed heavyweights.

If we can believe the judge and her intuition, Pistorius made an awful error, mistaking his young wife for a threatening intruder. If so, he probably deserves no worse than his current fate. We may never know how guilt-ridden he feels right now in his first nights in the cell. Farquarson’s culpability, too, must be open to conjecture. Pistorius has his emphatic supporters who swear his innocence, improbable as it might be to the skeptic who finds his story just a little bit hard to swallow. Wasn’t there a quite vocal argument between he and Steenkamp on that night? Did he really forget to check in on her, to make sure she was next to him in their bed like he says he assumed. Did he really think it was her making noises in the bathroom? Didn’t she yell out in severe stress after the first bullet was fired?

It’s interesting how family sticks by you (as they say) through thick and thin. It is probably the way it should be. Farquarson’s sisters are just as steadfastly behind him, despite his equally improbable story. In fact, their fate could easily have been switched. The general public really had no idea how either of these cases might go. Pistorius might have received 33 years, and Farquarson the tentative five that Pistorius received. It is because there were no witnesses to either incidents. How do the rest of us really and truly know? And that goes for supporters and skeptics alike. It’s an awful question to ask, but can the difference in sentencing simply come down to the acting ability of either defendant? To education, money or class? To the fact that one was a struggling Winchelsea nobody, and the other an Olympic star with an eye catching disability?

I have read two captivating books about the Farquarson case lately which, collectively, offer me a number of reasons where Farquarson might have gone wrong. I imagine I am visiting him in his sad and sorry cell.

‘When you were driving the boys home at 7:15 PM after your special Father’s Day outing, you needed to be more aware of the strangers driving behind you- the woman and her family who became witnesses at your trial to your erratic driving. It appeared to them, and no doubt to the jury at your trial, that you just may have been waiting impatiently for that Winchelsea dam to appear on your right hand side, and maybe you were practising your descent, swerving on the road with panic starting to set in. Just maybe you were thinking of drowning along with them, and wondering if you had the nerve to die.

Even before that night, perhaps a week or two before, you completely and recklessly dropped your guard outside the local fish’n’chip shop. Remember your old mate Greg King, the one who, probably in your mind, cruelly betrayed you? You saw your ex-wife Cindy Gambino and thought about her new boyfriend, Stephen Moules, didn’t you, and how he ended up with the shit car and you were lumped with the one that would become a coffin for the boys. Was it anger and frustration that possessed you to tell Greg of your plan to wreak revenge on Cindy, that it would occur on a special day like Father’s Day, that you would hurt her through her own children, that you would go to these extreme lengths to make her suffer for the way she left you feeling after your unhappy split? Greg came and saw you, didn’t he, all wired up for the anticipation of the police, and you were so careful, weren’t you, to ensure you didn’t say too much to Greg that might come back to bite you at the trial- but it was too late, essentially, wasn’t it, because in those moments of frustration you made another of those crucial errors that would lead a jury to put you away for a long time.

Let’s go back to the fatal evening when the driver of that random car has driven past you and has seen your children’s bodies crammed into the back of your car. Perhaps there were a few little coughs, perhaps there were no coughs at all, certainly not a ‘syncope’ as you described it later, as your car swerved maddeningly to the right, left the highway, avoided most of the trees, and plunged into the terrible, cold, black, black water. You might remember you switched the lights and the engine off- well somebody did and it was unlikely to be the boys all the way in the back seat. At your trial you conjectured that it might be so. There were so many ‘I don’t know(s)’ and ‘I can’t remember.’ None of this helped your cause.  You said you started coughing and coincidentally left the road just as that dam appeared on your right side. You said you coughed so much that you blacked out and then freakishly found yourself in the water. How is it that the path the car took on its way into the water was so miraculously unobstructed? Why didn’t you attempt to arrest the long slide into the water by using your brakes or altering your steering? Are you seriously saying that the whole time you lost control of the car, until you found yourself in the water, you were somehow unconscious? Once in the water, did you attempt to rescue your little children by opening their doors, or hauling them into the front with you, or at least grabbing little Bailey and swim to the surface with him? Did you, conversely, panic and alter your position, and leave the kids to drown as planned, but extricate yourself from the car because self-drowning was too terrifying? Why is it that you couldn’t really answer any of these questions in court, but kept saying ‘I can’t remember.’

