Closer to the Centre of Things: Rochford Street Review Previews the 19th Byron Bay Writers Festival

The 19th Byron Bay Wrtiers Festival runs from 7th to 9th August 2015

Rochford Street Review at the Byron Bay Writers Festival


Once upon a time, many, many years ago, a poet friend stood on a beach at Byron Bay and, gazing wistfully out to sea remarked “this is as close as I can get to the New York poets without leaving Australia”.  Looking back I wonder if, technically they were correct. Would you be closer to the New York School if you stood at the top of Cape York, or Lord Howe Island, or even Sydney in 1968? At the time, however, it seemed strangely appropriate to think that we were closer to the centre of things balanced, as we were, on the very edge of Australia.

Of course such seriousness did not last long. I believe the next comment had something to do with Frank O’Hara being run over on a beach and noticing some ominous tyre tracks leading down from the dunes. This was well before the event of the Byron Bay Bluesfest, or the Byron Bay Writers Festival, but there was still a lot of creativity happening in and out of town, in cafes, bars and parks. In those days the trains still ran through to Murwillumbah and I have a distant memory of a poetry reading on the station platform.

But Byron Bay, like the rest of us, has grown up at least a little and, while there may still be vibrancy on the streets, most of the cafes are now upmarket and poetry and writing a little harder to find. That is until the annual Byron Bay Writers Festival comes around. This year marks the 19th year of the festival which is held in the Arts & Industrial Estate (turn left as you head towards Byron along Ewingsdale Rd after turning off the Pacific Highway (is the upgrade finished yet?).

The Festival proper kicks off this Friday (5th August) but some events are already under way. A series of workshops, run by Moya Sayer-Jones,  Zanni Louise, Mandy Nolan, and Krissy Kneen among others will run at various locations around Byron in the 4 days leading up to the festival. The Five Writers Road Trip (5 Writers, 5 Towns in 5 days) kicked off on 1 August in Coffs Harbour before moving to Grafton on 2 August, Casino on the 3rd, Astonville on the 4th before finishing up at Murwillumbah on the 5th. The five writers undertaking the tour are Lian Hearn, Zohab Zee Khan, Ellen van Neerven, Mark Dapin and Chris Flynn who conduct workshops and discuss books and reading during panel discussions at each stop.

BBWF2015_5Writers5Days5Towns_A3 Poster 2

These days, of course, the prestige of a Writers Festival depends on their guest list, the balance between international and local names, established and emerging and so on. After Sharon Olds recently made the trip to Mildura it was with some interest to see who was making the trip to Byron Bay in Early August. I shouldn’t have been worried because, despite a handful of last minute cancellations (Helen Garner, Joanna Rakoff and Osamah Sami), there is an impressive line up of local and international talent at this years festival.

One particular highlight for me would have to be British-Pakistani Political commentator Tariq Ali in conversation with Kerry O’Brien (Bush in Babylon must have one of the best cover designs of the last two decades). For the more literary minded other international guest include the 2015 Booker longlisted Nigerian writer Chigozie Obioma and the Mexican-based writer, Jennifer Clement, whose novel, Prayers for the Stolen, was shortlisted for this year’s PEN Faulkner Award for Fiction.

For the local writers Kate Grenville speaking on her most recent book, One Life: My Mother’s Story,  on Saturday at Byron Bay Library would have to be high on the list of must sees. I saw Kate speak on One Life at the Sydney Writers Festival this year and I can tell you you are in for a treat.

David Hallett with special guests Daevid Allen (at his final public performance)  at Writers at the Rails, Byron bay 1st March 2015.  - Photograph by David Hancock

David Hallett (left)with special guests Daevid Allen (at his final public performance) at Writers at the Rails, Byron bay 1st March 2015. – Photograph by David Hancock (

The tribute to poet, guitarist, singer, composer and performance artist Daevid Allen on Saturday at the Lone Goat Gallery is also something to pencil in. Allen, who died in March this year, founded the band Soft Machine (named after a William S. Burroughs novel) in the 1960’s and took part in the 1968 Paris uprising where he apparently handed out teddy bears to police. After touring and performing and living in a hippy commune Allen returned to Australia in 1981 he returned to Australia and took up residence in Byron Bay. He continued to work on performance pieces and poetry as well performing Jazz, Acid and psychedelic rock as well as a genre called space rock. His official website can be found at index.html. The tribute to Allen will be MCed by poet David Hallett who organised Allen’s last public reading in Byron Bay on 1st march this year. Also reading and remembering  will be  Vasudha Harte, Riddhi, Frank Khouri, Willie McElroy and Robert Gibson.

