Ode to Colonnades

Noarlunga Centre – more commonly known as Colonnades – is a place that can only be etched in your memory if you’ve frequented it on a routine basis at some point in your life, or alternatively if something really horrible happened to you there. Thankfully, for me it’s a case of the former: I visited Noarlunga Centre a lot as a kid. If I hadn’t visited it before, it would just be another depressed suburban retail centre, dreamt up sometime in the mid-1970s and plonked in the middle of a paddock like a spacecraft touched by some of the more oppressive and crappy tendencies of late brutalist architecture. To further emphasise this observation, have a look at the aerial image of it a year after its first stage of construction in 1979.


From the air it looks like some kind of consumerist utopian idyll. What you can’t see is the depressed socio-economic fog which would creep over the surrounding working class neighbourhoods through the 1980s and result in Noarlunga Centre becoming a punchline for issues relating to the welfare purgatory, hopelessness and occasional outbreaks of public violence. There was a time in the early 90s when you could seriously risk your neck by venturing through the underpass or bus exchange as the natural light gave way to a sparse network of dim electric light. There were a couple of occasions I walked through the railway terminal concourse after dark, past the unattended ticket booths and darkened stairways. At moments like this your heart rate escalates significantly, you quicken your pace and (if you’re a guy) your testicles feel like they’re attempting to retreat back into your body.

Colonnades: Builds Character & Survival Instincts.

One of the weirder developments that popped up near the complex was a Tiki hut-style waterslide complex called Splashdown. It was only a matter of time before stories of full-scale fistfights and razor blades jammed into the waterslide contributed to the business eventually going under. Oh well, the beach was just down the road.

So, Noarlunga Centre was a bit of a shithole in this respect and its reputation certainly preceded it. By the late 1980s local, state and federal government had a pretty good opportunity to properly address aspects of poverty, welfare subsistence and drug abuse in depressed communities, and the powers that be more or less reached the conclusion that it would just be too damn expensive, take a bit of constructive thought and – g-d forbid – require a good dose of empathy. What communities received instead (along with stigmatisation, community service and jail time) was the Orwellian gift of wall-to-wall CCTV. Granted CCTV is virtually everywhere today, but one of the unique things about Noarlunga Centre is that a casual walk will lead you through The Varied History Of CCTV – from c.1986 to the present. I really wish I’d taken some photos of this on my recent visit because it’s pretty interesting to play Guess The Year Of Installation: on the one hand, a vintage beige camera from the 80s creaks away with its grizzled eye adjacent to the hot young Millenial encased in a sleek black dome.

Along with the CCTV, a transfusion of capital found its way to Noarlunga Centre in the late 90s and the owners began to slather paint and panels over the original decaying concrete edifice. This trend appears to have continued up to the present day, but trace elements remain in plain sight – hence the collection of photos before you.

For me, Noarlunga Centre is a largely unwelcome place charged with fairly mundane memories – much like the phenomenom of ‘dead malls’ across the USA. Of course, Noarlunga Centre isn’t yet dead, but it shares similarities with the heyday of mall culture during the 1970s and 80s, and its ultimate decline due to online shopping. I doubt it’s a place that anyone (as an outsider) really wants to visit, but it’s interesting that such a place for me – in spite of its inherent crappiness – still possesses its own uniquely compelling allure.


Let It Go EP: Weekly Beats – February 2018

Let It Go EP.jpg

Weekly Beats comes but only every two years and since 2012 I’ve committed myself to it as a willing participant. In short, it’s a project that involves its participants to write and record an original piece of music each week for the rest of the year. I’ve never made the full 52 weeks, but since its inception in 2012 I’ve thrown myself into it in order to kickstart some new ideas or nudge along curiosities. 


Let It Go takes its inspiration from two things: guitar and Jim O’Rourke. Since I’m using each month of this Weekly Beats year to explore a particular area of instrumentation/process, I thought it would be interesting to use the variety of guitars in my studio and see what would happen.

