Last Friday – a cold, bright afternoon – we packed two cars, mine and Sean’s, and headed a couple of hours north of the city. It was six of us in all. The band: Bensen, Carmen, Sean, Tim and myself. And there was photographer and designer, and now videographer, Agnetha Berg, or Aggie as we call her (Australian’s have a habit of butchering good, ‘foreign’ names, and the Norwegian pronunciation would have always been beyond the five of us). My family has a dilapidated old caravan on the coast in a small cray fishing town. We have been going up there for years, from when I had only just started high school. It’s not much of a holiday destination, the caravan, that is, but I quite like the town. It’s beautiful in an incredibly ugly sort of way. Flat and dry and monochrome, like the wind and sun have stripped all the height and life and colour out of everything. The town wraps around a big lagoon that is fringed by reefs, and there is an island, not much bigger than a football field, that sits off the northern point of the bay. The houses there have been put together lovelessly; anti-architectural masterpieces. And the town’s main street has half-a-dozen shops with customer service of the “your money pays for the meal, it doesn’t get you a smile” variety. But the endless sandy beach that runs south of town is home to the clearest water you’ll find anywhere. It’s simply a no bullshit kind of place. Bleak and depressing and pretty and refreshing all at once. I always knew it would end up in a video of ours one day.
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