Zen and the Art of Rock ‘n’ Roll: A Barney Dawson Tale
By Claudia Fontainebleau
raises interested eyebrow while adjusting coffee mug collection
Picture this: It’s 3:40 AM in Wandarin, NSW, and I’m sitting cross-legged on a threadbare picnic rug with Barney Dawson, the 60-year-old frontman of legendary Aussie rock outfit “The Broken Strings.” The pre-dawn air carries a hint of eucalyptus and the distant sound of kookaburras warming up their vocal cords. Barney, meanwhile, is attempting to meditate in shorts that could’ve been painted on—the Toyota Rockettes logo stretched across his thigh tells its own story of sponsorship deals past.
“You know, Claudia,” he says, breaking his supposed silence for the fifteenth time in ten minutes, “I used to think Zen was just something you got from too many VBs after a gig. But mate, it’s like that old butcher’s saying – every bit of the beast has its purpose.”
I suppress a giggle as he adjusts his position on the meditation cushion, which keeps trying to escape from under him like a nervous wallaby. “Tell me more about this transformation, Barney. How did Australia’s wildest rocker become Buddha with a beer gut?”
“Oi! It’s a meditation-enhanced torso, thank you very much,” he laughs, patting his substantial middle. “Well love, it’s like this,” he grins, giving up on the cushion and sprawling back on the grass. “Ten years ago, I was living the typical rock star life – we’d sink tins, chase birds, and pump out chart-toppers like there was no tomorrow. Then the old ticker gave me a wake-up call that wasn’t on the rider, if you know what I mean.”
The pre-dawn air is cool and still as Barney shares how his health scare led him to a Zen retreat in the Blue Mountains. “There I was, right, surrounded by all these peaceful types, and I’m thinking, ‘Strewth, I’ve joined a cult of mime artists!'” He lets out a belly laugh that probably wakes half of Wandarin.
“But then this monk says something that hits harder than my first number one: ‘Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.’ I’m sitting there thinking, ‘Well that’s a bloody rip-off, isn’t it?’ But then it clicked—like that moment when you finally nail the bridge in a song you’ve been working on for months.”
Barney sits up, suddenly serious. “See, it means the universe doesn’t give a rat’s arse if you’re enlightened or not—you still gotta do the dishes and take out the garbage. The difference is all in how you see it.”
I watch as Barney attempts to demonstrate a Zen breathing technique, only to sneeze dramatically, sending a nearby galah squawking into the air. “Sixties is the new thirties,” he wheezes, “just with more wrinkles on the old fella and more rest breaks between songs.”
“And how’s the band taking to this new Zen Barney?” I ask, trying not to laugh as he attempts to cross his legs again.
“Oh, they reckon I’ve gone troppo. But when I explained it’s like mixing tracks – every sound has its place, even the mistakes – they started getting it. Plus, meditation’s a lot cheaper than the stuff we used to do to find inner peace, if you catch my drift.”
As the sun begins to peek over the horizon, Barney stands up, his knees cracking like a drummer’s rim shot. “Come on, love. Let me introduce you to the boys. They’re about as Zen as a pub brawl, but they’re starting to come around.”
—
The Broken Strings’ rehearsal space is exactly what you’d expect from a band that’s been together since the ’80s—a converted shed behind drummer Mick’s house, walls plastered with faded posters, the air thick with the smell of amplifier dust and decades of spilled beer.
“Oi, you lot! Put your best face on. We’ve got a journalist here,” Barney announces as we enter.
“Must be a slow news day,” quips bassist Trevor, a lanky bloke with more hair on his chin than his head. “What’s the story? ‘Ancient rockers refuse to die’?”
“She’s here about our Zen journey, you galah,” Barney says, settling into a worn leather armchair that’s clearly his throne.
“Zen journey?” snorts lead guitarist Davo, a compact man with forearms like Popeye and a collection of tattoos that could tell Australia’s rock history. “Is that what we’re calling it when you fall asleep during sound check now?”
I can’t help but laugh. “So not everyone’s embraced the Zen lifestyle?”
