So thrilled to chat to 1/6 in the studio for Episode 20, not only about his fantastic work as a rapper but also about the breakdown of his marriage, which I, as a marriage celebrant, conducted only 18 months ago.
Sean begins the show by performing a poem, written using the Kanye West track 'Monster' as a creative prompt. Which was written exclusively for the R.A.P. Party gig. held at Howler Bar. These gigs are held all over the world but this was the Melbourne debut.
Sean welcomes 1/6 to the show. They begin by talking about his work with Public Opinion Afro Orchestra and their brand new album Naming & Blaming. Available now! The Flea by John Donne was an early inspiration for 1/6 and first sparked his passion for writing when he was in High School.
BY JOHN DONNE
Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is;
It sucked me first, and now sucks thee, And in this flea our two bloods mingled be;
Thou know’st that this cannot be said A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead, Yet this enjoys before it woo, And pampered swells with one blood made of two, And this, alas, is more than we would do. Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare, Where we almost, nay more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is;
Though parents grudge, and you, w'are met,
And cloistered in these living walls of jet. Though use make you apt to kill me, Let not to that, self-murder added be, And sacrilege, three sins in killing three. Cruel and sudden, hast thou since Purpled thy nail, in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be, Except in that drop which it sucked from thee?
Yet thou triumph’st, and say'st that thou
Find’st not thy self, nor me the weaker now; ’Tis true; then learn how false, fears be: Just so much honor, when thou yield’st to me, Will waste, as this flea’s death took life from thee.
Sean and Aaron eventually go deeper and discuss his wedding last year, for which Sean was the marriage celebrant and has since dissolved. They discuss the fragility of relationships but also the notion that a relationship should not be defined by the way it ends.
RACING THE WATER LINE.
Sometimes I’m a truck driver for your love.
I’m a road train pushing air through the Nullarbor.
You on the other side of the desert, waiting by the half empty pool in the gloriously shitty motel on the desert’s edge.
I think of the last photo you sent me.
A piece of foolscap with three words written on it.
And then you messaged me saying “I think about them all walking into a bar. There’s a joke in there somewhere, surely. I just don’t know what it is. I’m trying to read between the lines but all I see is red jazz fusion. And there’s nothing funny about jazz fusion. Maybe the joke is that they exist at all.” You said. And that’s why I’m a truck driver for your love.
There are spies in the sky that know nothing of love.
Because love can only be observed from the ground.
Vertical distance is the great distorter.
Everything is perfect from above.
In the cabin of the truck I listen to pitch shifted Nirvana. Why? Because it’s fucking terrible when Nirvana meets Hanson and I’m feeling too good right now and I need my internal scales balanced. There’s a lot of time to think on the road.
Your enchanted platinum blonde hair that is literally made of magic. It vibrates and purrs like a tiger when it lands on your shoulder as you flick your head back at the peak of the orgasm.
Out on the road I fly past a cemetery. Even at my speed I see and hear the four old school friends lowering the fifth member of their old gang into the ground and I hear the song they sing in unison. ‘Summertime Sadness.”
Which is not the song you expect four old Aussie blokes to sing as they lower their old chum into freshly churned soil and that’s why life is the greatest show in town.
‘Kiss me hard before you go. Summertime Sadness. I just wanted you to know. that Baby, you’re the best.’
And I flip to that one moment when I almost had everything.
When I had the opportunity to turn the words that churned inside.
And I didn’t.
Because when I get closest to the prize, I downsize, in fear of falling.
And now I’m a truck driver for your love, hauling precious cargo, crates full of my neuroses.
You’re waiting by the ever diminishing pool, the water slowly evaporating under the brutal desert sun.
But I know that if i can get there before the last of the pool water has gone, then everything will be okay.
Thank you so much to my muses of the week! Their creative prompts are listed below.
Satan - Shane Jess Christmas.
Santana - Matthew Sigley.
Santa - Jessica Grant.
Driving Trucks Would be A Shitty Job - Gram Morris.
I'm currently trying to read between the lines of the technical documentation... - Martin Bush.
Spies of love - Malcom Hill.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gUD-TrPW-V4 discuss the relivance of pitch shifting old songs in a means to eradicate the awful cover band by showing the irrelevance of intentionally confronting music. - Max Everett.
Enchanted hairdos - Jenny O’Keefe.
The song four old school friends would sing when your coffin is lowered into the ground. - George Dunford.
What would you have said, if you felt like you could have said it? That one time, when it almost happened and you almost had all the things your strange and good soul wanted? - Kirsti Whalen-Stickley
Whelan & Stealin'
For this segment Sean does something a little different to the usual and reads a listener email by Penny Waller Ulmer written in response to the radio play written by Mileta Rien for last week's episode of MTAW.