I’m not going to pretend to be a music critic but all I will say is regardless of your taste in music, to see Midnight Oil live is something that stays with you forever. I’m not going to compete with my friends who on this recent world tour have seen them multiple times and can extract every mundane fact about where this song was recorded or who produced that album, but I will share a couple of anecdotes around what Midnight Oil can do to your soul.

In December 1981 I was 18 months into Army life studying in Wagga Wagga and because I was from Perth I wasn’t allowed a free trip home until 12 months service had been completed. So after 18 months away and only just turned 18, I was pretty keen to get home, let what hair I had left, down, and catch up with my mates. In the ensuing time away I had discovered the Australian post-punk scene, The Triffids, Go-Betweens, Saints, Laughing Clowns, Died Pretty, The Stems, Radio Birdman, Celibate Rifles and Midnight Oil. I’d also cottoned onto the fashion and my military mates and I weren’t afraid to make our own op shop clothes, get on a train to Melbourne and St Kilda to see up and coming bands and “pogo” our heads off in sweaty delirium!

Western Australia sadly wasn’t quite up to speed with this evolution, so when I arrived in Perth and that energy sapping December heat dressed in tattered jeans, “cockroach killer” pointy boots and home-made T-shirt, the response was underwhelming, to say the least. My younger brother Glen called me a “poof” one time too many times and I picked him up like a new bride, kicked open the fly-wire door, carried him onto the front yard and strangled him to the point of near unconsciousness in front of his mates who had turned up in a beat up Kingswood to take the much feared younger Willow out for the night. I don’t think he’s ever forgiven me for that and I’m still wary of repercussions whenever I go home!

Determined to ignore the negativity, I told my mates that Midnight Oil were playing at the Old Melbourne Hotel and that they should go and perhaps see something different to the pub cover bands they’d been accustomed to for years. After the predictable “you eastern staters” disdain, they decided to go. I’m sure anyone there that night will never forget the energy. My normally staid, “too tough for this” mates were throwing themselves around like they’d had 40,000 volts plugged in. The Oils were playing some songs from their soon to be released and masterful breakthrough album, “10,9,8,7…” and they were on fire. Peter Garret sprinted and convulsed on that stage like a caged animal, his sweat penetrating 6 rows back with every shrug of his head. At the end, the crowd looked like they’d seen a tropical storm, only within spitting distance.

We ended up back at a share house in South Perth and this is where our late great friend Brett “Blocko” Hutcheson, so overwhelmed by what he’d seen, shaved his head out of respect for Peter Garret. One of the funniest and most gentle people I’ve had the pleasure of meeting which only added to the irony of his actions. We all miss him so much. My final image of that night was his brother Glen sitting on the end of Blocko’s bed guitar in hand, singing an ode to his brother whilst Blocko was in a glorious, exhausted coma with that snow white head shining like a prism. Top night.

Fast forward to January 2011 and I’ve taken my two daughters Corrie 16 and Mia 12 to my brother’s farm 2 hours south of Perth for a break. Glen and his wife Roseanne have 2 sons of a similar age, Jake and Tom, Tom being the youngest and frankly one of the most annoying individuals I’ve ever met. I thought I’d take the 4 of them for a trip to Fremantle on a Friday as they have the markets and it’s a cool place to stroll around. Glen says to me, “you sure you want to take him?” referring to Tom of course. For my brother, the pest of all pests to say that meant that this could be a long trip. Things went surprisingly well at the market and I bought a second-hand copy of the Oil’s “10, 9, 8, 7….” and gave it to my girls stating something “Dad-like” such as “listen to this and you might learn something”. So, it’s the return drive home and Tom sits in the front seat of my brother’s Pajero. OK, traditionally it’s the eldest that gets the front seat but I’ll let it slide and there were no arguments from the older siblings.

Within 2 minutes of the drive, he is leaning over staring pretty much under me as I was driving, pulling the most extraordinarily hideous faces I had ever seen. Not just for a few seconds but only until I physically whacked him, but then he would come straight back with another one. The 3 in the back were useless and had found it amusing that this imbecile was driving me to breaking point. OK I thought. Two can play this game. So, I pulled out the copy of “10,9,8,7…” plugged it in and turned the sound up to 11. I sang every note and “air” played every instrument for the next 48 minutes, finishing with a powerful Rob Hirst drum solo as we drove into the farm. Take that nephew from hell! Just kidding. I love those boys to death. I just see Tom as being karma for his Dad!

To see the Oils 36 years on from that first meeting was incredible. Whatever you think of the band’s politics you simply can’t deny that high voltage energy and the songs have become even more anthemic with the years. Lynda and I found ourselves screaming choruses from 100m back and having a bit of a pogo, perhaps more internal than external given the physical restrictions these days! The only sad note was at the end of the set, the band’s genius and engine room, Jim Moginie slipped playing his guitar and tore a hamstring off its bone! To his credit, he finished the song on his knees then was carried off. The last time I saw that was Nick Reiwoldt at Etihad Stadium. He too played his chosen art at 100 miles per hour just like Midnight Oil. Good news is that Jim will finish the tour propped up in a chair. Better to die on your feet than to live on your knees. Sorry!

Bless you Oils for coming back. An authentic national treasure.