A Centennial Story of the Chinese Fiddle

 

Pilgrim Uniting Church, Sun 3 Mar.

That different cultures across the world have found their own solutions to life’s matters is a fascinating aspect of humanity. Cultures develop distinct ways of dressing, different foods, types of housing, and music. The sitar is the unmistakable sound of India; the Middle East gave us the oud. When you hear that haunting melancholy tone of the erhu you recognise it immediately as Chinese. The erhu is a two-stringed bowed instrument that has a small sound box at its base that is covered with python skin. And according to Wikipedia “its characteristic sound is produced through the vibration of the python skin by bowing.”

Silk Strings are an Adelaide based group of Chinese musicians whose mission is in part to make the music known as huquin more accessible.  The erhu, or Chinese fiddle – its central instrument – has been around for centuries. A Centennial Story of the Chinese Fiddle is designed to showcase the music of the erhu from the last one hundred years.

The program delivered nine pieces in chronological order as either solo pieces, or duets with erhu and piano in the beautiful Pilgrim Uniting Church. There’s something delicious about hearing traditional Chinese music in a Christian church. The atmosphere and acoustics are perfect for this kind of performance.

The earliest piece was from 1928, and like so much of Chinese nomenclature, it has one of those poetic titles intended to impart a lesson before a note is played – Birds Singing in a Desolate Mountain. A gorgeous folk song from China’s north-east was entitled The Crescent Moon at Three in the Morning. Galloping Battle Steeds sounded as it suggests. The sounds of galloping horses is a recurring motif in music from northern China and Mongolia, and is mimicked by interesting bowing techniques.

The final three pieces were more recent arrangements for erhu and piano involving some quite intense collaboration. One was an interpretation of a gypsy tune by a Spanish composer. The final two pieces in a more modern vein had the erhu sounding more like a violin, and therefore less Chinese.

It’s understandable that musicians would want to stretch themselves and branch out into fusion or more modern forms of their genre, but it may be at the cost of losing that distinctive sound that made older forms of the genre instantly recognisable, and perhaps revered.

Beautiful music exquisitely played in a near perfect setting.

This review also published on The Clothesline.

Sounds of the Hazara - Adelaide Fringe Music Review

[MUSIC/World Music ~ SA ~ ADELAIDE FRINGE PREMIERE]

Nexus Arts Venue, Sat 25 Feb, 2024.

The Hazara are one of the many ethnic groups that make up the population of Afghanistan. They in particular have been subject to harassment and violence since the return to power of the Taliban. There are approximately 40000 Hazara now living in Australia.

As Keith Preston told us in his introduction the Adelaide Fringe is slowly but surely becoming more representative of the diverse cultural make-up of our society – due in part it must be said, to the tireless efforts of people like Keith who strive to make it happen.

And so we gather at Nexus Arts to enjoy Hazara folks songs led by the humble, gracious Feroz Ansari on vocals and harmonium. Ansari is supported by fellow countryman Mehran Yawary on keyboards and electronic percussion,  well-known Adelaide musician Quentin Ayers on dobro and guitar, and Preston on santoor and bouzouki. It was a line-up that worked really well in the end. There were some issues with instrument balance earlier in the show where the harmonium and vocals were being dominated by the keyboard and percussion. The program does refer to ‘fusion styles’ – and it’s always a challenge to get the blend of traditional and modern instruments in the right balance. Once this was sorted the music quite rocked!

Most songs followed a similar pattern with a quieter vocal intro with harmonium, with other instruments joining in once the song was established. Some of the programmed percussion arrangements were wonderful – complex and catchy. Ansari’s vocals were right on the money – melodic and plaintive with that lovely central Asian/Middle Eastern style of vocal where the singer slides into and across notes that the Western pentatonic scale doesn’t feature. There were some lovely instrumental moments from Preston on santoor, and Ayers on guitars.

Ansari mentioned that the poetry of the original songs was very difficult to translate into English but it seemed that one way or another all the songs were about love.

It is sadly ironic that Australian audiences are now fortunate to have ethnic musicians of this calibre living amongst us who can participate in such events and enrich our cultural life. A really enjoyable performance of music from another world.

This review also published on The Clothesline.

Silly Little Things - Theatre Review

Star Theatre Two at Star Theatres, Fri 23 Feb, 2024.

Laura Knaggs has written a delightful story, and tells it beautifully. She plays the part of Rosie, a young woman who is finally free of an oppressive long term relationship and desperate to celebrate her freedom;  start a new more exciting life. But it turns out she’s not that good at making decisions on her own. Her best friend is dealing with her own problems, her nosy neighbour keeps making life difficult, good men are hard to find, and her flower shop is going under. And the last thing she wants to do is give in and go back to her mother for help. Perhaps a few more shots of tequila will fix things? They don’t.

