To Her Door

January 10, 2011

A short post today.  Ten years ago this week (or last week….leave me alone with your nit picky details!) my entire family, cousins, aunties, everyone walked to the top of Hartz Mountain.  It really is one of the most beautiful places on earth.  Tasmania is magical, healing, beautiful, exquisite, wild, confronting, this, that, everything, everything, everything.

So you should go.  If you haven’t.  It is my spiritual homeland, I would like my children to be born there, I would like to grow old and die there.

My memory of To Her Door is this: packed in a car with all my cousins, driving down a dirt road after a day of extremely challenging hiking, and marvelling to myself at the quietness within the car.  Everyone’s ears and minds tuned into the song, my cousin Sam (who has recently moved from Karratha to Gladstone…I know…the dude don’t do things by halves…) mouthing the words to himself, ears open, eyes chasing the horizon.  Bodies happy.

This is my last Paul Kelly post!  I know!  Thank you, Mr Kelly.  You really are something else.  Every time I listen to you sing I am filled with hope, with a belief that people get by despite their fuck ups, in spite of their unavoidable        human-ness.  And I need that.  I am not a very brave lady, and your songs make me feel like I don’t have to pretend to be.  So….you know…..thanks and that.

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How to Make Gravy

January 8, 2011

Now.  I was planning to write this on the 21st of December, thinking how perfect it would be to write a post on the 21st of December about a song/story that takes place on the 21st of December.  What an amazing coming together.  You would have loved it.  For realsies.

BEFORE the 21st of December, when everything was normal, when everything was good, I had thought that I would spend the day baking, writing, getting ready for the Malteser and I to drive to Newcastle on Christmas Eve.  What I ended up doing on the 21st of December was wandering around my parents’ house in Tasmania in a daze, counting the number of days since I’d been made single.  The 21st of December – 10 days since I don’t know what, 10 days since my heart froze and shattered into dust.  Ten days since my slate was wiped.

How to Make Gravy is the best Christmas song written.  Apart from Silent Night, but that’s about Jeebus, and you know.  Jeebus.  Hmm.  I don’t know.  But How to Make Gravy aint about beautiful tiny peaceful babies, it’s about fucked up dudes who are feeling it.  About wanting to be somewhere where they can’t be.  And that’s more my speed.  Especially at the moment.  Especially when on the 18th of December I’m watching the Rockwiz Christmas special and I’m sending the Malteser an email with our recipe for Maltese bread pudding, the way we made it last year at Christmas, the way he’ll want to make it this year, and as soon as I send the email Paul Kelly walks out on stage and sings How to Make Gravy.

My Christmas ended up being quite good.  But what I wouldn’t have given for a piece of that rubbery, tasteless Maltese bread pudding.

With a little glace cherry on the top.

Bradman

November 23, 2010

This song has never resonated with me.

Talking in songs makes me shy.

So shy.

BUT – I have something to say about this song now, I have a place inside me that resonates with it.

Here are the first few lines of Paul Kelly’s song:

“Sydney, 1926, this is the story of a man, just a kid in from the sticks, just a kid with a plan.  St George took a gamble, played him in the first grade.  Pretty soon that young man showed them how to flash the blade.”

Last week I realised this happened in Petersham Park, not twenty metres from where I currently live.  The park itself is verdant, cool, home to kiddies, office types enjoying dappled sun on their lunch breaks, moreton bay figs, jacarandas, roses, clover, magpies, fruit bats, swallows, palm trees.  Petersham Park oval was opened in 1924, around the same time I think my small apartment block was built.  This morning I stepped out of my front door and imagined what it would have been like over 80 years ago.  Probably not much different.  On weekend mornings I lie in bed with the Malteser sound asleep behind me, his face buried in my neck, and I listen to the action on the oval.  As the morning moves on, the ages of the cricketers grow…voices change from alto squeals to baritonal bellows.  I try to imagine what it may have sounded like on the cricket pitch back then and decide it probably sounded exactly the same.

