One of my first trips was to the Northern Territory. Landing at Darwin airport, the visitor is met by a giant mural of mythical stick figures in the landscape—a symbol of the Top End. It was painted by Bardayal ‘Lofty’ Nadjamerrek, one of the great clan leaders of western Arnhem Land. Lofty was a noted artist who’d lived for a time in a cave in the stone country east of Kakadu, while the filament of his culture burned dimly because his people didn’t have ready access to their homelands.
Our decision to deliver two connected IPAs, Warddeken and Djelk, in the Arnhem Land region meant this part of Lofty’s struggle was over. Together, the two IPAs comprise over 20,000 square kilometres of sandstone gorges and pristine rivers.
The hand-over ceremony was held at the base of a display of spectacular rock art, near the tiny community settlement of Kabulwarnamyo. Lofty, by now blind and ailing, was pushed to the site in a wheelchair and afterwards lay on a camp stretcher under a lean-to as family members and well-wishers came and went.
When the official proceedings were over, I went across to sit with him for a while. He’d seen a lot, this old man. He’d been awarded an Order of Australia, his delicate bark paintings had been exhibited far and wide, and like Moses he’d led his people out of Darwin and back to their homeland. Now, in his dying days, the means to care for this country had finally been returned to them—but it shouldn’t have taken so long.
…
Out of the blue, I started receiving phone calls from Warumpi Band singer George Rrurrambu, at all times of the day and night. I tried to take his calls, unless I was sitting in question time.
George, back on his feet and with a successful one-man show under his belt, had great plans for continuing his work mentoring young Aboriginal bands, teaching them the ropes and the pitfalls, most of which he’d experienced firsthand, but he’d been struck down by illness.
The first time he rang he said, ‘I’m sick, and I’m going to die,’ adding in a soft voice, ‘Don’t worry about that.’
I was gutted to hear the news, although not altogether surprised. Life expectancy for Aboriginal men is well below the national average, and George had played pretty hard. He was stricken with cancer, yet had found some sort of peace in this, the final predicament he would face.
‘We’re brothers,’ he said of his reason for ringing. ‘I wanted to talk with you before I go.’
I don’t know if he made many calls like this or only a few. Surrounded though I was by constant interruptions—phones ringing, and the incessant jawboning that was integral to life on the hill—George’s news turned my emotions on their head. I closed the door to shut out the noise and we talked about the past. He was now looking ahead to being reunited with his totem once he’d drawn his last breath.
George’s funeral took place in winter out on Elcho Island. It was still balmy during the day and his body, dressed in his stage clothes and covered with flowers, was laid out in a donga on the hillside overlooking the sea, kept cool by an air-conditioning unit turned up full blast.
We gathered on a gentle rise leading down to the water’s edge. Various dignitaries had flown in, including the Northern Territory chief minister Paul Henderson, and my pal the NT administrator and folkie Ted Egan, as had George’s ex from Papunya and his current wife.
There was some debate as to who should be granted the position of chief mourner in the official seating area. The first wife sorted it pretty quickly by thumping the newcomer.
There was special ceremonial dancing and song, numerous and lengthy speeches, and then bands played into the late afternoon, as the event took on a dreamy, party-like atmosphere. The contrast between the serious and sober farewells of other funerals I’d attended, including those of my parents, and this explosion of laughter and ceremony couldn’t have been greater. It was plain to me that this was a better way to go. Just put the music on and dance like there’s no tomorrow. No breast-beating or self-pity, no howling at the moon. Keep me close to my girls and scatter my ashes across the water. Leave a few morsels for the bush, but no sombre, sad funeral for me, please—and don’t forget to have a laugh.
…
At long last my lifestyle had become predictable. As the Oils frontman I’d kept strange hours at all points of the globe. In the environmental activist years I was covering as much ground as possible while fending off crises, both real and manufactured. Now, as a parliamentarian, my activities were clearly prescribed—determined by parliamentary timetables and extended obligations to the government. It was a strange feeling for an instinctive freewheeler—swell’s running, let’s go—which was how I’d previously operated.
Parliament sits for about half the year from Monday to Thursday, and each day every member has to gather for questions without notice at 2 p.m.
The atmosphere, when the House of Representatives was full, was a heady mix of bravado, conviction and the aftertaste of age-old enmities renewing the battle. Many of the adversaries, including Julia Gillard and Tony Abbott, had cut their teeth in student politics, and the verbal jousting was incessant.
The noise of debate would swell like massed cicadas in song, filling the people’s house, as the combatants—jeering, shouting and even laughing at witty interjections—slugged it out.
I knew if I was ejected from parliament in my first few years it would confirm the image of me as an angry radical that the conservative parties were doing their utmost to create, and so I kept my cool. As time went on, I grew tired of the petty and undignified outbursts that often earned a send-off, as I suspect many people watching or listening to parliament did too. That didn’t mean I wasn’t taking proceedings seriously, just that I was taking the institution seriously too, unlike the former speaker Bronwyn Bishop, whose rulings were so one-sided I doubt I would have lasted a week without expulsion.
In the first term I sat next to Lindsay Tanner, then the finance minister, easy to recognise by the old-style double-breasted suits he favoured. Tanner was bowerbird bright, and a big music fan with a prodigious storehouse of rock trivia. Keeping one ear on proceedings, he would throw out the occasional gibe across the chamber designed to get under the guard of our opponents, as we shared lists: top-five desert island discs, best four-piece bands, ten most overrated guitarists, to keep ourselves amused.
In the second term I shared space with Tanya Plibersek, who managed to combine grace with combativeness, firing commentary back at her opposite number while checking her phone for messages. Question Time was a ritual, until the spotlight fell on you and the eyes of the press gallery swung your way, and then you had to have your wits about you. But nowadays it’s usually the two leaders who slug it out, and the focus on them is unremitting. As a consequence everyone in the joint multitasked: preparing for surprise questions, doing correspondence, tweeting, chatting and reminding ourselves why we were sitting there—because if we weren’t occupying this space then those across the table would be, and the future of the country would be at great risk.
I’d arrive in Canberra on Sunday evening and spend time preparing for the week. All over the capital, often coming in to Parliament House, other ministers and advisers, almost unrecognisable in their civvies, were doing the same thing. I’d taken a room in the home of Warren Nicholls, whom I’d met when he was on the ACF executive and who’d previously worked for Ros Kelly in the Hawke era. He lived close by, and he and his wife Jo were gracious hosts, putting up with me leaving very early and getting back late. I’d have a Commonwealth car drop me half a kilometre short of Warren’s house and walk the rest of the way through the leafy streets of inner suburban Canberra to clear my head while catching up by phone with Doris to see how things were going, but really just to hear her voice. I’ve always walked, especially at night on tour—the back streets of Las Vegas, the docks of Hamburg, the tourist quarter in New Orleans, even the old colonial suburbs of Rangoon. But here it was incredibly quiet and I rarely saw another person.
…
The more predictable the political argy-bargy
, the more I rejoiced in the flashing spark of life when it happened to shine across my path.
I could see that the effervescence that explodes out of children—and made school visits so enjoyable—wasn’t that far below the surface, no matter how many years a person had on the clock.
I’d had little to do with nursing homes before entering politics, but they were a sober fact of life, the abstract phrase ‘Australia’s ageing population’ made real. On my first visit I found the experience shocking: row upon row of beds and chairs, each holding men and women whose life force appeared to be draining away, everyone behaving like dull decline was normal. It wasn’t the smell of decay but rather the abject loneliness of many residents that pulled me up short.
It made me ponder the ethics of euthanasia, family ties, the way we organise our last years, how we relate to death and lots more besides. In an earlier time you might have been relegated to the back of the family home to see out your days, but at least the soundtrack of your life would still be playing—doors opening and shutting, the voices of loved ones preparing meals in the kitchen, the ebb and flow of the peak hour, early-morning currawongs, even some early Stones—familiar and reassuring. Here in these institutions, everything is muted: conversation, the TV and the colour-coded pill container. If there is any relief, it comes from food and, for the lucky ones, regular family visits. Yet the spark of life isn’t completely extinguished; it just needs some kindling, someone with a match.
One nursing home that had recently opened in my electorate had extended a standing invitation to visit. The operators were keen to show off the facility, and some of the extra effort they claimed was being made for the residents. ‘Come on Friday afternoon, if you can. We always have a party then, and sometimes there’s music.’ By the end of the week it was usually the last thing I felt like doing, but eventually I went.
The facility—modern, flat-roofed and close to the coast—was brighter and breezier than most. The windows were open, letting salty air blow through, and there was plenty of natural light. We headed to the dining room where about sixty residents—the majority of them women, some in wheelchairs—were sitting around waiting for proceedings to start. Tables and chairs had been cleared away, leaving an open space in the centre of the room. Small groups clustered in corners, most of their members gazing vacantly out the window or studying their shoes—it was apparent that dementia had struck down many in these parts.
I felt the nursing-home blues descend as staff appeared with trays full of glasses of pink champagne mixed with lemonade; no water, no tea, a Maroubra special. Some residents reached eagerly for a glass, others ignored the offer. There was little noise or movement, apart from a few of the younger crew—who looked to be in their mid- to late seventies—but at last the party was sort of underway.
Suddenly a large woman in her late fifties, dressed in a super-tight black blouse and matching skirt, burst into the room. Behind her came the manager, dragging a small sound system, which he proceeded to set up in a flurry of activity. ‘Carla’s here!’ he called out excitedly, to little response from the dozy crowd.
Unfazed, Carla, adjusted the speakers, picked up a microphone and shrieked, ‘Hi, everybody!’
Silence.
She tried again. ‘Why, hello, darlings—you look fabulous.’
Still no response.
She paused then cried gamely, ‘It’s soooo good to be here. Are you ready for a good time?’
There were a few nodding heads but the room stayed mainly contemplative as a white-headed gran came up to me and whispered, ‘Isn’t she a nice girl?’
I’d been up since 5.30 a.m., had flown down and back to Melbourne for a special arts announcement we’d been working on for weeks, then plunged straight into a series of meetings once we’d returned. My energy levels were flagging, the day wasn’t over, and I was due at another event in fifteen minutes. I wanted nothing more than to be home sharing a glass of wine with Doris, the pair of us downloading on our past week. But I just nodded in agreement while musing on what Carla’s opening number might be. Whatever song she chose, I was sure she would murder it. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I was too tired to do either.
Then Carla hit play and music—loud and lilting—filled the room. There was some shuddering as people started in their chairs. Then she launched into a song made famous by Engelbert Humperdinck, ‘Release Me’, skilfully acting out the lyrics with large hand gestures.
I instantly took back my earlier misgivings with a tinge of shame for my scepticism. Carla was proving to be a pretty good singer. In fact, by halfway through the verse it was apparent that she was a showbiz trouper par excellence—a soul sister, in fact. I now found myself silently urging her on.
Then, out of nowhere, came an unexpected miracle. Like the petals of a flower unfolding, the frail bodies around me began to stir. The staff now moved among the residents—some dressed smartly, others in their pyjamas—inviting them to dance. Heaven poured into the room, as bent backs straightened and the residents swayed onto the makeshift dance floor, some singing in pure, thin voices, others just humming along.
‘Who’d like to dance with Mr Garrett?’ Carla called between verses, and so I took the hands of one of the dears who’d waved and we waltzed into the crowd, as she clung on to me with dry bony hands as a drowning woman might cling to a rope, and tears welled up in my eyes.
