June

1st of June

Recording at Stompy's
A musician goes to the home of another musician, a ukulele in one hand, a bag of hot chips in the other. A digital camera is set up on a cluttered desk. Actually, saying the desk is cluttered makes it sound much neater than it is. No surface is visible beneath the drifting topography of books, cd's records and scraps of note paper. Upon a crooked stack of books (one of which I note with some pleasure is a paperback edition of The Book of Five Rings, by Miyamoto Musashi), is the tiny digital video camera, about the size of a pocket noepad.

The room is small, three people could stand up in the tiny floorspace left by the furniture. A bed takes up two thirds, a desktop computer sits on the bedside table. Posters, photos, a chinese fan and a painting in a frame hang fixed upon the wall with blue-tac, sticky tape or string. Heavy duty guitar cases are stacked against the foot of the bed, which presses against the front of a tall bookshelf. A clothes rack stands before the frosted glass window; shirts, pants, a leather pilots cap, a trilby hat with a harmoinca shaped pin on the ribbon, leather boots and sneakers. The narrow door leads to the laundry at the back of the of the house, where more guitar cases are stacked on the floor.

Lord Stompy is a man Devoted to music. Working with him, coming to terms with our shared aesthetic, developing songs, recording, playing live - Stompy and I have worked consistently together since we met five or so years ago. Playing gypsy music on the street, writing shared poetry, recording with a travelling accordian player from Texas, forming a dirty four piece poetry band and recording an album, helping each other move house, twice each.

I have been meaning to come to his house to record some video for youtube for a long time. I finally did it, on a night when band practice was on, but Gardy couldn't make it because he was too busy rehearsing music for his school exams. So, hot chips and ukulele in hand, I arrive.

You never know how any recording session will turn out. I have gone in confident and come out defeated, I have gone in half drunk and heartbroken and come out a transformed man. Music is so much more than the music. It is a way of relating to everything, particularly it is a vocabulary for emotions which do not otherwise have names correspondent with spoken or written language. Tonight I walk in nervous, a few coffee jitters, I sit on the wooden chair, look at the small image of myself on the camera screen, tune up, hum a little.

My first take is excellent, but by the end of it my heart is absolutely racing and my hands are shaking. My mind clashes with images of an imagined audience, and the solitary eye of the camera, unblinking, unmoved, impartial and that clash is audible in the nature of my playing; at times hurried, at times restraining that haste, moments of doubt, miniscule flickers, but the music hides nothing. I take a few deep breaths, Stompy plugs my uke into his amp and sets it low, sitting it behind me by the door. I play again, only this time I imagine Regan sitting before me, and I play the song that I wrote for her. She has been such a steadying influence on me. I imagine her smile, which I always delight to see when she dances, and I sing for her. When I finish the song, my heart is steady, my body relaxed.

There are two audiences. The one in the room, and the one in your mind.

I record three more songs, each flowing out of me with ease, and the precision of that ease. I imagine that I am alone. Just me and the music.

Every tiny error I make, is preceeded by a moment of self doubt. I do not believe that I can do it, and so I can't. I doubt that the music is interesting for others who are listening, so I try to do something fancy to impress them and I make a mistake. The audience in my mind is a real enemy, and the self doubt that allows this illusion to continue haunting me, though diminshed in recent months, is a steady trickle at the back of my thoughts.

Despite the doubts, my confidence is stronger and the videos are excellent. In a few days I will upload them to youtube and await the results of public opinion.

　


June 5th

Bridgewater Trio at the Football
The Bridgewater Trio played at a football game yesteday, Panthers vs Magpies at the Hickinbotham Oval. The newsprint wasn't even dry reporting the latest terrorist attack in London. Blood in the streets while we dance in the sunshine. Everyone at the game was very welcoming, beaming smiles perhaps a little too bright, like they had all read the news and were worried about what might happen here. Three dancers from Arabesque accompanied us, Jenny, Sari and Eleanor.


Facing the amphitheatre and the members clubrooms above it, we stood on the edge of the oval, warm grass beneath us, microphones, cables, foldback speakers, the busy, eager faces of the sound techs, bespectacled before the sound desk, before the spectacle between half-time sirens. The amplified sound of our music could be heard loud and clear across to the far side of the oval, the softest tap on our drums resounding all around us and the strident voice of the violin lifting past the buildings and up into into the sky, taking us with it.

Thirteen minutes painted perfect in the sunlit spotlight, dancing the only solution we know to the war in the east. Most of the time I sink with dread and powerlessness at the thought of what is yet to come. And it is going to come. There has never been a more important time to do what we do, to engage with the culture of our enemy, to humanise the innocent who have been taken hostage by their own worst fears, just as we are being taken hostage by our own. We simple folk upon the stage are making peace, just as others are making war. We endeavour to help others enjoy the profits of peace, even as our leaders manipulate the profits of war.

"In such an ugly time, the only true rebellion is beauty."

Crimethink

　

9th June

Recording at home in Nairne
A musician goes to the home of another musician, this time, it is my home. Stompy brings his webcam, his amp, and a bundle of harmonicas. We stay up late by the fireplace, listening to music, playing music, talking. Stompy and I have no trouble talking, like a couple of old housewives, as they say.

In the morning I get my son ready for school, preparing porridge for breakfast, making his lunch, packing his bag. Wren and Stompy get along really well, they always have, taking delight in the total weirdness of each other's imaginations. I drive Wren to school then return home to light the fire and make a second coffee. We sit warming ourselves for a couple of hours, mucking around on ukulele, talking, talking, talking.

The camera sits atop a pile of books, mostly world mythology since they are the thickest hardback books I have, stacked upon a stool by my back door where the morning light trickles past the drooping wet autumn leaves. I live in a three room flat beside an old fashioned toystore, in a pioneer building made of stone with a basement spanning the underside of the entire building. The basement is full of ghosts, mice, and my landlord's old furniture, books, theatre props and a surfboard. My front steps land in the middle of the footpath and from my bedroom window I can sit at my writing desk and look out upon the street. We begin recording in the loungeroom/kitchen, shadows and light fall upon me as I take my seat and lift up my Setar.

I am getting used to the camera, learning how to look into it, how to look through it and into myself. It is a mirror. Hakim Bey (in his book The Temporary Autonomous Zone,) once suggested that the Shaman is one who puts on his spirit mask, then stands before the mirror and asks, 'what is my true desire'. Staring into the dark reflection of the lense, I seem to have become my true desire, and the mask I see tells the story of my destiny. I study my face as if I were a stranger, I try to read the lines in my skin, the flicker of my eye, the bitten lip, the crease between my eyebreows, the curve of my spine and the huddle of my shoulders. I try to understand what I am seeing, who I am seeing. I ask, who is this?

I guess that answer only comes at the end of the story, and even then it is the answer to a different question.

　


Saturday June 10th

Drum Classes at Arabesque
In the flophouse next to the dance studio, amidst the torn bags of garbage, rat eaten mattresses and dust clogged dunes of waste upon the floor, down the hallway with every floorboard flexing beneath my feet, the supporting beams rotten through to nothing, in the front room of the building, a hole in the floor opens into a cellar of utter darkness. Shining my torch down into the cavity I see only its emptiness, and the garbage bags rolled down upon rotten stairs descending. This dilapidated six room wreck has been so important to me over recent years, a place removed from everyday reality yet visibly dissolving in a reality all its own. Decades of neglect shine through holes in the brick walls, the beams of morning sunlight blinding me as I enter. In the moments before drum class I sit to write, my unhurried pen floating softly cursive upon the last page of my journal, another verse for the flophouse blues.

Soon I will return with Stompy and his webcam.

* * *

Iron Dwarf (formerly Operation Firehat) gig at the Gaslight Hotel.

The Sun has long since set as we take the stage, we three with our hearts in our throats and in our hands, ready to start again, again. It seems every day is another reason to be born, and every time we take the stage it is as different people. Tonight we took the stage and for a moment it was ours, for a moment the moment was hours, and the audience looking up at us saw us as we dreamed of ourselves being.

Week after week, months passing with slivers of the moon peeling days from the calendar of our lives, a year is gone in the blink of a summer and already it is winter again and we are on this warm stage with the freezing night outside the windows where no-one walks beneath the smoky fog-lit street lights.

Where once there were four, now there are three, and we three make the best of what we have to give each other, and honestly, we fucking rock. Our two new songs, Water Avenue, and The Mexican are our best work yet, making our prior achievments seem faded as last years roses still clinging to the bush. I am amazed at the development of our songwrtiting now that we are a three piece. Without the clouding sound from a guitar, the voice of each remaining instrument becomes sharply audible, and our devotion is strengthened by what we hear.

* * *

I feel compelled to write more about Stompy and Ryan. Stompy is a much maligned, misunderstood misfit, he is my brother, and there are very few friendships in a lifetime that can be worthy of that title. Ryan is a plainclothed undercover gnostic monk practicing his zen funk discipline in an attic room above a Parkour gym in the heart of the city. He too, I call my brother. Music makes family of us, and the trials we go through together in the pursuit of our shared goals makes us strong. Being onstage with them is the fulfillment of a dream. In red lights upon a tiny carpeted stage in the corner of an old backstreet pub, we three see a grandeur in each other that is not apparent in our humble surroundings. We are devoted to this music, it means something to us that goes beyond the songs and delves deep into our mutual need to be challenged musically. Each song calls our bluff and requires us to develop new techniques in order to play it, pushing us deeper into the real potential of this three part arrangement.

The gig on Saturday night was fantastic. I feel amazing about it. We were just an unknown three piece band opening a show in a pub that was full with forty people in it, but we held ourseves to a high standard of playing, we rehearsed thoroughly and the end result was a seven song set of our best material played with real passion and intensity. Without Nick, it feels like starting the band all over again, there is a lot of lost ground to recover, perhaps ten songs now scrubbed from our set, but we have a deep shared musical vocabulary and the trust we have built through the last year and a half is a solid foundation to base the new music on.

　


Monday June 12th

Recording with Diana at LB Studio
When Diana walked in I could see there was something different, she seemed taller, her shoulders square, lifted from within. Confidence is a cloak my family wear unconvincingly at most times; there is a story to be told there, but that is not for today.

My sister has an amazing voice, but little confidence with it. She has spent years writing songs for her children and honing her voice singing for them, and she played as Adelaide Adams in the Adelaide Theatre Comapny's production of Calamity Jane, but she has never recorded music. Last night's recording was our first rehearsal of the song, and the first time I ever heard Diana really open up with her voice. During a chorus practice run, my whole body tingled with the buzzing energy of her vocal harmony, I had to stop playing as a shiver ran the length of my spine making me drop the pick.

Then when the microphones were on, her confidence failed, her voice was overworked from practice and one flat note preceeded the next, her tone deflating with each passing verse. Music is odd this way. You could do something five minutes before, but now it is impossible. I know when to stop pushing, so we took a break, drank a shot of whiskey and started on a spoken word piece, a haunted movie scene called 'The runaway'.

We returned to the song later in the evening, but two more takes showed us that Diana had lots of ideas, but needed more time to practice the song. In the five years since the first parts of the melody were developed, the song has grown to become woven with nuance and subtle melody variations. So now Diana has a copy of the dulcimer base recording and another month to practice.

The album is almost complete. I have one more song to record on Setar, The Bridge. Then come the overdubs on Street Dance and Road less travelled, then...then...then...

