'Sounds like future to me': Bono teases new U2 album
Bono has teased U2's new album "sounds like future".
The 65-year-old singer has shared an updated about the group's currently untitled follow-up to 2017's Songs of Experience and cryptically explained it was important for the One hitmakers to "deal with the past" before moving forward.
Asked about the new album, he told Rolling Stone magazine: "Nostalgia is not to be tolerated for too long, but sometimes you've got to deal with the past in order to get to the future and to the present. To get back to now is our desire. Get back to this moment we're in.
"We've been recording. And it sounds like future to me. We had to go through some stuff, and we're at the other end of it."
Drummer Larry Mullen Jr missed the group's U2:UV Achtung Baby Live at Sphere 40-date Las Vegas residency after undergoing neck surgery but Bono praised his recovery and how he is back better than ever.
He said: "We've been playing in the room together, the four of us.
"And I can tell you (Mullen Jr) is completely through whatever storm of injury he's been through. His playing is at its most innovative. He's just all about the band. He doesn't want to talk about anything else, which is kind of amazing.
"By the way, being a band in a room where each individual musician has a role that's singular and collective is so rare because music is assembled these days.
"And even some of our music we have assembled, and we'll do that again, but to try and capture a moment of a rock 'n' roll band in full flight is at the heart of this record that we're making that we've recorded, but we are not finished."
The Vertigo singer - who admitted he doesn't know when the album will be released - was also quizzed on the possibility of a special box set to mark the 30th anniversary of U2's album Pop.
He replied: "Well, I never thought about that. Actually, I'm sure somebody clever has thought of that. But if they haven't, I'm not aware of it.
"And the film of the PopMart tour in Mexico is one of the most extraordinary U2 shows ever. I love the imagery around that album. And the only thing that album wasn't was pop."
Hashtags
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
Sydney Morning Herald
7 hours ago
- Sydney Morning Herald
Marilyn Monroe did it, so did Chappell Roan – but what is the point of a stage name?
'A celebrity's name is fundamentally part of who they are. When movies use names like Margot Robbie or Quentin Tarantino, it instantly boosts its perceived value before we even see the trailer. Names carry associations. They've got specific prestige, tones, they set certain expectations.' Loading Much of this star power doesn't come from the name itself, but the persona behind it. However, some believe that to develop such a star persona, one must begin with the right label. For example, singer Alicia Keys changed her surname to represent her love of music. 'Names are an instrument utilised for identity management. They're a form of strategic branding or even intentional rebranding,' Burgess says.'It could allow for a creative rebirth, helping people enter a different area of specialisation and offering them more legitimacy.' Certain names can expose stars to new audiences, says RMIT music industry and pop culture lecturer Kat Nelligan. David Bowie (David Robert Jones) not only used a pseudonym, but also a string of other personas including Ziggy Stardust and Aladdin Sane, all of which allowed different demographics to engage with him on various levels. 'Lady Gaga embodied a male alter ego, Jo Calderone, at the 2011 MTV Music Video Awards,' Nelligan says. 'That persona was a way for Gaga to not only express herself artistically, but to also reach queer audiences. It's a way to explore artistry, and to toy with different identities.' Pseudonyms can also operate as a boundary, she adds. Chappell Roan's name represents her more confident self, and also separates her public and private lives, something the singer has made clear is critical to her. 'In that way, pseudonyms could be tied to mental health and preserving the self,' Nelligan says. Is it just a Hollywood thing? No. Pseudonyms are common in other entertainment industries too, including Bollywood and K-Pop. 