What then, are our responsibilities, as elders, in this world which carries the scent and spoor of our youthful enthusiasms?

A colleague on the TALO email list (yes there are some still) posed this question in regard to our collective role in promoting use of the internet before it all went wrong. I felt compelled to answer: 

I don’t know if this was a serious question but I’m going to assume it was. Because this has been on my mind. Where the Internet and social media has led us has me worried. And when Tim Berners-Lee says much the same I feel my concerns are well founded.

I’m trying to reconcile my own part in all of this. Like many on this list I was an enthusiastic advocate for teaching and learning online. I don’t know if I was an advocate of the Internet in particular. I was certainly fascinated by its potential, and what it might do to our lives. But I don’t think I was an advocate per se in the way that people like Mark Pesce may have been. I remember Pesce boasting unashamedly that ‘the Internet is coming and I am a pusher!”

I still stand by the Internet’s potential to improve education, in the hands of experienced and wise facilitators. But there are still so few of them. But after 22 years of watching its impact I am worried about what the internet and mobile technologies have done to our lives.

I am feeling a sense of professional embarrassment. How can I/we not have seen this coming? For me it’s connected with the election of Trump. That stunned me. I was one of those who thought it would never happen. Don’t laugh, but I thought humanity was evolving to a point where trogladytes like Trump would be left behind.  It was as if his election snapped me out of a naïve dream.

Similarly I knew the potential of social media to spread evil, but like all good fairytales I thought good would prevail. And it still might. But with all the good it has done, it has connected all those with a message of hate and division. It fosters unrest based on lies and misinformation in Ukraine, genocide in Myanmar, subverts democratic processes, and provides a platform for murderers, racists and child pornographers to peddle their wares.

And I do think it’s time to call a spade a spade and declare as T Bone Burnett has done that it is stealing our culture on the basis of some flimsy pretext like ‘all knowledge wants to be free’.

So I do feel like making a public apology quite honestly, where I can admit that I was naive about a lot of things. That may absolve my conscience but do I/we who were at the vanguard of the changes have a responsibility to try now and fix up the mess and redress some of the mistakes?

Laraaji

RCC Fringe – Elder Hall, Sun 17 Mar.

Like many, I was introduced to the concept of ambient music via Brian Eno’s Music For Airports in the late ‘70s. LARAAJI was ‘discovered’ by Eno around that time. Ambient music is about space and silence as much as it is about sound. LARAAJI’s single composition 90 minute concert began slowly with lots of space and silence. Gradually the sonic voids are filled as he builds a wall of soothing sounds using an array of instruments (zither, kalimba – the African thumb piano, gong, brushes, bells and other assorted percussion) and boxes of effects with sounds of nature and multiple looping possibilities.

Musical events like these tend to challenge preconceptions and can lead to fascinating ‘what is music?’ discussions. It’s interesting that in the contemporary and related unsound movement the performer(s) is barely even visible at live events, and there was a similar sense of that here too. It’s meditative music where the agent or performer is of less consequence than normally is the case but it was intriguing to see the orange clad LARAAJI play the various parts of musician, composer, technician, and percussionist. The ‘kid in a candy shop’ analogy came to mind!

It was largely instrumental with some occasional spoken sounds of affirmation – ‘light is everywhere,’ ‘I am consciousness,’ ‘pulsation’ – and vocalised effects that were looped back into mesmerising chants.

Ambient music has the potential to bore or exhilarate – it’s your state of mind that dictates how you receive it. After a period of adjustment I settled in and just let it all wash over me. A unique experience – literally. I’m sure LARAAJI’s live compositions are never played the same way twice.

(This review also published on The Clothesline.)

Ukulele Death Squad – “Fifty Shades of Uke”

Regal Theatre, Sat, March 16th

Arriving on stage looking like the Blues Brothers’ ukulele cousins the Ukulele Death Squad don’t waste any time launching into their peculiar brand of musical freneticism. Three ukes and a saxophone is the line up as they attack their original songs with a dramatic and physical style that exudes and creates energy.

The three ukulele players may be playing little instruments that look like ukes, but such is contemporary sound technology that much of the time they sound equivalent to the standard bass, rhythm and lead guitar line-up of many groups. They do play songs where they actually sound like they’re playing ukulele, but often they occupy this curious space that crosses the lines of many musical boundaries – think Dan Hicks, or Pokey LaFarge. It’s a blend of jazz, swing, gypsy, flamenco and a fast paced shuffle. But whatever it is they’re playing they play it really well. Julian Ferguson on baritone and Ben Roberts are almost in the virtuoso class such is the speed of their playing – all the while hamming it up with comic movement like Split Enz used to do. It’s no mean feat, compelling to watch, and must be totally exhausting to play.

Lots of comic banter spills out between songs – Eamonn Burke on bass and Reuben Legge on sax seems to cop most of it, but they also give plenty of it back. A deliberately out of key sax solo played with great feeling was a really funny moment. Everyone shares responsibility for vocals and many songs feature all four voices in harmony.

The Ukulele Death Squad has created something special and the big crowd was testament to their appeal. They’ve cannily exploited the incredible recent rise in popularity of the ukulele. Someone wrote that the Death Squad may just make the ukulele cool again. Well it’s mission accomplished! I think I might just go and buy one.

(This review also published in The Clothesline.)

Ralph McTell - Church Of The Trinity (14 March, 2019)

Streets Of London is 50 years old this year, and both the song and its composer are aging gracefully.

Ralph McTell is a Londoner born and bred but learned to play guitar by listening to black American blues and ragtime players like Big Bill Broonzy and Blind Blake, so there’s a lot more in his musical repertoire than just standard folk. Indeed, the breadth and scope of his original material covering several decades is just awesome.

In a wonderful concert he played songs about his childhood (Barges, Mr Connaughton), a mate he met on a building site (the beautiful From Clare To Here), his affinity for Australia – a song written for Billy Connolly (In The Dreamtime), a paean to the poetry of Dylan Thomas, and a dedication to the black musicians he is indebted to in what was my favourite of the night – The Ghost of Robert Johnson. Inevitably there was reference to those who have gone, and After Rain was dedicated to his old friend and musical collaborator Maartin Alcock (ex-Fairport Convention and Jethro Tull). McTell suggests “tears refresh the soul.”

Every song comes with an interesting tale – told many times I’m sure – but still told again with sincerity and enthusiasm for us as if he were telling it for the first time. And the music aside, that has always been one of McTell’s strengths as a performer. He just has that knack of effortlessly bringing you into his world – two hours of chat and songs just flew by.

I could be picky and say I noticed a few occasions where he didn’t quite hit the melody as purely as he might have decades back, but his voice is still strong, deep and rich. His songs are also rich in metaphor (Peppers And Tomatoes), and frequently come with a tinge of melancholy but it’s more the pensive type of melancholy that comes from an acceptance of what life brings rather than sadness. An evening with Ralph McTell is in fact quite life affirming. He certainly refreshed my soul.

(This review also published on The Clothesline.)

Tim Ferguson – A Fast Life On Wheels

The National Wine Centre – Exhibition Hall, Tue 12 Feb.

Tim Ferguson is fortunate enough to have had a glittering career, and much of it is on film, so this show is peppered with filmed highlights and funny stories of his rise and fall. The fall in Ferguson’s case is, of course, quite literal – it happened when he got out of bed one day and couldn’t stand up.

He begins with tales of his journalist father and his dedication to sedition when covering the Vietnam War, and places much of what he himself has done over the years in that same ‘tradition of sedition’. He’s a natural born story teller, and has lost none of his hard edge. That outrageous politically incorrect bravado from the days of the Doug Anthony Allstars (DAAS) is still there. Among tonight’s unfortunate targets were millennials – maybe it explains why there weren’t many in the audience – and the ABC.

His old mates from the Allstars, especially the now very hairy Paul McDermott also get to be the butt of many good jokes, but it’s important to reflect on just how big those guys were. They even had their own show on British television! Ferguson is older now and acknowledges that he too was once a stupid millennial, and he has the poetry to prove it!

Of course the MS elephant in the room has to be addressed at some stage so frank descriptions and incredibly candid footage lays it all bare for the world to see. Then we move on… just as Tim Ferguson has done. His personality, his track record, his network, and his talent will always ensure that he has satisfying options to distract him from his MS, and he capitalises on them to the max and leads a remarkably full life.

Thoroughly entertaining, irreverent as ever, funny, sad, intelligent – Tim Ferguson is still very much a star.

(This review also posted on The Clothesline.)

WOMADelaide 2019 ~ Day 3 Musings

Botanic Park/Tainmuntilla, Sun 10 Mar.

Sona Jobarteh

No music was scheduled until 2pm but hundreds of early birds took advantage of the free yoga sessions and performed mindful stretching routines in front of two of the small stages. I thought I’d check out the new expanded Planet Talks venue. There was a talk advertised on the Magic of Mushrooms! I was pretty sure it was not going to be about tripping around in the Adelaide Hills but I was curious. It was in fact about a ‘mycelial path to save the planet.’ I now know that there are people working to use fungi as a substitute for plastics in the making of construction materials. Fungi can also apparently eat plastics, absorb radiation, and treat illnesses. Who knew? WOMADelaide is not just about music…

But that is why most of us go there, and down on Stage 3 Sona Jobarteh was about to start playing her kora. The 21-stringed African harp is associated with some of the finest WOMADelaide moments over the years and this performance didn’t disappoint. Perhaps the most photogenic performer that has ever graced a WOMADelaide stage, Jobarteh has a soulful husky voice and soon had the audience singing along with her in a west African language. And in what is always a good sign, her band were clearly having a great time playing together.

