Comments Off on Can we please talk about Canberra Avenue now?
Canberra Avenue, the road that runs from central Queanbeyan to Parliament House, has four lanes, a wide median strip, and measures about 45 meters wide from curb to curb. It has a speed limit of 60 kilometres per hour.
But, despite adjoining schools and homes, it has almost no signalised crossings for pedestrians between Manuka and the New South Wales border.
Even when people follow the road rules along Canberra Avenue, it is extremely dangerous, and people have known this for years. At my high school, St Edmund’s College, or Eddies, which is located at 110 Canberra Avenue, it was something of a villain.
When crossing the street around the Eddies campus, you are confronted with various dangers.
Cars are moving much faster than they would elsewhere.
Looking east (away from the City), the road goes up a slight gradient, blocking your view of traffic coming off a giant, fast-moving roundabout.
Looking west (towards the City), tree branches can block your view of traffic coming from the bottom of a hill.
Only recently did the government install a footpath across the median strip.
It is drilled into you by teachers very early on that you are to have absolutely nothing to do with this road.
If a teacher on bus stop duty spotted you trying to cross, they would warn you about how dangerous it is.
In a quote that has become a proverb, dating to the early 2010s, a senior teacher in the school is said to have yelled out, in his rather direct manner, to a student running across the road, “You’re a coward!”
In around Year 9 or 10, my Health and PE teacher, who went to the school himself, used a lesson on peer pressure to tell stories of classmates in Year 11 and 12 who got into horrific car accidents by speeding down Canberra Avenue on a dare after getting their P’s.
Horror stories and accosting aside, people do cross the street. People live there, of course, and even students who don’t have many reasons to. The R2 bus runs from Wentworth Avenue, near the train station. The nearest cafes for Year 11 and 12 students going to lunch or on their free period is on the other side of the street.
Sporadically, the school will lobby the government to implement measures to improve the street’s safety: sternly worded letters, petitions to the Legislative Assembly, and public appeals in the press.
These efforts are usually dismissed as, as transport minister Chris Steel put it in response to a petition launched in 2022, a reduced speed zone for the school and its traffic calming infrastructure would be “incompatible with this road’s arterial function”.
Minister Steel also promised an internal review investigating other potential safety measures, such as a signalised crossing, but it would not seem that much has changed.
The need to implement safety measures on Canberra Avenue takes on a whole new relevance as, last Friday, the worst nightmares of Eddies’ students, staff and alumni became a reality.
Police allege a man sped down Canberra Avenue from Queanbeyan before hitting two teenage students crossing outside Eddies.
I disagree with the ACT government that safety measures around the school would be incompatible with the arterial function of Canberra Avenue, not least because many arterial roads go even further than is usually proposed.
Sydney’s notorious Pennant Hills Road, perhaps the archetypal arterial road in Australia, has a school zone and even has traffic cameras that enforce it.
Canberra Avenue, at least outside Eddies, has neither.
Many arterial roads, even in Canberra, have frequent signalised pedestrian crossings. Literally the next road over, Wentworth Avenue, has such crossings!
Canberra Avenue has none (0) in the vicinity of the school: the nearest is over a kilometre — 1 thousand meters — away.
None of these measures would have prevented a person from acting in the manner police have alleged here: stealing a car and speeding it down a wide avenue.
However, they would certainly have decreased the likelihood that these two boys would have been injured by the alleged offender’s actions.
Imagine if, instead of running for their lives across the already extremely dangerous road, the boys were waiting for a green man at a traffic light.
Imagine if these boys could have jumped out of the way of the speeding green Commodore and in front of a car going slow enough that either it could have stopped or, at least, caused much less severe injuries.
These boys were not given these options.
Can we please talk about them?
Update: After this piece was written, the territory roads minister Tara Cheyne told a press conference that she had asked her directorate for “a briefing […on] any safety treatments that we might be able to implement” on Canberra Avenue.
I have an ardent confession to make: I love love.
Not the kind where you keep your options in a shopping cart, swiping left and right like you’re browsing for a winter coat. Not the kind where you meet someone twice, tell them they feel like home, and then disappear from the face of the planet. Not the kind where you bask in the warmth of a “what are we?” conversation when you’ve already met their mum. And certainly not the kind where affection arrives in the form of “you up?” at 3 a.m.
I love love: the kind where you buy them flowers just because; where you remember the little things, some told, some observed. The kind where you keep a secret list of their likes and dislikes in your Notes app; where you write silly little love missives, i’s dotted with hearts, and slip them into their bag. The kind where you soak paper in coffee, spray it with your perfume and post letters that smell like you. The gut-wrenchingly vulnerable kind of love.
And oh, love letters! I love love in love letters. Because what do you mean you sat down, picked up a pen, and poured your feelings onto paper, knowing those words would endure? Love letters once carried the weight of human emotion, but maybe we don’t want to confront that weight anymore. Maybe knowing you can always just ghost someone feels safer. Maybe we fear the vulnerability, and lack the sheer courage it takes to send something we can’t edit, can’t unsend, can’t delete. After all, it takes time for ink on paper to fade.
My fervent interest in the disappearance of love letters led me to Kafka’s Letters to Milena, a poignant glimpse into what love once looked like on paper.
If you don’t know Franz Kafka (which, honestly, loser behaviour), here’s a crash course: brilliant, existentially tortured, and pathetically in love. A man obsessed with writing letters. His letters to Milena Jesenská, his long-time lover, are some of the most intimate insights into his mind.
Now that I’ve read the book, and based on the multiple love letters my friends have penned for me over time, here’s how to (and how not to) write a love letter.
Lost for words, not lost for love
Your love letter doesn’t need to begin with a grand, sweeping declaration of eternal devotion. You don’t need to overthink it. Just start writing.
A lot of Kafka’s letters to Milena are simply him describing his day, his surroundings, and the way the world feels without her in it:
“I’m living quite well here, the mortal body could hardly stand more care. The balcony outside my room is sunk into a garden, overgrown and covered with blooming bushes… Lizards and birds, unlikely couples, come visit me: I would very much like to share Meran with you.”
He describes the world around him and says, I wish you were here. That’s it. That’s love.
Love isn’t just grand gestures; it’s the desire to share even the most mundane moments with someone. It’s missing them, not just when you’re alone but in a room full of distractions too. Write, no matter how trivial your thoughts seem. Ultimately, it’s the sentiment that counts.
Say what you mean, mean what you feel
In one letter, Milena tells Kafka she loves him, but she also loves her husband, Pollak, and will never leave him.
Emotionally devastating? Yes. Diabolical? Yes.
But at least they’re honest with each other. They both know where they stand.
A love letter must be steeped in truth, a sincere reflection of your heart. Be clear in your intentions, and for the love of all that matters, don’t twist something as sacred as a love letter into a tool for manipulation or love-bombing. It should resonate with authenticity, so that even decades later, when discovered in a forgotten shoebox, its essence remains as vibrant and true as the day it was penned.
You can be vulnerable without being a walking red flag (unlike Kafka)
“Perhaps it isn’t love when I say you are what I love the most—you are the knife I turn inside myself, this is love.”
Look, I love vulnerability. I love raw, messy, unfiltered emotion as much as the next person. But there’s a fine line between being deeply romantic and concerningly unhinged. Kafka, unfortunately, did not know where that line was.
You, however, should.
Pour your heart out, yes. Tell them how much they mean to you. But maybe don’t write things that make them question whether they need to file a restraining order. Aim for endearment, not distress. Love letters should leave the reader feeling adored, not burdened.
Beware: love is both glory and doom
“I wrote you a note from Prague and then from Meran. I have not received any answer. It so happens the notes did not require a particularly prompt reply and if your silence is nothing more than a sign of relative well-being, then I am completely satisfied.”
Kafka writes every day. He writes without expecting a response. Because perhaps the greatest joy of love was always being able to express it.
Now, I’m not telling you to flood your crush’s inbox with a thousand love letters even after they’ve clearly rejected you. I am not enabling that behaviour.
All I am saying is, don’t be afraid to let people know what they mean to you. Just don’t expect too much in return. As much as it sucks, sometimes HE’S JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU. But then there is always that lucky possibility that they adore you just as much as you do. You’ll never know until you deliver that letter.
Kafka is overwhelming and raw in his honesty. Would a modern-day Milena be charmed by Kafka’s letters, or would she block him for sending messages at dawn that sound like existential crises? Who knows.
Letters to Milena reminds us that love–real, heart-wrenching love, is worth writing down.
Sure: we’re all hustling through life, our emotions are condensed into emoji quick-reactions and hastily-composed replies to Instagram stories, and vulnerability feels more like a risk than a rite. Who has time for grandiloquent prose when doom scrolling is afoot and another “seen” notification waits to be artfully ignored? Love letters are a high-stakes gamble with scant returns.
But here’s a little secret: I still have every note and letter I’ve ever received, lovingly placed on my bedside table. Some are from people who have since become strangers to me, while others are from those I speak to every day. Regardless, I cherish the habit of revisiting them every few weeks.
People often lose sight of how loved they are, no matter how many cutesy reels you send their way. Love letters, however, ensure that this truth remains vivid and undeniable.
So, write one. Let the people you love know you love them. It will always be worth every effort.
Woroni Radio welcomes you to the first Woroni Gig Guide for 2025! This guide lists most, if not all, shows happening in Canberra between now and the start of April. Originally, this was devised as a feature for the upcoming Extinction magazine, to showcase the fact that local live music is very much, in fact, not extinct. However, timelines made this impossible, so we have published it on our site so that whoever needs it can use it to its fullest extent. This list isn’t comprehensive, so if you know of any upcoming shows, feel free to let us know via emailing radio@woroni.com.
Bands, times, and prices are accurate at time of writing * = concession prices
Every Saturday
Wayne Kelly Trio @ Tilley’s Devine Cafe Gallery (6:00pm, FREE)
Friday 14/3
Crucial Waft (calyx, Sia Ahmed + Tom Fell & NIMBY) @ Dissent Cafe & Bar (7:30pm, $15)
Tijuana Cartel @ The Baso (7:00pm, $51)
A Commoner’s Revolt, Domesticated Incels & Ben Pegram @ The Polo (7:00pm, $15)
Saturday 15/3
Pseudo Echo @ The Baso (7:00pm, $51)
Lost Coast & Flik & Frames @ The Polo (7:30pm, $20)
The Filthy Darlings, The Shadow Ministers & The Petch Experience @ Smith’s Alternative (9:00pm, $15)
Sunday 16/3
Georgia Bennett @ The Old Canberra Inn (4:00pm, FREE)
Inez Hargaden (4:00pm, FREE)
Sam Buckingham @ Smith’s Alternative (7:00, $25*)
Tuesday 18/3
Ruthie Foster @ The Street Theatre (7:30pm, $75)
Thursday 20/3
Kim Salmon’s Smoked Salmon @ Smith’s Alternative (9:30pm, $35*)
The Brother Brothers & Isobel Rumble @ Smith’s Alternative (6:30pm, $20*)
Friday 21/3
Khan & Voodoo Acid Space Kings @ The Baso (7:00pm, $30)
Majelen & Tessa Devine @ Smith’s Alternative (6:30pm, $15*)
RAMSTONE, The Filthy Darlings & Napoleon Ice Cream @ Dissent Cafe & Bar (7:30pm, $20)
Shivi Vachaspati Trio @ Dickson Taphouse (8:00pm, FREE)
Ziggy Alberts @ UC Refectory (7:30pm, $93)
Saturday 22/3
Blue Angel & Dr Wiedemann’s Orchestra & Black Owl Quartet @ Smith’s Alternative (3:00pm, $10*)
David McCredie @ Smith’s Alternative (6:00pm, $20*)
Eviscerate The Crown, Russian Novel, Telurian & Switch Up @ The Baso (7:00pm, $18)
FUNLAND (Tired Lion, Verge Collection, Egoism, Smartcasual, Sonic Reducer, Sunsick Daisy, Swapmeet & Archie) @ UC Hub Courtyard (4:00pm, $52)
STS Fest (Flavuh, The Engine, Nuta Mantis & Buffy) @ Dissent Bar & Cafe (7:30pm, $20)
The Sunday Estate @ The Baso (7:00pm, $23)
Zambezi Sounds @ Smith’s Alternative (9:00pm, $15)
Sunday 23/3
Chris O’Connor @ The Old Canberra Inn (4:00pm, FREE)
Comfy Gutters & Liz Caddy @ Smith’s Alternative (3:00pm, $10*)
Moondog @ Dickson Taphouse (4:00pm, FREE)
Wednesday 26/3
Kristina Olsen & Peter Grayling @ Smith’s Alternative (6:30pm, $25*)
Thursday 27/3
Travis Collins @ The Baso (7:00pm, $33*)
Friday 28/3
Black Owl Quartet @ Dickson Taphouse (8:00pm, FREE)
Cardboard Cutouts & Sex With Men @ Dissent Cafe & Bar (7:30pm, $15)
Kasey Chambers @ Canberra Theatre Centre (7:30pm, $91)
Lakeside at 5 (Rachel Thoms Trio & Aidan and Bianca) @ Tuggeranong Arts Centre (5:30pm, donation)
The Crossbenchers @ The Old Canberra Inn (7:00pm, FREE)
The Weeping Willows & Great Aunt @ Smith’s Alternative (6:30pm, $20*)
Saturday 29/3
Big Reef, Rat Boy School Excursion & Buzzcuts @ Dissent Cafe & Bar (7:30pm, $10)
Capital Punishment (Shackles, Fat Lip, Gravitate, Highland Light, Discount Code, Step 2 Me & Minefield) @ The Baso (7:00pm, $45)
John Craigie & Kassi Valazza @ Smith’s Alternative (6:00pm, $45)
Johnny Reynolds Band @ The Old Canberra Inn (2:00pm, FREE)
La Descarga & Los Chavos @ The Polo (7:30pm, $35) Sunday 30/3 Flik @ The Old Canberra Inn (4:00pm, FREE)
Georgia Bennett @ Dickson Taphouse (4:00pm, FREE)
Tuesday 1/4
Stand Atlantic & RedHook @ The Baso (7:00pm,. $56)
Thursday 3/4
Kim Churchill @ Smith’s Alternative (9:30pm, $40)
Pierce Brothers & Flynn Gurry @ UC Hub (7:00pm, $46)
You Am I & Grace Cummings @ UC Refectory (7:00pm, $91)
Friday 4/4
Bootleg Rascal, Dante Knows & Dizzy Days @ The Baso (7:00pm, $45)
Flynn Marcus Quartet @ Dickson Taphouse (8:00pm, FREE)
We Mavericks & Two If By Sea @ Smith’s Alternative (6:30pm, $20*)
Saturday 5/4
Ess-Em, Doxxed & A Commoner’s Revolt @ Dissent Cafe & Bar (7:30pm, $20)
Lucie Thorne + Hamish Stuart @ Smith’s Alternative (4:00pm, $20*)
Sunday 6/4
Dean Haitani @ Dickson Taphouse (4:00pm, FREE)
Lewis DeLorenzo @ The Old Canberra Inn (4:00pm, FREE)
Comments Off on So, You Want to Read Judith Butler? Start with these 5 Essays.
