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  • Writer's pictureChloe Roweth

Oils ain't ...

We rocked and rolled… repeated rhythmic crescendos of rattling trains and bouncing buses - hip flask and mojo in sweet harmony - rocketing us bullshitting tablelands kids into the Bondi sun and surf. Slamming tequila, and getting slammed in the waves. When the bands started at the Hordern, we were ready. I was 14… I was born ready! Oils… Oils… I’d never seen a band in concert, let alone this band at this time - and I knew, that my world was in here. A black sheep in the home paddock. My place. My own rock ’n’ roll heart burst through my chest in a wall of sound louder than anything I’d ever heard, and building song into glorious song - light brighter than a million suns. And then, it hit. I knew the song. I knew the stop was coming. But it hit like the universe cracking apart, and we fell into a deep dark black shattering silence… And the band held that black stop forever. Long enough for the crowd to recover it’s roar by degrees. I fell forwards into that black, and I’m still falling.

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