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.’

The Music of Jeff Beck - Review

CC image courtesy of Takahiro Kyono 

His Majesty’s Theatre, 14 July 2023

Jeff Beck’s name was first in the headlines as part of the British pop invasion of the mid 1960s. He was one of three guitarists who journeyed to the rock pantheon via The Yardbirds. The other two were Jimmy page and Eric Clapton. But it was Beck who was voted the best lead guitarist in Britain in a magazine poll from 1966. From there Beck chose to leave pop music behind and delved into more experimental approaches with The Jeff Beck Group and Beck, Bogert and Appici before going solo around 1975. He maintained his high profile in that solo capacity right up until his recent death.

Beck himself said “The electric guitar seemed to be a totally fascinating plank of wood with knobs and switches on it. I just had to have one.” And it was his willingness to experiment with these knobs and switches (and tremolo arm or whammy bar) that set him apart from the rest. Pop songs were never going to cut it for a guy who wanted to stretch the electric guitar to its technical limits – sustain, distortion, reverb, and feedback were all part of the Beck repertoire.

And true to the Beck legacy, The Music of Jeff Beck is in part about acknowledging the electric guitar as an electricity fuelled machine that is capable of an extraordinary array of sounds. We saw something of this when Hendrix shocked the world with his raw and riveting version of the Star Spangled Banner at Woodstock, but Beck has been doing similar things for decades.

The music is mostly loud, edgy, and innovative. It is perhaps something of a mark of respect for Beck that this show featured no less than four different guitarists, all of whom brought their own individual signatures to Beck’s music, rather than just leave it to one guitar player to take on the Herculean task of reproducing Beck’s prowess. This was a smart move. There were occasions when we had all four guitarists playing together – and it was amazing – but mostly they took turns on stage to share their own interpretations of Beck’s guitar wizardry.

Much of the music seemed very free form and jazz like – Beck was not so interested in catchy lyrical runs that might be repeated in something like a verse or chorus. It’s more like classical music where everything is constantly changing. Licks or chord patterns were rarely played the same way twice. The music is always evolving into a different shade, another effect, or another variation of a chord.

I found some of the pieces a bit harsh. Yes – superbly crafted, fascinating compositions, but the choice of tones often seemed too electric; too extreme. There was a shift to some quieter, warmer tones after the interval and the two pieces with just keyboard and guitar were beautiful.

Paul Mason, a self-confessed ‘Jeff Beck nut’ often played the role of ensemble conductor as well as delivering some superb guitar work. James Muller on stage left treated us to some classic lead guitar breaks. And just in case someone might be thinking that all this electric guitar flaunting may be a bit too male or macho, Kathleen Halloran would enter the stage and offer some blistering guitar work of her own.

The band really enjoyed playing with each other. There were lots of knowing smiles and laughs shared between band members and it didn’t matter what configuration was on stage the chemistry was there and the collaboration tight.

Beck spent decades showcasing his work without the need for vocalists so it was a bit surprising that token vocal spots were sprinkled through the show. It did offer some relief to the full on guitar based instrumentals, and Carla Lippis and Nina Ferro tried their best with a tough hand, but they seemed to be more of an afterthought than something that was actually necessary.

I love the fact that Paul Mason was very honest about his love for Beck and his music, and I think we all appreciated his comment that it’s important to remember just how pivotal lead guitar was in the early days of rock music.

Jeff Beck left this earth in January this year, and this show does a great job of showcasing the extraordinary virtuosic legacy that he’s left future generations. Vale Jeff Beck, and thanks from us all.

This review also published on The Clothesline.

At What Cost - Review

 

State Theatre Company (in conjunction with Belvoir St Theatre)

Odeon Theatre, Thu 22 June

With the daily focus in the media around the imminent Voice referendum there has never been a more fertile time for discussion of Aboriginal issues and At What Cost is like a hand grenade being thrown into the mix.

Set in Tasmania, Boyd is a newly appointed elder and has been designated the honour of cremating the remains of a distant relative who is being returned to ancestral lands. Boyd is deeply moved by the trust and respect his people have bestowed upon him and he begins preparations for the ceremony.

Enter a pale-skinned ginger-haired woman, Gracie, from elsewhere in Tasmania who is on local Palawa land conducting research into colonial history.  A chance meeting with Boyd’s cousin appears to lead to a blossoming romance – no real problem here. But it turns out Gracie has another reason for being on this land.