Love them or hate them, Judith Butler might just be one of the most influential thinkers of the last 30 years, spawning and developing our understanding of basically all humanities concerns: sexuality and gender, language and meaning, peace and violence, relationships and family, identity and subjectivity, law and politics, and even life and death.
I would argue that anyone studying law, arts, philosophy, languages, politics, and even biology or medicine would benefit greatly from at least one of Butler’s insights — and I’d assume that’s very likely to include you.
Butler is best-known for their theory of performativity, applying linguist J. L. Austin’s theory of ‘performative’ utterances – acts of speech which, in being spoken, bring that action into being (e.g. “I promise…” → constitutes a promise) – to a general understanding of our performative constitution of gender/sexual identity – acts of social speech, if you will. Or, in Butler’s words:
Consider gender, for instance, as a corporeal style, an “act,” as it were, which is both intentional and performative, where “performative” suggests a dramatic and contingent construction of meaning. (Gender Trouble, p177)
Confused? Don’t worry.
Whether you’ve ever referred to gender as ‘performed’, or simply acted in a way that was intended to represent – to ‘do’ – your gender (like actively choosing the cologne that’s assigned to your gender)… you’re evidence of Butler’s argument.
Butler’s ideas remain equally consequential and controversial in the wide-ranging canon of continental philosophy; whilst the philosopher has books and prizes written in their honour, they have also been dubbed ‘the Professor of Parody’ with protests against their work in Brazil which burnt an effigy of her.
That said, Darin Barney provides the following defence of Butler, summarising their legacy amid polarised reception amongst certain sections of their academe:
[Their] work… on gender, sex, sexuality, queerness, feminism, bodies, political speech and ethics has… also changed the lives of countless people whose bodies, genders, sexualities and desires have made them subject to violence, exclusion and oppression, by lending recognition, dignity and power to their experience, and by illuminating the contours of an ethics in which we might begin to live well with, and because of, the differences that constitute us.
Where do I stand?
After reading the preface to Gender Trouble in Year 10 at the ripe age of 15, my life was never the same; truly, an anagnorisis of my gay (?) teenagehood.
Butler’s work proved instrumental to my relationship with myself, my body, and the plethora of bodies and selves (and embodied selfhoods!) I have come across in my lifetime. I probably revisit Butler on a fortnightly-to-monthly basis in some capacity, either reading their work directly or another scholar’s Butlerian analysis.
However, even a Butlerite like me can admit that their work can be difficult to read, especially for a beginner. 26 years ago, Butler won first prize in the journal Philosophy and Literature’s ‘Bad Writing Competition’ for a 94-word sentence.
…Regardless of the polarity of their work’s reception, Butler’s importance as a theorist, a writer, and an academic is clear.
So, having chipped away at Butler’s body of work for four, coming on five, years… I have collated an ordered list of five essays (~70 pages total) to get started with Butler’s work, each with a difficulty rating, the length, the overall topics, and my favourite quote.
Essay 1) Judith Butler: ‘We need to rethink the category of woman’
For: anyone!!
Difficulty: 1 / 5 stars (2000 words)
Topics: Queer and feminist politics/activism; performativity; queer history
Gender is an assignment that does not just happen once: it is ongoing. We are assigned a sex at birth and then a slew of expectations follow which continue to “assign” gender to us.
Let’s start with an interview with theorist Julie Gleeson. Here, Butler’s reflections span a range of topics, tracking temporal and cultural differences in the many political arenas in which they operate: queer rights, access to academia, collective action, what it means to have or do a gender. While not essential reading, Gleeson’s interview showcases Butler’s interconnected, interdisciplinary approach, deepening your reading of her work.
Essay 2) Protest, Violent, and Nonviolent
For: politics, international relations, history, and law students
Difficulty: 1 / 5 stars (12 pages)
Topics: (Anti-)Fascism; political action; democracy; class; justification of violence; harm
Protest is a way of voting on and with the streets, asserting a sense of the people that remains radically unrepresented by the “representative” government that exists. (p 239)
Two great things about this essay are that it’s written really simply, and there are no overdrawn academic footnotes as Butler introduces, analyses, and moves on from each external reference. This is great for those without a thorough backing in theory or philosophy, hence why I’ve suggested it so early in my list of accessible Butler works. Read these 12 pages and you’ll never think the same way about the scenes of violence our society lets slide (but maybe shouldn’t): tasers, arrests, insecticide, your parents smacking you.
Essay 3) How Can I Deny That These Hands and This Body Are Mine?
For: philosophy, linguistics, and English students
Difficulty: 2 / 5 stars (18 pages)
Topics: Descartes; the mind vs the body; thinking; writing; embodiment; metaphysics
There is no writing without the body, but no body fully appears along with the writing that it produces. (p 28)
Did you take PHIL1004 and also find yourself deeply dissatisfied with Descartes’ work? Read this. I found this when preparing for my PHIL1004 final exam, desperate for an articulation of the holes I kept poking in Cartesian mind-body dualism (the idea that our minds and our bodies are separate entities; the former, reliable and the latter, an obstacle to our access to the former). Butler tears Descartes to shreds, without the overly verbose technicality that analytic philosophy seeks to ingrain in a budding philosopher. Like psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan, Butler exposes the impossibility of Descartes’ attempt to disembody himself through his philosophical practice.
