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The Season

Facebook buddies are providing me with the full gambit of approaches to Christmas.

Some are non Christian anti commercial types who are taking their message of abhorrence for the stressed commercialised frenzy, out to the street. It’s getting heated for these lovely gals. So watch out, they might be running in the next election.

Then there are some lovely good and thoughtful Christians who probably share much abhorrence with the non Christians for spenduprazzamattaz that goes on.

Then there are my shouting atheist facebook chums, who start getting more rampant than usual this time of year.

Then there’s Magnetoboldtoo who goes into a baking-making-decorating explosion. She’s basically a Christmas berserker. This year she’s temporarily lame, so she’s baking/berserking sitting down.

Singing a song

Ok Possums

For your consideration

exhibit A

exhibit B

I hope Judy Dench wouldn’t be offended by my saying she isn’t much of a singer, but the work she did on presenting the feeling of the words meant I cried when I watched her. And you can see how this contrasts with exhibit B. The singing student is busy with her singing and finds the coaching in performing the meaning hard.

Interesting eh?

nice to see you here. cheers.

May I just inquire – who are you and where do you come from?

In days of yore, I had  a healthy, modest readership of two or three people, the majority of whom I was likely to bump into in the kitchen where I could spring spot comprehension tests on them about my blog. The spectre of this forced these two or three people to read earnestly and often.

But the last two posts there are suddenly many more readers.

Why?

Don’t be shy.  Introduce yourself. Unless you frequent my kitchen, I wont ask you questions like what item of food the photo reminds my mother of.

One essential element of Kodaly’s approach is the use of folk songs for teaching musical elements to children.

He appreciated the ‘wisdom of the people’ – the collective composition of folk songs – folk songs have been refined through an essentially long term open source approach.

Folk songs are lovely to sing. Because folks songs are passed down aurally, the songs that have been retained by the folk are catchy and tuneful and the musical elements of folk songs emerge from the lyric’s prosody.

At a deeper level, a people’s folk songs sing the lived experience of the people, and form a cultural education as well as a musical education for children. They can help children understand who they are as encultured beings.

Wonderful. Hat tip right there Kodaly.

And what does that mean in contemporary Australia? What folk music do we have? What music do mothers sing to their babies that their mothers sang to them and so on back through generations that stir us and connect us through family to our land, our people, our heritage?

All residents of Australia have some experience of disruption from their original culture. For the indigenous residents this disruption has come from the damage of invasion, occupation and attempts at cultural annihilation.

For Australians who have settled or whose descendants have settled here in these last two centuries, we necessarily have geographical/social disconnect from the land of our ancestors.

This is not to say that many Australian aren’t proudly living a cultured life that celebrates their heritage and ancestry. In fact Australians, at formal and informal levels at the very least tolerate, but often celebrate and work to actively maintain and support the multicultural vitality of Australia.

Of course there are tensions, some really awful. Australia’s no Utopia.

But what does this mean for our folk music? As a fourth generation Irish Australian I learnt Irish folk songs and some from other parts of Great Britain, aurally from my family. This music gives me an odd experience of a rich feeling of connection to somewhere I have never been and a culture I have weakly inherited echoes of but am not a part of.

I also learnt ‘Australian’ folk songs about the experience of convicts, bush rangers and shearers. Which didn’t relate directly to the experience of my family, but would have had musical, cultural and linguistic entwinement with my family’s songs. I learnt these songs because my mother deliberately sought out Australian folk music to sing.

That’s the musical heritage I had as an Australian.  Other Australians would have their own cultural and familial musical experience. My own folk music doesn’t connect me to other Australians, except those with similar ancestry.

I also came from a singing family, which might be unusual. I think there are many Australians who don’t sing at all. Part of our shared folk music might actually be silence!

As a child living in a commercialised music world, the music that connected me with my peers was the music our environment was saturated with. Music from the music industry. Is this folk music? It’s certainly not BY the people, or OF the people just FOR the people. And not in a supportive, uplifting, enlightening or enriching way. Just in a here’saproductFORyou,nowgiveusmoney way. George Orwell got this right – he outlined the process of creating proles music using a machine called a versificator . We all know the shite “hits” that came straight from a versificator and I doubt that was what Kodaly had in mind when he talked about folk music. (Not to diss all modern popular music some of which is wonderful.)

I don’t know if Kodaly had to contend with this dynamic where music is broadcast out from the industry to the consumers/listeners so loudly and often that there is little aural space left for living music to emerge from the folk. Folk music has become something for special cultural or familial celebrations, but doesn’t connect Australians to each other in daily life.

Children know commercial music, and feel connection to it. It is the music of their environment. It is ubiquitous and provides a connection between Australians. Our different traditional ‘folk’ musics relate to our different heritages and can divide and differentiate us. They certainly don’t give us a shared music.

The roots of commercial music are southern gospel, African songs, European folk and art music and show tunes. These songs are America’s story. The music sings the history of African-American slaves and descendants and cultural appropriation and complex interaction between American European Descendants and American Africans.

Within these traditions are singable, tuneful, catchy uplifting songs that connect to profound emotions and tellings of lives. But they are America’s story.

I’m only one Aussie, and can’t speak for my entire country, but I think we quietly desire, and take simple pleasure in a sense of culture that is distinct from America. What’s more I suspect some Western European descendants in Australia would feel uncomfortable claiming as our folk music songs from enslaved people with ‘masters’ who looked an awful lot like us.

There are Australian writers who write catchy, simple music. The Flame Trees from Cold Chisel  is like a folk song, it tells a simple tale of heart break but connects to people and place. To the quintessentially Australian people and place of a small country town. Ironically deep in the (overwhelmingly urban) Australian collective self perception is the life of the outback and rural towns.

There are other songs like this  of course. Aussie composed songs that celebrate and articulate the flavour and life of either what it is to be Australian, or what we like to think it is to be Australian. Some Aussie rock, some folk, some art. But because these songs are composed, can we think of them as folk songs?

I’m going to go out on a limb here and say when we define folk songs as songs that came from the people, without a composer, we are being silly. Songs are composed by someone. They are adapted and merged and set to different tunes. This is done by different people.  Folk songs don’t magically emerge from the great unwashed folk, like a collective smell, someone initially wrote each song, and then a lot of people made changes. We just don’t really know who.

In these days of being able to record all music, not just the high music, the songs that would have traditionally become part of the folk song repertoire are now recorded as they are first composed and are attributed to their composer.

I think this means we shouldn’t be scared to define composed songs as folk songs.

I guess Barnsey doesn’t sing for all Australians. Can anyone? Aussie Rock is connected to American and European Rock music. It isn’t going to sing to Australians who don’t have that tradition.

The only song I know of that every Australian I’ve met can sing is Happy Birthday to You. And that’s a composed song, not a folk song.

High Lonesome

A few years back a lovely country singer wrangled her 15 mins from the universe – a scruff muffin called Kasey Chambers. What a captivatingly dreadful voice she had.

We saw a doco on her where the bigmaninthedarksuitwhoturnedhercaptivatingnessintofameforherandmoneyforhim, said he knew she would work because she had “high lonesome”.

I think this is what singing is all about. It’s our job to reach people’s hearts. So our singing has to have feeling in it. I think a mediocre voice with a mediocre technique can trump a much better voice and a cleverer singer, if they know how to carry the feeling in the voice, out to the audience.

This takes, more than anything COURAGE. Because you have to stand in front of people and give them YOU on your voice. Bare your soul.

Sure gesture rehearsed things, and move this way and that, and don’t forget to lift and support and clench whatever it is you clench for that particular note, and sing that other note especially long or especially high or low or whatever, just because you can. Great. all good.

BUT don’t forget to stand in front of people and put real emotion into your voice and give that to your audience.

Also read singwise.com

And then

Figure One:  Last week’s priorities

Discussion

The whole freaking out thing did get a tad recursive which I haven’t really represented, but I’m sure you get the idea. One benefit of last week’s priorities is that the record breaking November heatwave didn’t impact on me in the least. Maybe ‘priorities’ isn’t the right word, because it comes with connotations of deliberate planning. For eg “let’s work out what our priorities are and then plan our week accordingly”. What I have graphed is my actual priorities, rather than my ideal priorities – spending the majority of my energy freaking out wasn’t useful or deliberate.

Figure two: this week’s priorities

Discussion

There are probably other things I need to replace, but I can’t remember what they are. The stuff like light bulbs and peanut butter that have no sympathy for Aural Exams and just blow or run out at inopportune times.  Sometimes stuff just seems to enjoy being inopportune and  throws the “well what can I do, I’m just a humble,  inanimate object” line right in your face. Yeah, peanut butter I’m talking about YOU. Maybe Kraft peanut butter would be more sensitive? Maybe that’s what the extra dollar is for? Maybe it’s designed to pace itself to fit more conveniently to your study schedule.

What these charts don’t really represent is how frenetic and scrambled my inner world was last week, and how gentle and slow this week’s inner world is.

Also, I passed.

Update

Turns out I owe my homebrand peanut butter a huge apology. After publicly dissing it for running out, I actually checked my pantry. We have FIVE 750g containers of peanut butter.  In the face of this startling evidence I have had to reconsider the whole peanut butter thing. I think I have this prejudiced and unfounded perception that peanut butter runs out, so everytime I’ve shopped recently, I’ve bought more peanut butter.

Hmm. Time to revise. We’ll probably be right til atleast Christmas on the peanut butter front.

run run run

turns out a blog to narrate travels and studies and extreme busy ness can be neglected because of the travel and study and extreme busy ness. A few more weeks and this too shall pass. And then I shall start crying again, like I always do when my Kodaly courses end.

weathering the storm

Not a metaphoric storm, but a literal one

Which I experienced in three different cities.

Monday in Adelaide, the storm meant rain like I’ve never seen before in this part of the country. Goldenboy normally walks home from school, but I picked him up in the car – even though he’s not water soluble. It was the heaviest rain he would have seen in his nine and a half years of life. By the time I’d walked from the car to his classroom, grabbed him and come back to the car, with an umbrella, my socks inside my shoes (as was the fashion at the time) were squishy. I came home and wrung (wrang?) them out. They were saturated, dripping with water, as if I’d soaked them in a bucket.

As I walked in this rain towards the classroom feeling soggy and miserably inconvenienced, and guilty about this because rain should be a cause of celebration in drought stricken Adelaide, children were running in the rain, squeeling with the joy of the experience.

A good reason indeed to have children in your life, to remind you about joy.

Anywho, two days later – yesterday – I flew to Sydney where the mighty storm had blown across the country collecting dust.

This meant Sydney airport didn’t open for business until around 10am and even then it had only one runway operating.

My plane was scheduled to depart Adelaide at 7am but instead left around 9.30. Snaps to Qantas, who gave all delayed passengers $10 vouchers at the airport cafes. Travelling on public transport, and a plane is no different to any other form of transport in this regard, is a great lesson in going with the flow. You can’t control very much, so life becomes rather lovely if you let go of the illusion that you can. I sat at the airport for this bonus time, thinking about how if I was on holiday I would cherish the luxury of having NOTHING TO DO EXCEPT LAZE AROUND FOR HOURS. I got a pot of tea from a cafe, care of Qantas and cultivated a holiday mentality. Well tried to.

On the plane, I was surrounded by a circus troupe of bright, young, exuberant people. Late teens, early twenties travelling to a circus convention of some sort. (I’m getting middle aged enough not to be sure at younger people’s ages.) When we circled above Sydney airport for 40 mins in the increasing turbulence, their joy kept me from throwing up and/or weeping. I guess being tumbled and tossed about midair is perfectly normal for them. The young man sitting next to me was an absolutely delightful human. (Not that we talked, I just eavesdropped to keep my mind from the horrible imaginings severe turbulence evokes.) He joked and laughed, and attended to the comfort of the young lady he was with, in an unobtrusive but sweet way. The girl this boy marries will have a good life. (His behavior reminded me of the day I decided Husband was THE ONE – but that’s another story…)

Sydney airport was even fuller of people than normal. In long queues and huddles. But the interestingness of the event – what we called in PR ‘newsworthiness’ – gave us drama and focus. And also, hmmm, some shared experience. So I listened to strangers unite in the storm and share stories about their delays, turbulent flights, destinations, life stories. More eavesdropping. I guess I’m a people listener.

Some voice over the PA said they’d never seen anything like it before in Sydney. Through the windows it looked like a very foggy day. Not red, grey. Of course inside the terminal the climate was normal. Controlled air-conditioning or heating or whatever happens at Sydney’s airport in September. Inside, the experience of the storm was about the people.

I passed the time by trying to interface with my new fangled phone, and send an email to my Brisbane lecturer. I’m a technospaz, this took a while and a degree of concentration. We were supposed to meet for rehearsal at 1.30, with our normal class at 4pm. No way I was going to be in Brisbane by 1.30. The lecturer left a message, saying given everything – I didn’t need to come. But by then I was in Sydney airport, and my plan home was from Brisbane to Adelaide. I had to keep going.

My plane from Sydney to Brisbane left around 2.30pm, over 4 hours late. And I touched down in Brisbane at 4pm – just as class was starting on the other side of Brisbane.. (Most Wednesdays I spend between an hour and an hour and a half, catching a train and then bus to Uni.) I rang my classmate to say I would catch a TAXI, and be at class as soon as I could. My lovely lecturer didn’t care for this proposal and told me not to do anything. He needed a minute to think and would call me back.

It’s school holidays in Brisbane, not Uni holidays, but most of the people in the class are school teachers, and so half the class was away. In a class of six, that means there were only two people at class. My lecturer decided on a plan. He sent these two to the airport to meet me, with instructions that we were to practice at the airport. (Snaps to my dear classmates who undertook this mission with good humour and grace.) Hmm. Does Brisbane airport have rehearsal rooms?

My two class buddies picked me up 50 minutes later and we went to a nearby shopping centre. One of those big, outlet places, that in Brisbane just like Adelaide is next to the airport. We found a cafe/tavern and sat outside. In a duststorm most people stay indoors, so we could practice without aurally inconveniencing fellow patrons. And there we sat and sang and talked and laughed for 2 hours. In the storm. Sightreading Lassus.

The flight home was more standard. My weekly classes blow my mind and are worth every minute, dollar and metric-yet-to-be-named of life energy I invest, and this week the storm made it even more of an adventure, but sentimental and cliched though it is, my heart always leaps when I arrive home and see Husband waiting for me. I don’t think home is necessarily Adelaide, home is where he is.

dozy day

Couldn’t sleep last night for an anxiety induced hyperventilation episode.

Man I need to learn to relax, or atleast travel with a paper bag.

Yesterday I had been reading about someone learning meditation – and the detached observation of physical sensation.

So last night, I tried to observe in a detached, non judgemental way, the sensations of anxiety. And found fleeting moments of relaxation, and then I’d relax being detached and immediate start hyperventilating again.

Dumb thing – there wasn’t even any reason for this. Mind you, when is there? Anxiety is useless. It doesn’t help you deal with whatever drama is facing you. Truth is I’ve probably been a hyperventilator for a lot of my life and only recently noticed. So now I need to consider how to calm down.

Last night, prior to this had an interesting chat with Shane. Who had cooked delicious dinner and given me his spare room for the night. (Many miles from home last night, with the course.) He had been on a mental boot camp of harden the fuck up, don’t whinge to me about why you can’t because of your history kind of retreat. He said, mostly people don’t do stuff, because they are scared of other people. But we don’t admit this to ourselves, instead we create a narrative based on historical and therefor conveniently unchangeable events about why we are victims of circumstance. He said when you think about why you aren’t doing something you want to do, make sure to include the word NOW in the question.
Why now, aren’t you doing thing x? (Thing x being a self actualising pursuit that you pine after but are frightened of.) And so the answer isn’t because your mother/father/principal/principle/big toe thissed or thatted or the othered during your childhood. That’s got nothing to do with now.
I liked this. Of course I’ve created my fair share of poignant and convincing sob stories for why I haven’t pursued my thing x’s.
Maybe this conversation made me anxious?

ugh

I dreamt it was swimming class, and I was put in a shark infested ocean, to encourage me to learn to swim fast.

ugh ugh ugh
what rhymes with ugh
pug slug glug and chug
all rhyme with ugh

this whole – I know I’ll drop into a graduate course in a field I’ve done 4 weeks of study in and it’ll be fine – lark is taking it’s toll. Hence the lack of posting. I’ve been too busy freaking out.

And typical freaking out irony – of course busy freaking out means not practicing enough, therefor more freaking out. etc.

Well, worst case scenario, I will have a great opportunity to learn how to face failure with grace and dignity. Character building opportunity. (if you could only meet a character building opportunity face to face, head on as it were, you’d punch em really hard eh?)

ugh.

In other news, my children have enough food to eat. (jeeze understatement they are saturated with all the material and emotional things their wee hearts could desire). I am warm and dry and not being shot at. My husband is an uxorious dish of a man. I’ve started hanging out with some wonderful women and their cute babies. So now I have babies in my life again, and friends. I’m healthy excepting being overweight, which is just a sign of what an indulged life I lead. And I’ve had a few gigs lately, the phone has rung! And I cleaned my desk.

I had thought it was a crappy piece of cheap pine furniture, badly home stained. Well, possums, amazing what it feels like with all the crap thrown out, dusted, polished, with useful items stored in purdy baskets. It’s quite lovely.

Ok off to the doctor. It’s hard to know what time to go this doctor. He normally runs an hour late, but it’s variable. he’s well worth the wait though. Because when you do see him, he takes time over you and ATTENDS to what you are saying and showing.

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