But that was more than one hundred and fifty years ago.

Jakob will not enjoy the winds of serendipity.

Jake is not concerned about that. He is happy to have a son and he is happy that he will be starting smarter.

It’s all plusses for Jake.

Glory is happy to have a son. She is happy that he will be starting smarter but she still harbors a secret wish that he could chart his own course. She understands that this is an entirely normal feeling after having a baby.

But at Beatrice Barranger hospital on July 12, 2135, none of this really mattered. It was what it was. It couldn’t be changed. Jake and Glory were not the types to rock any boats.

They were focused on Jakob’s tests, sperm removal, and vasectomy injection.

It was never pleasant. It would have been worse in the old days, when it involved cutting into the testicles. Nanowire had rid the world of that barbarity.

It was less than ten minutes before the new family settled into an age-old ritual. Parents gazing silently at their son, their magnificent son.

“So, what will he be?” Glory whispered as she kissed Jacob’s tiny forehead.

Jake stepped back slightly. He thought about it carefully. He wanted to be close to right. He didn’t want to say programmer when Jakob was to be an engineer. Or pick him as a mathematician when he will be a conserver.

“I think atomist,” Glory answered to herself as she stroked Jakob’s tiny cheek.

That took the pressure off Jake and he readily agreed.

“Good role,” he confirmed with a decisive nod of the head.

Glory nodded as she gazed lovingly into Jakob’s inquisitive eyes.

They would have to wait a few hours to find out.

A calm settled over the new family. Beatrice Barranger looked down on them, her painted gaze seemingly acknowledging the magical moment.

Before Jake and Glory had time to gaze some more, the parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents barged in, full of beans.

“So, give us a look” one demanded.

Within seconds, they were huddled around Glory and Jakob. Jake stepped back to let the visitors in.

The parents and grandparents made all the right noises. Not that this was difficult to do.

Soon enough one of the grandparents started the speculation.

“So, tips?”

The conversation swung into a brisk pace with dozens of quick-fire suggestions.

“Glory thinks atomist,” Jake chimed in with that air of authority that comes with being the father.

His grandfather disagreed with a hearty shake of the head.

“Athlete … look at his feet.”

Jake’s dad agreed.

The rest fell into line.

Glory didn’t mind either way.

She had her son and whatever was to be would be.

Across town, the local SmartLab was humming with the usual meticulous activity.

Jake’s test data was handed over to the capable hands of senior analyst, Ted Whitton. A veteran of more than sixty years in analysis, Ted was an embodiment of the guiding principles.

No matter how many tests he had ushered through the system, each was treated with the same dedication. This is where the rubber hits the road in the smarter world. It’s where destiny is crafted for each soul.

That is how Ted approached things. He was a craftsman.

Like Jake, he had been reassigned to his role. With more than 65% of people having been reassigned, it was not a big thing. Sure, Ted often thought, it would be nice to be an original.

Ted would never become an executive analyst. Jake would never become an executive maintainer.

It made Jakob that little bit special. He would be an original. In another hundred years everyone will be an original. Jake understood that this was the end game. Jakob would be in his prime in a world made perfect.

Ted pulled up Jakob’s overview.

As he had done so often before, he slid the KI’s across the air screen to drill down into each attribute.

Machines were smart, and they would check each move Ted made, but this was where the magic happened. It’s where little decisions bring extra happiness. Who would not like this job, Ted often thought.

As can happen, Ted got into a small connection loop. He called one of the executive analysts in and silently pointed out the loop.

The executive cocked his head several times.

“Perhaps you could move Attention 24 under Empathy 67,” the analyst mused.

It was as good a suggestion as any.

It helped. The connection between Attention 24 and Tenacity 96 disappeared and the loop was gone.

“Good, we got that one,” the executive analyst smiled. He patted Ted on the back and walked back into the Executive sector.

Ted wanted to be in there with them, taking part in the lively discourse on the attributes.

His good mate Roger sat patiently in the next cubicle waiting for a determination.

“A quick fix is a good fix,” Roger lobbed over the partition.

Ted agreed and continued with the analysis.

Jake was oblivious to all of this. Sitting in the local SmartBar with the usual crew, they avoided the subject. Men were much less interested in second guessing the analysis than the women. As the principle goes, there is no use in wasting time on things that don’t interest you.

Glory was across town and deep in discussion about the results. Her friends pursued the unknowable truth with much gusto and enjoyment. As the principle goes, that which you enjoy is that you should do.

Having sucked the life out of the nearby shopping strip, the place retains its status as the place to be on a cold and windy Saturday.

Everything as it should be. The generally high-paid community going about the business of honouring their good fortune.

Reclining in the buzzing food court, I swiped up another article warning of the decline in retail. The headline screamed blue murder. The copy plotted an eerie and inevitable death for tens of thousands of small businesses.

The big players, they were going down in spectacular fashion. It was going to be carnage.

Being a web guy, I am immediately attracted to such doom and gloom. The usual suspect is the internet. It’s smashing the shops. This, as you might imagine, is great for business. Indeed, in the week prior I had sat across from two retailers as they somewhat uncomfortably enquired about my wares.

I am sympathetic to their plight. These are highly successful retailers with decades of strong growth. They are a masters of their trades. Highly adept at the fundamentals of margin, cash-flow, inventory control, and profit, they are now asked to deal with foreign concepts with shiny new names.

They had been driven to my door by a steady decline in sales. Scratching their heads, they had read the news (oh boy) and they had to get online pronto.

So, all good for a web guy. Even the Treasurer is telling them to get their butts into online gear.

But, I am wondering if it is so straightforward. Am I the new miracle worker? With a stroke of my cyber-pen, all will be well again.

Or is there another explanation?

Which brings me back to Saturday afternoon in the palace of consumer dreams.

Like a revelation from on high, my eyes were wiped clean and I could see. What I saw was as plain as any burning bush.

Yes, the place was packed. A car-park was as elusive as it had ever been. But, when I looked closely I saw a hidden truth.

The shops were empty. They were deserted. The Body Shop, usually a bastion of busyness was as barren as a pork butcher in Jerusalem.

The bookstore, well it isn’t there anymore. It closed down a few weeks back. It would have been a good gauge. People hang in bookstores.

My OCD kicked in. I had to investigate this further. Could I have stumbled on the physical manifestation of this somewhat intangible death of retail?

In an orderly fashion, I staked out the places I know to be magnets for the wallets of the garden variety public servant. The big electronics sellers did have some hardy folks in play but nowhere as much as I would expect.

The big discounters, normally teeming with bargain hunters, were not without shoppers but nothing like the numbers in the good old days.

A quick tour of the smaller shops revealed a ghost land. You could imagine tumbleweeds sweeping across the standard-issue floorboards.

Bored and shuffling shop assistants were taken by surprise by my mere presence. A customer, you could almost hear them exclaim.

Taking several vantage points I was able to observe a distinct lack of products walking out doors. The consumer was empty-handed. The few that were venturing inside shops were exiting sans stuff.

So, I ask myself, are we seeing the end of stuff?

Are we witnessing the end of the age of stuff?

Once that thought entered my mind, it started to make sense. Real sense. It could be true.

Reflecting on my consuming is not going to be much help. I signed up years ago to what is known as Voluntary Simplicity. I kicked my stuff habit by simply deciding not to buy stuff. I had what I needed and decided that I did not need anymore. In the past decade I have brought a TV but only when my old one blew up. My car is more than ten years old. It works just fine. It does the A to B perfectly well.

So, research amongst my friends was called for. Sure enough, my theory is starting to stack up. People have stopped buying stuff as much as they used to.

Looking around their houses you can see some hints on why this has happened. They have the flat screen (or two). They have the Blu-Ray. The whitegoods are in place. The furniture is perfectly fine.

In the garage, the car(s) are aging gracefully.

And that is the point, perhaps.

The stuff we brought years ago look just like the stuff in the shops and does pretty much the same things.

There is just not much to upgrade to.

Just as I was processing the findings of my highly scientific research, I was struck by the news that Apple had become the most valuable company on the planet.

That resonates with me. I am writing this on my brand new Mac Air – a wonder to behold. Weighing no more than a few feathers but ten times as fast as the computer I used ten years ago, it is an engineering marvel.

Just to my left is my brand new IPad. The sleek cage for my Angry Birds. I love it way beyond what a man should love a product.

Then there is my IPhone. I thought I lost it a few weeks back and I had my first ever serious panic attack. It was a feeling not unlike that I felt when I lost my youngest in the mall when she was five.

So, leaving aside my TV, all my purchases over the past decade has been from one company.