　


Tuesday June 13th

Rehearsal at Stompy's

Another sesssion at Stompy's, rehearsing a new song for Iron Dwarf and editing the videos we took at my house last week. We discovered the sepia filters and other colour settings on the software that give the videos the perfect shade I have wanted to use for the Zebulon project since the beginning. One video was unusable due to the camera shaking throughout the song because of my stomping foot on the floor, but the Setar (Song of the South) and Harmonica (Dance the pain away) have both turned out very well. I will probably use the sound from these videos as the songs on the album. With almost all the songs recorded, I am about to enter phase two of the album, finalising the overdubs and completing first mixes on all the songs. Then phase three is final mixing, song selecting and ordering. Phase four is the final mastering process, balancing the volume of all the tracks and smoothing all the song transitions. Phase five is the completion of the album cover, editing of the blog (this blog you are reading) and uploading of the album to Bandcamp. Phase six is the album launch party, which is actually the part I dread the most, yet somehow also the most important part of the project and the one that requires almost as much work as the entire recording process. I should probably contact the venue now and book a date...having a hard deadline is a good thing to work towards.

　


Friday June 16th
I have had time to listen to all the recordings and put them into a test order, with the short atmospheric vignettes slotted in amongst the songs. It is like the soundtrack to a movie, each transition of the album is carried along by these scenes conjuring images of the main charater on his journey. It makes me consider re-naming the album 'The Runaway' and packaging it as if it were the sountrack to a film. So as of today, I am ready to send out the pre-release demo version of the album for review. Time to make some covers and burn some cd's.

* * *

I have finally sunk beneath the waterline. I owe money for my last car service, while my car is overdue for its next one, my income has slipped to only $490 for next fortnight while my rent is $460. I have thirty dollars in my pocket and seventy in the bank. I'm not drowning yet, but I'm holding my breath.

But...I have made contact and set a trial work day next week for another garden job in Bridgewater. Also, the new owners of Peechabella are local vignerons and I should be able to talk with them next week about my future employment, which may include working on their other properties.

So...not drowning yet, but I'm holding my breath.

 It pulls heavy on my heart that I cannot provide for myself. I feel I have failed at something fundamental in a man's life, and I have no-one to blame but myself. My life is the consequence of my choices. I chose to put money and work low on my priorities, instead choosing music and family, and it makes me poor. But when I cannot even pay my bills or feed myself and my son, I really wonder about the distance between needs and wants.

Yet I don't want to busk in Mt Barker. It feels like begging. I cringe inside when I think of standing on those streets playing music in the winter. I have a lot of mixed up feelings about poverty and wealth. I am simultaneously proud and ashamed of both qualities in myself, the dialogue between these two sides governing my whole relationship to work and money. It is a reflection of my inner struggle between wildness and civility, central themes of the human endeavour.

Yet...I must play on the street, I must use my time to earn money somehow.

　


June 19th

Busking in Mt Barker
First I played at the Gawler Street Cafe for an hour, it was busy, the perfect Autumnal weather has put a smile on everyone's face. I know that technically, it is Winter now, but the earth says otherwise. Too many leaves still on the trees and the Jonquils haven't really put on their floral show yet. In the cafe it is loud, I feel as though my ukulele sounds quiet, muffled by the crashing joyful noises of the kitchen and the customers over breakfast. The owners sit at the very front of the place, eating breakfast at the long table and talking with customers as they enter. Cafe owners are usually overworked, perpetually exhausted and drink too much booze. These guys seem as relaxed as a sunday starting with champagne.

Playing here is like going back in time, it has a distinctly medieval village feel, an atmosphere that starts with the wood fire oven and kichen completely visible from the tables, runs up the old brick walls and tall ceiling, gathers in the centre of the room at the long communal trestle table where three or four groups of people may sit to eat, a table where strangers meet and from my corner, ukulele in hand I listen to the music of their conversations, and I play my melodies all around them and all around the room I can hear them listening as they talk and laugh and eat and smile in the perfect Autumn light. A lady I know put a few coins in my uke case and said she wished she could have given me more.

When I had played my fill, I packed up and drove across town to a busking spot behind a supermarket, next to the 2 level car park. I have seen buskers stand or sit beneath the beautiful branches of an old oak tree and serenade shoppers as they cross the road. I sat on my cajon, swung my leg over my knee and smiled as I played. I observed a few things. Those who put $5 notes into my case, were a very old lady, and a young man with a plaited beard. Professional, or well dressed persons were least likely to turn their heads to acknowledge the music. I also saw a guy with the palest skin I can recall wait 20 minutes for a cab. I saw a mum with two kids and two trolleys piled high with food. I saw my old friend Damien, (he is Chantelle's father), walking with his toddler son on his one day off a week. He runs his own handyman service and works six days a week, and is having to continually knock back work.

Moments like these remind me that my poverty is chosen. I play music while others work. They earn money while I earn....well, what do I earn?

I took a break to eat some lunch I had brought from home, sitting behind the carpark, hidden from view in a sunny spot by the creek, down where the kids smoke cigarettes and break bottles. I ate fried chicken and scrambled eggs and soaked up the sunshine. I love to feel unobserved, especially on days when I play music. The isolation is powerful, it helps me re-set my balance, my sense of who I actually am, rather than who I am as a performer. I went back out, warm to my toes and played a few more songs before flexing my sore fingers and closing my case on the fifteen odd dollars I had earned for my time.

I left Mt Barker and stopped off at home in Nairne to grab my folder of notes on Middle Eastern music theory and begin transcribing the Makams I want to start learning. I have been practicing Setar for an hour or more each day, working over and over on the two songs I have left to record for my album. They are songs I have played for years, but they seem the least familiar to me. Bridge segments remain un-analysed, patterns in the syncopation uncounted, it is like studying someone else's music, listening over and over to the melody trying to get it right, exactly right. Makam study is something I have been putting off for a long time, being unable to read sheet music, and feeling daunted by the extra notation and unfamiliar language of Middle Eastern modes. Still, today I trascribed two makams into tab format, just like I have done for the gypsy and oriental scales on the uke. I am still uncertain about the correct tuning of some of the quarter notes, but I will muddle through and use my ear to find something that sounds balanced. I trust my instincts in the absence of formal instruction. Still, when I have a few dollars to spare, I must return to Sina Aria for more lessons.

　


20th June

Iron Dwarf rehearsal
We all arrive in a good mood so we warm up with The Mexican, then go on to write a new doom metal song, and a calypso reggae. I have a lot of music study to do. I'm starting to get the funk groove rhythm, listening to Herbie Hancock (Man Child, Fat Albert Rotunda, Headhunters), and today Stompy gave me a James Brown CD. He also gave me a DVD of Nina Hagen, a punk rocker from East Germany in the 70's. Tonight I gave both Stompy and Gardy a copy of my new album in its present demo form, they will be the first people to hear it in such a way.

Like a tiny whisper, I release my music of invisible enclaves into the world.


　

24th of June

(Sitting in my car before rehearsal at Raj's)
I am the saboteur of my own future. I prevent myself from pursuing my dreams by keeping myself too poor to afford to them. My pride keeps me from wealth, and now, even from basic sustenance. Too proud to beg on the streets, even with an instrument in my hand, too proud to beg from the goverment. I am trying to prove myself a man, I am trying to prove that I can support myself, that I can earn and pay my way through the world, but I seem incapable of working enough to even feed myself. I am trapped by my own inactivity, blocked. Poverty prevents me from investing in my own future, I feel guilty for putting so much time into music, for the way it drags me away from my family responsibilities. I feel guilty that I cannot earn enough from music to justify the time it takes from my family.

I actually seem to feel guilty about everything. I burned a very bad paradigm into myself during the last few years. "Everything I do is wrong." There it is. The code that I have lived by since Hannah left me. Everything I do is wrong, everything I do hurts others. My devotion to music is a slander upon my devotion to my partner. I should be working to earn money to make our home into what it needs to be in order for Wren and I to move back in.

(Solomon has arrived, time to go in and meet this new guitarist Raj wants me to meet. Another musical expense at a time when I can barely afford to feed myself.)

* * *

The rehearsal was amazing actually. The wealth I earn from music is not counted in dollars. Drumming with Solomon and Rajesh is incredible, reminding me of my earliest drumming experiences, improvised wonderment, spontaneous creation of MUSIC! Rajesh said that he would try to get us some paid work at Casablabla. I also played a few of my ukulele songs while Solomon drummed...this is the first time I have ever really felt comfortable having my music being accompanied. Solomon and I are on the same wavelength, and when he played the frame drum it was like...well, it was like finding a home I didn't know I belonged to. Such a familiar sound, it was the music I have been trying to create all this time, and now I am finally able to achieve it.

The guitarist, Sunny, who joined us later, played in a style half western, half Indian. He is Punjabi, North Indian, a region famous for its fast, (and very fast) music. Sunny played in a sweet, relaxed way, a western folk guitar style with bits of blues, rock and flamenco, as well as Indian raga influences. For a first jam session, I thought we found some good common ground to build songs upon. I got to play harmonica as well as drums, and standing before the microphone I felt myself seeing the world as Stompy sees it. The potential for my musical aspirations to see fruition with this group of people seems very real.

　


25th of June

Fiesta!
I played a few songs at the Littlehampton primary school fiesta on Friday night. My own childhood memories of school fairs and the like are of miserable, dull daytime gatherings with shitty craft stalls, shitty kids games, hot weather and everything set up in the school quardrangle where knees were grazed upon the rough bitumen-like surface. Ugh. The Littlehampton school fiesta ran from 5-9pm, there was mexican food, beer and wine, live music and dance and what seemed to be a crowd of every single family in the whole school, three hundred or so people crammed into the sheltered courtyard beside the school class kitchen. Children ran and played all around us, moustaches painted on boys faces making them seem like tiny bandits. In the darkness of the gardens, gangs of kids played among the bushes, visible only by the tiny coloured LED lights on their fingers. The crowd was thick, people pressing against each other as they mingle, burritos in their hands, mexican hats upon their heads and warm smiles on their faces.

I have been a part of many communities, some of which were little more than blind grudges and bindng by-laws, but this school community is a genuine collective, people voluntarilly working together to create a beautiful and lively environment for their children to grow up in. On the tiny stage boys performed breakdances they had rehearsed, I saw a young girl play a trumpet solo, the front office lady played the Tuba, doing a cover of 'The bare necessities' from the Jungle Book. A teenage girl of about 14 played a guitar and sang with such beauty and relaxed ease that it was like seeing a superstar being born. She reminded me of the 1960's English/Indian folk singer, Vashti Bunyan.

I played three songs, Flophouse Blues, Dance the Pain Away, and Skipping Stones, on Ukulele, Harmonica and Koncovka. Hardly aware of the faces of the crowd, I hid inside the music, glancing up briefly to see the entranced smiles of adults and a five year old girl spinning and twisting, dancing alone.

* * *

The next day, Sunday, I played at the Pig and Thistle in exchange for the most delicious poached eggs with smoked salmon and hollandaise sauce I have ever had. While playing, a six year old boy came to watch me, taking a stool right in front of me and staring up with wonder while his family sat outside eating lunch. The boy's name was Darcy, and while I ate my lunch he told me about himself and the things he likes best at school. I helped him tie his schoelaces and let him play my harmonica and ukulele. Living in a country town is great.