Essay 4) Kinship beyond the Bloodline
For: sociology, biology, medicine, policy, law, international relations, or history students
Difficulty: 3 / 5 stars (22 pages)
Topics: Family; queerness; slavery; blood; culture; race; friends-as-family; relationships; coming out; family law
On the one hand, the reduction of kinship to genetic tie… is one way that the government evacuates the affective character of the bond of kinship. On the other hand, that same affective tie is presumed and exploited by the exact same policy. (p 33)
Is blood thicker than water? Butler manages to pack a LOT into this essay, blending STEM and the Arts remarkably, hence my 3/5 difficulty rating; even though everyone should read this essay, some aspect of this analysis will almost certainly be outside of your usual. Butler covers epigenetics, migration policy, tribalism, reproduction, and the family to present an account for how society and science blend natural and cultural processes in its heteronormative structuring of relationships.
Essay 5) Performative Acts and Gender Constitution
For: anyone gay; English, sociology, philosophy — or any Arts students
Difficulty: 4 / 5 stars (12 pages)
Topics: Phenomenology; bodies; theatre; gender; identity; performance; speech acts; gay shit
Gender reality is performative which means, quite simply, that it is real only to the extent that it is performed. (p 527)
I’m leaving the most challenging, but most rewarding for last: where it all started (at least, the gender theory). It’s here that Butler first introduces their theory of gender performativity. This piece is technical, but not particularly challenging – I read it in Year 10 without any background in philosophy; for me, my curiosity about much-asked questions (Why are you gay? What makes you gay? Are you a guy or a girl?) were plenty to pique my interest.
If you want to really, really understand every question you’ve probably asked yourself from an early age about your gender and our gendered world, these 12 pages are scripture. Although written in 1988, Butler presents a cogent explanation of many historical and current phenomena, and how male and female are unstable, shifting, and largely discursively established categories: how can “man” include Louis XIV’s silk stockings and Andrew Tate’s extra-tight V-neck shirts? How can “woman” both presume and chastise sexuality?
The danger of Butler’s work, its thrill, resides within these 12 pages…exemplifying knowledge’s power to challenge power itself.
Comments Off on Walking on a Dream: The Disappointment of the Bunda Street Shared Zone
Canberra’s inner north has been my home my whole life; my backyard, Bunda Street.
The street has always been on the frontline of the fight between car-centric road planners, pedestrians, and resilient small businesses. Back in the 70s, Gus Petersilka, the founder of the recently closed Gus’ Cafe, fought with the federal government for the right to have outdoor dining, today a key attraction of the area.
My own memories of Bunda Street include family birthday dinners at long-gone Chinese food establishments like Sammy’s and Hidden Dragon, being stood up at what was to be my first-ever date at Kokomo’s, and many strolls up and down the street, a cup of Via Dolce coffee in hand, after a late weekend brunch.
Last year marked the tenth anniversary of the ACT government’s designation of Bunda Street as a shared zone. Pedestrians were given priority, popular crossing spots were raised to slow cars down, line markings were removed, the bitumen was painted and paved differently from other streets, and the speed limit was reduced to a much safer 20 kilometres per hour.
This comprised the last stage of the ‘City Loop’, a project to create a cycling and walking corridor through the city that avoided busy roads like London Circuit and Cooyong Street. Has this car diet been a success? To anyone who regularly uses the street today, the answer is obviously a resounding no.
Crossing the street as a pedestrian remains unpleasant (and, during peak hours, dangerous) as it was before the renovation. Drivers refuse to yield as they are required to, frequently slamming their brakes just before hitting people — a sin most commonly committed by white cars bearing NSW license plates, in my experience.
The choice to keep a large number of street parking spaces means that using the street for its intended post-renovation purpose — cycling — requires negotiation with cars that randomly stop to take a parking space or pull out without looking or indicating.
Many drivers use it as a rat run from Northbourne Avenue to avoid the stretch of traffic lights on Cooyong Street. This includes many commuters, but whenever there’s a large national event in Canberra, you can bet that an even longer line of cars will inexplicably line up Bunda as a poorly thought-out shortcut.
Bunda Street’s shared zone signage seems more directed at reminding pedestrians of their putative right to cross unimpeded rather than informing drivers of their obligation to slow down to preserve said right. At the intersection with the pedestrianised part of Ainslie Avenue that runs through the Canberra Centre, there’s an unnecessary and confusing set of traffic lights with crossing signals erected before the pedestrianisation that were never removed.
This is not to say that the renovations were entirely pointless. The street is much more pleasant than the dangerous car sewer it replaced. A video of a pro-same-sex marriage march in 2011 shows activists being wedged onto the tight footpaths on either side of the street — a stark contrast from the colourful street-wide protest march against the “bigot bill” a decade later. The shared zone, combined with the Canberra Centre’s recent pedestrianisation of Scotts Crossing, has made Bunda Street even more vibrant and accessible.
The territory government has for decades tried to encourage the take-up of active and public transit, but it has often done so with vague and unclear initiatives like “car-free days”, which scare the car-dependent Canberran public into thinking that Chairman Barr is coming for their beloved vehicles.
They would do better at reducing our dependence on cars by making a real effort to make active and public transit as comfortable as driving. The tram provided a fantastic alternative for inner north and Gungahlin residents, but the sharp reduction in suburban bus frequencies that occurred at the same time as the tram has been entirely unhelpful.
My dream for my backyard, at the risk of sounding like a NIMBY (Not In My BackYard), would be for Bunda Street to be closed to car traffic. Not every street needs cars running down it, much less an eat street atop a large underground car park a block away from Canberra’s largest transit interchange.
There is no argument against freeing Bunda Street from the tyranny of the private motor vehicle.
For all the hassle they cause, the number of parking spaces along the street and the revenue they bring in is miniscule. FOI documents last year revealed that the territory government makes (on average) only about $80,000 a year from paid parking on the street while issuing about $250,000 in parking fines. It is the businesses along the street, not the parking spaces, that attract people to come here.
The idea that businesses need unimpeded car access to the street is also bunk. During the annual Multicultural Festival, where the whole street becomes a pleasant car-free marketplace, deliveries to businesses along the street are certainly impacted, but not meaningfully prevented.
A good compromise would be closing the street between Tocumwal Lane (the laneway near Via Dolce) and Genge Street (near Wilma), which would force away the worst of the through-traffic while leaving cyclists, deliveries and other essential traffic largely unimpeded. Retractable bollards could allow vehicle access during emergencies or public events like parades.
Closing Bunda Street to car traffic would be transformative. The street would join the great Australian malls like Pitt Street, Bourke Street, Queen Street, the Rundle Mall and Murray Street as vibrant, people-first spaces. It would be a much safer route for cyclists and pedestrians to roam the city and inner north — a much nicer backyard for Canberrans to gather in.
Comments Off on ‘THE HOUSE’: ANU’S RESIDENTIAL HALLS AS A MICROCOSM OF PARLIAMENTARY ELITISM
‘Is there much of an upstairs-downstairs feel in Parliament House?’
‘Yeah, we’ve got people upstairs who have probably never been down to the basement… if I wanted people to take note, I’d stop delivering coffee and toilet paper.’
