Goodbye Bill

 

When David Lindley died Jackson Browne said he hesitated to put his feelings about David down on paper because that would mean having to acknowledge that David had really gone. I’m feeling a bit like that now about my dear friend Bill. Bill Docherty died on December 12^th.

When I first met Bill he was a friend of my brother’s. They were both studying to be priests at a monastery in Melbourne. Bill and my brother Damien left religious life before becoming priests, and both embarked on a lifestyle that involved catching up on lost time. My first strong post-monastery memories of Bill were visiting a house he shared with other students and consuming huge amounts of marijuana, listening to a lot of Frank Zappa, and engaging in challenging and stimulating intellectual debates about life. As a much younger man the nature of these highly articulate conversations greatly impressed me.

As fate would have it Bill and I would both end up spending a lot of time in Israel. Bill eventually married a Jewish woman and lived there for many years but we first met in Israel in 1981 when he was living on a kibbutz outside of Jerusalem.  Our second meeting was in Ashqelon when we both parents with young children. Our third and fourth meetings were in Jerusalem. I was in Israel attending conferences and Bill was working as a lawyer for an organisation that represented Palestinians in court in their battles with the Israeli state.

And therein lies a tale of who Bill was, and the schizophrenic nature of life in Israel for anyone who cares about the parties on both sides of the conflict. During this time Bill lived in Jerusalem and travelled across to the West Bank each day to work for Palestinians. Each day after work he returned to his Israeli friends on the other side of the conflict.

Despite the fact that it had progressively become more and more of a rogue state that saw itself above the law we both loved Israel. It was this shared joy of the land, its people and the profound experiences it afforded us that saw us grow closer as the years rolled by. When Bill returned to Australia we shared fond memories and a mutual understanding of the complexities of Israel. It left indelible marks on both of us. And both of us had little or no contact with anyone else who had spent much time in Israel.  Israel was our shared story that we both cherished, and that few others understood.

I may write more about Bill’s life down the track a bit. This text is just a brief glimpse of a remarkable story about a remarkable man. Bill was one of those larger than life characters who always seemed to be living life in some kind of action movie where the unlikely becomes more likely, and the impossible becomes possible.  He was indeed a lovable larrikin, but as erudite and articulate a person as you’ll ever meet. He was also a ratbag that you tolerated because of the love that lived within his generous soul.

Bill was a storyteller. The last time I saw him I told him how much I enjoyed his stories over the years, but that I was never sure what was fact and what was embellishment. His reply? “It was all embellishment!” No it wasn’t Bill – we both know that – but you made me laugh one last time.

I loved you mate. And I know you loved me.  Watching your coffin disappear at your funeral was like having parts of me stripped away. And I realised then and there that I had begun the gradual journey to my own end. Offering me one last lesson Bill. Teaching me right to the very end.

Rest in peace chaver yakar sheli (my dear friend).

 

1988 - OzAsia Music Review

 

Space Theatre, Tue 24 Oct

1988 was a big year for Australia. White Australia celebrated its bicentenary. It was also a big year for Dung Nguyen. He emigrated from Vietnam to join his father in Australia.

1988 is an inspiring cultural event. It attempts to portray the Vietnamese experience of migration and resettlement in a strange and foreign land through music, sound, and projected imagery. It is a beautifully intense creation.

It begins with Nguyen sitting on the floor playing a Vietnamese zither (dan tranh), that Asian stringed instrument whose evocative sounds are synonymous with traditional music from East Asia. Slowly the zither invites other sounds to enter: a sparse piano, an aching trumpet, deeply resonant double bass, vibraphone, and various other forms of percussion – most notably a gorgeous bamboo xylophone (dan trung). All the while the projected blurred images are becoming clearer as Nguyen gets closer to Australia.

Nine different musical pieces take us on an ongoing journey through arrival in the new land, sharing feelings of excitement and expectation, disruption and uncertainty, and finally back full circle to a point that feels like resolution; the acceptance of life as a migrant – forever a stranger but who nevertheless finds a way to retain their Vietnamese soul.

This is all done with exquisite collaboration between musicians seeking their space to contribute to the mood of each piece. A range of electronic gadgetry complemented traditional instruments and neatly symbolised the integration of old and new experiences that migration entails.

This was an enchanting performance – deeply moving, ethereal, exotic, a wonderful blend of sounds that may or may not become music, but all of which express feeling.

It concludes with Nguyen back on the floor, plucking his zither, gently humming to himself………

This review also published on The Clothesline.