Gyroscope's Human Smoke Machines

Yesterday.
Greedy, Aussie and I decided to trek and find the mythical second sealer's oven at Waychinicup. Last week, a fellow history guy rang me. His son had found a sealer's oven on one of his fishing trips. "It's right up on top of the hill. East of the inlet. Ramjet walks over there through the bush to catch kingi's off the cliffs."
"Can you get in there by boat?"
"No way! It's mad, that bit of coast."
I know all about mad coasts. So why would a nineteenth-century sealer build an oven right at the peak of a hill, on a bit of coast where he couldn't even put a twenty foot whaleboat in?
Methinks, the presence of the 'oven' actually means Cairn Man is back, building his phallic territory markers, an Andy Goldsworthy version of 'Kilroy woz 'ere'.

Anyway ... why the hell am I digressing?
Much more exciting things happened to us, yesterday. We did not find the second sealer's oven, of course, or I wouldn't be chastising myself for digressing, would I? Now. Where was I?

We provided a bit of local flavour for a Gyroscope film clip instead!
Yes! Gyroscope!
Driving along the road to Cheynes Beach, we flashed by thirteen dead bungarras and a blue drum kit. The bungarras had all been squashed by heedless drivers but the blue drum kit was alright, even though it was sitting amongst the recent bushfire grounds. We had to stop.
"We're making a music clip for Gyroscope," a lovely blonde told us, waiting for our gasp of recognition. Thankfully Aussie provided that. And we were in.
We graciously provided a 'verbal', "My name is ... and I give consent to Universal to use my image for anything, ever. Please. Thank you."
Then they cranked up the speakers, cracked the champagne and started filming.









These are our famous feet. Forget about Gyroscope, just feast your eyes on these feet. These are smoke machine feet. We were human smoke machines yesterday, fluffing up the cinders, stompin' the Albanian granny dance to Gyroscope's new tune.