Boyd had earlier made it very clear what he thinks of tick-a-boxers who think they can just fill out a form and proclaim themselves to be of Aboriginal descent, and when faced with an interloper in the days leading up the most Important cultural experience of his life he verily explodes. His impassioned ‘where were you’ plea for integrity around the whole question of Aboriginal identity is confronting and powerful.

Circling above the intriguing narrative of this play is the whole question of belonging, of feeling connected – to ancestors, to land, to culture, to beliefs. Why do people feel this almost desperate need to belong to something with a significant past? And why do they get so upset when those feelings of connection are questioned or threatened?

From the moment this play begins with stars appearing in the sky to the beat of a clapstick you feel the pull of nature, the beauty of country. Indoor conversations take place off to the side. The rest of the stage is outdoors under sky and stars.  The scene of the final ceremony is visually striking – quite beautiful.

Luke Carroll’s high energy performance as Boyd drives this show.  The provocative casting of Alex Malone as Gracie was a brave choice but she did a fine job as a foil for Boyd’s passion.

So many issues to unpack here! Get along and see it for yourself.

Written by Nathan Maynard
Directed by Isaac Drandic
Originally performed at Belvoir St Theatre, Sydney

This review also published in The Clothesline.

Goodbye Plaka

 

Photo courtesy of Liana

Athens felt like home. Plaka felt like home. Over the last few days I've tried to remember all the times and different reasons I came to Greece - which always involved Athens.

The first time was 1976 - on my way to Israel. It was one of at least two occasions when I took the Piraeus - Limassol - Haifa ferry. (It's not possible anymore.) So Greece, Athens, is firmly lodged in my memory as a part of my visits to Israel. And they were always occasions of great joy. So Athens basks in the glow of my memories of Israel.

There were several other visits that had nothing to do with Israel. Peter and I came here on route to our eventual destination of Patmos. Hiske and I on route to Sifnos. With Elizabeth on route to Delphi. And then there were a couple of occasions with the Australian Greek truck drivers out of Arnhem. On all these visits there would have been a visit to Plaka  - that’s where I would have stayed.  Probably on Odos Nikis - it sounded very familiar.

When I stood there on my last night on one of those charming narrow streets in Plaka I felt like I was saying goodbye to a considerable chunk of my life. I doubt I'll be back there.

I shed a tear in a moment of sweet sadness as I took in the sight of Plaka one last time. A bouzouki and guitar duo added to the sentimental moment as I bade farewell to a wonderful part of my life. A part that was young, fancy free, and fearless.

It's difficult at this age farewelling old much loved haunts. You know in all likelihood this goodbye is the last. Plaka will go on drawing in travellers of all ages from across the globe. They’ll continue to sip wine beneath the Acropolis and feel part of something ancient and charming. ‘Efcharisto’
Plaka. I've always enjoyed being here.

Prima Facie ~ A Spotlight on Sexual Assault Cases and the Legal System ~ Theatre Review

State Theatre Company
Space Theatre
Fri 5 May, 2023

Given the subject matter and the likelihood that Prima Facie might be a somewhat harrowing experience for the audience, it begins, wisely perhaps, in quite a light vein. It’s not long before Caroline Craig as barrister Tessa is in full stride demonstrating the tricks of the courtroom; the necessary strategies a barrister must employ to ensure they don’t ‘come second’. It’s all about winning after all. And this message is imparted at day one of law school. Court is about performance, has little to do with actual truth, but everything to do with legal truth. It’s an amusing expose that entertains, instructs, and describes those kinds of situations that seem quite funny until it happens to you.

And it happens to Tessa. All of a sudden the boot is on the other foot and she is having to defend herself from the type of jackals she normally works with. The context is rape, and the circumstances inform Tessa’s ‘legal instinct’ that her case is doomed to fail. But she pushes on: driven for a desire for justice, and to hopefully learn that the legal system she has thus far dedicated her life to might be in this instance an instrument of fair play where the actual truth might be revealed, and rightful justice will prevail.

Via an exceptional performance from Caroline Craig we are left in no doubt as to the horrendous experience any woman who pursues a sexual assault charge must endure. Endless invasive questioning about minute and intimately personal details, all dragged out for an entire courtroom to hear; all premised on an almost implicit prejudice from the defence lawyer that she is somehow delusional and making it all up. And in a cruel ironic twist under our laws the perpetrator doesn’t have to take the witness stand – does not have to say one word – and is therefore not called to account for their actions, while the victim of the sexual assault has to suffer public prosecution over and over again. It appears to be an outrageous imbalance.

This is the grander purpose of this fine piece of writing – that the whole legal process around how sexual assault cases are prosecuted needs to change. It is not right that the alleged victim is forced to endure humiliation at the hands of a highly skilled barrister trained to win at all costs. Our adversarial system where a witness can only respond to the questions put to them by the court is not appropriate. They need to be able to tell their side of the story in their own way, in their own time.

Caroline Craig’s performance is magnificent. Ninety minutes plus of superb execution – of a complex text, multiple perspectives, an intense range of emotions – an extraordinary display of humour, passion, and conviction. With the help of some wonderful unobtrusive direction from David Mealor, and an engaging score from Quincy Grant, Prima Facie is a remarkable work well worth seeing.

Prima Facie was written by Suzie Miller.

This review also published on The Clothesline.

Crete: Impressions

 

Image courtesy of Rookuzz

Crete feels a bit like its own country. It's big enough to offer plenty of geographical variety; It's rugged, beautiful and, due to the fact that it has been invaded by multiple neighbouring civilizations, offers the visitor a varied legacy.  Roman, Venetian, Byzantine, and Minoan ruins litter the island, but it is the Minoan civilization that Crete is most famous for. Around 2000 BC the Minoans had developed a progressive and sophisticated culture that was the equal of ancient Egypt. It was in fact at its peak slightly earlier than ancient Egypt.

But evidence of the Minoan civilization, most notably the palace at Knossos, did not come to the attention of modern scholars until the late 19th century. I'm sure there were other factors but I imagine the sheer scale of the pyramids has something to do with how much we know about ancient Egypt. The pyramids were unmissable evidence that an advanced civilization had lived in the neighbourhood.  The Minoan civilization’s legacy was harder to find - it had mostly been destroyed or buried by earthquakes and conquerors. At least one earthquake and perhaps a fire destroyed much of the palaces at Knossos and Phaestos. It was not until 1878 that these remarkable centres were discovered. Modern scholars were shocked to learn that there had been another civilization in the Mediterranean region that was as advanced as the Egyptians. And having spent two days walking around Phaestos and Knossos, and perusing the Minoan artefacts on display in Heraklion's archaeological museum I am in no doubt as to the Minoans’ level of sophistication.

If the remaining buildings are not enough (Phaestos is mostly rubble) the volume and quality of materials on display at the archaeological museum are really impressive. Artistic and cultural pursuits were clearly important - the famous Minoan frescoes reveal a society where music, fashion, jewellery, and handicrafts were all an intrinsic part of daily life. There’s also an obvious love of pageantry and of course the athleticism - they invented bull leaping!

If you look at any of the large decorated pots that were found at Knossos you can assume a good many things:

t

1. they had the skills to create these pots (urns)
2. some would have been charged with teaching these skills to others
3. these pots are often elaborately decorated – a separate skill from actually making the pots
4. these pots were stored and labelled in magazines implying order, planning, an organisation
5. they infer that large quantities of produce were produced or gathered for later use -  implying planning and organisation
6. a rudimentary writing system was used to label and categorise these pots.
7. cart like devices would have been required to transport these heavy pots.

Finally, from an archaeologist’s perspective - in the museum today I saw a very large pot, about a metre high, that had been reconstructed from broken pieces of pottery like a jigsaw puzzle. What an immense sense of satisfaction one must get from recreating a fine object that is 3 to 4000 years old.

When you visit Greek islands they are normally small enough to get a sense of the whole island. You can extrapolate from an experience, a view, an atmosphere and more or less safely assume that it represents the island as a whole. Because Crete is so much larger you can’t safely do that. It's a question of scale, diversity, and variety. I was asked if I was smitten by Crete and I couldn't say unreservedly yes. I was smitten by parts of Crete. The Venetian harbour at Chania, the humble ruins of Phaestos, the marvellous Roman aqueduct outside of Heraklion and, and the gorgeous village of Archanes for example.

Heraklion however is on the whole a depressing dump:  much of the bland rectangular architecture on the rocky hillsides is typical of many Mediterranean buildings that are far from inspiring. But there are also dwellings both rural and urban that are quite exquisite.