It’s not hard to explain. Apple has consistently delivered completely new stuff.

I am predicting that they may have reached the beginning of their end as well. I can’t imagine what new thing they are going to offer me that will entice me to part with my hard-earned.

I am calling it. I declare that we are seeing the end of stuff.

America needs to up their debt level pronto or government grinds to a halt. That’s hospitals, cops, schools, courts, etc.

Watching these stories unfold, my wandering mind wandered back to an interview with a bank boss about his decision to not pass on an interest rate cut.  He defended that it cost more to borrow money from overseas. I was struck by that. So, the banks have to borrow money to lend to us. They make their cash from the margin they snatch on the way through.

Not a big margin, the banker explained. It’s a volume play. A slither of a margin adds up when you are talking gazillions.

This got me thinking about this debt stuff. As I like to do, I set about trying to get a handle on what sort of numbers we are dealing with. That led me to external debt. It’s the debt owed by governments and people in a country to foreign entities.

The numbers are mind-blowing. As a convenient snapshot, the top twenty nations owe $72,487,100,000,000. That’s US dollars. That’s a humungous number. I am not even sure how you say it in words. Is it seventy-two trillion?

In our neck of the woods, we are in hock to the tune of around $1,169,000,000,000. That’s US dollars, so let’s pray that our currency stays above parity. It’s about 95% of our GDP. At least it’s not as bad as the UK. They have racked up 400% of GDP. Yep, they need to fork out $8,981,000,000,000 before they get ahead.

Everywhere you look, everyone is swimming in debt. Each one of us. Australia’s external debt amounts to about fifty grand for each man, women, and child.

Don’t feel too bad. The folks of Luxembourg are in hock for $3,746,535 each. They are in a bad way. Their $1,892,000,000,000 of external debt amounts to 3,443% of GDP. I thought they were loaded but it seems that it’s all someone else’s money.

These mind-boggling numbers have got me thinking. I’m a bit of a simpleton. When I think of debt I think that someone owes the money to someone. So, I have a handle on who owes the money. We all do. Every country, it seems, owes the money.

So, the big question is pretty obvious. Who do we all owe this money to? If I owe $50,000 just by being an Aussie, then who do I owe it to? If I want to pay it off now, saving a hefty interest bill, where do I go to pay?

I imagine that the Greeks would have a similar question right now.

Honestly, someone must own all those debts.

So, I asked around this week. First stop, a mate who works as an economist. He pondered my question and said something about debtor and creditor nations. We are creditors. Places like China are debtors.

OK, that explains it. It’s all owed to places like China.

One problem with that is that they owe about $406,600,000,000. Sure, they might be owed more. But they do owe 406 trillion. It’s much the same with India, also supposedly a debtor nation.

So, I am back to my simple question. Who owns these mountains of debt?

My economist mate reckons that it’s probably something that we can’t know. It’s just too complex.

That’s a cop-out if you ask me. Sure, it’s a big question. However, it’s also a finite question. How many people or entities have that sort of money to lend out? Let’s say it’s a few thousand. Surely it could not be too many more.

So, who are they?

Each debt must have a piece of paper attached to it.  When you borrow money there is a contract that identifies you as the creditor and someone else as the debtor. It has to be the same deal with all debts. When my government borrows it must have a contract with the folks that are lending to them.

It has to be the case for every country.

There must be contracts for the $72,487,100,000,000 owed by the top twenty. There can’t be too many lenders with the sort of cash.

So, who are they?

I am talking names, addresses, and phone numbers. That’s the sort of details I think should be publicly available information.

I am sure there are all sorts of confidentiality clauses hidden in the contracts. I say blow that. We are talking whole countries going to the wall with real people hurting. No doubt these spiraling debts are causing immeasurable harm to people. Starvation must be an outcome in some quarters.

So, for all this harm, I think it is only reasonable that we know who has all this money to lend out and, most importantly, who is getting richer and richer every second of every day from the huge interest being paid.

I ask a very simple question. To whom do I owe my share?

October 2011

When I first joined the force I was expecting to be chasing criminals down the streets of New York. I didn’t think that it would lead to likes of Barry Sanders.

As a cop, you get a sixth sense about people. You can tell when someone has done the crime. You can also smell the innocent.

With Sanders, I didn’t know either way. As is common knowledge, there was all the evidence in the world. It was only Sanders that could have done it. There was no doubt about that.

But having spent many hours with the man, it never fitted. If we did not have that most basic of fact, that only Sanders could have done it, I would have let him walk. If not, the justice system would probably have set him free.

But Sanders now sits across town in his ten feet by four feet cell. He will be there for the rest of his life, most probably.  As the photos on the front screens showed, he is not a picture of health. You can’t see him making it beyond twenty years, well short of the forty-five years he got for his crime.

As my last, the CrossHatch case also happens to be the one that most interests me five years later. It’s why I have spent the last three years writing this book. In between golf, countless holidays with the good wife, and the regular catch up with old buddies; I have tried to piece together the story. I think it’s a good story.

I hope to be able to paint a full picture of the man, Barry Sanders, his invention, his business success, his plan, his dedication to the plan, and the crime itself.

Of course, I will make many reference to Alice Spooner, Without Alice, none of us would know the true story of Sanders. We would have only known the story of Sanders, wunderkind, hugely successful businessman, etc.

So, my first acknowledgement goes to Alice Spooner, terrier journalist. Without her dogged pursuit of truth and certainly without the enormous help she has given me, this book would be nothing on what it is.

I dedicate this book, and so acknowledge her support, to my wife Jennifer.

I love you Jennifer.

I also acknowledge the NYLEA. Without the help of our city’s finest I would not have been able to spend many hours with my colleagues who worked on the CrossHatch case.

Thanks are also due to former staff at CrossHatch. Thanks especially to the engineers who put up with my stupid questions.

I thank deeply the Sander Family – Barry’s ex-wife Sandra, daughters Alison and Daisy. Mother Alice, Sister Jackie. They have all helped me understand the man they shared their lives with. Their generosity in time and openness humbles me. I thank them for their trust in me, that I would write the story well.

I will certainly try.

I must also acknowledge Barry Sanders. Without Barry, none of this would be written. He is a man of much ability. It’s sad that he went awry. Without the lengthy interviews he has given me for this book, I could not hope to tell the full story.

New York, 2027

Introduction

I think one story tells us more about Barry Sanders than all the many hundred stories combined.

Alice, Sander’s mother, recounted it the first time we met. Actually, we had had much to do with each other during the investigation and the trial.

Our first meeting with me supposedly a book writer was tense at first but Alice warmed up, I like to think partly through seeing my sincerity. I wanted to write a good book about her son.

The story takes us back to 1990.

It’s the under 10’s first game of the season. Barry is excited. He had wanted to play soccer for years but his Dad, Barry Snr, had been against it. He didn’t think Barry was the athlete type. That is what he told Alice.

Barry was heavy from day one. He was a huge baby, a massive toddler, and certainly a big boy for nine years of age.

The team uniform just fitted. It was still too tight but it was all that was available. Even then it was from the under 12’s kit.

The game. It was a wipeout. Alice thinks it was 5-0 but she also said it could have been 6-0.

Barry scored an own goal. Quite stupidly according to his dad who proceeded to make a fuss about it for hours. He was that sort of dad, apparently.

Listening to Alice, you get a picture of a harsh man, a man not afraid to tell his only son where he was going wrong.

I asked Barry about his dad. I wanted to know about this man who, from all reports, went to his grave cursing his very successful son.

Barry just waved away the question. There was nothing to tell. I think there was a lot to tell. I wish that Barry had shared his memories with me. I will have to do with Alice’s and Jackie’s accounts.

Both are not hugely flattering.

Not so in their accounts of Barry. They speak highly of him. He was a good man, when you leave aside his crime.

Truth be told, they both believe he was just caught in the spotlight of his own making and that he just couldn’t resist. You get a strong sense from both women that they feel he did it for them.

I think that is partly right. It does not explain everything.

It does not explain what Sanders was thinking at the very beginning. When he took his clever invention and turned it into the future site of one of our biggest, and most cunning crimes.

I also wonder how Barry felt when he took that first call from Alice Spooner. How much did his heart sink? I know it would have sunk a fair way. How far?

Another story that, although well known, still tells us much about the real Barry Sanders.

It’s 2021 and Barry is guiding CrossHatch to its first major funding round. It’s a five-way race with each bidder a big player. Stewart Couples, Barry’s assistant at the time, recalls Barry wanting to pull out from the meetings with the suitors.

