Original Music byNot Drowning, Waving

Melbourne Symphony Orchestraconducted by Nicholas Braithwaiteappeared by arrangement with theAustralian Broadcasting Commission

Melbourne Symphony Orchestrafilmed at the Melbourne Concert Hall,Victorian Arts Centre

Music Score "Blood Moon" by Brian May

Original Music Composed and Produced byNot Drowning, Waving

Russel Bradley, David Bridie, Tim Cole,Rowan McKinnon, Helen Mountfort, John Phillips,James SouthallManaged by Mark Bishop Management

Not Drowning, Waving appear courtesy ofWarner Music/Warner Chappell

Melbourne Symphony Orchestra:

The MSO, conducted by Nicholas Braithwaite, was filmed in rehearsal,playing the opening to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.

The orchestra was filmed in rehearsal, but dressed in formal clothes for the shoot. See the bottom of this pdf for shots of Braithwaite and the orchestra, as covered in the film. About the only section of the band to miss out in the coverage were the double basses.

Soundtrack:

The film’s soundtrack was released on CD:

CD Rogues’ Gallery RG 001 1991 Includes dialogue from the filmAll music by Not Drowning, WavingLyrics by David BridieAll songs published by Warner Chappell Music

Produced by: Not Drowning, Waving, Tim Cole, Paul KoskyRecorded at the Pig Pen and Hothouse StudiosEngineered and Mixed by Tim ColeSunday/Sultry recorded at Periscope by Paul KoskyAll songs remixed at Metropolis by Paul KoskyMastered by Paul Kosky & David Macquarie at Studios 301Not Drowning, Waving are: Russell Bradley: Drums, PercussionDavid Bridie: Piano, Keyboards, VocalsTim Cole: Sound ProductionRowan McKinnon: Bass, Acoustic GuitarHelen Mountfort: CelloJohn Phillips: Guitars, SamplingJames Southall: PercussionManagement: Mark Bishop Management

1. Walking Music2. Sexy Music (with vocal)3. Sad Tune4. Happy5. Vet Scene6. Sad Time (short version)7. Flashback8. Panic9. Sexy Band Track10. Walk (full version)11. Sad (full version - trumpet start)

CD Liner notes:

Composer - Not Drowning, Waving:

Not Drowning, Waving has a wiki here.

Without diminishing the creative contribution of others in theband, co-founder David Bridie played a significant role, andhe has a wiki here.

Bridie has an eponymous website here. There are many otherreference points for the band and Bridie on the internet.

The band is on Mushroom’s website here, which links tothe official website here. Both these sites contain thisdescription of the band:

(Taken from "Through The One Last Door")

In cavernous beer barns across Australia, sweat and smoke condensed on ceilings and rained down on t-shirted blokes, crushed like fish in cans, desperately shielding foamy glasses from stray elbows. In front of them, bands flailed away at four-square guitar anthems. Lights blinded. Amps sucked electricity until the grid buckled. Singers shouted to be heard. It was loud. It had to be. In the early 1980s, they were always, always trying to drown out the noise from the bar.

Not Drowning, Waving arrived with other ideas. Why not play in places that didn't fit the description? Why not write songs with texture and space as well as melody and rhythm? Songs with colours from the non-rock palette: piano, violin, cello, harmonium and a whole library of things that go clack and thud when you hit them? And why not turn for inspiration to places generally overlooked, from the acoustic and electronic lines of old Europe to the indigenous atmospherics of this country and the islands that surround us?

It was a big plan. Maybe, sat around a wonky laminex table in a Richmond kitchen, they assured each other that it was so crazy it just might work. Or maybe they simply didn't know any better. They were only two (at first, and then quickly six) wannabe musicians who knew each other from the inner city share house circuit. Why would they know the rules of pub rock? And

why would they care?

If they did have an inkling of the preposterousness of their scheme, they obviously ignored it. NDW failed immediately, and in every ongoing sense, to fit in with the prevailing trends of the Australian music industry. They were proudly, brilliantly unlike any band this country has produced. And the sound they made was as distinctive as it was indefinable. They wrote songs you could feel like sunlight on your skin, taste like salt left behind by the sea.

