2018 – Spencer Jones Eulogy

Spencer, remember when we first met? Of course you do. You remember everything. I forget most things but I remember meeting you.  It was the early eighties and I’d just come off stage after playing with my band at Macy’s in South Yarra. You came up to me and started talking, a skinny kid with big ears, looking like you’d just stepped off the farm. You had quite a bit to say. You told me what was good about what I’d done and also what was not so good. We talked about other music on which you had forthright opinions. I thought – this guy’s pretty lippy and pretty interesting. I can still see us there, clear as day, nearly 40 years away.

A lot of people remember vividly their first meeting with you. You always made an impression. My nephew Dan Kelly remembers being with me and The Messengers in Trafalgar studios, watching us record. He was still a teenager, visiting from country Queensland, wide eyed and green. You came to visit, swaggered in with a bag of goodies and laid us all to waste. Except for Dan who was a very good boy, watching very quietly with his eyes popping out of his head.

Spencer, we did a lot of miles together. Remember driving across Canada over the Rockies in 2002, just you and me? Well, just me driving. You didn’t drive. But you kept the music going and the chat and you kept me awake. Remember the elk in the main street of Banff? Of course you do. You remember everything.

You were a demon at the nine-letter word game in the paper. When we toured usually a few of us were doing it on planes, in vans. You always got more words out than anyone else , your grade was always ‘excellent’ and you always got the nine letter word.

You made up the phrase The Pretendies in the van one day to describe those times when you feel like a complete fake on stage. When you wonder – Who am I kidding? What the fuck am I doing here? The Pretendies are contagious. They can spread through a band in a matter of seconds. It still happens sometimes and when it does I think of you. There’s a name for this condition – Imposter Syndrome – but it will always be The Pretendies to me.

Remember when we met Nelson Mandela? Of course you do. You remember everything. Nelson walked down a long line of performers including our band and shook hands with everyone. But the only person he spoke to was you. He stopped right in front of you and said – I like your hat. You were pretty pleased about that.

Spencer, I’m wearing the Andy Warhol/Elvis Presley tie I bought at The Andy Warhol museum in Pittsburg when I went there with you. You loved Andy and you loved Elvis. You got to the museum and hour before me and left two hours after. I’ll never forget the look of joy and wonder on your face in that place.

You were a great enthusiast. When you loved something you wanted to share it. This was your generosity which made you a great unofficial mentor to many young bands and songwriters. You championed The Drones when they first came over from the west. Says Gaz, “I felt like a freak. I was making this traumatised music. I wasn’t proud of it. I just had to do it. Spencer got it.”

You saw people you liked and played with them, either putting them on the bill or in your bands. Many here today can testify to this. Phil Gianfriddo posted last week  – “Spencer taught me how to write a song and play the guitar without fear.  He protected us even when he got us into trouble.”

You taught me too, Spencer. You were a walking encyclopedia of music. You knew all the stories behind the great records and the great obscure records. Who produced what, who played on what, who wrote the songs. You said, “All the notes in music are good. It’s just that some of the people that play them are arseholes.”

You didn’t play ‘the guitar”. You played the song. Didn’t use a lot of notes or effects. You just carved out a sound with your bare hands. Sweet and raw, tough and tender. I carry you in my songs still, the ones we recorded together. The Somewhere Over the Rainbow riff in Midnight Rain, the volume pot swells in If I Could Start Today Again, the slide guitar in How to Make Gravy. Forever with me.

You saw dark times. You could be moody, unpredictable, prickly. But you were frank and fearless, full of heart and humour. You had a code and you were an honorable man.

I’ve seen in recent times your great love for Angie Louise and hers for you. This has been a privilege to witness.

You’ve left us too soon, too young, Spencer, like many of your good friends. Wherever you go I like to think they are there too, waiting for you. Brian Hooper, Ross Hannaford, Roland Howard, Maurice Frawley, Shane Walsh, Ian Rilen, Steve Connolly. That’d be quite a band. I’d like to be at that session, you all playing together. Smashing and picking your way through any number of those great songs of yours. Run With It, maybe, or The World’s Got Everything in It, Sailor’s Grave, She Walks Between the Raindrops and, of course, Thanks.

Thanks, Spencer. Thanks for the water, thanks for the wine.

The monkey has gone
Time to move along
Get on with my life
Say sorry to my wife
But that’s a different song
Thankfully, the monkey has gone.