　

Admit something.
Everyone you see, you say to them
"Love me."
Of course you do not do this out loud:
Otherwise,
someone would call the cops.
Still, though, think about this,
this great pull in us
to connect.
Why not become the one
who lives with a full moon in each eye
that is always saying,
with that sweet moon
language,
what every other eye in this world
is dying to
hear.
– Hafiz



　

26th June

Recording at LB Studio
Gardy is doing his bass overdubs on 'Street Dance'....it is nothing like I had imagined. He is playing counter-rhythmic melodies across everything. My head is spinning. These half-prepared recording sessions have a divine habit of producing wholly unexpected results, and the powerful melodies that Gardy is playing RIGHT NOW...are like nothing I have ever heard.

Deva struggled with what is a very unusual song with timing changes, tempo changes and unusual rhythms, but the end result is rather beautiful. As he fought to grasp the exact measues of my melodies, he stumbled. When he played the counter rhythm that he felt with his body, when he listened to the pulse of the music, (not the beat) he played the way the song wanted to be played.

The studio is a fascinating alchemical lab, where we as musicians become ourselves through trial and error, through improvisation and experimentation. The rule seems to be, Break the Rules. Only when we really abandon the constraints of convention, assumption....(and now Stompy has showed up. The night carries on....write more later)

Gardy played, and played, played and cursed and played and played again, a hundred takes to get it just right, all the while calling himself an idiot, getting tense, never satsfied with his performance

* * *

(in the morning)
Last night's efforts from Gardy say a lot about him. He said that he was playing a new technique he had never used before, and that since he was on school holidays, he hadn't played an instrument all week. The technique comment says applies to the whole gang of musicians I am working with at the moment...the development of new techniques is the minimum requirement of every single song we write. Every song is an opportunity to develop as musicians, and no opportunity is wasted on easy material. Only through the constant refinement of our craft can we ever hope to succeed as musicians, and it is the only hope any of us has for real happiness, for none of us will ever be satisfied with anything less than mastery, and that is a concept so nebulous as to dissapate into meaninglessnes the closer one gets to it. It is a cycle perpetuated by feelings of inadequacy and alleviated only in the moment of actual improvement. Once the new technique has been grasped and practiced into routine, the feeling of laziness, deficiency and an edgy hunger for more take over and the rooms ring out with the sound a new effort bringing forth a new technique, a new mastery.

The truth is, we are amateurs, striving for a goal forever receeding, yet forever within our grasp. It is the bird in the hand, the two in the bush, three upon the wing and four about to sing.


　

June 29th
I realised today, that the story I am telling you, is the same story every artist tells. Trouble with money, struggling with depression and madness, struggling to find value in art, and to find others willing to value that art.

I slipped beneath the waterline today. Gasping for breath, I counted off my debts against the pennies in my pocket and decided instead, to tell you a different story.

　

　

The Raven and the Buddha

Not so long ago, the Raven had to enter hell. It is not known why, but it is safe to assume that he had no other choice. The gates of hell are guarded, and the keeper asks a price. At the gate stood The Blackness, Despair. The first demon.

"What price now?" The Raven asked.

"The price is for later. One day we will ask for our due, and it will be paid. That is the price."

Having no other choice, the Raven paid the price, and shook hands with The Black.

In Hell, The Raven bore witness to the furthest reaches of life without boundaries, without reserve. Everything in Hell is an extreme of itself, there is no middle ground, no passive stance, no ceasefire. There he met with a demon of Greed who asked him to deliver a message to the Buddha, inviting him to dinner. The Demon sat in a great feasting hall where every extinct species ever known upon the earth had been baked black in ovens too hot for clay, and served upon broken plates. Staring down with compound eyes, listening with compuond ears, and speaking with a compound voice, the Demon spoke to the Raven.


Take this invitation to the Buddha Take this invitation to the Buddha Take this invitation to the Buddha Take this invitation to the Buddha Take this invitation to the Buddha Take this invitation to the Buddha Take this invitation to the Buddha...

The Raven, with eyes averted, took the invitation from the Demon and left. Passsing the gates of Hell again, the keeper nodded and reminded him of his debt.

The Raven delivered the invitation to the Buddha. The Buddha laughed, not touching the paper.

"I dined with him last night, and he invites me to dine again tonight! Ha! He is greedy even for enlightenment. His mouth is full yet he reches for more."

"Will you go?"

"Of course I will."

So the Raven returned to Hell, and was told at the Gate that payment was not required a second time. The feasting hall was thick with the smoke of extinction, an obscuring haze preveted the Raven from having to look upon the Demon a second time. "The Buddha will dine with you tonight."

You may leave Was the reply.

The Raven made to leave the hall, but, obscured by the smoke, he hid himself in the caverous ceiling, and folding himself between two shadows, he lay in wait. The smoke roiled thick from the endlessly burning meat, so thick, that when the Buddha arrrived, the Raven could only see blurry shapes, and hear muffled voices as the Demon and the Saint conversed. Gradually, the smoke began to clear.

The tables and chairs were gone, the wretched, inedible death feast vanished.

Upon the floor sat a solitary man dressed in heavy robes, staring into a mirror.

The Raven left hell.


* * *
I have been writing a novel for about seven years, it is my fourth novel, but the first one I have ever considered to be really worth developing to the very end. The above tale is a story from within that novel. It feels better to share with you a myth from the pantheon in my mind, than to write another word about money.

May 2017
　

Tuesday 2nd of May

Last night was a Zebulon recording session with Mark.; A poem I wrote about two years ago now seems to be an eerie prophecy, The Man on the corner. I took my Italian harmonium, which was found on the side of the road about thirty years ago by a friend and stored in their hallway unplayed for pretty much that whole time. When they gave it to me, I pulled it apart, stripped the peeling varnish back and oiled the timber before re-varnishing it and setting it up in my own studio. Old instruments have a lovely habit of having rather unique tunings, and this one is perfect. When Stompy came in to record a harmonica part, he had to bend every single note to stay in tune with it. He said it might be tuned to A 432hz, and I suppose it's possible that it is a pre-WWII make, these Italian harmoniums were certainly around back then. The song has a xylophone part which is also in its own unique tuning, the end result being a brain twisting harmony that makes me cross my eyes and stick my tongue out, I feel dizzy listening to it. It is on the very edge of dischordant noise, but Stompy is such a master of the harmonica that it actually all works.

I also recorded three other poems, just spoken word demo's for me to listen to and work out if any music parts are needed. Whatever you do don't talk about the war, The Value of Laughter, and Crossfire. I have a sample of traffic noise which I had playing in my headphones as I recited the poems...there is something about the rhythm of rush hour traffic that helps to pace the poems, it gives me space to pause for breath. The atmosphere makes me feel as though I am speaking to someone as I walk along the road.

* * *

Nick quit Operation Firehat today. I'm sitting now at the Coopers Alehouse near Gardy's, The three who remain are meeting here to talk about the future. I guess I could see it coming. Nick has been withdrawn since the Fringe, showing obvious signs of burnout and discontent. Talking with him on the phone today was excellent. I have a sense of the bigger picture. Bands change, but the personal relationship one has with another musician is something that lasts your whole life. Nick didn't want to be associated with Stompy's more abrasive, larrikin and rude lyrics. Nick has kept this burrowing splinter to himself for a long time, and now it has come out, but all too late.

　


May 3rd
We met, we talked. We three will go on. We jammed in Gardy's room, hearing the songs for the first time without guitar...the basslines are aready so melodic that they quickly become the main melody, the leading instrument. We will try it for a few weeks as a trio and see how we feel, get back into the studio to record. It's funny, Nick never really spoke his mind out loud at rehearsals, he would always mutter quietly to me when Stompy was out of the room. Nick was oddly submissive in this way, never willing to butt heads with Stompy, the result being an unspoken grudge that festered into genuine resentment.

Huh, I'm an armchair psychologist now.

Who can really know a man's mind?

　


May 6th
A few days with no music. Just beautiful Autumn weather and a chance to get some real work done at the farm. The harvest is done, now winter can begin, all things drawing back into themselves. Towering columns of smoke rise from farms across the landscape as the first bonfires are lit. Yesterday, four Chinese businessmen flew in from Hong Kong to inspect the property for potential purchase.


One

two, three, four

five men in suits -

the world balances on a quill-tip.

* * *

I

am


Anachronistic at 37

more BC than AD

Shovel in one hand

Ladel in the other

* * *

I feel like a backwards hillbilly sometimes, clinging to the old world even as it shrivels up and vanishes. I have other friends for whom the hyper-futuristic world is an open door, an opportunity for growth. For me, the modern world is all flash and sizzle, smoke and mirrors. I am busy trying to learn the Setar, an instrument first developed around 3000BC, I earn my daily bread by pruning hedges and planting flowers, watering lawns and sweeping pathways. Although when I come home I play games on Playstation, I write my journal on a modern, sleek laptop, I listen to music stored on my mobile phone. One foot in the past, one in the future. I wonder what kind of destiny I am carving for myself, trying to live simply in a future obsessed with complexity.

　


Monday May 8th
The little things matter the most. My day off today, so I vacuumed, re-arranged the lounge room furniture for winter (making room in front of the fire place), practiced Ukulele for an hour and then went across the road to the local cafe to play music. While I was there, the owner invited me to play music on Mothers Day for the lunch crowd, paid in cash, plus coffee and food. A customer also stepped away from her coffee to photograph me for her Hills Community Facebook group. It was a good thing I shaved before going out, I was a scraggly mess this morning.

Then this afternoon I taught two teenage boys and a retired lady at the Ink Pot Arts Hub in Mt Barker. I had my son Wren with me, and during the lesson he came up to play a rhythm for us, just something that he had stuck in his head. He played it through four times with exact precision, an 8 beat rhythm, then sat back down again. The retired lady has been playing Jembe for about 8 years, mostly african stuff, and also studies Belly Dancing with Mira from BellyDance Amethyst. She recognised the names of most of the rhythms I taught today, having danced to them. Ghawazi, Ayub, Masmoodi, Wahiida, Maqsum - names of places, numerical designations, tribal names, and Baladi which simply means 'My home'.

I got my Dulcimers back from Deliah today. She is such a postive person, high spirited without being ditzy or vague. We talked about the Fringe, her show had been quite successful and had resulted in her meeting venue directors and company managers from overseas who were interested in seeing her show tour in their home countries. I told her about my post show burnout, the guitarist leaving the band, the $300 paycheck at the end of an exhausting season of rehearsals and performances. I told her that this year saw the death of my illusions about ever really making any money from performing, how I see now that I will always spend more money making music than I will ever earn, certainly in this town.

I am still quite down. I am having trouble breathing as I develop Asthma-like symptoms, waking up gasping for breath at 4am every morning. I just had a coughing fit that made me vomit in the sink, that's the second time today.

Still, I cannot give up. I push more and more, my album must be heard by more than my friends. My efforts must bear fruit. I cannot give up. Only a few months to go, then I can launch these songs into the world, these melodies that have kept me awake at night. I live in hope.


Tuesday, May 9th
Firehat rehearsal at Gardy's tonight. Reinventing our sound, re-building the old songs from the ground up. With the guitar missing each of us has to work to cover the emptiness, but it is obvious that we still have real momentum as a three piece. There is some talk of bringing in Rob Wallace as a session violin player...the future is open to us. It feels good that we are getting straight down to business writing new songs. Tonight we finished off Water Avenue, and began a Mexican-Egyptian-Gypsy song, which has the most complex melodies and arrangements of anything we have done together.

