Q & A

How did you become involved with the station and your program?

My involvement with RTRFM and Behind the Mirror started as a result of three things: a trip to Waldeck’s nursery, a dangerously puffed up ego, and a foolhardy readiness to gamble. Let me explain…

About eight years ago, during that difficult purgatorial phase known as teenagehood, I was heavily into grass.

Not marijuana heaven forbid no I mean that monocotyledonous green plant in the family Gramineae (Poacea).

Back then, grass was my hobby, my passion, my obsession, my escape.

During my high school days, I was profoundly inspired by Eric Olthwaite, the character in Monty Python’s Ripping Yarns who exhibits a keen interest in rain, shovels and black pudding, and who ultimately rises to power and prestige as ‘the mayor of Denley Moor’. For some reason, Eric Olthwaite impressed me as someone with an ineffable magnetism and poise. I knew that there was wisdom in his enthusiasm. I wanted with all my heart to be like him. However, I sensed that in order to properly model myself on his character, and achieve his dynamism, I must concern myself with something ostensibly bland. But what to choose?

The answer appeared swiftly, though in the disguise of a put-down. In the comments on the back of a returned English essay, under a large and humiliating “C-”, the teacher had noted that my work had mild potential but was for the most part “as boring as watching grass grow”. At the time, this felt like a crushing blow, but really it was a blessing in disguise. In her comments I saw my answer, my purpose for the next five years; grass.

I put up posters of different types of grass on my walls, knowing full well that what I’d presented was just the tip of the grass-iceberg (There are about 600 genera and between 9,000-10,000 species of grasses). I had a row of 17 potato-head men at attention along my window sill, all with eager patches of grass blooming from their heads (I still argue that grass can bloom). I delved into what I consider “the underground” of grasses, and checked out plants in the rush (Juncaceae) and sedge (Cyperacae) families. When other teenage boys would go to football training, I would rake up the back yard to better reveal the grass below. I fancied that I was the grass king.

With all this attention to grass, I had developed a sort of blaze assumption that I was the grassiest guy south of the river.

However, my grass-centric identity was called into question and challenged on one fateful Wednesday afternoon, during one of my many trips to the grass section at the Waldeck’s nursery. I was fossicking around, checking out the latest deals, and happened to notice a lovely grass flower. Whimsically, I mumbled to myself “heh, heh; I wonder what it’s like to be hermaphroditic, like that grass flower there”. A dark presence I had not perceived earlier suddenly moved up beside me and said, “Sorry buddy, you’ve got it wrong there; that flower is male”. At such an outrageous and unexpected rebuke, I recoiled, speechless. I quickly recovered, however, and parried with a flippant “is not”. The stranger stared deep into me, testing me, and said “is so”. I promptly appealed to my expert grass knowledge and said, with lofty snootiness, “The flowers of Poacae are normally arranged in a terminal ‘panicle’ or spike, which have individual spikelets with flowers, or ‘florets’ as they’re properly called, on them. Florets are hermaphroditic, and pollination is always anemorphilous”. Thinking this would stop him in his tracks, he did the unexpected and said, “We’re talking about this grass flower, not grass in general, and I’m prepared to bet anything you like this has a male flower”. I saw red and said, “okay, smart guy, if this flower is male, I’ll give you my entire collection of Peter Cundell “Gardening Australia” DVDs”. “How about this”, he said, raising his eyebrow provocatively, “If this flower is male, then I keep your precious DVDs and you have to weed my garden for a week”. “Gladly”, I said, defiant. “And if it’s hermaphroditic?” I queried. “Then I’ll give you my whipper snipper, what’s left of my sheep manure and a back rub”, he replied with unflinching self-possession. “Who ARE you?” I demanded. “I’m your worst nightmare”, he smirked, before whistling in the Waldeck’s garden assistant, who sported a grubby uniform with “Barry” written on it. “Barry”, said my nemesis, his eyes ablaze with the scent of victory, “what type of plant is this down here?”, he said, pointing. “It’s a species of grass, a monocotyledon”, obliged Barry. “Could you perhaps be a little more specific?” the stranger pressed. “It’s maize; what you’re looking at is a maize flower interestingly they differ from most grasses in that they’re monoecious and not hermaphroditic. Fascinating huh?” My grass-foe cackled uproariously, gloating over his superior horticultural insight, and taunted me by saying, “My garden is choc full with corncockle, milk-thistles and creeping charlie you’ll have a wild old time sorting them out”. Like a painful reminder from mum to feed the cat, I remembered my pledge to weed his garden, and at this point I snapped. I grabbed Barry, shook him, and said “tell me it’s not true”, but saw no compassion in his eyes; a fact was a fact. I wept into his bosom and still remember the tangy aroma of ‘blood and bone’ that came from his shirt. I could literally feel my self-esteem falling away from me, like grass clippings tipped from a mower onto the compost heap. I sniffed, quickly blew my nose on Barry -he seemed somehow right for the purpose and then took the address of the winner of the bet, promising I would forward the DVDs and be round the following Saturday to attend to the weeds.

I was still upset. I sat in the carpark blubbering, staring out across the bitumen, hoping that someone would come and hold me, just hold me. Noone came. I remained in this this pitiful state, nursing my dismay, for a further six hours. Then, thinking

I could use a little music, I turned on the radio. It was 11:15pm. I slid the dial to 92.1. It was ‘Behind the Mirror’ time apparently, and as I listened on I found that the songs I heard were violent, but also somehow entrancing and emotional. They seemed to resonate perfectly with my inner turmoil. I felt that the radio had understood my pain, and I breathed a sigh of relief, then drove home.

The cathartic quality of the music had appealed to me so much that I subsequently befriended the host, moved in with him, gave up grass, expanded my musical knowledge, and then eventually took over the show.

How long have you been with RTRFM?

It has been roughly eight years since my first participation on the show, sometime in 1999. I have been the coordinator for about three years.

What do you enjoy most about presenting?

Being able to play a wide range of music that I feel is genuinely creative. I enjoy presenting a show that explores the dark and violent aspects of musical expression, but that also celebrates gentler and more emotional moods as well. I also love presenting the show because it encourages me to broaden my own listening repertoire, which I always enjoy…

Strangest experience at RTRFM?

When the aliens came. They forcibly entered the studio only to demand that I let them sing Coney Island Baby on air, barbershop style. Being open minded, I obliged. It turned out that the head alien’s accompaniment was a “bup shoo wup dee wup” type thing that was closer to beat boxing than barbershop, but it was all in key, so nobody complained.

Favourite RTRFM program/s?

Difficult Listening and Plucked Strings.

What do you do in real life?

I model underpants by day (yes, male underpants) and run a small but lucrative internet-ludo syndicate by night.