Dust, Vomit & Willie Nelson: A Family Pilgrimage to Tamworth

It was the summer of ’98. I was thirty-something, still clinging to the last strands of youth like a mullet in denial. Jan and I had just survived another chaotic Christmas with her extended family in Frankston, and I was itching for escape. Not just from the in-laws, but from the creeping dread of adulthood. Bills. Routine. The slow death of spontaneity.

So I packed up the twins—Ollie and Garrett, aged nine and ten, full of sugar and sibling warfare—along with Jan, my long-suffering wife and reluctant roadie, and pointed our 1991 Holden Commodore north toward Tamworth. The Country Music Festival. The holy grail of twang. The mecca of soft rock redemption. I was chasing the muse. Jen was chasing mobile reception. The kids were chasing each other with half-eaten Chupa Chups.

We left the southeastern suburbs at dawn, armed with a thermos of International Roast, a cassette deck full of John Williamson and Slim Dusty, and the kind of optimism that only exists before the first roadside vomit.

The Road to Glory (and Gastro)

By hour three, Ollie had already asked “Are we there yet?” seventeen times. Garrett had dropped his Game Boy behind the seat and was sobbing like I’d just run over his Tamagotchi. Jen was flicking through a battered copy of Where to Camp in Australia while I tried to keep the vibe alive with a spirited rendition of True Blue.

We stopped at the BP roadhouse in Gundagai. The food was suspiciously beige. I ordered a sausage roll that tasted like betrayal. Jen had a salad that looked like it had been cryogenically frozen in 1983. The twins ate hot chips and immediately began fighting over who got the longest one. Garrett won. Ollie cried. I played Raining on the Rock on my travel guitar to lighten the mood. It didn’t help.

Back in the car, the chips made a comeback—violently. Ollie projectile vomited across the back seat with the force of a fire hose. Garrett, in a show of solidarity, followed suit. Jen screamed. I swerved. The Commodore now smelled like regret and chicken salt.

Bush Wees and Broken Dreams

Somewhere near Parkes, Jen announced she needed to pee. Not in a servo. Not in a café. In a bush. A proper roadside squat. I pulled over near a dusty paddock and gave her privacy. Sort of.

I stood nearby, strumming On the Road Again by Willie Nelson, serenading her bladder like a true romantic. She flipped me the bird mid-stream. I took it as a compliment.

The twins were in the back seat, now wrapped in beach towels and eating dry crackers like war refugees. Garrett asked if we were poor now. I said no—we were artists. He asked if artists always smelled like spew. I said yes.

Campfire Crooning and Fraying Tempers

That night, we slept under the stars. Not by choice. The motel in Dubbo had a “no bodily fluids” policy and turned us away. So we parked near the Macquarie River, laid out sleeping bags, and pretended it was an adventure.

I played guitar by the water, singing Snowy Rivers Blues—a song I made up on the spot about broken dreams and broken suspension. Jen sat beside me, sipping lukewarm cask wine from a plastic cup and staring into the void. The twins roasted marshmallows over a portable stove and asked if we were going to die.

“No,” I said. “We’re going to Tamworth.”

“Same thing,” Jan muttered.

Running on Fumes and Faith

The next morning, we ran out of petrol. Not metaphorically. Literally. Somewhere between Gunnedah and nowhere, the Commodore coughed, wheezed, and died like a wounded animal. I coasted into a gravel shoulder and stared at the dashboard like it owed me money.

Jan sighed the sigh of a woman who’d made peace with her choices. The twins began a chant: “We’re gonna die! We’re gonna die!” I played I Still Miss Someone on the guitar while Jan walked to the nearest servo, which was approximately 400 years away.

She returned an hour later with a jerry can, a sunburn, and a new level of contempt for my musical aspirations. I kissed her forehead. She didn’t flinch. That’s love.

Tamworth: The Dream Deferred

We arrived in Tamworth smelling like bin juice and broken promises. The town was alive with music, denim, and people who looked like they’d never vomited in a car. I felt like a fraud. A soft rock imposter in a sea of country purity.

We tried to book a motel. Everything was full. Jen begged. I offered to play a private concert. The receptionist said she’d rather sleep in her car. We found a caravan park near Peel Street with a patch of grass and a hose. It was paradise.

I checked the festival schedule. Every show we wanted to see was sold out. Kasey Chambers? Gone. Troy Cassar-Daley? Gone. Even the tribute act for Slim Dusty’s dog was sold out.

Jen looked at me like she might finally snap and bury me behind the caravan park. I pivoted.

“We’ll go to the free events,” I said. “Street musicians. Buskers. Real grit.”

She nodded. The twins groaned. Garrett asked if we were poor again. I said no—we were rebels.

Music in the Streets, Magic in the Chaos

We wandered the streets of Tamworth, watching fiddlers, banjo players, and one bloke who played spoons on his knees while yodelling. The twins danced. Jen smiled. I felt something stir in my chest—possibly joy, possibly indigestion.

We sat on the curb and listened to a young woman sing Jolene with the kind of heartbreak that made you want to call your ex and apologise for everything. I cried. Jen cried. Garrett threw up again. Ollie clapped.

We bought dagwood dogs and lemonade and watched a man in a cowboy hat juggle flaming ukuleles. It wasn’t the show we came for. But it was the show we needed.

Busking for Petrol and Glory

On the way home, we stopped in a tiny town called Coolah. The petrol light was on. Our wallets were empty. Jen looked at me. I looked at my guitar.

“I’ll busk,” I said.

She didn’t argue. Just handed me a hat and told me not to sing Love Is Like a Lawn Mower.

I stood on the corner near the bakery, strumming On the Road Again while the twins danced and Jen held up a cardboard sign that said “Help Us Get Home—We’re Mostly Harmless.”

We made $42.50, a meat pie, and a coupon for a free car wash. It was enough. It was everything.

 The Long Way Home

We drove back to the burbs in silence, save for the occasional singalong and the sound of Garrett dry-heaving into a plastic bag. Jen stared out the window, her hand resting on mine. Ollie slept with his head on Garrett’s shoulder. I played Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain on the cassette deck and tried not to cry.

We were exhausted. Broke. Slightly traumatised. But happy.

We’d chased music. We’d chased madness. We’d chased each other through servo bathrooms and roadside bushes. And somehow, we’d found something real.

 Longing for the Good Old Days

Now, decades later, I sit in my home studio—egg cartons still on the walls, dreams still slightly mouldy—and think about that trip. About the vomit. The bush wees. The dagwood dogs. The music. The magic.

Ollie and Garrett are grown now. Jen’s back to sipping wine and tolerating my demos. I’m still writing songs about heartbreak and lawn maintenance.

But every now and then, I think about Tamworth. About the street musicians. About busking for petrol. About Jan peeing in a bush while I serenaded her with Willie Nelson.

And I smile.

Because for one brief, chaotic, beautiful moment—we were on the road again.