'It can be quite common for Bollywood actors trying to crack into a Western market. You start to see some of that colonial influence,' Burgess says. 'Stars may anglicize or simplify names to avoid marginalisation. Or perhaps they just want their name to be more memorable, to stand out on a more global level.' Meanwhile, in the K-Pop realm, Nelligan says adopting a stage name is often part of the transparently commercial process producers and studios go through to create pop stars. Examples include Suga from BTS, whose real name is Min Yoong, and Rosé from Blackpink (Park Chaeyoung). 'K-Pop is an industry built on this idea of a machine. It's curated and very strategic in how a K-Pop star is produced, so it makes sense that pseudonyms are used in that context.' Sean Redmond, associate dean of media, writing and publishing at RMIT, says many female authors used male pen-names during the 19th century due to misogynistic gender norms. 'George Elliot used a male pseudonym because of gender prejudice in publishing, and because she lived an 'unconventional life' – Mary Ann Evans lived with a man, but they weren't married,' Redmond says. Similarly, some male actors used pseudonyms to appear more masculine. 'John Wayne was born Marion Robert Morrison, a name deemed too feminine, or even too Italian, for American viewers. The director Raoul Walsh chose the name Wayne, inspired by revolutionary war hero Mad Anthony Wayne.' Some American-Jewish actors changed their names because of concerns around antisemitism, Redmond adds. For example, Edward G. Robinson's real name was Emanuel Goldenberg, while Kirk Douglas' real name was Issur Danielovitch. Others may even use a pseudonym to protect themselves from the law, such as Banksy, the street artist whose anonymity is a significant part of their appeal. Authentic or phoney? Loading Pseudonyms do not diminish a person's craft, Nelligan says – stage names are often forms of artistic expression. 'People are generally more concerned with whether an entertainer is staying true to their values. Let's say there's an artist who sings about climate change, but then they don't walk that talk. Audiences feel more duped by that … The pseudonym is neither here nor there in that sense. 'The view that a person's real self needs to be embedded in the music or literature is outdated … We still want to trace it to a person, but it doesn't matter if they use a pseudonym.' Although a lack of transparency around a public figure's name can generate engagement and intrigue, Nelligan says it can also leave fans with nowhere to channel that fascination. Burgess agrees, noting some pseudonyms could even appear deceptive. For instance, record producer Dr Luke, who was embroiled in a now-resolved legal battle against Kesha, went by the name Tyson Trax on Doja Cat's 2020 song Say So. 'You might see some negativity there because some people may not have supported the work if they had known he was involved. The name carries a lot of weight,' Burgess says. 'Consumers demand transparency and authenticity, but we also have to remember there are people behind these pseudonyms who obviously want some degree of privacy, and often it's not for sinister or deceptive reasons.'
The Age
7 hours ago
- The Age
Marilyn Monroe did it, so did Chappell Roan – but what is the point of a stage name?
'A celebrity's name is fundamentally part of who they are. When movies use names like Margot Robbie or Quentin Tarantino, it instantly boosts its perceived value before we even see the trailer. Names carry associations. They've got specific prestige, tones, they set certain expectations.' Loading Much of this star power doesn't come from the name itself, but the persona behind it. However, some believe that to develop such a star persona, one must begin with the right label. For example, singer Alicia Keys changed her surname to represent her love of music. 'Names are an instrument utilised for identity management. They're a form of strategic branding or even intentional rebranding,' Burgess says.'It could allow for a creative rebirth, helping people enter a different area of specialisation and offering them more legitimacy.' Certain names can expose stars to new audiences, says RMIT music industry and pop culture lecturer Kat Nelligan. David Bowie (David Robert Jones) not only used a pseudonym, but also a string of other personas including Ziggy Stardust and Aladdin Sane, all of which allowed different demographics to engage with him on various levels. 