Glenn Richards

Glenn Richards

 Margate, Queensland, AUS
BandRockAdult Contemporary

In 2010 The Honey Month won Triple J Unearthed and opened the Splendour in the grass festival and then was selected to play at One Movement music conference in Perth. 2011 sees them writing new music and growing even more as a band.


Chris Richards:

Older brother of me by 11 months, was learning the second solo from Metallica's "Orion" out the back of our Kialla block while I was memorising an economical response to Les Murray's "Broad Bean Sermon" and trying to hold down my Weet Bix before my HSC. Knows my tastes better than I do and can imprint them with greater acuity than I can on a song. Loves four track recordings as do I, thinks everything should be recorded so, and that all film should be 8mm, as do I. Plays in Hobart band Dust and wrote and played the music for two The Beautiful Few records among other things. Has two kids, lives in Hobart and is always tired. An invaluable presence on the record.

Mike Noga:
Another Hobart lad, I first saw Mike singing behind a kit and wearing a Carlton jumper at The Arthouse which should have been two reasons to hate him on the spot. But the Tasmanian in me identified with his disability and the mainlander in me just felt sorry for him. Has since gone on to make records as himself, a Gentleman of Fortune, and a globetrotting Drone who had a long breakfast with Crispin Glover. Not afraid of random fills, terrified of toms but will hit them if he has to, thinks time is a magazine, smokes two cigarettes at once, plays like a songwriter because he is one. Perfect drummer.

Ben Bourke:
In one of the trades of the season team Richards managed to offload a substance (beer) abusing guitarist to team Ned Colette in return for a very slightly red headed bass player called Ben Bourke. While team Ned Colette foraged for scraps of gig in Europe Ben laid down some of the tastiest lines we've heard for a while in the arctic space of a Fairfield warehouse. It was at a speakeasy in the same space a couple of months before that Ben and I held forth on the merits of Iron Maiden's Steve Harris. The offers went out the next day and my people got their man in what I think was a coup along the lines of a Judd to Carlton but without the cardboard money chucked in. A rare talent who insisted we pause the recording to watch Gillard's speech. It seemed to me there was a faint cheezel glow in the room, emanating from the bass corner.

Dan Luscombe:
Obviously one of the great talents of a generation Dan is currently another Drone who has done time in countless outfits, chief among them The Black Eyed Susans and whatever 80 piece cacophony Spencer Jones had together early last decade. Ever in demand it's hard to even get a word in to Dan so it was with great relief that I paid off every other songwriter in Melbourne for the Winter to piss off and leave my boy alone. He knows what's good for him anyway. Our first acquaintance was Augie March's roughly 15th gig when we were first up supporting The Church at the Palace. The Susans were main support and after trembling through a forgotten half hour Dan, very politely, remarked to us "That was really...messy." Of course it was meant as a compliment and each time he repeated it during the recording I took it as such.

That should do. Maybe a quick picture of the process - we set up in a warehouse based in Fairfield, the size of a skating rink, rehearsed and recorded 19 songs over a month, although with the many technical hitches I can safely say we probably did 19 in 19, a fair achievement, and not without cost to health and sanity. Due to illness, dust and cold I ended up doing most vocals with the tireless Robin Mai at Woodstock and Sing Sing.

I spent some weeks living at the Chelsea Hotel in NY and mixing up the road in the Village with Victor Van Vugt during the heatwave that had Satan swimming in the dumpster. Anyway, there's longer stories but who cares? It's rough and ready but not without ambition and some finesse. Like most of the Augie stuff it ain't hip, but I hope it's got some legs to out-stroll the sprinting ninnies on Cool Street.

The Songs:
"Torpor and Spleen" hopes to simultaneously force an understanding of the writer's temperament at the time of its writing, and his deep reckoning of the twin evils giving rise to anti-social behaviours in the youth of the West - chroming and Grand Theft Auto.

"Long Pigs" is a cracking of that pubic old chestnut 'style over substance' and alludes secretly to a dream the writer had about Gertrude Street in the 1950's.

