Adam Gibson is a Sydney writer, performer, lyricist, musician, journalist and artist whose work covers music, songs, spoken word storytelling, installation art, performance works, sculpting, video work, painting and photography… It is fundamentally “Australian landscape-based”, being influenced by the land and travel and the sense of being “in” and/or part of different environments, and the stories of the people who inhabit such land, with Australian stories and language and vernacular turn of phrase being very important.
He performs regularly solo and with his band The Aerial Maps, released a new album titled ‘Australia Restless’ with his new band The Ark-Ark Birds in 2015, has performed and/or exhibited in many venues, galleries and spaces around Australia, China and Finland, was an artist in residence at the Arteles Creative Center in Finland and is actively involved in a wide range of artistic endeavours. His first novel manuscript was shortlisted for the Australian-Vogel Award, he has published three books of poetry, and the Aerial Maps’ first album won the 2010 Overland Poetry Festival Best Spoken Word Release, 2005-2010. He likes raging and long walks on moonlit beaches. And surfing.
By Adam Gibson
Kenny was one of our crew. One of the fellas. One of us. A brown-skinned nugget of muscle and sinew, the fittest bloke you ever saw. He was part of a long lineage of Third Ramp blokes who hung at that particular spot on the Bondi promenade and surfed and played handball and made themselves a menace at a time when everyone at Bondi mostly grew up there and knew everyone else. My close old mate Platty introduced him to my brother and I and we became firm, close friends.
He had a surfing style that reflected his tightly-wound physique; little finesse but a mad muscular wave attack that at least in part corresponded to his often twitchy, tightly-wound (but always friendly and funny) on-land personality.
He favoured tight camouflage boardshorts, loved how Tommy Carroll surfed and had a turn of phrase that could eviscerate a try-hard or a blow-in in a single growled sentence.
In an era and at an age when hedonism was worn with a badge of honour, and the pub just as much as the surf was your proving ground, Kenny gave as good as anyone. A cutting sense of humour, a charmer of the opposite sex when he wanted to be, a great travel companion and an even better drinking buddy.
And I remember …
The morning after a long mad party at my mum’s place up in the valley, where various people lay in drunken repose at various locations, including the front garden, of the old semi …
I can picture Kenny right now twisting the top off a VB and joyously imbibing. No worries at all.
An early sign.
But these were the days. The long summer afternoons of the mid to late 80s and into the early 90s. An era of our respective lives when Bondi was still resolutely “local”, before all the old families had been pushed out and if you saw someone with a surfboard near the beach, you would almost certainly know them.
These were hot bitumen-under-feet days, Oakley sunglasses days. Entire weekends being spent with a revolving but tight gang, moving from the promenade to the sand to the surf to pub and back to someone’s rented house or dilapidated flat and cases of beer arriving somehow and the music being cranked up or the guitars being pulled out.
And the music. Oh the music. It was the Clash first. London had called to this faraway town called Bondi and we lived for them. The Clash ruled, they were our guiding light, to quote my brother. They gave us hope and gave us light and infused in us a sense of possibility and endlessness which many of us have only in recent years began to realise may not actually exist. We knew every word to every Clash song and barbeques on Kenny’s rooftop of the old Shangri-La block of flats, next door to the now-demolished (of course) Diggers Club, where he lived were long sessions of Clash dissemination.
But Midnight Oil too of course. ‘Run By Night’. A world captured in a song, an echo of long coast drives and and runnin’ and chasing waves and girls and all the possibilities of surf and music and early 20s and an era of Australia which also echoed with encouragement and possibility. We lived for “Powderworks”, we lived for Head Injuries and “Place” and “10 to 1”. We could see the outside world, everything was inviting in the outside world.
Kenny sung ‘Run By Night’ in my brother’s band The Few and once when they played at the Racecourse Hotel in Randwick, Kenny decided to bring along an orange boat flare from the marina he worked on, and we decided to set it off in the venue about the size of a postage stamp. People ended up running for their lives, their mouths pinned to cracks in metal-barred windows trying to catch a breath as the Fire Brigade and Police swarmed Alison Road, about to be asphyxiated themselves…
There was V Spy Vs Spy too of course. A key and integral band. I can see Kenny tugging on a ciggy and his mouth singing the words to ‘Clarity of Mind’ or ‘Don’t Tear it Down’ and more, many more. Big Audio Dynamite massive, life-changing, the first two albums cranked up as we dissected the lyrics and guitars for reassuring hints of the Clash in Mick Jones’ playing, lyrics and delivery. The Sunnyboys naturally too. The first album. The Buzzcocks also. The first album. More. Many more.
