When I was 16, I’d pop my Oils CD into my Discman and listen to One Country on repeat until I fell asleep. My foot would twitch and tap away, compulsively keeping the beat till I drifted off. I found the thorough permeation of those impassioned words to be excellent medicine for my soul.
But you know, for each of the times that I’ve dozed off to the band’s powerful sentiments, I’ve been woken by them twofold. It’s a big call to make, but next to the influence of my parents, Midnight Oil’s has been the most formative. In a way, their attitudes were a juiced-up, no-holds-barred version of Dad’s and Mum’s politics, but they were a fair bit more than that too. From the first, Midnight Oil’s message resonated with me on a very deep level. This was a band that encouraged, perhaps even demanded, the articulation of my own personal politics and a mode of thought that interrogated the status quo. They also educated me in the history and potential of the country that I felt, and still feel, absolutely captivated by. And, perhaps most importantly, they lit a fire in my little heart that is yet to be subdued.
So, back in 2002, when I missed the opportunity to see them play what I thought was their last tour, I accepted with heavy heart that I should never bear witness to their rapturous live performance.
Glory be! I was wrong!
And what a rapturous occasion my inaugural Oil’s experience turned out to be! Fortunate enough to get my hands on two tickets to their Perth Arena show, a little after 8:00 pm on 28 October 2017, Biggie Big and me found ourselves mere metres from the legends who had so defined my inclinations. I was actually giddy with anticipation and delight; I was wiggling out of my skin! I felt like a kid again, living outside of my own head!
And, oh, how the fellows did surpass the highest of expectations! Kinetic and fervid, Peter Garrett jarred and jammed his way across the stage, sharing his wisdom with a crowd most enthralled. Then, three golden favourites, Stars of Warburton, Truganini and River Runs Red, played in succession. My jaw ached from holding back the overwhelming urge to cry; to spill some salted tears on the hallowed path between past, present and future. Theirs. Mine. Ours.
We, the devoted congregation, fist pumped to their undiminished message, while Rob Hurst beat away on his kit, positioned front-centre stage. Did anyone step up to fill the void left empty by their hiatus? Was it a void that could be filled? The band played their machines with such precision, and bar the exceptional few (one hoiked mid-song upon Garrett’s take-no-prisoners demand), held their audience captive. Pure elation overcame us all as we witnessed their pivotal rendition of Yothu Yindi’s Treaty – did I really see that, hear it too? Yes! Yes! Glory be, indeed!
They say all good things must come to an end, and I suppose it’s true. So to close out this cosmic experience, the band played two ripper encores – and can you believe it? They kicked them off with One Country, an impromptu replacement for the previously slated Put Down that Weapon. Exhausted but ardently exhilarated, I sang those lyrics at the top of my tuneless voice, and my burning eyes released their prisoners. My heart was afire, and I knew it would blaze for weeks to come.
At the end of that night, when finally I wafted back down to earth, I snuggled deep into my covers and, for the sake of old times, plugged in and played One Country on repeat, my foot driven by unforgotten habit, until the adrenaline gave way and I drifted off into my own dream world. I thought: Oh, yes. These are the days.
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