After wading to safety and out of the dam, you decided not to keep looking for the children. If you recall you staggered, wet and deathly cold, to the highway and flagged down a car. There you made another fatal error which would come back to haunt you. You weren’t interested in phoning the police. You were desperate to be driven by Shane and Tony to Cindy’s place, car-less and children-less, to inform her with a certain amount of rambunctiousness that her children were dead- “I’ve got to tell Cindy that I’ve just killed the kids.”  You saw her face fall and heard her wailing screams. Back at the tragic site, with her and soon Stephen Moules, all you wanted was a cigarette. You stood there looking on, shivering, whilst he (not even yet the step-father of the boys) waded fruitlessly time and time again into the freezing water.

There was, of course, no hope. When the police arrived you were taken by ambulance to Geelong hospital. You didn’t do too well here, either. When you were interviewed you kept asking ‘what will happen to me?’ when the question the police expected to hear was ‘are my children really dead? have they been identified?’ (they had, by Stephen Moules). There was no mention by you of your poor children.

Later, you just couldn’t get your story straight. This is why the homicide squad moved in. Robert Farquarson was acting odd the whole time. He seemed to be more in preservation mode, rather than acting like a typically grieving father. Each time you rang Cindy, who was hungry for an accurate account of what really happened to help her in her elusive quest for peace, you sounded vague and uncertain, seemingly more interested in what she was thinking rather than any serious attempt to honestly recall.

I read your accounts in the books I have read, and I see what little choice the jurors and judges have. But what if they are wrong, and the loyal instincts of your family members are actually right? Then you should be joining Oscar Pistorius, the man who received the lucky break, in a much more truncated jail sentence.

 

 

 

Suburban Gothic in Sonya Hartnett's latest- 'Golden Boys'

A NEW Sonya Hartnett novel is a major literary event these days, and probably has been for a long time. When I read her books I am looking for a clever use of figurative language, and an opportunity to revisit some of those those dark, dark themes. GOLDEN BOYS is classic Hartnett, the Sonya Hartnett of SLEEPING DOGS ilk, the kind of writing and ideas that make me want to write to her, or visit her, and talk about these fascinating events and people that occur in her novels.

We have, once again, the mysterious suburbs, where dislocated families struggle to survive. I get the feeling S E Hinton is an early influence, but Hinton’s stories are sugar coated in comparison. Hartnett’s suburbs are more like the Maycomb County of To Kill a Mockingbird- nothing’s quite right, there is a subterranean unease that frightens and at the same time captivates its inhabitants.

In GOLDEN BOYS we have once again the troubled adults that inflict the consequence of their flawed personalities onto their siblings. Mr Jenson (Rex) provides his two young boys with lavish gifts- car racing games, swimming pool, fancy bikes- not out of a sense of indulged love for his kids, but rather as a magnet for their young male friends who he hopes will come to visit. There are some chilling episodes in the novel where he seems as keen as mustard to dry the wet boys off with a towel. He casts himself in some sort of heroic light- the wealthy dentist who would like to be the man who ‘could ease suffering when suffering was a person’s whole world’, and ironically is the instigator himself of a lot of suffering. He is first described as looking like ‘an action-movie actor.’ Rex is a fascinating character and he is at the heart of the novel. Hartnett is careful not to make a cardboard cut-out villain- with a subject like paedophilia, she easily could have. The unhappiness he provides Colt with is understated for a long time. He is all charm on the surface and even defends himself confidently from Joe Kiley’s loose charges. An innocent outsider could see Rex as an earnest family man. Any suspect actions on his behalf are subtle, and understated- like his fascination with Avery’s knee- and the novel is better for it. Mrs Jenson (Tabby) is as close to a non-entity as you might find, cosy, benign, as passive as her name suggests. Her lack of action or responsibility is criminal. The eldest boy has to take the total weight of his father’s dark secret. She does provide the reader with the scaringly ambiguous title of her husband as ‘the pied-piper.’