Other writers to keep an eye out for include Emily Bitto, winner of the latest Stella Prize, James Bradley (, Jane Caro, Matthew Condon, Robert Drewe. Ramona Koval, Sofie Laguna, winner of this years Miles Franklin, Angelo Loukakis. Moya Sayer-Jones and many many more.

The Arakwal Bumberlinpeope gathered for thousands of years on the land we now call Byron Bay to tell their stories and sing their ceremonies. If think of the Byron Bay Writers Festival of existing in such a tradition then it becomes much older than the 19 years of the current festival. Lets see this gathering of writers and creativity in a much larger and longer tradition in the Northern Rivers and maybe we can build some links to the ancient stories in this land. Rochford Street Review  wishes everyone taking part a happy 2015 Festival!

– Mark Roberts


For further details on the Byron Bay Writers Festival go to

The program for the festival can be found at

Sara Khamkoed will be covering the 19th Byron bay Writers Festival for Rochford Street Review


A Curious & Casual Blend of Metaphors: Nathan Hondros Reviews ‘Nightswim’ by Justin Lowe

Nightswim by Justin Lowe Bluepepper 2014

NightswimAccording to the brief biography at the beginning of Justin Lowe’s new collection Nightswim, the poet’s origins are part inner-city Sydney and part European. This isn’t notable in itself, even considering Lowe’s childhood spent on the Spanish island of Minorca; Lowe finished a tertiary education in Australia, then spent years back on the continent working odd jobs and on his writing. Then, once again, he returned.

Nothing unusual here.

However, somewhere along the road, these two geographical threads of Lowe’s formative life resolved into an Australian poetry of unusual lineage and a refreshingly clear and confident understanding of its place. In fact, much of Lowe’s work verges on an invigorating and casual disregard of its Australian-ness. What a relief to read poetry that isn’t anxious or overly concerned about its hierarchy in the world.

It seems I come across much Australian poetry that’s locked in an anxious struggle with its Australian origins. Years ago, gripped by this anxiety, we imitated the mid-war English poets until the Beats and the New York School gave a new generation of poseurs a style to riff on. I’m as guilty as anyone of pretending to be Frank O’Hara, I suppose. Then there were other currents and vogues, each more post-modern and avant-garde than the last.

As Ben Etherington wrote recently in the Sydney Review of Books: ‘It seems all Australian poets took the same two courses at university: “British and Irish poetry from Wordsworth to Heaney” and “Modern American poetry from Whitman to L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E”’ (same courses the critics took, by the way).

At times, the antidote to this cringe seems to be wave after wave of reactionary and sickly parochialism in which we make a parade of our Australian-ness: pastoral poems of wildlife and landscape and half-hearted philosophical meanderings through contemporary Australian cultural and political phenomena.

Of course, there has been our own brand of innovation in the meantime, notably Les Murray’s distinctive voice that is at home in Poetry magazine as it is in Bunyah. See also my recent review of Andrew Burke’s latest collection.

Justin Lowe’s poetry is just as ambitious. He is working a vein that neither resents nor idolises its geographical origin, but instead accepts it. It’s from this standpoint that we might make a poetry that is unequivocally new and ours. His is the kind of creativity accessible to poets for whom being Australian is not a live issue (just as it wasn’t for Brett Whiteley as a visual artist and, ultimately, it wasn’t for Patrick White as a novelist). Why should being Australian be something anyone should care about, here or elsewhere?

That the poetry in Nightswim grew out of Europe and Newtown grunge and has now escaped to the Blue Mountains is a matter of fact, and not much besides. It’s not a source of conflict to be grappled with in a poem, or to be overcompensated for by an appeal to our distinctive natural environment. There are forms and influences in Lowe’s work that I understand through reference to my own life, far away on the West Coast; I don’t need to appreciate this poetry only through a narrow context of place.

