I still remember that first song. I was sixteen. I have lived another sixteen years since then, but I still remember that first song.

I still remember.

When you're sixteen, you are cutting yourself out as a paper doll and trying to find the most colourful background on which to place it. When I was sixteen, I felt displaced. I felt displaced against a background of perception and perfection and untouchable hope that to this day, still haunts me.

Oh, but the beauty. The beauty of autumn, the beauty of poetry, the beauty in the shape of young girls becoming women. The beauty of the song.

I still remember.

Songs became my diary. They became stories in their own right and in them the encoded loneliness and joys still act as a reminder of the people and the times and the feelings they reflect. I couldn't tell you the first time I felt lonely, or unloved, but I could tell you the songs I listened to in the dark and that each time I dropped the needle, I understood that someone else had made it through and that I was probably going to be alright... one day. I couldn't tell you the date a long relationship ended, but I could tell you the album that was my alcohol and blanket and companion. I couldn't tell you the season I fell in love, on a journey that would take me so far inward and outward of myself that years later I would still be trying to figure the distance, but I could show you books of lyrics and poems that would leave you with the touch and taste of exactly how it felt. And in that scrawl of visions and revisions and drafts and corrections is that first song, and somewhere... the last one. Those songs lived and breathed. They hid in the corners of my bedroom and between the strings of the guitar. They came out to meet friends and they whispered softly when I was alone. It would be some time until they were captured. It would be a long time before they were recorded. Some were forgotten, some written on the spot in front of the microphone. In those walls of glass and foam where nothing echoed, I was a long way from my bedroom. In 1995, I was 24 years old. It was a chilly night and I was standing outside the front of the Capitol Theatre in Sydney. Inside was Bruce Springsteen. I got talking to a cat who said he was a sound engineer. His name was Bruce Williams. We talked about Springsteen and bootlegs and I mentioned I was thinking of putting a Springsteen magazine together. He gave me his number as a contact, then he disappeared into the darkness. Six months later I gave the guy a call. We chatted on and it turns out he is a harmonica-playing sound engineer. He loved playing harp but didn't have anyone to jam with... so we hooked up.

I still remember that day. There was no agenda. We played a couple of hours on Springsteen and Earle. Talked obsessively about every album ever released. Played some more. Then I played him one of my songs. I still remember that first song. As Long As There's You. I played a couple more and this guy says "You have to record these". Four or five days later, I am in a real studio with real mikes and a real sound engineer.

Yeah, I still remember.

We ended up recording a lot of songs. I would get up and go away somewhere for a little while and come back with fifteen songs to put down. We'd record them, take them apart, talk for hours about the lyrics and laugh at the crap ones. Somewhere in there, someone came up with the idea of getting them onto a collection of songs as is. We had toyed with the idea of putting a band together but never found the time between the mammoth recording and mixing sessions. We had to do something with them. Acoustic Demo's Volumes I and II were my first two full length recordings. They are a collection of the songs basically recorded as they sounded in my bedroom. You can still here the honesty and dirt and happiness in them. We sold them at gigs and to friends. Those two albums are a diary of my '95 - '98. Through the creation of those albums, Bruce and I would forge a relationship and a process that remains today. As you get older, your skin becomes a little more comfortable to live in. You get far enough down the road that you can see ahead of you, but not around the bend. If you look in the rearview though, there is enough to see behind you. In that mirror lay where you had been, who you had picked up and whom you had left behind. I guess I had come far enough to have enough to talk about. I set about writing what would become Nothin' In The Rearview. Some of the songs on Nothin' In The Rearview are amongst the ones of which I am most proud. They capture the essence of experience. There is the silent realisation of happiness in Thrill; the naked desire of The Art Of Holding A Woman; Butterfly In A Hurricane soothes and rocks the soul all at the same time. Armed with three fine musicians and old friends, we went about creating a sound that translated powerfully and delicately live and in the studio. What the album lacks in experience, it makes up for in the performance. What I noticed as more and more people started commenting on the songs was that I seemed to be able to put what I observed into a form that people could understand. This would have an impact after the album was completed. The year it would take to finish the album was a turbulent one. We saw through a lot of pizza, the end of a marriage, two or three girlfriends, a robbery; we lost the album in a hard disk drive disaster, then found half of it again. We found a couple of new songs and some older ones. We played to audiences of anywhere between 4 and 200. Looking back on the album, it was a good first attempt. We had set the benchmark for ourselves. Technologically, we did the best with what we had. We had produced a worthy album of songs that stand up and still tell a story with performances that matter. The years between 2000 and 2003 brought with them a whole lot of changes. Personally, I got married and got a real job. Bruce got married as well, and into the world hurtled his newborn son, Max, who would go on to inspire and interrupt us on countless occasions. We would see a world collide with itself and a war that followed the traditions of war... it made no sense. It was during these years that I recall feeling frightened and numb. My amazing sister gave us a beautiful boy and seeing this, against the backdrop of a world turning on itself, was some of the most moving beauty I have ever been blessed to feel. We live in one of the most amazing times that history will ever see. There is hardness and cruelty, there is pain and unforgiving.

