The Quality of Light
Words and Music Pat Drummond
Dedicated to James Willebrant whose paintings teach Australians
to truly see the light that dominates our national psyche

There is no space for the subtle
where the land is hard and bright
No softened feathered edges hide a 'maybe' or a 'might'
It just is, or else it isn't, in this harsh Australian Light
Don't talk to to me of things that I can't see
None of that means anything to me

The Irish call a 'shovel' what the English call a 'spade'
"Just dig the bloody hole with it !" I heard my nation say.
"It doesn't really matter, just as long as we get paid.
What good are words and Etymology
In a land that's ruled by harsh utility"

Chorus:
It's the light. It's the light. It's the quality of light
It sears our sensitivities and reddens skins of white
Pragmatism's catechism; ideology's a blight
in this light
It's this quality of light

Don't talk to me of quaint artistic notions of restraint
For rock and stone are only rock and stone, and paint is paint
of one colour or another; there is no such thing as feint
Don't talk to me of form and symmetry
None of that means anything to me

Give me a quarter acre with a falling interest rate
On a hard black grid of tarmac in some sprawling new estate
and I'll close the door and just ignore the boring archiscape
Don't talk to me of charm and history
None of that means anything to me

Chorus:
It's the light. It's the light. It's the quality of light
Where objects feel so ultra real and every line is tight
It forges psychic landscapes that are well defined and bright
It's this light.
It's this quality of light

Where barren apathy replaces passion, love and hate
Bread is only bread here. You can't Transubstantiate
For the soul must surely wither where the eye will dominate
Don't talk of Jungian theology
None of that means anything to me

We have lived here for two centuries and still I find no trace
of the brooding metaphysics of the Black Man's sense of place
The history of our Eden's exultation and disgrace
May be etched upon our art and poetry
but none of it means anything to me

Chorus:
It's the light. It's the light. It's the quality of light
It sears our sensitivities and reddens skins of white
Religion is a fantasy; Philosophy's a blight
in this light. In this quality of light

So send me your fanatics with their violent bigotries
Born of war and racial hatred over seven centuries
and within three generations I will burn out all of these
Till your children watch the soap operas at night
Till their blood is too lethargic for the fight
You can't stop it... It's the Quality of Light

 

Related Editorial and Songnotes for this Song

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