Australia first met Peter O’Doherty in the 1970s, as part of Mental as Anything. He played with the new wave group for three decades, then he and his older brother Christopher, aka Reg Mombassa, shifted focus to their musical duo, Dog Trumpet, who are still playing today. He also built a name as a visual artist and has now been exhibiting regularly for more than 20 years.
Music has been a constant throughout O’Doherty’s life. So too has tinnitus – a ringing or buzzing noise in the ears that’s often caused by extended exposure to loud noise, a common affliction among musicians. To help manage it, the bass player relies on a tiny, very affordable item. Here, he tells us why this cheap solution works best, and shares the story of two other important belongings.
What I’d save from my house in a fire
What a hideous idea, having to choose one item from a burning house! I’m a musician and my wife Susan and I are both artists, so we’ve got decades’ worth of artworks, assorted music gear, kids’ memorabilia, family photos – all the stuff that makes a home have meaning.
That said, there is a little painting hanging in my music studio that means a lot to me. Susan and I were married in 1988 and later that year our first son, Declan, was born. I’d always been drawing and sketching, but at Susan’s insistence we both took up painting. On a sunny afternoon early in 1989, I took a photo of them against a column outside the Art Gallery of NSW and made a little painting on paper from the picture – one of the first portraits I ever did. In it, Declan is asleep in Susan’s lap. It signifies that pivotal dividing line in time, when life is suddenly very different to everything that came before.
My most useful object
In May 1971, my older brother, Chris, took me to see Deep Purple, Free and Manfred Mann (and Sydney’s Pirana) at Randwick Racecourse. At that time, it was the biggest rock concert Australia had seen. I was in first year high school and it blew my teenage mind. As I told my friends back at school about my earth-shattering experience, I distinctly remember a ringing in my ears. After a few days it was gone but all these years later, I know it was the first warning of what was to come.
I’ve gone on to have a life – still going – of playing music, always with the annoying earworm of various high frequencies on permanent high rotation. Tinnitus is an industrial hazard: it drove me mad at certain times. When I got married, my wife Susan accurately assessed the situation and gave me the option of either her leaving, or staying on the proviso I wore earplugs.
After mulling on the difficult choice for some time, I thought it best to go with the plugs.
I’d used chemist-bought earplugs on and off but never liked the muted and dulled sound, so I went for tests and had $350 bespoke diaphragm plugs made. They were horrible, everything sounded jagged and tinny.
So I went back to the chemist and got used to the $2 foam plugs – which I could squeeze in harder if needed, holding the tinnitus in check without killing the music. It’s still there, but I’m still playing and singing. And I never go near a musical instrument without my trusty foam plugs.
The item I most regret losing
It was Christmas 1971. I was 13 and had just received the most significant present I’d ever get: a $10, three-quarter size, Chinese-made Kapok acoustic guitar, one of the cheapest musical instruments on the market.
Mum organised classical guitar lessons with a local tutor, who promptly switched the strings from steel to nylon. The basic classical stuff was great, but my big brother showed me some blues chords and the rock and roll switch was set permanently “on” in my brain. Leaving home, I took that little guitar – with its uncannily sweet sound – from one share house to another, and into my new life as a bass player with Mental As Anything. In time it found its way onto some of our recordings – I’m playing it as the rhythm part on 1983’s Close Again.
I was pretty careless in those days, never bothering to buy a case, dragging the Kapok around on tour, on planes, in cars, to studios, looking ever more bedraggled, scuffed, dirty, chipped and graffitied. It was starting to fall apart at its plywood seams.
Eventually, time and age rendered it unplayable and it rested quietly for years in the corner of my bedroom studio until finally joining the council clean-up. I’m not that sentimental, and wasn’t a good caretaker, but I still think about that beautiful and faithful little guitar.
Peter O’Doherty will explore the shores of Sydney’s Bondi Beach in Great Australian Walks With Julia Zemiro, airing at 7.30pm on 12 October on SBS and on SBS On Demand