There was one occasion however that says a lot about Crete. On a Sunday evening around dusk, the pedestrian malls of Heraklion were rocking. Full of people out to socialise, parade, shop - the whole vibe was positive, energetic, and infectious. This will be an enduring memory of Crete and Heraklion. As well, sadly, will be the poverty. Just a few streets back from tourist shops and markets it changes to residential streets where life is clearly a struggle for many. Lots of angry graffiti and a general unkempt appearance I suspect tells the deeper story of what life in Crete is really like in 2023.

Song # 79 Not Quite An Old Man

 

After 3 weeks away and not touching a guitar during that time the first verse of this new song below just 'popped out' the first time I picked up the guitar. It has evolved into a complete song. To wit:

NOT QUITE AN OLD MAN

Listen....

 

I’ve been out wanderin’ around the world again

This time a little voice tagged along for the ride

It said hey there Michael

Take care Michael

You’re no longer a young man

 

I went back to places I had been before

45 years ago in the days of yore

Where the sun was always shining

And life would be forever

I remembered that young man

 

Who walked alone and looked about for the answer to his dreams

A girl like him who liked to roam and play music in the sun

But the dreams were always fleeting

Too many men competing

So I wandered on alone man

 

This time the older man he took a different path

Down the roads of ancients with their cities made of stone

He sat in ancient theatres

Heard their distant voices

And felt right at home with those old men

 

Bridge 1

They pick the olives and catch the fish

And make sure the retsina flows

Too old now to leap with bulls

They sit around in talk cafes

 

Bridge 2

What’s that pain? am I out of breath?

Should I just sit here for a while?

Those steps were steep; that road is long

Are you sure that this is wise?

 

Travellers and the locals all dine out in the squares

Beneath the famous temples up there on the hill

Those with worry beads connect the present and the past

Bouzouki strains floating on the breeze in the fading light

Beckon to the Parthenon

Gorgeous Plaka will party on

Long after we’re all gone man

And I’ve come home not quite an old man

Copyright M. Coghlan (April 2023) 

 

 

 

 

 

 

RIP David Lindley

 

I’ve been waiting to read Jackson Browne’s reaction to the death of David Lindley. And now we know why it took him awhile: he didn’t want to let him go.

I wanted to know how Jackson felt. As soon as I heard that Lindley was gone my thoughts turned to Jackson. They made so much wonderful music together.

When I first heard Jackson’s songs on Late for the Sky I loved them instantly. But at the same time I fell in love with the violin playing and pedal steel sounds that sent those songs into another hemisphere. And that was the work of David Lindley. To my ears it was musical perfection.

Baby Boomers are now of the age where the musicians of our youth are leaving us. It hurts when someone dies whose music you loved. And for me David Lindley’s death hurt more than most. He represented sweet musical perfection. As someone somewhere else noted, if you wanted someone to play along to a song in a major key, there were none better than David Lindley. So many times his music made me feel so happy, so positive, so in touch with raw emotion. It was your gift to us all.

Rest in peace David.

 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

An edited version of Jackson’s post on Facebook today:

 

David Lindley, the guitarist, lap steel and fiddle player who gave his personality and his inspiration to so many of my songs, passed away on March 3rd. The outpouring of love, and the widespread recognition of his mastery has been very moving. I want to join in the resounding chorus of appreciation for his gifts, but nothing I write seems quite good enough. Words have never been enough to describe what David Lindley brought to a song.

I played with David for the first time in a dressing room at the Troubadour in 1969. My friend Jimmy Fadden of the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band had brought him to say hello, and pointed out that David had his fiddle with him, saying he would probably sit in if I asked him to. I already knew him from the band Kaleidoscope, whose first album, Side Trips, was one of my favorite records. We started to play my song These Days, and my world changed. His playing was so emotional, and immediate - it cast a spell over me and everyone there. It didn’t matter that he had never heard the song before. What he was playing made it more emotional and more real than it had ever sounded in the years I had played it alone.

……

David is a very large part of me - who I became, and who I remain. No one ever played like him. …. He didn’t play the same thing each time. He was always exploring, always hearing something new. Always in the moment.

…….

My own world is shattered by David’s passing. He was my friend and my teacher. It was with great pleasure and certainty that I revisited our special connection over the years. I guess I thought that he would always be around.