Sometimes WOMADelaide challenges you with really hard choices. Back at The Planet Talks The First Dog On The Moon was talking about how to survive the impending apocalypse, and the Silk Road Ensemble were on the main stage at the same time. Decisions, decisions… I chose Silk Road. Silk Road are like a travelling promotion for WOMADelaide festivals. A collective of about 60 musicians from all continents, it was established by cellist Yo Yo Ma. This performance featured about 10 members of the collective. It began with a duel between Galician bagpipes and a traditional Chinese horn called the suona. A curious 3 person hand percussion piece followed, and then an eclectic melange of instruments and styles from everywhere and anywhere. This is truly world music.

Two ethnic communities that have had huge impact on the fabric of Australian life have been strangely absent from WOMADelaide over the years – Greeks and Italians – but happily not this year. The Italians were forcefully present in the form of Canzoniere Grecanico Salentino. With no looping or other electronic interference in sight they generated tons of excitement with high energy, high speed playing with accordion, guitar, traditional pipes, bouzouki, and tammorra (like the Irish bodhran). Exhilarating.

Greece was represented by Rembetien, exponents of Rembetika. Rembetika is sometimes referred to as Greek blues. It certainly has a moody feel that one could associate with blues, but the music of Rembetien is more deft and delicate. Nothing too raw here. Lead vocals were shared around, and the impromptu dance group off to the side of the stage grew as the pace got quicker. Soulful and soothing. I started to wander off to the Greek Islands….

Earlier Sharon Shannon (ex-Waterboys) and her band from Ireland entertained a big Foundation stage crowd with largely instrumental music based around the accordion. Her countryman, Alan Kelly, introduced WOMADelaide audiences to this delightful form of Celtic music several WOMADelaides back. But this wasn’t just Celtic music. Some of it was, but much of it had a more modern feel in what the program described as “genre-defying music”. It is hard to place. But strong insistent melodies were a feature in a thoroughly enjoyable set. A cameo performance of Janis Joplin’s Piece Of My Heart from a guest female vocalist was a knockout!

The honour of performing the sundown concert on stage 2 this year went to Morocco’s Maalem Hamid El Kasri. El Kasri’s featured instrument is the guembri, a traditional 3 string bass instrument. Languages spoken by peoples across adjoining borders often sound quite similar. And so it is with music. Tinariwen are another north African group that have played WOMADelaide and their style of ‘desert blues’ sounds very reminiscent of El Kasri and group. Driving bass undercurrents and repetitive rhythms create a hypnotic feel for the chanting vocals to float across. And his percussionists looked wonderful in their robes and dreadlock caps.

It was a shame to leave before the headline act of the day, Angelique Kidjo, but I’d had my fill. In terms of the weather you couldn’t have ordered better for a day at WOMADelaide – just a gentle breeze, overcast, no rain and about mid-twenties. And I found enough of ‘old WOMAD’ to keep me interested all day – ethnic music that stayed close to its roots.

WOMADElaide has changed a great deal – many more Australian acts, and many more amorphous global funk acts save money and attract a different and younger crowd. But as mentioned earlier, it’s not just about music. WOMADelaide is an experience. It’s just as much about ideas – whether in The Planet Talks program, the agitprop stalls that dot the park, or in the informal conversations that take place under the trees and in the bars. There’s the hugely popular Taste The World program and the ever expanding range of food options. It’s about kids playing safely, and enjoying activities just for them; the healing village, the market stalls, and it’s one of the few places where all generations gather to celebrate being alive. It’s still a remarkable event.

(This review also posted on The Clothesline.)

WOMADelaide 2019 ~ Day 1 Musings

Botanic Park/Tainmuntilla, Fri 8 Mar.

WOMADelaide  #23. But who’s counting?! A gentle breeze blew across the park under an overcast sky as the first act on the Foundation Stage got underway. In a WOMAD first they actually started early (WOMADelaide has been incredibly punctual over the years and shows have typically begun smack on the hour.)

Amjad Ali Khan was back at WOMADelaide after a 13-year break. This time he was with his two sons and together they sat front of stage and played sarod. With the better known sitar, the sarod is a central instrument in Indian Classical music. Also joining them on stage was a stripped back version of the Adelaide Symphony Orchestra to present Khan’s Samaagam – a piece that purports to demonstrate the bond between eastern and western classical music traditions. Devoid of any wind or brass sections it is strings that assumed the major role in the orchestral parts. As the sarod is a largely plucked instrument it was curious to hear the difference between the plucking and bowing techniques of the different strings. There were times when a violinist or three played together with Khan and sons but in truth much of the piece was more about turn taking rather than playing together. A beautiful piece of music nevertheless and it was an ideal way to kick off a world music festival.

As I walked towards Stage 2, rainbow coloured people began to appear in the crowd – courtesy of the Colour Of Time, another of India’s cultural gifts to world music festivals. On Stage 2 several women from central Australia had gathered to appear as the Central Australian Aboriginal Women’s Choir. Singing songs in Western Arrarnta and Pitjanjatjara languages, and dressed in indigenous themed fabrics they looked fantastic in the fading dusk light. Though some of these songs are original pieces written by our desert peoples it is hard not to hear the Christian influence and much of their repertoire is basically hymns from the Christian tradition.

