top of page
  • Writer's pictureChloe Roweth

I Remember

“Where did it all start?” Will must’ve been small. Nature, nurture? It’s a moot point. Glorious four-on-the-floor-rock-and-roll was Will Maloney’s oxygen, and given spark - it burned. Anything else in his life just fed the machine. Every breath, bite and step. Every shot, cone, line. Every ten-hour drive for a four-hour gig. Every damned choice he made, making his folks ask “Why? Why?”… There really was only one answer, best formed by his band striding like Gods across the stage. He’d form other inadequate responses… “Lightning only strikes you if you’re willing to stand in the storm.” And - damn it - lightning did strike. Not every night - every gig. But often enough to leave him on the road. Often enough to leave the folks who heard him still talking in awed whispers. The storm is over. The music is gone. But… the echoes… flashes… And Will is still, still on the road. “I’m getting it together, man. I’ve rebuilt the Marshall. I’m booking gigs for the Spring.” The music is gone, and Will’s life is a glorious song.

7 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

His Father's Fiddle

Joe Marshall warms slippered feet by morning fire, nursing pannikin tea. “Hot as hell, black as sin, sweet as a woman.” A dawn mantra. Old, alone, in a one-room Turon River hut, life hangs on bones of

In the Deep End

David Broughton stares through sheeting rain, across Sydney city traffic, at the adversarial pub door. He has walked the block twice, in winter sun sinking; downtown is warning edged, dark. He pulls t

Flying Jim

Shivery shadow walls stretch forever above. I’m off with Jim on another grand bush adventure. We’re holding fast to Li-los, shooting on a silver stream, inches over smooth grey-green stones; a Blue Mo

bottom of page