Jason Roweth


Finding your roots while looking for elsewhere.

A musician's journey home.






July 18, 2017

Not scared, no. Not David Broughton. He dodges alarms, and shimmies down three floors from the top dorm window, wedged shoulder to heel ‘tween the brick columns - risking dorm-master’s wrath, and more. Three months at Catholic boarding school, and David has already wor...

July 12, 2017

The stained brown, yellow vinyl lounge is folding me in… Stone paralysis. Four left standing, four rum tumblers, four am - ‘Elsewhere’ via fuck knows where, via Kandos. The wood-fire is lit - aromatic, but not pushing far into the frosty farm-house lounge room. The cok...

July 12, 2017

I can’t believe it. Where’s me sleep-in? First day of the hols tomorrow, and I’ve set an alarm… Me new alarm clock - the one that Nanny gave me. It’s a great clock, with numbers clicking over one by one. But when I can’t sleep, it clicks too loud. I’ve packed cheese sa...

July 10, 2017

“To the lions…” Sally pushed him back stage, both laughing loons.

“Sit there, shut up, be ready”, fold-back sound-guy grace.

Now David Broughton breathed beer-fumes in pitch-black wings, gulping his hip-flask rum - hoping it will temper nerves, and tame the hash joint he...

July 10, 2017

David’s earliest memory… Christmas, and clinging koala-like to his dear Nan’s hip, and waltzing giddy “You are my sunshine, my only…” How old? He’s tiny… He must’ve been two, three tops. The recollection is golden joyous. 

Now it’s Christmas, David is fifty-one, and Nan...

July 10, 2017

A rich smear of first light autumn sun pushed past the big gum on the eastern ridge, poured across the lambing paddock, swept aside the half-closed curtains, and rudely made itself known through Natalie Giancoli’s defiant, drawn eyelids. Too early. The gig wasn’t for h...

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