Tales and Trials Down Under - George Lockyer

Скачать книгу

Kidman, psychologist, biochemist and academic sadly passed away in 2014 aged 75.

      “He started what was the Health Phycology Unit of the University of Technology, which was recently re-named The Kidman Foundation,” David explains, “they’ve recently rolled out a scheme in Western NSW which is a school-based mental health training programme. So, they’re showing teachers how to deliver mental health training to students as part of their curriculum.”

      Black Dog Ride representation is very strong in Western NSW as David points out. “Rural areas are awash with mental health issues,” he says, “and because everyone knows one another in these rural areas, the ripple effect is enormous.” And I feel sure that with the continuing drought, depression will be on the increase in the bush.

      “I carry the grandiose title of CEO, but I’ve only got a staff of five!” David laughs. “One of the extraordinary things about the organisation is the volunteer army that does the vast majority of the work. David has put in plenty of time as volunteer, in 2015, ’16 and ‘17 organising the one-day ride in western Sydney’s Penrith and the Central Coast ride in 2018. “This year (2018) we will put 8,500 riders on the road simultaneously in 41 locations around Australia,” David proudly says. I raise my eyebrows and nod, acknowledging the amount of organising this would have involved. “On the Penrith ride this year, they stopped checking people in at 900. So, a ride of that size generates a lot of media attention, which is what we want.”

      Each rider pays $30 to enter and, says David the one-day ride generates most of the charity’s income for the year. Merchandise is also sold on the day plus other fund-raising such as raffles. “If I can use the Central Coast ride as an example,” David says, “the bowling club puts on a sausage sizzle, the riders buy breakfast and the club kindly donates the profits to us.”

      There are also secondary beneficiaries. On the Central Coast ride it was a local mental health project called Behind the Scene, who specialise in providing Post Traumatic Stress Disorder recovery training for first responders such as Police, Fire Brigade and Ambulance. These small charities, David points out, are too small to be noticed and receive funding and don’t have a big enough presence to make money from community events.

      “So, it’s the day ride that keeps the door open,” he says, “and funds the running of the organisation because like any business, we have salaries, rent, phone bills, accountants, etc.”

      Next year (2019) is the 10th anniversary of founder Steve Andrews’ original ride around Australia where he raised over $34,000 on his 26-day, 15,000-kilometre trip. On the 26th July the Black Dog Ride will set off from Steve’s starting point in Busselton in WA, to repeat that ride and David plans to ride all the way around.

      Next month David will be driving the support vehicle on the Perth to Darwin ride. “I’ve never been to the north of WA and they needed a support driver, so I thought why not.”

      “Well maybe we’ll bump into each other,” I say as David dons his gear, fires up his BMW and heads back over the bridge to the office to organise the next ride.

      I, like many others occasionally suffer from the Black Dog of depression. I blamed my father for a long time. Or flatly refused to recognize that I might have a problem. As though sitting in an armchair, staring at a spot on the wall, expressionless was normal behavior. Perhaps that’s why I’ve always been a kind of stimulus junky. In my youth, I was like that Energizer battery man on the advertisement, never sitting still for five minutes in case the bad chemicals in my brain started to play up. Reading was fine, and I did it voraciously and still do for it proves a wonderful escape.

      My wife Karen helped tremendously, as did bringing up kids. I remember going to a shrink about 20 years ago in Sydney. After an earnest chat where I tried to be brutally honest with the poor woman, I was ushered into a yellow-walled room where I sat on a comfy leather couch and wrote a letter to my dead father as instructed. To the accompaniment of whales singing from a CD player and the subtle whiff of scented candles I poured my heart out, damning him for his indifference and selfishness. Who can say if the visit to the shrink helped. I didn’t go back.

      By far the best remedy was travelling. And travelling on two wheels in particular, where the activity at hand required your utmost attention and as you and your machine found your rhythm, you struggled up out of the dark country of depression to find worries (and the Black Dog) disappear like the sun burning off the morning mist.

      My Kawasaki KLR 650, nicknamed ‘Percy’ finally arrives and after arranging an exorbitant insurance policy I excitedly twist the throttle and leave Mainfreight’s Botany depot. Next day, I park Percy on the pavement in Crow’s Nest, say a silent prayer to the traffic warden Gods and enter Warner Music Australia’s offices where my next interviewee is performing a couple of songs from his new album, Butcherbird for recording company staff. He’s a national treasure – as Australian as an Akubra and a pair of dusty Blundstones, and as iconic as Uluru.

      I’ve been a huge fan of JW for many years and remember during tough times in Sydney when ‘the recession we had to have’ (as Paul Keating coined it) came along just as we’d taken out our first mortgage, his songs of a simpler life on the land were very comforting. He’s a busy man, having just returned from a small tour of South Africa and I’m very grateful for the chance to meet him.

      After John’s well-received little performance, I chat with him in a conference room over a cold beer and I have to admit I’m a little bit nervous. I try to hide any sign of hero–idolatry as we shake hands and sit down. With his neatly trimmed beard he looks quite youthful for 72.

      John’s big break came in 1970 when he won the TV talent quest show New Faces, performing Old Man Emu, a “novelty” song he’d written the previous year.

      “I remember working on the farm, putting the radio on a post and hearing myself singing Old Man Emu for the first time and thinking how old I sounded,” he says in that familiar Aussie drawl. “I was only 24 but I guess people thought I never got older because I sounded old in the first place.”

      Although that song went to No.1 it wasn’t all beer and skittles and the early 80’s were difficult for John, as he tried to build on that early success. “Yeah, Old Man Emu was the first song I ever wrote, and it did well, so I thought it was going to be easy, but it took another 16 years for me to make it after that.”

      I ask him about those early fallow years. “Well I suppose I wouldn’t have made any more music if it wasn’t for the New South Wales club scene, especially around Sydney,” he says as he sips his beer. “A bad juggler or a bad comedian could have gotten a job, there were that many clubs putting on shows and they were a great breeding ground. But the most important thing for me was learning how to become a performer. In the clubs and little pubs, I did covers and gradually tried some of my own songs, developed my kick box, did my own lighting and sound and everything. Slowly and surely, I built up my act and started writing the Mallee Boy songs.”

      John’s breakthrough album, and one of my personal favourites, Mallee Boy was released in 1986, peaked in the Top 10 and remained in the Top 50 for the next 18 months. It was also the inaugural winner of the Best Country Album at the 1987 ARIA Music Awards and Album of the Year in the Country Music Awards of Australia 1987. “I went out with one roadie on a trip through Central Australia, where I wrote the album Road Though the Heart. I also wrote Raining on the Rock on that trip which ended up on Mallee Boy. And I think it was then, in 1986 that I realised that I could write good songs.”

Скачать книгу