As Gardy relaxes on the couch learning and then immediately mastering this new material in minutes, I sit in awe of his focus and continually expanding skill. His TAFE music study is polishing him like a diamond. Everyone is happy, a rare state for any group of musicians, and as a result our music is better, more precise and detailed, more beautiful, less aggressive, yet still retaining the heaviness we all crave.


Wednesday May 10th
A day home sick. I was up half the night with breathing trouble, coughing up phlegm. I got some writing done around 5am though, the lead-up to the breakthrough I made today with the ending plot lines of my novel. I have been struggling to see a clear way to the end of the story, but as I began to understand the motivations, desires and goals of my characters more, especially the villain, it all began to make sense.  My brother once told me Never protect you characters and it has been sound advice throughout the story. Every time I made things too safe for my protagonist, the story failed to make sense, but every time I let her suffer the consequences of her actions, everything would fall into place. This is not a punishment complex I am taking out on my character, everything that happens to her is a consequence of the choices she has made concerning power. How she relates to her own, and that of her allies and enemies.

I'm getting ahead of myself. You'll find out when the story is done and I am still a long way from that. Ten more chapters is my current estimate, on top of the 51 that have come before. And this is really only draft number two. The first draft had a simplistic old-timey mythological ending, too neat, too herculean. As I complete the second draft, the characters are all tested, their weaknesses exploited and their strengths countered.

Played some music on my front porch. Cooked some chicken for dinner with my son, listened to Red Panda, read some books, watched some cartoons, sat in bed writing. A good day.


Thursday May 11th
Dream. A kind of family gathering, my mother had a surprise for me, a cousin I hadn't seen since I was a child was going to be there. She had an unusual name, had written a book, had black and blue hair. The gathering was happening in a converted barn, but the other large farm sheds were full of mud pits where crocodiles were being bred. They were trained to not attack people, but there was still a nervous fear about being in the room with them. The crocodile dens were dark.

The gathering also had live music, and I was doing a short set of my own stuff.

The crocodilles are interesting, I've never dreamed of them before.

* * *

It is eleven o'clock, but I don't want it to be. I have polished song transcripts and printed out copies for my drum classes on saturday. The songs play in my head, layers building like sediment, one sound upon another. Like falling dust. persistent. invisible. the bottom of the ocean. the peak of a mountain.

　


Saturday, 13th May
Drum class today. The advanced students are on the verge of something big, a growing confidence spilled over today, buoyed partly by the african classes that two of them have also been taking. Today very little was taught, but much was learned. Someone would strike up a rhythm and rapidly the whole group would begin to improvise over it, layering one upon the next, and out of the spontaneous beauty of undirected, unarranged music, each of them burst forth with marvelous new rhythms, new solo patterns. Unfettered by the limits placed on them by song structures, or time limits, they shouted from rooftops, they danced on the tiles, they threw themselves from the edge of their hesitation and landed, stepping as if guided by a hand divine, onto the platform of their own confidence.

The beginner class is a far more intimate affair with only two students, one of them new to class. It is a simple mistake to become complacent when teaching beginner material, so the first thing I always say to new students is There is no such thing as a teacher. I can show you what to do, but you must do it. You must teach yourself the things you witness in class, you must repeat alone what you experienced in the group. I am not a teacher, I am a student, teaching what I know. There will never be a point at which there is nothing left to learn, and so, there are no teachers, only students with differing experiences, aspirations and talents. 



Sunday May 15th. Mothers Day
Pig 'N Thistle Cafe.

Two kids on the couch, bored. The boy, under ten, paws at a sticky green eyeball, a toy. The girl, about fourteen, sits too bored even to fidget. Around them the cafe is alive with quiet movement, people at work in a conversational way, step, speak, collect dish, step, speak, step. Customers cluster at tables, the very old, the very young and everyone between. Mothers day, like many festival days, seems now devoted to the sharing of food and the giving of flowers, a family day. The kids on the couch are the youngest of the owner, who busilly dips between her roles as chef, maitre d'hotel, waiter and mother. Her eldest son is a kitchen hand, beaming with the pleasure of his work, while the father works as head chef.

I set up my gear and begin playing as the kids get milkshakes and come back to the couch. I start with harmonica. It's good to start with harp, people know the harp but it doesn't get played everyday like the guitar, so an audience will prick up its ears to hear one played. Some old men nod or tip their hats in seeming kinship, the instrument means something to them. Wherever you go, stories circulate about harmonica players going back generations, someone's grandad played one in the war, their uncle still plays the last post on remeberance day.

I play a gypsy waltz, the room begins to sway and the magic of sound paints everything. Everyone in the room is conversing over the music which has replaced the silence now conspiculous in its absence. People listen to the music, and I think that it helps them listen to each other. We are moved by music, it gets under our defences and affects us whether we like it or not. Like stories.

In between songs I tell a couple stories to the kids, beginning with The Tale of the King's legendary Fart, from the 1001 Arabian Nights. Kids normally love fart stories, these two weren't so impressed. But when I told them the story of the Setar, I saw their imaginations captured. It goes something like this...


A couple hundred years ago, Iran was ruled by a foreign power, it doesn't matter who, tyrrany is the same no matter who wears the jackboot. The powers that be declared it a crime to sing one's prayers and to play a musical instrument at the same time. Punnishable by death. In protest, a prominent Setar player went into the streets to sing and to play. Of course the police came and took him away for execution. After his death, luthiers began adding a fourth string to the Setar, which made the instrument even better for singing with. The instrument has become a symbol of resistance against oppression.

I played music for the kids for almost an hour and when they left I played for the staff. The customers dined in the next room, able to hear my music, but not able to see me play it. So my audience was the staff. Once I identified my real audience it changed the way I played as I took care to study their reactions instead. The Barista bopped her head to the flute, the teenage kitchen hand smiled at the ukulele songs, the Chef liked the Dulcimer songs.

I wasn't dissapointed by my being at a remove from my expected audience. I just saw who I was playing for, and I played for them. When I had played for about two hours I ordered a short black, and was deeply satisfed by it. Oh the layers of flavour in a well made espresso. Chocolate overtones and a sweetness unlike any sugary treat known, then the earthy foundations of the coffee flavour. I had a ceasar salad, which I wolfed down in sudden hunger. I felt like an honoured guest at a family run roadside inn. A free meal is worth more than the menu price. There is something in the act of being served that delivers something else along with it. I am a parent, I am always making and serving food to others, and it is always a pleasure when someone does it for me. Knowing that my music paid for the meal is even better.

I liked playing for the staff. They were just doing their job, pleased that every time they moved from room to room, someone was sitting by the window playing music. I felt I was there to soundtrack to the moment. I hear my melodies underscoring conversations, punctuating the rhythms of speech. Replacing the silence between their breaths with glissandi, the strum and pluck of a limping waltz, the songbird cry of an Elder Flute.


Note on the history behind the Setar:


The Persian Setar originally had three strings, but a Darvish named Moshtaq-Ali Shah added a fourth one to improve the sound. That’s why this string is also known as Moshtaq’s string. Moshtaq is a well-known figure in mysticism and literature. On the 27th of Ramazan in 1792 (1206 Lunar Hejri calendar), he was stoned to death because he sang the call to prayer at the Jum'ah Masjid, while playing the Setar. His body is buried in Kerman’s Moshtaqieh square next to Mirza Hossein Khan’s tomb and is a pilgrim’s stop among mystics.

This great mystic called his instrument "tchoub-e-sagzani" - a stick to beat dogs - as a reaction against the then puritans who wanted to ban music.
 This information was sourced from several websites, but most notably from the book,

　
Al-Kimia: The Mystical Islamic Essence of the Sacred Art of Alchemy

By John Eberly

Monday 16th May
Recording with The Bridgewater Trio.

　

We meet with smiles, glad to see each other again. We chat about the wedding gig...it really does stand out from all the other gigs. It is hard to speak about it, we look away, embarrassed by our failure to adequately encapsulate the experience with words. There will never be anything quite like that night. We position chiars, position instruments. We sit in a triangle Passing like a shadow between us, Mark moves with silent precision, laying cables, plugging in microphones, then kneeling before his low desk, he gazes lamplit into the rainbow screen of the recording software. We play bits of our first song, Malfuf, remembering the parts, finalising the arrangement. I keep getting lost in the second half, fumbling with the rhythm changes.

　

We stumble, struggle, half scribble notes upon a page that isn't looked at afterwards. Alice has a stunning capacity for structural understanding. The depth of experience her classical training has provided her has not moulded her into a cookie-cutout replica of the established school, rather she seems the quinitissential student, eager, curious, critical of establlished norms in society as well as music. A thinker, but also one who understands the limits of thinking, and where feeling takes over. Balanced. That is my impression of her. Posessed of self knowledge, and aware of her own ignorance. I am continually impressed by her skill as a musician, and the quality of her humanity as a person.

　

Mark presses record.

　

I won't describe every detail. You will hear the results for yourself sometime. We recorded three songs, shared a meal of fresh fruit, vegetables, soft cheese (mmmmm, tripple cream brie......) and roast chicken. We drink good coffee and play music until ten o'clock. Solomon, during the evening, re-played a drum solo about six times, as we struggled to pull everything together for Malfuf. I have heard Solomon solo a lot, and I believe that is reveals something about him. He is very driven, a pounding beat thunders through him, sometimes overtaking him in his pursuit of power. I thought I heard a samba marching band playing through him tonight. I think his solos reveal something of his character as a man as well. His paintings hang in the Marion Gallery as a part of his latest exhibition, while he is completing paperwork for the SALA festival later this year. He paints strong, striking images in black and white, stark illustrative patterns, psychedelic. He works long hours in a cleaning job, on weekends working from 4am - 2pm, with more regular daytime shifts on weekdays. He has a daughter, 5 years old, but that is all I really know about his family. Solomon has drive, the energy and the will to pursue his dreams.

　

Myself? Tonight I heard my solos, tricky, leaping, skipping, dodging the beat to trip over themselves in a three legged race. When I get it right, it's really special. When I don't, it's a crooked man's shamble down a broken down lane, unresolved, lacking structure, ill conceived and poorly timed.

But when I do get it right...the trip becomes a stumble, and that becomes a tumble, and that becomes a roll, becomes a leap, becomes a cartwheel and a double sommersault to land, drop dead in the centre of the beat.

　


Tuesday May 17th

　
I have just listened to a radio play, The Orbiting Human Circus. It is so beautiful, the kind of story that opens you up from within, from a place before words, a story scooped from the very edge of the imagination, a story that blurs the line between reality and dream. I am at work, now in this expanded state, I feel the wind on my skin, I hear the grass beneath my feet, the music of the world is all around.

* * *

　Just back from Firehat rehearsal. There is something very business-like, reinventing the band as a three piece. The old songs sound empty when we play them as we used to, but as we listen more carefully, and find ways to evolve them, abandoning the old ways, embracing the new. We laugh about renaming the band Iron Dwarf, we make the new mexican metal song even more complex, with a new 15 beat ending melody. 123 123 123 12 12 12. Recordings on my phone, setlist scrawled on a notepad left on the floor. Just another day in a rock band.

