Country rock’n'roll begins in the accelerator. Press it down moderately hard as you motor across the Great Dividing Range. Ease off as you plummet towards Uralla, or in the other direction, gallop by Bolivia, mindful of the kangaroos arrayed in ranks, saluting ere they make the mad dash to glory.
Head out west, to Nymagee and beyond. The ghost of a shearer, white-eyed, will join you in the passenger seat. Nod hello, and keep driving, to the coalface.
At the coalface of country rock’n'roll it is frequently dusty, dry and hard work. Beware of burrs in the boxer shorts, dirt in the engines, dust in the amps. You may take the stage uncertain why the endless miles, the untold broken strings.
But take a break, have a sandwich, sleep it off. Steer your motor to the City Tavern in Peel Street, Tamworth. Have Mark Savic’s son pour you a beer. Sit back and regale yourself with the careening, shambolic strains of country rock’n'roll. Johnny Cash. Jon Spencer. Johnny Green. Bob Dylan. Ragadoll. The Australian Beefweek Show. Tonchi. The Re-mains. Identify. Taste the stench of cordite and ozone. Drink of the fluids amber, pale, spirituous and sweet emanating from the bar. Breathe deep. That’s the sweat of country rock’n'roll.