Almanac Music: Spectrum’s ‘I’ll Be Gone’
Spectrum’s I’ll Be Gone
Spectrum’s I’ll Be Gone is a classic, that defies time, defines generations. As relevant today as when it came out, because it’s both universal and true. A lazy, raw harp and good, throaty Aussie drawl carrying the lyrics; “Some day I’ll have money, money isn’t easy to come by, by the time it comes around I’ll be gone. I’ll sing my song and I’ll be gone.”
For years, in my 20s, it was my mantra. When patterns start forming as your personality begins taking root. When you’re old enough to think your old now, even if you’re no such thing.
Every morning in the shower, before dawn, dragging myself through routines of another physically tough, dead end, deadbeat job. Factory work, logging, something. Always remote, always alone.
“Some day I’ll have lovin’, lovin’ isn’t easy to come by…”
By my late 30s, drifting had returned me to the Otway Ranges. One year, when the loggers and greens had a falling out, someone chainsawed the power lines to Apollo Bay when their music festival was on.
All that was left was bongos on dark streets, spontaneous bonfires on the beach, people making shit up, entertaining themselves. It was the best! Work in the bush had been hard, I was rotten.
One of the two pubs had the only functioning generator in town. The place held an absolute tide of people, crammed in, drinking like fish, waiting on something, anything…
“Fuck it,” I said. “Someone has to play the fool…”
And stepped up onto one of the tables.
“Some day I’ll have money…”
Jay Martin, was a fisherman I worked with in the abalone and shark fin factory. A few lines in, he swung up onto the table opposite me and;
“Live the life of luxury, doesn’t seem to be for me…”
We sang that bastard song to each other, gave it the goddamn works! Dolly and Kenny had nothing on us.
By the end, the entire pub had joined in. Everybody – skegs, wogs, trancers, blues nuts, metal heads, word-for-word…
I asked Jay’s girlfriend; “But you’re too young?”
“I know! I’ve never heard the actual song!” she smiled. “Jay sings it every morning in the shower.”
We laughed, this bloke I knew but didn’t really know, but suddenly knew perfectly, and hugged, and remain mates to this day.
You eventually outgrow notions of romance of repetition. Drinking, minimum wage jobs, become less things to romanticize, as to fight through. Your music shifts, or, maybe the world you’re in shifts, and music with it.
Yet the dead end jobs never changed. I continued to avoid any notion of career, or take any work I couldn’t drop, guilt free, for writing. Saving, travel, property? Make some coin, take a week or two off, write. Even after I’d given up any youthful notions of writing careers. I’d had my chances, and self-destructed every time. Fitting in, forward looking, the publishing world, just wasn’t in me.
But the song was gone until my Dad died.
We lead opposite lives. A gentle Hungarian man of quiet, yet burning convictions, he loved with all his heart and soul when you were front and centre to him, yet I hadn’t been for much of my life. I knew him so well, all that mattered, yet with so much we were strangers.
He never once talked of the hell he went through escaping Hungary during the war as a child, or of what he had to do to make it here, in a new country, not knowing the language, starting in an orphanage, or even of his abusive second wife. Life was about looking forward.
He never complained about one damn thing.
When he had a seizure outside the home and cracked his head open, I went in the ambulance with him. He was critical.
As we wobbled towards the nearest hospital, the doctor told me that the old man was old, it could go either way.
I told the doctor he didn’t know my Dad. If he was alive, he’d survive.
The man looked at me.
“You do know he has advanced prostate cancer, don’t you?”
I stroked the old man’s hair.
“Why didn’t you say, fella?”
He mumbled in that soft voice of his; “It’s no fuss…”
At his funeral, the director and I were arguing. He was beside himself.
“I’ll start with…” he insisted.
“No you won’t,” I told him, in a tone full of threat.
“But…”
The old man had left explicate instructions.
“You’ll introduce me and sit down.”
I got up.
“The old man thought life is for the living. There will be no speeches today. You each have the lyrics to his favourite song. He asked we sing it, then, if you want, we’ll go to a local pub, and drink and be alive and tell each other stories about a great, great person.”
