Written by Alison Murphy
Australia has been quiet lately. As far as rock & roll is concerned, the land down under has nearly become a forgotten continent to stateside fans, with only native sons Silverchair having made a substantial dent in the Billboard charts in the mid-’90s. Even the much-hailed Powderfinger couldn’t build a large fanbase in America. Considering how popular Australian acts were in the U.S. during the ’80s – everyone from Rick Springfield to Men at Work to INXS – it’s unfortunate to see so much talent from there now overlooked. One of them is singer/songwriter Adrian Rosenfeldt, whose blue-collar retro rock is reminiscent of Lou Reed and his contemporaries.
Alison Murphy: Your music rings like a nostalgic echo of pub rockers of the late ’70s – Elvis Costello and Graham Parker easily come to mind. How did your style come about?
Adrian Rosenfeldt: Playing in pubs in Melbourne for too long. My hearing is pretty shot. The sound of someone playing the drums feels like a cantankerous giant smashing plates on my head. This has forced me to capture the energy and feel of the live performance, without actually playing with a full band. Before I recorded White Man I played a lot of acoustic gigs. I then recorded the songs live with just vocals and guitar. It was all done pretty quickly. I carried the same line of thinking over to the overdubs. One or two takes and that’s it. And I think you can hear and feel that; an organ comes in here, a bass line appears there. But the
main criteria in writing a song was, “Is it catchy?” And “Why have only one decent hook when you can have three?” Obviously the young Elvis Costello saw the importance of this; that is before he got
aboard Sting’s jazz/lute/”I am a serious artist” slumbering train.
Murphy: How long have you been a musician? In the beginning, were you already striving for the sound you have on White Man?
Rosenfeldt: In 1987 I was fifteen years old when I played my first gig with my band, Waxing The Sun. We played what you could call the Woodstock of North Balwyn in my parents’ back park. If you haven’t heard of North Balwyn you are not alone. We used about ten extension cords to run electricity out to the park. It was Saturday afternoon, and the crowd was a little on the small side, mainly women and children. Actually,
there were a lot of older women there: women on the pension. And there were quite a few dogs running around. But it was a good vibe, and I think the music went down well with the people who were passing
through. It was a little raw, but it certainly wasn’t punk. Some people stayed and watched for a while. There were swings and things. Because of my hearing problems, for the first three solo releases after Waxing The Sun I used a lot of acoustic instruments, especially cello, piano and guitar. So White Man was a return to what I used to do with the band in some ways, except this time i am playing all the instruments on my own. After doing the acoustic stuff it was good to get some swing back into the music, and to get things punchy again. But you might have noticed that the sound is still pretty sparse. I think people are sick of being beaten over the head with a hedgerow of distorted guitars.
Murphy: What is the story behind “Dirty Daze”?
Rosenfeldt: It sounds a bit sinister, doesn’t it? I would say loving and sinister. It’s a love song after all. In Australia recently there have been a lot of articles in the papers about teachers who have gone astray.
It’s the same story every time. A male teacher in his thirties gets involved with a precocious 16 or 17-year-old female pupil, their relationship becomes public, he loses his job, his family and wife are appalled, and everyone wonders why he did it. The teacher becomes a social pariah. I am not condoning it. There is a trust
between a teacher and a pupil that should never be abused. But young girls can be so provocative, and some responsible men can have moments of weakness. “Dirty Daze” is from the viewpoint of one of these
teachers. He fantasizes about a relationship outside of space and time, where there are no outraged bystanders. “I’ll take to you my grand estate and at every ball we’ll make them wait.” This is his dream. To be somewhere like the Russian aristocracy in the 19th century, where someone like Count Leo Tolstoy could marry a 15-year-old and no one would bat an eyelid.
Murphy: You’re from Australia, once a musical hotbed in the ’80s. What is the rock & roll scene like there now?
Rosenfeldt: Melbourne is and has always been great for live music. There are heaps of places to play. So many cafés and bars have a set up for small bands or acoustic artists – which is good for me. And there are still plenty of venues for bands playing original music. But the problem is that we have lost the freak element. There are too many good-looking guys and girls who are as compelling as wallpaper blowing in a tepid breeze. The lead singers of the late seventies and early ’80s had that Australian convict outsider mentality; that has all but been lost. Think of Peter Garrett, Jimmy Barnes, Bon Scott, Chrissie Amphlett, and Angry Anderson. Not attractive looking people. And they could never be called cool. They were as rough as the Australian landscape and absolutely mesmerizing to watch. You just don’t see something like Peter Garrett’s dance anymore. And this is a great pity.
Murphy: I once read that playing bars was tough in Australia. If you didn’t kick ass, the crowd would tear you down from the stage. Is this an exaggeration or is there an element of truth in it?
Rosenfeldt: Well, I think playing live is tough anywhere. I lived in London for two years and didn?t find it too different. What I think is a good thing in Australia, is that the audience will not accept pretentiousness. That is probably why Nick Cave had to go overseas to be respected. From what I have seen elsewhere, audiences are much more open to musicians having a bit of a wank on stage. But in Australia you have to deliver the raw goods. That’s why bands like AC/DC, Midnight Oil, and Cold Chisel were so toxic. They had to be. No one’s
particularly interested in your grandiose vision, or your latest concept. If the music doesn’t hit you in the belly and the spine, forget it. And isn’t that what rock & roll is all about? On White Man you could say that my raison d’etre is to give the belly and the spine a good seeing to.