First up on the Zoo Stage for the weekend was Timberwolf. I don’t know how a local Australian artist comes to be called Timberwolf, or how the program notes could describe his music as folk. He does have a rich soulful voice but unfortunately the vocals were too loud and quite distorted. No one else seemed to care but once again the sound quality at a WOMADelaide performance was inferior to years gone by.

But things were about to get magical back on Stage 2. Yo, Carmen is a reimagining of the operatic tale of Carmen, and was a stunning spectacle in every respect. Wonderful songs from live musicians at the back of the stage provided the musical palette for a group of female flamenco dancers to strut and twirl about the stage in scenes from the opera. What a fabulously sexy phenomenon is flamenco! The dancers from Maria Pages Compania from Spain were so elegant, so dramatic, so bewitching.

(This review also published on The Clothesline.)

Two Jews Walk into a Theatre

Odeon Theatre, Thu 7 Mar.

Image courtesy of Bob Mendelsohn

You’re sitting near a total stranger. As time goes by it becomes weird not to talk so you make the tentative awkward attempt to strike up conversation. It’s trite to begin with – you talk about the time, public transport, the kids. Lots of awkward silences. Glimpses of humour emerge. You slowly begin to understand each other. Trust grows. You share more about who you are and then suddenly there’s an explosive difference of opinion.

More awkward silence. Someone tentatively reopens the conversation…..

The kind of normal scene played out all over any town thousands of times every day. But in the hands of Gideon Obarzanek and Brian Lipson it is immensely entertaining. Working within a loose framework that allows plenty of room for improvisation they share their astonishment about experimental arts, and scoff at a world with “too many options and not enough structure”.

Their Jewish identity is eventually revealed and they end up passionately talking over each other in loud disagreement in a parody of many Jewish conversations – it’s really very funny.

And then the wait is over – it’s show time. Time to watch their sons do their experimental dance which they don’t understand, nor enjoy. Movement replaces words as the means of expressing personality and it seems so free and fluid in comparison. Free of the need to talk, and unencumbered by bitter memories of a war torn past their sons float around the stage and speak with their bodies. Again awkward, ironic, but also somehow quite beautiful.

It’s a poignant contrast and a fitting conclusion to a show that manages to reconcile many seemingly opposite elements about life. L’chaim!

(This review also published on The Clothesline.)

La Reprise. Histoire(s) Du Théâtre

Adelaide Festival Centre – Space Theatre, Wed 6 Mar.

Technology has had a significant impact on live theatre, and when coupled together with the creative vision of director Milo Rau you get something quite special. The story told here is the senseless murder of a young man in Liege, Belgium. Part of Rau’s credo of good theatre is that the inner workings of the production be open to public view, and we are therefore treated to a parallel tale of how this production came about. A short introduction guards against acting for its own sake, and we see the cast being auditioned for their parts in dual live modes – simultaneously live on a large screen, or by just observing the actors on stage.

This dual mode is used to offer a split focus at several points. At times the video and live action are in sync; at times the filmed sequence mirrors the live action but with slight differences. At other times the split focus is diametrically opposed – love versus violence for example. On each occasion you get to choose where and what to watch – unmediated direct observation, or on screen.

Another tenet of Rau’s work is that plays should be in multiple languages. In La Reprise Dutch, French and Arabic are spoken. English is in sub-titles only.

The graphic re-enactment of the murder is both disturbing and clever – and again we can choose to watch it directly, or on screen just like you might do at home on TV. Rau believes theatre should change the world. It isn’t entirely clear to me what La Reprise might change about the world but regular exposure to this method of presenting violence might serve to re-sensitise those who have grown used to on screen gratuitous violence.

This is powerful and gripping theatre. Thankfully there are intelligent laughs along the way to ease the tension. The cast is uniformly strong, authentic and humane. They do indeed appear to deliver a story and not just act. This creates a more engaged relationship between audience and cast, and also makes it harder to be blasé about the grim reality being played out before you.

(This review also published on The Clothesline.)
Image courtesy of Michiel Devijver

He's Every Woman

Gluttony – Empire Theatre, Fri 1 Mar.

Way down the far end of Gluttony lies the Empire Theatre. A small crowd waited in the thankfully air conditioned venue for a real treat. Justin Clausen and Jamie Burgess are simply a great double act. Professing their love for pop divas from an early age they trotted out their favourites from Celine Dion, Tina Turner, Olivia NJ, Whitney Houston, Tina Arena et al and were superb.

For contestants on The Voice, Australia’s Got Talent and the like – listen to Justin Clausen to hear how you belt out a song with passion and power while still respecting the melody – he has a wonderful voice. And he reaches that place where the melody is fuelled with real emotion and had me close to tears more than once.