They would not like him. People liked slimmer people. They needed to get someone slimmer to do the meetings. Stewart did what he was paid to do and made sure the board knew about Barry’s plan.

The board ordered Barry to attend the meetings. They could do that by then. Barry had let slip too much control. Couples was even pushed on him.

As we know, Barry didn’t give up the real control. The board was not to know that and ordered Barry to the meetings.

And he did, and they came away with one of the big raisings of that year. Front screen stories everywhere. It was big news.

Barry grew in confidence but there is no doubt he never gained the level of confidence we would expect from such a successful man.

He told me once that he always felt like a fraud. That he was not nearly as clever as people said he was.

I made a joke. He certainly committed a big fraud but he was certainly not a fraud.

He liked that. By Barry’s standards, he smiled.

Chapter One

The morning light broke into the small offices of BaltimoreNet. The offices looked much like any such establishment. Sleek and suitable funky.

A middle level player in the news space, BaltimoreNet was considered a great place to start your career, before you moved on to one of the big players. Probably across the group. Maybe even NewsNet.

The twenty or so BaltimoreNet staff were working away on their stories, waiting for the arrival of Josh Thompson, founder and chief editor. Then, the ritual of the morning meeting would get underway.

It was the highlight of the day. The team at BaltimoreNet was a close bunch. There was not much of the ego you would find at other news establishments. It was a good place to work and it seems that Thompson had been able to gather a bunch of good kids who were able to keep their four million readers happy.

However, it was not a place that created viral.

So, it was there in that little office that the story really begins. It has been written up countless times but it is worth retelling for this book.

Alice Spooner had been with the site for just over two years. Turnover of staff in the office was on the higher scale. It was a good place to start a career. It was not a big deal. People moved on to bigger and better things but always with good memories of their start in Baltimore.

Alice had ridden the wave of departures and was already quite senior. She was able to do her own thing while snapping off the human-interest stories that Thompson deemed worthy.

Alice had done one notable piece before her CrossHatch story. The exposure of bandwidth theft amongst Baltimore youth.

It was notable in Baltimore. It did not go viral. Not much anyway.

Thompson often reminded his charges that a viral was always possible and they should strive to find a viral.

A viral is big business. It can get a site like BaltimoreNet a long way. The ViralCorp revenue can cover a year’s operating costs. It’s also good money for the originator.

But it is probably true to say that no one was thinking viral at the BaltimoreNet on Tuesday, 29^th of January, 2021.

Alice Spooner was certainly not.

The idea for the story came from a vlog she watched on the weekend, a simple story about a simple guy who had won against all odds. She had actually been looking for nail hints.

Somehow, this seemingly non-talented guy had won a foot race in an obscure Canadian city. He wasn’t expected to win but he did. Just, but he won.

As the vlog explained, his wife had actually been painting her nails. She hadn’t gone with him. She had been to plenty. He always lost.

That is how this seemingly random story came to Alice’s front screen.

Alice was immediately taken by the vlog and reposted on SocialNet.

It struck a chord with enough readers for Alice to put forward her story idea about people who had won sporting competitions against all odds.

Thompson liked it. Rank Outsiders he dubbed it. He authorized Alice to spend twelve hours and a researcher to spend forty. It was a healthy budget. Alice was pleased. Thompson liked it a lot.

He already saw it leading the human-interest screen. He thought it might be able to get a slight viral lift, if Alice presented it well.

At first Alice was unsure of where to start. She started to doubt the story. Thompson convinced her to push ahead.

Ray Tomaro, Alice’s trusty researcher set about his task. It’s where it all starts, the research.

Into SearchNet, Ray types “rank outsider”

9,020,760 returns.

Ray adjusts the SearchNet to recent mentions.

123,956

A manageable number for his sweep.

Tomaro was by far the best researcher at BaltimoreNet. His work was thorough but focused. He had a knack for getting his sweeps right.

Shit in – Shit out. That is Ray’s often-muttered philosophy. It was what he did; put good stuff in and he got good stuff out.

And so Ray did that day. He loaded the sweep with a range of betting terms. He thought that would be easiest way to sweep through the returns to find what they were looking for. It would be a good place to start. He would try other sweep tactics.

What they were looking for was quite simple, examples of rank outsiders who had got up against all odds.

What Ray found that day was to become the basis for everything that follows? He uncovered what must be the most notorious blip in statistical history.

He didn’t need to be Ralph Mauro to see the blip. It was clear as day, a three-month period where an inordinate number of rank outsiders got up.

Ray was hoping for no more than a few dozen. Alice was hoping for about a dozen good ones, people with good stories who could deliver them well.

She got the analysis from Ray on her pad. She had taken herself out to the gardens to start the story. She always wrote the lead-in before the facts came in.

She had written not more than twenty words.

When an underdog gets up, we all feel that little bit better about the world. Imagine how the underdog feels. I set out to find out.

She stared at the sweep results. She could see the bulge. You couldn’t miss it.

She connected with Ray. What did he think it meant? Ray wasn’t sure. He was going to do some more sweeps. It might be a mistake. It can happen.

Alice continued with her lead-in. She felt confident that she was going to have good talent, no matter how well Ray’s sweeps went.

The people you are about to meet are normal folks who did an extraordinary thing. They still can’t believe it, each one of them.

It was a good lead in. It had everything she had been taught to get across in a lead-in. Yes; we all love it when an underdog gets up. We all love the triumph over adversity. She was going to take us behind the scenes of such triumphs. We will meet the people who triumphed. They were humble in their victory.

A nice little story it was going to be.

He was someone who must be remembered, now that he has passed away at the wonderful age of 98.

I met PC in Wambion just outside of Canberra. Let me set the scene – then I will tell you about PC’s planet.

I was working as an editor at Capital Television News. A local one-hour bulletin. An exciting time. A young family at home and a reputation as a “gun” editor able to turn out good stories at a lightning pace without fuss.

Journo’s would fight for me to edit their stories, especially when they were late to file. The story would be edited in record time but still with a strong eye to the art of broadcast news.

I am pretty sure I was not disliked. I am sure I was part of the solution, not the problem, the problem being how to get an hour of news on air every night. It needed fast, quality editing.

That is what I did.

Then it came to a screeching halt. Quick version.

A story was filed about aboriginal youth causing problems. I had become the go-to man for any stories about the Native Title issue, which was starting to come on the radar.

I had been working at nights out at Wambion, in an editing studio set up by Lew Griffiths. The way it worked was simple; Lew travelled the country collecting footage and interviews, which were fed by me, edited, to a hungry media covering the rising Native Title story.

It was a good idea. We got to control the message to some degree.

The place was also the basecamp for what was called the Aboriginal Native Title Negotiation Team. Or the A team, to be precise.

It was a good second job with half decent money to throw at the mortgage. And a good thing to do. Help out the black-fellas as we called the vast population of indigenous Australians we were representing.

It was just easy shorthand. It was, of course, not racist. More like when the gays took that word as their own.

So, fast-forward to that short story. Working as an editor on the news. Story comes in about black-fella kids causing trouble. The story sucks. It is written by one of the great bitches I have met and was full of right-wing indignation. No respect. No empathy. Just black.

So I make a call to someone who might know the black-fella part of the story.

It was not black-fellas. It was south pacific islanders (who I suppose are also black-fellas, but not this context).

So I set the story straight but the news director rejects my version. The old story runs. I protest.

Next day its front-page in the paper. Police chief condemns false news stories on the nightly news. The kids are not black-fellas.

And I get sacked.

Yep. I get sacked for kicking up the stink.

So, no job, young family, and a brand-new mortgage. Trouble.

As things go, fate stepped in. Lew offered me a fulltime job out at the farm. Same job. Maybe do some corporates to keep some money flowing in but mostly black-fella stuff.

It was a great job. A great period of Australia’s history. I had a front row seat. Taught me a lot about public persuasion.

It was a pleasure to work alongside Lew and people like Noel Pearson and Marcia Langton.

Great parties too. Raucous affairs.

PC was the elder who would come to Canberra for big press moments. Black Friday, when the A Team turned on Keating and attacked. Ruby Tuesday when Keating caved in and gave us what they wanted, well mostly.

As these were always decided on quickly, PC would come down in plenty time when the team felt things were hotting up.

So, PC was around a lot. So was I. The team would be off doing something somewhere in Canberra. PC and me would stay behind.

So, PC started to hang out with me in the edit suite. Just watch as I edited up little packets of messages and sent them around the country.

At this stage PC was in his late seventies.

We talked a bit about stuff. I learnt about his life.

Like when he was chained to his mother, at the age of seven, and walked hundreds of miles off their country to the Cape. Of the nightly rapes of his mother. Him still chained to her.

Chilling stuff.

I cried. It was simply so horrible and made more so by PC’s somewhat perfunctory retelling.

I ask him how he could possibly have anything to do with white-fellas – like me.

He says I am OK. I am fighting for them. I am OK.

The subtext was that there might be white-fellas he wouldn’t want to talk to. It’s not like he talked all the time.

It might have been so if it was not for PC’s religion. He was a minister in one of the churches, Anglican I think. A real bona-fide preacher man.

PC had long ago turned the other cheek.

So, there were loads of amazing conversations with PC.

The stand out for me was told as we lazed by the pool. The team were far away, battling at the coalface of black-fella rights, we were lazing about the pool.

PC just blurted out the story. He started with something like “I have another planet where I live.”

Words to that effect.

He goes there when he goes to sleep. Just like he had just done. Dozed off and went to his other planet.

He is the elder there. He is the elder of the whole planet.

Every night he goes to the planet and he makes sure its all good there.

In the dreamtime, he confirms.

End of story.

Short but quite profound.

I assure you PC was being serious. The last line was delivered while staring into my eyes and with a knowing nod of the head.

A few minutes later he tells me it’s secret business.

But now that PC has left us for his other planet, I feel OK to tell his story.

The story of PC’s planet.

Have fun on your other planet PC. Maybe I can pop in one day after I shake this mortal coil.

Your ninety-eight years on this planet were amazing. Thank your for the few months I got to share with you.

Wake up, hotel breakfast – a real treat for me, laze around – often by the pool, pack bags, travel to the next town, set-up, focus, sound check, back to the motel, unpack, cleanup, dinner, laze around, head to venue, talk a walk through the sardines inside and the disappointed outside.

The ritual build-up, “Chisel, Chisel, Chisel”. The explosion. The music. The stuff of legend being made. Me oblivious to that fact. Everyone would have been. I know the other were. I have talked of these times with band and crew since. We were all oblivious. Maybe Don knew. Who knows with Don?

Looking back, it was like the runway before take off.

I know that I loved it. That is for sure. It was an incredible experience that diverged so much from everything I had known in my short life.

Born on a volcano not far from the equator, on my Island home of Rabual, a decade and a half before, I somehow found my way to the South Coast of New South Wales touring with the amazing and awesome Cold Chisel.

It’s quite a concept when I think about it. It speaks of fate. It speaks of the complete lack of control we really have in our life.

It defies logic.

I started to feel a bit sad as the adventure was drawing to a close. Going back to my old life felt weird. I had tasted something that had got under my skin.

I wanted to keep going – down the big highway – on a rock and roll adventure.

I had experienced everything there was to experience with a rock band on the road. Often.

It was not the sort of stuff you could easily forget.

I would have to compete for girls, as one example of the difference between the school life in Canberra and the caravan of love

A party every night is addictive in the sense that you just want more. We are not talking suburban variety parties. We are talking full tilt, all out, raging parties packed full of people getting their own little slice of Chisel legend.

They would all have their Cold Chisel stories, just as I do.

Everyone I met, every girl I ‘met’, everyone who I did not meet but who was there. They would all remember their own little slice of the chisel party legend.

So being at the party every night, ‘meeting’ another nice girl, maybe getting lucky, well, it was just amazing. Yes, I know I am using that word a lot. Bad luck. It was amazing. Ask anyone. Ask Jim, ask Don, ask anyone who was there and they will agree – it was amazing.

It was going to be hard to go back to normal life, in dreary Canberra.

It was going to be too weird.

On the last day, just after we had set up, Meri called me into the dressing room.

He was interested. What was I going to do? Go back to school.

I probably confirmed that. What else was I going to do?

He had another idea. What about I come on board the Chisel train. Just like that. No fanfare, no sense of occasion. What did I think?

What did I think? I didn’t think. Not for a second.

He told me I was good at the work. I was going to make a fine lighting dude.

I remember feeling mighty pleased with myself. This was not work for the lighthearted. This was heavy work.

Meri gave me a quick run-down of what I could expect.

Straightforward really.

I would move to Sydney. Work would be found for me. Perhaps in the studio with the band recording the next album? Perhaps with another band on tour? Perhaps at a lighting company. Something.

Just move to Sydney.

No big deal.

I am sure that is how I presented it to my mum. It must have been a crazy notion. A sixteen-year-old boy running off to the big smoke to work with some band called Cold Chisel. Mum would not have known that they existed.

But that was the plan. I was off to Sydney. My life had changed. I had tasted something simply irresistible.  I was on autopilot.

I stayed around Canberra for a week, maybe less. Then I was off. On the last train to Sydney.

The week in Canberra was surreal. It was like the town had ceased to exist in my mind. The only thing relevant was there were Cold Chisel tapes in the local record store and I brought myself the two you could get.

Brought with the money the band had given me when we parted ways – them on their way home, me on my way to my old home, a stop-off on the way to my new home.

To my new life.

So, what is the song that most captures the magical week that changed my life and flung me on a journey with Chisel that continues to this day?

A journey that takes in the juggernaut tours of Youth In Asia and Summer Offensive and the sad end in 1983. The years in between. The reunion for Last Wave of Summer. The years in between. The loss of Steve

It’s an easy choice.

Conversations

Kneeling at the hotel reception

Violin a-sobbing on his knee

Twenty bright rosellas on his shoulder

Coin from a wealthy Ceylonese

Hungry people hangin’ on the corner

Other people cruisin’ by in cars

Feeding on the fiction and the porno

Staring at the tattoos and the scars

Conversations, Conversations

Icy nights and almighty patience

Well some of us are driven to ambition

Some of us are trapped behind the wheel

Some of us will break away, and build a marble yesterday

And live for every moment we can steal

Conversations, Conversations

Shouting out across an empty station

Now it’s just another Tuesday morning

Billy’s wrapped up tight against the chill

The busker packs his birds beneath the awning

Billy’s got his eyes upon the till

He could get a ticket out of here from a local easy lawyer

The busker’s halfway home

Billy’s lounging round the foyer

Love so easily dies when there’s nothing left to conquer

One small break is all he needs, and life ain’t getting longer

Conversations, Conversations?

His eyes adjust slowly but he can’t see anything to explain why they are here, or where here is. He’s just glad to be out of the box.

“Hey guys,” he offers cheerfully. “Isn’t it good to be out of the box?”

“Yeah, believe it all you like!” a packet right down the front sneers.

“Yeah, see how you feel when you’ve been here longer than thirty seconds!” another packet snarls.

Chip Packet has no idea what they are talking about.

“Hey buddy”, he whispers to a packet just in front of him, “have you been here longer than thirty seconds?”

“Been here as long as you, we came in the same box, all of us, except them down the front.”

“What’s their problem?” Chip Packet partly asks and partly comments.

“Beats me,” the helpful packet offers reluctantly.

“Hey, we can hear you up there, shut it!”

“But,” Chip Packet pleads, before knowing he would. “Can’t you just tell us where we are?”

“Look, you’ll find out soon enough!”

“Yeah, we’re on special buddy … and you know what that means … well, actually you wouldn’t know what that means?”

“No I don’t, can’t you just tell us what it means?” Chip Packet challenges rather bravely, considering.

“Not on your life, when you been here as long as us, the things you see … you don’t tell no young punk.”

Dread brings a long and sharp silence, one certain to be broken.

“Do you think we are going to be alright”?

If he is not mistaken, it’s a girl, and right beside him. He feels the air grow inside him, a strange but nice feeling.

“We’ll be right, don’t worry,” Chip Packet comforts, though not at all sure.

He grows even more nervous.

“So, what are you?” Chip Packet enquires just a little bit too eagerly.

“Sorry?” the girl packet stammers, still uneasy about the whole situation.

“Your flavour?” he qualifies in his best manners, trying to make up for his hasty opening line.

“Oh, yes, sorry,” she apologises, also in her best manners. “Sour Cream and Chives.”

There’d been talk about them and the Texas BBQ boys in the combo packs. But, she is a full size packet; he knows nothing of their ways.

She feels slightly safer talking to him.

“So, what are you?” she asks in a more confident way.

He has to think fast.

“Texas BBQ, Mam,” he lies, made worse by his very bad attempt at a Texan drawl.

“But, your brothers are salt and vinegar?”

He gulps.

“Yeah, strange, for some reason I ended up behind them.”

Oh boy, what was that?

He is not even sure why he lied. It just happened; he was about to tell the truth and then the wrong words came out. He wonders if that happens to other things.

