The third time I meet Corben Simpson he’s made his home in a drafty, ramshackle structure in the back yard of a Mt Albert house. He’s fixed some bright green lino over the bare wooden frames facing the sitting position on his mattress, just to get some colour comfort in his life. A kettle boils on the portable stove. This is the fifth place Simpson has rested his weary head since I spoke to him two months previously.
Happy just to have a roof over his head, he hasn’t played a note of music in months. A Playboy lies open on the floor: he’s been reading up on Prozac, which his doctor just prescribed.