I might come back and give it five stars later if it keeps popping into my mind as it is at the moment. ( )

4 1/2 stars: Super, couldn't put it down

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From the back cover: Peter Garrett's life so far has been deeply felt and fully and passionately lived. A man of boundless energy, compassion, intelligence and creativity, he has already achieved enough to fill several lives. From his idyllic childhood growing up in the northern suburbs of Sydney, to an early interest in equality and justice; from the height of the 60s culture shock at ANU to fronting the iconic Australian band Midnight Oil; from his time as a galvanizing activist for the environment to being the only unaligned Cabinet minister in two Labor governments, Garrett has an extraordinary story to tell.

He writes movingly about his lifelong mission to protect the environment and champion indigenous communities and issues, about his love for his family and his passion for our country; what it means to him and what it can become.

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I usually don't like autobiographies, but Garrett's was quite well written. No "dirt", but also not bragadaccio in the slightest. Merely telling anecdotes about his very full, activist life. Clearly very intelligent, a number of things, particularly his reaction to his father's early death, struck me. I also appreciated that he appears to have a stable marriage and deep abiding love for his wife Doris, and their three daughters. A recommended read to any fan of music or Australian politics or environmentalistm. Some quotes that struck me:

"Black and white television arrived not long after we moved in, and proved a sensational drawcard. This blinking, moving diorama sucked children in like insects to neon. I pitied the affluent trailblazers in the street who'd been the first to acquire this magic box; they didn't get a moment's rest. Despite the magnetic attraction of moving pictures on tap, even when we got our own idiot box I loved being outside, and this was where I spent most of my time, playing with my brothers or the neighborhood kids.

I learned to [push my body] even when dark spots appeared at the edges of my vision and things went a bit erky, as all the fresh air was sucked out of the room. Legend has it that one night it got so hot all the windows and glass doors in the hotel misted over. This torrent of condensation dripped onto the floor, already awash with spilled beer and sweat pouring off the crowd. As people down front passed out, I leapt from the stage and tore across the road to grab a nighttime surf. It's true, and the Pacific Ocean held me in her cool embrace until I could see again. Head clearer and body cooled, I ran back to the pub and up onto the stage to finish the night.

[Discussing the death of his mother in a house fire when he was in his 20s]. Some commentators later singled out this traumatic event as an explanation for my extreme stage performances and a take-no-prisoners approach to life in general. They may have been right, though it's not a theory I've ever been particularly interested in addressing. I'm a fairly private person and I've always hated the idea of parading misery to gain sympathy or publicity. All I can say is that the grieving process took time, it was so searing and personal, but it was my pain and I felt I best honoured her memory by bearing it alone. Furthermore, I am hardly the only person to have experienced a family tragedy. THey are a constant in life, and I'm only too aware that others had gone through worse.

The younger generation was being held hostage by a system that seemed to have lost its way. We would need to search out ways to fight the madness. Turning swords into ploughshares wasn't going to happen overnight. Throwing up our hands or throwing things at the television wouldn't do. I could sense the ferment, and I wasn't the only one. It was as if the cosmos was willing something to happen; people were scanning the skies for some real action and my inner voice was getting louder, saying "Why don't you ge out and do something concrete, now?"

Our thoughts, habits, opinions, fears, and beliefs are all that we have. These are the non-material components of our character ..that make up an individual's identity. Surrendering those aspects that constitute an individual is a bigger step than most people think. For citizens living in a one-party state like China, where censorship and surveillance are a way of life, it's a corrosive reality.

I'm often asked what it's like to be in front of a crowd of 100,000 people, all cheering and chanting your name. My answer is that while it feels amazing, it's not about you. It's a kindred celebration between you, with your band partners, and a bigger bunch of part time friends joining up on songs that mean something to people at the time. Of course you're elated, but the dancing on air doesn't last, and you can't take it to heart.

I think part of the trick of hanging in there is not to get thrown off the scent: to remember to disrobe when the cheering stops. You can't take yourself too seriously, even if people around you are treating you as a cross between a prophet and a gift from the gods. It helps if you've inherited tough genes, but the privilege of popularity doesn't put off the day of reckoning. However you cut it, each of us is responsible for our own life, and everyone has to account for his or her actions.

When we'd done the big European festivals sharing the bill with Bowie and Dylan, Bob remarked that a band could tour forever on "Beds are Burning". I wasn't there to respond; I'd baulked on going backstage to say helo, as I didn't want to break the spell Dylan songs had over me by meeting their creator, though I'm sure he would have been charming, enigmatic, or maybe just Bob Dylan.

I feel a stirring in my gut when the notes ring out, when the rhythm locks in and a song begins. At the same time, I don't believe that music, by itself, changes the world. It's the people who make the changes--for better and for worse.

I've always believed that humans are born to sing, to make music, to dance, to tell stories, to paint pictures in order to celebrate life and to try to make sense of death. My visit to the nursing home was a reminder of how deeply the yearning for creative connection is embedded in our being. A lifetime's exposure to soap opera and sport can't erase it altogether; music and song are triggers that unlock memory and the shared experiences that make us human. A population grounded in literature and music, dance and theater, film, painting, and sculpture and art in all its forms of expression has a great reservoir to draw on in the lottery that is life.

If I wait long enough I'll see a shooting star, try and catch it, and put it in my pocket. It carrries the stuff we all came from, now falling from heavens back to earth. I can see new life taking root in the ground, new lives fuelled by love, bound to one another, growing into tomorrow. ( )