Bruno, do you remember the Me and Gus stories,
way before Barry Crump got keen, when a cow cocky
was a bastard you met on gravelly roads? Recall
the nights playing community halls, and days making
a few records, only to break a few more? Ricky
Mays Jazz Combo, Max Merritt & The Meteors,
Quincy Conserve, plus, the all-stars-road-show
Blerta1, travelling Aotearoa, through khaki paddocks,
down thistle blown highways in that diesel bus t
seasonal rhythms you doubtless gathered, drummer
extraordinaire, on your final journeying off Cape
Reinga, the spirit freed to ride the rain you backed
the loner to the last, death the bottom line to stave
off cancer. Bruno, you did that thing. R & B, jazzman,
film star (didnt Jack Nicholson say get on over
to Hollywood?) but you preferred back blocks, sought
small towns, river shingle, the hollows of the land,
and a home around Waimarama in the Hawkes Bay.
A shifting romantic, hoon & hangman, a real joker
you played yourself sans bullshit in a heap of movies;
The Wild Man, Ute, you leapt from life to art
without a hitch; A Bridge To Nowhere, The Quiet
Earth, how you loved women, warmth by the bus load,
produced that classic my 12 inch, record of the blues.