Imagine clocking out of a really grueling day
job on a Friday afternoon. But instead of going
home to just crash, you head straight to the
airport. Right. Which sounds exhausting already.
Totally. You fly to another city, you walk right
onto a stage, and you play this incredibly sweaty,
high -stakes music gig. Yeah. But you don't even
keep the money. Every single cent pays for the
flight you literally just took. Wow. Just breaking
even. Exactly. And then... You lock yourself
in a recording studio, sleeping in these tiny
little snatches before flying back on Sunday
night just to, you know, clock back in on Monday
morning. Yeah. And you do it all over in the
next weekend. I mean, it sounds like a recipe
for total burnout. Most people are completely
exhausted just running weekend errands, right?
Oh, for sure. Let alone trying to fund and track
a full studio album in these frantic 48 -hour
bursts. Well, welcome to today's Deep Dive. We
are immersing ourselves in the Wikipedia page
and the surrounding historical sources for a
record called Virgin Ground. It's the 1980s sophomore
studio album by the Australian folk band Red
Gum. Yeah, an incredible piece of work. It really
is. And our mission today is to unpack how this
incredibly ambitious 32 -minute and 36 -second
weekend passion project didn't just launch an
indie band into full -time stardom, but it also
captured this gritty, unflinching time capsule
of Australian history. And the backdrop to this
entire record really is that frantic, exhausting
schedule you just mentioned. That we can wear
your thing. Exactly. The band members at the
time, so that's Michael Atkinson, John Schumann,
Verity Truman, and Chris Timms. They were firmly
embedded in the standard workforce. They had
regular nine to five? Yep. They were holding
down everyday day jobs in Adelaide all while
trying to build this musical legacy on the side.
Okay, let's unpack this. Because looking at that
routine, you know, flying from Adelaide to Melbourne
on Fridays, gigging to fund the travel, and then
recording at Richmond Recorders in Melbourne
and Pepper Studios in Adelaide all weekend, it
immediately reminds me of something. Oh, yeah.
What's a modern day startup culture? Oh, that's
an interesting comparison. Right. Because we
constantly hear about tech founders bootstrapping
their companies like coding in a garage until
3 a .m. just to get an app off the ground. Yes.
The hustle culture. Exactly. And Red Gum was
essentially doing the 1980 folk music version
of that. Except instead of buying server space,
they are playing live shows just to afford literal
flight tickets to get to the studio. The bootstrapping
analogy works perfectly, actually, because it
highlights the sheer financial tightrope they
were walking. I mean, studio time in 1980 was
astronomically expensive. And tape was not cheap.
Tape was definitely not cheap. So when you are
paying for studio hours with the cash you literally
just made at a pub gig the night before, it entirely
changes how you record. You can't mess around.
No, you really can't. You don't have the luxury
of spending a week experimenting with guitar
tones or doing 50 vocal takes. You have to go
in, set up. and just capture the raw energy of
the room. Which means the exhaustion and that
sort of frantic urgency probably seeped right
into the audio tape. I mean, they were recording
under immense pressure against a ticking clock.
Absolutely. It forces a very specific kind of
discipline. You have to be incredibly well rehearsed
before you ever step foot near a microphone.
You can't be figuring out the chords on the clock.
Exactly. So the urgency you hear on Virgin Ground
isn't some artistic affectation. It is the literal
sound of four people trying to get their ideas
down before they have to catch a flight back
to their day jobs. That's wild to think about.
And the gamble actually paid off. This independent
high stress artistic process was the bridge that
allowed the to finally drop those day jobs. Right.
They became full -time touring musicians after
this. They did. So they basically willed their
career into existence through sheer weekend willpower.
Yeah, that's a good way to put it. But what struck
me as I was reading through these sources is
how that very idea that desperation to escape
a current situation to build something new is
baked right into the literal title of the album.
Yes, the title track Virgin Ground, which was
written by Michael Atkinson, is arguably one
of the most fascinating historical anchors on
the entire record. I have to admit, when I got
to the background of this specific song. it completely
stopped me in my tracks. It's quite the story.
It really is. Because the song recounts the establishment
of the new Australia colony in 1893 and the location
of this colony. Paraguay? Yep. Wait. An Australian
colony in the middle of the South American jungle
in the 1890s. I know it sounds entirely made
up. It sounds like an alternate history novel.
