By Max Shand. Published in "The Age" July 9th 2020
Shane Howard, lead singer of '80s band Goanna and author of their 1982 anthem Solid Rock, smuggled the harsh truth about Australia’s colonial past into the mainstream at a time when many media organisations denied access to Indigenous voices. Nearly four decades later, the Black Lives Matter movement has struck a chord in Australia. Howard says he still feels he has a role to play, but no longer as a white voice speaking (and singing) on behalf of those silenced. He believes Indigenous voices can, and should, speak for themselves. But he still hopes he has some part in, he says, creating “a dream that we can share”. Speaking over the phone from Warrnambool in southwest Victoria, Howard discusses his recent album, Dark Matter, and the importance of building pathways into Aboriginal cultural history. Through collaborations with Indigenous artists such as Andy Alberts, Archie Roach, Bart Willoughby and Trevor Adamson, Howard wants to synthesise a national story that brings together all experiences. “The treasures of our country are all here; we just need to exhibit a little humility, shut up and listen,” he says. “We're in an interesting time where lies can be spread on social media, but truth can be sprayed as well.” He is full of admiration for the current wave of young Indigenous voices. “In my generation, Aboriginal artists found ways to tell stories that non-Indigenous people could stomach. Now, with artists like Briggs, there's no sugar-coating,” he says. Howard says Indigenous and non-Indigenous people can create new cultural work together, as well as apart. “Our stories are already intertwined. We have to find a way to approach these very hard subjects about our history and build a narrative that we can be proud of collectively.” The recent, dramatic return of racial politics to the nation’s agenda, even amid a global crisis, has led Howard to reflect on the past and his role in it. “Back in the '80s, we didn't hear Aboriginal voices on radio,” he says. “I don't believe that an Aboriginal artist singing Solid Rock would've gotten through.” Visiting Uluru in 1981, Howard witnessed Aboriginal people speaking language, singing, dancing and painting and had the profound experience of “waking up in someone else’s country”. “Everything you ever thought about being proud of the country you grew up in and its mythological stories — Gallipoli, Eureka, Captain Arthur Phillip, James Cook — they are all meaningless in the context of the fact that we brutally stole someone's country.” As a whitefella, Howard knew that he could use his musical platform to create awareness around colonialism and what Indigenous people had lost in the process. His call to arms was clear. As the '80s progressed, Howard’s role was supplanted by a generation of Indigenous artists who had become educated and engaged in mainstream media and politics. Bart Willoughby, then Yothu Yindi, Kev Carmody and Archie Roach, made no apologies for their past and became what Howard calls “the tip of the spear of contemporary Aboriginal music”. “I thought Aboriginal people were now in a position to tell their own stories. They had the microphone, they had an audience, and they didn't need whites to explain it for them.” Indigenous artists began to tour extensively, Keating became prime minister, the Native Title Act was passed, and it seemed that progress was being made. But “when Keating lost the ‘96 election to Howard, the doors of possibility got slammed shut again. The opportunity we had to resolve our colonial issues came to an end with Howard and his program of intervention over self-determination.” “We have to come to the table and bring the best of what we've all got to this conversation, but bearing in mind that Aboriginal people have had the greatest disadvantage and deserve to have their voices properly heard.”