Both “Mouth Canyon” pieces anchor themselves around open/alternate tunings, fingerpicking and circular chord progressions in the style of country blues and folk. In this sense, O’Rourke’s Eureka and Bad Timing were obvious touchstones, but his earlier work with David Grubbs (Gastr Del Sol) and Grubbs own work informed the composition and arrangements strongly. They’re (to date) the most accessible tracks I think I’ve ever put on this Bandcamp page, and maybe that’s a good thing. Between the “Mouth Canyon” bookends are two more abstract pieces which again reference O’Rourke/Gastr, but listening back to them now I think they’re much closer in style to Daniel Lanois’ solo work. If you haven’t heard his 2016 release, “Goodbye To Language” I urge you to do so; it’s absolutely beautiful. 

Recorded at Studio Maurilia – February 2018.

All tracks composed and performed by TLR.

TLR: voice, guitars, reed organ, synthesisers, bass, mandolin, baritone ukelele, glockenspiel, percussion, electronics, programming.

Artwork is a collage of three stills from the Nicholas Roeg films, Bad Timing, Eureka and Insignificance.

The importance of being gentle and occasionally idle


In spite of my best efforts, my studio is not much of a productive space. It’s strewn with all kinds of distractions: guitars, bells, books, trinkets, notebooks, magazines, scraps of paper, and a wi-fi connection. As I’m sure many could sympathise, it’s the latter distraction that causes the bulk of the problems, with an uninterrupted line to social media, useless information and bad news.

I’ve always been very easily distracted, which I’ve largely attributed over the years to mild dyslexia and a personality trait that’s engineered to hop from one thing to another within an alarmingly short span of time like my life’s depended on it. As a result, this creates all kinds of problems: in a creative sense, I’ve got fourteen half-baked projects on the go at once; in the domestic sense, I’ve got a home that’s perpetually half-cleaned with pockets of OCD-ish cleanliness and surrounding pockets of total disorder and (non-life threatening) filth.

This hasn’t always been the norm, but when I’m in the thick of this pattern of distraction (as I am currently) this wreaks havoc with my brain, leaving me scattered, unfocused, irritable, gloomy and disgusted with myself. Given my recent struggles over the past year with mental health I should really know better than to get myself into these situations.

One of the key insights with my psychologist was to identify when I’m spreading myself too thin and to find a way of breaking away from it by engaging in something less intensive. And here’s the ridiculous part of the conundrum: I don’t have to be working constantly at the moment; in fact, I could spend most of my time doing far less intensive things than – for example – writing six essays at once, working on an electro-acoustic composition, attempting to learn three guitar instrumentals, alternating between four books and writing new songs. All of these things happened today by the way. Mentally, this amounts to complete havoc and the metaphysical reality has manifested itself in the studio: cables everywhere, notebooks, bad posture, frowning for hours at a time and consuming way too much coffee.

But I haven’t lost it completely yet. Maybe the dopamine inhibitors of the medication are doing an exemplary job of holding my brain chemistry together, since I’m able to form reasonably consistent thoughts and string these sentences together. Still, my Brain Sea of fluids is choppy and the electrons overhead are sparking wildly. Following on from near-catastrophe as 2017 closed out, I resolved to get better, and I did; yet familiar patterns are reemerging and this past week it’s felt like I’m caught up in the feedback loop of varying peaks and troughs – which, last year – felt like it was going to kill me.

* * *

Sitting at my desk, I occasionally look to the left and briefly acknowledge the door ajar to the balcony which is letting a mild breeze in. It’s a lovely day outside and nothing is preventing me from going for a walk. I could go for a walk completely unencumbered. I could leave my wallet and phone here and simply do a loop of the neighborhood. Doing this, I’m certain that I would feel much better about things and I’m sure that my brain would agree, since it’s been flashing the DECOMPRESSION sign since about 10:30am today.

So that’s what I’m going to do: I’m going to wind up this writing, put the laptop to sleep, leave the guitars idle, put the notebooks to the side, silence the infinitude of Spotify, put some trousers, socks and shoes on and go for a walk.

Another series of steps hopefully going some way to (gently and idly) working through this complicated business of living.

Weekly Beats 2018: February (first half)

Guitar is the flavour of choice this month for my Weekly Beats submissions. Check out the first half of the month via the links below:

2-1 “Mouth Canyon Blues”

So, something completely different for this month. I thought it would be a good idea to focus primarily on guitar work for the next four weeks. 