It really does. But it is a very real, though
often forgotten, piece of history. In the early
1890s, Australia was going through a severe economic
depression. Right. And there had been a series
of bitter failed strikes by shearers and maritime
workers. So a journalist and utopian socialist
named William Lane managed to convince hundreds
of disillusioned Australian workers that the
system at home was just completely unfixable.
So they just decided to leave. Pretty much. He
secured land in Paraguay from the local government.
They chartered a ship called the Royal Tar, and
they set sail to build a classless utopian society
from scratch. But utopias notoriously never work
out. Rarely. Yeah. And from what I read, Lane
instituted incredibly strict rules for this new
society, including a total ban on alcohol. Yes.
prohibition in the jungle. Right. Trying to enforce
prohibition on a camp full of 19th century Australian
shearers in the sweltering jungle just seems
doomed from day one. It definitely was. point
of contention. And predictably it fractured,
there was infighting, splinter colonies were
formed, and eventually many of them just had
to be repatriated back to Australia. It was a
massive failure. So my question is why would
a folk band in 1980 look back almost a century
to a massive obscure failure to name their breakthrough
album? Well what's fascinating here is the psychological
parallel rather than the historical success rate.
If you look at William Lane's followers they
were exhausted by an economic system that wasn't
working for them. They decided the only solution
was to find untouched soil virgin ground and
just start over. Now look at red gum in 1980.
Oh, I see where you're going with this. Yeah.
They are exhausted by the nine to five grind,
they're frustrated by the limitations of their
current lives, and they're trying to carve out
a brand new full -time career in a notoriously
unforgiving music industry. So they were looking
for their own virgin ground. Precisely. The historical
colony serves as this metaphor for the band venturing
into the unknown, hoping to build a musical utopia
where they could actually survive on their art.
That makes so much sense. And while the new Australia
colony failed, the desire for that that fresh
start is this universally deeply human feeling.
For sure. The title track uses that romantic,
albeit doomed 1893 dream as a framing device.
But the album does not stay in Paraguay for long.
No, it definitely doesn't. It uses that historical
attempt at perfection to sharply contrast with
the deep glaring imperfections of the band's
modern era. It is a massive pivot. You go from
this sweeping acoustic ballad about a 19th century
utopia straight into the dystopian realities
of 1980s Australia. It's a bit of a whiplash.
It is. And, you know, we should pause here for
a second just to remind you, the listener, that
as we dive into these next tracks, we are looking
at this purely as a historical artifact. Exactly.
We are analyzing the thematic content of Red
Gum's lyrics to understand what the band was
trying to say about their era. We aren't taking
sides or endorsing these political or social
viewpoints. We are simply exploring the landscape
they painted on this record. And that is an important
distinction to make because the landscape on
Virgin Ground is unapologetically bleak and highly
political. Very political. Yeah. Across the track
list, which includes songs like Domination Quickstep
and The Money's No Good, the band tackles some
incredibly heavy socially conscious themes. What
kind of themes were they focusing on? They're
taking aim at chronic unemployment. the specific
struggles of migrant women, the foreign domination
of Australian resources, and what they viewed
as the sheer apathy of middle Australia. And
when we say middle Australia, we're talking about
that comfortable mainstream suburban demographic.
The comfortable middle class, yeah. The people.
who, in the band's view, were content to ignore
these larger structural issues as long as their
own lawns were mowed, basically. That was exactly
their critique. But this brings up a massive
logistical question for me regarding the music
scene at the time. OK, what is it? Well, 1980
in Australia was the absolute golden era of pub
rock. You had bands like ACDC, cold chisel, the
angels, playing in these incredibly loud, sweaty,
beer -soaked venues. Oh yeah, it was a very intense
scene. So, if the album is filled with such bleak,
heavy topics, how does an acoustic folk band
get up in front of that kind of crowd and deliver
a lecture on foreign quarter domination without
getting booed off the stage? By not sounding
like a lecture at all. Oh really? Yeah. That
is where their specific approach to the folk
genre becomes their secret weapon. If you are
playing an acoustic guitar in a pub in 1980s
Australia, you cannot stand there and gently
pluck strings. No, you'd be eaten alive. You'd
be totally ignored. You have to play with the
rhythmic intensity of a punk band. Red Gum delivered
these bleak insights with extreme urgency. They
used a driving tempo, very aggressive acoustic
strumming, and instruments like the tin whistle
or flute really cutting through the noise. So
they were basically matching the energy of the
pub rock scene, but they were just sw - swapping
out the electric distortion for aggressive acoustic
instrumentation. Which completely changes the
dynamic. You know, folk music has a long tradition
of giving voice to societal struggles, but it
works because it relies on communal storytelling.