And behind him, super competent on piano, Jamie Burgess provided deceptively complex harmonies that added another delicious vocal layer. As well, Jamie taunted and teased his partner with some good-natured bitching, and kept him from straying too far down the X-rated road.

They obviously have a great affection for each other, and their on stage banter was humorous and well timed. Stories from their own lives lent an air of honesty that was refreshing and sometimes deeply moving.

This is an unusual show. Clausen and Burgess are great musical talents, but it is their ability and willingness to share who they are in a winning mix of personal and professional that sets them apart from other similar acts. Great music, great showmanship and despite making fun of themselves and their divas, an obvious love for their craft and the songs they sing. I loved it.

(This review also published on The Clothesline.)

John Safran - Jew Detective

The Garden Of Unearthly Delights – The Factory, Wed 27 Feb.

John Safran’s Wikipedia entry describes him as radio personality, satirist, film maker and author. In Jew Detective: Sarcasm is Not a Crime he is attempting to add stand-up comedian to his list of pursuits. It’s certainly worth a shot. Many of the elements are there. Safran is a natural born trouble maker and his ability to draw satirical/sarcastic insight from the absurd situations he finds himself in should make for plenty of hilarity.

But this show may demand too much subtle thinking to be very funny. Safran pitches his show within a framework that pits the artist against the ideologue. Even assuming enough people understood the concept of ideologue, the audience found this show hard to fathom. Is he making fun of the far right? Is this Jew anti-Jew? Is he making fun of artists? Why does he mock so many people who defend causes? And of course all of these things are true. Safran treads a lonely, risky, grey area exposing the shortcomings of all the various -isms people march to defend.

He does this with sarcasm and satire, and runs the risk therefore of coming across as a smart arse. Safran says he just gets out of bed in the morning and finds himself mixed up in fights and disagreements. But this would be after taking a photo of a far right rally that he posts to Instagram with some provocative jibe and strangely enough someone at the rally challenges him! Which is exactly what he wants of course.

We’re shown lots of photographs from his past stunts, the occasional video, cuttings of amusing and threatening social media posts; there’s even a little live music. But it felt like he’s still learning the craft of the stand-up comedian. He read a lot from prepared notes, and at times it felt like he was reading one of his books out loud to us. But the certainty and conviction of his words in print or in the scripted narration of a documentary were not quite as sure in the live medium of stand up. But as Safran himself said, artists have to deal with loose ends and that he hasn’t quite mastered yet.

(This review also published on The Clothesline.)

A Dark Comedy about Brahms

Bakehouse Theatre – Studio, Wed 20 Feb.

In Vienna’s City Park there is a grand statue of Brahms depicting the composer as a grumpy old man. This new work by Neil Salvage reinforces that view and goes some way to explain why he became so grumpy. In what could be seen as just another tortured artist scenario, albeit from the 19^th Century, Brahms it seems was the only person in Vienna at the time who didn’t like his own music. Or so it appears at this party to celebrate the first performance of his new violin concerto.

Rather than play the gracious guest of honour Brahms spends much of his time drinking in a back room and berating all who commend him on his achievements. Cycles of praise and recrimination ensue between the composer, his publisher, violinist and musical collaborator, old friend Clara Schumann, and an influential critic. Bitter and resentful, Brahms seems intent on bringing everyone down with him to wallow in misery and self-doubt.

All these various roles are masterfully played by Salvage himself, Nicholas Collett – both eminent actors from the UK stage, and local emerging artist, Stefanie Rossi. Having excerpts of Brahms’ work played live added immediacy and context, but having the violinist overplay her silent reactions to the dialogue unfolding before her was a mistake. They need to be far more subtle.

Billed as a dark comedy, there’s not much room here for laughter. Ironic smiles perhaps as we watch Brahms himself try to reconcile being the author of the famous Lullaby with the angry person he’s become.

An entertaining play with solid acting performances, and a really good way to learn something about Brahms the person, and become (re)acquainted with his music.

(This review also published on The Clothesline.)

Judith Lucy vs Men

The Garden Of Unearthly Delights – The Vagabond, Tue 19 Feb. 

Dysfunctional relationships, gender stereotypes, feminism, toxic masculinity, ageism, online dating, social media – you could write a thesis on Judith Lucy v Men. But with the skill of a veteran comedian she turns serious stuff into laughing matters. Judith Lucy bares all about much of her own life in a story that could easily turn sad and sentimental, but she keeps a professional distance from the emotional impact relationships with men has had on her, enabling her audience to laugh with her, but still feel close enough to care. And she wants us to care – at least enough to cast a vote at show’s end as to whether she should give up men altogether.

If half of what Judith says is true she has indeed had a bum deal with straight white men, and they come out of this show looking pretty much like bastards. But she’s not bitter about it; she’s quite resilient in fact, and willing to concede that there may be something about her that invites relationship disaster.

Much of the show is about sex but Judith Lucy has a way of addressing the lewd and lascivious with a touch of class that makes sex part of a larger more important story – the desire to be wanted and how to cope when relationships go wrong.