'Lady Gaga embodied a male alter ego, Jo Calderone, at the 2011 MTV Music Video Awards,' Nelligan says. 'That persona was a way for Gaga to not only express herself artistically, but to also reach queer audiences. It's a way to explore artistry, and to toy with different identities.' Pseudonyms can also operate as a boundary, she adds. Chappell Roan's name represents her more confident self, and also separates her public and private lives, something the singer has made clear is critical to her. 'In that way, pseudonyms could be tied to mental health and preserving the self,' Nelligan says. Is it just a Hollywood thing? No. Pseudonyms are common in other entertainment industries too, including Bollywood and K-Pop. 'It can be quite common for Bollywood actors trying to crack into a Western market. You start to see some of that colonial influence,' Burgess says. 'Stars may anglicize or simplify names to avoid marginalisation. Or perhaps they just want their name to be more memorable, to stand out on a more global level.' Meanwhile, in the K-Pop realm, Nelligan says adopting a stage name is often part of the transparently commercial process producers and studios go through to create pop stars. Examples include Suga from BTS, whose real name is Min Yoong, and Rosé from Blackpink (Park Chaeyoung). 'K-Pop is an industry built on this idea of a machine. It's curated and very strategic in how a K-Pop star is produced, so it makes sense that pseudonyms are used in that context.' Sean Redmond, associate dean of media, writing and publishing at RMIT, says many female authors used male pen-names during the 19th century due to misogynistic gender norms. 'George Elliot used a male pseudonym because of gender prejudice in publishing, and because she lived an 'unconventional life' – Mary Ann Evans lived with a man, but they weren't married,' Redmond says. Similarly, some male actors used pseudonyms to appear more masculine. 'John Wayne was born Marion Robert Morrison, a name deemed too feminine, or even too Italian, for American viewers. The director Raoul Walsh chose the name Wayne, inspired by revolutionary war hero Mad Anthony Wayne.' Some American-Jewish actors changed their names because of concerns around antisemitism, Redmond adds. For example, Edward G. Robinson's real name was Emanuel Goldenberg, while Kirk Douglas' real name was Issur Danielovitch. Others may even use a pseudonym to protect themselves from the law, such as Banksy, the street artist whose anonymity is a significant part of their appeal. Authentic or phoney? Loading Pseudonyms do not diminish a person's craft, Nelligan says – stage names are often forms of artistic expression. 'People are generally more concerned with whether an entertainer is staying true to their values. Let's say there's an artist who sings about climate change, but then they don't walk that talk. Audiences feel more duped by that … The pseudonym is neither here nor there in that sense. 'The view that a person's real self needs to be embedded in the music or literature is outdated … We still want to trace it to a person, but it doesn't matter if they use a pseudonym.' Although a lack of transparency around a public figure's name can generate engagement and intrigue, Nelligan says it can also leave fans with nowhere to channel that fascination. Burgess agrees, noting some pseudonyms could even appear deceptive. For instance, record producer Dr Luke, who was embroiled in a now-resolved legal battle against Kesha, went by the name Tyson Trax on Doja Cat's 2020 song Say So. 'You might see some negativity there because some people may not have supported the work if they had known he was involved. The name carries a lot of weight,' Burgess says. 'Consumers demand transparency and authenticity, but we also have to remember there are people behind these pseudonyms who obviously want some degree of privacy, and often it's not for sinister or deceptive reasons.'
The Advertiser
a day ago
- The Advertiser
I grew up idolising truckies. Now it's my turn to give them a lift
"Breaker one-nine, this is the Red Baron. Anyone got their ears on?" That was me - a kid in Melbourne's west, sitting in my bedroom, talking into a CB radio pretending I was halfway across the Nullarbor. I had no idea why I picked "Red Baron" as my handle. It just sounded cool. And when you're a kid in the '80s, that's all that mattered. Back then, I'd sit in mates' cars or at home on my radio, just hoping to catch a truckie's voice coming through the static. To me, they were the kings of the road. And if I ever got one to blast their airhorn after I did the arm pump? That was like getting a high-five from a rock star. That feeling - that admiration for the men and women who spend their lives out on the road - never left me. Working in live entertainment was no picnic. Long hours. Tight turnarounds. Big pressure to bump in, bump out, and somehow be ready to do it all again the next night. I was part of the crew setting up lights, fireworks - the whole show - for the biggest touring acts of the '90s. Guns N' Roses, Bon Jovi, U2. You name it. Now and then, I'd get asked to jump in a truck and help move gear between cities - and I'll be honest, I loved it. Being behind the wheel, out on the road, part of something big. It scratched that itch I'd had since I was a kid. But I wasn't doing it full time. What hit me was seeing the drivers who were. Blokes rolling in from Perth or Brisbane, absolutely wrecked. I remember one guy so fried from the road, we practically had to peel him off the steering wheel. A few hours later, he was back in the cab, headed to the next gig. That's when I realised - I was tired, sure. But these guys made me look like I'd been on smoko the whole time. These days, I'm lucky enough to own a few trucks. I run a business that supplies trucks to film and TV sets, so I'm never far from a diesel engine. And that means I've also become an employer of truck drivers who are the backbone of what we do. They're part of a much bigger community: more than half a million Australians who work in transport, warehousing and logistics - many of them based in regional and remote areas where support services are scarce, but the pressure is just as heavy. It's the biggest employer of men in the country. But it also ranks last for mental health. That's not a coincidence. The blokes and women I know who drive for a living work hard - often through the night, through long-haul stretches with barely a soul in sight. You want to know what fatigue looks like? Watch someone roll in after 1200 kilometres and still have to unload, rest, and prep for the return leg. And somehow do it all again the next day. The work doesn't just wear you out physically - it plays on your mind. Drivers have told me that a small worry at home can become all-consuming after 10 hours alone in the cab. With no one to talk to, your thoughts can spiral. That's the kind of pressure we're talking about here. One bloke I know said he did an entire stretch between Brisbane and Dubbo without speaking a single word to another human. Just him and the road. That silence must be deafening. I've heard stories that stick with you. Like Eno - a truckie from Coffs Harbour who came frighteningly close to taking his life, only to be saved by a stranger he'd given his last possessions to. Like many in the industry, it wasn't his first brush with suicide. Eno had lost two trucking mates in a matter of weeks. After a close work friend took his life, Eno organised a convoy through town. He expected a handful of trucks to show up. He got 130. Drivers who hadn't spoken in years came together to remember a mate - and more importantly, to reconnect with each other. READ MORE: Or CJ - a young woman who's taken on the industry in her own way and a champion on the road. She's built a community online, opened up about grief and isolation - all while clocking thousands of kilometres a week in a road train. Her honesty struck me. She wasn't trying to be inspirational. She just wanted to tell it how it is. There's no shortage of stories like theirs. And, most drivers just get on with it. They don't complain. They take pride in the job. But that doesn't mean it's easy. From all the experiences and conversations I've had there's one thing that just keeps coming back to me: if every driver and warehouse worker in Australia hit pause tomorrow because they were mentally or physically cooked ... this country would stop. Dead in its tracks. That's how essential this workforce is. If you're a truckie or warehouse worker reading this, I just want to say this: we see you. The work you do matters. And so does your health, especially your mental health. And if you're not in the industry, but you pass a truckie on the road, maybe remember: they're not in your way. They're carrying the way forward. So give 'em a nod. Or better yet - the old arm pump. You never know what that little moment might mean. And if you're ever out