　


Saturday May 20th

Drum Arabesque at the Body, Mind and Psychic Fair

　
There are strange gigs like this one that seem to have nothing to do with the audience. They were there, I saw them, but they were meaningless. The Body, Mind and Psychic Fair is not a place I would ever have expected to perform, but today my drum students and I played for Regan and Sarii. The crowd were there, but I did not play for them, I only saw the faces of my students, these friends of mine in drumming. I saw the faces of the dancers, the push of their movement, the hint of bare feet turning beneath their huge skirts. I heard our music, I was inside the circle of sound. I saw the crowd, but they were not really there. I played for my students, I played for the dancers. The crowd, the fair, were nothing more than a pretext. I played for the music, and when it was over I milled about with my friends, drummers and dancers all, faintly absorbing the soft afterglow of their pride.

　
The crowd meant nothing. They had not come to see us play, they were only there because of the fair. They sat down because it was a place to sit down and something was happening on a stage, something other than a psychic talking into a microphone. Though the fair was well attended, I felt a lethargy for the shiny baubles on display. Trinkets marketed within the boundaries of spiritual benefit. Meditation stools were sold as Black Dragon Seats, gemstones were Healing Crystals, Everywhere psychics plied their trade, selling ideologies and therapies, every one with expensive signs and clever slogans. The last time I was here in the Jubilee Pavillion it was to see a Roller Derby match, before that I had seen The Mars Volta, Aphex Twin, Marilyn Manson, Soulfly, Korn and plenty of other acts in the Big Day Out. 

　
Being a part of the screaming crowd at the roller derby was closer to a spiritual experience than being a part of the crowd at the psychic fair. Seeing The Mars Volta WAS a spiritual experience, crushed in the thrashing crowd, pounded into an altered state of consciousness by the massive waves of sound and the ever intensifying furor of their stage performance. The psychic fair was a shopping mall, complete with bright lights and listless wandering consumers. I used to believe in all of that stuff, so I guess I'm expressing a bitter resentment at my own youthful gullibility. They would probably say I am holding an emotional block and that I could use a healing session. 

They might be right.

They might be just another used car salesman trying to make a buck by dressing up a rusted patchwork ideology and selling it as the path to liberation.

HayAllah, God is in the room. A fancy meditation seat will not invite HIM to sit closer to me, a crystal wand will not make my magic spells more powerful. There is no priest, no shaman, no pastor, to help you out of this disaster, and scratched into the prison wall plaster, there is no God, there is no master. One cannot buy a seat in heaven. God costs nothing. Transformation costs nothing. We are born illuminated with grace, and the path to peace is a process of relinquishing the burdens of unhappiness, discontent and greed. There is no product or service that will do anything to further one along the path.

Today I played for the musicians who shared the stage with me, and for the dancers who so proudly wear our music and who, through their grace and sensitivity, make movement from sound. For so long I have craved an audience, I have chased the stagelights as hard as my body will allow, but somewhere along the way I realised that the audience have little to do with the happiness I feel as a performer. 


Tuesday May 23rd
Change. It is happening in me. At 10:30pm I sit to play Setar and a melody comes out unheard of, played by someone with hands far more confident than mine. There is someone inside me that doesn't share my insecurites, doubts, or fears. He plays so beautifully, so instinctively that I find myself listening to the song; rather than feeling that I am the one playing, it is I who am being played.

A new attitude to music, a more mature handling, less desperate, less attached.

Yes, less attached.

What is it I dreamed of when I became a musician? Big stages, bright lights, cheering crowds. I have experienced all these things in different ways. The accoutrements of music. Now I find myself playing the music, FOR the music. It's not for the crowd, even though I take to the stage to entertain them. Selfishly perhaps, now it feels that I take the stage to entertain myself, and to share in the music with my fellow musicians.


Saturday May 27th

 A few days off work, sick at first with a lingering cold, then a knee injury which has kept me hobbling around my house like an old man. Lots of time for music and writing. In the mornings I drink coffee and work on my novel, the brutal and violent conclusions writing themselves regardless of my desire for a peaceful resolution to the story. Outside the sunshine is too bright, the birdsong too cheerful to remain in the darkness of a fictional subteranean prison, so I put on my coat, grab my ukulele and limp across the road to the cafe where I sit playing in the sunshine, customers tapping their feet. The owner is very generous, offering me lunch, bringing me coffee. It is lovely to feel valued as a musician. These little sounds I pluck from a box with strings make people happy. When I cannot work it is nice to know that I can still make something of worth in the world.

My coffee done, I shift along the street, stepping into the toystore next to my house where I sit on the steps and play, chatting with the owner who is also my landlady. The music brings a couple customers in who buy little things they would not have lingered to see had it not been for my ukulele.

In the evening my friends come to visit, we listen to radio plays and play chess by the fire, talking and laughing at the grim comedy of Welcome to Nightvale. Arky is a very good chess player, and his victory over me was absolute. Seated in my old rocking chair, his careful tactical use of a line of pawns made my efforts to corner his King futile. It took less than an hour for him to put me in check-mate with his Queen and a Rook. Marvelous. I like losing at board games. I love watching a successful strategy at work, and it is even better to see the look of pride and self respect on my opponent's face. It doesn't matter what the game is, the fun is in the contest of minds.

　


Sunday May 28th

　
late at night

kept company by the silence of my home

I sweep my fingers across a three string dulcimer

lost in time and space, i imagine the prarie, warm and endlessly star lit

a land without clocks

where day is measured from horizon to horizon

and nights go on until you don't think the sun will ever come up again

　

will it ever come up again?

　

and then when the sun is high in the summer, when corn and beans and squash grow thick upon the warm earth and you wonder to yourself how could the night ever come, in a day such as this.

　

but it does come.

　

doesn't it?

　

late at night

kept company by the silence of my home

i strum the strings of my three string dulcimer

and out of that hollow darkness rested on my knees and caught taught with wires that sing, i strum and find a new song in an old one.

　

i sweep where once i did strike,

in silence where once i did sing

and in that imagining, the prairie stretching dark and endlessly star lit

i find in timelessness, in languid laziness

unfettered from need, pride and repression

the perfect way to play this song

for which my sister will sing

the words that came to me

late at night

Oh

so many

nights ago.

　

　

　

　

　


　

April 2017

Drum Class on April 1st

Sitting in bed on Sunday listening to 'The Roots of Chichal' a mix cd of 1970's psychedelic Andean folk rock. Drinking coffee from a huge tankard and eating thick slices of fruit toast. Life is good.

Drum class went well yesterday, the advanced students continue to impress me with their courage. My beginner students as well...their shyness fades in the light of their achievements. The thing that impresses me most about any student, is when they show me the skills they have developed without me. Each month I give them something new to learn, odd numbered limping beats and hypnotic trance rhythms, split finger techniques and roll patterns. I have also begun to return to my own roots in drumming by exploring polyrhythms with them. All the cross rhythm patterns I spent years playing are now fresh again as I share them. Yesterday we played a rhythm I invented seven or eight years ago, which I have never notated properly before, but which is counted 1, 123, 123412345 and which works excellently when broken into segments for cross rhythm play.

There is another drummer on the program for this year's Adelaide Belly Dance Festival, offering a drum/dance workshop with his wife, so I figure I need to lift my game and try to offer something other than just an introduction to Middle Eastern drumming. The skill base of the casual students here in Adelaide is gradually increasing, I was pleasantly surprised by the other students in the workshop held by Mert last month. Mert did not teach the very simplest of skills to an unprepared class of beginners, he offered the roots of his own musical tradition, teaching rhythms by ascending numbers, starting from 2 and reaching to 10. If you think about it too much it seems difficult, but he assumed that people were capable of following his lead, and so everyone could. I have been spending a fair bit of my drum practice time working on the techniques he showed me, and I am tentativley encouraged by my early successes. The rhythms he taught have made their way into my regular practice, as well as my classes. Aqsaq, Devri Hindi, Samai (and all its variants).

With the Fringe festival over, and my recovery from the post show blues pretty much complete, I am already looking forward. I have booked my next recording session on Monday night, Operation Firehat rehearsal on Wednesday, rehearsal for the wedding gig on Saturday night, Harem party next Sunday...

　


Zebulon recording at LB Studio on Tuesday April 4th
Recording last night was a blast, doing drum overdubs on Taken North of Egypt, as well as my first studio recordings of At least I have my Ukulele, and Hungarian Homesick Blues. I experienced a great peace in the studio, a strong sense of being myself, of not being afraid to open up to my own way of being, of doing. I was PRESENT, which is something very rare for me. My overactive mind races ahead and lags behind but very rarely do I see the world, and myself, as it is.

The music speaks for itself. I am excited to know that one day you will hear it, and that it may change you, as it has changed me.

There is a feeling I get with art, whether that be painting, music, writing, sculpture, cooking, dance etc...I get the feeling that the artist hasn't created anything at all. They have revealed something that was always there, from the beginning of time, just waiting for that artist to reveal it. I don't create anything, I just listen, and put my fingers to the instrument, moving them about until I get the song right, like I hear it in my head. I don't invent stories, my novels are not products of my imagination, they are the result of listening to the story as it is told to me, it is a process of inquiry, a conversation with the story, with the song....does it go this way, or that way?

I hold the pen, I hold the brush, the instrument, but I am not the inventor of the things I create, I transpose, I translate I interpret. Inventing is done by God.

"If you really want to make an apple pie from scratch, first you have to invent the universe." Albert Einstein


Operation Firehat Rehearsal on Wednesday 5th of April
At the bar Gardy said that it was like coming home, being with us together again. He's in the post show crash now, feeling useless and depressed. Being together feels very good, preparing for the show on the 21st feels good. We played really well tonight, excited to have another gig to plan for, still buzzing from the grandeur and power of the Tale of Two Tribes.

It is such a marvelous thing, to be a part of a band, to have one's life purpose manifest in the circle. We rehearse facing each other, some sitting, some standing, all looking inward - into themselves and into the centre of the circle. Nick is still recovering from the car crash he had during rehearsals, he still can't work, still doesn't have a car, still waiting for the insurance to pay up even though there are wittness testimonies and CCTV street footage of the accident.

Gardy said he had been spending too much time at school, Stompy said he had been spending too much time busking, Nick seems, like me, worn out by the financial burdens of being a musician. Each of us is doing it hard in our own way, but Gardy summed it up in a simple way. He said that his financial abundance is measured by how many pizza's and beers he can afford on Sunday. He said he had $50 and was wondering how to spend it. I suggested a bag of weed and a ukulele.

Now I am at home in Nairne, listening to the songs I recorded on Monday night. I am transfixed by their beauty. I have listened already six or seven times today while at work. I have never heard any music like it. In the distance the 11pm freight train rumbles past, making the windows rattle.

The chorus of my song (At least I have my Ukulele) repeats:

we have each other tonight

and that's enough

we have each other tonight

and that's enough

without each other tonight

we are nothing, nothing at all.

April 7th
Homelessness is reaching critical levels all around Australia, the household debt level is getting to be unretrievable, here I sit, safe and warm in my own home, money in my pocket, food in my belly, music on the stereo, children in school, a good job to go to...what was I complaining about money for? I have a life so abundant that I can afford to only work 3-4 days a week while still paying all my bills (mostly on time), I am fit and healthy, my children are fit and healthy, I have music, art, fine food, good friends, a happy family. Yesterday the news announced the poison gas attack in Syria. My life is perfect and I really have to remember that. Last night I found a new chord on the Setar that makes it sound like a ukulele. Today I will smell the roses, today I will feel the sunshine on my face, today I will feel good about myself and be grateful for the good I have in my life. Today I will feel good.

　


April 9th
Last night was the first rehearsal with Solomon and Alice, for the Middle Eastern wedding on April 29th. You never know how things will turn out when bringing new people together, but last night was very promising. I worked with Alice on The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe children's theatre show last year. Rather than summarise, I will give you the review I wrote for the show.



