So, I grew up, and went to a lot of different primary schools because the assimilation policies were in full swing. And there's a whole heap of privilege that went to non-aboriginal people that we didn't get. And so, everywhere you looked there were symbols and images in the shape of the dominant culture, and the access point to the wealth and power of education of good health of safety wasn't in our cultural shape, it was in the shape of the dominant culture. So there were lots of things that made us safe, despite that type of oppression. And some of the things that made us safe was art, music, old people coming around and, well they were old to me then, Singing country and western songs, laughing. And with that, of course, sometimes came alcohol and problems. Other times it created a bond, a cultural network, if you like, which knitted people together and facilitated our voice. I went away to the army and came home and used music as a tool, and film. I was lucky enough to have films at Cannes and win a few AFI awards and musically, we did some pretty good things. I remember we once got signed to a record company, and then they found out we were aboriginal and took the contract off us straight away. So that type of voice was very hard. And we used to do gigs where they'd find out you were aboriginal and all of a sudden they'd say, we've called the gig off. And then you got put in what they call the cultural corner. And the cultural corner was you would hired as aboriginal musicians, not as musicians. And our content was different. I used to play saxophone and flute and muck around on other instruments. But our content was different, our content was about voice. IT was a way of keeping our culture alive because, historically in Australia, we weren't allowed to practice our language or our songs and dances. So reclaiming that happened through a whole heap of different type of music. It happened with cultural and traditional music and with contemporary cultural music. Songs like We Have Survived, and songs like Yil Lull by Joey Geia, songs like Kev Carmody songs, Thou Shalt Not Steal. Incredible musicians and artists and facilitators of voice, and so my role was being part of all that. My background was filled with those types of moments. I remember driving along, listening to one of Archie Roach's first recordings, and I was alone after investigating deaths in custody up in the back country. And there was great, darkness in my life in a whole heap of ways. But you had to be a warrior, you had to stand up. And every warrior needs some type of sustenance. So music fed me the voice of my people, and sometimes some other cultures fed me as well. Made me strong. I'm not sure how many times I drove along, screaming inside and screaming out to the night, wondering what a warrior was and why people had died in such horrific ways. And the music kept me alive. Kept the spark alive because sometimes too much oppression can put out the fire in you. But they made you strong. Other ways was my people use music and song for navigation. Navigating to find waterholes, to travel to other countries, aboriginal countries. We use it to heal, to sing of great sadness, to learn that grief is love. We sing to the land, and we regard her as our mother. So we sing and honor her, and we honor different parts of her. There might be a dreaming place that we sing to, and there's 500, more than 500 Aboriginal nations. So you've got different people who sing to the land for different reason and to the waters. The tropical mob might have a certain rhythm. The Desert Mob will have another type of rhythm and there'll be two or three types of Desert Mob. Like Warumpi Band, for instance. The cold country, which is my country, where the wind's that cold that it can blow the scars off your soul if you let it. That's Archie Roach's country as well, and the mountain people. And the riverina people, and the plains people. And the coastal people. And there's, in the old days before the internet, there was, you could hear the music difference in all of those areas. And you could hear it because it came from a long time ago. To understand where it comes from, you have to understand that non-aboriginal people have been here for only about 10 generations. And my people have been here for 2,000 generations. So, this is 2,000 generations. 10 generations is like there. So our mother has known us and we've known her for that long. And so the songs come from her. Some of the creation stories begin with when the Earth was soft. Before that was only darkness, and they sung the world into existence. And the creators took people to the land and said, here's the land and here's the language that belongs to the land. So you have the land and you have the language, then you have song. Which helps you find food, relate to the land, helps you educate, helps you find healing. And all of it points to this most significant thing of all which is the law. Which is the top of religion if you like and weave us all together. Weaves the whole circle of life together. So we had that top of stuff going on, and that still exists today in a whole heap of ways. People use song for all of those pre contact things but also to record contemporary things, political events. This song is a song about a death I investigated and it became reasonably famous. And it was, the death was a man who was taken away when he was 11 for stealing a push bike. And for the next 17 years he was locked up. And he only seen the outside for 17 months of that time. And what he did was he became an artist. I took him away under the guise of saying, you must be able to read and write so we're going to teach you. But he could never read or write. So he wasn't intelligent in that western Eurocentric construct of education and intelligence, but he was a very intelligent man and he was a very giving man. He was feeling very persecuted and he tried to pluck out his left eye and cut his throat. And I put him in a place called the Assessment Unit. In a cell two meters by three meters. Which, he was locked up for literally 23 plus hours a day, and let out for one hour. One day he drew a picture of a hill with a cross on the top, and a pathway leading up to it and some gates. I can still see it and then he put a paint brush up his sleeve and he walked past the guard. Went into the bathroom and plunged a paint brush into his eye. Was a Koori was Malcolm Smith Was a reason did what he did Was a boy who took a bike Was the system that took his life How did he die? Did he hear the Mopoke cry? No guilt, no shame Just got locked up again Black boy, pedals a bike Laughs cause he loves his life Policemen come and say he’s bad Lock him up and now he’s dead How did he die? Did he hear the Mopoke cry? No guilt, no shame Just got locked up again Deaths in gaol become an issue Wipe the tears, here use my tissue We will help you if we can Remember all those years again How did he die? Did he hear the Mopoke cry? No guilt, no shame Just got locked up again Tears fallen, years gone by Don’t want to hear you cry It’s hurting me so bad I knew Malcolm, Malcolm’s dead How did he die? Did he hear the Mopoke cry? No guilt, no shame Just got locked up again Locked up again Locked up again So Malcolm became, his life and death became a vehicle and it became that in song and film. and his death wasn't wasted because it talked to the world. The issue of Aboriginal deaths in custody in Australia. Which incidentally, is the 25th anniversary this year, 2016, since the report was handed down.