She delivers much of her material with this wonderful brand of sarcasm that draws the humour out of situations without whinging, and it adds a keen edge to her story telling. Lots of audience members get to join in the discussion, and by show’s end everyone cares about what happens to her next.

Amid the laugher and the joy however there is also a sense of pathos. Great that she can makes us all laugh along with her about her failed attempts at love, but perhaps she’d rather not be alone, treading the boards night after night getting laughs from her failures? But that only Judith Lucy can know.

In the meantime we all get to go and enjoy a really funny show that is engaging and full of raw humanity.  

(This review also published on The Clothesline.)

A Cat Story

We’d seen a grey cat scurrying away down our driveway a few times when we came home. We figured it probably lived next door amidst the abundant piles of junk in the neighbours’ backyard. About a year ago these neighbours had to vacate the property as it was to be redeveloped.

The demolition began and we occasionally noticed a grey cat walking past our open back door. It, as expected, would scurry away at any indication we might come closer. This happened several times until one day the same cat ventured inside. We were sitting outside watching. It spent just a few seconds in the house and then scurried away once again.

This went on for a week or so until one night I was sitting in our living room near the back door and this ever braver grey cat walked right on in, surveyed the kitchen area for a minute or two and then strolled back outside. Again, this happened a few times before the next stage.

We had clearly passed her lengthy audition process and this dear cat one day strolls in with a kitten in its mouth. She deposited the kitten in a corner of our sitting room, and paced around nearby for a while. The kitten as it happened wasn’t too happy. It didn’t like where Mum had put her and meowed pretty much non-stop for about 20 minutes. Mother cat had seen enough. She picked up the kitten and took it back outside.

The following day she repeated this procedure with a different, larger kitten. This larger kitten was much happier about being left alone in the corner of our sitting room and barely said boo. After some time Mum went back outside and returned soon after with the smaller kitten from the day before and put it with its sibling. At this point of course we were wondering how many more there might be. I went outside and heard the meowing of another kitten on top of our back shed. I rescued it and put it in with the others.

Se we now had 4 cats - the stray grey mother cat and 3 gorgeous kittens. So began an illuminating period of watching these creatures interact and grow. It was like watching a David Attenborough documentary in real time with front row seats.

I guess we always knew we would eventually get another cat but that time was far off in some undetermined future. We had the decision taken out of our hands. We had been adopted by this delightful skittish grey stray. So skittish in fact, we called her Skitty. Still very nervous of humans, especially any sudden movements, she would dart away impulsively and slink back to her kittens when no one was around. But Skitty would stay with us – she had chosen us after all. We ultimately gave 2 of her 3 kittens away, and decided to keep the smallest of them

I still hesitate some months later to start writing about her. Her story brought us so much joy and so much sadness in her short life. When we decided to keep the three kittens we erected a cardboard barrier across the entrance to an area of our sitting room to keep them contained. Almost as soon as that barrier stood it was this tiniest kitten that stood up against it, looked up and me and meowed. From the start she was the one who wanted to be picked up; she was the one that wanted human contact. It was love at first sight and it was an easy choice – if we were to keep one kitten to keep Skitty company, it would be this one.

She had several trial names. Her official Paws and Claws name was Jasper. River called her something else. For some reason I was reluctant to name her – perhaps I knew somewhere that she wouldn’t be with us for long. It was only on the final night of her life that I knew who she was. I named her Spirit – such was her desire to be alive and to do everything she could within her severe limitations.

Her life with us started out happily. She was much smaller than her 2 siblings but mixed it with them in the rough and tumble of cat play and games of chasey up and down the hallway and skidding around corners on the kitchen lino. She, like the other 2, was hilarious. When her siblings had gone, she and her mother played together and enjoyed roaming around the garden looking like Mum and Mini Me.  At some point we began to notice that she had occasional balance problems. She would wobble a little on her back legs and occasionally tumble over. This gradually got worse and more pronounced but she, undeterred, would pick herself up each time and continue on. She was happy.

But we saw that she was getting worse. It turned out she had a congenital disease of the central nervous system that was affecting her ability to walk and keep her balance. We kept her for as long as we could but at approximately 6 months old we had to put her down. (Those words hold no hint of the depth of emotion that we felt losing her. She was just a tiny little stray cat but we had fallen in love with her.)

Skitty spent much of the next few days wandering around the house looking for her little Spirit – it was so sad to see. It didn’t take long before we decided that we would try again. We would get another kitten to keep Skitty company. The experts will tell you cats are quite happy being solitary pets, but many will tell you too that if you have 2 cats they will likely spend a lot of time together.

We knew it was a gamble. There was no guarantee that Skitty would accept another kitten into her world, but we thought it worth the risk. Enter the 6 month old tabby we named Tully. It took 8 days for Skitty to start washing Tully and lying with her on the same couch or corner of a bed. That according to our local vet was something of a miracle. Typically it takes 6-8 weeks in such situations before the host cat will accept the newcomer.

