My favourite songwriters sing badly. 

There are two sides to that coin. 

Their barking gives the impression that they have lowered the bar for the rest of us, when in reality they have raised it. Because, like, if they can make an impact sounding like that then, like, you should totally go on X Factor.

I took great courage from his music. He wrote some songs which could have been penned at any point in history and he wrote some songs which could have come straight from his diary. 

He sang about love and death, sex and life, politics and religion. All the stuff his people, the English, didn't talk about, and yet somehow he was so very English. I admired his honesty. I envied his passion. I even sought out certain books because of the histories I had heard in his lyrics. 

He helped me to feel, made me think and helped me to make some very important life choices.

I loved his voice. And I knew he had the market cornered on locally accented singing. So I just walked straight under that sky-high bar, with a low guitar and a voice entirely mine.

Between The Wars (1985)
I was a miner
I was a docker
I was a railway man between the wars
I raised a family in times of austerity
With sweat at the foundry 
Between the wars

I paid the union and as times got harder
I looked to the government to help the working man
And they brought prosperity down at the armoury
"We're arming for peace me boys"
Between the wars

I kept the faith 
And I kept voting
Not for the iron fist but for the helping hand
For theirs is a land with a wall around it
And mine is a faith in my fellow man

Theirs is a land of hope and glory
Mine is the green field and the factory floor
Theirs are the skies all dark with bombers
And mine is the peace we knew 
Between the wars

Call up the craftsmen
Bring me the draughtsmen
Build me a path from cradle to grave
And I'll give my consent to any government
That does not deny a man a living wage

Go find the young men 
Never to fight again
Bring up the banners from the days gone by
Sweet moderation, heart of this nation
Desert us not
We are between the wars

A good songwriter gets your attention. A great songwriter diverts your attention to other great songwriters. A brilliant songwriter can change the way you see everything.

Every Australian song I'd ever heard sounded like sunburn, truck tyres, red dust and the wide open blah blah blah. Places I'd never been, but places I'd been tricked into believing were my home. 

When I discovered this guy, my country sounded like the bend on Kensington Road, like whiskey and fishing, like the Colonel Light statue, like the backseat at seventeen, like a crowded beach with the big kids out past the breakers. 

This gentleman made me aware that the big red country myth had left me feeling homeless. I have always lived in the suburbs, like almost everyone in this country. I got married early, never had no money and am thankful she didn't take the kids when I went crazy. Love like a bird flies away, so I'm told.

These days many of his songs are about getting old, about loving the fine lines time has drawn on her face, about the spring and fall of a life of love, but I just can't yet relate. I've only lived to the fifth verse. 

Deeper Water (1995)
On a crowded beach in a distant time
At the height of summer see a boy of five
At the water's edge so nimble and free
Jumping over the ripples looking way out to sea

Now a man comes up from amongst the throng
Takes the young boy's hand and his hand is strong
And the child feels safe, yeah the child feels brave
As he's carried in those arms up and over the waves
Deeper water, deeper water, deeper water, calling him on

Let's move forward now and the child's seventeen
With a girl in the back seat tugging at his jeans
And she knows what she wants, she guides with her hand
As a voice cries inside him - I'm a man, I'm a man!
Deeper water, deeper water, deeper water, calling him on

Now the man meets a woman unlike all the rest
He doesn't know it yet but he's out of his depth
And he thinks he can run, it's a matter of pride
But he keeps coming back like a cork on the tide

Well the years hurry by and the woman loves the man
Then one night in the dark she grabs hold of his hand
Says 'There, can you feel it kicking inside!'
And the man gets a shiver right up and down his spine
Deeper water, deeper water, deeper water, calling him on

So the clock moves around and the child is a joy
But Death doesn't care just who it destroys
Now the woman gets sick, thins down to the bone
She says 'Where I'm going next, I'm going alone'
Deeper water, deeper water

On a distant beach lonely and wild
At a later time see a man and a child
And the man takes the child up into his arms
Takes her over the breakers
To where the water is calm
Deeper water, deeper water,
Deeper water, calling them on

Authentic songwriters and musicians somehow seem to "beget" songwriters and musicians in their likeness. Most modern songwriters can trace their lineage back to this guy, directly or otherwise. I call him my grandfather-in-song and he is, these days, quite grandfatherly and very much an elder whether he likes it or not. He probably doesn't. He doesn't seem to like much.

His music touches me deeply. 

He's easy enough to imitate and denigrate, and if you don't get him you probably won't get him, but if you do then there's not much I need to say. Even now, his music is "the sound of a young man in a hurry". He speaks for himself, so he speaks for me. Because he did and does his thing, I can do mine.

Try reading these words aloud. Go on. You're probably in there somewhere. "Condemned to drift or else be kept from drifting". That's me. 

Chimes of Freedom (1963)
Far between sundown’s finish an’ midnight’s broken toll
We ducked inside the doorway, thunder crashing
As majestic bells of bolts struck shadows in the sounds
Seeming to be the chimes of freedom flashing
Flashing for the warriors whose strength is not to fight
Flashing for the refugees on the unarmed road of flight
An’ for each an’ ev’ry underdog soldier in the night
An’ we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing

In the city’s melted furnace, unexpectedly we watched
With faces hidden while the walls were tightening
As the echo of the wedding bells before the blowin’ rain
Dissolved into the bells of the lightning
Tolling for the rebel, tolling for the rake
Tolling for the luckless, the abandoned an’ forsaked
Tolling for the outcast, burnin’ constantly at stake
An’ we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing

Through the mad mystic hammering of the wild ripping hail
The sky cracked its poems in naked wonder
That the clinging of the church bells blew far into the breeze
Leaving only bells of lightning and its thunder
Striking for the gentle, striking for the kind
Striking for the guardians and protectors of the mind
An’ the unpawned painter behind beyond his rightful time
An’ we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing

Through the wild cathedral evening the rain unraveled tales
For the disrobed faceless forms of no position
Tolling for the tongues with no place to bring their thoughts
All down in taken-for-granted situations
Tolling for the deaf an’ blind, tolling for the mute
Tolling for the mistreated, mateless mother, the mistitled prostitute
For the misdemeanor outlaw, chased an’ cheated by pursuit
An’ we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing

Even though a cloud’s white curtain in a far-off corner flashed
An’ the hypnotic splattered mist was slowly lifting
Electric light still struck like arrows, fired but for the ones
Condemned to drift or else be kept from drifting
Tolling for the searching ones, on their speechless, seeking trail
For the lonesome-hearted lovers with too personal a tale
An’ for each unharmful, gentle soul misplaced inside a jail
An’ we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing

Starry-eyed an’ laughing as I recall when we were caught
Trapped by no track of hours for they hanged suspended
As we listened one last time an’ we watched with one last look
Spellbound an’ swallowed ’til the tolling ended
Tolling for the aching ones whose wounds cannot be nursed
For the countless confused, accused, misused, strung-out ones an’ worse
An’ for every hung-up person in the whole wide universe
An’ we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing