James Victor Macintosh
- Home
- Recent Obituaries
James Victor Macintosh
- Aged: 69
- 10/10/1955
- 14/06/2024
- Born: Edinburgh, Scotland
- Departed: Glebe, NSW
Remembering The Life Of James Victor Macintosh
Funeral Details
05/07/2024
11:00 am
Glebe Town Hall, Main Hall, 160 St Johns Road, Glebe
Jimmy was a childhood friend, he was so fun and taught us younger brood many things. He was funny and generous, thats how I remember our dearly departed brother. Find peace now on the big sky dreaming..
My best mate, Jimmy Mac, died this week. I’ve been writing a memoir and as such was revving up to see him again. Check to see he was ok with what I had written about him. It was never intended to be a eulogy.
Jimmy and I met during our wonder years. We did all the first things together. Played in our first band together, ‘Customer Parking’. Smoked our first joint and ate our first tab of LSD together. Sat on the second ramp at Bondi, went surfing together. We grew up together.
Jimmy was a naturall inventive, gifted musician. He played electric guitar like he was ringing a bell. He wrote songs. Way before I ever did or even thought possible. He taught me my first guitar chords, the holy trinity: G, D, and C.
Just kids when we met living in Kings Cross. We caught the bus to school from out in front of The Mansions. The 324 to Vaucluse boys’ high. We were thirteen years old and ready to bust loose, raring to go. We were cheeky and we were naughty and we free spirits in a world that was changing fast . It was 1970 and there was a big generational change happening. You could smell it in the air in Kings Cross, it smelt like patchouli oil, Indian Beedi cigarettes and smelly leafy pot.
The Cross was jumping out of its skin The Vietnam war was in town. Cashed up American Gi’s were fuelling the renaissance. Bringing new life into the gals faded boho decadence. Everything was changing, everything was in flux. Jimmy lived up the road from me and just a little further up the road from both of us. With its whack installations and its art house George Greenough surf movies. Was the beacon of change, the shock of the new, our citadel of hipness. The biggest freak antenna in town. The Yellow House. Calling all freaks, calling all freaks to The Yellow House. Come in Jimmy and Tony, this your tribe, these are the real soul people
For Jimmy Mac and I at thirteen, the Yellow House was our Rosetta stone. It seemed to be asking us what is art and who the even cares. Way before Nike ever thought of it. The Yellow House manifesto, said just do it. Sydney’s own Haight Ashbury, was two blocks away from us all twenty odd rooms of it.
The Yellow House was our church. In years to come it would become our inspiration for our own Yellow House. The building on the for shores Blackwattle Bay Glebe. The factory that Jimmy and I helped steal. Or as we liked to call. Liberate, from the state government. The one we called ‘Federal Art’.
At thirteen, Jimmy and I were Kings Cross Street urchins and like street urchins anywhere on this planet that there is an American Gi presence. Post second world war west Berlin. Iraq, post Saddam, The titty bars of Nicaragua, El Salvador and Vietnam. All the ghosts that haunt the Pentagon. Kings Cross was no different. You’ve got to pick a pocket or two boys. Except we ran our own racket. We didn’t need a Fagan taking his cut. I said we were naughty.
The hustle we worked on these not so quiet Americans, these brave young souls, saving Jimmy and I from uncle Ho and his pyjama clad freedom fighters. We sold the American GI’s, match boxes of pot. Except it wasn’t pot. It was mixed herbs. Disclosure, we hadn’t even smoked pot yet. I’m not sure if the Gi’s were just humouring us by buying it or didn’t know it was fake.
We didn’t know what pot looked like. We assumed it looked like mixed herbs. We were desperate to get stoned like our popular culture heroes on the cover of the Rolling Stone. We tried anything, and everything to get stoned. We even tried getting high on our own supply. By smoking the mixed herbs. We tried morning glory seeds, dried out banana skins. They were of course all Jimmies ideas. We did finally, smoke our first joint. Of course, laugh out loud now, in the Yellow House. A hippie cat that was camping in a tent in the roof of the place smoked one with us. We explored every bit of that place. Even the roof
Jimmy and I were tight the best of mates, I reckon the biggest reason we could relate to each other so well. Wasn’t that we both went to the same school or surfed or that we desperately wanted to get stoned. None of that, it was that we were both immigrants. Jimmy Mac was from Scotland. He was an immigrant like me. We were both Interlopers. New Australians, Stranger’s, under this big new powder blue sky. A sky we were told of unlimited possibilities.