When I was a kid I was obsessed with books about girls travelling through time…Playing Beattie Bow, Eureka Street, Charlotte Sometimes…I occasionally still indulge these romantic thoughts when walking through the Rocks.  I’ve started indulging them here at home.  I imagine stepping out of my apartment in 1926, seeing the same trees that I see here in 2010, seeing the men gathering on the field in front of me and not knowing that the beginning of a remarkable career was about to take place.

Some photos for you:

We don’t do street signs in Petersham, we embed them into the sidewalk.

My little housie.

An avenue.

Another avenue.  We are crazy ape BONKERS for them in the ‘Sham!

Rotunda

Beautiful little rusted out birds.

Is it a rotunda, is it a cathedral?  Who can say.  Probably me.  But I won’t.

All palings lead to rotundas.

I think these are the cheap seats.

No, wait.  Those are the cheap seats.  Down near the fence.

Petersham Park A Reserve seating.

Petersham Park AA Reserve.  NOT ALCOHOLICS ANONYMOUS RESERVE.  Ploise.  We don’t do that here in Petersham.

The grandstand.  I need to come over here on a Saturday so I can get inside…

The walk.

 

 

 

Beggar on the street of love

November 17, 2010

– “I can’t sleep after the show”

….a line from the song previously written about, but totally appropriate to my current life.  I get home at 10.30, exhausted and wired.  A strange mix.  The show I’m currently working on is fantastic, and the final 10 minutes where I get to stand on stage and smile back at a giant room full of beaming, happy, elated faces gives me enough of a buzz that it takes me hours to wind down.  I usually creep around the house, trying not to wake anyone up, rifling through cupboards for snacks, watching the first 15 minutes of the Letterman show (the only bit worth watching).

But I thought I might write a bit more tonight, instead of my usual mooching.

I’ve decided that while I’m writing these little posts about the songs I’m not going to initially find them in my library and listen to them.  I’m going to sit in my body and see how it hums the ones that it wants to hum.  So when I read the lyrics for Beggar on the street of love today, I actually didn’t hear Paul Kelly’s voice.  I heard Jenny Morris’s.  Let me tell you, that bird is seriously underrated.  Please.  Please.  If you haven’t quietly lost your shit somewhere to The Day You Went Away, then you have a heart of coal.  Don’t argue with me, cos it’s pretty much the truth.  Her version of Beggar is so full of not just longing but exasperation.  And that’s what I love the most about it.  Until The Malteser took me under his wing, before he picked me, I was absolutely this lady on this street.  Jenny would sing to me in my 1983 Mazda and I’d think yes, Jenny, I’m right there with you.  Someone needs to cut us a fucking break and hold our hand.  And give us a little kiss on the cheek.

But I have all that now, so her longingdrenched version of this song is a reminder of what I wanted and what I have now.

It’s been a good day for me and cover versions.  I listened to a lot of Aretha Franklin today, and here are some more covers you should really get into.  She really is the high priestess of covers.  Here’s what you need, in no particular order:

  • Son of a Preacher Man (simmering, brooding, soaking)
  • I Say A Little Prayer (the best version of this song ever, hands down.  No arguments welcome.)
  • Border Song (Holy Moses)

After The Show

November 17, 2010

I don’t know this song at all, so I thought I’d type the title and Paul Kelly’s name into YouTube to have a listen. Apparently YouTube doesn’t know it either, because it suggested that this might be close to what I need:

Ummm… hmmmmm. Ya.

I won’t write many posts about the songs I don’t know, but the YouTube suggestion was too good to not post! I’m gonna sew some pants now, and listen to Aretha and Otis.

When I met Paul Kelly last year, it was kind of a big deal.  For me.  And for my best friend Ellen, but not really for anyone else. Saying you met Paul Kelly is like saying you saw Tim Rogers playing kick to kick with himself at the Alma Rd Park.  It happens.  But I’d never met him, and I’d moved to Sydney and happened to be back in Melbourne playing Schoenberg at a fundraiser for a hospital in East Timor.  And he was there with his lovely lady, who I know from singing circles.  She asked about my move to Sydney and why I’d done it.  As I swallowed down the end of my tiny party sandwich I looked at them both and thought that of all the people I didn’t know, here was someone I wouldn’t have to make things out to be better than they were.  So I said it.

