I Love Musicians But I Couldn’t Eat A Whole One OR Why I’m Closing Overheard Productions Down On Sunday 30 October 2016 Pt 37

I took this shot on a night when I invited all my Sydney contacts to celebrate 10 years (?) of Overheard Productions. I got one RSVP to say they couldn’t come.


(It seemed like a good idea and the right way to go at the time, but in truth, Overheard Productions just needed a Bex, a cup of tea, and a good lie down. For about four months. So that’s all done, and we’re coming back live, albeit in a different format and with a different focus. Make that, similar format, slightly different focus. These things shall – or may – become clear. Bill Quinn, Tuesday 14 March 2017, 14:06 AEST.)

This is a common occurrence, that thing what just happened here about half an hour ago.

After a fairly rugged day, I was choosing to turn off the brain – the analytical, always-thinking, always-connecting, always spotting opportunities or potential brain.

With a remote control device, nay, two remote control devices in hand/s: terrestrial AND satellite television, and the owner had gone to bed with her laptop and dog, so the televisual airwaves and receiving flat-screen monitoring thing were mine, all mine.

And then I happened to look at social media and there it was: a friend was sharing some banal meme about cats or food or hovercraft or I honestly cannot remember what it was. And he was starting into a long line of banter on the same topic.

There’s nothing wrong with that. I do it meself. At some great length.


After I’ve spent hours and hours at all hours of the night and day, day and night, pushing other people’s barrows using my own peculiar mad skillz, for other people, pretty much 99.36% of the time pro bono, the other 0.64% for a contra deal (no cash changes hands).

One thing that I sometimes, often times, ask in return is that the recipient of such largesse (albeit in a skills transfer sense) does is to just share some stuff that isn’t about them.

We do love the introverted creative artist. Deeply. And I have a whole article to share (probably fecking sooner than later… my dictionary declares ‘fecking’ a word – hooray!) soon on introversion and extroversion from my very much layman’s perspective.

But here is the root cause of a lot of my frustration dealing with musicians and artists GENERALLY as I have done for these past eight years and… well, let’s actually say 11.5 years: you shit me to tears at times!

Ask a direct question and you get your motives questioned.

Ask them to perform a task and everything but will be achieved. I have a classic example here, but it would be too pointed… wait a minute, they don’t read my stuff. Let ‘er rip.

No, they do, actually, so let’s keep that one for the book. Released in 2017 through that publisher you may have heard about before but may not.

Make a simple statement and just watch the assumptions, and false conclusions, and non sequiturs that start sprouting up like bamboo.

Contrary to popular belief, I ain’t doing this for my health!

Here’s a recent salient example. An American muso shared with a muso friend on Facebook a picture of a rain-spattered window with the simple caption: “The devil’s beating his wife again”.

I pointed out mildly to start with that this was pretty offensive, and on the first mild challenge, I countered that it was a ‘fucking dick act’ and should never have seen the light of day.

By the time the originator had chimed in to the discussion, between the two I’d had at least three accusations aimed at me that were all patently false: they were putting words into my mouth. I parried and objected.

The last time I went back to counter their ripostes, I’d either been blocked by the first guy or the post had been deleted. I’m ok with either or both.

If you’re casual enough about domestic violence to use it in a laconic reference to the weather, get out of my face, postcode and hemisphere. Oh, they already got the last one sorted. Sweet, but stay off my news feed too, Chuckles.

But back to the apathy thing.

The next few months have got to be about getting my ducks in a row. Otherwise I end up like our friend Seymour in the background.

I won’t go into it all again here, but the only way for independent artists to survive if they’re going to use social media as a tool, crutch, aid, whatever is to take a peak outside their own little world and start sharing others’ stuff.

It’s so crashingly, stupefyingly simple and it takes less time than it does to make one banal multi-paragraph comment on your mate’s meme he pinched off The Chive.

But tonight when I saw this muso starting to get in to some massive, trivial piece of fluff, I mused that I had emailled him directly and almost begged him to just share this other touring person’s post so that they too might live. And eat. And etc.

Ignored. But you’ve got to see this cat juggle an apple, a copy of Mein Kampf, and a dildo.

I’ve had it. I’m up! I’m dry! Spent!

I’m a communicator, but I cannot communicate with influence sufficiently to sell this message, so I’m going to stop trying.

Overheard Productions is closing down on Sunday 30 October 2016 at 18:36, and that is the second time it’s moved, but I’m fairly sure it’s the last time.

Why? Because that night I will be admiring the last rays of light from a rural property on the north-west outskirts of Brisbanalia, with another day or maybe two of guaranteed roof over my headness before I move on to right now I’m really not sure.

But at that time, a great weight will have lifted off my shoulders, because at that point I shall step out of the metaphorical phone box, allowing my long cape to flap in the breeze and I shall bellow unto the pool, spa, and surrounding properties:

“I’m just a gal who CAN say, ‘NO!’ now!”

Forza last Sunday in October.

Bill Quinn
Overheard Productions – but not for very much longer

Currently skulking in the Moreton Bay region but moving south to the Gold Coast on the morning tides and prevailing northerly winds

20:36 Thursday 20 October 2016

My 36 year old English Yew bowl is going to ground in Woodford
I’ve buried a lot of my past – literally. But it’s time to dredge some stuff to the surface. Duck!

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