This one’s an impulsive attempt to amalgamate the guitar styles of Jim O’Rourke, William Tyler and Ry Cooder into a hyper compressed two minutes of imagined road movie soundtracking. Technically speaking, it’s pretty much a basic guitar fingerpicking pattern which evolves to a point where several kitchen sinks begin attaching themselves to it through the miracle of endless multi tracking.

Here’s a list of the instruments used:

– Degrucy 6-string acoustic. Tuned to CGDGBE [capo’d at IV with the E-string ‘un-capoed’ – a neat trick I’ve used for a while] (main fingerpicking pattern and counterpoints) 
– Tama 6-string acoustic. Tuned to C# G# C# F A# C# (slide guitar) 
– Fender Telecaster (electric guitar parts) 
– Fender Precision Bass 
– Kick drum sample 
– Shaker 
– Hohner glockenspiel 
– Microkorg systhesiser 
– Korg monotribe

2-2 “The Colouring of Memory”

I’ve been reading way too much Geoff Dyer and John Berger lately. This one’s a sort of Eno/Cluster-esque reverie to feelings of homesickness, estrangement and a confused state of mind.

– an iphone field recording made in a Brisbane airport bar 
– field recording of vehicle turntable on Goolwa barrage. 
– chord progression on electric guitar (looped via EHX Memory Man) 
  — Fender Telecaster run through EHX Pog 2, vintage Ibanez phaser and EHX holy grail reverb. 
– electric guitar slide (left and right) 
  — same as above. 
– Synth pads played on Microkorg. 
– Percussion 
– Additional glitchy treatments in Ableton Live using Soundhack VST modules.


Ten Meaningful Records: #1 Summerteeth by Wilco (released 1999/first heard 1999)

My room in a sharehouse, mid-1999: This album had sickened me. I felt my stomach lurching slightly, whilst my head felt heavy and was swimming in a choppy expanse of confusion. A sense of irritation eventually overcame me and I hit to stop button, ejected the CD and tossed it petulantly across the room.

Happy? Wilco in 1999. From left: Jeff Tweedy, Ken Coomer, Jay Bennett, John Stirratt

By the time I encountered Wilco’s third album in 1999 I knew their work reasonably well, but it would be fair to say I was still growing comfortable with them. Whilst they hadn’t yet completely overhauled their ‘alt. country’ tag they were still a restless unit, prone to bursts of raucousness and curious diversions. Where my listening tastes were concerned at the time, they certainly held a lower prestige compared to the likes of my enduring obsession with The Complete Works of Elvis Costello, which at the time was chewing up most of my meager spending money. Where Wilco was concerned, I still had my battered cassette copy of Being There and a CD of their collaboration with Billy Bragg (Mermaid Avenue); both of which I really liked.

How to fight loneliness / just smile all the time / shine your teeth ’till meaningless / and sharpen them with lies.

I had picked up Summerteeth in mid-1999 at the tail end of a miserable, depressed winter. Wilco’s frontman Jeff Tweedy sounded especially miserable and depressed across Summerteeth’s 50-odd minutes. The album as a whole broke away from the previous albums’ country leanings and roof-raising rawk, instead opting for what sounded like a fucked-up version of The Zombies’ Odessey and Oracle spliced with The Band’s second album. It’s an album that is at once sunny, yet persistently uneasy – it blooms and glides; then lurches and collapses. In a paisley nutshell, it’s sunny psychedelia tainted by paranoia and loneliness, howling out from the bowels of a K-Hole. Darkness courses through the entirety of this record and for every upbeat respite, there are gut and kidney punches landed everywhere else.

So with that in mind, let’s return to my room in a sharehouse a bit over eighteen years ago.

On a quiet night I loaded the CD into my boombox for the first time. The opener, “I Can’t Stand It” erupted from its tinny speakers with the chime of an electric 12-string guitar (immediately reminiscent of The Byrds) giving way to a swell of Mellotron, thumping drums and weary, nicotine-grizzled vocals.

No love’s as random as God’s love / I can’t stand it…I can’t stand it

As Tweedy’s refrain collapses into a hoarse scream, before I knew it I was immersed in one of the saddest songs I’d ever heard: “She’s A Jar”.

She’s a jar / with a heavy lid

My pop-quiz kid / a sleepy kisser / a pretty war

You know, she begs me not to miss her

Tweedy sounds even more resigned and forlorn on this song. Whereas on “I Can’t Stand It” he at least sounded like he was being propelled and pushed ahead by the momentum of the song, here he sounds like he’s been buried alive by it, half-speaking allusions of a lover as a jar (or is it ‘ajar’?), quiet front yards, water skies and bruised roads.

