Welcome to Overheard Productions as it currently stands, and has stood, since 6 December 2003.
However, after 36 reboots, and reduxes, and not a little redacting, we’re now in a transition phase to splut up…
Splut up? Ok, I’ve been hanging around with a LOT of Kiwis lately.
We’re splitting into a number of reasonably well-defined entities, some of which will carry the red, white, and black livery that you currently se, others that will be similar in look and feel, and others that will be duck-diving under the surface, away from view, such that if you see them, you won’t recognise they come from the same stable.
We’ll be the Woolworths or Coles of the music/entertainment/arts and toilet-cleaning world! 😉
Stay tuned! We won’t try to put a timeframe on this changeover, as that usually ends in tears. As recently as last week.
But definitely… maybe… possibly…
Surely be to goodness, mercy and light by Saturday 21 July 2017. Say around 7pm-ish at the Yacht Club! 😉 Call it a present to ourselves…
Various gods willing, inshallah, the creeks don’t rise, and the crops don’t fail.
Recently I’ve stepped out from behind the radio microphone and have been doing videos, increasingly turning the camera on myself. Not in a selfie, me me me way, but more of a semiotic, body language, non-verbal communication way.
I hate text-based inter-personal communication — ironic for a writer, yes/no? But if you can see the wrinkle of my forehead or the rising of my eyebrows, or my scratching my face (one of my tells that says I should never play tournament poker), then you’ll get a sense of what drives this cultural communicator: communication.
Call me old-fashioned.
Last night, Monday 15 December 2014, after I’d finally found out nine hours after it started, what was transpiring in Martin Place in Sydney, I called a halt to my work day at 14.5….12.5 hours. No, 14.5 hours.
(I could never be in the military. Apart from anything else, I suck at 25….that was an actual typo….I suck at 24 hour clock.)
Bega Valley musician Jay McMahon was despairing with his friends of trolls and racists and xenophobes and such coming out to play in the duration and wake of the siege and eventual death of the lone gunman. I repeat, lone gunman acting alone.
If I shot up a cafe, took hostages and killed two, took myself off the planet in the process, and at one point held up my Arsenal scarf (pictured), would you burn down Ashburton Grove, set fire to the Islington train station? Or go to Arsene Wenger’s home town in France and start spraying footballist slogans over churches and patisseries?
Son of a bitch. I’d been avoiding this score for two and a half days, hoping to catch it on replay. Damn you, Google and your helpful summaries on search pages!
So last night I tried five times to record a coherent response after Jay asked me: What can be done?
After four hours of deep, replenishing, refreshing slumber, this:
Check back here soon for video. Currently loading aaaaaand…. here’s Billy!