The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
Firstly, theatre is not like anything else in life. In life we get up in the morning, we work, we worry, we play, we eat and we sleep. Theatre is more like dreaming. When you walk through those doors, you have to leave the world behind. The vaulted ceilings, the deep atmosphere of shadows and light, the tiered seats and faintly glowing steps down to the stage; a theatre is not like any other room you will ever walk into.

When you walk in through the doors of The Living Arts Centre (the theatre at the Waldorf School in Mt Barker), the world is left behind and you enter into a realm defined by the imagination. When the lights go down on the audience and a girl steps onstage wearing horns and carrying an umbrella, we don't see a child in a costume, we see Mr Tumnus, the stammering faun of the world of Narnia. When four children play a game of hide and seek, we don't just watch them step through the wardrobe, we walk with them into a magical frozen land and the snow falls on us all.

Ink Pot Arts production of the classic C.S Lewis tale, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe is a deeply inspired re-imagining of a story we all know, yet are drawn to again and again. For twelve years, Ink Pot Arts have proved themselves to be an important and creative force in theatre for both adults and children. This year's offering is not just a continuation of that tradition of excellence, it is a magnificent presentation on all fronts, with a string quartet, a children's choir, evocative handmade costumes and sets, beautiful watercolour backdrop projections and technical sound and lighting.

At the first rehearsal, I saw several faces in the cast who had been with the company for the production of Jumping Mouse eight years ago. Some of these children have been involved with Ink Pot theatre for all those years. I was not in a room of inexperienced school kids, I was surrounded by actors committed to their craft.

By midway through the production, I could no longer distinguish between children and adults. The children were so focussed, so intent in their peformance that they showed themselves to be far greater than their years would suggest. I saw the adults grow playful, casting aside their seniority in favour of equality, allowed into the sphere of the children's trust and friendship. In the final rehearsal I saw seated upon the steps, not a group of adults directing a group of children, but rather a cast of actors working together to share the beauty of their imaginations.

When I saw the children crawl across the stage, imagining the tunnel entrance of Mr and Mrs Beaver, I saw the whole production as a grand extension of the brilliant and natural 'play pretend' of children everywhere. Theatre in all its forms is an extension of this fundamental experience of imagining ourselves to be something else. It is one of the essential things that defines human intelligence. First we know what we are, then we know what we are not, then our minds allow us to imagine what we might be. These children dared to show us their own incredible imaginations as Wolves, Dwarves, Heroes, Beavers, Leaopards, Birds and a faun.

The four siblings (the heroes of the story), were utterly fascinating to behold onstage. Their familial squabbling and playful jostling revealing the close friendships amongst them offstage. Each child brought to their role an undeniable individuality, an expression both of the character as they are written, and of their own feelings. The beligerence and repentance of Edmund, the shy innocence of Lucy, the intelligent curiosity of Susan and the reluctant heroics of Peter - each was given life and feeling by these four rather startling actors.

Only three 'grown ups', in the roles of Aslan, The White Queen, (also Mrs MacReady) and The Professor, shared the stage with the twenty or so children . These pivotal characters, played by trained actors, granted the children powerful role models for the improvement of their own acting, and throughout the rehearsal process, I saw many important mentoring relationships become established. The children became more confident in their own roles, their characters' idiosnychrasies coming forth as they learned to express themselves more fully. The powerful and sincere perfomances given by these three adults gave a sense of awe to the stage as they towered over the children as Aslan the Great Lion, The White Queen, the Professor, and Mrs MacReady.

The backstage staff, consisting of a stage manager with assistants, sound and lighting technicians, hair and make-up artist, set makers, costume makers, cake bakers and army of supportive parents are the often overlooked and seldom praised backbone of any production and these were no exception. Their tireless efforts are to be commended and their success can be measured by the level of respect shown to them by the children. The orderly running of a stage production relies upon the steady skills of these black clad workers, and no review of a play would be honest without acknowlegement of their efforts. The smooth switching of onstage sets, the rapid changing of costumes and make-up, the preparation and creation of props such as swords, crowns and magic wands, these are all the products of the hardworking and very devoted backstage crew, who in the final count, outnumber the actors onstage two to one.

The supporting roles of Mr Tumnus and Mr and Mrs Beaver deserve special mention as well. These three characters were presented with such personality and nuanced mannerisms that I shall recall their performances for years. The dreamy reminiscence of Mr Tumnus, lulling Lucy to sleep with his stories, and the comedic english accents and homely hospitality of the Beavers stand out vividly.

The supporting cast of wild creatures filled the play with their beastial prowling and skittering flight. The dance and battle scenes really let these characters hold centre stage. With the addition of a dance choreographer working with the cast, the spring dance scenes, and the two battles had an enthralling dramatic flow, allowing a wordless phyisicality to express both the joy of spring, and the terror of battle.

It is this union of narrative and dance that made the inclusion of a small orchestra such an natural and powerful addition to the production. With three violins, a flute, a clarinet, a cello, a lead vocalist with a choir and a percussionist (me), the play was woven with beautiful melodies and subtle rhythms, the scene changes seamlessly bridged with music and songs written specially for this production.

At the end of the day, it is however the public who decide what is good. The glowing review of one man in the orchestra is nothing when compared with the buzz of the full theatre. Four shows, over two weeks, and every show the house was full. The final performance spilled the audience down from their seats, children crowding the steps at the very edge of the stage. This is the voice of the people. From my vantage on the side, I could look back and across at the glowing faces of the crowd. I could see the wonder in their eyes, I could hear their silence as they listened to the children telling them a story. In the theatre, we are all children.

* * *

So that's where I met Alice.

For this wedding gig, we are rehearsing at Alice's house in Bridgewater, since it is the middle ground between us, and Alice, who is still in High School, does not have a car. Bridgewater is a magnifient part of the world, with roads winding through thick forested hills, old homes and hidden cottages everywhere. Both Solomon and I got lost on our way there, even Solomon's GPS sent him on a wild goose chase. Alice's father is also a musician, and behind their home is a purpose built rehearsal room, with guitars, keyboards, computers and music textbooks. We began our rehearsal with a violin dance tune Alice had selected that reminds me of some 15th Century Italian music. It is a revolving melody that seems to run in circles around itself, never quite resolving when you think it will, and then when it does, it has already swept you along in the new, faster repeat. Second we did a slow improv with flute, accompanied by the sufi rhythm HayAllah, then finally a 9/8 tune that we converted to an 8 for ease of playing, Zirgule Sarki, adapted to include a snippet of the classic Jewish wedding dance song Hava Nagila.

The music we were able to produce is very promsing, and with four or five rehearsals scheduled between now and the gig, we should be able to really put on a great show. Getting paid is good motivation to rehearse, and since this is the first Middle Eastern wedding that I have been invited to play at, I am keen to make a very strong impression. Alice has no specific training in Middle Eastern music, but her classical schooling means she can sight read from sheet music, and learn new material by ear. When I told her she would have to improvise, she gave me the face that all classical musicians give whenever that word comes up, but it was a bit of an act. Her flute improv during the slow sufi song was excellent.

Working with Solomon again is good, aside from being a master percussionist, he is an excellent band leader and song arranger, with a wealth of experience to draw from. He understands tension and release, he understands the needs of a dancing audience, he is great at giving clear signals for breaks and changes in the rhythm and his improv solo skills are magnificent. Actually, it is the differences in our approach to soloing that make us a good pair, as each of us presents different techniques as well as musical aesthetics. I find myself holding the root of the rhythm while his fingers roll and fly around in a much more advanced and colourful manner, yet Solomon is always keen to make sure he gives me space to also be heard and for my own sound to contribute to the foreground.

The sound...Darbuka, Violin, Jembe, Tar, Flute and Harmonica...it's quite an act.

* * *

Today was the end of term school show for Arabesque. There are sights that cannot be paid for, dances which no stage can present. Two little girls holding a long red sash between them, spinning against each other's momentum, then weaving through the crowd of dancing women, none of whom was younger than 50. Mothers teaching daughters the dance moves they have learned in class, grandmothers teaching granddaughters. A hundred women in that room, five men, and two boys. Four of the men were drummers, one was the husband of a dancer. It is a rare privelege to be a man at an event like this, to have the opportunity to see women as they see themselves. To hear rolling laughter and see cheeky smiles, to listen to the music they choose to dance to. Belly Dance here is a women's community, a women's culture, almost exclusively. There is one male belly dancer in Adelaide, and he does mostly samba these days. As a musician I have a key that allows me to enter this community, and as a teacher I have a position of professional respect within the school. Yet despite me being the only male teacher in the school, and one of only five men in the room, absolutely nothing is said about my gender. This community centred around the celebration of the body, does not discriminate based on gender, age, weight or skill. This community shares dance and music, and as far as they are concerned, everyone can play.

It has been a strange day. Sometimes I just wake up with the dread that I have done something wrong, or am doing somethig wrong, and everywhere I look I search for signs that someone is pissed off with me, or annoyed, or insulted. I woke up with this feeling and haven't been able to shake it all day. It's a knot in my stomach, a stone. Writing about it breaks it up a little, but my teeth hurt again. Talking about it with my woman helped a great deal.

　


April 10th
So I took that hangdog feeling of being a blundering idiot and went and played music in a new cafe which opened up across the road from my house this morning: The Pig and Thistle. I took my uke, my setar and my harmonica and sat by the fireplace serenading the customers as they came in for the opening day. My teeth hurt worse than ever now as I sit in bed, sipping licorice tea, which is good for gum disease. Still, my son sleeps peacefully beside me, I am listening to my favourite Venetian Snares album, Huge Chrome Cylinder Box Unfolding. I just try to make the best of a bad feeling.

This afternoon I went to a local playground with Wren where I met a young girl of about ten, named Adison who told me of life with her family who worked in Zoos. She spoke French, had lived in America, had travelled all around Australia and was preparing to live in Bali for the next year or so. She told me about the most beautiful parts of the country she had seen, and of the beauty of the night sky when seen from an aeroplane at high altitude. She asked me if I was a soldier (the kids at Wren's school ask me that quite a bit, I wear old 70's army fatigues at work, handed down from my Dad) and I told her that my father and all my uncles and grandfathers had been soldiers but that all the men of my generation were farmers, geologists, mapmakers and musicians, the benefits of growing up in relative times of peace.

Meeting children is always the nicest thing.

I have begun preparations for the Adelaide Belly dance festival, where I will be teaching a beginners fundamentals drum workshop. This year another drummer is coming over from Sydney, Nasser. It's a bit odd, I was looking forward to teaching an advanced workshop on polyrhythms in middle eastern drumming, but I have been relegated to the back row by the visiting drummer. Being the only darbuka player in Adelaide means that I am the big fish in a very small pond, but whenever another dummer visits, I am a small fish again. Still, I should put my wounded ego away and just be glad that I will have the chance to study with someone better.

　


April 11th
I dreamed last night that my friend Deliah and her family came to visit me at my house in Nairne. She was returning the two dulcimers she had borrowed. Then the dream shifted and we were all in a big American style pickp truck, taking the garbage bins out to the road. We were no longer in Nairne, but somewhere very far from any town. Snow was thick on the ground and falling heavilly. Deliah was driving. We put the bins out, I was nearly run over by a white car as I crossed the road. Drving back to the house, we lost our way and the maps did not have the tracks through the forest we were driving on. Deliah was a very confident and skilled driver, navigating the winding tracks, going off road to avoid getting bogged, and totally unfazed about getting lost in the woods in the middle of a snow storm. She was confident that she could get us where we needed to go, without maps or even roads.

