I want to tell you everything.
About the way the skies glitter high above the lone deserts of Mexico, and the endless nights that bask into sunrises that glow hot amber and teal.
I want to tell you about how I was born on the road: how my gypsy blood carried me from a foreign childhood in Singapore, across the distant corners of my Australian homeland.
I want to tell you about my grandmother, ‘Gypsy’ – revered songstress of the south, who lived on the road in an old van with a bed and a sea of cushions – and how she passed her mantle to my father, the country music showman who shone on ‘60s TV favourite, The Country & Western Hour.
I want to tell you how hard it is to stop the music when it is the fire-red sap in your family tree, when it courses through your veins.
The road too.
I still call it my home, from the comfort of an old van full of cushions named Lady Luck, its white flower fairy lights aglow: my private haven on wheels.
I want to tell you about the secret long hours I sang to Rickie Lee Jones as a girl when no one was home, and how magical and freeing it felt: the way my soul still feels each time I perform in front of a crowd.
And how when I stand beneath those lights, sparkling magic iridescent, I journey to another place, in some other time.
I want you to know that I take you there with me.
A place where the air is warm and soft, rife with wanderlust and longing and spirited night skies and horizons on lone highways through dusking 1950s southwest towns, the Tijuana state line and beyond. Sometimes we don’t come back.
I want to tell you everything…but I learned from Dad and Gypsy a long time ago that the music always says it best. Consider that an invitation to come listen, and see me.
Lady Luck and I will be waiting here.
And if you can’t hold on, enjoy this taste in the meantime.
Be sure to see you ‘round,