He quickly tries to think of a new subject.

“Hey, maybe you can ask your sisters about where we are?”

“I don’t think they’ll know … we all just got here too.”

His fear of running out of things to say is making it harder to think of something to say. He needs to say something.

A long silence follows as Chip Packet tries to think of something to say.

“It seems a nice enough place anyway,” he offers, unconvincingly.

She is glad he offered something.

“Yeah, I suppose so” she agrees unconvincingly. “But, I would sure like to know what they are talking about.”

So would Chip Packet, but this is no time for letting on. He feels a strong need to say something clever, something that will suggest he is working it out.

He looks around for clues. He can’t see any. There may be plenty, but he can’t see them – just packets and more packets, tins and cans, and lots of other things.

More time follows in silence. Most things have been here a long time; they have seen many an early morning. There is not much to talk about.

The first light sprinkles in. The nuts twinkle. The drink cans glisten in their frosty coats. The chocolate bars look like they should. They are the stars.

Everything knows that.

“Hey, chocolate bars, where are we?” Chip Packet hollers, semi-confidently, across the way.

“Don’t worry about it,” is the quick and pleasant reply from a chocolate bar. “And don’t listen to them, they’re just being miserable.”

“Aren’t you worried?”

“What, us, worried! About adventure?” the chocolate bar smirks, in a nice way.

“What’s adventure?” sour cream and chives pleads politely.

“First, it is Deluxe Bar, Miss, and, well …” he starts, in a very pleasant manner before being interrupted.

“Look, up there, no packets allowed to talk to no chocolate bars!” one of the grumpy packets shouts.

“Oh, keep your doom and gloom to yourself,” Deluxe Bar snaps with chocolate bar confidence. “They can ask if they want.”

To be honest, Chip Packet is thankful for the interruption. He is not sure he likes her asking the questions; he feels he should be the one working things out. He ponders what he knows, what little there is.

He then hopes she asks him more questions.

She doesn’t let him down.

“So, Mr. Texas BBQ, what do you think this adventure thing is”?

“Firstly Miss, it’s Chip Packet.”

He just thought of it. It has a good ring to it, like Deluxe Bar.

“Hey,” the packet in front of him comments, not too rudely. “You can’t call yourself that!”

“Yes I can” Chip Packet defends, “and I have.”

“Well you can’t!” a packet right down the front declares, in a stern and official manner.

“Why not, why can’t I”

“Look,” the grumpy and now slightly dismissive packet decrees. “We’re salt and vinegar, that’s all. No-one is just Chip Packet.”

Chip Packet panics.

“Well, for your information, I am Texas BBQ “

“No you’re not, you’re salt and vinegar, like all of us,” a packet behind him assures, in a matter of fact way.

He decides to ignore them all.

“So, where were we?” Chip Packet croons. “Oh yes … your name, what’s your name?”

“Well, I suppose, sour cream and chives, maybe?” she suggests unconfidently.

“No, that’s no good … we need something better for such a unique girl.” Chip Packet suggests, rather confidently considering how nervous he is.

“Oh my, you boys are really like they say.” she flutters, wondering how she knows how to flutter.

A tingling silence follows. He can’t believe it. Somehow he sounded smooth and he didn’t even mean to. He better keep it up.

“So, let’s see, what should it be?” Chip Packet drawls, sounding almost like a professor from Texas. “Let’s see now … you would surely be pretty?”

She feels a strange sensation, like being puffed up. She is now much bigger. It must be what happens when you get out of the box.

“So, how about Pretty then?” Chip Packet concludes.

She doesn’t answer; she’s not sure how to take the attention. It seems her sisters were right – boys can be quite forward. She remembers that you still need to help them along.

The moment is fleeting but she can’t think of anything to say.

“So, what do you think”? Chip Packet insists.

“Oh, how do you know I’m pretty?” she teases, again surprised that she knows how.

“Ah, I’m sure you are.”

They both feel the sensation of puffing up and then think about asking the other about it, but then decide not to, all at exactly the same time.

“What about it, Deluxe Bar? Is she pretty”? Chip Packet sounds out across the room.

Deluxe Bar yawns, in a pleasant way, “Well, let’s just put it this way … She does nothing for me.”

“Come on, help me out here?” Chip Packet insists pleasantly and playfully.

He is growing up very quickly.

Deluxe Bar is starting to like Chip Packet. They can be very nice if they like you; being nice is what chocolate bars do best.

“Well I suppose if I was a chip packet she would be, but it’s difficult for me, especially, to tell.”

“Why?”

“Well, we’re the best looking in Shop,” Deluxe Bar offers, genuinely trying to guide Chip Packet.

“Hey, we told you up there, shut it!”

Chip Packet is not going to be put off, and what can they do about it anyway.

“What’s Shop? Is that where we are?” he stammers, now desperate to understand.

“That’s right. You catch on quickly for a bag of chips.” Deluxe Bar notes smugly. “No offence”.

“No offence!” one of the grumpy packets scoffs.

“So, why are we here, so many of us?” Chip Packet continues, now easily able to ignore the grumpy packets.

“Well, they buy us.”

…………………………….

“Oh, oh, shop time!” Security Camera calls out.

“What’s this?” Chip Packet whispers to Deluxe Bar as loudly as he can.

“This is it, when they come and buy us.” Deluxe Bar states normally.

“What happens then?” Chip Packet sputters loudly.

After enough silence for Chip Packet to think about asking again, Deluxe Bar answers calmly.

“No-one’s sure.”

“What do you mean?” Pretty squeaks, “No-one’s sure?”

“No one really knows, but it’s nothing to worry about.”

“Nothing to worry about?” Chip Packet repeats disbelievingly.

“Yes,” Deluxe Bar continues calmly, considering the commotion. “According to the one who returned.”

“That’s rubbish!” the grizzly pair interjects in grumpy unison.

“It’s the end, kaput, finitio, all over!” the first one asserts abruptly.

“Yeah, all over!” the second one agrees just as abruptly.

Pretty ignores them. “So, wait a minute, are you saying that we go somewhere else?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Deluxe Bar consoles, “on adventure, that’s what the one that returned told us.”

Chip Packet watches in horror as a basket is filled with tins, boxes, and other things. Horrible screams fill the air.

“Is this what you mean?” Chip Packet trembles.

“Yes, this is it,” Deluxe Bar answers coolly. “It’s quite a spectacle, isn’t it?”

“I’m scared,” Pretty stammers, “I don’t want that to buy me.”

“Don’t worry”, Deluxe Bar reminds her, “It’s only adventure.”

Chip Packet gets more scared as things are taken out of the basket, waved through the air, and shoved in bags.

The screams grow louder and more desperate.

If this is adventure, he wants none of it.

“Bit of a get together?” a long thing chimes to the one with the basket.

“Yeah, you can tell, huh?” the one with the basket laughs.

“You see we’ve got Chips on special?”

Chip Packet watches in fright as the one with the basket turns toward him.

He suddenly feels himself dragged through the air.

“What’s going on … what’s happening,” Pretty screams.

Chip Packet is now looking back at the display stand. He can see the other packets, for a split second.

Darkness. Silence. Moving.

………………………………..

“Are you there Chip Packet?”

“Yes, is that you Pretty? “

“Yes, what happened”?

“I think it must have buy us.”

“But where are we?” Pretty asks, in a rather businesslike manner, considering what has just happened. “And why is it dark again?”

“Well, I am not sure, but at least we’re together.” Chip Packet replies, almost absent-mindedly.

“Yes, I’m glad, I wouldn’t want to be here alone.” she admits.

More moving. Less screaming. Things seem to be getting used to new situations now.

Chip Packet knows he needs to come clean.

“Pretty, you know how I said I was Texas BBQ,” he stammers, “Well … you see … well “

“Yes … I know … you’re salt and vinegar”

“What, you know?” Chip Packet demands nicely, almost relieved to know that his secret wasn’t a secret after all.

“Yes, I have known all along.” Pretty laughs, all very nicely. “Don’t worry about it, I was flattered really.”

He had no idea that a lie could be flattering; there had been no mention of it in Warehouse. It must be one of those things you learn on the way.

They both puff up some more, which makes other things shift, given them extra room. They relax a little into adventure, it doesn’t seem that bad.

“Hey, you two, who are you?” a cheerless voice calls from above them.

“Well, I am Chip Packet and this is Pretty, who are you?” Chip Packet replies.

“Well, I’m not sure,” is the feeble reply.

“Well, we better get you a name then,” Chip Packet decides, “What are you, let’s start there.”

“An Avocado.”

“Well, Avocado it is.”