The other adults are the Kiley’s. Joe is a real problem. The sort of father that, when he comes home from his unfulfilled job as a printer, the whole house stiffens to see what sort of mood he will be in, specifically whether or not he will be drunk, and invariably violent. There is something powerful and complex about both fathers. At times they seem benign and friendly, but there is that menace underneath that calm veneer that threatens the lives of their whole families. Of the two, we might feel a little sorry for Joe. Away from alcohol and in better personal circumstances, he may be an ok father. We get a glimpse of this with his enthralling family stunt where he lights the petrol he stores in his mouth and roars like a dragon with real fire. Mrs Kiley –Elizabeth- is better than Tabby- she is a lot more earnest at protecting her own or other people’s children. When Joe’s physical menace is at its peak near the end of the novel, and he is about to use his fist (described as a ‘solid mallet’) on his daughter’s face, Elizabeth comes to life and says ‘Don’t you dare hit her!’, admirably pulling him back ‘with irresistible force.’ She also looks out for poor Declan who is not his father’s favourite. Elizabeth is so unhappy that she even advises her growing daughter not to get married, and more importantly, never to have children. I knew someone just like Joe, growing up, a father of close friends who lived across the road. For me, there was this ongoing palpable menace in the house, but I only felt it as a visitor- I didn’t have to live with it.

That leaves the children, and as in the case of many of Hartnett’s novels, they are interesting, and varied, and all have fascinating little personalities of their own. The Jenson boys are Colt (as in Coltrane) and Bastian. Colt is the closest thing to heroic status in the novel. He helps rescue Freya when she is at the mercy of her father. He takes the brunt of the blame for his father’s grubbiness in an awful, brutal encounter near the end of the story. He knows too much. He is smart, and that makes life depressingly difficult. His father constantly gives him the creeps. He makes a heartbreaking apology to Declan on behalf of his father, something a boy should never have to do. Colt was a very good runner, but thanks to his father he has abandoned the idea of an athletics club. He doesn’t want to be bringing male friends home with him anymore. The first words of the novel, from Colt’s point of view, are ‘With their father, there was always a catch…’  Hartnett could be describing a worm or a little fish on the end of a line used as bait. Bastian is younger and his life is easier. He acts young for his age, and mercifully, he seems blissfully unaware of the significance of all these purchased gifts in his life- a situation that of course will sadly not last forever.

The Kiley’s are greater in number. Freya is the eldest of any of the children. She is 13, and on the verge of young adulthood and at the same age as Jem in ‘Mockingbird’, also on the verge of truth and knowledge- she has ‘started to see things she hasn’t seen before.’ She looks up to the Jenson’s- Colt, and Rex in particular. She hasn’t seen beyond the shiny exterior, and let’s face it, anything seems preferable to her own raging father. By the end of the book the cruel and intense atmosphere of her household becomes too much, and she enforces a deeply dangerous encounter with her drunken father, only to try and get Rex (her saviour) involved when she cannot handle it. Poor Freya feels the menace of her household keenly, in referring to the existence of a ‘yellow-eyed monster.’ She invents the idea that home is like a castle. She hates the lack of money in the home. And she has a morbid fear that her mother is going to have yet another baby. Freya has to confide in someone, and her inherent misplaced trust in Rex makes the reader fear the onset of tragic circumstances.

Freya’s younger brother Declan is the main protector of his younger brother, Syd. For some reason he seems to be the number one target of his father’s bullying, yet he copes in life by not questioning too much, but rather accepting that things aren’t always easy, or that life has its unfortunately messy complications. When it comes to the crunch- when Joe is trying to force the truth from Rex in their own living room- Declan is interestingly loyal to Rex, and not his own father. The overriding impression of ‘Deco’ is his steadfast demand that his younger brother, Syd, is not to go to the Jenson’s for a swim alone. It is Declan that puts the wind up Mrs Kiley. Syd (Sydney) is an easy target for Rex because he is younger, and unsuspecting. He has all the simple childishness of feeling free and grateful for a swim in a pool, and dreams of one day owning his own skateboard. He is also terrified of his father. The other children- Marigold, Dorrie and Peter, have less of a function in the novel. They too are subject to the witnessing of their father’s moods- ‘they stand around their mother like children in a very old painting- impassive but on guard.’