And there it was, the entire funeral pamphlet; a smiling photo of him on the cover, birth date and death, and the lyrics to I’ll Be Gone inside.
Somebody, somewhere pressed play, and the harmonica started. We sang with every ounce we had. I didn’t need the lyrics.
Thank you, Spectrum.
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Thank you for sharing your memories, Matt. I confess to feeling considerable emotion reading your story. Spectrum were a particular favourite from long ago although as soon as I was aware of their music they seemed to have disappeared just as quickly. More likely I didn’t look hard enough. Regrettably, I missed that night at the hotel in Apollo Bay. What a hoot that would have been. One of those memories to cherish.
What a great story! Loved every bit and yeah I wish I was in the pub that night too. Also loved Spectrum. My dad sounded a bit like yours too. Thanks
Fine piece Old Dog. Told of a fine moment, and a fine man.
Thanks all. Nice one, Paul!
Thanks for sharing this, Matt. It’s a tribute to your old man and to that great song.
Thanks Matt, beautiful writing. Great story.
Matt I admit I’m not a music person whatsoever but lots of love and warmth here thank you xxx
A great read Matt. IJH and I shared a boarding room in Adelaide when we both went to Uni there and started the day listening (and generally singing) the first song after the 7am news … sort of our alarm clock. ‘I’ll be gone’ was a favourite … and takes me back. Take care.
A song is a life is an attitude is a sentiment. Grand stuff. A memoir to a man as much as a song. Do we choose the songs that define us or do they choose us?
A great piece, Old Dog.
I am actually sitting in Apollo Bay as I read it, and can just picture that night.
Some great lines, too. My favourite:
“Drinking, minimum wage jobs, become less things to romanticize, as to fight through.” So true!!
And the song? Just a classic!
That harp intro is like nothing else.
I read just about every piece in the Footy Almanac and invariably find them interesting, but this is probably the first that I can honestly say moved me. Thank you Matt, and congrats on a superb piece of writing.
Wow, Old Dog, that was both heartbreaking and uplifting at the same time.
Terrific song, and have sung it through the years with friends at bbqs, late night around the fire, and driving down the freeway but maybe not, on reflection, with the same gusto and conviction as you and your dad.
Keep on moving around and feeling free!
Thanks all. A good question, Peter. I suspect the latter.
Thank you for sharing so, so muchMatt. Really moving, thank you.
I’ve only just read this Matt. It’s a terrific story. A song really resonates if its got an audience in the old and the young. That’s what a classic sounds like. Thanks for this.
Enjoyed and appreciated the piece so much I’ve taken the liberty of putting a link to it on my site.
Great story Matt and so heartfelt. I never get tired that song either.
Wonderful Matt. Raw emotion that!
Thank you
Matt,
I’m (seriously) wiping the tears from my eyes as I write this. A lot of people over the years have spoken and written to me about the effect my song’s had on them at various stages of their lives, but this has to be the most moving account yet. I think it also resonates with me because my partner Maria’s 91year-old dad is the Greek equivalent of your Hungarian dad, a self-reliant survivor who faced the same language and cultural hurdles as your dad in a baffling new country. The difference is that he doesn’t really ‘get’ the music thing and I’ll Be Gone doesn’t mean anything special to him either, but he got hold of a copy of my I’ll Be Gone biography and did his best to battle his way through it.
He and I get on very well, despite our totally different upbringing and attitudes, mostly because he sees through all the Ruddy bullshit and understands the genuine love and respect that I feel for him.
Anyway, thanks for the beautifully written article.
Mike.
Cheers Mike. Huge praise from a great man. Give your stepdad a hug for me mate (If he’s not too old school). Please, feel free to hunt me down if ever in the Otway Ranges.
Thank you for the music, always!
Matt
Matt, I read this as though for the first time just now and then saw in the comments that I’d read it when you put it up initially. I stand by my earlier remarks. Nice work.
Fucking brilliant.