When Jimmy taught me my first chords on the guitar. He said playing the guitar isn’t hard. He assured me that it just takes practice and that with practice everything gets easier. He was sage right. I thought Mac was way cool. As cool as Keef Richards. I loved my brother Jimmy Mac.
I hadn’t spoken to Jimmy in twenty years. Time goes by and in the it was just too hard and then too late. A lesson learn, don’t wait. Jimmy had his demons, stuff he couldn’t talk about. Didn’t want to talk about. The type of demon’s you can’t talk about. The personal ones that get you personally later. With the demon’s friend the wraith drink. Alcohol came and burrowed into clever Jimmy and turned off his lighthouse.
Jimmy went crazy with life. Life can be a dangerous drug. Best left at times to weave its own magic. To be observed from a distance in quiet admiration. But back then that first summer of discovery. When we were thirteen. We were inseparable.
Back then, I thought we’d be brothers forever. I’d yet to discover the laws of change and of impermanence. Back then, everything was for ever. Back then.
Thank you, Jimmy Mac, for showing me the holy trinity, the chords G D and C. For teaching me that everything becomes easier with practice. I just wish life could be a little bit more forgiving like that. And get a bit easier with practice.
I’ve been told that Jimmy had received an inheritance from his mum’s estate. He didn’t go out and buy a new fridge for his council flat. No, always the artist. He was getting the band back together He went straight out and bought four new guitars a Telecaster a Strat a dobro and a blond arch top Django jazz guitar .That he had sent all the way from Paris France. Now that’s class.
Rest in peace now brother Jimmy. Just saying you weren’t as cool as Kieth Richards, to me you were way cooler than Keef Richards…
Your best mate Tubes .
My best mate, Jimmy Mac, died this week. I’ve been writing a memoir and as such was revving up to see him again. Check to see he was ok with what I had written about him. It was never intended to be a eulogy.
Jimmy and I met during our wonder years. We did all the first things together. Played in our first band together, ‘Customer Parking’. Smoked our first joint and ate our first tab of LSD together. Sat on the second ramp at Bondi, went surfing together. We grew up together.
Jimmy was a naturall inventive, gifted musician. He played electric guitar like he was ringing a bell. He wrote songs. Way before I ever did or even thought possible. He taught me my first guitar chords, the holy trinity: G, D, and C.
Just kids when we met living in Kings Cross. We caught the bus to school from out in front of The Mansions. The 324 to Vaucluse boys’ high. We were thirteen years old and ready to bust loose, raring to go. We were cheeky and we were naughty and we free spirits in a world that was changing fast . It was 1970 and there was a big generational change happening. You could smell it in the air in Kings Cross, it smelt like patchouli oil, Indian Beedi cigarettes and smelly leafy pot.
The Cross was jumping out of its skin The Vietnam war was in town. Cashed up American Gi’s were fuelling the renaissance. Bringing new life into the gals faded boho decadence. Everything was changing, everything was in flux. Jimmy lived up the road from me and just a little further up the road from both of us. With its whack installations and its art house George Greenough surf movies. Was the beacon of change, the shock of the new, our citadel of hipness. The biggest freak antenna in town. The Yellow House. Calling all freaks, calling all freaks to The Yellow House. Come in Jimmy and Tony, this your tribe, these are the real soul people
For Jimmy Mac and I at thirteen, the Yellow House was our Rosetta stone. It seemed to be asking us what is art and who the even cares. Way before Nike ever thought of it. The Yellow House manifesto, said just do it. Sydney’s own Haight Ashbury, was two blocks away from us all twenty odd rooms of it.
The Yellow House was our church. In years to come it would become our inspiration for our own Yellow House. The building on the for shores Blackwattle Bay Glebe. The factory that Jimmy and I helped steal. Or as we liked to call. Liberate, from the state government. The one we called ‘Federal Art’.
At thirteen, Jimmy and I were Kings Cross Street urchins and like street urchins anywhere on this planet that there is an American Gi presence. Post second world war west Berlin. Iraq, post Saddam, The titty bars of Nicaragua, El Salvador and Vietnam. All the ghosts that haunt the Pentagon. Kings Cross was no different. You’ve got to pick a pocket or two boys. Except we ran our own racket. We didn’t need a Fagan taking his cut. I said we were naughty.
