SO YOU GET an urge. Something bristling within you that can only get out through something else. Maybe it was because you didn’t fit in; maybe it was because you fitted in too well.

You’ve heard stories of that uncle from up north who practised for hours in his shed with his other band mates after they left school. Slugged it out for years in sweat- and beer-soaked venues before gaining the attention of a local rep of a major international record label. They signed a deal, unlocked some cash from the advance and cut a record in a slick Sydney recording studio. Radio didn’t go near the first singles though, and the band fell apart.