It's interesting that this is the second dream involving snow I have had recently. It doesn't snow here. Well, it has snowed a couple of times in the last 50 years, but it is more like thick sludge than actual snow. I should call her tomorrow.

Tonight was Firehat rehearsal. Gardy wasn't there so we started writing a new song, a gypsy dirge Stompy came up with in 6/8 then 7/8 time, a kind of limping, lunatic greek carnival blues. My son Wren was with me tonight, leaping around on the couches in the upstairs balcony where we practice at the Govenor Hindmarsh Hotel. This afternoon he drummed a perfect Malfuf rhythm on my back. A large portion of his life has been spent on stages, behind stages and in rehearsal rooms. Music is as much a part of him, as he is a part of me.

* * *

Midnight. I woke up stressed out about insurance. My thoughts ran along the lines of ...'I can't afford insurance, I've never needed it before, it's all bullshit, musicians don't get paid enough to have to pay insurance fees, I really can't afford to keep being a performer if I have to pay some bloated corporation for a service I don't need...' and so on

I have lived for so long with the overriding idea that I am a pauper and an idiot that it is very hard to imagine myself as anything else. Whenever anything to do with money comes up, my only thought is "I can't afford it". This has held me in good stead for a long time, especially since it has always been true. I run so close to the line that extra costs are simply not possible. At the moment I still owe $500 to the mechanic, having just paid $440 for new tyres which leaves $240, my entire fortune right there....ah shit, money.

* * *

2:18am

Too depressed about money to sleep, I got up at 1am to try to find something else to occupy my mind. My glass of Sangria has emptied once, and been refilled. I have just watched the DVD of Tale of Two Tribes...I haven't smiled so much since the show ended. It really was the brightest, most brilliant moment of my performing life so far. It makes me very happy to see it again, to see the beautiful smiling faces of the dancers and to hear the wonderful music we made for them. It really doesn't matter that it crippled me emotionally and financially to make it, these kinds of emotional ups and downs are par for the course in a peformer's life. We are all in this together. Nick (the guitarist) still hasn't got a new car, his injured hand means that he still can't work. He refuses to go on the dole though and is living off the meagre scrapings of his musical income. I can see the weariness in his face, the burden of living without any kind of financial safety net, no income, continual rising expenses. It's a bullshit game trying to make money from music, but we are all here in this leaky boat together. I haven't shaved in a while, when I looked in the mirror today I saw a large number of gray hairs, only 37 and I'm becoming an old man. Stress is the real killer, fuel for the fire we burn to make this art. I drank less coffee today though, and my teeth don't hurt so much, so that's good news. Hopefully I can sleep now.


April 12th
Rehearsal tonight with Alice and Solomon. Alice is amazing, the songs she has found to play are exciting and challenging, and it doesn't hurt that she is also an eloquent player. The three of us are really creating something good. After practice I listened to the two songs I recorded on my phone; my son and and old friend were playing with Lego on the floor, talking about laser beams and how the wing parts of the spaceship fit together. They both fell silent as soon as the violin began to play. As Wren changed into his pyjamas tonight he hummed part of the melody, so close to perfect as makes no difference.

Solomon really pushes me, I am striving to grasp his techniques, hell, I'm struggling to grasp my own. (...off to practice Jembe...I sometimes forget just how much I love the Jembe)

　


14th April
I had a cinematic moment yesteday at work, listening to Ross Daly. Just at the moment a harp strummed a descending glissando, a gentle autumn breeze shook the tree I stood beneath and I was showered in a gentle rain of yellow leaves. There are some days when the soundtrack of my life transforms reality, making magic where once there was only normalcy.

　


17th of April
A few days without music, just relaxing at home over Easter. Sitting in bed until midday, writing. Working on my novel, working on a new story for Dungeons and Dragons. In the afternoons I have been painting, I went for a walk on the beach with Carrie. Playstation in the evenings, Arky and I have been builing an EPIC castle in Minecraft, complete with towers, hidden gardens, secret tunnels, floating islands and a pilgrim mountain trail to a cave at the bottom of a waterfall.

* * *

Sitting on the front porch at the recording studio, dark beer in my belly, a pipe in my hand, the beautiful colours of the sunset fading gently and the wash of traffic, like waves upon the shore of my ear. The ringing of the railway crossing bells, the chirruping of tiny crepuscular birds, feasting upon insects hidden beneath bushes, in grasses and floating on the still air.

Tonight, Stompy and I will record some of his solo music, I have no idea what, but I trust the magic. I packed my set of 3 Doun Douns, my Cajon, both my cymbals, my darbuka, my Tar and one harmonica, no wait, two harmonicas, and my steel box drum.

Today I practiced Setar. I have new song, based on an improv from last year, called October Flood.

I can hear Stompy singing as he approaches, long before I can see him, his voice rising loud and clear above the traffic as he sings...

When the moon hits your eye, like a big pizza pie, That's amore!..


　

18th of April
We recorded four songs last night. Once a Jolly Swagman (sat down to smoke a bong), You rock my soul, Sunny Afternoon (the Kinks), and an instrumental quasi-cuban swing number. A bit of time spent mixing, Stompy got to work on my ukulele songs, making them sound like they were recorded in an empty hall, or an old warehouse. There is something very lonesome, particularly about Homesick Hungarian Blues. I have about sixteen weeks before the end of August, my deadline for the album's completion. Still a few songs to record, still many songs to mix...a lot of work, including the album cover and sleeve design, including this document. I'm not sure how I will present it, I'm not very tech savvy, but the ideas percolating in my mind might be quite simple to achieve.

This morning, while my car was in the shop having new tyres fitted, I came to one of my favourite cafés in Mt Barker to play my ukulele and drink a cup of tea. It is an excellent testing ground for new songs, for new arrangements. Even though no-one is really listening, they are all still absorbing the sound, and there is an unspoken feedback between us. The tattooed waitresses rush about, the café owner chats with the regulars between flipping eggs and making salads. This place is more like a country homestead kitchen, the customers are ordinary people of all ages. This is no fashion café, it is a place to eat bacon with hot-sauce at the long table with other locals, parents catch up with their adult kids, old men cluster around the tables outside.

Today, I was a scruffy musician sitting by the window, typing. His songs were played for the day (his payment for the cup of tea), and his hat sits, slightly crumpled on the bench beside him. At a table outside, a grandmother, mother and daughter drink latte's while the young woman unwraps an Eeaster present, hand knitted socks and a beanie.

* * *

Just back from Firehat rehearsal. Tonight we practiced in one of the studios at Arabesque, a beautiful, tiny, old fashioned room with a 1940's curved window looking out into the courtyard, stacks of books on a table and a blank canvas resting on an easel. The Fringe season has forged us together as a band, the songs that were once super challenging are now routine, every song has an old shoe comfort to it. The new songs we are writing are a step ahead again, using stranger timings, more intense bass lines and better developed arrangements. We have been together just a little over year. It is a very good feeling to be able to rely upon each other, to be able to trust that the music comes first, that we are in this together for the experience we are creating, for ourselves and for the audiences.

After pratice we stood around in the dim light of the carpark, drinking cider and talking about sex, drugs and music. Dancers finishing classes walk warilly to their cars until they see that we are not strangers, our laughter ringing out between the tall brick walls on either side of us.

There are days when music makes me sad, anxious, resentful, envious and exhausted.

There are days when music makes me feel whole, liberated, relaxed, at peace and thrilled to be alive.

I must find balance.

　


April 21st
Going onstage with Firehat tonight as well as Drum Arabesque, and doing a solo spot, all at the SoulFire show headlined by Mat Jacob, a dancer from Spain. Pre-show anxiety comes and goes, great lists of things I must pack, things I must write, places I must go and the narrow timeframe in which to get these things done. Finish work at 3:30, go home, unpack car, re-pack car, Wren is being dropped off to me, get dressed, pack costume stuff, get petrol, get food for dinner, go to venue, do soundcheck, do rehearsal with dancers...relax...have a bite to eat and a glass of wine, relax as the show starts, enjoy the dancing, get up on stage and sing a song, drum a drum, and rock with the band, then another glass of wine, enjoy some more dancing, get dressed in lion costume, drum for Regan in comedy dance routine to 'The Lion Sleeps Tonight'...relax and enjoy the headline dancer...pack, drive home, fall into bed.

　


April 22nd

I dreamed last night, in full colour and totally immersive reality that the dancer Jenny Vincent died while dancing. She dropped dead during a parade, Simon Ankor was filming it. I saw it when it happened, and then later on in the dream, Simon, Sarii and I were watching the film together. I couldn't believe it, I cried a lot, in shock that someone so beautiful and young could die like that, and with no explanation.

* * *

The show last night, SoulFire, was amazing. The North Adelaide community hall was full of smiling faces, a wonderful crowd full of friends. Backstage, fifty or so dancers congregated in secret. Backstage...it is such a magical place that most people never get to see. The magic of the stage is somehow enhanced by seeing the preparation that goes into making the performanes look so perfect. I have always loved being back there. Gardy, Stompy and I hung out in the kitchen with Tony Hall from Yellow Blue Bus, (a local Ukranian folk band) telling horror stories from our debaucherous pasts. Tony remained rather quiet. For the show he played a Halo (a development of the Hung Drum), and seated in the centre of the dance floor, bathed in warm stage light, his quiet instrument somehow built layer upon layer of sound until the hall was filled with vibration and the audience sat transfixed by this extra-terrestrial music.

Note: the legend surrounding the Hung drum goes something like this. Alien beings communicated the instrument design and the specific metallurgical forging processes necessary to build it, to two brothers in Switzerland. The brothers required all customers to write hand written letters to request the instrument to be made for them personally, and they reseved the right to reject requests. Eventually, due to reverse engineering and mass production by instrument makers overseas, the brothers have since stopped making the original Hang, and now the market is awash with many approximations of the original design. None of the copies have been made using the original processes handed down from above. The Halo is a development by an American company, with a slightly different physical design to the Hung. This is the legend. What the truth is I do not know.

For my solo piece, I played Tamborine, the song I wrote about Regan. It felt good to sing a song praising the wonder of dance, at a dance show. Standing high upon the stage, a spotlight beaming down upon me, I gazed out upon the upturned beautiful faces of the crowd and sang for them. I have for a long time preferred the intimacy of a tiny room, of a low stage. Large rooms feel disconnected, the audience are too far away and the stage can be lonely. However, last night upon that high stage, with the crowd spread out before me, I suddenly felt I had found my place in the world. I felt at the centre of myself, at ease, I knew what I was doing, and in a life as filled with doubt and confusion as mine, these moments of confidence carry me through the fog of anxiety so prevalent in my life offstage. I played beautifully, my voice was in fine form, relaxed and confident, really one of my best moments onstage.

Note: Tambourine, Noun, A shallow drum with a single drumhead and with metallic disks in the sides. Derived from Tambor: A frame made of two hoops; used for embroidering. Also: a frame drum from South America.