“I was in love with a guy who lived in Sydney and I thought that if we lived in the same city it might work out, so I moved and it went to shit before I even got there really, but I’m there now, so I’m gonna give it a crack.”

I’m not sure I was ever that honest with my friends about my moving away.  Paul and his lady smiled and Paul said “I think that’s how most people end up in Sydney.” I know it was probably just a really nice man saying a very nice thing, but it suddenly felt like I wasn’t one silly girl, a trailblazer for fuck ups the world over, but just one member of a very populated club of grand proportions – people fucking up in the name of love and lust the world over.  And not only that, but people turning fuck ups into better situations.  It was a small moment, but it was good. 

And then we went inside and I sat down at a giant Steinway in a tiny parlour and played Schoenberg.

Today I finally got my paws on a copy of Paul Kelly’s memoirs, How to make gravy.  As I scan through the song lists, I realise just how much his music and lyrics have worked their way under my skin.  To Her Door reminds me of the Hartz Mountains in Tassie, From St Kilda to Kings Cross of the Townsville Strand, and Adelaide reminds of Adelaide.  Natch.  I’ve been thinking about Paul Kelly a lot this year, and listening to him a lot, and contemplating dropping him a line to say thanks.  But that seems a bit fan-ny and not really my speed.  So I thought that while I’m reading How to make gravy  I might write responses to the songs  I’ve never been able to get away from.  I read the first two songs this afternoon, sitting in the sun at Petersham Park (where Don Bradman scored his first professional century), across the road from my beautiful apartment, surrounded by rosellas and kookaburras, kids leaving the Fanny Durack Memorial Pool (who was this bird?  Why do I need to remember her?), girls tanning on the cricket oval (no groundskeeper to be seen today), mongrels chasing balls, jackarandas and roses in bloom.  I am feeling lonely today, but I know that this would not be rectified by my having everyone I love around me.  Everyone in my family has days like these, a possible genetic trait I hope I don’t pass onto my children.  I am learning how to ride these waves, how to not fight them, to struggle against the tidal motions of my emotional life.  I swallow the lump and read about Adelaide.

Adelaide

Whenever friends from my classical music world talk about Adelaide, they invariably invoke the expression and tune of the Beethoven lied, Adelaide.  Except it’s pronounced “adel-i-eeda.” And there’s an umlaut somewhere, one of those double dot things that sit above a vowel.  Don’t ask me where, I don’t know where.  Maybe above the i.  So I always feel a tiny sense of betrayal when my mind, instead of being instantly drawn to Beethoven, is drawn to Paul Kelly’s song.  The thing is, I don’t really have much of a connection to the place.  I’ve done some gigs there, stayed in amazing hotels where they brought me tiny pots of honey and asked how I wanted my eggs cooked.  I’ve walked along the poor excuse for a river (I don’t even know what it’s called) in the pouring rain with precious friends old and new, eaten the best of food and the absolute WORST.  I’ve gotten riotously drunk and had childhood heros of mine say to me: “you’re all types of wonderful, aren’t you?” Yes Phil Scott, I am.  If you say so, then I totally am.  I’ve partied pretty hard in Adelaide, but I don’t feel any affinity for the place.  But when someone mentions Adelaide to me, instantly I’m singing the chorus “Adelaaaaaaaaide, adelaaaaaaaaaide” like it’s 4am and I’m in the Macdonalds on Hindley St ordering two Fillet o Fish and YES I WANT A LARGE FRIES TOO.  I think the chorus does that to me.  If writing out the chorus to Adelaide was an aural test, I think I’d barely pass.  Those two beautiful downward moving lines.  How are they different?  Where do they go?  The memory of the melody is so vague in my mind, yet it’s rock solid. 

Me Me Me-Re-Do So. Me Me Re-Do-La So.

That’s what I think it is.  I know I could just go to a piano and bash it out, but I like the guessing and the confusion.