I remember Waverley, and Glen Iris, driving around late at night,
talking on the level as houses went by. Dancing in their living rooms,
listening to the new English music copied to cassettes: “We mean it man. We
love our queen.” Then into the car again, proto-punks watching letter-boxes go
by in the dark. I remember Burwood, singing old American music, and Prahran: “I
live uptown. I live downtown. But I never been so broke that I couldn’t leave
town,” partying through June nights in some deco flat in South Yarra, before
they became famous, never on the level again.
No comments:
Post a Comment