The hustle we worked on these not so quiet Americans, these brave young souls, saving Jimmy and I from uncle Ho and his pyjama clad freedom fighters. We sold the American GI’s, match boxes of pot. Except it wasn’t pot. It was mixed herbs. Disclosure, we hadn’t even smoked pot yet. I’m not sure if the Gi’s were just humouring us by buying it or didn’t know it was fake.
We didn’t know what pot looked like. We assumed it looked like mixed herbs. We were desperate to get stoned like our popular culture heroes on the cover of the Rolling Stone. We tried anything, and everything to get stoned. We even tried getting high on our own supply. By smoking the mixed herbs. We tried morning glory seeds, dried out banana skins. They were of course all Jimmies ideas. We did finally, smoke our first joint. Of course, laugh out loud now, in the Yellow House. A hippie cat that was camping in a tent in the roof of the place smoked one with us. We explored every bit of that place. Even the roof
Jimmy and I were tight the best of mates, I reckon the biggest reason we could relate to each other so well. Wasn’t that we both went to the same school or surfed or that we desperately wanted to get stoned. None of that, it was that we were both immigrants. Jimmy Mac was from Scotland. He was an immigrant like me. We were both Interlopers. New Australians, Stranger’s, under this big new powder blue sky. A sky we were told of unlimited possibilities.
When Jimmy taught me my first chords on the guitar. He said playing the guitar isn’t hard. He assured me that it just takes practice and that with practice everything gets easier. He was sage right. I thought Mac was way cool. As cool as Keef Richards. I loved my brother Jimmy Mac.
I hadn’t spoken to Jimmy in twenty years. Time goes by and in the it was just too hard and then too late. A lesson learn, don’t wait. Jimmy had his demons, stuff he couldn’t talk about. Didn’t want to talk about. The type of demon’s you can’t talk about. The personal ones that get you personally later. With the demon’s friend the wraith drink. Alcohol came and burrowed into clever Jimmy and turned off his lighthouse.
Jimmy went crazy with life. Life can be a dangerous drug. Best left at times to weave its own magic. To be observed from a distance in quiet admiration. But back then that first summer of discovery. When we were thirteen. We were inseparable.
Back then, I thought we’d be brothers forever. I’d yet to discover the laws of change and of impermanence. Back then, everything was for ever. Back then.
Thank you, Jimmy Mac, for showing me the holy trinity, the chords G D and C. For teaching me that everything becomes easier with practice. I just wish life could be a little bit more forgiving like that. And get a bit easier with practice.
I’ve been told that Jimmy had received an inheritance from his mum’s estate. He didn’t go out and buy a new fridge for his council flat. No, always the artist. He was getting the band back together He went straight out and bought four new guitars a Telecaster a Strat a dobro and a blond arch top Django jazz guitar .That he had sent all the way from Paris France. Now that’s class.
Rest in peace now brother Jimmy. Just saying you weren’t as cool as Kieth Richards, to me you were way cooler than Keef Richards…
Your best mate Tubes .
My best mate, Jimmy Mac, died this week. I’ve been writing a memoir and as such was revving up to see him again. Check to see he was ok with what I had written about him. It was never intended to be a eulogy.
Jimmy and I met during our wonder years. We did all the first things together. Played in our first band together, ‘Customer Parking’. Smoked our first joint and ate our first tab of LSD together. Sat on the second ramp at Bondi, went surfing together. We grew up together.
Jimmy was a naturall inventive, gifted musician. He played electric guitar like he was ringing a bell. He wrote songs. Way before I ever did or even thought possible. He taught me my first guitar chords, the holy trinity: G, D, and C.
Just kids when we met living in Kings Cross. We caught the bus to school from out in front of The Mansions. The 324 to Vaucluse boys’ high. We were thirteen years old and ready to bust loose, raring to go. We were cheeky and we were naughty and we free spirits in a world that was changing fast . It was 1970 and there was a big generational change happening. You could smell it in the air in Kings Cross, it smelt like patchouli oil, Indian Beedi cigarettes and smelly leafy pot.