“But, there’s millions of Avocados?”

“You see any of them here?”

“No, I can’t see anything.”

“Yes, I know, but are you the only avocado here?”

“Yes, I think so. The others got left behind.”

“So, no problem, I’m Chip Packet, this is Pretty, and you are Avocado. All very simple really.”

He is quite chuffed to have solved that so quickly. Pretty is impressed, and learning all the time.

“So, you Chip packets?” Avocado asks glumly.

“That’s right.”

“You’re lucky, hey?” Avocado sighs, with a slight hint of envy.

“What you mean, lucky? How are we lucky?”

“Well, you don’t rot,” Avocado states despondently.

“Yeah, and what’s different with you?” Chip Packet asks, only half interested.

“Well, I do.”

“But what’s rot?” Pretty interjects with the crucial question.

“Not sure, there’s nothing left after it, that’s all I know.”

“So, why don’t we rot?”

“Don’t know.”

“But when do you rot?”

“After they’ve eaten me, they don’t need me anymore.”

“What’s eating?” Chip Packet probes delicately, “It doesn’t sound good.”

“Well, with you it’s different,” Avocado sighs, “What are inside you is not you.”

“But what’s inside?”

They’re called a chip, that’s all I know.” Avocado sighs, sorry to not be able to tell them more.

For a moment, Chip Packet is interested in chips, but there has been so many new things that he doesn’t know where to start.

He can’t decide if Avocado wants to talk about the rot thing. He can’t decide what is more important, the chips or the rot thing.

Pretty starts thinking about the chips, she can feel them now that Avocado had mentioned them, but ends up thinking about how it is that some things know some things and other things don’t.

She tries to think that through.

They both suffer an information overload and try to stop thinking.

It seems the key problem is how little they all know.

……………………………………..

The light is blinding.

When the fog clears, he sees her. She is more beautiful than he imagined.

She blinks and smiles.

“Oh Chip Packet, is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me … and you … well, we certainly found the right name for you.” Chip Packet stutters nervously.

Pretty nearly pops.

I had been there about an hour before my life change, in the disguise of a big Ranger rental truck, pulled up. In that time, and I strangely remember well, I was thinking back across my recent past. It was the road that had led me to this quite unusual place. It was truly one of those “if you had told me two years ago” moments. I was thinking about that.

I was happy. I was content. Sitting cross legged on a low brick wall just to the right of the entrance.

I was, as I have said, thinking about the road there, the most recent road. It’s the back story of my Chisel story so I will quickly set the scene.

A year prior, my mum and I had moved to Canberra. My oldest sister, Trudy, and her hubby, Phil, were living there and I think they were instrumental in luring us from Redcliffe, just north of Brisbane.

I did not like the move. It was, sure, a little exciting, but it represented more than just a change of location. It sort of meant the final end to my parents marriage, which had been over for a few years. It placed a huge distance between facts and my secret (and I understand completely normal) hopes that mum and dad would get back together.

So, the move was already burdened by this.

The first six months certainly did nothing to temper my disdain.

Back in Redcliffe, I had a good gang of mates. We are all on journeys of mutual interests. A big part of this was music, or more precisely, punk. The clash had started it and the pistols poured petrol on our adolescent rebellions. Good mates formed a band, I did the lighting. It was the job left over. We only did two gigs at the police youth club. I certainly did not take an interest in lighting with me.

Truth is, no matter what I felt about the move, if I was to stay in Redcliffe, I would have ended up in trouble, possibly big trouble. So, the move that I so disliked actually was saving me from a path that I am eternally glad that I did not take. I love the path that I took, as a direct result of the move.

Getting back on track, the first six months in Canberra were horrid. Problem numero uno was that I was, through some quirks in my education and the transfer between systems, between 18-months and two years younger than everyone else.

So I wondered the hallways and classrooms always that little out of the action. I had certainly discovered the female charms in Redcliffe and so the biggest issue with my new outsider status was that I did not stand a chance with the girls. I already looked a couple of years younger than I was and so it probably would have have smelt like pedophilia when I made my bad attempts to get myself a girl.

I was just a kid and they were young women.

The guys, well I just did not figure.

Then two things happened.

First, I was walking one evening around the dreary suburb we lived in. I came across a house with a big garage that was filled with a bunch of guys making music. They were playing things like the clash, stiff little fingers, and all the music that formed a semi-religious ambiance for me.

So, I went in and within minutes I was part of the gang. That became my life and the loneliness of the preceding months faded away.

Then, at a disco in the school canteen, I found myself at a table with a bunch of guys who immediately took to my talking about the clash, the stiff little fingers, ultravox, devo, etc.

So, I had a new gang at school. Great. A new gang near home and a new gang at school.

All of that led to the Griffyn Centre, a complex of community organisations and small halls in civic. It is now the site of the ATO HQ.

I claim that the Griffyn Centre in Canberra was one of the premier punk scenes in the whole world. Canberra youth of that time, raised in a rarefied public service conservatism, simply burst out into rebellion. Every sub-culture existed en-masse. Punks, skinheads, teddies, all of them jostled for space in the crowded gigs at the Griffyn Centre.

The bands of the day included Young Docteurs, Thalidomide, and Capital Punishment (featuring Damien Smith, senior journo on Channel 7 news).

I immersed myself in this fabulously vibrant culture. Girls came back into the equation. YAY.

So, all of that led to a bunch of mates forming a band called The Word. That led to them getting a support gig with a band called Cold Chisel. Five nights, from Bombaderry to Bega. Christmas Day right in the middle.

So, I was not going to miss that. Not that I knew of this band called Cold Chisel. The guys in the band only knew that they were a “booner” (bogan) band. That certainly did not tickle my fancy. Sounded like crap. Oh well, who cares, this is about being with the mates.

The only problem was the cars going down were full. Who cares? I just hitched. My third and last ride was with an elderly couple and I remember them being quite freaked out about me and my story. I seemed far too young for them and they insisted on taking me right to the door.

So, there I was sitting on the little stone wall outside of the Bombederry RSL waiting for my mates to turn up in their seriously overcrowded bomb of car. Instead down the street, a Ranger Rental  pulled up, full of life change for me, and four men in black jumped out.

One of them, a huge hulk of a man walked up to me, almost stridently, and asked if I was with the support band. Well, technically I was. I was here because they were my friends. So I said I was. The man in black with the menacing necklace that I think was a tooth from some large animal, introduced himself as Gerry and told me to get off my arse and get to work. Or words to that effect. But with a smile, I am sure of that.

The next second, the back of the truck was ripped open and a my first sight of a full truck of concert gear was revealed. It was a sight that I was to get very used to.

My world was suddenly flurry of activity. Everything was extremely heavy and there was clearly not much exception granted, even if you are a tiny and skinny kid, which I was. So, I somehow managed to be half useful. Actually, I think I was more useful than I would have guessed, a life lesson.

Immediately the banter started to fly. Jokes about all sorts of things. I was taken in by the camaraderie of it. I was also taken in by the huge jugs of coke that came with the job.

Once the truck was unloaded, I was grabbed by one of the other guys. He was the lighting guy and I was to help him set it up. Meri is his name. Meri Took. He changed my life.

So, he was straightforward in his instructions. I had no difficulty understanding what I was to do. He explained the why of what we were doing. It all made sense to me.

The setting up of a show, especially one with a lot of equipment and a relatively small venue (and stage) means that you have to navigate heavy stuff through a lot of unrelated activity. Drum kits are being set up. Speakers everywhere. Mics that are easily tipped over (and you pay if they do), and leads snaking across almost every foot. So, you have to navigate nimbly but with purpose. Often carrying something heavy and unwieldy.

In the lighthing thing, you are also needing to find ways to get up to the ceiling. You learn to use anything you can. Sometimes a ladder. Often a road case tipped in its end. The piano is a perfect platform at times. So, you have to climb on things, often with a heavy and unwieldy thing in you hands. Such as a bar of six quite heavy lights. Ones with globes of glass. Things that break if you drop them.

So, within a half hour of that truck turning up, I was doing all of that. Amazingly, I sort of did it quite well. I learnt it pretty quickly. It was extremely enjoyable. The banter kept up.

Once the lights were up, it was time for “focus”. It’s the hardest part in some ways, in that the stage is usually completely full. So, you have to find ways to get up to the lights in ceilings when almost every foot of the stage has something on it. So, you have to stand on things but softly. It’s quite an art.

Meri stood out the front, turning on lights as I reached them then guided me on which way to move them. He would point to parts of the stage where I should focus the light. It was fun. It was an act of creation and I love acts of creation second only to my daughters.

I loved when it was done and I stood beside Meri as he “went through the desk” as checking each light was called.

I was falling in love with this strange new world as I sipped on what have been my tenth coke (hey, it was free and seemingly endless) and watched the lights being turned off and on.

The level of activity slowed right down and I watched the rest of the set up.

Harry Parsons, Vietnam vet (I think), master foldback guy (it’s the sound mix for the band on stage, which is very different to the front of house sound) walked around the stage going “one-chew” over and over again. Then he would adjust something on his desk and then say one-chew again. Then he motioned for me to come up and hit the drums. I love drums and that was total fun. Then I was to play the piano. That was fun. Then an organ. That was fun.

Once that was done, Gerry took over, adjusting the front of house sound by playing some music. It was loud, extremely loud. I had no idea who this Cold Chisel was and I certainly did not know that they were loud, like the loudest.

Gerry’s sound stuff aligned with Mark Keegan, the stage guy (with his blond hair and rugged good looks) setting up guitars. He would strap them on, strum away, while hitting buttons on little boxes on the floor and twiddling knobs on the huge amps. I remember being amazed at the two big guitar amps and how loud they were. I know I wanted to play the guitars, just like I had the drums and the keyboards.

Then things calmed right down and we all ended up sitting in the dressing room. I just sat back and watched the guys be the road crew relaxing. Some aspects I would be best not committing to words (as will be the case with much in my Cold Chisel story). But generally it was all about laughing, jokes, and camaraderie. I was loving it more every minute.

I liked the sense of belonging that I had. I felt just like one of the crew.

A while later, six guys arrived. It was obviously the band. I faintly recognised one of them (Jim). I just watched as they went about being a band getting ready to do a sound check. I remember that one of them was particularly nice. Phil Small. Bass player. We share height, or no height. So, us short guys always stick together. He was nice. Introduced himself. Sat next to me and asked about the band I was with. I said they were mates, and we liked bands like XTC. He said that he liked XTC. I liked him very much. I still do. Very much.

I can’t remember much about the rest of the band except the strange tall dark guy with the hat. He was weird. I could see that. He sort of just stalked around with what looked like an undertakers face. Then he cracked some joke and that made me think again. I know I was intrigued.

As I was busy being intrigued, the drummer sat next to me and started to drum away on a little black pad. He talked to me as he did. Was the band from around here. No, from Canberra. He said he liked Canberra. They had played their lots. I didn’t even know they played much so this was all news to me. Steve was nice to me. His accent made me feel like I was talking to one of the Beatles.He drummed away and I remember being amazed at the skill.

The guitarist was sitting across the room playing his unplugged guitar. He seemed on top of the world. He seemed very happy with his lot. I liked him even though I was yet to talk to him.

The strange guy in the hat was busy writing what was clearly what songs they were going to do.

Then the sixth guy reappeared. It was easy to see that he was not in the band. He looked like some manager. Chris Bastic (to later become Mayor of Randwick) arrived with a treasure trove of alcohol. The feature was two big bottles of Smirnoff Vodka but there was also beer and Jack Daniels. He methodically set out big white bins, filled them with ice, and then filled them with bottles of beer.

He introduced himself to me as he did. He came across as another nice guy. So, this was all feeling very nice to a young kid who had been a little lost in Canberra.

The band made their way into stage and started to play. They played Shipping Steel and I was amazed that I actually knew the song. They played some other songs and I watched from the side of the stage. Meri called me out the front and told me to go through some master faders (where different lighting set-ups were pre-programmed). He wandered around the room, checking from different angles. I liked the whole thing. The band playing away and me changing the lights.

I didn’t take much notice of the music, I was too interested in how the whole mood changed when I moved faders on the desk.

Soon enough that was all over. My mates turned up but I think I was already lost to them. I was in this new gang and I really can’t remember having much to do with the guys that day (or any other day in the next week). I had just slipped into this Cold Chisel thing, whatever that was.

The band and Chris disappeared and me, Gerry, Harry, Mark, and Meri went into another room, the bistro, and had dinner. I loved it. It was all grown up. I had Veal Parmigiana, thus starting a life-long obsession. I drank much more coke. The meal and coke was free, I was to find out. Apparently there was food supplied with the job. I was liking it more. We talked more about me, where I had come from. There was also a lot more jokes.

I heard my mates start playing in the next room but I took the cue from my new gang. We stayed.

Then I heard my mates stop and I again took my cue as my new gang headed into the room where we had set up.

I was stunned. I had not thought anything about the actual show. I had not got there in my mind. I had been living the moment, as you do a young kid.

The room was packed beyond belief. It was hot, sweaty, and full of excitement. I made my way to the side of the stage, next to Harry’s foldback desk, and watched the last bits of preparation.

Mark came over and handed me keys to the truck and asked me to go into the cabin and retrieve a box of guitar picks.

I was again shocked. Outside there was like another few hundred people, looking disappointed that they were not going to get in. This was all news to me. I had no idea who this Cold Chisel was so how was I to know that they were basically the most popular live band in the country.

As the final moment before the show kicked in, the crowd started to chant “CHISEL … CHISEL … CHISEL”. I remember being swept up into the excitement. From where I stood, I could see the crowd full of expectation, many wearing Cold Chisel t-shirts on my left and, on my right, into the dressing room where I could see the band getting ready.

Jim prowled around with a tight grip on one of the Vodka bottles. He slugged at it with a spooky intensity. Steve drummed away at his little black pad. Ian and Phil strummed and plucked at their guitars. Don, well he just sat still and quite, being Don.

I went down into the room, urged on by a natural desire to go where most others could not. The sound of the crowd chanting “CHISEL … CHISEL …. CHISEL” echoed through the room. Chris busied himself with beers, towels, picks, and other paraphernalia of what was to come.

Then the lights went down and the crowd roared. Harry pushed a torch into my hands and told me to guide Steve and Don to their drums and piano respectively. I was so into making sure that the torch was shining where they needed, without being asked, as they twiddled knobs and adjusted drum positions. Once the looked settled, I went back to the side of stage. Ian yelled out to me, motioning for me to point my torch to his amp. I did. He adjusted something. He turned and thanked me. He then let rip, the lights snapped on.

Thr crowd went crazy. The whole thing went crazy. The band were just amazing. I could not believe my eyes or ears. It was a complete revelation. I watched in awe. I sat down on the top step of the stairs leading down into the dressing room and watched, in complete blown-outness.

After a while, Harry yelled out at me over the music. Go and get the other vodka bottle. I did. He motioned for me to just wait with it. I did. The song ended. The singer said something about Ian going to sign and then he walked off. Straight to me and the vodka bottle. He sat down on the step next to me. He cracked the bottle. Handed me the cap. He slugged.

I was amazed. The people in the front row looked on with extreme interest. The singer introduced himself. I replied. We had the same name. To get around that, I call him Jim and he calls me James. He acknowledged our bond, the same name, by handing me the bottle and inviting me to have a swig. I did. I nearly died. Yes, it was vodka.

Throughout the night, the same scene played out a few times. I started to look forward to when he came off stage. We talked about Canberra. His girl was from Canberra. He had played there a lot. He liked Canberra.

After the show, we packed up, which was pretty quick, and the guys told me we were off to a party. It was not, do you want to come along. We were going, That was that.

It was a great party. There were so many people. I lapped it up. It was way past my bed time and it was in full swing.

Now, having said all of this, the fact was that I had no idea where I was going to sleep. I had just rocked up to the south coast without a plan. The things we do when young and free.

Anyway, a lovely young lady that I met, who I am sure must have been many years older than me, invited me to sleep at her place.

I liked this new life. I liked it a lot 

Next morning. On the highway south. Off to the next show.

Looking back, the experience of the previous day and night had completely changed me. I was a different person.

I had seen another life. I suppose we could call it the circus life. A travelling troupe of musicians moving from town to town, entertaining the hungry masses.

Unlike the circus, where the smell of sawdust would have enchanted me, the smell of vomit, cigarettes (these were the days of smoking in pubs), and beer left behind by 1,500 crazy chisel fans had me hooked. It had grabbed the imagination of a young boy and propelled me down the highway, thumb outstretched.

The next show was at the Basketball Stadium at Milton Showground. It was a huge barn. The set up was already underway. Meri and the rest of the crew made some light-hearted jokes about me being late. Get to work was the gist of it.

So I did and I thoroughly enjoyed it. I had picked it up pretty quickly. I was soon hanging racks of Par 64 lights on the silver trusses. Then I would take one of the winches and Meri would get the other. Up the truss would go. A delicate operation.