We were hopeful, even confident, that Skitty would be OK with another kitten. She had been a loving and devoted mother to her own, and was very affectionate with us. We thought she had the right temperament to ‘adopt’ a new cat and we were right.

So now, several months on, we have two pretty much adult cats who get on famously, and are really good company for each other. In an ironic twist Tully is the acrobat par excellence that little Spirit should have been, and walks on tree tops and roofs and fence lines and keeps us in a constant state of anxiety whenever she’s outside. Two year old world weary Skitty causes no such anxiety. She has experienced life on her own out in the wilderness and is now quite happy with a domestic life indoors, or enjoying the garden from ground level!

If you had asked me a year ago if I was a cat or a dog person my answer would have been unreservedly ‘dog person’. As I write this Tully is lying asleep next to me just touching my left arm gently with her outstretched paws. It’s a deeply calming sensation. I’m now a cat person.

Lake Mungo and the Meaning of Home

In 1974 the remains of Mungo Man were found on the shores of the former Lake Mungo in western New South Wales. His bones were transported to places far away for the purposes of science. It was these bones that proved conclusively that humans had lived in Australia for at least 50,000 years.

After four decades, and after much lobbying from Aboriginal people from the Lake Mungo region, Mungo man was returned to his resting place by the lake in 2017.  An elderly Aboriginal woman commented:

“He needs to go home. His soul’s just wandering around lost. It’s not good for him. It’s not good for us. It’s not good for anyone. He needs to go home so his soul can rest.”

When I heard these words it was as if I was appreciating the wisdom of the ancient hosts of our land in a way I never had before. Tears flowed as the profound message in those simple words echoed deep down in my soul. We all need to go home. And the elderly woman was talking about a man 50,000 years old as if she knew him. She cared about Mungo Man’s soul. No matter how long ago he lived. She and other members of her community have a responsibility to take care of their ancestors and their land. And a man or woman and their land should not be separated.

I went to Lake Mungo recently – an extraordinary place. The public can’t visit the final resting place of Mungo Man, but you can visit the extraordinary wall of sand dunes that run along the edge of where Lake Mungo once glistened in the sun. The Visitors Centre refers to local Aboriginal groups having cared for the land around Lake Mungo for 50,000 years. Note, not lived in, but cared for the land. Their very existence in the land of their ancestors assumes they are its custodians. Another simple, powerful message.

There is something deeply primal about the notion of home. It strikes at the very core of what it means to be alive, to be human. It evokes feelings of warmth, safety, and contentment. Home is a place where you feel comfortable and know intrinsically how to behave. No pretence is needed because at home you are your natural self, and for many it is a place they return to again and again – in both the literal and metaphorical sense – for sustenance.

For some others this may be precisely why they leave home for they crave something other than safety and comfort. Or their experience of home was so dreadful that they leave never to return. Oscar Wilde wrote that ‘no man is an adult until they leave home.’  In many cultures it is a mark of respect earned if you have left your homeland and lived much of your life in foreign shores. It conveys a certain worldliness somehow, a strength that you have struck out on your own and succeeded without the support of your family, relatives or culture – the immigrant. And though an immigrant at the end of their life might long to return to their homeland or have their ashes scattered in the fields or rivers of home it rarely happens. In the modern world a great many people leave their home never to return.

So what of their souls? Is the soul of one born in Wales and buried in Australia doomed to wander for eternity? If the Mungo elder is correct then that would be the case, and we all therefore suffer. Could there be a different set of rules than those that govern the belief systems of Aboriginal Australians? Is that the case for those who choose to leave their place of birth, and are happy to remain away, and who come to some spiritual reconciliation with a different place of their own choosing; a place they came to as a foreigner but came to regard as their home; their spiritual home? Can you in effect choose where your soul calls home?

The Aboriginal belief that one should be buried in the land of your birth works for a culture and time where most people would not have strayed far from their ancestral home. Though there may be some deep primal appeal attached to this notion, it can’t be a matter of absolute fact. It is culture and context specific.

It is interesting though to contemplate what home means for each one of us. Is it a house? A suburb or town? A land or country? Or is it being with a certain person, or being in a certain state of mind? Does listening to a particular piece of music make you feel at home? The possibilities are many. Is the state of feeling at home literal and physical or more metaphorical and symbolic where in fact the physical location has no bearing at all on the notion of feeling at home?

For my own part it has been all of these things at different times.  In terms of physical location I can variously claim to feel at home in a particular suburb where I have lived much of my life, or more widely the whole city of Adelaide, or more widely still the land of Australia. I do honestly feel at home in locations where I have previously lived or visited frequently – Holland, or Cambodia. And mysteriously, or perhaps even mystically, some places seem to take hold of your soul for no obvious reason. Israel worked like this for me. I felt a strange and strong affinity with Israel from the moment I arrived there. And there are other times when it is only in the company of my partner that I feel truly at home.