Outside these family members, Hartnett introduces us to two other ‘golden boys’, two very different boys in Avery and Garrick, and two people that add an enormous amount of interest to the novel. Avery Price is a sad creature, almost an orphan who lives with his grandparents and is always roaming around on his bike, even on his own, at night. He has no choice but to align himself with Garrick, the frightening bully, and seems to be the one most vulnerable to Rex Jenson, who develops an obsession with Avery’s busted knee.

Garrick is frightening, but the reader can’t help but share his despair at being the one who is targeted the most by Rex’s wandering hands. His indignation, shock and anger at having his ‘arse’ touched is chillingly real, as is his incredibly violent physical assault on Colt. Garrick steals Colt’s prized BMX just because he knows Colt will come looking for it. He feels incredibly let down by Colt’s silences- ‘But you knew. You knew, and you didn’t tell us. You let him.’ Garrick’s attack is shockingly bloody because it is the only way Garrick knows how to retaliate- and Hartnett has also built in a homoerotic element into the story as well. Garrick bashes Colt because he loves him.

For those fans of Hartnett who find her treatment of the suburbs fascinating (see also Georgia Blain), GOLDEN BOYS is rich material. The stormwater drain, the enticing backyard swimming pool, the enticing ice creams, the ‘playroom’ filled with innumerable children’s toys, the electric tension in the Kiley household when Joe comes home-‘ They hear the shoving of his chair, his tread across the kitchen’, the creepily ambiguous words Rex uses to the spellbound Freya, who is described brilliantly as ‘she has pulled on a weed and the whole world has come up in her hand’, the chilling fatherly tone Rex uses on Avery when he advises him not to go near the stormwater drain with his bad knee, Rex’s greasy, lizard-like behaviour at the neighbourhood BBQ he organises, ‘at its base runs a thin greenish thread of never-drying slime’ (that’s a description of the stormwater drain, not Rex), the brilliant passage where Freya and Rex are talking, and almost simultaneously on the page the boys are having a slot car race (of course these twin narratives are intertwined), the tense encounter between Rex and Joe at the Kiley’s home when the truth is almost exposed (which strangely enough reminds me of the clash between Gatsby and Tom Buchanan at the Plaza Hotel).

 

 

MOST PEOPLE ARE GOOD

MOST people are good, despite what Nick Cave says on one song from his ‘Boatman’s Call’ album. Every day I see strangers, and given the right brief and random opportunity, people will smile at you or leave you alone and respect your right to be left alone or encouraged smilingly. The true test of whether people are good or not is this witnessing of warm or benign strangers. Of course, sometimes it takes a little effort on your part. It helps to look decent, have your children trail next to you (if you have any), smile and look content yourself, exhibit kind eyes, to not look aggressive or arrogant, and to look calm and safe.

The news these days is full of stories about people who want to hurt other people. Some of them want to cut off your head. Others just want to rob you, take your money at the ATM, sexually assault you, or say something racist or demeaning, or glare or swear at you at the slightest provocation, or steal your parking spot or your spot at the ice cream line, or smirk at your taste on books, films or clothes, or frown at your vulnerability or the way you wear your heart on your sleeve, or your political choice or your desire to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, or the way that you hum or sing whilst you walk, have a foreign accent, or laugh meanly when you trip on the pavement, or glare menacingly when you try and start a conversation, or give you a parking ticket or traffic infringement notice at the drop of a hat, or accuse you of snobbery if you like a foreign film or wear a smart suit.

But this is just the news. Most of the time I find that people are really good. They either don’t mind you and seem not to notice you because they are on the phone or have plugs in their ears, or they do notice you and their face opens up and smile and make your day.