“Look, love,” Mick says, twirling a drumstick between his fingers with surprising dexterity, “when Barney first came back from that retreat talking about emptying cups and being the space between thoughts, we thought he’d finally fried his last brain cell. But then something weird happened.”
“Our music got better,” Trevor admits grudgingly. “It’s like… we stopped trying so hard.”
Barney nods sagely. “See, that’s the whole Zen paradox, isn’t it? The harder you chase something, the more it runs away. Like that groupie in Perth—what was her name, Davo?”
“Sheila,” all three band members answer in unison.
“Every Sheila was named Sheila back then,” Barney winks at me. “Anyway, we started applying these Zen ideas to our music. That concept of ‘mu’—emptiness. Instead of filling every bloody second with noise, we learned to appreciate the spaces between notes.”
“Yeah, and it’s a good thing too,” Mick adds. “At our age, we need those spaces to catch our breath.”
“Our new album’s called ‘The Sound of One Hand Strumming,'” Davo says with a straight face before they all burst into laughter.
I watch as they launch into a rehearsal, and I’m struck by how these four blokes—with a combined age that could qualify for a seniors’ discount at the local RSL—move together like they’re parts of a single organism. There’s a mindfulness to their playing that belies their larrikin banter.
During a break, Barney brings me a cup of tea in a mug that says “Zen AF” and settles back into his chair.
“You know what the real Zen teaching is, love? Every gig, every hangover, every moment—they’re all part of the song. Just like that butcher’s meat—they’re all the best bits.”
“That’s surprisingly profound, Barney.”
“Don’t sound so shocked! I’ve had sixty years to accidentally stumble into wisdom. It’s like my old man used to say—even a blind galah finds a worm sometimes.”
Trevor snorts from across the room. “Tell her about your meditation app.”
Barney looks sheepish. “Ah, yeah. I developed this app called ‘Zen As, Mate.’ It’s guided meditation for bogans. Instead of ocean sounds, it’s got the sizzle of snags on the barbie and distant sounds of the cricket commentary.”
“And instead of a gentle bell, it’s got Barney yelling ‘Oi, wake up ya drongo, enlightenment’s over!'” Davo adds, sending the room into hysterics.
As the laughter subsides, I notice something remarkable—beneath the jokes and the taking the piss, these men have found something genuine. There’s a contentment in their eyes that speaks of people who’ve made peace with their journey.
“Our first gig after Barney went all Buddha on us was at the Wandarin RSL,” Mick recalls. “Middle of the set, the power goes out. Old Barney would’ve thrown a wobbly, but new Barney just starts an acoustic singalong in the dark. Had the whole place going, even the grumpy old veterans.”
“That’s when I knew he wasn’t just talking shit,” Trevor adds. “He was actually living it.”
Barney shrugs. “Life’s like a three-chord progression, love. Simple, repetitive, but you can make magic with it if you’re paying attention.”
As I pack up my notes, Barney walks me to my car. The afternoon sun catches the silver in his hair, and for a moment, I can see the young rocker he once was and the wise old man he’s becoming—existing in the same space, like one of those Zen paradoxes he keeps talking about.
“Any last words of wisdom for our readers, Barney?”
He thinks for a moment, then grins. “Yeah. Enlightenment is just like rock ‘n’ roll—it’s all about finding your rhythm in the chaos. And remember, even Buddha had to deal with bloody mosquitoes.”
And there you have it, folks. Who knew enlightenment could come with an Aussie accent and a side of cheeky wisdom? As Barney would say, “Live now, pay later, it’s a diamond’s worth.”
raises interested eyebrow one last time And that’s my time with The Broken Strings—proving that you’re never too old to find your Zen, and never too enlightened to laugh at yourself. As for me, I’m off to download “Zen As, Mate” and maybe rethink my career choices. After all, if a man who once snorted ants with Ozzy Osbourne can find inner peace, there’s hope for this struggling comedian-slash-journalist yet!
Note: This article is a part of an ongoing test of our Maxys Publishing System = a "humanity centric - Ai Enhanced Transformation" system currently in development.
