I started writing a track about my year spent working as a Collections Officer at the State Library of Victoria and my friendship at the time with Frank Lovece. Frank worked in the East team with me, reshelving books and collecting items requested. It turned out that I was particularly good at finding Not Founds. Not Founds were not lost items so much, just things that were Not Found. Sometimes Not Found for many, many years. The library is a big place. East and West wings divided underground across an entire city block. There were a lot of places to lose things and a lot of places to find them again.
I didn't know at the time that Frank was well known as a trailblazer in Melbourne's underground punk, film and poetry scenes. In retrospect, that's probably why he liked me. He'd been making music since I was born; Wikipedia describes it as a "mix of harsh guitar noise, fast and repetitive drum machine beats, and abrasive synthesisers". Frank played a Roland CR-78 drum machine, synths and sang. I saw them play once in 2009 at an open day for a letterpress museum, and had no idea what to expect. I never saw Frank as a computer man, so I was amazed to watch him playing through a laptop. I was only at the library for a year on a contract; I wish I'd been able to stay longer. The library was full of incredibly interesting people who worked there while simultaneously living incredibly varied artistic lives.
The next year, when I'd left the library and started my MFA, Frank was always the person who I imagined when I was making something. I'd invite him to shows and exhibitions; he'd never come, and would always smile and gently apologise when we saw each other in the library. He'd find books for me to read and share ideas about philosophy and life. Once he explained he was only eating sesame seed and honey wafers for breakfast because that's what they ate in The Odyssey and he wanted to try it out. I never knew exactly how revolutionary he was in Melbourne's art scene until 2018, not long after I'd moved across the other side of the world. I learned through another library friend that he'd died suddenly and I found all his obituaries online. I still make everything for Frank. experimenta.org/news/a-collective-tribute-to-frank-lovece/
While I was writing the song about Frank, my copy of Celeste Ng's 'Our Missing Hearts' arrived in the post. It's a dystopian novel that heavily features libraries, storytelling and the revolutionary nature of art. I took a break to read it and became immediately conflicted when I realised that the book was writing a song for me whether I wanted it to or not. For a minute I put aside the song for Frank and started something new, until I realised it could be both at the same time.
lyrics
Nothing’s lost, nothing’s lost, nothing’s lost
It’s just Not Found
Buried, sorted, misshelved, disappeared, underground
Numbers flipped, letters scattered
Put your patterns to the test
Travel through it all
Searching deep inside from
East to West
No one’s lost, no one’s lost, no one’s lost
They’re just Not Found
Taken, separated, forced apart, run aground
Names are changed, pasts erased
Futures, families dispossessed
Watching, waiting, looking
Crushing fears abound from
East to West
Draw back the covers
A voice cuts through the darkness
Beaming messages of love
The breath breath breath of a lion turns
Stone into flesh and blood
The voice voice voice of a poet threads
Hope through our missing hearts
Hope for our missing hearts
No one’s lost, no one’s lost, no one’s lost
But no one’s won
Say the magic words, watch the tangle come undone
Light the lamp, open sesame
Manifest
Code the names, pass them round
Read between the lines from
East to West
Draw back the covers
A voice cuts through the darkness
Beaming messages of love
The breath breath breath of a lion turns
Stone into flesh and blood
The voice voice voice of a poet threads
Hope through our missing hearts
Hope for our missing hearts
Find big ideas in small spaces
Magic blooms through the cracks in the pavements
The breath breath breath of a lion turns
Stone into flesh and blood
The voice voice voice of a poet threads
Hope through our missing hearts
Hope for our missing hearts
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