there, feeling the weight of the road, just know the Red Baron's still got his ears on. "Breaker one-nine, this is the Red Baron. Anyone got their ears on?" That was me - a kid in Melbourne's west, sitting in my bedroom, talking into a CB radio pretending I was halfway across the Nullarbor. I had no idea why I picked "Red Baron" as my handle. It just sounded cool. And when you're a kid in the '80s, that's all that mattered. Back then, I'd sit in mates' cars or at home on my radio, just hoping to catch a truckie's voice coming through the static. To me, they were the kings of the road. And if I ever got one to blast their airhorn after I did the arm pump? That was like getting a high-five from a rock star. That feeling - that admiration for the men and women who spend their lives out on the road - never left me. Working in live entertainment was no picnic. Long hours. Tight turnarounds. Big pressure to bump in, bump out, and somehow be ready to do it all again the next night. I was part of the crew setting up lights, fireworks - the whole show - for the biggest touring acts of the '90s. Guns N' Roses, Bon Jovi, U2. You name it. Now and then, I'd get asked to jump in a truck and help move gear between cities - and I'll be honest, I loved it. Being behind the wheel, out on the road, part of something big. It scratched that itch I'd had since I was a kid. But I wasn't doing it full time. What hit me was seeing the drivers who were. Blokes rolling in from Perth or Brisbane, absolutely wrecked. I remember one guy so fried from the road, we practically had to peel him off the steering wheel. A few hours later, he was back in the cab, headed to the next gig. That's when I realised - I was tired, sure. But these guys made me look like I'd been on smoko the whole time. These days, I'm lucky enough to own a few trucks. I run a business that supplies trucks to film and TV sets, so I'm never far from a diesel engine. And that means I've also become an employer of truck drivers who are the backbone of what we do. They're part of a much bigger community: more than half a million Australians who work in transport, warehousing and logistics - many of them based in regional and remote areas where support services are scarce, but the pressure is just as heavy. It's the biggest employer of men in the country. But it also ranks last for mental health. That's not a coincidence. The blokes and women I know who drive for a living work hard - often through the night, through long-haul stretches with barely a soul in sight. You want to know what fatigue looks like? Watch someone roll in after 1200 kilometres and still have to unload, rest, and prep for the return leg. And somehow do it all again the next day. The work doesn't just wear you out physically - it plays on your mind. Drivers have told me that a small worry at home can become all-consuming after 10 hours alone in the cab. With no one to talk to, your thoughts can spiral. That's the kind of pressure we're talking about here. One bloke I know said he did an entire stretch between Brisbane and Dubbo without speaking a single word to another human. Just him and the road. That silence must be deafening. I've heard stories that stick with you. Like Eno - a truckie from Coffs Harbour who came frighteningly close to taking his life, only to be saved by a stranger he'd given his last possessions to. Like many in the industry, it wasn't his first brush with suicide. Eno had lost two trucking mates in a matter of weeks. After a close work friend took his life, Eno organised a convoy through town. He expected a handful of trucks to show up. He got 130. Drivers who hadn't spoken in years came together to remember a mate - and more importantly, to reconnect with each other. READ MORE: Or CJ - a young woman who's taken on the industry in her own way and a champion on the road. She's built a community online, opened up about grief and isolation - all while clocking thousands of kilometres a week in a road train. Her honesty struck me. She wasn't trying to be inspirational. She just wanted to tell it how it is. There's no shortage of stories like theirs. And, most drivers just get on with it. They don't complain. They take pride in the job. But that doesn't mean it's easy. From all the experiences and conversations I've had there's one thing that just keeps coming back to me: if every driver and warehouse worker in Australia hit pause tomorrow because they were mentally or physically cooked ... this country would stop. Dead in its tracks. That's how essential this workforce is. If you're a truckie or warehouse worker reading this, I just want to say this: we see you. The work you do matters. And so does your health, especially your mental health. And if you're not in the industry, but you pass a truckie on the road, maybe remember: they're not in your way. They're carrying the way forward. So give 'em a nod. Or better yet - the old arm pump. You never know what that little moment might mean. And if you're ever out there, feeling the weight of the