Oh but the beauty.

What I have experienced is that in the last few years, I have become profoundly aware of the importance of those closest to me. As the world tries swimming with its boots on, we turn to what we know and love and trust. In this time, I squared away a few demons and learned to live with a few more. And the songs kept on coming. Although the number of songs is probably smaller from this period, they are certainly stronger. Their strength is in their simplicity, I think. I have become more focused and a lot of the songs written in this time will continue to pop up on albums over the next couple of years. After Nothin' In The Rearview was finished, I spent a lot of time thinking about my writing and singing and probably branched out a little bit. In short, I have become more confident. Bruce too has branched out and hardly a week goes by where a new toy won't be at his disposal to tweak and create different textures and patterns in the music. He never ceases to amaze me with his enthusiasm and creativity.

And so to 2004. And a new album.

One Degree Of Separation brings me closer to the sort of songs I have always wanted to write. Thematically, the songs are about connection. They are about what we do when communally there is not a whole lot on offer. It is about the places we turn to, to hide and to feel loved. They are about the battlefield on which we fight our demons, and the beauty in the landscapes of hope and understanding. They are a reaction to the fear and the love and the faith that sustains us through the most uncertain times. They talk about the threads that lay beyond the material, the hours after the every day. They are songs for lovers. This album wasn't written as such. Like Acoustic Demo's, it was born out of having recorded a set of songs that we felt we had to do something with. In all we recorded around 20 songs for this album and picking the ones that got to stay was tough. I guess the most important thing for me in regards to the songs is the fact that there was such a consistent thread that ran through them. It really was a case of examining each song, written over a three year time frame, and being able to document how I felt at the time of writing it. Bruce outdid himself about 2 to 1 on this album. It just sounds great. He has the amazing ability to change the whole feel of a song with the flick of a switch. He keeps me focussed on the performance and can often hear things in the songs that I can't. Process-wise we saw a few departures on this album. Firstly I played most of the parts. This didn't happen with the band on Nothin' in the Rearview. This wasn't particularly planned but rather just the way it happened. The other major departure was that I tracked a few of the songs, almost in their entirety, alone in my house. This gave Bruce a great opportunity to interpret and mix a few of my songs where he wasn't involved with the recording process. The other exciting thing about One Degree Of Separation is the performances. Close friend, Daniel Alexander played a lot on this album. He is a fantastic musician and shines on many of the songs. Liz Lohan drops in on a few, as does The Stand's Darren Haar. Bruce again outdoes himself on harmonica.

I am not sure what the next three years will bring but the songs will tell the story. They will linger and meander along the road with me as I go. I will forget the dates and some of the people. There will be something to take the place of the previous. There will be songs and strings and words that mingle and bear witness to the world and its shortcomings and beauties. But I will remember the songs. I will remember the feelings that now swell in me and threaten to devour me. And after I have fought and lost, and fought and won I will remember the songs.

Songs are like that.

Dave.
July 2004.