What happens when you bump into one of your old musical heroes driving a cab in Sydney? Mark Bannerman finds himself drawn back into the rebellious world of seventies psych-folk rockers Tully.

Sorry, this video has expired Fusions flashback: Tully emerge from the vault

It was late at night in the city when I hailed the cab.

Only half settled in my seat, I looked across at the driver and asked him if he minded taking me to the northern beaches. "No," he said. "I'll take you there and call it a night."

"I just moved up there recently to get away from the rock and roll lifestyle," he added, the remark hanging like a frosty breath in the night air.

"Really?" In the darkness I looked across at him trying to place the face. "What band were you in?" I asked.

"You wouldn't know."

"Try me," I responded.

"Tully," was the one-word reply. There was another pause. "My name is Richard Lockwood."

I smiled. "You're kidding. I might just be your biggest fan."

It's a bold claim and one that Tully fans across Australia will argue with me about til the joint burns down to their fingers, but one thing that's undeniably true is that by 1971 Tully in full cry were one hellishly cool band.

Living on Sydney's Northern Beaches, they were the purveyors of a music so intense, so diverse, so "out there" that listening to them and seeing them in concert could be a magical experience. By then the band had no drummer but two dynamic musicians in Michael Carlos and Richard Lockwood, plus the voice of Shayna (Karlin) Stewart.

In modern parlance they'd be branded psych-folk (translation: psychedelic folk music).

This week, as one of the band's best remembered albums is re-released, I spoke with the group's Shayna Stewart and Colan Campbell. Asked what word came to mind to describe Tully, Stewart didn't hesitate for long. "Intensity" was her choice.

"Michael and Richard were powerful guys. Richard was a devotee of (Indian mystic) Meher Baba; I was drawn to the group because they were seeking something," she said.

Campbell thought a little longer and finally said "rebellious". In fact, he remarked: "We were so rebellious that we were in rebellion against the music business itself and, if you like, music itself."

As Campbell explains it, they were attempting to go beyond music in every way - even to the point of throwing out traditional instruments.

"We'd pick up pieces of wood and try to make music," he explains. Just two blocks of wood coming together. Of course, Tully banging two bits of wood is a very different thing from you or me doing it.

Sydney psychedelic folk band Tully on stage, with a tribute to Indian mystic Meher Baba.

But as they say in the ads, Tully ain't Tully. Over its life the band evolved radically. From R&B to psychedelia. It wasn't long after its creation that the band won the title "leaders of the underground music scene" and they had the form to back the title.

First, they provided music for Caesar's Disco but got the sack when patrons said they couldn't dance to the music. Then they became the house band for the musical Hair, recording the Australian soundtrack LP. Here they ran into trouble too, this time for musically dissing the show by playing marching band music as the cast walked on stage.

Their irreverence didn't stop them. They were the stars of the ABC TV music series Fusions on Friday nights. They were the centrepiece of many music festivals, and on it went.

By 1971 they were the obvious choice when film director Paul Witzig made the ground-breaking surf movie, Sea of Joy. Curiously, although the band lived in a shared house at Sydney's Bungan Beach, they didn't surf. Why? Forty years on, Stewart laughs. "I was too frightened of the ocean."

It didn't matter. Somehow in the soundtrack they created the perfect musical accompaniment to Witzig's images. This, you have to remember, came at a time when most American surf movies were packed with corny commentary and comedy segments. This music carved from the Australian landscape removed the need for words.

At the time the album sold very few copies. If you have one on vinyl it's valuable but, like so many gems, it has grown in stature - and not just because of its rarity.

Now the soundtrack LP Sea of Joy is about to be re-released on both CD and vinyl. (Music collectors, start your engines.) Why did it take so long for an Australian company to do it? Well according to Richard Lockwood, in the taxi that night, EMI - their record company - had thrown out or lost the master tapes of their albums. What a tragedy.

But the new company, Chapter Music, has found the best sources available and set about releasing the music again. Sadly, Richard Lockwood will not be here for the re-launch. He died just over a week ago.

Does this mean that we will see the restoration of the Tully legacy? Well probably not, because there isn't a lot of Tully on record. There's another issue too. As Shayna Stewart told me during the week: "The problem with Tully is that what you hear on record has very little to do with what we did on stage." In a sense, they were so wilful, so demanding of revolution, that record companies had trouble pinning them down and ran in fear from much of what they heard.

Even Sea of Joy, I ask? "Yes," she says. "What we were depended on what night you saw us."

Back in the taxi, that night with Richard, the conversation covered many topics. One was a confession of sorts. "In the late sixties we had the musical world at our feet. A music bigwig came to us and said he'd take us to London, pay for everything and make us famous. You know, the sad thing is we were too stoned to get it together."

As we turned into my street, he asked me what my favourite track was. I didn't hesitate, except I couldn't remember the name - only the tune. Falteringly I began to hum it (it's called 'Softly, Softly'). He looked across and smiled and began to sing along with me. There we were after midnight, just a short distance from the house where the band had lived while recording the song in question, singing like two madmen.

Our voices wavered and croaked and the gum trees on each side of the road seemed to spread like a church roof above us.

What he didn't bother to talk about was the wonderful musical contribution he had made to the song with his haunting flute playing. As Stewart told me: "It's so beautiful, he always had a good ear for a melody."

I had to agree he certainly did, and he was humble too. Travel well Richard and bless Tully.