road, just know the Red Baron's still got his ears on. "Breaker one-nine, this is the Red Baron. Anyone got their ears on?" That was me - a kid in Melbourne's west, sitting in my bedroom, talking into a CB radio pretending I was halfway across the Nullarbor. I had no idea why I picked "Red Baron" as my handle. It just sounded cool. And when you're a kid in the '80s, that's all that mattered. Back then, I'd sit in mates' cars or at home on my radio, just hoping to catch a truckie's voice coming through the static. To me, they were the kings of the road. And if I ever got one to blast their airhorn after I did the arm pump? That was like getting a high-five from a rock star. That feeling - that admiration for the men and women who spend their lives out on the road - never left me. Working in live entertainment was no picnic. Long hours. Tight turnarounds. Big pressure to bump in, bump out, and somehow be ready to do it all again the next night. I was part of the crew setting up lights, fireworks - the whole show - for the biggest touring acts of the '90s. Guns N' Roses, Bon Jovi, U2. You name it. Now and then, I'd get asked to jump in a truck and help move gear between cities - and I'll be honest, I loved it. Being behind the wheel, out on the road, part of something big. It scratched that itch I'd had since I was a kid. But I wasn't doing it full time. What hit me was seeing the drivers who were. Blokes rolling in from Perth or Brisbane, absolutely wrecked. I remember one guy so fried from the road, we practically had to peel him off the steering wheel. A few hours later, he was back in the cab, headed to the next gig. That's when I realised - I was tired, sure. But these guys made me look like I'd been on smoko the whole time. These days, I'm lucky enough to own a few trucks. I run a business that supplies trucks to film and TV sets, so I'm never far from a diesel engine. And that means I've also become an employer of truck drivers who are the backbone of what we do. They're part of a much bigger community: more than half a million Australians who work in transport, warehousing and logistics - many of them based in regional and remote areas where support services are scarce, but the pressure is just as heavy. It's the biggest employer of men in the country. But it also ranks last for mental health. That's not a coincidence. The blokes and women I know who drive for a living work hard - often through the night, through long-haul stretches with barely a soul in sight. You want to know what fatigue looks like? Watch someone roll in after 1200 kilometres and still have to unload, rest, and prep for the return leg. And somehow do it all again the next day. The work doesn't just wear you out physically - it plays on your mind. Drivers have told me that a small worry at home can become all-consuming after 10 hours alone in the cab. With no one to talk to, your thoughts can spiral. That's the kind of pressure we're talking about here. One bloke I know said he did an entire stretch between Brisbane and Dubbo without speaking a single word to another human. Just him and the road. That silence must be deafening. I've heard stories that stick with you. Like Eno - a truckie from Coffs Harbour who came frighteningly close to taking his life, only to be saved by a stranger he'd given his last possessions to. Like many in the industry, it wasn't his first brush with suicide. Eno had lost two trucking mates in a matter of weeks. After a close work friend took his life, Eno organised a convoy through town. He expected a handful of trucks to show up. He got 130. Drivers who hadn't spoken in years came together to remember a mate - and more importantly, to reconnect with each other. READ MORE: Or CJ - a young woman who's taken on the industry in her own way and a champion on the road. She's built a community online, opened up about grief and isolation - all while clocking thousands of kilometres a week in a road train. Her honesty struck me. She wasn't trying to be inspirational. She just wanted to tell it how it is. There's no shortage of stories like theirs. And, most drivers just get on with it. They don't complain. They take pride in the job. But that doesn't mean it's easy. From all the experiences and conversations I've had there's one thing that just keeps coming back to me: if every driver and warehouse worker in Australia hit pause tomorrow because they were mentally or physically cooked ... this country would stop. Dead in its tracks. That's how essential this workforce is. If you're a truckie or warehouse worker reading this, I just want to say this: we see you. The work you do matters. And so does your health, especially your mental health. And if you're not in the industry, but you pass a truckie on the road, maybe remember: they're not in your way. They're carrying the way forward. So give 'em a nod. Or better yet - the old arm pump. You never know what that little moment might mean. And if you're ever out there, feeling the weight of the road, just know the Red