These are the words of Sandy McInerney, Logistics Manager of Parliament House’s underground ‘catacombs’, in conversation with Annabel Crabb in her 2017 docuseries The House. Offhand words in one twenty-second conversation of a three-hour documentary series, which amongst all those exploring the glory and intricacies of Parliament’s ‘upstairs’ rooms, were the ones that lingered in my mind.
Parliament is a living, breathing organism of democracy, of high-level thinking, of the most important people in Australia. But McInerney’s words starkly remind us that no well-pressed suit, nor feet on immaculately steamed red and green carpet, exempt our high-calibre Parliamentarians from their human needs.
It does, however, seemingly exempt them from having to fulfil these needs themselves.
Our most important figures simply float through the halls of Parliament unaffected by such lowly considerations as where to buy their next coffee, or whether the toilet will be clean for them to use. They take blissful baths in the upstairs glory of The House, while a hidden workforce who ‘rarely sees the light of day’ weaves its way through an underground road and tunnel network, ensuring the functionality and comfort of Parliament; it’s just part of the job. The structural hierarchy – the dichotomy between the presentable and the obscured, the up and the down, the fore- and background – is built into the building itself, and subsequently built into parliamentary culture. This culture only works to perpetuate complex notions of ‘upper’ and ‘lower’ that pervade public reality: if the physical manifestation of Australian freedom and justice, representing the views and interests of the Australian people, is so plainly hierarchised, how can we expect society’s culture to reflect or embody anything else?
As I watch the flag fly atop Parliament’s glistening roof from just down the street, I contemplate the people I’m surrounded by, studying at Australia’s National University. I’ve met many a person in my eight months on campus who I could confidently say will sit in Parliament in twenty years. ANU graduates ‘go on to become leaders in government.’ I’m decidedly nestled in a culture that is fostering the minds that will fill the rooms of Parliament soon enough, and who similarly have their day-to-day needs managed in a basement that they will likely never lay eyes on.
My realisation, then, was that these future parliamentarians are, given the immense population of fellow first-year students living on campus, living their day-to-day lives now in much the same dynamic.
When I moved to Canberra, one of the biggest shocks to my system was learning that the kitchens, the bathrooms, the dining areas, and everything short of the individual rooms (unless you’re a Johns resident, if I’m to disseminate frivolous rumours) of my residential hall got cleaned not by those that used it, but by cleaning staff who have nothing to do with the dirtying of these spaces. Clogged sinks filled to the brim with ominous soup turned to sparkling silver overnight. Abandoned pots and pans and knives and forks left strewn across benches after the 7pm rush disappeared eventually. Moulding food was swept away when it got too apparent that its owner was probably not coming back for it.
I couldn’t believe it – I’d gone from being a nineteen-year-old who, despite her freeloading at home, had some semblance of responsibility for cleanliness, to a twenty-year-old who could ultimately leave whatever mess she’d like with very limited real consequences, despite likely dirty looks from others trying to use the stoves.
While having cleaning staff in itself is by no means condemnable, it highlights a crucial element of residential hall existence – that there is a certain, in-built element to this lifestyle that places our education and frankly, in many cases, our exercise of privilege in attending university, above our need to take responsibility for our everyday existence. We are being implicitly told that our intelligence and our ability to pay to live on campus – or, more commonly, to be paid for – places us above the need to engage with the mundane aspects of adult living, particularly for those living in catered residences. In this respect, we are young parliamentarians in more ways than being students of politics and law: living as if we are too important to change a toilet roll.
So many of us wouldn’t know the names of the people who mop our floors for us, and no matter how clean we keep our spaces, we therefore play a part in being the upstairs residents who would take most note of our cleaning staff if they stopped filling the paper towel dispensers and wiping the desks we study on. We can beg the question of whether living in residences, being fed and cleaned for, prepares us for the ‘real world’, but the cold truth is that, for many people, it sure does. Their real world will become the professionalised version: a workplace where they are cushioned by assurance that they need not lift a finger to feel cared for and have not since their first day at college. They will not see the insides of a maintenance cupboard nor the basement of whichever sunlit office they work in and will learn that this is what they worked for: to have the less palatable requirements of comfortable existence offloaded onto someone else.
The wake-up call here is not to drop out of college and start a commune, by any means. This lifestyle gives so many people the opportunities to pursue elements of independent living and study that they otherwise never would have dreamt possible. What lingers in my mind, though, is that this way of living is not as natural or normal as it can begin to feel when immersed in the insularity of it all. Hierarchy does not sit well in houses of any description, yet Australia’s most important House has it coursing through its veins; food for discomforting thought.
The wake-up call is, instead, to thank your cleaners, next time you see them; they are the people who underpin the lifestyle we’re lucky enough to lead, and there will never come a fictitiously constructed hierarchy that changes that.
On the night of the 1st of September, a category 2 cyclone hit Melbourne. I was alone in my parent’s house, lying high and awake in my childhood bed. Checking my notes app the next day, I noticed that I’d written something.
“It’s two forty-five in the morning. I’m alone in my childhood home, and I’m a little scared.”
I used to love storms. I still do, at least on an intellectual level. There’s something empowering about the natural world, and the quiet strength of our buildings withstanding a battering. But it’s been three years since I was in Melbourne for a proper storm, and I’m not used to them anymore. Melbourne isn’t entirely home anymore.
The storm, and my reaction to it, cemented a realisation that’s been dawning on me for some time; I’m getting older. I’m not the same Henry as I was in first year. When I first moved to Canberra, I was a fresh-faced (albeit hirsute) eighteen-year-old. There were endless streams of new people to meet, and I had complete freedom for the first time in my life. As these years went on, Canberra became home. Daley Road became home. I don’t know when Canberra became home, though I know that it is. But now, I’m about to turn twenty-one, and I’m preparing to leave this leafy home. Moving out of Daley Road feels like I’m moving into a new phase. I’m on the precipice of adulthood, and I’d be lying if that wasn’t daunting.
Canberra is a transitory place. Most of us never plan to stay here forever, though many of us will. As students in Canberra, we live a quasi-nomadic life. Our friends are from all over, and there’s endless trips to someone’s hometown that can be made. Since moving to Canberra, I’ve spent more time in Sydney than I ever thought I would. I’ve become familiar with a smorgasbord of small towns —places I didn’t even know existed when I decided to leave Melbourne.
Just like Canberra, being college-age is transitory. For the past three years, my identity has been in constant flux. Every possible experience is handed to you on a platter. I’ve attended talks at embassies immediately after coordinating some of the Engineering School’s brightest minds to make a bong. That’s the beauty of early adulthood. It’s a period of constant discovery. Of constant change, excitement, and experimentation. There’s a reason you don’t see many 40 year olds packing into the forests near Pialligo for a doof. After a while, the chaos becomes disorienting. I’m aware it’s bizarre that I’m writing this sentence but nevertheless, I’m getting old.
Adulthood excites me. A while back, I had a conversation with one of my best friends. Being from Melbourne, we’re both rarities in our Sydneysider friendship group. Driving along Hoddle Street in Melbourne, on our way to a day of unnecessarily expensive sandwiches and thrifting in Fitzroy, he asked me whether I’d rather get older or get younger and redo my childhood. I generally avoid existential crises before lunchtime, but this dilemma gripped me.
