Cam MacKellar

How far back do you go with these things?
Back into the mist of Ireland and Scotland? Back to where my people were convicted of spurious crimes by the British Empire and sent in boats to Australia? Back to the sunburnt country, the north and central western plains of NSW, Australia? To Cudal? To Baan Baa?
Let’s skip ahead. I was raised somewhere between faith and disfunction. The youngest son of a politician. There were bumps along the way. Some have been documented
Illness curtailed my teens. I recovered, escaped to France and paid my way working odd jobs and busking so I could read in the Bibliothèque Américaine in Montpellier and fall in and out of love.
Hitching a wagon on the gospel circuit in America’s south west I worked as roadie and recording engineer. 6 nights a week. 3 month runs. I considered the Alaskan fisheries but sung my way to Canada instead, then New York and the UK.

I skipped a beat. Wrote and taught the history of sound; how have people survived when you take almost everything from them? They lived in sound and song.

Looking for my voice, I have tried to do the same – writing, making things and trying to turn sounds so they catch the light.