Baron's still got his ears on. "Breaker one-nine, this is the Red Baron. Anyone got their ears on?" That was me - a kid in Melbourne's west, sitting in my bedroom, talking into a CB radio pretending I was halfway across the Nullarbor. I had no idea why I picked "Red Baron" as my handle. It just sounded cool. And when you're a kid in the '80s, that's all that mattered. Back then, I'd sit in mates' cars or at home on my radio, just hoping to catch a truckie's voice coming through the static. To me, they were the kings of the road. And if I ever got one to blast their airhorn after I did the arm pump? That was like getting a high-five from a rock star. That feeling - that admiration for the men and women who spend their lives out on the road - never left me. Working in live entertainment was no picnic. Long hours. Tight turnarounds. Big pressure to bump in, bump out, and somehow be ready to do it all again the next night. I was part of the crew setting up lights, fireworks - the whole show - for the biggest touring acts of the '90s. Guns N' Roses, Bon Jovi, U2. You name it. Now and then, I'd get asked to jump in a truck and help move gear between cities - and I'll be honest, I loved it. Being behind the wheel, out on the road, part of something big. It scratched that itch I'd had since I was a kid. But I wasn't doing it full time. What hit me was seeing the drivers who were. Blokes rolling in from Perth or Brisbane, absolutely wrecked. I remember one guy so fried from the road, we practically had to peel him off the steering wheel. A few hours later, he was back in the cab, headed to the next gig. That's when I realised - I was tired, sure. But these guys made me look like I'd been on smoko the whole time. These days, I'm lucky enough to own a few trucks. I run a business that supplies trucks to film and TV sets, so I'm never far from a diesel engine. And that means I've also become an employer of truck drivers who are the backbone of what we do. They're part of a much bigger community: more than half a million Australians who work in transport, warehousing and logistics - many of them based in regional and remote areas where support services are scarce, but the pressure is just as heavy. It's the biggest employer of men in the country. But it also ranks last for mental health. That's not a coincidence. The blokes and women I know who drive for a living work hard - often through the night, through long-haul stretches with barely a soul in sight. You want to know what fatigue looks like? Watch someone roll in after 1200 kilometres and still have to unload, rest, and prep for the return leg. And somehow do it all again the next day. The work doesn't just wear you out physically - it plays on your mind. Drivers have told me that a small worry at home can become all-consuming after 10 hours alone in the cab. With no one to talk to, your thoughts can spiral. That's the kind of pressure we're talking about here. One bloke I know said he did an entire stretch between Brisbane and Dubbo without speaking a single word to another human. Just him and the road. That silence must be deafening. I've heard stories that stick with you. Like Eno - a truckie from Coffs Harbour who came frighteningly close to taking his life, only to be saved by a stranger he'd given his last possessions to. Like many in the industry, it wasn't his first brush with suicide. Eno had lost two trucking mates in a matter of weeks. After a close work friend took his life, Eno organised a convoy through town. He expected a handful of trucks to show up. He got 130. Drivers who hadn't spoken in years came together to remember a mate - and more importantly, to reconnect with each other. READ MORE: Or CJ - a young woman who's taken on the industry in her own way and a champion on the road. She's built a community online, opened up about grief and isolation - all while clocking thousands of kilometres a week in a road train. Her honesty struck me. She wasn't trying to be inspirational. She just wanted to tell it how it is. There's no shortage of stories like theirs. And, most drivers just get on with it. They don't complain. They take pride in the job. But that doesn't mean it's easy. From all the experiences and conversations I've had there's one thing that just keeps coming back to me: if every driver and warehouse worker in Australia hit pause tomorrow because they were mentally or physically cooked ... this country would stop. Dead in its tracks. That's how essential this workforce is. If you're a truckie or warehouse worker reading this, I just want to say this: we see you. The work you do matters. And so does your health, especially your mental health. And if you're not in the industry, but you pass a truckie on the road, maybe remember: they're not in your way. They're carrying the way forward. So give 'em a nod. Or better yet - the old arm pump. You never know what that little moment might mean. And if you're ever out there, feeling the weight of the road, just know the Red Baron's still got his ears on.
