What a few days we've just had. Death, murder, church services, music, theatre, work and more music. Plus beer, red wine and bubbles.
It was a sombre start, with a Requiem Mass for the soul of my uncle. Weird to be sitting in a church, with a bloke in robes going through the funeral motions. The songs sung were hymns, the congregation's voices were faltering and strained. At the end of the service, my uncle's voice, the once-young boy soprano, sang glorious sweetness into the Chapel. He would have been 12 years old at the time the songs were recorded. The vinyl crackle snapped and popped, adding depth across the decades.
As the coffin was lifted, his voice sang the most heartbreaking Ave Maria. That's when the faces crumpled. That life, so fragile, now gone. We filed out, cheeks wet, into the icy air on the steps. Afterwards, there was the gathering together. The reminiscing and the reconnections. The attempts to hold hands where bonds had been broken, the downing of beers and red wine in a heartfelt 'cheers' to a bloke who knew how to party.
Then to the cathedral of the G, to watch an AFL match in the bitter cold of the night. Here the music had stopped. No team songs. No banners and no victory celebrations. A coach had been killed in his own home, and his family would never again exist as it had. The football family was also mourning for this man, killed it seems by his own son. How long does anyone have left?
The next day, as I was lucky enough to have a next day, I took in a theatre production called SHIT. Written by Patricia Cornelius, it was a play with pretty much no hope, but energy to burn. Vicious, rhythmic, powerful, angry words. Language which failed to give the characters access to certain parts of themselves and their emotions. This was murderous stuff, muscular and visceral. I felt enlivened having seen this exploration of lives lived on the very rough side. Lives lacking love and filled with violence. 'We're shit!' one character says to her mates. 'We're all SHIT!'
That night, we went to see Ron S. Peno sing Died Pretty at The Corner. Ron strutted for nearly two hours, throwing his body and his heart around the stage. The thought that he might collapse crossed my mind a few times. He must be nearly 60. 60? Rock on, Ronnie!
Dragged myself into work after 4 hours sleep, and marvelled at the peace of a Sunday shift. By mid afternoon, with glazed, red eyes, I took myself up to Collingwood on the tram to track down my old mates Tex Perkins and Charlie Owen. Got a seat at a table, front row. Just what this ragged rock chick needed. And beer, yes, and nachos.
It was a sombre start, with a Requiem Mass for the soul of my uncle. Weird to be sitting in a church, with a bloke in robes going through the funeral motions. The songs sung were hymns, the congregation's voices were faltering and strained. At the end of the service, my uncle's voice, the once-young boy soprano, sang glorious sweetness into the Chapel. He would have been 12 years old at the time the songs were recorded. The vinyl crackle snapped and popped, adding depth across the decades.
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| The souls rise. Photo Anna Sublet |
As the coffin was lifted, his voice sang the most heartbreaking Ave Maria. That's when the faces crumpled. That life, so fragile, now gone. We filed out, cheeks wet, into the icy air on the steps. Afterwards, there was the gathering together. The reminiscing and the reconnections. The attempts to hold hands where bonds had been broken, the downing of beers and red wine in a heartfelt 'cheers' to a bloke who knew how to party.
Then to the cathedral of the G, to watch an AFL match in the bitter cold of the night. Here the music had stopped. No team songs. No banners and no victory celebrations. A coach had been killed in his own home, and his family would never again exist as it had. The football family was also mourning for this man, killed it seems by his own son. How long does anyone have left?
The next day, as I was lucky enough to have a next day, I took in a theatre production called SHIT. Written by Patricia Cornelius, it was a play with pretty much no hope, but energy to burn. Vicious, rhythmic, powerful, angry words. Language which failed to give the characters access to certain parts of themselves and their emotions. This was murderous stuff, muscular and visceral. I felt enlivened having seen this exploration of lives lived on the very rough side. Lives lacking love and filled with violence. 'We're shit!' one character says to her mates. 'We're all SHIT!'
That night, we went to see Ron S. Peno sing Died Pretty at The Corner. Ron strutted for nearly two hours, throwing his body and his heart around the stage. The thought that he might collapse crossed my mind a few times. He must be nearly 60. 60? Rock on, Ronnie!
 |
| Ron S Peno does Died Pretty at The Corner Hotel, Richmond. |
Dragged myself into work after 4 hours sleep, and marvelled at the peace of a Sunday shift. By mid afternoon, with glazed, red eyes, I took myself up to Collingwood on the tram to track down my old mates Tex Perkins and Charlie Owen. Got a seat at a table, front row. Just what this ragged rock chick needed. And beer, yes, and nachos.
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| Tex Perkins & Charlie Owen Gasometer Hotel, Collingwood |
The weekend was closing in, with songs of grit and grunge and humour. As Tex sang, 'we're born alone, we're all alone' I said to my bloke 'good song for a funeral.'
Packin' it up, pulling out the cords, last drinks. The vibrato can only hold for so long, then the steel string is still.
Packin' it up, pulling out the cords, last drinks. The vibrato can only hold for so long, then the steel string is still.
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