Right, getting everyone involved. Exactly. When
you pair heavy lyrical themes, like the frustration
of unemployment, with a driving foot stomping
rhythm, you turn a solitary anxiety into a shared
experience. Wow, yeah. You aren't just telling
an audience that the economy is bad. You are
creating this rhythmic collective moment where
the audience can vent that frustration together.
I love that. I mean, you might be singing about
unemployment, but you're yelling it in a club
with a hundred other people. Yes. And suddenly
you don't feel quite so isolated in that struggle.
The music itself becomes the antidote to the
apathy they were criticizing. It builds solidarity.
Yeah. And they didn't just stick to the broad
macroeconomic issues either. No, they got very
specific. They did. While tracks like Domination
Quickstep handle the big picture politics, Red
Gum was equally interested in the micro level
realities, which actually leads us to one of
the most unexpected moments on the entire album.
Yes. Let's look at track two on Side B. It's
called Women in Change because here is where
it gets really interesting. It's a huge shift
in tone. It is. You have this album. full of
sweeping political critiques, and right in the
middle the album zooms intimately in. Yeah. The
lyrics for this track are credited to band member
Verity Truman and a poet named Lesbia Harford.
Specifically, the song incorporates the last
four stanzas from Harford's poem titled Periodicity.
A poem written decades earlier, mind you, which
explicitly details the physical and emotional
experience of a woman's menstrual cycle. Think
about the context of that for a second. It is
1980. This is a folk album released on a major
label imprint, Epic Records. And right alongside
tracks taking on the government and the economy,
you have a deeply intimate song about menstruation.
It's quite striking. It's like you're reading
a fiery political manifesto and right in the
middle, someone has slipped in a hidden, profoundly
personal journal entry. It is a radical inclusion
for 1980, especially within a very male dominated
music industry. And if we connect this to the
bigger picture, it tells us a lot about their
artistic sensibilities. How so? Well, Lesbia
Harford was an Australian poet and social activist
in the early 20th century. Her poetry was often
very brief, very rhythmic, and almost hymn -like.
Okay. Taking a spoken word poem from the 1920s
and turning it into a 1980 folk song requires
a delicate structural shift. I imagine. You can't
just read the poem over a guitar chord and call
it a day. Exactly. You have to map the written
meter onto a musical time signature. The band
likely relied heavily on Verity Truman's vocal
phrasing to give the written words a new musical
breath by using traditional folk instrumentation
underneath it, perhaps giving the arrangement
more space and less of that aggressive pub rock
driving rhythm. They allowed the intimacy of
Harford's words to take center stage. It perfectly
aligns with the band's overarching philosophy,
doesn't it? Giving a platform to marginalized
or unspoken issues. It really does. I mean, the
menstrual cycle was heavily stigmatized and largely
absent from popular media in the 1980s. Oh, absolutely.
It wasn't talked about. Despite being a fundamental
reality for half the population. So by taking
Harford's poetry and giving it the exact same
musical weight, platform and production, value
as a song about national economics, they are
making a massive statement. They are asserting
that the personal is entirely political. Yes.
You cannot sing about the liberation of the working
class without also addressing the lived realities
and bodily experiences of the women within that
class. So interconnected. It demonstrates that
Red Gum wasn't just interested in churning out
safe crowd pleasing pub anthems to sell records,
they were actively pushing boundaries, forcing
their audience to confront realities from multiple,
often uncomfortable perspectives. And what's
wild is that the audience went along with it.
They did. As we mentioned at the start, this
grueling boundary pushing weekend project was
the turning point that allowed them to quit those
day jobs. The album gained real traction. It
charted. Yeah, Virgin Ground hit number 53 on
the Australian Kent Music Report in 1980 and
1981. And just for context, before the ARIA charts
became the standard in Australia later in the
decade, the Kent Music Report was the official
definitive weekly record of what the entire country
was buying and listening to. It was the gold
standard. Exactly. So hitting number 53 on a
national chart for a politically charged independent
folk record. One that talks about menstruation
in 19th century colonies is a massive achievement.