"Old Love" worries about elected people banging on about one for mum, one for dad, and one for the country, but also gets a bit sad about a matchbox car which once was a prize possession.

"Apple of My Eye" is musical recreation of a vivid dream about an alternate history Hobart which has been occupied by a mysterious, quite possibly allied force which, in the vein of the Americans commandeering the opulent French glamor ship The Normandy, has aquisitioned the resources and the people


Long Pigs

Written By: Glenn Richards

How long is any favorite summer?
How long will any heart string hum any song?
How long ago did you leave me?
When did you decide that I was gone?

O I'm so lonely, I'm so lonely I could cry,
Tears so grateful to tip over the edge and spill from my ever thankful weeping eyes.
It's a pleasing, pretty pining,
They've got their myth and I got mine, and
I still walk the other way
From the long pigs on the dirty mile.

They come and congregate in a blind alley,
They herd and aggregate till they're finally fine,
and in style assembly,
making a scene like the Gray st. line.

Every ironic youth holds their own embarrassing truth inside,
And every aching elder, still searching for a cool shelter,
Must've paused and felt a savaged pride.
All you who walked upon a razor's edge, look down it was nothing but a garden hedge,
Your imagination ran away.
So hungry for repeating a feeling,
You never learned how to capture a feeling,
your imagination flew away.
Forever will you stay the long pigs on the dirty mile,
See what comes of hailing style.

Apple of my eye

Written By: Glenn Richards

Even under occupation, idle.
Trussed like a lily leg in a Roman sandal.
Even in the throe of invasion I hear the Siren call, your majesty too much for a country boy to handle.

A million sets of eyes fixed upon the prize,
All I ever knew was not to blink when I heard the lies.
No matter who owns you you're ever the apple of my eye.

Did I dream there was cricket at the Punchbowl the night we all got locked in at The Bat and Ball,
The Irish laying into each other after shots of the Fernet Branca?
The fountain at the top of the street ran the colours of the visiting fleet,
In the morning sunshine we dreamt of retreat, maybe tomorrow, maybe next week?

O and how you show it, I could never outgrow it,
Stranger in a stranger's heaven, having the ball and throwing it, no matter who owns you you're always the apple of my eye.

Ask the red headed girl at the bar, ask the pickled poet drowned in his jar, o you don't to travel too far to get to the wonderful place where you are.
Let me never leave it, let me never forget, nothing holds a candle,
Your majesty too much for a country boy to handle...

O and how you show it, I could never outgrow it,
Stranger in a stranger's heaven, having the ball and throwing it, no matter who owns you you're always the apple of my eye.
A million sets of eyes fixed upon the prize,
All I ever knew was not to blink when I heard the lies.
No matter who owns you you're ever the apple of my eye.

Barfly Prometheus

Written By: Glenn Richards

When the wind fell out of my sails where did it go?
A hot wind made of my sails a parchment and don't you know,
I wrote this down in spit, in my own invisible ink.
You breathe your hot wind upon it that you might know what I think.

(When I wake up, when I wake up)
Every morning a new sun rise.

The bead of sweat on my eyelid is a tocsin tear,
It heralds the thing that I did that finds me here.

(When I wake up, when I wake up)
Every morning a new sun rise.

Born again to drink the tides,
Born again to tender my sides,
Cruel beak and flaming eye,
The mid-shelf mirror don't ever lie.

From the base of the gullet to the gristle tip of the thigh,
Food for the birds, swollen and scored by the friendly fires.
I gave you light, warmth in your shelter,
Such a pretty prize.
Now do as you will, I feel ill, go and burn the skies.

(When I wake up, when I wake up)
Every morning a new sun rise.


Glimjack 2010
1. Torpor and Spleen
2. Long Pigs
3. Old Love
4. Apple Of My Eye
5. Painter By Numbers
6. Unflappable Man
7. The Drive
8. Turn On You
9. Glimjack Muttering
10. Barfly Prometheus
11. They Hate Us
12. The Love Zoo
13. South Of Heaven
14. Harsh Critic
15. Mengele In Brazil