O S T P

Once upon a time there were no songs about the Moonee Ponds Creek. There may have been a passing reference here and there: an unattributed slice of imagery that somehow fell off the side of the Tulla, but there were no songs from here. Not quite Coburg and not quite Essendon, the creek represents a blank spot in Melbourne’s collective consciousness. Not since Holst’s “The Planets” has the listener been transported to such a strange and barren landscape. Hear the creek, live the creek, be the creek.