I’ve always believed that humans are born to sing, to make music, to dance, to tell stories, to paint pictures in order to celebrate life and to try to make sense of death. My visit to the nursing home was a reminder of how deeply the yearning for creative connection is embedded in our being. A lifetime’s exposure to soap opera and sport can’t erase it altogether; music and song are triggers that unlock memory and the shared experiences that make us human.
A population grounded in literature and music, dance and theatre, film, painting, sculpture and art in all its forms of expression has a great reservoir to draw on in the lottery that is life.
Politics, with its limited reach, is only part of the story. While I was able to persuade education ministers to include the arts in the national curriculum, helped by an enormous lobbying effort by many cultural organisations, including the Music Council, it was one of many subjects being shoehorned into the learning schedule and is still a long way from being a priority.
Its inclusion was a good starting point, a way of giving young people the opportunity to experience the stuff of creativity and try it for themselves. And when I grabbed some extra funds to increase support for the Artists in Schools programs we’d started in the first term, there was another small avenue of employment for highly skilled, but always underpaid, artists who could give so much to young people at a crucial stage in their intellectual and emotional development.
I can hardly think of a single downside to supporting the arts other than a few scarce tax dollars being spilled. The upside is huge. In hospitals and special schools, music therapy is used to help treat those suffering illness or disability. Singing in school choirs has been linked to improved academic performance, giving kids a sense of achievement and assisting in addressing behavioural problems. Life without a sweet song or a soaring soundtrack is a dull imitation of the real thing, because music, like laughter, is medicine. With ever-increasing numbers of people experiencing mental and physical ill health, especially as they age, there’s a simple prescription: liberate the mind and the body with heaps of art, and lots of music.
I hadn’t witnessed my parents growing old, and so had nothing with which to compare these intimate exchanges I was experiencing as a minister. Yet I sensed that once a life—in whatever conditions and context—was stripped bare, it was love, of family and place, alongside the inner yearning to give full rein to our creative expression, located in each one of us, that gave some meaning to the journey.
30
THE FALL GUY
I’D TRIED TO heed Goethe’s warning: ‘The things that matter most must never be
at the mercy of things that matter least.’ This meant ignoring the irritations and getting on with the job, but early in Labor’s first term in office there arose a bigger and more difficult issue than any of us could have anticipated—one that would nearly finish me off and contribute to Kevin Rudd’s downfall as well.
In 2008, an economic downturn in the US featuring a credit crunch and falling house prices became a full-blown recession following the collapse of banking giant Lehman Brothers; the effects spilled into Europe and across other parts of the world, and suddenly there was a real possibility that Australia might get dragged into what was soon dubbed a global financial crisis.
In the event, we didn’t go under and, luckily, due to prompt action by Rudd and Swan, Australia was among the few nations that managed to weather the storm. The advice from Treasury head Ken Henry was to ‘go early and go hard’, and so measures were put in place to stimulate the economy. The ‘stimulus package’, as it was known, was designed and coordinated by a special high-level task force, headed up by senior public servant Mike Mrdak, and chaired by the Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet. The package included an enormous nationwide program to build new facilities in schools—such as science laboratories, libraries and halls—and a large-scale home-insulation program, for which my department had day-to-day responsibility.
The government wanted the insulation scheme rolled out quickly and into as many homes as possible, and the final design offered full rebates for the cost of the insulation. Almost from the outset, the program—which was good for the environment and reduced people’s power bills, as well as protected us from the effects of the global financial crisis—was pilloried by The Australian as expensive, wasteful and riven with failings. It wasn’t long before the rest of the News Limited stable joined in the criticism. Yet when the OECD found that Australia’s increase in unemployment was lower and increase in GDP higher than those of comparable countries, and that due to the ‘Nation Building and Jobs Plan’ we had avoided a recession, there was hardly a squeak from the media, and certainly no acknowledgement of how the government’s quick actions had led to us successfully riding out the financial storm.
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