Comes a time in Sydney – somewhere near the middle of a starlit winter’s night – when the streets empty of people and the shopfronts fall to darkness and an implacable mist of vanishing fineness gathers round the streetlights. At such a time, from Enmore to Enfield, there’s nary a soul to be found abroad save for the lone singer-songwriter caught halfway between stage and sleep and beating a path homeward, guitar in hand, with nothing but the restive spirits of the city for company.

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