Oh how we gathered for songs and beer and pizza in the old beachside huts and ruled a Kingdom of Salt by the sea of our battered old coastal town, where no one wanted to live as the shit smell wafted down from the sewerage works with every nor’ easterly and the shit itself came in on the tide in every sou’ easterly.
Oh a Kingdom of Shit, but our kingdom, passed on from the generations above us, those who still lived in the brick veneer valley and cast their eyes on us younger generation, making sure we didn’t put beer glasses on the sides of the exquisite snooker tables in the strictly-ruled snooker room at the Diggers or ran too amuck in the Rasa Restaurant.
But these were the years when no one really cared what you did either. You could do whatever you wanted. You could work in bar or travel up the coast for years or go and live in G-Land for six months and come back full of stories and then head off again once you’d saved enough money on the “Government Surf Scheme”.
Kenny was here. Kenny was in his G-Land Surf Combat cut-off t-shirt. His cammo boardies, his Oakley sunnies, now having taken to bike riding with a vengeance. He would ride to Wollongong and back just for a morning ride, just for the hell of it. His physique as taut as a snare drum, he looked like a hard little walnut.
And the beers went down and the years began to pass, and he remained so fit looking. But we were young, we were doing our utmost to live every second for ourselves and if we saw the signs at all, we didn’t know what we needed to do with those signs.
Everyone was “on it”. In our crew it was never really drugs, more just booze. Surf trips and booze. Burleigh Heads and booze. Byron and beers. It was all ok, no one saw a problem.
But the drum began to seemingly wind tighter and tighter and whilst we’d kind of joke about it, something was happening within Ken. Most of us could leave the booze alone after a big weekend. But one night, a Tuesday, when I bumped into Kenny returning from the bottlo with a case of VB, a small alarm bell must’ve rung but I was too young and silly to hear it.
Something happened with the flat he owned at the Shangri-La … we don’t know, whatever it was is now lost in a salt mist. But then there was a flat up on Ramsgate or Brighton, and continual and growing stories of some argument with an upstairs neighbour about music being played too loud. Trouble was brewing. Someone visited Kenny and said his walls were all painted black and the place was a mess.
We didn’t know and if we did, we didn’t know what to do. Life just went on.
We grow up, we try our best, and as Bondi changed, many people began to move away. The sense of community that many of us once felt was fast disappearing and whilst some of us were able to withstand that, many others weren’t. Kenny was one of these people, I believe. The “trendies” were coming in and everything was suddenly different. It was no longer okay to play the Clash at full volume in your flat. It was all different, people had moved on. Girlfriends came and went for Kenny and something began to change.
A schism occurred and many of us seemed to lose track of different people. Some couldn’t seem to handle the change. They “moved inland, got a job, the whole damned thing”, to quote our favourite movie, ‘Big Wednesday’.
And it was somewhere here that we lost Ken. A phone call missed here, a catch-up not caught there. From being someone who was with us every Friday night, he drifted away.
I can’t say exactly when it happened, but it did. And we did try to reach out to him, to give him a call, to see if he was ok. But he pushed back, he swore at some of us when we rung his mum to see where he was. He didn’t want to know that we wanted to know about him. He didn’t want to know about Bondi anymore. The place was “rank” now, to use his expression. Too many yuppies, too much noise and crowds and tourists.
Who can say how all this really occurred. And if there is anything we could have done. I simply don’t know. I simply cannot say. We would’ve tried to understand if we’d had the actual ability to understand. But we didn’t, no one gave us a guide on this.
But I do know that for the past 15 or 20 years barely a day has gone by that I haven’t thought of Kenny and wondered how and where he was. In that time, I was always, for some reason, completely confident that he was alive, but that he just didn’t want to contact us. That was fine. That was ok.
We’d heard of the odd unconfirmed sighting here and there and we just assumed that he was getting on with his version of life and whilst it hurt us that we’d lost touch with him, we were at least content with the fact that he was doing what he wanted to do.
Which was, of course, drink. And drink some more.