It is only through such a sensibility that Lowe is capable of poems such as ‘Nightswim’; there is a curious and casual blend of metaphors at work in the poem, which finds ideas such as a ‘…kookaburra hunched like Apollo…’ Lowe’s voice is wise and reflective, but he also has an effective expressive register; poems move between narrative and the most beautiful and natural of lyrics without a seam. He has also mastered a pleasing disregard for what in contemporary poetry might be considered ‘on trend’.

‘Gulgong’, one my favourites in this collection, is an interesting example of this resistance to voguishness. It employs religious imagery to drive itself to a lyrical conclusion; the writer has ‘the burning knees of a supplicant’, and contemplates the sleight of hand involved as ‘God works the latch’.

What’s more, a man of a certain age writing poetry about the haunted houses of relationships can’t be described as en vogue, but he’s sure as hell more interesting that many of the poets who supposedly are. Take this, from ‘Eternity — for Tania’:

finish what you are doing
and I will talk you through my sleeplessness,
the red orange green kite tails
the traffic lights strew in the rain.

This is beautiful craftwork, and it’s wrought like this through most of the poems.

Lowe admits to getting a start in the writing of poetry by knocking up song lyrics for a series of bands. This prior relationship also plays a role in his latest work, especially in some of Lowe’s titles. ‘River Deep, Mountain High’ obviously refers to the Ike and Tina Turner song, ‘Closing Time’ is also a song and an album by Tom Waits, and ‘Sunday Morning’ perhaps refers to the Velvet Underground’s anthemic masterpiece. Lowe’s titles also allude to other works, such as ‘The Glass Canoe’, the great novel by David Ireland.

Many of the best poems in this collection are the one pagers delivered with punch, along with phrases and lines Lowe should be famous for; lines that are hypnotic, and worth repeating to yourself, as though they were in fact song lyrics.

…the inevitable dog
barking at the malicious gossip of its chains

–  ‘Australia’


the murmur of love’s worn tyres

– ‘At World’s End’


…the sadness of things rises
in me like stale bread

– ‘Vallejo’

My surrealism sensors were on high alert in many of these poems. Lowe’s poetics are infused with the female form, and have a straight-forward but dreamlike character that delves directly into the nature of consciousness. In ‘Closing Time’:

four days from here
a city will be found,
a new drink discovered,
and a strange girl rescued from the rain.

There is frequently a love of the city and an appreciation of the bush, but both subjects are attacked to reveal their metaphysical importance rather than as an exercise in wordplay.

Having said all that, there are some poems in this collection that may have benefited from the kind of pressure a good editor can bring to bear. For example, the frequent use of ‘whispers’ could be edited back; it’s a word that lost its effectiveness long ago.

But this seems like nitpicking. This is a headstrong and determined collection. Even the flaws seem forgivable as they belong to the self-made ethos permeating this collection.

It was perhaps in Sydney’s Newtown, and close to the music and arts community of the 90s, that Lowe developed this sense of self-determination that is also common among the musicians of this era. Why bother with the rigmarole of labels and publishers when we have the means of getting the work out there ourselves? Why try to ‘fit in’ with a middling stable of contemporaries? Lowe has released his own work over the last few years and his Bluepepper website is now a staple for readers searching for new and good poetry. Living now in the Blue Mountains, I can imagine Lowe sitting above ‘the scene’, allowing himself the possibilities of that freedom.

So, this is an Australian poetry that has an uncharacteristic origin and international outlook. It’s not stewing in the juices of its own scene, as much Australian poetry seems to be; it is not a reaction against currents in the art, nor does it propose one. Lowe’s poetry is more mature than this. It has carefully considered the generation that went before, but has skilfully avoided its self-indulgent excesses (aforementioned ham-fisted nature and pastoral poems that wallow in their Australian-ness, or post-modern doggerel).

The best Australian poetry will come from poets like Lowe who’ve stopped longing to be elsewhere or pretending to be entirely here, and who ambivalent to the particular continent where they happen to be marooned. They will have stopped pretending to be New York School or French Symbolists or Punks or even Australians.

Like Justin Lowe, they will be all of these things and none of them.

– Nathan Hondros

Donate Ad2


Nightswim is available from





Fidelio Geronimo: Duncan Hose’s Launch speech for Corey Wakeling’s ‘Goad Omen’.

Goad Omen by Corey Wakeling. Giramondo Publishing 2013.