But what a gorgeously sad song! Lyrics aside, on musical terms alone this song is utterly sumptuous. A rickety sounding acoustic guitar floats uneasily atop a bed of entwined organ, Mellotron, loping bass and bleats from The Most Lonesome Harmonica In The World. It’s like the tangled undergrowth of the mind at its most charged, poetic and forlorn. A soundtrack for losing your mind whilst surrounded by beauty. Then there’s the rhythm that Ken Coomer lays down: a dour pulse alternating between snares and rim shots, yet totally immediate and forceful – urging the momentum of the song along. A trap kit scything through the cluttered web of the instrumentation and Tweedy’s surreal  lyrics. That’s ‘surreal’ in the Bunuel-lian sense; i.e. whereby the imaginings of the unconsciousness ruptere and manifest themselves into reality by turns discrete, poetic, bewitching and disturbing.

“She’s A Jar” contains probably what is (to this day) my favourite set of lyrics – a staggeringly beautiful and confounding string of imagery; a stream of wild mercury that in my mind is matched only by the terror and beauty of Dylan’s mid-60’s streams on consciousness:

Are there really ones like these?

The ones I dream

Float like leaves

And freeze to spread skeleton wings

I passed through before I knew you

An unconscious reverie committed to song. It’s so gorgeously vivid and unsettling.

But before we become too lulled by the twisted beauty of everything in this song, the lights shut out suddenly in the final seconds of the track. It consists of a reprise of the song’s opening lines and a tweaked revision the final line. Where Tweedy had previously sung, “you know, she begs me not to miss her”, he swaps it with this:

She’s a jar / with a heavy lid

My pop-quiz kid / a sleepy kisser / a pretty war

You know, she begs me not to hit her 

Tenderness replaced by a brutal and confronting confession.

It’s not an exaggeration to admit that I felt physically ill when that fucked up line landed. It ruined everything. Slightly distressed, I hit pause on my boombox, dug the lyrics sheet out from the CD’s jewel case and corroborated what I thought I’d just heard.

Reluctantly, I restarted the CD. The gurgling synths opening “A Shot In The Arm” made me queasy, not to mention the chorus’ refrain where Tweedy longs for “something in my blood, bloodier than blood”.

What on Earth had happened to Jeff Tweedy since Being There? How had the rest of the band not quit in disgust? (fact: they almost did) How was he still alive? Was he still alive?

Whilst I didn’t skip through the rest of the tracks, I was too rattled and sickened to acknowledge the rest of the album as it lurched along. Barring a couple of sunnier, hopeful moments, once “Via Chicago” rolled around it was all over for me:

I dreamed about killing you again last night

And it felt all right to me

Your cold hot blood ran away from me to the sea

 As the zombied closer, “In A Future Age” petered out the CD was (r)ejected and put back in its case. A couple of weeks later I sold it back to the record store and bought another Elvis Costello reissue. A couple of years would go by before I heard the album again.

* * *

When I was eighteen I didn’t understand depression. I was living with it, but I had neither the ability to comprehend it, let alone articulate it. I would instead regard my perpetual melancholy and social anxiousness as just something that happened when you were at this part of your life. It was my belief that this permitted you to cry for no reason and be perpetually angry at or feel hard done by the world. I never really regarded it as depression because that term scared me and had all-too-dramatic connotations with padded cells, electric shock therapy, slashing wrists and throwing yourself off buildings. I couldn’t decouple these things from what actually happened in real life and I figured things had to get really bad before I ended up in one of those scenarios. ‘Depression’ was a tag that I didn’t want dangling from me and on show to the rest of the world. At this stage I hadn’t been diagnosed with depression or prescribed any medication, so in lieu of professional intervention I wallowed in undiagnosed and romanticised misery.

From this unfortunate position I should have been able to relate to where Jeff Tweedy was coming from across the emotional massacre of Summerteeth. This guy feels like shit; I feel like shit. It should have clicked. In previous years, my high school friends had been into all sorts of tormented and transgressive music that sounded and read on paper ten times worse than anything Tweedy could dream up. And it’s not like I wasn’t partial to such indulgences – Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds’ Murder Ballads looms large.

