It's crazy. The last time I posted in this virtual place was for a sort of obituary - three years ago. I don't want it to be that way, but much time and a pandemic has passed since I first established ukestras in the Hunter Valley in late 2009, and there has been much much baton passing, generational change and, as one should reasonably expect, passings on/away/over. A spade is a spade. Except when we talk about death.
Of course one never wants the circumstance nor the obligation to write a vale / obituary (for want of better words). But it is important to mark significant mileposts, and to reflect on the privilege of having known these folk, a shared history, and the significant place such people have had in one's life. Not that I want to diminish the importance of our current community, but thankfully ukestrans keep renewing, and dare I say, seem to be getting younger. (Although perhaps it is now I that am older).
Neil - one of the first
Neil Weaver was a stalwart of the foundational history of our ukestras. Many ukestrans now would not know of Neil. The exception is, of course, current ukestran, Tonia - his daughter. Her continued presence in our lives is testament to the quite literally inter-generational nature of our music-making, and (presumably) of the fine role-modelling of her parents.
The people who were my first students were also the people who shaped this peculiarly Novocastrian culture and community into what it is today - a community whose key attributes are welcoming and inclusive. At least we like to think so.
Neil was key amongst those folk who discovered the joys of creating community through the ukulele, and then were keen to proseltyse for it, and nurture newcomers. He was the biggest, gentlest crooner and ukulele player, an ox of the determined community-minded variety. He was invincible, until he was not.
Neil came along to ukestra with his life love Margaret in early 2010. But he also came to uke with prior musical skills, having been a long time drumming leader for his local bagpipe band. We were privileged that this inseparable pair, pillars of their community, came to lend their strength and welcomingness to a new musical community.
Innately they ‘got it’. They saw through the facade of music, mayhem and fun (of which they became a part), and knew that they were also a part of something bigger. They knew that, for it to work well, someone had to do the work. That someone was them as they were among the first to step up. From Tuesday nights, to Tuesday afternoons, to Wednesday mornings with Danielle, Neil and Margaret were reliable friendly fixtures at a variety of ukestras for many years.
In 2011 they were a part of a small mob that were the first Australian community group to perform at the Hawai'i Ukulele Festival. In 2012, their willingness to help, and their love of community music meant that Neil and Margaret were there at the inception of the Newkulele Festival, and then in the hard work necessary to get such an event off the ground. Neil’s SES and electrician experience saw him fill an important planning, logistical and ladder climbing role as a key volunteer. Together we built one of Australia's premier ukulele festivals.
Neil, big and reliable in the back row. Margaret, short and smiley in the front row. The Ukastle Ukestra at the 2011 Hawai'i Ukulele Festival.
Side by Siders
Neil and Margaret's diverse skills, and a commitment to working for the community after their ‘retirement’, meant much to the evolution of the broader Novocastrian ukulele community. Whilst honing their collective community music skills, Neil and Margaret gathered together a bunch of ukestrans to head out and play in nursing homes and retiree/service clubs (Probus and the like). And so the Side by Siders were born, the first offshoot of our ukestras.
Sadly the Side by Siders never survived much past Margaret’s passing, although offshoots of offshoots have continued to evolve. Neil and Margaret’s commitment to the happy marriage of ‘music’ in the service of ‘community’ was testament to their broader sense of obligation to community service.
In a way this musical hobby seemed a natural extension of their commitment to the local State Emergency Service, the volunteers who are always there in dangerous times. One can easily imagine that Neil, the electrician, would have provided essential skills and knowledge to the chaotic environments wrought by natural disasters.
Finely honed skills are all very well and good in the fabric of community, but without the intent of good, there is no such thing as the fabric of society. The way that Neil weaved his life, and the way that he did whatever it took to get things done, that is what makes a community.
Of course he is missed, but his legacy and good work endure.
And this, friends, is the 'problem' with community.
For despite all their frailties and foibles, you get to hang out with people; you get to know them. And then they die, and you miss them.
You miss their wordiness, or their caustic view of the world. Or you miss their compassion and loving heart. You miss a whole swathe of emotions, behaviours and tics that cleave them to you, and they colour you and your life.
