The Midnight Oil Paradox
Australia's a pretty weird place.
We're a continent masquerading as a country, where our population density sits at just 3 people per square kilometre – somewhere in between Mongolia and Namibia, making us one of the least populated places on Earth.
We invented WiFi and gave it away for free, make all our money from digging up fossil fuels, and invite our biggest, toughest blokes to start a fight with their teammates in the middle of the footy season, based solely on which side of an imaginary line they were born.
But personally, as a kid growing up here, one of the most consistent - and frustrating - parts of Aussie culture is our attitude towards artists.
Sure, everybody knows we like to tear down anyone who talks themselves up or even accepts vague recognition without giving all credit to the boys, but Tall Poppy Syndrome is neither new or uniquely Australian.
In fact, pretty much all of the former British colonies have an unspoken rule that it's good to be great but it's very bad to acknowledge it.
Don't just blame the English though, it turns out each of the Scandinavian countries have their own version of it, known as the Law of Jante.
No, this is something we rarely talk about, which in my opinion, might make it even more damaging than our attitude towards taking pride in one's own success.
I'm talking about something I call the Midnight Oil Paradox.
Picture this: It's 7am on any construction site in Australia.
The radio's blaring, tradies are settling in for another day of hard yakka, and there it is – that unmistakable sound of Peter Garrett's voice cutting through the morning air like a circular saw through timber.
The irony would be delicious if it weren't so tragic: Here we are, a nation of supposed larrikins and straight-shooters, collectively bellowing along to some of the most politically charged lyrics ever written... while simultaneously maintaining an almost aggressive disinterest in what they actually mean.
It's not just about stadium rock anthems – this contradiction runs deep in our cultural DNA. We're the nation that produced Brett Whiteley, Germaine Greer and AB Original, yet try mentioning contemporary art at your local pub. Watch how quickly the conversation shifts to real estate prices or the footy.
But here's where it gets interesting: This isn't just about anti-intellectualism or tall poppy syndrome.
Those are too simple as explanations.
This is about something more fundamental – our deep discomfort with the very idea that art might ask something of us beyond mere consumption.
Think about it: We're perfectly happy to have art as wallpaper, as background noise, as something to hum along to while we work. But the moment it demands engagement with its meaning? Mate, you've lost us.
The cost of this cultural self-sabotage is staggering.
While we comfort ourselves with statistics about our sporting achievements and coffee quality, we're losing our best artistic minds to more welcoming shores. Our creative industries slip in global rankings not for lack of talent but for lack of cultural permission to take their work seriously.
We've become masters at packaging our isolation as laid-back charm, our intellectual timidity as pragmatic humility. It's the same defensive crouch that sends our best creators overseas – not just for funding, but for permission to think big without embarrassment.
So here's my modest proposal: What if we started treating our relationship with art the way we treat our relationship with sport? We don't just watch the footy – we analyze it, debate it, let it break our hearts and lift our spirits. We understand that deeper engagement makes the experience richer, not wanker.
Because the real danger isn't in missing the message of a particular song or painting. It's in perpetuating a culture where engaging with meaning itself is seen as somehow un-Australian.
Next time you hear a Midnight Oil song blasting from a construction site, remember: You're not just witnessing a contradiction – you're seeing the frontier where Australia's future relationship with art and meaning is being negotiated, one reluctant head-bob at a time.
Look, I get it. For generations of Aussie men, engaging with art's deeper meaning has felt about as comfortable as a budgie smuggler three sizes too small. We weren't raised for this. Our dads didn't sit us down and ask how a painting made us feel. Most of us learned early that being "cultured" was just another way to get your head kicked in at school.
But here's the thing: If we can learn to talk about mental health, if we can start acknowledging that maybe our relationship with the bottle isn't as funny as we pretend it is, surely we can find the courage to admit that sometimes – just sometimes – we actually give a damn about what the song means.
After all, if we're man enough to cry at the footy, we're man enough to feel something at the gallery.
Even if we have to pretend we're just there for the free wine.