I didn’t have a good answer at the time, but I can now confidently say that adulthood excites me more than youth. Stability is more thrilling to me than chaos. I think that makes me boring and I think that’s what scares me the most. I was asked once if I’d prefer to be happy or interesting. At the time I said interesting. But I can’t stand by that answer anymore. I would rather be happy and simple.
The tragedy of youth is that it ends. We can only be interesting for so long, at some point, normalcy comes knocking. What is daunting to me now is that I know I’ll open the door. As I attend my last college events, as I go to house inspections and fill out rental applications, as I apply for APS and paralegal jobs, as I leave hospo behind, I am walking down the corridor. I don’t know if I’m ready to open the door, but that doesn’t matter. I’ll have to turn the knob anyway.
Comments Off on On Thin Portraits and the Incurable Brilliance of Zelda Fitzgerald: Her Life and Masterpiece, ‘Save Me the Waltz’
“Nobody has measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold.”
—Zelda Fitzgerald, Save Me the Waltz
There are exactly two things that I know for certain:
The first is that wholemeal bagels are a direct result of the rapidly dissolving integrity of the human species, and the second is that Zelda Fitzgerald was brilliant. A perpetually unrecognised genius.
Zelda’s first and only novel Save Me the Waltz (1932) is semi-autobiographical and, like Scott’s later Tender is the Night, predominantly written about the period during the 1920s which the Fitzgeralds and their contemporaries spent in Paris. It is the lesser-known of the pair, but certainly not the less valuable for it. The novel was written by Zelda in a creative fervour of six weeks while institutionalised for schizophrenia (whether or not she actually suffered with schizophrenia is debated—her “breakdowns” are often attributed to bipolar disorder, or alternatively depression or anxiety). When Scott initially discovered its existence, he was furious; his letters, notably to friends including Ernest Hemingway, and industry figures such as editor Max Perkins, disclose his anger at her depiction of him. In a letter with Zelda’s psychiatrist, he wrote:
“My God, my books made her a legend and her single intention in this somewhat thin portrait is to make me a nonentity.” –Scott, in a letter to Zelda’s psychiatrist
Originally written, to quote Scott, as a “thin portrait” of their marriage and their characters, in Zelda’s early drafts she went to the lengths of naming the love interest “Amory Blaine” after Scott’s autobiographical protagonist in This Side of Paradise. Afraid that the book would damage his reputation, and angry that she had chosen to write based on the same period of their lives as his then-unfinished Tender is the Night, he convinced her to rewrite it. Eventually, he helped her to edit and publish the novel, and praised its quality. But not before she had made significant changes, which she didn’t appear to resent, and on which we can only trust her judgement as the competent and intelligent writer she has painstakingly proven herself to be.
Save Me the Waltz offers, for the first time, some real insight into the glamorous and turbulent marriage of the Fitzgeralds, as well as Zelda’s thoughts, feelings, and character, beyond what is shown to us in Scott’s work. The female love interests throughout his fiction are, by his own confession, thin portraits of her, his muse. On their marriage, he told a reporter, “I married the heroine of my stories.” At times, he lifted entire passages from her diaries and letters, which Zelda playfully notes in her review of The Beautiful and Damned.
“Mr. Fitzgerald—I believe that’s how he spells his name—seems to believe that plagiarism begins at home.” –Zelda Fitzgerald, in The New York Tribune
Zelda Fitzgerald has been often viewed as “the original flapper,” “jazz baby,” “wild child.” Rarely “writer,” “artist,” “dancer.” In marrying Scott, she “unknowingly sealed her fate as a symbolic being…as the quintessential muse, artist’s wife, and, eventually, doomed woman—a brilliant but mercurial talent whose public persona subsumed the identity she herself attempted to create and control” (Lawson, 2015).
Scott opposed most of Zelda’s creative endeavours; he discouraged her work in ballet, and actively tried to prevent the publishing of her book in its early stages. In Save Me the Waltz, protagonist Alabama Beggs’ husband (David Knight) openly disapproves of her dancing, probably reflective of the author’s own situation. David is a successful painter—thinly replacing Scott’s writing—and refuses to acknowledge Alabama as an artist equal to himself. I don’t believe or mean to suggest that Scott was fundamentally a bad person, or a woman-hater. But he was a romantic, an idealist, and he was validated by the standards of the time in his expectation of a romantic relationship with the dynamic of female muse for the male artist—a tale as old as time, an idea which hasn’t been disrupted or challenged until comparatively recently. He built up an expectation which she fulfilled—friends noted how he would hang on her words, scribble down her comments at parties. She was the heroine of his stories, and things were good, so long as she could be reduced to something two-dimensional, and could be distilled into beautiful words and pressed onto white pages.
But then there was the problem of her incurable brilliance, her capacity as expansive as his for creation. In fact, she excelled in ballet and painting and writing. When she wanted to create, she became something more than the heroine of his stories, rejecting the expectations he had so fancifully set. And this, I think, is where their problems began—assisted, of course, by the excessive drinking, affairs, and inadequate mental health care courtesy of the time.
The overwhelming majority of the—sorely limited—critical attention Save Me the Waltz received on and since its publication has been negative; in the preface of the second edition of Save Me the Waltz, Zelda’s writing ability is called merely “surface level,” (Moore, 1966) repeating the oft-cited criticism of her unusual use of language.
But it is her fantastically imaginative language that makes her writing so wildly unique, so fantastically appealing.
“The rain spun and twisted the light of their third wedding anniversary to thin prismatic streams; alto rain, soprano rain, rain for Englishmen and farmers, rubber rain, metal rain, crystal rain.”
Especially towards the beginning of the novel, she writes to disorientate—metaphors composed of borderline-nonsense; surrealist imagery; wacky, Zelda-devised turns of phrase to make your head spin. And it is truly, utterly captivating.
Caught inside Zelda’s words are feelings of bewilderment, joy, fractured relationships, obsession, hedonism, and beneath it all, a fight for a sense of self. Her style, regularly criticised as unpolished, simultaneously confronts the reader with the glamorous, playful ‘Jazz Age’ and its contorted underbelly of subtle misogyny and the imbalanced perception of one’s own identity.
“He pulled himself intermittently to pieces, showered himself in fragments above her head.”
“She crawled into the friendly cave of his ear. The area inside was grey and ghostly classic as she stared about the deep trenches of the cerebellum. There was not a growth nor a flowery substance to break those smooth convolutions, just the puffy rise of sleek gray matter. ‘I’ve got to see the front lines,” Alabama said to herself. The lumpy mounds rose wet above her head and she set out following the creases. Before long she was lost. Like a mystic maze the folds and ridges rose in desolation; there was nothing to indicate one way from another. She stumbled on and finally reached the medulla oblongata. Vast tortuous indentations led her round and round. Hysterically, she began to run. David, distracted by a tickling sensation at the head of his spine, lifted his lips from hers.”
