Hindley St

“No, fuck it, I won’t go down there, because it’s the wrong way” and then the traffic lights change and we ease forward into late-night Adelaide traffic, or rather the lack thereof, and it is just starting to rain. I lean forward and try and make out the names of street signs through the mist in the air and the red desert dirt on the windscreen. There is tension in the front, a palpable thickness, strained by 14 hours on the road, barely legible street maps and clashing egos. The two in the back are quiet, tactfully so, and all I can hear is Nick’s fingers as he taps out the rhythm to some CD we’ve heard fifteen times on the window.

“Right here,” Martin says but I know it can’t be. “That’s just gonna take us straight back to that last fucking intersection and then we’re stuck in the one-way system and we’re screwed.” I want him to argue, want the aggression, but he just shrugs, “Whatever man, that’s not on the map.” I pull into the right lane and indicate, swing the tank into a too-small alley. Turn right. The rain hammers against concrete walls and turns the alley into a set from a noir film. The red dust runs in sticky clots down the windscreen, our colour against the grey. Someone is changing the music. Rain drums against the roof as fingers flick through a folder of CDs.

We return to the intersection and get stuck in the one-way system.

.

This year, Bernard Fanning topped the Hottest 100 with his song Wish You Well, making it the third time he’s held the position, once solo and three times with Powderfinger. Internationalist was the first and only Powderfinger album I ever bought, drawn to the propaganda-poster illustration cover more that anything. I listened to that album a lot. Engrossed myself in it. It works as a whole, a beautiful complete thing, and none of the singles ever overwhelm the other, better, songs that never made it to the radio. Now, I haven’t listened to the album in years and it’s fuzzy around the edges. Songs bleed into each other and distinction is difficult. Memory is imprecise. Then, though, then it was sharp and new.

..

A gentle winter haze creeps in at 3:44

The discman is snapped shut and the opening chords of Internationalist soar out through the shitty speakers in the front doors. Rundle St mall is wet and empty. Fanning sings about “the Hindley street parade” as we pull to a stop at another light. I glance upwards. Hindley St. Lyrics have become solid, grounded in reality. This song I’ve listened to a hundred times takes on framework and context. I know Hindley St, I have seen it on all the maps of the city. I know where we are. The others are oblivious to my little epiphany, but I don’t care, I know Adelaide.

...

It’s dark and cold when we finally reach the campground. The others elect to sleep in the car, so I set up the tent alone in the dark and the rain. It’s 2 in the morning as I pull myself into my sleeping bag and prepare to sleep.

I realise I can hear opera music.

Posted in Oz on Thursday April 6, 2006.