When I heard today that Kenny died almost a year ago from booze-related stuff, mine and many others’ hearts broke.
A Bondi tragedy. The oldest story in the book.
If we could have done something, we would have done something. But now, of course, there is nothing we can do … other than go and put on “Stay Free” and think of that bloody good fella we knew, that fit little nugget snapping a quick cutback or riding along the prom on his racing bike.
In those Oakley sunnies.
Twenty years ago or more.
‘Cities of Spinifex’ will be released this week, Friday, April 7.
Hi team, so we can finally reveal a few more details about the upcoming album, ‘Cities of Spinifex’, and also “unveil” the new single, called ‘Trivia Night’. You can hear ‘Trivia Night’ plus pre-order the album here, with a plethora of details blah blah…
Details are below, written by our wonderful PR people, hence the “third person” tone… Their words not mine!
PRE-ORDER CITIES OF SPINIFEX HERE
LISTEN TO ‘TRIVIA NIGHT’ HERE
Today, one of Australia’s most enigmatic musical raconteurs, Adam Gibson, continues the next chapter in his storied career with the release of his latest single ‘Trivia Night,’ as well as announcing the release date for Cities Of Spinifex – his latest album with band The Ark-Ark Birds.
‘Trivia Night’ might be Gibson’s most personal song to date – an impressive accomplishment for a man whose heart-on-his-sleeve lyricism has become his widely recognised signature. The song is waltzing, folky ballad that details Gibson’s memories of some of his favourite times spent with longtime friend and confidante, the late and famed Australian columnist, Sam De Brito.
As its name suggests, the song shares glimpses of the time the two spent together competing in the great tradition of pub trivia, and the surprising memories you cherish after loss.
“It’s a song essentially about friendship and how it’s the small moments you remember when those friends are no longer around,” says Adam. “I wasn’t looking at a glib sentimentality, but more the sense that when someone dies, it’s those moments that take on great importance. It’s basically a celebration of those times and of things such as dumb trivia nights in wintertime when the world isn’t changed but which are just as important as if it was.”
It’s the second song to be released from the album, after the eight-minute opus ‘Belanglo, Byron and the Road Between’ was premiered by Rolling Stone late last year, and delved into Gibson’s chilling recollections of his life as a young crime beat reporter covering a story that would end up being linked to the horrific backpacker murders of the early ’90s.
Cities of Spinifex will officially be released independently on April 7, and follows on from the acclaimed 2015 album Australia Restless and Adam’s lauded records with former bands The Aerial Maps and Modern Giant.
The album is an aural feast – a panorama of songs and stories about landscape, travel and people, about spaces and places. Written during an intense period of personal change and flux for Adam and the band, Cities of Spinifex is a sprawling grab-bag of visions and sights, of memory and experience – of Australia and beyond.
“A lot of challenging things happened in the period immediately before we recorded this album and I wanted to capture that sense flux on the record,” says Adam. “We recorded it as quickly as possible to try to grab that sense of uncertainty and rawness.”
Featuring the likes of Simon Gibson, Tim Byron, Stewart Cahn, Simon Holmes, Jadey O’Regan, Shane Angus and Darren “Fudd” Ryan on board for the musical journey!
Long-noted for the forensic detail embedded in his songs, on Cites of Spinifex Gibson takes this even a step further, naming names and delving into personal history. He again Investigates various shades of the Australian experience, telling stories in a voice that is as distinct as it is universal. Loves, lives and loss …the cities and towns and spinifex grass and the black miles of bitumen road linking them all.
PRE-ORDER CITIES OF SPINIFEX HERE
Cities Of Spinifex track-listing:
1. Trivia Night
2. Roadkill and Roadhouses
4. The Torn Apart Town
5. Western Circus Waltz
6. Beautiful Era
7. Dead Europe (Need to Go Home)
8. Hey Southerly Buster!
9. The Yagan Monster
10. Belanglo, Byron and the Road Between
As a young lad growing up in Bondi in the late ’70s / early ’80s I was massively influenced by Midnight Oil. At some point in early high school my best mate Fordy had given me a double-sided cassette with Head Injuries on one side and Place Without a Postcard on the other. And as I sat there on those coastal nights, wondering about the big wide world outside, I listened obsessively to those albums and I felt my mind … changing. I felt my whole view of Australia … changing. I felt myself … changing.
