Need A Wedge Whacked? Call Dane Reynolds And Craig Anderson

Craig & Dane are sleeping on the floor of a log cabin just below the vertiginous ridgeline of what is often lazily described as Australia’s most beautiful valley. Fog lifts from the valley floor up through great gums. Dawn beams through branches painting thick air with sunlit bursts. It’s a transcendent scene and one that would stir the dead to life.

Boards are arranged, wetsuits hanging over veranda railing are checked for spiders and damp. It’s a chill morning, wintry in fact even though it is supposed to be spring. The lads want to surf spots that are out of the way with no scene. They both prefer the quiet approach with zero fanfare which is pleasantly how the days progress.

And so it was, until one night the entire Former gang loaded into a van to hit the SW house for some beers. Former is a clothing brand Craig & Dane have started with a few skateboarding mates, the lads had been rocking the latest range which were black, slim fitting and stylish. I hadn’t been offered any samples which was prudent as I prefer my outfits tan, baggy fit and timeless. I knew there had been a lot of music happening at the SW digs, I’d run into Hoyo the previous day on the rocks and he had filled me in on some of the antics. It sounded incredible but I just casually told the lads there was a studio set up in case they felt like a jam.

“The Bubbler spurted forth, a golden shower of improvised poetry with a strangely haunting melody that just won’t let you go. If a song about drinking your own piss could be a love song then this was it.”

We’d been there all of three minutes when the band was formed and tape was rolling on our first song. I hadn’t picked up a bass since Val Dusty’s final gig two decades ago. We got booed off stage and had the plug pulled by the venue manager who’s stream of expletives would have made Caligula blush. Needless to say, I was fairly rusty but it didn’t matter as the drum groove set a rhythm impossible to veer away from. The Bubbler spurted forth, a golden shower of improvised poetry with a strangely haunting melody that just won’t let you go. If a song about drinking your own piss could be a love song then this was it.