I have long known of the connection between grain winnowing sieves, and frame drums. The two technolgies grew up side by side in early grain/earth/sun worshipping societies. Frame drums were used in religious rites associated with nature deities, the instrument usually being played by priestesses, throughout Sumeria, Mesopotamia and the Indus Valley. (When the Drummers were Women by Layne Redmond. Music and Women XXXXX). It had not occurred to me that weaving might have also played a part in the development of the frame drum. Embroidery is also very old tech. I postulate that basket weaving may be the precursor form of this developing hoop technology. A technology derived from grasses and reeds and developed predominantely by women.

Next, my students and I played North of Egypt, nine of us onstage (four men and five women). We have rehearsed quite a lot, and it shows, especially during the solos. The chiftatelli rhythm still gives them trouble, but you have to take the rough with the smooth. Drum Arabesque, the name feels comfortable, Adelaide's only Middle Eastern drum troupe. I guess I can allow myself to feel a little pride, I have created something beautiful in this world. I taught myself how to drum, and then I taught these eight students, and together we have brought this music into the city. It is quite amazing to watch them play what I have not taught, to see their own imagnations giving rise to new rhythms. As a teacher, I cannot give a student a single thing, all I can do is show, the work is done by the student and has nothing at all to do with me. Their improvised solos are sounding more and more unique, stranger and quite removed from the kinds of patterns you hear in traditional darbuka music.

During the intermission, Operation Firehat rocked the house. The booming echo of the room made the sound a bit muddy, and at one point we couldn't hear ourselves at all, a passing bubble of silence in the chaos of reverberating sounds. We dealt with this by rocking harder. Gardy commented that it felt like we were onstage during WWII. There is a beautiful old-timey atmosphere to the hall that does make it seem like you are in the 1940's, especially with the crowd seated at round tables, enjoying food and wine while the band plays onstage and dancers occupy the centre of the floor.

After the band's six song set, (Welcome to the show, Zembetika, Los Desdellos, Fumblin's with the Blues, Working Class Blues, Turn the other cheeky) We got to play a piece from Tale of Two Tribes, the dance where the two tribes meet for the first time, the battle dance to the song Gardy vs the Jungle Bunny. Oh those time travelling gypsies! Just before the song started I dashed backstage beaming with happiness to tell them how wonderful it was to see them all again. The face paint, the hair do's, the costumes, this is how I know them. I do not know them, or really even recognise them in their casual lives and casual costumes (all clothing is costume isn't it?). I know them by their movements, by the distance from hip to rib, to shoulder, elbow, wrist. By their smiles, their winking eyes and even by the sound their feet make as they dance. The length of their step, the reach of their arms, the circles they draw upon the invisible air. To get to play for them, just one, song, just four minutes upon the stage beneath the hot lights and the hot stares of the crowd...to be that person, that vision, to be that tribe, to be IN the circle instead of watching the circle...

...oh my crowded heart.

The dancer who was the reason for this particular gathering, Mat Jacob, from Barcelona, is certainly worth the hype. I always wish the headline dancers would do more than two dances at these kinds of shows, but that seems to be the convention. Mat is much more than a belly dancer, she really stretches the fusion style to make it very contemporary. The fine detail of her idiom, the deep knowledge of the shapes her body makes set her apart from dancers who speak from a strictly traditonal vocabulary. While most dancers strive to continually hold strong postures, to make themselves look tall, slender, proud, lithe...Mat used her body to make mixtures of unusual and beautiful shapes, hunching her shoulders and curling inwards, only to stretch every part of her self in the next moment, then turning upon the spot, growing taller, then shorter, her arms tracing designs above her head as she turned on the spot, her face and posture flickering between expressions like a flip book. I have seen precious few dancers who move as if they wrote the music, but Mat is certainly one of them. Her choreographies seem to be the result of years of careful study and refinement...really the product of a life of dance. I have probably said it before, but good dancers are professional listeners of music, and the best dancers not only have the best taste in music, they complement, they adorn, they accompany their chosen songs, making themselves a vital element to the music, as much as a singer or instrumentalist does.

There is one other dancer I will make mention of, Bridgette Anderson. I have known her for a couple of years through the school, but I'm not sure I've ever seen her do a solo dance. Not all dancers tell stories, but her dance was expressive and anunciated as a poem, recited with a clear voice in a silent room. I will not try to interpret her movements into written language....that would be a celophane fire, a paper moon.

　


Monday April 24th
Rain in the morning, listening to Sabha Motallebi, an Iranian Setar and Tar player. Crumpets for breakfast. The Bridgewater Trio, as I am calling us now, rehearsed on Saturday night, working out our sixth song for the set. We have worked hard to get everything together in a very short space of time and I must say that a huge portion of that effort has been borne by Alice. Drumming is easy, even when playing rehearsed songs it is just another kind of improvising. Alice has to get every note right, every time.

Last night I praciced ukulele as I do most days, the kids playing minecraft on Playstation as I strummed slowly through all my A minor songs then started practicing King of the Road by Roger Miller. My album feels like it is nearing completion, which is probably an illusion created by the mounting volume of recorded material I have already. I still have five songs and two poems to record, and then comes the monumental task of mixing and stringing all the songs together. Oh, and I still have to get the choir in, and my sister to do vocals, and Gardy has to do the bass on Street Dance, and I still have to do some tambourine overdubs on Taken North of Egypt, Street Dance...yeah, I've still got a long way to go and only eight sessions in which to achieve all this. I really want to stick to the release deadline of the end of Winter. I have the cover art done, but I still have to get the design and logo stuff done. Then comes the spring launch party...

It makes me laugh now to remember when I began this project and I thought I could get it all done in three days, staying at the studio day and night.

　


Thursday 27th
Tonight my daughter Coco is reading to Carrie and I from Unreal Banana Peel. For those of your who don't know it, it is a classic childrens book of poems, rhymes and silly songs. A lot of them are rude and there is a lot of nonsense between the funny pictures that go with the writing. Both Carrie and I grew up reading the book and we know a lot of the poems by heart, even though we haven't heard them in decades. Later, Coco taught me the cup song, and most of a school-girls rhyme with the accompanying clapping. Instinctive music, passed down through children, generation after generation.


April 29th
Sitting in bed listening to Venetian Snares, Rossz Csillag Alatt Szuletett, a breakbeat album made using eastern european classical music and 1930's gloomy jazz. One of my favourites. My other favourite is Huge Chrome Cylinder Box Unfolding, a blindingly brilliant breakbeat masterpiece of such complexity that even now after twelve years of listening to it, I still hear something new each time.

Last night was the final rehearsal before the wedding gig, Carrie came along with me. For the first time, we played through all the songs without referring to our written arrangemenet notes, playing faster on the fast songs, and more intensely on the slow songs than ever before. We'll go into the studio to record as soon as possible. It's funny, the bride booked the band 2 years ago, as well as booking Regan to dance at her Hens night, but 2 years ago I could never have put this trio together. My first choice for the second drummer had been my old friend Kahl Hopper, and I was dissapointed when he knocked back the offer to focus on his solo music Xanga. Now, I couldn't imagine working with anyone other than Solomon.

After the rehearsal we all had dinner together with her parents, a delcious feast of mushroom risotto, egplant and fetta, dolmade's, olives and wine with apple crumble and ice-cream for dessert. Solomon told us that this was the very first Australian dinner he had shared with friends. He has been living in Australia with his 5 year old daughter for 3 years, but has not made any close friends to share dinner with. He plays in other bands, exhbits paintings and sculpure in exhibitions, but everyone is always busy. The bands plays their gigs, then everyone goes their separate ways.

Years ago I used to share dinner with friends every friday night, it was a standing invitation to anyone I knew. I worked on a large organic farm with a revolving staff of international backpackers, I was a part of a housing co-op, I was still with my first wife...we drank wine and mead, ate food grown on the farm, sang songs and played games...it seems like such a long time ago now. Now, it is as Solomon says, everyone seems too busy. My life has certainly changed a great deal, for one thing I used to drink two bottles of wine instead of two glasses, yet there was something very grand about last night's dinner, six people sitting at a round table and everyone filled with the glow of gratitude.

Both Solomon and I expressed our thanks to Alice, for without her music, we would just be two dudes playing drums. Alice thanked us both, for without our drumming, she was just a lonely violinist. I thanked Alice's parents, Michelle and Tony, for hosting our rehearsals, and they in turn thanked us for the music, saying that it livened up the atmosphere of the neigbourhood. We didn't actually hold hands and say grace, but we might as well have.

* * *

In the evening...

I just got home from the wedding.

Standing with the Bridal party on the dark path outside the feasting hall. The Groomsmen and Bridesmaids arm in arm before us, all dressed in black. Sleek. The Bride and Groom behind us, laughing with the joy of their day. She wore a classic white dress with a huge bell skirt, and white henna adorned the backs of her hands. Her smile, a brilliant and constant fixture on her expression, her energy was impossible to refuse, we danced together waiting in line. Somehow defying the classic aspects of her dress, Donna's stark black hair and straight cut fringe transform her appearance from one of beautiful old world charm, to something very modern and individual. The Groom wore a very well tailored single breasted suit, in a dark shimmering blue perfectly complementing his skin tone, this man was born to wear this suit. The MC announced the Groomsman and Bridesmaid, who then entered the hall to great cheers, clapping and whistling. In line we took a step forward. The Best Man and Maid of Honour were called, the cry of the crowd rolled out like a crashing wave as they too entered the hall. Solomon, Alice and I share darting glances...strangely I do not feel any nervousness, I just feel like I am in a normal place, with happy people sharing in something as large as real life. Despite not knowing what will happen next, I am in the very centre of my confidence. The Flower Boy and Girl are announced; they are running around the tables having the time of their lives.

It is time for us. We enter playing as the Bride and Groom are called behind us. The room is full of standing people, clapping and cheering, a glittering crescent of beaming smiles. We played in a circle for a moment, moving gradually to stand at the edge of the crowd, watching as Donna and Ashmin walked in, arm in arm. For a long time we couldn't really hear each other playing, just the dim outline of music amidst the bright noise of two hundred people suddenly dancing all around us. Donna moved like a woman in love. She danced with everyone, leaping around with an incredible vibrancy...she believed in all of us, she gave us all permission to really get out of our everyday lives and dance like our lives depended on it, like it meant something. The band become separated in the pullulation of the crowd, turning our heads this way and that we tried our best to keep eye contact, to even see each other, trusting each other to do our part in creating this sensational energy.

It kept going, and growing, this wonderful shared dance, the first event of the evening. I have never seen anything like it, never been a part of such a wild and expressive glamourous flashmob. We played and played until everyone was sweating, until the Bride glanced up with her kohl rimmed eyes that told me it was time. We flourished, blooming in the sunlight of their praise, and let me tell you, there is no greater praise for a dance band.

The crowd untangled their way back to food laden tables, back to half drunk glasses of wine, back to the familiar circles of their carefully selected dinner companions. We took our places behind microphones and began again in earnest. Hicaz Zirgule Sarki, Bashana. Hayallah, Inanna's Lament. Though they look away, they listen, through their conversation I see them dance in their seats. In her throne, the Bride danced continuously, talking, laughing and feasting. During our slow song, I saw the Greek father of the Bride and one other man of his generation clapping in absolute earnest to the Chiftatelli rhythm. It means quite a lot to have an audience know what you are playing, who understand the culture and musical nuance.

We finish with a reprise of our first song, stepping away from our microphones and taking to the dance floor. Within seconds Donna is there dancing with Ashmin, joined immediately by the rest of the bridal party. Solomon, Alice and I share lingering smiles, we are all in the centre. Flourishing, we blossom in the praise of their dance, and let me tell you, there is no greater praise.