Rosie takes us all along this frustrating, entertaining ride with mostly good humour, sporadic misplaced optimism, and an honest vulnerability. She’s pretty hyper early on and it’s as if her speedy enthusiasm is plunging her into train wreck territory. But luckily for Rosie a near disaster opens her eyes just enough to help her see the good that’s right in front of her.

She still has that lovely bouncy personality but it’s not so manic now. She’s calmed down and has become a much nicer, smarter person.

So there is a moral to the story if you’re looking for one. Or you could just sit back and enjoy Knagg’s charming manner, the tightly scripted narrative, her impressive range of acting skills, and great sense of comedy. She’s a natural, and is clearly very much at home on the stage.

One small peeve – I think the title of this show belittles it. There’s a lot more going on here than Silly Little Things, but I guess that’s how Rosie may have seen things at the time.

This review also published on The Clothesline.

K Mak At The Planetarium: Adelaide Fringe 2024 Review

The Planetarium, Sat 17 Feb, 2024

K Mak’s website says they are the brainchild of cellist Kathryn McKee, and describes their music as ‘a distillation of classical, alternative and electro-pop music.’ That’s handy because I was struggling to identify their genre. Not that you always have to pigeon-hole the music we listen to. Things don’t always fit into convenient categories and K Mak at the Planetarium is a case in point.

It’s initially a little confusing trying to decide whether to focus on the music or the projected visuals until one eventually accepts that it’s meant to be an integrated experience. And it works really well.

Just relax back into the chairs of the planetarium and let the whole experience wash over you; let the sights and sounds take your mind and soul wherever they want to go. And my mind certainly wandered far and wide across the universe, and then deep down into microcosms of throbbing liquids and bubbling gases. Watch a parade of planets, rockets launching, asteroids, deep space, star signs, the blazing sun. Kaleidoscopic patterns, magical plants, sea creatures – it’s essentially a celebration of the natural world, with a dose of psychedelia.

K Mak’s music was always interesting and perfectly complementary – a neat combination of persistent rhythms with ethereal melodies carried by keyboard, cello and violin. The sound was not always totally in synch with the visuals but that didn’t seem to matter. It was very much a case of you connecting the music and the visuals in any way you wanted. There was nothing prescriptive about this event. No program as such, though there was an occasional comment introducing the next piece. But you make the connections; you join the dots.

Be immersed in childlike wonder. You might however find your adult self contemplating how insignificant we all are in the presence of the power and beauty of the universe. And that’s not a bad thing is it? Certainly puts things in another perspective!

This review also posted on The Clothesline.

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.

12 Angry Men - Review (from 2016)

 Holden Street Theatres, The Studio, Wed 13 Oct.

Matt Byrne Media has been churning out consistently good local theatre for years now and they have excelled with this production of Reginald Rose’s timeless jury room drama 12 Angry Men. Appropriately timed to coincide with the madness surrounding the US election and the racist fear-mongering attitudes it is serving up 12 Angry Men reminds us of the fault lines of prejudice that underscore American life.

Matt Byrne at far left. Sadly Matt left this earth in 2021

This production is a superb example of great casting and near faultless ensemble acting. Twelve men of all ages from many and various walks of life are closeted in a jury room to decide the fate of a 16-year-old Puerto Rican boy on trial for the murder of his father. The initial vote goes 11-1 in favour of indictment. The dissenting juror number eight however is not convinced the evidence presented was conclusive and begins a round of discussions that slowly sow seeds of reasonable doubt in his fellow jurors.

The crisp, fast moving dialogue is in turn rational, impassioned and heated and reveals that people have made decisions based on the values they hold rather than on the evidence that is presented. A salutary lesson in Courtroom Law 101.

There is not a weak link among the twelve characters. While some have more demanding roles, they all play their parts to perfection and it would seem unfair to single out any of them for special mention. It is possibly the most even ensemble performance I’ve seen in years.

There were many startling and memorable scenes. The opening scene that sees twelve random strangers awkwardly filing into the jury room for a process that would reveal much about who they are and what they believe, and ultimately decide whether someone lives or dies was beautifully choreographed. A scene late in the play when one of the more outspoken guilty verdict jurors unravels in a tirade of racism was eerily Trump-like.

Ultimately, after a fiery, combative process reason triumphs and justice rules, and shows that those who shout loudest need not always get their way.

Designed and directed by Matt Byrne, this is a classy and immensely entertaining show.

This review also published on The Clothesline.