They really made their mark. They got the careers
they wanted. But this brings us to what might
be the most baffling part of this entire deep
dive. Yeah, this part is always surprising. Because
if you go looking for this album today, you're
going to have a very hard time finding it. The
physical legacy of Virgin Ground is surprisingly
fragile. So what does this all mean? Look at
the trajectory. The album is originally released
on vinyl and cassette in 1980. Right. Then, as
technology shifts, it gets a very brief two -year
run on CD between 1990 and 1992. A tiny window.
Right. And since 1992, the album has been completely
100 % out of print. Just gone. The only exception
is a handful of isolated tracks that made it
onto a 2004 compilation album called Against
the Grain. I mean, I have an utter disbelief.
It is hard to wrap your head around. You're telling
me the album that literally launched their full
-time careers, this bold statement about 1980s
Australian society, is now essentially a lost
artifact. It presents a profound irony, really.
Here you have a piece of media that tackled permanent,
heavy, enduring human issues. Things we still
deal with. Exactly. The desire for utopian fresh
starts, the grind of economic survival, the intimately
personal realities of bodily autonomy. Yeah.
These are themes that resonate just as strongly
today as they did in 1893 or 1980. Yet the physical
object created to carry those permanent messages
proved to be incredibly temporary. A brief window
on vinyl, a brief window on cassette, a blink
and you miss it run on early CDs, and then just
silence. Oof. It is a stark reminder of how vulnerable
physical media was before the digital streaming
age came along to archive everything. An entire
era of a band's artistic evolution. the literal
bridge between their day jobs and their stardom
can just vanish from commercial shelves. And
unless you happen to stumble across a dusty,
well -loved vinyl copy in some secondhand record
store in Adelaide... Good luck with that. Right,
or you track down that one 2004 compilation CD,
the full experience of Virgin Ground -like, the
way the band specifically sequenced it to be
heard from start to finish, is just locked away
in the past. It really makes you appreciate the
frantic dedication it took to make it in the
first place, knowing how... fleeting its physical
existence would be. Let's just wrap our heads
around the incredible journey of this album.
You start with these exhausted weekend warriors
flying back and forth across the country, playing
live pub gigs just to generate the cash to keep
the studio tape rolling before Monday morning
hits. They channel all of that exhaustion and
urgency into a 32 -minute record that chronicles
everything from a failed 19th century Australian
utopia in the jungles of Paraguay to the grim
economic realities of their own era. And they
managed to cut through the noise of the loud
mailed on dominated pub rock scene by playing
folk music with punk -like aggression. Yes. They
push the absolute boundaries of their genre,
throwing in an avant -garde adaptation of a 1920s
poem about menstruation, right alongside critiques
of middle class happening. They worked. They
break through. They chart nationally. They get
the full -time career they dreamed of. And then
the artifact itself just fades into obscurity,
becoming a rare out -of -print treasure. It is
the ultimate paradox of success. It really is.
The album functioned perfectly as a launching
pad. It achieved its goal of getting them to
their own Virgin Ground in the music industry,
but the physical record itself was ultimately
left behind. It really leaves you wondering about
the life cycle of art and how we assign value
to it. So I want to leave you with a final thought
to mull over today. OK. When a culturally significant,
boundary pushing piece of art like Virgin Ground
goes entirely out of print and becomes this rare,
hard to find artifact. Does that scarcity actually
make its message more valuable and profound to
the few people who managed to hunt it down and
hear it? That's a great question. Or does the
lack of accessibility simply silence the very
history the band worked so grueling a weekend
to preserve? It is a complicated question because,
you know, the value of art often changes when
you have to actively work to uncover it. Rather
than just having it handed to you on an algorithm.
Exactly. It changes the relationship you have
with the music. It becomes a rewarding treasure
hunt. for anyone willing to dig through the crates.
Well, next time you're clocking out on a Friday,
just be glad you don't have to catch a flight
to Melbourne to fund a studio session. Seriously?
Keep digging, keep listening, and we'll catch
you on the next one.