Having grown up in a family where my dad was a big band leader, I was well-versed in music, but here was a band actually talking about THINGS I KNEW. They were talking about the great mythical “long coast road” of my surfing dreams, they were talking about Lismore in the night, they were talking about frangipani and ocean-sky-blue and “the promise of a swell or a girl”. This was a real revelation to me; it fired my adolescent imagination so much and inspired me to begin my own writing. The Oils gave me the key to suddenly realising I didn’t need to be American or English to be valid – it was possible to be Australian and write/talk about Australian things and give them due credit.
So thus I began writing my own words and ideas and lyrics, at some point getting involved with bands and playing salty beer-baked venues around the place. That evolved and developed and concurrently with the band stuff I began to turn my attention towards that most uncool of artforms – poetry. I ended up initially publishing two poetry books and then began looking at a third, around the early 2000s. As I unashamedly admit that my writing began in a large part due to Midnight Oil, I thought it would be a great idea to see if I could get Peter Garrett to write a “cover line” on the book – like give me a quote that would go on the front.
Having connections deep in the Labor Party, with PG by now being the Federal Member of Kingsford-Smith, I was able to pull a few strings and get the manuscript of the poetry book to him. Then I got word that he enjoyed it and would like to meet me! Oh god. Are you kidding me?!?!? I couldn’t believe it, but soon found myself trekking out to Maroubra Junction one steamy afternoon … going to MEET PETER BLOODY GARRETT! My 13-year-old self would have died at the very thought.
And so I went up to his (pretty crappy) office, knocked on the frost-glass door, and then walked in as his secretary beckoned. She asked me to take a seat in the waiting room while “Peter” just finished a phone call. I think I was actually shaking. As I sat there, I could hear a voice coming through the thin wooden walls. It was the man himself, talking on the phone. I was so bloody nervous, mainly because here was a true hero of mine and I feared I would speak absolute gibberish in front of him.
Then, before I could really think too much more, I heard a shuffling of feet in the next room and the door swung open. That massive frame with the massively familiar head filled the doorway and he enthusiastically called, “Come on in Adam!” and he swung out his hand to shake mine
Oh shit, he knows my name and wants to shake my hand!
So I walked in and just felt like a bloody goose, so nervous and my mind a blank. His first words as we sat down were, “So tell me about the book.” And I am sure what followed was about 20 minutes of absolute blabber … I just rambled on and on and on … and all the while, Garrett sat leaning back with his hand held under his chin, those intense blue eyes just bloody well piercing right through me and those deep lines in his cheeks looking like the terrifying depths of Hades; he fixed me with an unmoving stare that seriously was the most intimidating thing I have ever seen. I was a mess, I was a gibbering fool, I was a metal wreck for cats to sleep in…
He was completely still, he did not move a single muscle as I just hung myself out to dry with what I was sure was nonsensical banter… But then, when I suddenly gained the insight to shut the fk up, he remained completely still, seemed to look even deeper through me … and then leapt forward to say “I LOVE THE BOOK! REALLY GREAT STUFF! LOVED EVERY WORD! Etc etc etc”
Oh my god. Seriously. He told me he loved the poems and really enjoyed reading the manuscript. He was more than happy to flick me a cover quote, of course, he said, and then we went on to talk for about an hour about writing about Australian subject matter, about how important such stuff was, which led to him mentioning when he was “in the band” it’s something they always tried to do etc etc. Wow wow. WOW. He was completely friendly and totally encouraging. I took my leave with another hearty handshake and walked out of there floating on a cloud
A day later, his secretary emailed me the quote that went on to grace the cover of the book – “Adam writes from the heart, from the street – ripper real words that are well worth checking out.”
I’ll take that, no worries!
Lots of things happening of late. The new album by Adam and the Ark-Ark Birds will be released early next year. Details of purchase etc will be put up here.
In the meantime, it’s on the way very fast now … the wonderful Fairgrounds Festival is on this weekend (DECEMBER 3), and the Ark-Arks are playing. We are on in a beauty of a timeslot at 2.15pm on Saturday. Hope to see some familiar faces there. Whack on the sunscreen and catch you in Berry.
Also, this wonderful bit of press appeared in Rolling Stone the other day. A nice preview of the new album, including a preview of a track from it, titled ‘Belanglo, Byron and the Road Between’. Enjoy.