I've been struggling to write something and post it for the past two weeks. It was hard to begin, and it’s hard to conclude, I guess, because I don’t want to let him go. David was kind to everyone, and so funny. Incapable of uttering a dishonest word, or playing a dishonest note. There will be tribute concerts, and a documentary about him, for sure. There will be ways for us to continue to celebrate his life. And we all know there will never be another David Lindley.

- Jackson Browne

 

Fish Bowl - Adelaide Fringe 2023 Review

 

[THEATRE AND PHYSICAL THEATRE/Immersive ~ South Australia]

The Studio at Holden St Theatres, Tue 7 Mar, 2023.

Fish Bowl is part seminar, part theatre. While daring to entertain on a touchy subject like dementia it also provides a lot of advice on how to cope with, and treat, people with dementia.

Set in an aged care nursing home the players switch between being patients and carers, often quickly shifting from troubled /troublesome patient to narrator in the same scene. It’s a very effective technique that holds audience attention and attempts to explain the patient’s behaviour - why the patient might be all of a sudden roaming around the room in an agitated state, or affectionately addressing a soft toy as their spouse.

There is a tragi-comic aspect to dementia that is also on show here. As the old cliché says, you don’t know whether to laugh or cry, and often either response is appropriate.  But people in the caring role have to get past that and come up with strategies to deal with the situation at hand. Fish Bowl shows us several delightful examples: a scene encouraging a patient to recite a long poem while getting them ready for bed is quite beautiful and amazing to watch.

There are also moments of extreme, violent anger that are quite scary. Such are the swings and roundabouts of dealing with dementia – childlike joy one moment; explosive fury the next.

Full marks to Fish Bowl Theatre for delving into this challenging territory. It’s instructive and enjoyable theatre that attempts to cast somewhat of a positive light on how one can cope with people who have dementia; how one can build relationships across the cognitive disconnect.  I commend them for that but the sooner a cure is found for this dreadful dignity sapping disease the better.

Director: Steph Daughtry
Writer: Matthew Barker
Performers: Matthew Barker & Evie Leonard.

This review also published on The Clothesline.

The Sensemaker - Adelaide Fringe 2023 Review

 

[THEATRE AND PHYSICAL THEATRE/Comedy ~ AUSTRALIAN PREMIERE ~ Switzerland]

The Garage International @ Adelaide Town Hall, Fri 10 Mar, 2023.

How long are you prepared to wait on the phone? How many looped menus do you tolerate? Are you patient? How willing are you to accept instructions from a phone bot? What do you do while you’re on hold? The Sensemaker will help you answer such questions. It may also leave you with an uneasy feeling that this nonsense is in its infancy and could get much worse.

The Sensemaker is a wonderful solo show that puts the spotlight on an issue that has exploded in very recent times – just what should our relationship be with bots. And Elsa Couvreur does so in such a glorious and graceful fashion. In an unusual combination of dance and comedy she commands attention form the outset. Every sideways glance, every twitch of a finger, every sigh, is calculated and intended to convey meaning. She is riveting to watch.

Couvreur shows inexhaustible patience as we endure the endless wait for her ‘’request to be processed.’ She comes up with some very inventive ways to pass the time and amuse herself and us before things get a bit weird and the phone bot would appear to be very much overstepping the mark. The caller needs to decide whether she wants to continue to have her ‘request processed’.

This clever show takes what is normally private behaviour into a very public space, and does so with subtle humour, and an abundance of elegance.

Countless hours have gone into the preparation of the many layers of pre-recorded messages and on-hold music. Clever use of multiple languages and the ironic use of Beethoven’s Ode to Joy may mean you’ll never here it the same way again.

A magnificent show displaying mastery of the technical and artistic sides of theatre. Superb entertainment that also throws up just so many questions. Deserved a much larger audience.

This review also published on The Clothesline.

Glenn Skuthorpe and Band Play Dire Straits

 

Eliza Hall at Payinthi, Sat 4 Mar, 2023.

Attempting to play the music of Dire Straits is a risky business. Band leader and vocalist Mark Knopfler is one of the few in rock music who carved out new territory. He invented a distinctly new sound that was instantly recognisable as Knopfler’s – an understated vocal style and a bluesy melodic electric guitar finger style that was smooth as silk.