“Outside the wide doors of the country club they pressed their bodies against the cosmos, the jibberish of jazz, the black heat from the greens in the hollow like people making an imprint for a cast of humanity. They swam in the moonlight that varnished the land like a honey-coating and David swore and cursed the collars of his uniforms and rode all night to the rifle range rather than give up his hours after supper with Alabama. They broke the beat of the universe to measures of their own conceptions and mesmerised themselves with its precious thumping.”
Perhaps even more remarkable than the stylistic depth and character of Zelda’s writing is the means by which she presents the feminine search for self within the early 20th century. Throughout Save Me the Waltz, Zelda uses mirrors as tools for the female pursuit of creative, intellectual, and emotional identity, in a blink-and-you-miss-it subversion of what may be considered the traditional notion of mirrors as tools for female vanity.
Zelda conveys the intrinsic dislocated sense of identity within her protagonist from an early age through mirrors and reflections, introducing the idea towards the beginning of the novel.
“She ran her fingers tentatively through her breast pocket, staring pessimistically at her reflection. ‘The feet look as if they were somebody else’s,’ she said. ‘But maybe it’ll be all right.’”
To David’s displeasure, Alabama takes up ballet during her late twenties, where she dances incessantly in a room filled with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, Zelda thus skillfully entwines Alabama’s near unhealthy compulsion to dance with her unyielding search for identity. It grows into an obsession; a relentless cycle of eating, sleeping, and breathing ballet, despite—or perhaps in part driven by—her husband’s criticism. Alabama’s disjointed sense of self is once again presented in a separation from the psychological and the physical, the mirror and the mind in conflict.
“…she thought her breasts hung like old English dugs. It did not show in the mirror. She was nothing but sinew. To succeed had become an obsession.”
However, before there was ballet, there was David, and Alabama initially sought to find herself in him; she feels that being with him is like “gazing into her own eyes”. But this perception of him becomes “distorted,” having warped her own view of him in a fervent attempt to find meaning within herself.
“So much she loved the man, so close and closer she felt herself that he became distorted in her vision, like pressing her nose upon a mirror and gazing into her own eyes.”
David, however, only looks in a mirror once in the entire novel, in stark contrast with Alabama’s dozens of times, and it culminates in his being “pleased to find himself complete.” Complete. Assured of his identity, recognised as an artist, an individual, certain of his place in the world.
“He verified himself in the mirror…as if he had taken inventory of himself before leaving and was pleased to find himself complete.”
For me, Save Me the Waltz is both joy and melancholy. I wonder if Alabama—which is to say Zelda Fitzgerald herself—ever found what she was looking for. I wonder if, after all the parties and all the laughter, and the breakdowns and the fame and the starlit revelry, she found something that fulfilled her. I hope in her painting, and her dancing, and her writing, she came to some understanding within herself about her world, and her place in it—an understanding that I also hope brought her security and strength of identity.
And so, I’ll leave you with one final urge to pick up the magnum opus of Zelda Fitzgerald (writer, artist, dancer).
Love,
Caelan xxx
Lawson, Ashley. “The Muse and the Maker: Gender, Collaboration, and Appropriation in the Life and Work of F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald.” The F. Scott Fitzgerald Review, vol. 13, no. 1, 2015, pp. 76–109.
Moore, H,T. 1966, Preface in: Fitzgerald, Z. Save Me the Last Dance.
There are exactly two things that I know for certain: The first is that wholemeal bagels are a direct result of the rapidly dissolving integrity of the human species, and the second is that Zelda Fitzgerald was brilliant. A perpetually unrecognised genius.
Comments Off on Interview with Boo Seeka – Woroni Artist Series
Boo Seeka is an Australian electropop artist currently touring Australia, with a show in Canberra on the 2nd of March. He has featured on the Triple J Hottest 100, played Coachella, and recently released his sophomore album, Between the Head and the Heart. We sat down with Boo Seeka to discuss his creative process, his musical influences, and the highlights of his career.
Let’s start with our first question, you’ve obviously recently released Between the Head and the Heart. We just want to know what’s the song that you’re most proud of on the album?
There’s a few, but I guess the most iconic one that kind of set up the whole record for me was I Like It Like, purely because I actually had a whole record written prior to the one that I wrote for Between the Head and the Heart and I guess where I was at in my life at that particular time and some stuff kind of happened, pretty spontaneously, that I wasn’t expecting that. Everything that I’d written for the record, it wasn’t speaking to me personally at that time. I scrapped it, and I had this moment where I just was standing in front of a mirror, and it was almost like I had this sensation of myself talking back to me through this mirror. I just started writing down like this conversation that I was having with myself, which turned into I Like It Like, so I guess for me, I got to give that song a highlight for the record, considering everything kind of grew from there.
That’s really interesting. You’ve spoken on having to sort of redo the whole record, essentially having to make a brand new record. What was the hardest song on the record to make?
The hardest song was Happen. I’d written the song and we had a demo, and we liked the demo of it, but it still wasn’t speaking to us. And then, literally, I think probably every other song that was on [Between the Head and the Heart] really didn’t take any longer than a day to record it, but Happen probably took nearly three weeks in itself to find the way that I wanted that song to come out.
For me, it was also another stepping stone of not worrying too much. You know, obviously I want things to be cohesive, but not worrying too much about it all sounding the same. I think for me it’s making the sound around the song that I want to write, to have the justice that it needs. So for me, that’s going into the next record that I’m writing now. It doesn’t necessarily have to be one particular sound across the whole record. You know, I think there’s other ways to artistically make it cohesive as a record but serve each song differently in a way so that it has the justice musically for the lyrical content that I’m writing.
So obviously you’ve written two records and you’re currently writing your third. What’s your main source of inspiration? Does it differ between each album?
Yeah, if you speak to most artists, we’re all sponges. I don’t think there’ll be that many artists out there that don’t take in anything that doesn’t inspire them within a day. But I guess the most key one for me is just my brain will suck in a lot of things going on in my world, and yet I find it very hard to just talk to people in a normal conversation about what I’m feeling. But I find it very easy to get it out through a song. So for me, the inspiration is getting out all those thoughts, whether they’re negative or positive in my head through music.
It’s really interesting to hear your opinions on people’s inspiration for music and everything, and how you don’t sort of have one thing but rather everything that you do in your day to day life. So to talk about other musicians, just briefly, what is your dream music collaboration? Like if you could collaborate with anyone in the world, alive or dead, who would it be?
Oh, that’s a hard one. It’s a very hard one actually. I’m going to be a bit sneaky here and pick two. Alive? I’d say Billie Eilish. I just think she’s absolutely incredible in everything that she does. And you know, she’s just doing her, and I think that’s a very inspiring thing.
Someone that’s passed? I’d say George Harrison. What an iconic songwriter. I came from a singer-songwriter background before I started writing electronic music and I still do to this day. Most songs written by me are on an acoustic guitar. At one point in my career, I reckon I’ll do an acoustic tour, with all the songs basically stripped down–bare minimum, to an acoustic guitar– because I really do think that not all songs, but a majority of great songs, can all be stripped down to literally just a piano and a guitar and a vocal. To me, George Harrison was just so iconic in his writing. That would be pretty, pretty awesome.