Kate Townsend

 

Another friend has left us - Kate Townsend. Kate was one part of a wonderful partnership with Dave Clarke and together for many years they ran the Singing Gallery in McLaren Vale, and in more recent years a smaller venue called the Singing Gazebo in Clarendon.  Dave and Kate were rare because when they hosted musicians they made you feel like family. They treated musicians with an amazing grace and respect. They might even feed you. They made sure all was to your liking and that you felt OK. Playing at a venue where Dave and Kate were hosts was a special treat. And ogether they created this wonderful sense of community between the people who attended their shows.

I had known Kate  for quite a while before I heard her sing and it was a wonderful moment when I did first hear her sing, She had a beautiful singing voice.

The song below is called Kate from the Riverbend.  The Singing Gazebo was in Dave and Kate’s home  on a bend in the Onkaparinga River in Clarendon. It was a place that Aboriginal people used to go to long ago and was regarded then as a meeting place. Kate used to mention this in her welcomes to country when you attended gigs at the gazebo. Another lovely little Kate touch was putting names of those attending on tables with perhaps a little bunch of flowers, a pretty tablecloth, or some interesting picture. She always made sure that people were sitting in a place where they could see, where they could hear, and where they would feel comfortable and able to enjoy the music on offer. So Kate – we’re all going to really miss the events that you and Dave have put on together over the years. Thank you so much for making it such a warm and memorable experience. Rest in peace dear Kate.

KATE FROM THE RIVERBEND

Listen

Sit over there - see your name on the table

Or sit back there - talk to our old friend

Here on the riverbend

Glad you could come; glad you were able

To sing and smile and enjoy the show

Here on the riverbend

Long long ago ancient people

Gathered right here to tell their stories

Your welcomes to country warm and true

They made it clear what it meant to you

This place on the riverbend

We saw you smile

We heard you talk

We heard you play

Then we heard you sing

A voice from the trees

Like notes on the wind

Here on the riverbend

A voice so warm like sun in the morning

Made me dream what might be tomorrow

Here on the riverbend

Here on the riverbend

Here on the riverbend

Kate from the riverbend

Michael Coghlan (November, 2023)

Defeated Voice

 

To Peter in Berlin

OK I'm going to dictate this rather than type so this is voice to text at work.

I think some of what I say here Peter might surprise you. I have a lot of - anger perhaps is a bit strong - but certainly a lot of frustration about what's going on with the Aboriginal issue in Australia. Not just about the Voice but there's a whole lot of stuff going on here which you may have picked up on while you were here earlier in the year but as you haven't been here in the lead up to the Voice you wouldn't have felt this absolute bombardment of the Australian public about Aboriginal issues.

Now for the record I voted yes. I thought it was really important that the yes vote got up just to give Aboriginal people the message that they belong here. But what they got is a message that lots of Australians don't think they do belong here. I think it was a monumental cockup by both the Labour and Liberal parties. I think both parties should have stayed out of it and basically said to the Australian people ‘this is not a political issue; this is a personal conscience vote issue’ and they should have stayed out of it. What in fact happened is that it became like an election with Liberal versus Labour and it was a disaster for all concerned.

I think a lot of what happened is that there are a lot of Australians like me who are sick to death of hearing about it. Someone on the ABC wrote today that at a time when we have major problems in this country with education, not enough beds in the hospital system, not enough doctors, not enough houses for people to live in, people are struggling to get enough money to buy food and a whole host of other issues the last thing that many Australians want to think about is the welfare of the Aboriginal people. The timing was disastrous, and it feels to me like we are being force fed a diet of Aboriginal issues 24/7 in all forms of media. Now whether or not other people believe that to be true doesn't matter because the perception is from a lot of people that it's just been rammed down our throats and it's another example like with the whole gender issue. We are being told what to think and you get the message that you can't object to what people are saying or you'll be considered sexist or you know gender-ist, or racist. You’re reluctant to express any dissatisfaction with the prevailing orthodoxy for fear of recrimination and accusations.

 

A simple example of this is that it's a recurring theme now that I see on Facebook and I hear people say it to me and I hadn't said it out loud 'cause I guess I didn't want to appear racist. But - I am sick to death of being welcomed to my own country – at every game, every bit of theatre, every movie,  every talk, every lecture, every everything you are subjected to this tokenistic welcome to country. I know that country in the Aboriginal sense of the word is different to what we mean by country but I think that's irrelevant here in the bigger picture.  The fact is I and a lot of people just don't want to be welcomed to country because it's already my country. And I find myself at these things when they're talking about elders past and present and I want to ask what about my elders? what about the Italians? what about the Vietnamese? What gives the Aboriginal people the right to have this little gig behind every public ceremony just because they were first here? Well it is important, they are important, but I don't think they're that important that they have to occupy you know several minutes of our consciousness every day of our lives. 

A local Councillor the City of Playford, said he thought acknowledgements had gone "overboard".

"I listen to the younger generation who attend university and colleges, it's being read out for every lecture," he said. "I think it's gone a little too far, and for me, I don't think is balanced."

The acknowledgement needed to be "inclusive", adding the words "our people, our forebears that have contributed in building and defending our great nation and way of life".

"This is Australia, we are a great nation, we've got to be thankful and grateful to our custodians," he said.

"But we also have to respect our forebears that have built this great nation, there are many people who've put blood, sweat and tears, sacrificing their lives for this nation."

"In this climate, it takes courage to do this ... some people will see this as some sort of racist attack, and that's far from what it is," he said.

"[The acknowledgement] loses a bit of its meaning when every single meeting, every single lecture, we have this verbatim read out."

And I think there are a lot of Australians - in fact I know a lot of Australians like my brother Shaun are fed up with the Aboriginal issue. And it is still the case that a lot of Australians think - as the guy who looks after our pool said when he was here the other day - they already get everything for free. They get free healthcare, they get free education, free housing - what else do they want? so I'm voting no he said. So there is still a perception in the Australian community that Aboriginal people do get a lot more breaks than the rest of us. Ironic given that all the poverty and well-being markers still show that Aboriginal people are way behind the rest of the country but the rest of the country still feels like they're getting an easy ride and are not inclined to give them what they see as an even easier ride by giving them something called the Voice which people didn't understand anyway.

 

It's really interesting too that when you analyse the data from the referendum and look at where the majority of yes votes were recorded. It was in the inner cities of Melbourne, Sydney, Brisbane,  Adelaide where educated well-off possibly more liberal (as in left thinking) people live. They voted yes. The further you move out from the inner city to the outer suburbs and then out into the countryside and then out into the remote regions the thinner the yes vote gets so it's an enclave of inner city elite thing.  I don't know how you want to describe them and I guess I'm in that category too and I think we’re actually a little bit out of touch with what the rest of the country is thinking. The rest of the country was absolutely conclusive - no. Not interested. Don't care.

 

And I think that care factor is significant here. With the same sex marriage plebiscite - strictly not a referendum - that was put through because everybody knew someone who was affected by the laws as they were then which said same sex relationships can't be legitimate, they couldn't marry, they had no rights so everybody knew there was a practical outcome within their families or within their circle of friends. So people cared. In this context with the Voice it made absolutely no difference to the average Australian whether this thing got up or not. Obviously it did to Aboriginal people but to the average white Australian they didn't give a toss. They didn't understand and didn't care. I don't know what it says about Australia. It feels like a sad empty feeling but what angers me are these two things 1) that politicians got involved and it scuttled the whole thing and 2) read the room. There's a number of people in this country who are sick of - I think it's called identity politics. They want governments to spend time and money on issues that affect all of us – education, health, transport, the economy, food, places to live - they don't want governments to spend their time looking at you know whether or not you're gay or whether or not you're transgender or whether or not you're Aboriginal or whether or not you're autistic. They want the government to focus on problems which affect everybody. Now this is a little bit my interpretation of what's going on but I feel like that's a bit how it's running at the moment.

Some weeks later I found this – seems I’m not alone in my thinking. Don Watson put it this way:

“if the Left wants to regain the ground it lost it needs to give up its fashionable pieties, broaden its reading, examine its own motivation for signs of vanity and self-interest, and stop equating occupation of the moral high ground with doing something useful. It should recognise that identity politics is an option for people whose identities are threatened, but it won’t get you a democracy where all identities are secure. It will get you Trump.” (The Monthly, November 2023)

But I'm sad the Voice didn't get up. It was a good idea. It was a necessary step towards reconciliation, to treaty, to healing - it's now gonna take another decade or two so we’ll be long dead methinks before the Aboriginal question is satisfactorily resolved, if ever. It feels strangely sad and negative and empty today. It says something about Australia that I don't like but I kind of understand why it happened and I just think these inner urban elites and politicians need to read the room and focus on the things that actually mean something to everybody.

 

Ink - Review

Little Theatre
Fri Oct 13 2023

There’s a sadness about this work from James Graham. Many of the ideas behind Rupert Murdoch’s first newspaper seemed quite acceptable.  Socialist even. “Give the people what they want. “ “A newspaper for the people” “Tell stories of normal people”. In retrospect Murdoch’s Sun may well have been a kind of forerunner of social media where the humdrum activities of the rank and file were deemed sufficient to fill a newspaper.

Murdoch was also out to break the hold of the establishment on Fleet Street. He saw himself as a new broom that would sweep old and dusty entrenched attitudes aside. The rest of course is history. From there the local Adelaide boy would take on New York and the world and eventually become an entrenched stalwart of right-wing values, and one of the most insidious influences on contemporary life.

But Ink only takes us through to the end of the first chapter in this remarkable story, when Murdoch’s remodelled Sun outsells its nemesis on the back of the introduction of the page 3 model. And it is a wonderful emotional roller coaster of a ride.  Directors Robert Bell and Rebecca Kemp, together with an extremely capable and large ensemble cast manage to brilliantly convey the manic stress behind the scenes of newspaper production, the exhilarating highs shared when brainstorming ideas for a new approach to journalism, and celebrating success when the ratings come in all good news.  The buzz around these scenes is infectious, and delivered with authenticity and a great sense of fun. Just one of several scenes in this play that are really very funny.

The success of this production is undoubtedly a team effort, but it rests safely on the shoulders of two stellar acting performances by Joshua Coldwell and Bart Csoba.  Coldwell is suitably brash and provocative as Murdoch. He has just enough nerve to ruffle feathers while still maintaining a sense of decency and likeability that allows him to get away with the outrageous. But hats off to Bart Csorba as the real hero of this story, Larry Lamb – the editor Murdoch entrusted to translate his vision into reality. Larry Lamb is the stereotypical newspaper guy. Most of the time he seems just shy of breaking point as he chides, encourages, and berates his staff to deliver the goods – hyper-enthusiastic, hyper-critical, hyper-anxious but always ready to celebrate success. His is a remarkable performance.

Such an entertaining show. As ever the Little Theatre’s split level and multiple entry/exit points were beautifully exploited. The audience loved the scenes where Larry cajoled fellow journos to come along on a risky crazy ride, and the hilarious group creation of the masthead, motto, and the new paper’s first edition.

Things become quite a bit more sober later in the show with the kidnapping of Muriel McKay, the wife of Murdoch’s deputy, and as reports start to filter in of people in high places being offended by this rambunctious new kid on the block. But despite the offence and the ruffled feathers the ratings continued to soar.

As they should for this production of Ink!

This review also published on The Clothesline.

Dictionary of Lost Words

The Dictionary of Lost Words

Dunstan Playhouse
Wed 27 Sep 2023

At first pass the tale of a young woman growing up dreaming of being a lexicographer may not present as a ripping yarn.  But courtesy of some astute direction, wonderfully creative use of an eye-catching set, and uniformly excellent performances from the whole cast The Dictionary of Lost Words is totally engrossing.

We meet Esme as a four year old hanging around in her father’s ‘scrippy’ or scriptorium (a place for writing).  Her father works for an eminent scholar who is compiling a dictionary. With that kind of upbringing Esme was always going to grow up either loving or hating words, and fortunately she realises words can be an escape, a path to alternative realities, and collecting new words and quotations to show their use becomes something of an obsession.

The story unfolds in the late nineteenth century as the suffragette movement is gaining momentum in Britain. Wanting a more independent life than most women, Esme had already decided that marriage was not for her and was potentially a suitable candidate to help further the suffragette cause.

As Esme grows older she begins to accompany her maid to the local market. This turns out to be a surprising entry point to another universe for Esme when she strikes up a friendship with a woman selling hand-made trinkets. Their first meeting was hilarious and quite a shocking exposure to another world for Esme.

The rapid set transformation from scriptorium to market was also a wonderful surprise for the audience. In a trice we move from a stuffy office with desks, paper, people in suits, shelves, to a lively joyous scene with vendors, beggars, flowers, fruit, colour, and noise on streets heaving with life.

However the scriptorium itself held plenty of visual interest. A wall of shelves served as bookshelves, letterboxes, pigeon-holes, library catalogue compartments, and gateways to secret passages. An ingenious projection device variously displayed information about date, locations, words with definitions, abstract backgrounds, visual metaphors to reinforce the messages – it provided another separate but connected filter on events taking place and added depth and mystique to many scenes – brilliant!

Tilda Cobham-Harvey’s performance as Esme was faultless and inspiring – as a child, teenager, and young woman. Her ability to grow – literally – in this role and share her frustrations, joy, love and enthusiasm was authentic and endearing.

Ksenja Logos as Mabel the market tramp deserves special mention for her earthy comic touch and entertaining revelations about the language of the lower classes, but really – all characters played their roles to perfection. And despite their sometimes pompous façade they all had a warmth and humanity about them.

Sometimes it can be subtle, almost unnoticeable moments that elevate a play to another level. There were two occasions when unspoken lyrics from The Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond were implied and totally in synch with the events on stage. This production is littered with such metaphorical moments reinforcing the narrative.

A great show. So good to see so many elements of theatre blended into an impressive whole!

This review also published on The Clothesline.

Lady Day

The Space Theatre, Festival Centre, Tue 29 Aug

Billie Holiday is often associated with the tag ‘the lady sings the blues’ after the film depicting her life from 1972. Holiday herself saw things as more nuanced: “I sing the blues with a jazz beat”. This is just one of many insights about Billie Holiday revealed in the marvellous new production from the State Theatre Company. “Singing is living for me” was another.  Lady Day is in fact just as much about the person that was Billie Holiday as it is about her music. And it succeeds admirably in both realms.

Lady Day was one of Holiday’s nicknames and the show takes place at one of her favourite venues – the Emerson Bar and Grill in Philadelphia in 1959. It was to be one of her last performances. Holiday died later that same year. In retrospect, Lady Day becomes a memorial to an icon, and a harrowing first person account of the trauma she endured. Deeply entwined in this trauma was the shocking level of racism she experienced. Add to this drug and alcohol addiction, time in prison, and being raped as a young woman and you have a recipe for desperation. Thankfully for us, and Holiday herself, she chose music to express and exorcise these torments. It is quite likely that it was music that enabled her to live as long as she did. She died a young 44 but along the way left a legacy of soulful, bluesy songs that drew on every ounce of emotion.

The Space Theatre has never looked better. It’s rare to feel that just being in a performance space, even before the show begins, was a real treat. Decked out as a 1950’s bar with colourful lamp shades on each table and a waiter in white showing patrons to their seats and offering them drinks was just brilliant to observe. The place was alive with expectation and looked gorgeous.

At one point the recorded music seamlessly morphed into a live band and it was time for Jimmy Powers (of the Jimmy Powers Quartet) to introduce the star of the show. Billie Holiday took the stage looking resplendent and after a deliciously long pause bursts into song. Drinking as she goes it gets harder and harder for her to focus on the songs, and she starts sharing anecdotes of her life. If she gets too maudlin or dangerously close to saying something that may land her back in prison Jimmy Powers lovingly suggests a song on the piano. Sometimes she follows him; sometimes she doesn’t. She needs to feel which songs to sing she tells us. This delicate, beautiful relationship between Powers (played by Kym Purling) and Holiday was really touching, and beautifully played by both parties.

The musical accompaniment was wonderful – full of class and nuance, the setting magnificent, and then there was Zahra Newman. What a performance. Not only did she deliver the songs with eloquent passion and exquisite phrasing, her portrayal of the human side of a star unravelling before your eyes was extraordinary. Bravado, vulnerability, wit, charm, grace and poise – all in appropriate measure. It felt like she was Billie Holiday.

A magnificent concert; magnificent theatre. Music and theatre combined to tell a compelling story with class and style.

Presented by the State Theatre Company in association with Belvoir St Theatre, and the Melbourne Theatre Company
Directed by Mitchell Butel
Musical Arrangements by Danny Holgate

This review also published on The Clothesline.

I Quit!

 

Quitting jobs is not my style – or so I’d like to think. I know I did it once when I was still at university. I took on a factory job for the holidays and lasted 7 or 8 days. It involved mindless feeding of sheets of metal into a machine that cut them into the required size. And stacking the cut sheets. Hour after hour. I guess I was doing it for extra travel money but at some point in the middle of the working day I realised I was not enjoying it and that I didn’t need to do it. In my memory I simply walked off the job and out the door and never returned.

Fast forward 50 years. I have been working on a fascinating project assisting in the deployment of technology solutions for remote locations in the Pacific. I loved the work, and the project’s aims, but I was working with a project manager who eventually made the job a misery.

It started out OK. We met mostly online but did spend a whole day face to face early in the project that was pleasant and productive. Things started to go adrift when this project manager – let’s call her Joy – didn’t seem to have a grasp of some of the basics of the technology we were working with. This was fair enough as she had only recently started working with it whereas I’d had twenty years’ experience using this technology. She wasn’t much interested in hearing what I might know about it. Rather she launched herself on a crash course and impressively learnt a great deal about the technology in a very short time. The problem was she then started to behave as if she was the expert on it, disagreeing with me about how it might be employed and using different terminology to the standard ways of referring to various processes. In short, it wasn’t long before I started to feel like she was always right and I was always wrong. In addition, I felt like she was unilaterally making wrong decisions and rising roughshod over whatever I thought should happen.

I began to drift away on my own and do things the way I preferred to do them. I was a little unfair to Joy as I let her think I agreed with her about certain things but then went ahead and ignored her. This I see now was foolish. She was however very hard to reason with because as I said, she was always right.

This project had many stakeholders. The company we worked for, the relevant education department of the country concerned, and the users/owners of the technology in various locations around the world. My preferred method would have been to enter discussions with these various stakeholders and together craft a plan of action and implementation. I was however effectively blocked from communicating with any of these third parties. Joy did all the negotiations and I was fed dribs and drabs of relevant information in haphazard fashion. I was very uncomfortable about this – I did not think it was appropriate for me to be parachuted in after all these discussions to help deploy the technology when I had not been party to any of the lead-up discussions. I felt sidelined.

So, because I had been over-ruled on many issues,  barred from any meaningful discussion with stakeholders, micromanaged by a project manager who just seemed to think I was there to do her bidding, and feeling very much undervalued I was already quite stressed about the job and no longer enjoying it. As I saw it, I had been employed to perform a task that she had taken over.

And then came the bombshell. “Michael” - as a friend she said – “do you think it’s possible that you might be forgetting things?”  I couldn’t believe my ears. She thinks I’m old and forgetful! I can see why she’d think that – that was a consequence of me ignoring things she said and just going my own way. But the dam wall had burst. Bottom line? She didn’t trust me, and I could no longer feel sure about anything I said around her.

I have always prided myself on the fact that I am not afraid to admit mistakes; I don’t mind admitting I don’t know things; I don’t mind coming across as imperfect – I have often forgotten things over the years, or have needed others to point out where I have gone wrong. That is part of working successfully with others – being able to learn from and with others. But now I had to be perfect. No mistakes, slips of the tongue, lost emails, wrong dates, getting someone’s name wrong – none of this could happen or I’d be written off as old and forgetful.

So I quit. I quit what was potentially a really exciting and rewarding project. I just couldn’t work with her anymore. Frankly I don’t think she wanted to work with me anymore either because she seemed to think she knew it all and I just got in her way.

It must be said that after having worked as a leader in my field with quite a lot of responsibility – I had project managed several national projects with groups of up to 20 people over the years – I found it very difficult to be play second fiddle to someone half my age, who was a new kid on the technology block, and who did not appear to respect my experience or judgement.

So – am I forgetting things? Probably. But that’s not new. And besides, that’s for others to tell  …..

 

The Music of Joni Mitchell - A Case of You (review from 2016)

The Jade Monkey, Wed 17 Feb

It’s fortunate that Deborah Brennan fell in love with the music of Joni Mitchell as a teenager – that’s allowed her a long time to internalise the soul and spirit of the Canadian folk singer. And she’s done a remarkable job of reproducing her individual and idiosyncratic vocal style. Some might criticise the fact that she stayed so close to the original vocal arrangements, but in concert with her capable backing band it felt like their music and it was quite infectious.
Mastering the vocal techniques required to adequately sing Joni Mitchell is one thing, but being able to convey the emotion embodied within the songs is what made this performance so good. By the time Brennan got to You Turn Me On I’m A Radio I had stopped comparing her to Joni Mitchell and was just moved by her own interpretations and depth of feeling. Beautiful to watch and beautiful to listen to.
The show included many of Mitchell’s better known songs. If I had to select one as the show’s highlight it was probably the title track – A Case Of You.
Deborah Brennan was initially attracted to Mitchell because she sang of the tension between wanting to travel and being homesick when away from home (Urge For Going), and because she sang from the perspective of a woman – a rarity back in the male dominated ‘70s.
Kudos to her for not tugging on the emotional heart strings and not mentioning that Joni Mitchell is currently learning to talk again as a result of a massive stroke. It would have been an easy card to play but they didn’t need it. They focused instead on the impressive body of work of an extraordinary artist, and did a fantastic job of conveying that artistry to a contemporary audience. Really well done.

This review also published in The Clothesline.

Vignettes from Long Ago in Israel

Israel has been in the news again today and again for all the wrong reasons.  Today it voted to give the government the right to cancel decisions made by the Supreme Court so the government can override decisions made by the Supreme Court any time it wants. It’s yet another step away from true democracy and towards darkness …

However - I was talking the other day with a friend about things that I remembered from my time in Israel and I thought I really should write them down.  In fact, I’m actually going to speak them out loud and let Word do the transcribing into text – three little vignettes all to do with war and guns.

1)

I was 21 when I first went to Israel. I certainly had absolutely zero experience of war apart from knowing old people who had probably been to war.  But I never really had conversations with anybody who had been to war I had this kind of suicidal attraction to the idea of war; to know more about it. I was working every day with people who were probably 5-8 years older than me - certainly all younger than 30 - and they'd fought in two wars already: the 1967 and 1973 wars in Israel.  I was also working with Henny, a volunteer from Holland, and Henny was the same as me. She was fascinated about what it was like for these people who were our friends by now and colleagues that we worked with every day, and we continually asked them “what was it like to fight in a war?” But they would never talk about it and always fobbed us off and moved the conversation somewhere else.

But I guess we were persistent - stupidly - and one day - I don't remember whether it was me or
Henny who asked the question again – “tell us what it was like to fight a war?” but this time Gilboa  slammed his coffee cup down on the table, sat forward on his chair and said something to the effect of “OK if you want to hear about war shut up and listen. This is what it's like" and for several minutes he ranted about what he'd seen, what he felt, and it was clear that it was a very traumatic experience for him to talk about it and it was so blunt and brutal that Henny and I felt the power of his anger, his obvious disgust, his unwillingness and shame. He talked about a specific occasion somewhere between Israel and Cairo when they were moving through Egyptian villages taking villages one by one as the Egyptian soldiers retreated and they had been told that there were still soldiers in this village. But when they attacked the village, and it was a full-on onslaught, and when everything was quiet the Israeli soldiers went into the village and found that all the men had long gone and all they'd done is killed and terrorised women and children. It was an occasion in my life where I realised it's very unfair and uncool to ask someone who's been in a war to tell you about what it's like because it's so horrific;  it's so traumatic; they should never have to relive what they've seen and done and felt but the damage was done. Henny and I got to hear what it was like to be a soldier in a war and I think we were ashamed that we'd been so persistent in asking for this story from our colleagues in the chicken houses.

2)

Wherever you go in Israel there are guns. It's a fact of life every time a group of people go anywhere there's always an armed guard with the group. I don't mean like a family group going down to the shop but a school group, or kibbutz group, or a group from a club would always have an armed guard with them and so it was even on Shabbat evenings when no work was done and it was normal for us to have what we called a disco on Friday nights.  The volunteers and young Israelis would gather and dance and drink and have fun.  On one of these nights I had this vision burned into my brain of something that was amazing and beautiful. I think the soldier in this story was actually Kobi. I'd become friendly with Kobi so I knew him as a fellow worker and fellow young person on the kibbutz. This night it must have been Kobi's turn for guard duty. The steps coming down into the cellar where we held our disco on Friday nights were quite steep and I was dancing to the music and I noticed this soldier coming down the stairs - a person in uniform and of course he had a gun (probably an Uzi) and as he reached the bottom step and touched the floor of the disco all in one movement he put his gun up against the wall and danced his way off the bottom step into the people milling around on the on the disco floor in full uniform. I don't know how long he stayed - I'm guessing about 10 minutes - and I watched him wondering how long he would stay and how will he actually disconnect from the dancing crowd but he kind of detached himself from the group and went back on guard duty and without saying a word to anybody.  When the time was up he danced back toward the steps, all in one motion picked up his gun and disappeared up the steps as if he’d never been there.  It was graceful, elegant, and responsible and again it was just one of those moments where I thought ‘this is life in Israel’.

 

3)

Back then, and I'm talking about 1976, 1979, 1981, hitchhiking was very very common in
Israel. All of the soldiers used hitchhiking to get around from base to home to kibbutz to job and it was more or less understood that that's how soldiers got around. They could catch the bus or they could drive themselves but there were always groups of soldiers at major intersections looking for a ride to their destination and it was quite acceptable for young travellers like me to stand near the soldiers and if a car was going to where I was heading or in the right direction I could hop aboard with the soldiers. This happened one day and I'm I found myself in the back of what's a kind of covered ute - just myself and this one soldier. Again probably about my age or maybe a bit older and he's chatting away – where am I from? which kibbutz am I on? what did I think about Israel? The usual kinds of questions but he sensed that something was bothering me.  What it was is that while he was talking to me he was sitting with his legs apart and with his gun - his Uzi -  just kind of supporting him. He's got both his hands on his gun between his legs while he's facing me so his gun’s between me and him. I wasn't in danger; I didn't feel in danger. I just didn't feel very comfortable talking to someone while this gun was right there. His response, without me saying a word, when he realised this was an issue for me, was to throw that gun towards the back of the vehicle loud enough for the gun to clatter when it hit the floor and then he looked at me and said “OK there's no more gun. It's just you and me. Let's talk. “ And we did, and it was a much better freer conversation. I was amazed at how kind of sensitive he was knowing that that's what was preventing us having a decent conversation, and caring enough to want a proper conversation to ditch the gun. I don't remember anything after that. I just remember him throwing the gun away, looking into my eyes saying OK the guns gone let's talk and it's just another moment burned into my memory that I'll take with me to the grave as another example of ‘this was life in Israel.’