Middle of the day and I'm sitting on the library lawn with Sebastian. It's not his real name, so that's why he's not an initial, as most others are, in case you're curious. Anyhow, we're killing time: he's waiting until he'll be dressed in a full body latex outfit and me, I'm trying not to think about the social construction of space. Like I said, killing time. Anyhow, there's a singer on the steps outside the library, trying to grab the attention of everyone before her, which is about a hundred people and a pair of ibis, but who isn't really succeeding, despite being quite passable. After a couple of songs, Sebastian turns to me and says, "Isn't that that chick from that band a few years back?"

"I have no idea," I reply. "She sounds a bit familiar, though."

At the end of the lawn, the singer finishes playing, pauses to check her guitar, then says, "The next song I'm going to play is from a band I was in a few years back. It was called Leonardo's Bride."

Convenient of her, but kind of strange at the same time.

There's an odd range of musicians come through the UNSW library lawn and play for a mostly ungrateful lot who, half the time, resent that someone is playing over their conversation. Some of the musicians who arrive are just starting out, and are grateful for any gig, while others are just a year or so away from being big. I saw John Butler play there once, without the rest of his band, about a year and a bit before he released his latest album and became rich like a hippie nazi. And, of course, some of those who play on the library lawn are those who were once popular and are now, without their previous affiliation, trying to restart their career with a whole new generation of listeners. Guess it goes to show that if you close your eyes for a year or five, if you let your audience slip through your fingers, if you don't feed them regularly, then they'll forget you and leave, and you will be starting at the bottom again.

Just a thought, really.