The Cross was jumping out of its skin The Vietnam war was in town. Cashed up American Gi’s were fuelling the renaissance. Bringing new life into the gals faded boho decadence. Everything was changing, everything was in flux. Jimmy lived up the road from me and just a little further up the road from both of us. With its whack installations and its art house George Greenough surf movies. Was the beacon of change, the shock of the new, our citadel of hipness. The biggest freak antenna in town. The Yellow House. Calling all freaks, calling all freaks to The Yellow House. Come in Jimmy and Tony, this your tribe, these are the real soul people
For Jimmy Mac and I at thirteen, the Yellow House was our Rosetta stone. It seemed to be asking us what is art and who the even cares. Way before Nike ever thought of it. The Yellow House manifesto, said just do it. Sydney’s own Haight Ashbury, was two blocks away from us all twenty odd rooms of it.
The Yellow House was our church. In years to come it would become our inspiration for our own Yellow House. The building on the for shores Blackwattle Bay Glebe. The factory that Jimmy and I helped steal. Or as we liked to call. Liberate, from the state government. The one we called ‘Federal Art’.
At thirteen, Jimmy and I were Kings Cross Street urchins and like street urchins anywhere on this planet that there is an American Gi presence. Post second world war west Berlin. Iraq, post Saddam, The titty bars of Nicaragua, El Salvador and Vietnam. All the ghosts that haunt the Pentagon. Kings Cross was no different. You’ve got to pick a pocket or two boys. Except we ran our own racket. We didn’t need a Fagan taking his cut. I said we were naughty.
The hustle we worked on these not so quiet Americans, these brave young souls, saving Jimmy and I from uncle Ho and his pyjama clad freedom fighters. We sold the American GI’s, match boxes of pot. Except it wasn’t pot. It was mixed herbs. Disclosure, we hadn’t even smoked pot yet. I’m not sure if the Gi’s were just humouring us by buying it or didn’t know it was fake.
We didn’t know what pot looked like. We assumed it looked like mixed herbs. We were desperate to get stoned like our popular culture heroes on the cover of the Rolling Stone. We tried anything, and everything to get stoned. We even tried getting high on our own supply. By smoking the mixed herbs. We tried morning glory seeds, dried out banana skins. They were of course all Jimmies ideas. We did finally, smoke our first joint. Of course, laugh out loud now, in the Yellow House. A hippie cat that was camping in a tent in the roof of the place smoked one with us. We explored every bit of that place. Even the roof
Jimmy and I were tight the best of mates, I reckon the biggest reason we could relate to each other so well. Wasn’t that we both went to the same school or surfed or that we desperately wanted to get stoned. None of that, it was that we were both immigrants. Jimmy Mac was from Scotland. He was an immigrant like me. We were both Interlopers. New Australians, Stranger’s, under this big new powder blue sky. A sky we were told of unlimited possibilities.
When Jimmy taught me my first chords on the guitar. He said playing the guitar isn’t hard. He assured me that it just takes practice and that with practice everything gets easier. He was sage right. I thought Mac was way cool. As cool as Keef Richards. I loved my brother Jimmy Mac.
I hadn’t spoken to Jimmy in twenty years. Time goes by and in the it was just too hard and then too late. A lesson learn, don’t wait. Jimmy had his demons, stuff he couldn’t talk about. Didn’t want to talk about. The type of demon’s you can’t talk about. The personal ones that get you personally later. With the demon’s friend the wraith drink. Alcohol came and burrowed into clever Jimmy and turned off his lighthouse.
Jimmy went crazy with life. Life can be a dangerous drug. Best left at times to weave its own magic. To be observed from a distance in quiet admiration. But back then that first summer of discovery. When we were thirteen. We were inseparable.
Back then, I thought we’d be brothers forever. I’d yet to discover the laws of change and of impermanence. Back then, everything was for ever. Back then.
Thank you, Jimmy Mac, for showing me the holy trinity, the chords G D and C. For teaching me that everything becomes easier with practice. I just wish life could be a little bit more forgiving like that. And get a bit easier with practice.
I’ve been told that Jimmy had received an inheritance from his mum’s estate. He didn’t go out and buy a new fridge for his council flat. No, always the artist. He was getting the band back together He went straight out and bought four new guitars a Telecaster a Strat a dobro and a blond arch top Django jazz guitar .That he had sent all the way from Paris France. Now that’s class.
Rest in peace now brother Jimmy. Just saying you weren’t as cool as Kieth Richards, to me you were way cooler than Keef Richards…
Your best mate Tubes .
RIP Jimbo, forever in our thoughts. fly High with the angels