Our Art Editor is sitting just outside the frame and nodding. Those were good choices for musicians.
Aw, sweet. Thank you.
You’re on tour around Australia now. But I want to know; what’s your most memorable live performance so far?
Well, there’s been so many. There’ll be a few for different reasons. I was actually in a band prior to Boo Seeka and I felt like I cut my teeth with those guys, and learnt everything that set me up to be able to do Boo Seeka the way that I’m doing it. I owe a lot of credit to those guys, but they got to an age where they didn’t want to do it anymore and it was, honestly, the most devastating time of my life, getting told that they didn’t want to do it anymore. To me, I had nothing else to do but play music.
When Boo Seeka kicked off, and I guess having that first iconic moment of completely selling out your first-ever show. You know, you’ve worked so long to get to a point, and then you finally fill the room. I think that would be one iconic moment for me in my career.
Playing Coachella last year was obviously a massive one. Definitely a bucket list thing I never anticipated in doing. Playing Red Rocks in Denver. Growing up as a kid, watching DVDs of Red Rocks with all the bands and artists that I love with my parents, and then actually standing on that stage and playing to a packed house was a moment I’ll never forget.
And I’m just so thankful for all the stepping stones that I have been able to do, from the festival scene within Australia and playing all those iconic festivals. Playing regional tours and capital cities and packed rooms, and having people have that experience of singing back to me songs that I’ve written for myself but connecting in their own ways with me every night. I’ll never forget that and I’ll never get sick of it.
That’s amazing. I follow these big music festivals and it’s really amazing to see people’s progression from small Australian shows and festivals to these massive American festivals like Coachella and Red Rocks. It’s really awesome to see and really interesting to hear it from someone who’s done it.
If you’re able to, can you tell me about your creative process? I know we talked about where you find your inspiration, but once you’ve got the inspiration, how do you go about making a song or a record?
There’s definitely a lot of different ways, I’m not really the guy to just go “right, today I’m going to write a song”. It works for a lot of people. One of my best friends ever, he’s basically my brother, another very incredible and inspiring person, inspires me every day in writing. But he writes in such a different way, he wakes up at like three-thirty or four in the morning, every morning, and just writes. His kind of thing is writing at those very early hours of the day when his brain is fresh, which is a very inspiring thing. But in saying that, I’ve tried that twice and it’s not for me. I like my sleep.
I think for me, again it’s just sucking in inspiration, walking down the street, to finally putting the jigsaw puzzle together in my head, or that there’s a certain line that will set up the whole rest of a song of what I want to say. That might be me just literally humming out a line for a couple of hours just by myself. I’ve always got a guitar laying around the house and picking it up and strumming a couple of chords, and it really is to me like putting a puzzle together. You find one piece and you find the next piece and you put it together. Sometimes those pieces come really quickly and you put the whole thing together in literally 15 minutes. Sometimes you have to put down a couple of pieces and walk away and come back and look at it again and connect more things. I wouldn’t say there’s one specific way that I write music, but in a whole, that would be how I go about it.
You’ve been making music since 2015, so about eight years. Tell me how your creative process differs from how it was 8, 10 years ago.
The first three songs that I wrote were Kingdom Leader, Deception Bay, and Fool. They were literally tracked, recorded, mixed, and mastered in three days. Three songs in three days. That was coming out of this big turnaround in my life with my previous band. It was writing about taking on this new journey and being the ruler of my own kingdom moving forward. Then meeting Sam [Croft], and everything that he brought to the band. We were in sixth gear straight away, we literally put out a song and then, two weeks later, we left on tour. After that tour, we had the whole year booked out. So for us, writing became part of being on the road. When our manager at the time was like, “right guys, it’s time to do a full length record”, most bands will pull off the road and book time into a studio and won’t tour.
For Sam and I, we just loved being on the road and finding that we’re getting more inspiration being on the road. So for us, we basically set up a little recording kind of vibe that we could take literally around the world. We were recording in hotels and in RVs and in buses and at airports. Some of the sounds that no one will ever pick up, I think there’s only been about two or three that have actually picked up some certain things. There are sounds in that first full length record that were literally Sam going around and recording different street sounds and building them into beats. I think that was a big thing that Sam brought to the project at that time that gave that first full length record a bit of a worldly feel.
Whereas now? Writing a record was very different compared to [Never Too Soon] for Between the Head and the Heart, because we couldn’t tour. I was almost struggling to find what I wanted to write about for the next record because for me, again, I pick up inspiration from being outside. Like I hate a regimented kind of routine every day. I hate doing the same thing twice. I like to do everything different, every day, as much as I possibly can. [Lockdown] was really hard for me. I went digging in deeper, inside my soul and into my head to write Between the Head and the Heart. Very different to the first record.
I guess the world has changed a lot in the eight years since you started making music as Boo Seeka. It’s really interesting how your creative process has changed with the world. You were nominated for a Triple J Unearthed Award and you were also on the Triple J Hottest 100. What do you think the value of platforms like Triple J is for emerging artists in Australia? What was the value of that for you and what do you think it is for other people?
It’s massive, I genuinely think Triple J is one of the greatest platforms for any up and coming band ever. We got Unearthed through Triple J, but still to this day, I’m going on and finding new music. I go back on that platform and just go searching for bands all around Australia. Whoever came up with that concept is a genius because you find bands that aren’t packing out rooms all around Australia, not selling out thousands of tickets but you go and find them and you go “holy crap, like, I love this music” and you hope that you see those bands go out and tour. But there’s bands that I follow on there that I’ve never seen play a show but I love listening to their music. You know, I think it’s just a great platform to go and find new music and things that you’re into and see where music is going. It’s an incredible platform.
A final question. Do you have any advice for people looking to get into music here in Australia, like getting into the music scene?
I guess it’s a little bit cliche – it’s very cliche. I just genuinely think it’s where every musician needs to start; just do it because you love it. Like genuinely just do it, doesn’t matter whether you’re in your bedroom or not. There’s some artists who don’t even want to tour, they don’t want to play in front of crowds, and they do it because they genuinely love playing music and writing songs. But if you’re getting into this game to be famous and play in front of a packed room, then you’re doing it for all the wrong reasons.
Don’t get down on playing to one or two people. You should be going into any gig, whether it’s one person or 10,000 people, playing 100% exactly the same as what you would do in a big crowd. I’ve always had that philosophy since I played in my old band. We literally played to two people that were sitting in front of us and the bar staff, and those two people sitting in front of us owned a very well known guitar company that I’m still endorsed by and set us up for life with guitars. It showed me that you just never know who’s sitting in the room. So always get out there and do your best.
That’s great advice. Thank you so much for the opportunity to interview you.
Boo Seeka will be playing in Kambri at ANU on March 2nd with support from Apricot Ink as part of his Regional Tour around Australia.