Goad Omen was launched in Melbourne at Collected Works Bookshop by Duncan Hose on 20th March 2013. Here is Duncan’s launch speech – and at Duncan’s direction “all potential typos” have been retained “to carry the sense of a live and faulty reading”.

GoadO Just as a guide to the code of intimacy here, when I say Corey i mean Wakeling, and when i say Wakeling I mean Corey.

When a’ was a hippy   I always knew in the bush when I was going to see a snake; before I would see one, the simple phrase “ I’m going to see a snake” would sleether through my  head.  I b’now have a much more dependable source of this canny within the uncanny: every time I read a Corey Wakeling poem I know I’m going to see a snake.  The same cold thrill, the same terrestrial community that is at the same time utterly alien.

W.C Fields used to say “I always keep a some brandy on me in case I see a snake – which I also keep handy.”  Wakeling’s poetry serves the same purpose, not to send us to brandy, but to have something like having a triple AAA battery threwn at your head on call, to get a little charge, to be a little bit more awake, to make a little earthquake.

Corey and I shared a cell in Parkville Penitentiary  for over two years.  This is hardly important except that I’ve heard the bustard type.  I have had the pleasure of listening to him practice his compositional principles.  He types el rapido, and then like a dandy on a highwire he will stand very still, balanced on the line he has just written, with the weird vertigo of there being no skyline, no ground, and then he proceeds.  He is a very exacting writer; his retreats  –  say deletions – are sudden, inexorable and not so rare.  Like crossing der Alps I suppose he knows to take a few steps back to advance.  & having said this I am now struck now by how alike Hannibal is to Corey.

Poetry as we know is a stunt occupation.  The question is how does one go on, how to proceed?  By poiesis:  “I can’t go on I must go on.”  Though he is the subject of Wakeling’s doctoral thesis I wouldn’t bother to look for the influence of Sam Beckett in Corey’s poetry, except for the tragicomic noise of this phrase: I can’t go on I must go on.  This demands a continual return to the arche, the beginning of one’s cultural moment, not as the curse of homework but as the work of Eros.

Appetite is both cause and effect in Wakeling’s poetry; I wonder if we can say that this is a poetry of the appetitial.   Like the blue whale I’m the one with the baleen, the clear jawed rakes, and Wakeling’s poems are like the promise of krill: swathes of continually spawning, beautifully articulated and luminescent little machines.  And tasty.

Like a CyTwomply painting, Wakeling’s field poems are intensive communities of individually living lines, which suffer horizontal as well as vertical migrations of meaning, within discrete poems and across poems.  Reading Goad Omen is a lot like seeing the Quattro Stagioni for the first time: one is both delighted and appalled that a mortal has almost been able to get the whole world into a single work.

I would put this next bit in a speech bubble.  I remember Cakeling saying once:

A pyramid is just a Sign but the sphinx is the shit.

And there’s my point.  Wakeling is walking poiesis:  his whole being is a compositional principle. Hearing Corey’s poems one by one, here and there, one gets freshened by little squalls of intimacy. But we are also facing the most sophisticated kinds of evasions: in order to get at what might be true, and if we are concerned with achieving real presence, we understand that poetry has to lie incessantly to be immediate.  This is a lot like when Frank O’Hara says to Bill Berkson, just before the epic “Biotherm”: “what is under your skin is under your skin.’” This is the visceral space of Wakeling’s poetry parlour and his hospitality.

These poems are written in community; they are poems that are reading poems, they are a response to other kinds of poems being written around the world and poems being written by his friends in Melbourne …  they are goaded and they goad.  They properly function among the unrestrained Babylonia of Australian poetry in particular … remembering that the curse of that town is that no-one could understand the language of any other, so didacticism disappears while music and tongue-sports take over.

The situation of Babylon belongs to love as well as language; in a crucial transmission one finds within language many languages, and the lover will say to the beloved “but what do you mean?”   The story of Babylon is an undecided one:  is the confusion of tongues a curse, or is it the institution of difference which makes the space for desire.  I suspect it is both and this fractiousness is what we come to love about a goad omen.

This book is a generator of an Australian phantasmagoria: it has the spy for the rest of the world, functioning as an eccentric centre.  Of course we can presume no single Australia, they are legion, a series of tricks of the time space caper:

left to pass time on this vile rock,
left to grab the roiling wheel as starboard the variorum abnegates
new variorum, floor to the still unrenovated floor
to the front bar of the Clyde.

I read in this the strange tiers of the history of the present, and the poem as time machine.  The variational and mutational all exist as possibilities simultaneously through multiple authorships.  “The Clyde” as you may know is a plain and functional boozer in Carlton.  For years the front bar has been an exhibit of promised renovation in which we could read the pathos and bathos of terra nullius, settlement, abandonment and dust.  What is underneath the Clyde is “country,” a kind of language we may have bothered to learn too late.  The Clyde is now fully renovated, including faux renaissance tapestries in heavy gold frames and a blonde piano.  Wakeling’s poem sits in the front bar of the Clyde in mythic time, as Prometheus “Left to pass time on this vile rock” and as a hapless member of the Pequod, the whale hunting ship of Moby Dick, the glorious allegory of capitalism, individualism and the destiny of the West.  Wakeling’s poems constantly exploit this telescopy:  the more local and the more obscure the wound, the more you may be sure that behind the scab is the gore of history and the bloody currency of the world.

In one version of space and time these are incredibly dense poems, and so thinking like an electron this leads me to believe they are incredibly spacious poems, if we think of the Earth’s supposed solid iron core as spacious.  This from “That Part in Basquiat ..’”:

into the bed of nails, dropping into aeroplane carcass, dropping
like dead lead into wet lead, dropping like wet lead on to dead lead,
from lea to bed to lea to lead ad infinitum.

…………………………..Why is the queen a scallop …

Wakeling is adept at the matchless switch, turning attention from territory to territory, territory to face,  face to phantasmagoria, death valley to shopping mall.  While seeming to be an endless series of turning points or rivets , they  remain always within the spinning and spoiling action of the trope, and in this way begin to give us a sense of the dreadful coherence of the world.

I love the shimmy in these poems, between clamour and control, dictatorship and free love. There is a kind of soft-shell megalomania, an appetite for the world itself with an indifference of bios and graphos.  In the manner of a Forbes or an Ashbery, these poems seduce with the music of pseudo-logic which quickly marbles into the sur-real, in the sense of searching for the more real than real, the “over-real,” and this seems to be found in the action of words themselves: phrases flow on, tropes divide and multiply like bacteria, intoxicated by their advance, savouring their own conceits.  There is never an et cetera in Wakeling’s poems,  one can never presume what is to follow, one is never blasé about the trip; rather know that as the train jerks along Wakeling is just out the front, on the pointy end of the cow catcher,  laying fresh track, often using bits of track that we have just travelled over.

Wakeling’s poetry is a private periodical of the exploitation of our vocabulary,  a vocabulary not just of words but of forms, phrases, other poems and poet’s faces, cinematic moments,  novels, paintings and the acute intellectual meningitis of popular culture.   It is probable that the requisitioned vocabulary we find here will exceed that of all comers, and so we understand that this book does not advance alone but is part of a phantom phalanx of cultural texts from the last 4000 years or so.  Remember the brutal pleasures of modernism? This force of exotic mercenaries does not ask for a literal codex like the dictionary but insists we acquaint ourselves with them as they come in their high contingency and baffling company.  This also points us to the books textual profligacy, its reckless spending, casting about alms, an obscene generosity like that of Heliogabalus who would bury his guests in rose petals at dinner.

This from ‘The Bucking Bronco’:

Diabolical Bronco entertains.  No more painters in the bloody eyes.
Refrain from context, red eyes.  Visor brims tucked into the sneaky
afternoon.  Pints of platinum.  Entertainment.
How many horses power this metal conjuror jolting,
whinying by dint of hot chanting, displaced bartender
but a grateful grimace.  Black Rock beach.

There are several of the striking things about this passage.  One is that this is a poetry that is always potentially commenting upon its strategies of composition, since it is always appropriating and abandoning techniques and conceits.  Now is always the moment of application.  From this we have the curious fact that all of these poems are speaking in the present.  Metaphysicians might say this is always the case, but Corey is careful to put this is place grammatically and through tenacious clause.  We also read a pronounced smitten-ness for Melbourne, not as a nostalgic reproduction of a European city but as the idea of a city; a place that is invented and courts continual re-invention.  This remythologising of place on a molecular level extends to the rest of Australia in the book, as a book, and it takes the baton of the notion of an Australian high modernism, and, uh, like a gargantuan terrier, proceeds to chew it up.

There is a good deal of poetry as anti-art , poems that are not recuperable as pleasurable doingys (a toady relative of the doily). These are poems that would come to your wedding with a horse’s tail in the lapel when you asked for carnations- they are gentleman ratbag poems.  So we have some of the finest lyrical streaks lately written steamily mixed through some of the most outrageous trash humping we might ever hope to see in a poem.

I always get a sense of the collisional reading and listening to Wakeling’s work, the infraction of zygote and spermatozoa; the blending of genetic codes that is the protein history of the world is sensible in these living ciphers that are both keepers of secrets and nothing.


Far more than cryptomnesia these days, may it
be born then in the chrysalis
of remembrances, the good forgetting forgotten
running his hands through Akita fur
of acres of shivering fibrillating vice figures
of the iodine-poisoned anodised, glade lain in a country
of cryptomeria.

Cryptomeria it’s a Japanese fir tree, something about pinecones and packed seeds and coronas of the sun.  It’s a poem for the liver, it’s a poem for chickweed and we get to overhear in a sense what the earth would say to itself, what the earth has said to itself.  I do love the way Corey’s poems return to things as the unwritten signatures of the world, without investing these things with the sentimentality of Romanticism  or the piousness of the ecologic.

Coerey’s poetry minds me of the troubadour  William IX, Duke of Aquitane, who is credited with inventing  trobar clus, the close or closed song, a poetic style composed of complex metrics, intricate rhymes, and words chosen more for their sound than for their meaning. William writes:  “I will put in it (my vers) more folly than wisdom, and one will find there mixed pêle-mêle love, joy and youth.”

But in love we now understand certain difficulty, and involvement with complexity, and also, why not, a measure of brotherly cruelty. What is most pleasing to me personally, and this has only come to my attention since being able to read  Corey’s poems as a full collection, is the consistent note of liquorice contempt that underlies the flare of their feu d’esprit.  There seems to be an unending rally against the torpitude of lazy linguistic citizenship, and against a certain conception of the poet who is not in love with language but is in love with their love of language.   We might say that Wakeling is a lover of lovers of language, his work is involved with an impressive range of trouabdours, trobar  trouvere, the searchers of songs.  As he writes in “Current Affairs” “Each key is a glyph/ to the recombinant Song of the Dead.”

This is a game for connoisseurs of poetry and of words in which language is made to do its most incredible work, which, in the words of R. Howard Bloch, ‘denies the purchase of language on the world and represents a symbolic closure of language upon itself, its substitution for action and constitution  as event.’    This is not an effort of exclusion or elitism, but a transmission of a kind of amorous nobility.  Wakeling’s courtliness does not rely on patronage and ritual condescension: to enter one simply has to buy the book.

The buffalo on the cover, a custom illustration for the work,  is the author, part North American praire sucker, a woolley heft that rears but is balanced by the strong feminine lines that make up the behind, capped with tiny clogs for a typographic charge.   Wakeling’s book is an envoi for a larger, hungering territory called Wakeling’s poetry, a limitless baroque pantry of inter-special sweetmeats:  it’s a dazzling experience for the omnivore and copraphage alike.  So many things are here properly addressed: the relationship of seafood and communism, to pick a hasty example.  All is served with frightening dexterity, strict tenderness and an occasional cudgelling.

I think we are all literally stunned.  A good thing too.  And so for lovers of the permanent gambol, prepare to be spoilt.  Rotten.  I hand over to you the millennial threat and the promise of CW’s Goad Omen.

– Duncan Hose


Duncan Hose is a poet, painter and academic scholar.  His latest book of poems, One Under Bacchus (Gig Ryan’s launch speech, was published in 2011 by Inken Publisch, who also released his first collection, Rathaus, in 2007.  He has published poems in Cordite, Steamer, Jacket, Jacket 2, Island, Overland, Rabbit and The Sun Herald, and in 2013 he edited a special edition of Cordite on Ratbag Poetry, and the “Phantasmagoria” edition of Rabbit.  His work is anthologised in Outcrop: radical Australian poetry of land (Black Rider Press 2013). In 2010 he was the recipient of the Newcastle Poetry Prize.  Inken Publisch can be contacted at

Goad Omen is available from


Rochford Street Review relies on the support of its readers to continue. If you like what we are doing please consider making a donation.