So is home where the heart is? It turns out the heart can be at home at any number of places, but perhaps not simultaneously. Perhaps home is simply where you are at any given moment that you’re feeling good about yourself and your place in the world.

To return to Mungo Man, or any other deceased being that has been interred, it seems obvious that they should just be left in peace, and it seems quite feasible that a disturbed body may trigger the wandering of a consequently restless soul.

More photos HERE

The Ugly Australian

I initially wrote this song about travelling in Greece. I was a deck class passenger on a ferry between Athens and Israel and I was give this inedible food for dinner. I kicked up a fuss with the ferry staff and they agreed to give me some other food and allowed me to sit in the first class lounge while I ate it. The food in truth wasn’t that much better, and after a short time all the lounge staff logged off and turned off most of the lights as they went.  As I sat there in the half-darkness eating this dreadful food I realise I’d been had! It was the kind of thing that made you want to go home.

Thirty years on I realised that if I just tweaked the lyrics a little and wrote them from the perspective of a refugee stuck on Manus or Nauru I have a similar but different song.

You put shit food down in front of me and expect me to eat it

You put me up in the first class lounge with my anger and expect that to placate it
I’m on a foreign boat in a foreign sea in times foreign to us all At times like this I’m wonderin’ why I’m so far from my native shore I’m going home

I’m tired of the ever moving ground
I'm tired of the ever changing ground
Australia will you wait for me with your long and golden shore?You’re a land of sun and dreams they tell me but I wanna know for sure

Are you keeping up with fashion? Are you keeping down the poor?
Are you looking down the barrel? Or has nothing changed at all?
But I’m coming home

So I’m coming home

TAKE 2: 2018

You put shit food down in front of me and expect me to eat it

You stick me out on an offshore island with my pain and expect that to placate it
I’m in a foreign place in a foreign sea in times foreign to us all

Australia was what I was looking for – why I left my native shore
But I can’t go home

I’m tired of the never changing ground
I’m tired of the never moving round

Australia I will you wait for you with your long and golden shores
You’re a land of sun and dreams they tell me will I ever know for sure?
I have no home

Are we closing up the country? Have we shut down all the doors?
Are those in need not welcome? When did we get so mean?

They can’t go home
They have no home

On Australian Identity

Ever since I taught Australian History to high school students I have felt uncomfortable using Anzac Day as a cause of celebration, let alone espousing it as some kind of event that forged our national identity.

From a historical perspective the verdict is pretty clear: the ANZAC campaign was a disaster. Australian and New Zealand soldiers were used as decoys and sent as lambs to the slaughter to distract the Turks from another region the British intended to attack. It was a disgrace that was best forgotten.

Yet we go on making it bigger and grander with each passing year. Richard Flanagan in his recent address to the National Press Club says that in his family Anzac Day was always about remembering those who went to war, and especially those who didn’t come home.  From around the mid-80s, in the hands of politicians – beginning with Bob Hawke – it has become something else. It’s become a patriotic rallying call to define who we are as a nation and the values and beliefs that go with it, and if you don’t subscribe to those beliefs you are somehow un-Australian. Well let me say right here and now that I am un-Australian. Which of course just means that I think differently to those who hold up the ‘Anzac spirit’ as some kind of mirror that all Australians must look into to find themselves.

I do a lot of walking around Australian towns and cities, and as I watch the churches become homes, cafes and bars, and the war memorials shine and proliferate, and see the vast sums of money being spent on more of them at Gallipoli, France, and here in Adelaide, it’s become clear to me that Australia’s real religion is war, or at least the memorialising if it. It feels like an unhealthy obsession.

What bothers me, and as Flanagan noted is really quite dangerous, is none of this is up for discussion with mainstream Australia. War, and the militarisation of national memory, is a no go area. Question its relevance or importance and you are immediately dismissed as un-Australian, left-leaning, hippy, radical or some other insult that consigns you to the margins. It’s a closed book, and sadly is in large part based on myth rather than fact.

We are going down a dead end street that offers no solace for the growing number of Australians who are unhappy – who smash up churches and graves, eat themselves to obesity, or express their life’s emptiness through road rage….

Flanagan wonders whether there may be another path Australia could take to seek the roots of its national identity. We have been given the priceless gift of sharing this remarkable continent with the oldest unbroken culture on the planet. This could be our legacy to the world. Why isn’t there a national museum dedicated to our indigenous culture? Why would we rather spend $100 million on a war museum in France honouring the lives of those who died fighting for another country’s wars rather than spend that money on a national monument honouring Australia’s vast pre-history? Why aren’t we standing on the hilltops boasting about the fact that we host an ancient civilization whose ancestors are still with us? And this story happened on this land – not in Turkey or France or Vietnam. These are the real, authentic stories of our ancient land: our true past. Who knows - it might even make us feel more connected to it, and perhaps lead us to appreciate the unique place in history that our co-existence with the earth’s oldest culture affords us.