So what was the issue? As a songwriter, Jeff Tweedy’s always had a knack for earnestness and sincerity in his writing, regardless of whether it’s literal, a collision of surreal imagery or a deft combination of the two. Dylan and Neil Young have a similar impact – regardless of a given song’s clarity or impenetrability (“Visions Of Johanna” and “After The Goldrush” come to mind) they are delivered with such potency (and sonic pixie dust) that some kind of emotional wallop is inevitable regardless whether you understand exactly what the fuck they are on about.

Back in 1999, that emotional wallop was also inescapable when I listened to Summerteeth for the first time. I couldn’t however get past the effect it had on on my stomach before it could get anywhere near ruining my heart. The blood, guts and bruises alluded to in Summerteeth felt so much more grave, horrifying and real than Nick Cave’s trail of dead on Murder Ballads simply because Tweedy’s experiences felt genuinely real, whereas Cave’s come across as B-grade schlock cribbed from folk tales. Chalk and cheese; Tarkovsky and Tarantino.

I’m fairly certain that Tweedy has never murdered anyone (“Via Chicago”) or committed acts of domestic violence (“She’s A Jar”). Tweedy has however suffered from depression and substance abuse and this was channeled through Summerteeth when things were especially in the ditch for him. To Nick Cave’s credit, he too has produced fine work when life was at its most shit and it should come as no surprise that in the same year that Summerteeth blindsided me I encountered his 1997 album, The Boatman’s Call.

When you’re depressed, horrible things come into your head and if you’re creatively minded you have to splatter and frame them somewhere. If you’re a good songwriter (as Tweedy is) you might be able to transcend clichés and plumb the depths of the poetic. Rather than simply dismissing Tweedy as a murderous misogynist on the basis of those two songs, when Summerteeth eventually clicked for me a couple of years later I read these songs as painful, yet articulate expressions of alienation, misanthropy, loneliness, regret and shame. It’s an album suffused with this stuff – the rough contours of existence.

Emotional maturity and intelligence is critical when dealing with this kind of work. This is primarily the reason why Leonard Cohen’s still mistaken for a wrist-slashing sad sack, when in actual fact the melancholy and torment isn’t always a literal reading of the artist’s state, especially when it’s accompanied by daubs (or smears) of humour, self deprecation and – in some notable instances – outright piss-taking.

When I first heard Summerteeth I simply wasn’t ready for it. I wasn’t old enough for it and the weight of the world, which was crushing me made it too difficult to bear and appreciate fully. That said, it’s still an album that’s been with me since I first heard it. It left an impression on me, so shocking and profound that my body literally rejected it (I think throwing the CD across the room counts here). But when it did eventually creep its way back into my life, it seemed miraculously compatible with everything going on with me at the time. Sure, I was still depressed but thank goodness I was a little smarter!


Summer Dreams EP: Weekly Beats – January 2018


Howdy folks! It’s been a bit quiet on this blog since I’ve essentially been on vacation and taking leave from writing/posting on here. I’m getting back into the swing of things though and I’ve got a few things planned in the coming months including a couple of new ‘long reads’ and a big website overhaul. The latter project has been taking up a considerable chunk of my time – it’s a big update!

In the meantime, here’s a brand new EP consisting of my first four weeks from Weekly Beats 2018. Details below.

Summer Dreams consists of the four tracks I produced during January 2018 as Adelaide experienced weird tropical weather interspersed with two characteristically Adelaidian heatwaves. Brutal heatwaves. Ah, climate change. 

Through the heat, rain, wind and storm activity, I composed these four pieces which explore elements of sound texture and density, whilst aiming to ensure degrees of space and contrast. My ongoing interest in customised percussion and field recordings (specifically spatial and locative properties) inform these pieces heavily. Then there’s the tried and true sound manipulations and iterative processes, which feature in virtually anything that I produce in the studio. 

Broken Fence in Port Noarlunga

So, I’m currently enjoying a super relaxing holiday and when I’ve torn myself away from a cycle of sleeping, socialising, reading, cricket and cricket, I’ve been roaming around looking for compelling sounds. Here’s a broken fence I found down in Port Noarlunga the other day – being gently articulated by some dry grasses.