Turns out Glenn Skuthorpe’s delivery style is very much suited to playing Dire Straits music. Whether he subconsciously picked up the Knopfler way from hours of listening to him or it was just inherent in who he was doesn’t really matter. What matters is that is he has that same ability to deliver a vocal full of rich melody in that low almost semi-spoken way, and to play the guitar with emphasis on accuracy and tone rather than volume and speed. No shenanigans; no ‘look at me’ theatrics – just solid musicianship with a great feel.

Supported by a great band who clearly really enjoyed playing these songs, Skuthorpe and co delivered an excellent show. Claire O’Meara on keys/piano added welcome harmonies on several songs, and Aldo DiSario on drums was just all class – great to watch and listen to. Like so many bass players Mike Haynes was just totally focused on his craft and there were several occasions when you realised that it was his bass lines that were punctuating the beat with a metronomic pulse – beautiful work on Romeo And Juliet.
Mark Hawkins spent most of the time on rhythm guitar but added saxophone when necessary – the sax and piano duet at the start of Tunnel of Love works beautifully as a teasing intro to the main event. Skuthorpe’s guitar solo on this piece was a treat.

The show closed with the hauntingly beautiful Local Hero – not strictly a Dire Straits song but who cares – we all wanted to hear it, and Skuthorpe’s guitar was true to the original melody and feel. Just beautiful.

As it so often is with bands the quality of the final product is so dependent on the acoustics of the venue and the ability of the human doing the mixing to get the balance right. The sound was a little muddy early on, but things got better as the show progressed. But this is a real challenge for anyone playing Dire Straits. Knopfler was not a loud player, and he was a relatively quiet singer but somehow you have to get that vocal and guitar cutting through the mix, so the signature sound is at the core. There were times when that wasn’t the case, but all in all this was a great show. Those subtle melodies, trademark guitar licks, and the almost detached vocal mood were all there to remind us just how good Dire Straits were. And how good Glenn Skuthorpe is!

(This review also published on The Clothesline.)

Recalibrate - Adelaide Fringe Review 2023

 

The Lab at Light ADL @ West Village, Thu 2 Mar, 2023.

The Lab’s L-shaped stage and 180-degree panoramic projection backdrop encourages innovation. The fourth wall disappears as characters are in full view as they arrive and exit the stage. The extended projection space allows for all manner of use – text messages on screen, characters who are not physically present can interact with on stage players, radical changes of set from one scene to another, locating scenes in specific geographical locations, the use of silhouette, and canny use of liminal messaging between scenes via abstract imagery and sound.

All of these elements are employed with excellent effect in Recalibrate. And then of course you have the rightly billed powerhouse cast.

Simone (Emma Beach) has returned home from Las Vegas to help out with a mystery family emergency. Her entrance is awkward and funny – it’s immediately obvious she’s the black sheep of the family. She’s also someone who can see through crap and knows when people are fooling themselves. Her sister, Mary (Katie O’Reilly) is a case in point; lost in the world of motherhood. Their mother Carmel (Jacqy Phillips) is an academic coming to the end of her tenure. She is desperate for Tessa (Kelly Vincent), her star student, to stay on and complete her degree, but Tessa is tired of theoretical ‘academic bullshit’ and wants out. Relationships between all the characters seem fractured and tense until Carmel stages a protest on the roof of the university armed with a megaphone. Her impassioned rant from the rooftops is both an irrational outpouring and a brilliant account of what she sees as wrong in the world. As a fellow Boomer I found it deeply moving and had to fight back tears. A line was crossed here – somewhere it stopped being theatre and became terribly real. It was a powerful moment.

This desperate display of emotion briefly brings a degree of equilibrium until a final twist challenges the sisters one more time.

Jacqy Phillips, Kelly Vincent, Emma Beech and Katie O’Reilly were all wonderful in their respective roles, but Phillips’ performance is one for the ages.

It might be described as dark comedy. Variously bleak, humorous, and hopeful. But nothing in life is straightforward and everything comes at a cost. A really impressive new work from the SA Playwrights Theatre.

Written by Lucy Combe. Directed by Elena Vereker.

(This review also published in The Clothesline.)

An Unwasted Evening – The Genius of Tom Lehrer

 [CABARET/Comedy ~ WORLD PREMIERE ~ South Australia]

The Jade, Sun 19 Feb, 2023.

American Tom Lehrer was something of a child prodigy. He studied classical music from the age of 7, and was admitted to Harvard at the age of 15. He did eventually become a Maths professor and taught at Harvard and MIT but somewhere along the way he got distracted by musical theatre and started writing his own tunes.

Satire was his chosen genre and for 20 years from the mid-fifties onwards Lehrer’s songs were part of American popular culture. Nothing was off limits for Tom Lehrer – he poked fun at everything: war; religion, social mores, politics – and made people laugh in the process.

Adelaide’s own Dr H does a great job of bringing Tom Lehrer’s songs to life for Adelaide audiences. He is an accomplished pianist, and got the balance between telling the stories and playing the songs just right. Even though many of Lehrer’s songs are as much spoken as they are sung (they are chock full of clever lyrics) they do require a vocal dexterity that Dr H is quite at home with. The Elements, a song about the periodic table as its subject is a case in point!

Tom Lehrer wasn’t overly concerned with political correctness and his songs were often banned. His ilk would have even more trouble getting airtime these days. But it was great to hear gems like The Vatican Rag and National Brotherhood Week again. A song from 1954, I Got It From Agnes, gets a new lease of life if you replace the term VD with COVID, and could be a candidate for the anthem of the times!

A really enjoyable show. Though there is a plethora of tribute acts on the Fringe program again this year, if the story is worth telling and the songs are worth hearing, then it’s worth putting on shows like this for those who missed artists like Tom Lehrer the first time round. And for the many who know and love Lehrer’s work and want to hear it again – It was a full house. Lots of interaction and singing along available for those who wish to express themselves in the ‘safe space’ of The Jade!

We went all home happy after a rousing singalong ending of We Will All Go Together When We Go. (Yep – an end of the world ditty!)

(This review also published on The Clothesline.)

Mustard - a play review

 Mustard by Eve O’Connor: Theatre On The Edge ~ Adelaide Fringe 2023 Review                                           [Theatre and Physical Theatre/New Writing ~ AUSTRALIAN PREMIERE ~ IRE]

The Arch at Holden Street Theatres, Fri 17 Feb, 2023.

Mustard charts the trajectory of a relationship from the dizzying heights of bliss to the darkest depths of despair, and describes one person’s – perhaps just slightly unhinged – reaction to the attendant emotional roller coaster. Nothing much new there, but what sets Mustard apart is the incisive nature of the writing that delves into the human psyche with harrowing and exhilarating detail, and the mesmerising routine of an actor experiencing metaphorical baptism and rebirth.

The writing here is so tight; so delicately crafted. Descriptions of what it’s like to lie alongside the beautiful body of someone you love are deliciously detailed and intimate. And, similarly, the physical pain of ultimate rejection is visceral – you feel it and remember equivalent moments in your own life.

It’s a play of extremes – joy and despair, wisdom and madness, love and hate – that suggests that the distance between these polar opposites can be frighteningly close.

There are moments in Mustard where the integration of physical theatre with an unerring delivery of a script woven with passion and intensity, the integration of body and mind, is perfect.

Written and played by Eva O’Connor, she delivers a masterful performance. Extraordinary theatre that will take you to the edge.

4.5 stars

This review also published on The Clothesline.

Trapped by Kindness (1980)

 Events of my time in Weligama were impossible to sort into any chronological order as they seemed to gather their own momentum occurring spontaneously, and often with no bearing on any events before or since. Magic moments that materialised from nowhere to enchant, entertain, and warm the soul. 

I do remember that after about three days in the village I left! Not because things were not to my liking - far from it - but because I felt trapped by kindness. After being raised in a western middle class society it was very difficult to experience having several people devote a large part of their day to ensuring that you are happy, comfortable, well fed, and well entertained. In the world I had been raised in, it is customary for full grown adults to attend to some of their own survival needs, even when a guest in somebody else’s home. But in Weligama those first few days, all the basic requirements for living were provided for me: a roof, three meals a day, timely morning and afternoon coffees, cigarettes bought (and often lit), clothes washed, lamps lit, house cleaned. I could go on, but I think it's enough to show just how often in a single day our host family provided small comforts to make our life an easy joy.

This endless stream of kindness and good deeds towards me left me feeling ambivalent. At least a woman can assert her right to wash her own clothes at the well, or take part in other domestic duties without becoming too much the object of mirth and chattering but in Sri Lankan society, men simply do not indulge in traditional domestic duties. It often seemed that women exist for the men in fact. And frankly, it annoyed me not to be given any say in the daily basics that kept me alive and comfortable. Perhaps I wanted to assist in the preparation of food for example, but this wish would be considered absurd because I was a man.

Another thing that bothered me in those first few days was something that really was no one else’s problem but my own, and simply it was that I possessed no strategy for coping with such limitless kindness. Because of the aforementioned roles of men and women, neither was I able to show my gratitude in the way I would ordinarily do at home (washing the dishes maybe, or doing the shopping). Where the problem lay was that I felt that I had to repay the kindness being offered me, and not being able to I felt something of a freeloader. I later learned that in true keeping with Buddhist tradition, these people gave for giving's sake only; there was certainly no expectation of return, and the fact that I felt I had to return favours was a mistake on my part, and purely my own personal problem.

I did leave the village for a short time of something less than a week, and from the moment I departed I wondered why. Everything was provided for me there. Why am I going? What am I thinking? When I returned Titus just stood, grinned with twinkling, knowing eyes and said: “ You come back?”  And this time I knew I'd be in no hurry to leave. Besides, all I had to do was sing!

MY FIRST NIGHT IN SRI LANKA (January, 1980)

 I arrived in Colombo early in January 1980. I was to meet a friend flying in from London some few hours later, but as is nearly always the case with international flights these days, her arrival was delayed - by 12 hours!

After baggage collection (I refused offers of assistance from one of a squad of scrawny porters dressed in blue rags and barefoot) and customs clearance I made my way into the arrival hall. I was soon asked by a neatly dressed chap if I needed any help and I told him of my plans to meet this friend from London. He did not recommend sleeping the night at the airport but rather suggested that I find a hotel in Colombo for the night and arranged a taxi for me accordingly.

In short, he did nothing more than International airport information offers are required to do - he was doing his job. However there are a few things about my brief encounter with that man (my first with a Sri Lankan) that make it a pleasant memory. Firstly, it is customary for those seeking information from such people to approach them at their counter. He in fact left his counter and approached me. Secondly, there was a genuine warmth about the man that was not just ‘bunged on’ for the job, this being all the more a refreshing surprise when I learned that he was the chief Information Officer!

Image by Walter Lempen

We departed the airport by taxi for the long drive into Colombo. Though it was after midnight I remember the road still being a hive of activity. Ox cart drivers taking advantage of the cool of the night without too much competition from the daytime’s manic drivers. Pedestrians ambling along in conversation, some alone, seemingly headed nowhere in particular. Cyclists. And every mile at least one boutique or hotel (what we call restaurants or cafes) still quite alive and thriving on late night clientele.

I remember too, the shrines. This area northward up the coast from Colombo, is heavily Christian, but signs of Buddhism are evident throughout most of the country, as it was there that night. So, roadside Buddhist shrines, temples with larger than life images of the enlightened one, and illuminated five metre high statues of the Virgin Mary all blended into the scenery as we came closer to Colombo.

Colombo came as a shock. I had read much of this country before coming here and was suitably impressed by its favourable standards of education, literacy, hygiene, and housing, all of which by Asian standards, rate highly. I reasonably expected that Colombo, the capital, may show signs of Sri Lanka's achievements in these areas and that it may be free of some of the blights of other Asian cities.

I couldn't have been more wrong. To put it bluntly, Colombo is a shithole. I thought so that first night when I was genuinely surprised by what I saw and I still do. I have since of course discovered some quite pleasant areas of Colombo, but they are few. I have also discovered that despite its capital, Sri Lanka is better off than most of its Asian counterparts, but one must look for evidence of that fact outside of Colombo.

My taxi driver took me in turn to the few cheaply priced hotels we had been told to try – all full. We tried some in the medium price range - full. I refused to stay in the likes of the Intercontinental but just about everything else seemed full. I still can't believe to this day the solution my driver came up with. He said that he was going back to the airport, but as the next plane was not due until 6:00 AM, I could sleep in his car until then. After establishing that he was in fact quite serious, I thanked him profusely, accepted his offer, and we set off back to the airport. Not only did his car have lay-back seats, but neither did he charge me for the return leg to the airport. So, apart from interruption from an occasional mosquito, I got at least a few hours sound sleep in my first night in this charmed land.