Critics loved NDW because they demanded adjectives. Their music was haunting, evocative, brooding, sensuous and a million other words that excite people who type for a living. Looking back, the adulation that tailed them probably lent an image of pretentiousness, though the band did little to deserve that millstone. Okay, maybe the poetic name was a problem, but there was nothing precious about them as performers or people. Even now, they will be squirming as they read these words, because they're stupidly modest. They would choose to deflect and demur and distract.

In record stores, you could usually find NDW filed under ambient or art-rock, ill-fitting labels if ever there were. Truth is, the band were often minimalist, but they never made background music. And they may have been arty by comparison to other acts of the era (look mum, no blues riffs), but they knocked out some glorious pop tunes.

If NDW were misunderstood, it was most likely because they were ambitious and forgot to do the Australian thing and apologise for it. They bypassed the accepted career path of finding a sound and then polishing it into a single, shining signature note. They were always packing bags in search of new territory, venturing at first beyond the city into the bush, and then beyond our borders, across the Coral Sea and out into the Pacific.

NDW made half a dozen albums and a couple of film soundtracks in the decade they spent together. Another Pond, the debut, was recorded in a spare room and feels like the blueprint it is, a definition of the stillness at the core of the NDW sound and a declaration of intent to move away from it. The Little Desert followed, a stately, almost entirely instrumental album which was conjured in a church in Elsternwick, but calls to mind the beautiful and unsettling landscapes of outback Australia. Cold And The Crackle pushed outwards and inwards, balancing those landscapes with portraits, contrasting wide open road with claustrophobic suburb, filmic vista with sinewy groove.

The band's twin high water marks would follow. Claim (I can still remember holding it for the first time) seemed to draw together the strands that had come before, boosted by steel-eyed confidence and an evolving songwriting poise. Rolling Stone named it Album Of The Year. Comparisons were drawn to the likes of Peter Gabriel and David Byrne, both of whom were already fans. Acclaim poured in from offshore. A contract was signed with Warner Bros in New York, inspiring the local office soon after.

Next came Tabaran, a collaborative project with musicians from Rabaul in Papua New Guinea. Neither exploitative nor the slightest bit anthropological, it was a genuine, joyous integration of cultures, a landmark album which sounds as startlingly right today as it did in 1990. Its unique hybrid confused the marketing departments of the major labels, but that didn't lessen the achievement.

Topping it was always going to be a problem. Circus, which followed in 1993, showed a band at full maturity, but pulling in different directions, wrestling with the question of where to go. It's a record packed with great songs but it feels, with distance, somewhat overthought, less cohesive than it might have been. And when it didn't prove to be the expected global foothold, a disillusioned band did what so many others have done before and since, picking at their own threads until they fell apart.

What counts now is what they left behind. And so much more went on in the songs of NDW than can be captured on this page. I could tell you about the back porch drama of some of David Bridie's lyrics, or the pinpoint dissections of colonialism in others. I could tell you about the headstrong, affirming balance of passion and compassion. I could tell you about the flights of whimsy and wicked good humour. I could tell you about the fiery, unmissable live shows. I could tell you about the what-the-hell-is-he-doing guitar playing of John Phillips and the trance-inducing percussion of James Southall. I could tell you about the subtle, dexterous bass lines of Rowan McKinnon and their flirtation with the heavy, heavy snare sound of Russel Bradley. I could tell you about the blossoming of Bridie's voice and the eclectic and effective contributions from Tim Cole, not the least of which was his nervy dancing.

Or I could just tell you that the funny thing is, given the starting position, Not Drowning, Waving ended up a truly rocking act. They may have been un-ironed rather than ripped and torn. They may have had (mostly) sensible haircuts. They may have been polite to old people. Their audiences may have often been seated. But these guys could rock hard. They could sooth and they could threaten.

There are two discs here. One is full of tremendous instrumentals. The other is full of tremendous instrumentals too, but they have words and what you'd call singing. If you're reminding yourself of a band you used to love, settle back and enjoy the re-discovery. If you've never before been to the places Not Drowning, Waving went, then there's quite a journey in front of you. What I wouldn't give to be hearing this for the first time. Christ, I'd be willing even if it meant going back to the 1980s...Jon Casimir

(Below: the band at various points in its career)

(Below: co-founder of the band, David Bridie)

MSO and Nicholas Braithwaite as they appear in the film: