On August 1st, Paul Kelly announced his new album, Fever Longing Still.
Set for release at the beginning of November, Fever Longing Still will be the evergreen Australian singer-songwriter’s first collection of new original material since 2018’s Nature.
Always fond of a romantic ode or two, Kelly’s forthcoming album contains 12 new additions to his extensive catalogue of love songs spanning more than 40 years.
The album title comes from a line in Shakespeare’s Sonnet 147, with Kelly being inspired by the Bard’s wiring since his schooldays.
“I never know what the themes are until I am in the middle of doing a record,” Kelly says of his new album. “I don’t set out with an album in mind. Over the past 20 years I just get the band together and put down a batch of songs. I put them in what I call my odd-socks drawer on the computer and as they accumulate I see which ones work together.”
But what makes Kelly such a brilliant, enduring artist?
Back in 2020, Rolling Stone Australia unveiled the 50 Greatest Australian Artists of All Time issue, which paid tribute to the most impactful artists in Australian music history.
A strong contender for the top spot, Kelly made it to #10 in the end, with New Zealand musician Marlon Williams penning some words on one of his musical idols for the special issue.
Read what Williams had to say about Kelly below. The latter’s forthcoming album Fever Longing Still is out November 1st (pre-save/pre-order here).
50 Greatest Australian Artists of All Time – #10: Paul Kelly (by Marlon Williams)
I must’ve been ten the first time I heard a Paul Kelly song. We had a new Macintosh computer and my dad would borrow magazines from the library and rip the accompanying compilation CDs into iTunes (sorry Paul, sorry Rolling Stone).
The only problem was that dad never logged who the artist was, so there I was one day scrolling through the anonymous tracks when “My Winter Coat” came on. It had me completely: The streets the lovers walked down were the streets of my hometown; the market they played in was surely the one at the Christchurch Arts Centre. And at that age, I had seen just enough of the world to know the lover’s act of practical charity to shield the other from the cold with a well-fitting coat was more than just a prosaic detail. There was something luminous about everyday life.
A long time passed by before I ever actually registered the name Paul Kelly. My early teens saw me digging deeply into the cultural mythos of the American South, first through the likes of Dylan and The Band and then further back to Hank Williams and the Stanley Brothers. Then one day I stumbled across an album in the bluegrass section of the library: Paul Kelly with Uncle Bill – Smoke.
I was dubious, but having exhausted all the authentic, American bluegrass I thought I may as well give this outfit from Australia a crack. And there it was. That voice from the winter markets; piercing, strong and sure, and at the same time fragile and searching. This time it was a murder ballad sung in searing three part harmony, “I Don’t Remember a Thing”. Here he was expertly wielding musical and literal forms I naively thought sacred and specific to a place far away from Australia and New Zealand. It made me think it might be possible for a boy from Lyttelton to tell those kinds of stories, in that way, too.
“It made me think it might be possible for a boy from Lyttelton to tell those kinds of stories.”
To this day, Paul remains humbled by the task of songwriting, and awed by others successes. I think it’s this humility that allows so many Australians of all walks of life to trust him and celebrate him. To trust him with their stories; their sense of shared identity, loosely construed. Hannah Arendt said that good storytelling “reveals meaning without committing the error of defining it” – and that’s what Paul does. Nothing is axiomatic. Human joy and suffering are contingent states and, no matter how dark the dark or bright the bright, something might come along any minute and flip the script entirely.
A few months ago I was sitting backstage at a gig in Melbourne, and there was Paul, reading a book in the corner, as he’s often known to be doing. Anyone who’s been me in that situation knows the deafening silence. After a long while of nothing he peered over the top of his glasses at me. “Marlon, what’s your favourite key change in a song?” I furiously scanned my brain for the most interesting answer. “Probably the one in ‘And I Love Her’…”. He paused and thought for a moment. “The semitone up for George’s solo. Yeah, that is a good one,” and went back to his reading.