Then the dimmer racks. No problem. Where do you want them, I am sure I might have asked Meri.

Again, the banter was the key ingredient. Basically, you have four guys (well five if you count me) that have somewhat competing interests in terms of what gets set up. There are often arguments about when the drum kit can be set-up, etc.

So, the guys have to work out how to work together and it seems to be done by a good-natured jostling for space.  Sometimes sense cannot prevail and one has to jump up on speakers, the piano, the organ, etc to get lights into the ceiling.

It’s actually a whole lot of fun and I am going to assume that I was pretty good at fitting in, as events going forward suggest.

Just as the day before, the band and Chris Bastic arrived. Sound check was soon underway. The focusing of the lights was also done then. So I was walking around the stage, hopping up on things, moving lights around to Meri’s signals. I really didn’t think about it then but looking back I suppose it could be considered an amazing thing to do.

Here was the band carving out such songs as conversations, choir girl, etc and I would be nonchalantly walking around the guys. I am sure they would have even had to move out of my way at times.

I must have looked like a little monkey to the band, a strange little boy pushing them aside so I can place a ladder, which I would then scurry up.

That is sort of what it was like, from my perspective, as the rock and roll circus prepared to entertain.

Eventually the show time came around and I marveled from the side of stage as the band ripped into another couple of hours of classic songs.

Again. I enjoyed the times when Jim would come off stage. I knew to not go the bottle in his hand. We mainly just watched the band. Ian singing away.

At one stage I took a walk through the crowd. I learnt the subtle art of crowd-parting then. Something I got very good at. You just send out “get out of my way, I am working” vibes and the sardines part. It’s like magic.

And it was truly sardines. Packed in. A heaving sweating mess of humanity.

I had no idea but, by that time, Chisel was breaking crowd records all over Australia. It’s not hard to work out why.

The passion of the crowd really hit me. It’s like a drug.

And Chisel crowds were passionate. I was lucky to observe many more and they were wondrous sights. So much happiness, people chanting out the songs, imitating Ian, dancing like no-one was watching. It was truly a sight and one that I soaked in over a couple of hours at the Milton Showground.

I remember also noticing the sheer abundance of cute girls. I cannot vouch for it being this night but it was not long after, if it wasn’t. That became a huge factor in what was to come.

The packing up was much the same as the night before. There was less smell of vomit, probably due to it being an all-ages show.

The great thing about the pack-up, at least in the chisel context, was that a party awaited. I can’t remember one night when there wasn’t a party (but others might correct me on that). So, you work away, doing everything you did earlier in reverse, knowing that a wild party was not far away.

Can you imagine that? Can you imagine that to a teenage boy?

Crazy !

That night, I slept in a park near where the party had been. The sun woke me not long after. Back on the highway, next stop Bateman’s Bay Youth Hall – it’s Christmas Eve.

The gig was great. Full of the usual mayhem and danger. It was one of the things that really struck me about Chisel in full flight. It was fucking dangerous.

Looking back, my adoration of Punk was the platform for my appreciation of Chisel. They were loud. They were rock. They were roll. And after all, Sex Pistols were, at their heart, a kick-arse rock band. Punk ROCK. So, Chisel were actually punk, in a number of ways. Throw in a ballad or two so everyone can catch their breath.

I loved the build up to a show. A slow and highly structured routine. Things happened all pretty much at the same time every night. That moment when everything was set, the stage ready to go, sound check done, was a sweet moment every single night. The work was finished, except for the small last minute things. These were pretty easy and done at a casual pace. The lights that we didn’t want the support band to use – my mates’ band – were unplugged at the dimmer racks.

So, it was time to explore. To take in the sights of the people lined up outside. The line-ups outside chisel gigs have become stuff of legend. Whenever the band and crew get together, such things are discussed with wide eyes.

And so it was in Bateman’s Bay. A snaking line, baking in the afternoon heat, patiently and excitedly waiting for a couple of hours of the best live music going. They all knew it. They all knew that the Chisel was rumoured to be incredible live. I didn’t know. Well, by this third day I knew they were, but in a broader sense, like three days before, I had no idea.

I remember cruising the line, looking quite official. I was pumped up by that strange feeling that comes with being with the circus. I am sure it exists at all levels, but at this Chisel level, the feeling was immense. The smell of the crazy, off-the-scale popularity was in my every breath.

So many pretty girls. I noticed that. Lots with their blokes but little packs of single girls. All looking mighty fine. Me pretty dirty from the last three days roughing it.

My roughing it days came to an end when Chris Bastic came and dropped a motel room key into my hand with a smile. Here you are mate, he might have said. Don had told him to get me a room.

Well, at that stage I had not yet spoken to the dark mysterious maestro. So, I was pretty surprised to hear that he had gone into bat for me, to get me a roof over my head. I didn’t know then that Don was sort of like the boss of the whole show.

So, I was with a motel room of my very own. How cool.

The call went around for the trip back into the motel. I shot my arm up.

And so my first hotel on the road experience. It was pretty fancy by my standards. Obviously not the cheapest place in town. A nice warm shower. Fresh clothes. A coke from the mini-bar. Room service.

The drive back to the gig felt extremely special, all cleaned up and infresh clothes. Arriving with the band was a high. The odd lucky punter wandered across our path to the hall. Each would signal their praises with a big thumbs up, or similar, Aussie rock gesture.

It was going to be a wild night and the guys trailing behind me were going to deliver it.

I watched a bit of my mate’s show. They had a crowd, that was for sure. It was already packed. And there were a couple of hundred unlucky punters outside.

But I dont think the Chisel crowd got The Word. It wasn’t a great match, if I think about it.

I took in a wander through the crowd, parting the sardines. Practice makes perfect, I was probably thinking. It was also a nice way to get close, real close, to all the lovely looking girls.

The guys were just inconvenient obstacles in my path. I was after close encounters with the girls.

The Word finished up and I made my way into the dressing room to plug all the lights back in and then take in the build up.

The dull sound of the crowd chanting ” Chisel … Chisel …. Chisel”. The odd louder burst when someone opened a door.

The cacophony of sounds from the guys. The “pat … pat … pat, pitter pat” of steve tapping away at a black rubber practice pad. Jim singing some gospel song. Ian strumming away on his unplugged Strat.

Phil stabbing away at his also unplugged bass.

Don wielding the big black texta, writing up the song list for the night. Studiously. No mention of the motel room. He hands me the lists which I take out and tape in place for each of the guys. The front row craning their necks to read the list.

When they did, exclamations of appreciation for particular songs.

Down there, crouched down to reach the fold-back speakers, you feel the excitement of the crowd. It’s a special vantage point to take in a crowd of Chisel fans. You can see the smiles and the expectation real close. Like a foot away.

Packed in like sardines. Behind the front row there is another 1,500 folks all trying to get a closer view.

These front row folks really suffered for their two-to-three hours of blistering kick-arse rock. I built an affinity with these hardy folks. If you were in the front row of a chisel gig, I remember you well.

I took to answering questions about the song lists when people could not reach to read them.

This night was one of those nights. I shared the start of the set to a much appreciative guy and his lovely as a flower girlfriend.

I think why I remember so much about this night is that it was different to the previous two nights in one crucial way.

I was a real part of the circus. I had a motel room. I travelled in a hire car.

It made a big difference.

I think that is why I remember it so well.

It’s why I can remember the little wooden stairs down the side of the stage.

I remember very well going back into the room to the sounds of the circus warming up. The same tapping, strumming, and stabbing with Jim pacing the room.

Don sitting quietly.

The drink bins being filled.

I take Jim’s out. The front few rows stretch for a look. It’s part of the Chisel thing. What Jim drinks.

A bottle of Smirnoff was the answer.

Well, two bottles actually, at that point in the Chisel escapade.

Time to go on. The lights go down. The crowd roars. The adrenaline pumps. The torch goes on. I guide Steve and Don to drums and piano.

The quick retreat just in time for Ian to let rip – Conversations.

The band goes into instant full gear. Full flight. Madness.

Three hours of madness to be precise that night. Three encores. Crazy stuff.

And that danger stuff.

It was there through the night but kicked in to real and present danger when Jim would do his nightly climb up on the PA. From that perch, the rock man would tempt fate for the adoring fans.

It was actually quite dangerous. Remember, the man would have already consumed at least one bottle of vodka. The music was full steam. He would rock back and forward as he belted out the almost maniacal vocals. The crowd peering up in amazement, in fear, in expectation that the man might fall.

It’s amazing that he never did. At Cloudlands, for instance. But that is a story for later.

To be continued …