All of this because, together, you decided to act, to participate in some common purpose. Not because you necessarily liked them, or loved them, or that they are family or lovers - they are not your obligatories. Rather, they are part of a world that you have both decided to create.
Chris played ukulele too loud. His rhythm would swamp others, and not necessarily in a good way. His songs and poems were deep - deeper, and longer than many had the time for.
I didn’t know Chris all that well, but from what I did hear, he was a good human being focussed on social justice. I know he was a poet. A musician. A songwriter. A think he was a good leftie, and possibly some sort of anarchistic compassionate, generous church going Christian. I think I also heard he was handy with a hammer and screwdriver, with a renovator’s mindset. In one way he was an enigma to me, a person who appeared, and then would not be seen for a year or two, then return, covered in plaster dust and paint. He apparently was older than his dyed hair belied. (Well, someone once whispered to me their suspicions).
Not everyone could see the way that Chris saw things. But I felt I did. He was my sort of guy, a complex, passionate, creative, intelligent, skittish and skilled oddball. I understood and appreciated his depth of compassion and inquiry, but at times I didn’t appreciate the time that some of his soliloquies took.
Christmas 2011 - what a surly looking bastard
I’m using the past tense here, but you’re not gone yet, are you Chris? From what I hear on the interwebs, it sounds as though your passing is loving and peaceful. With a lover like Nicola, it surely will be.
Thank you so much for the colour you brought to the outer circles of my world, and to many many others in our little ukulele world here in Newcastle. I hope you are around long enough, and with enough presence of mind, to appreciate my small piece of doggerel. I hope I haven't kept you too long. For at times I tend to be a little too much like you.
Love to you Chris. Loved your singing and passion.
Mark.
Chris at Danielle Scott's farewell 2018
Postscript Nicola found the above video of Chris singing at Ukestra 4 years ago. Their daughter then asked Chris to reprise it. He's still got it. Here's Chris singing Heavy Heart in August 2021, off by heart, with not a lot of energy, but full of passion.
Chris and Nicola's Facebook post from 29 August 2021
Dear friends of Chris, this is his wife Nicola. You may or may not know that Chris has been living with metastatic pancreatic cancer for the last 18 months. Unfortunately all the treatments have stopped working and now the cancer will run its course. Chris is fairly comfortable at home with his loving family, good pain killers and daily support from the palliative care team. I was thinking that he might get some pleasure from hearing some stories, memories or poems from friends (not soppy!!). You can send to me and I will read to Chris. Take care, stay safe. Love from Chris and Nicola.
It’s dawn and I write. I don’t know what. But I know why. It's ANZAC Day, and I am never sure what to do.
I’m the son of a World War II soldier. He had shrapnel in his knee, he had tears when music, mates and memory collided. He was a good dad, with residual pain and occasional demons from losing a brother, and presumably from killing, and from nearly being killed. The horrors of war is not just a pithy phrase; it is literal and visceral. I have no idea how you carry those emotional scars with you for the rest of your life. I don't understand, and don't really want to accept the human culture that asks this of young men.
As a teenager I arced up about war and its place in our national identity. Me, the offspring who actually got accepted into the Navy, but then turned it down. When the two Navy recruiters showed up at our house in 1978 to see where they went wrong, Dad sniped: “I don’t know what happened son, but I think the peacies have got to you”.
He was right, albeit described with a word that was new to me.
Quinces, awake and a woke
I’ve been awake since 3:09am. Not because it is ANZAC Day, but because yesterday I was exhausted, and went to bed early. I have abluted, sliced and stewed quinces, and listened to a really interesting chat – Are the Australian Military too Woke? Let’s not forget, says the learned retired lieutenant / academic, that the military are here to be violent in sanctioned ways, to kill with the greatest humility and precision. This is the reality, and it is exactly what I decided that I couldn't come at.
Upon realising that me joining the navy meant me possibly killing someone, my teenage self retreated. I didn't want to be that sort of human. Not too long after this I became a vegetarian. Still am.
I know the paradoxes and intersections of peace, violence and freedom but I cannot reconcile them. I'm with Moxy Fruvous who so eloquently (and Canadianly) said:
We'd like to play hockey, have kids and grow old.
When I ride my bike on the shared footpath/bikeway, I usually whistle, instead of ringing my bell. Instead, today in the pre-dawn light I sang their Gulf War Song.
In the ride to town, I pass a number of COVID-cautious ceremonial podcast blasts emanating from open car doors in auspicious ocean viewing car parks, broadcasting to small bemedalled gatherings in the dawn. At 6am I'm at Estabar. In front of me there is a COVID rump of people, listening to the murmur of an amplified speaker, a mumble from here, the occasional bagpipe there, and then the final resting trumpet.
Later today many people will be very drunk, celebrating whatever it is we celebrate about such complex matters. Drowning their sorrows, their own internal lifelong residual pain. Except most of those people ironically have never 'served'. That irks me. Just another day, just another excuse to get completely trolleyed and then perhaps punch a stranger.
I have played the Last Post ceremonially. Most poignantly it was at Dad's funeral some 30 years ago. My oldest brother was quite jealous of my act of common heritage with Dad, the damn peacenik who farewelled Frank Jackson with the Last Post, holding back the tears, keeping a stiffish upper lip so that that obligatory refrain could be completed through well disciplined lips.
I suppose life and death is just one big contradiction, and I clearly struggle, and have great uncertainty and definite unwillingness to participate in an ambiguous celebratory public ritual. Writing helps me acknowledge my internal conflicts and uncertainties. I am no saint, and I have no idea how I really would react in the face of violence that directly threatens me or others. I go out of my way to avoid any sort of violence. Other men cross the street to seek it out.
In the dog eat cat world of social media marketing we are the ukulele equivalent of that classic, and awfully unhealthy, Australian dessert. Trifle is made up of bits of sweet stuff, but you just can't put your finger on what makes it really good. Same goes for Jack n Jel.
Actually, we always know who we are, but Festival marketing people always seem to be in a quandary. And people walk up to Jane and call her Jill (an easy mistake – she is the 'Jill' part of the Jack n' Jel). It Is our own fault, but I guess that can be expected when setting up a genuine-on-the-ground community music business. Are you a business or not? Why yes we are! We are called ... no …. it’s called …. um, we call that thing …. ah damn it. It’s community. It’s music. We make a living. Let’s call it quits.
In fact we are calling it quits for our hitherto annual North American jaunt. This is our 9th and our last. Hopefully it won’t be a ‘Johnny Farnham last’ (don’t worry, Australian readers will understand that reference).
Truth is we sorta can no longer reconcile this global gallivant whilst staring down the barrel of climate change. Something’s gotta give, and that something someone somewhere starts with us staying at home. It’s a nice enough place. Good people, beautiful spot, fresh fruit and veges. What more could a human want?
Enough of that. It’s too sad. Too real. Let’s talk about something else. Like this suit.
The identity of the Safari Suit
This suit is my dress suit, all festival-pressed-ready for a series of festivals in Canada. The fashion is quintessential southern hemisphere 1970s colonial – the safari suit. It’s a laugh, but a laugh with a good story.
This safari suit is a special one. Very special, for it travelled through the fires and laundry presses of 1970s indigenous Australian politics.
Marion is one of my delightful ukestans at Port Stephens, a woman of, with, and within a lifetime commitment to community, health and social justice. She leapt into ukulele after her husband, Les, passed away.
But Les was not just Les. Les was Les Johnson, Minister for Aboriginal Affairs in the 1970s Whitlam Government. Les, like Gough, was a legend. In three turbulent years, Gough Whitlam and his team of merry madmen and women transformed Australia from a fusty 1950s dream, and thrust us on various paths of modernisation for our culture and our economy.
The iconic representative moment for Australia’s Indigenous people was when Gough passed ‘a handful of sand’ through Vincent Lingiari’s hands, symbolically returning the land to its original, more gentle, and less avaricious owners.
Marion gave me this suit. It was Les’s. I like to think it was there. At that very moment this suit soaked up the Whitlam Government's message of justice, diversity and respect.
I love it. And I trust the Canadians will also enjoy it. But unfortunately Jane just can’t seem to get beyond the bad out of date fawn fashion disaster that it no doubt is in 2019. My hope is that the story helps to redeem its apparently execrable fashion qualities.
Tucked under the head of my Maton ukulele is a piece of pohutukawa. But in the pōwhiri it has the honour of being rākau whakaara. And my ukulele? Let's call it my taonga in this ceremony. It felt like both got married last weekend in a wee town on the far side of Aotearoa.
We first did so 2 years ago. It was an incredible time then, and so it is again.
The gentleman is not being so gentle.
He is visibly and audibly angry at me, and at the hordes of manuhiri (visitors) who have walked up from the beach, onto the land of these people, the tangata whenua. With no shirt (man is he buff!), a traditional flax skirt (piupiu) which clicks loudly with each lunge and sway, and a mighty whacking stick of some sort (taiaha), he, and his angry face, are something fearsome. I'm told that the apparent anger is the way they make people welcome in these parts, a ritualised challenge to we visitors, and to get us to display our intentions, good or otherwise. But the cultural legacy, for me, as pakeha, is fear. I can't help it. Otherwise I am just a tourist.
Thanks to Kiri, all of that anger is being channelled at me, for I represent the hordes of damn Aussies following me up the path. I am grateful that Kiri is there, guiding me in the protocols. Go Forward! STOP! WAIT! PICK UP THE STICK WHEN HE PUTS IT DOWN! All of these are whispers, but they are received with urgency. Don’t take a wrong step Mark.
Where’s the 'stick' (rākau whakaara)? The angry bloke, with his larger mate, are waving their taiaha around, right in front of me. I feel like they are threatening to take my head off, but I stand my ground, and hold their wide eyes. He reaches around behind, and pulls out a piece of pohutukawa, the rākau whakaara. I am struggling, holding my taonga, (my Maton ukulele), my crumpled piece of paper (my mihi), and his eyes which watch my every step. He places the rākau whakaara on the ground, and I make a move to pick it up. He gets even more angry, scything his taiaha, fiercely pointing at the rākau whakaara that I am to pick up, but I (truly) leap back in fear.
Things seem to calm down a bit, he takes a cautious move away, his eyes always on me. Kiri whispers ‘ok’, and I retrieve the rākau whakaara. Great. Now three important things to juggle, my mihi (now crumpled and sweaty), my taonga, and now the rākau whakaara, which somehow seems to represent a temporary agreement sacrament between me and the tangata whenua. The two warrior men seem satisfied, and go back to join their people.
This bunch of beautifully dressed, harmonising, fiercely haka-ing tangata whenua are Te Whakatohea. They are the original people of this region. They are the proud people of Opotiki. They are also the regional winners of this year's Kapa Haka competition, and will soon be going on to Wellington to compete in Te Matatini - the National Kapa Haka Competition.
An older gentleman steps forward. He is bald, clean shaven, his entire head covered in tattoos. He is the showman running the pōwhiri. But to say 'showman' is almost to to imply disrespect. None meant, for this man is Dudu Maxwell, a kaumatua - a venerated elder. He explains, in English, all of the elements we are witnessing. He cracks jokes, they sing waiata, they haka some more, sing a bit, and then, something gets lost in translation. They forget that I too have a story and a waiata to share. After 20 minutes or so of being entirely immersed and educated, he seems to be winding things up. Has he remembered me? Us? Someone says something, and he goes ‘oh! Someone is going to respond’?!
That’d be me, the big man (who feels little inside). I uncrumple my mihi and commence.
‘Tena koutou! Tena koutou’.
In Te Reo (Maori language), I thank them for hosting us so generously in 2017. We are from the large swimmer crab to the left (or Ahiteraria – Australia – there are no ‘Ls’ in Maori), from Newcastle, from Yohaaba, from Merewether.
We are here because of ukureretanga (our culture, brought together by our taonga, the ukulele). It brings us joy, it brings us music-making – ko whakatangitangi, it brings us together. And then we offer our gift, our song, our waiata, which is one of theirs. Not awfully well known, but 30 of us start to sing, no ukureres, but we sing in Te Reo, and we do so with good voice. There are clearly murmurs from the other side. That pakeha fella, he has done well, speaking Te Reo (maybe they laughed a bit at my accent), and now his people are singing in Te Reo. They are alright.
And then it felt like the ultimate respect and tribute - they step forward, and sing with us. We all sing our waiata together. And with this we are joined together.
Tena koutou, tena koutou, tena koutou katoa.
We are joined. We are joined. We are all joined together.
It is with sadness that I am letting you know that I have decided
to stop doing Maitland Ukestra.
It's been 8 and a bit years. That's a significant portion of my
life, and it's been a wonderful journey, both socially and
musically. Maitland Ukestra / Paterson Pluckestra has been so
integral to the evolution of our musical life in the ukestras, and
to the initial thought that perhaps I could eventually make a
living out of this lark.
April 2018
Reasons are numerous, but in the main it's probably about
simplifying my life a little, away from the ritual of driving to
Maitland from Fingal Bay every Monday. I will miss the drive, and
I will miss the Monday night camaraderie shared over a schooner of
black and a wealth of good musicians. It is gratifying (and one of
my main goals) that many of you already get together on other
nights of the week. But life continues to move on, and so I will.
Reflections and thanks...
I started the first ukestra in Newcastle exactly 9 years ago. By
July 2010 I had started one in Maitland, and with that I felt my
immediate financial life was more secure. It seemed like a bloody
miracle.
The People
We've been through numerous supportive and notable characters. I
believe Evelyn would be the longest standing of the old guard,
always quick with a quip and suggestions. Not long after that it
was Bob, who of course departed our Hunter shores late last year.
Bob became, and still is, a good friend. But of course, as Alfred
E. Neumann once famously said, "absence makes the heart grow
fonder...of someone else who's around". And so space and time now
separate us. Bob wrote and suggested many songs - some parodies
(the immediately execrable Kurri Kurri Eleebana), and the
originals (the unforgettable and eminently singable and prescient
'Today Might be the Day'). Most of these I took to other ukestras,
often to be performed at various festivals. I also have Bob to
thank for my wedding venue, where Jane and I got married 4 years
ago (almost exactly!). It was a splendid affair, and we were
privileged (with my two bridesmaid daughters) to spend our wedding
night at Bob and Liz's.
After starting at the Grand Junction Hotel (lovingly often called
'The Junkyard') in 2010, in mid 2012 we decided that we might be
better served by moving to Paterson. On Monday 29 October 2012 two
or three fellas turned up at the Paterson Tavern after a swell
weekend at the Newkulele Festival. I was notably absent, thinking
I deserved a rest. I think those might've been Chris, Trevor and
Cameron. The first two have been real regulars, and the latter one
very sporadic, but I still know his name and talents. All three
gentlemen are fine musicians. I know I've taught some of them some
things, but probably I've probably learned more from Trevor than
he has learned from me...although he is still shit at filing. I
recommend that you do NOT attend any of his purported "filing
classes".
The move to Paterson brought us two locals, one perhaps more
irregular than regular in more ways than one. Judy has been
extraordinarily supportive and forthright in her own quiet way.
Ian too, but in his own peculiar way. Rest in Peace Campbell, you
are well missed.
Farley, the Kates, and the Kens have also been regulars, as have
Ray, Neil, Lynne, Maurene, and Annita. Some irregulars to be
mentioned would be Vicki and Virginia. We managed to avoid getting
any health notice slapped on us, but this never prevented a few
people leaving the planet during my 8+ years, the aforementioned
Campbell, Doug, and the real estate agent whose name I cannot
remember. On the more youthful end of the spectrum we've had Rosie
and Kia, and let's not forget Liam who grew up into the Junkyard
Family through the ukestra from age 14. When he attained his
majority, he prioritised other allocations for his limited
discretionary expenditure.
These are the notable long stayers. There have of course been a
constellation of others, coming and going for whatever reasons.
But one defining factor of Maitland Ukestra over the years has
been the building of playing skills and some of the rich and
gorgeous voices, some there from the beginning, others discovered,
some delicate, some blowing your head off. I am grateful for the
friendships and acquaintances I have made, and for the support and
inspiration.
The Venues
Liss of the Junkyard - Christmas 2010
I have to say thanks to Ben and Liss in particular, from the
Junkyard. It truly is Newcastle's greatest pub. Shame it's not in
Newcastle. They have been such a support to me, farewelling us
with grace to Paterson, and then welcoming us back, ready for our
second marriage, all being forgiven. Not that there was anything
to forgive, other than poor lighting. It is very odd indeed that
as I write this requiem for the Maitland Ukestra, I receive a
life-changing note from Ben & Liss saying that they are
terminating their two decade tenure as active creators of that
most wonderful musical oasis. Gosh they'll be missed and we can
only hope that their custodial mantle will be passed on with the
reverence that is due.
Many ukestrans of yore will not forget our first big Christmas
party at the Junkyard in 2010. Novocastrians caught the train up,
filled the restaurant and partied as if they had never enjoyed
playing music together before. Prior to the rise of the ukulele
that was certainly true for so many people, so it was
understandable that it was a party to remember.
Nicole at the Paterson Tavern was also very welcoming, for four
years or something like that. I wonder if the same blokes are
still gathering on the front verandah as they've apparently done
for aeons.
A balmy November evening at the Paterson Tavern
My apologies for the length of this dissertation. Too long and
too many C#dims for Errol, I suspect. I miss Errol, the original
Patersonian curmudgeon. He is, of course, still playing music, but
he turned to the dark side....those damn banjos.
The Performances
The Pluckers have impressed at each Newkulele Festival, and at
Ukestra Showcases, and numerous local festivals (Planet Dungog
being notable), not to mention a variety of local bashes. Who can
forget a major festival performance where one recalcitrant member
had to be dragged swaying from the bar to complete their
performance duties. Our most recent performance at the 2018
Newkulele Festival was clearly our best. Such finesse. More
important than the performances however, is the preparation
leading up to these. For it is in these crucibles that friendships
are found, and community is formed. Rehearsals and time together
brings people together, makes you aware of the foibles of
individuals, and affirms the reasons why you play music rather
than live with them. No affairs have ever occurred (to my
knowledge, or at least become public knowledge).
An evening at Evelyn's.
What Now?
As mentioned before, many of you already get together as musical
compadres. And some of you come down to ukestras in Newcastle. You
are of course welcome to do that, and any uketen credit you have
can be used there. Ken and his crew at the village in Morpeth are
also now having regular sessions, and U3A in Maitland with Anne
Robinson I hear is a pretty vibrant community.
However Chris Robinson has agreed to be a contact person for
those who wish to keep Monday nights going. No money is forecast
to change hands. This is so gratifying, and I am grateful to Chris
for instigating this. He, Ray and Trevor (and I suspect others)
have taken it upon themselves to take initial musical
responsibility for the continuation of Monday nights. Chris's
email address is crob4884 @ bigpond . net . au
if you wish to involved. May it go from strength to strength!
For those of you who wish to get a refund on any unused portion
of their uketens, please just write and ask. Our database works
wonders, so we'll have tabs on where you are up to, so just let us
know.
Plans are still a little uncertain, but it seems like the final
Maitland ukestra session will be 26 November, with a dinner out
somewhere to follow on Monday 3 December.
I really am grateful for the support I have received in Maitland,
and for the various communities that our work has coalesced over
the years. My goal has always been to help people make music
together. We've been extraordinarily successful in the Hunter, and
of course I am proud of this.
The Maitland Mercury photo that kicked it off in 2010
But for now my direct work in Maitland is done. Keep making music
together, it is good for you.
The pleasures of íslensku society are not immediately obvious, nor are the ways of surviving in this marginal climate. But our daily visits to Vesturbaejarlaug - our neighbourhood hot pools complex - gently reveal the nuances and beauty of their culture.
A young woman says hello as she hears my Aussie drawl talking to Ja-a-ane, walking the streets of the Reykjavik suburb of Vesturbær. Kristin has been to the tailor to drop off some clothes for mending (not everyone has an amazing seamstress mother like mine). We talk as we turn street corners to her stoop.
In that short conversation we learned a lot, for instance where Björk lives (literally a few doors up from our Airbnb). But more real, we learn about Kristin's job, how much people earn, how much rent they pay (kr200,000 per month for a family of four). Her job is paid well - maybe kr380,000 per month? That maths doesn't seem easy living to me, and I know a beer is about $10 Australian. But, she avers, if you talk to the locals you can find ways to reduce the cost of eating out with two for one offers etc.
Jane. Fame stalking.
I pretty much always have my sopranino ukulele in my daypack. It is a great passport to winning friends and influencing complete strangers. I pull it out, and we sing a song on her stoop, with her two boys (rough age of 10) shyly watching on. As a reward for our song, she gives us 2 beers! I drink one on the spot. So lovely of her. Nice beer too, with coriander touches. We said our farewells and head to Vesturbæjarlaug.
The Captain of the Icelandic Cricket Team - Jakob Robertson
At Vesturbæjarlaug I finally crack the conversational jackpot in the shallow pool. The oppressive and apparently eternal clouds/fog have broken and the temperature has soared to 14.7deg C. Lying completely flat out in the 30cm 36-38deg pool, I chip into an English conversation about having the power to change the weather. I had just watched Geostorm on the plane, so it was apropos.
Are you Australian I asked the young lad.
Yes. My mother is Icelandic, my Dad Australian.
Jakob now lives here mostly, and is the captain of the Iceland Cricket Team. He is also off the next day to Estonia for a Rugby 7s match. It floored me when he said he had met Mal Webb and the Formidable Vegetable Sound System at a permaculture event in Iceland. Jakob, apart from being an obviously all round nice guy and sportie spice, said he was perhaps best known for a short youtube on Icelandic language.
It occurred to me that I didn’t need a uke right there in the pool to facilitate my social life, for that is one of the key functions of Icelandic geothermal pools. Not only are they healthful and pleasurable, they are the social centre of the culture, akin to the pub in England, or the cafe in Europe.
The Iðnó Ukestration Workshop
The venue, but not the setup.
Our Thursday evening workshop at Iðnó went very well, Not as many as we hoped - 11 - and people were immediately saying, you should charge twice as much next time. You see we failed to take into our exchange rate reckonings, that a steak in Iceland costs the equivalent of AUD$50. C'est la vie.
Our venue - Iðnó (the Icelandic letter ð is pronounced like it has a 'th' in it) - is Reykjavik's original lakeside theatre building, and now seems like an arty refuge. The building, and the culture harboured there, are welcoming and beautiful. and they were so pleased to host us. The people who come are mostly in their 20s/30s, with the youngest (and best English speaker and player) being 12 year old Matthias. We are grateful, humbled and a bit ashamed that we could not contribute more in the Icelandic language department, because pretty much every Icelander has English in their language repertoire. Takk!
The Reykjavik Ukestration Workshop was a first for us in many respects. There was no established ukulele group in Iceland to network with (Ukulele Reykjavik didn't seem to have much going on), and we had to fly in blind looking for a venue. Thanks to René from Iðnó for having faith in us, and to Facebook for $30 of worthwhile advertising.
Jane and I worked our teacher magic well, assessing people for 10 minutes or so. Who knows their chords? Who does not? Rhiannon is the great winnower of strummers from the beginners from the riffers. Jane took three beginners into the next room, whilst I was able to work my acolytes through riffs in You Never Can Tell, and introduce them to the pentatonic (as usual) with My Girl. Everyone came together at the end to play together and then to hear a few songs from us.
Folk from the Reykjavik Uke workshop
Like Scandinavians generally, most Icelanders speak English well. So we had no problem, but we are always aware of being what one of our bus drivers called ‘English Fascists’. English speakers expect all people to speak English. I get what he is saying. The wonderful babble of íslensku, between children riding their bikes, deep conversations in the laug, or workers picking up litter on the fjara - it reflects a strong culture of 350,000 people. People who have a language have a common culture. They share something non-speakers cannot. It is what creates our human richness, not only in language and culture, but in how we think about the world - for instance 50 names for snow or somesuch in inuit? I have great respect for culture and languages, but I wish we Australians also did as a people. England, ironically the great colonising ‘fascist’, is similarly blessed (as we found out) with enormous dialectical diversity - the sorority of the scouser, the brethren of the brummie.
Into My Arms, Oh Lord - Í örmum mínum, ó herra
We finish our evening performing three songs - a quiet acoustic set with a respectful listening audience - always such a treasure. In the beautiful hall, this great community space, our voices and ukes echo expansively.
As often happens for me, I have an idea during a song; and as often happens for her, Jane knows nothing until I say something midstream. Let's get the audience singing the chorus in their language. Into My Arms is a standard of ours for maybe 9 years and there is a Spanish woman from Galicia there (she is a student at Reykjavik University) so we start with Spanish (because I figure we can probably manage it) - Entre mis brazos, oh dios. Entre mis brazos. Everyone sings that quite successfully, including us.
But now for the more difficult one. Difficult for us. But not for anyone else.
Í örmum mínum, ó herra. Í örmum mínum.
The Icelandic PM's flat - one of those.
Home for conversation
At the end of the concert we disperse. It is 9pm. The sun sets in another two and a half hours, and our bags need to be packed for a 5:30am trudge to catch a bus to the airport. As we walk home with Gudrun (our Airbnb host who we invited to come to the concert) she casually points out an apartment block. The Prime Minister lives in one of those apartments.
Gudrun and Gunnar's loungeroom view
At home we sit around with Gudrun and Gunnar chatting until 11pm. This is the real Airbnb experience, struggling with language and exploring topics of mutual agreement and verve. One of the pressing questions I have is: why has Iceland suddenly become popular as a tourism destination? Presciently, I wrote about the reason in this very blog way back in 2010!! As they say, there is no such thing as bad publicity, and Eyjafjallajökull proved that point.
A key to successful society - the Third Place
Vesturbæjarlaug and the ukulele have been little windows of opportunity welcoming us into Icelandic life. In The Ukestration Manual we talk about the importance of community, and the role of 'third places'. The first is home, the second is work, the third is your local hangout - the surf club, the beach, the pub, the coffee shop, the club.
Or the hot pool complex. Or the ukulele group.
I started our 3 day Iceland trip with a Facebook whinge, as Jane and I were questioning WTF we even came here. But it has grown on us - this nation, culture and country - courtesy of the third places that we have visited, and which we have even helped enrich.
In other countries we might’ve gone for a coffee or beer with our new uke friends post-workshop, but here the expense is just too traumatic. Perhaps we should’ve just gone for an eleven dollar pool visit?
Do the Icelanders need the uke, given they have their pools? Of course they do! This culture is sooo musical - nearly everyone seems to play in a band or choir. The airplane tourism guff on the back-of-seat screen skites that something like 1 in 4 Icelanders have written a book, so they know creativity.
I mean, go figure, what are you going to do in those loooong nights? I imagine have sex and play music. But we all know which one of these two options is ultimately the least complicated and more enduring.
Opportunities and sustainability. The ukulele or the gun?
What bothered us for a long time when doing ukestration workshops in far flung places during the last 8 years, was a concern about what the actual legacy was that we were leaving behind. This concern lead to us write The Ukestration Manual in the hope of helping people create something more enduring than merely admiring the cuteness of the ukulele and learning a few chords or nifty riffs. For our aim, ultimately, is to help people foster community through people making music together.
But we do leave, for we go home. And so apart from writing the Manual, we have to leave sustainability for locals to achieve. And Icelanders seem better equipped than most to achieve that (one example of the strength of the society is that they are consistently ranked first on the Global Peace Index).
At the end of the concert one of the young women says - We run a festival here. Would you be interested in appearing at it? And there's the rub. It's all about the opportunities that climb in through the open window, simply because we are putting it out there.
Jotting these thoughts on an airplane high above Greenland brings to mind the choices we have, and how we can actively create what we do have. For how different would our opportunities be if we carried a gun rather than an ukulele; if we carried fear rather than hope and creativity.
High above Greenland - an appropriate place to ruminate about Iceland.
I'm Mark Jackson. In late 2009 I established a business to be a community musician in the Lower Hunter of NSW. My aim is to help people make music together. It is an interesting journey and hopefully my musings may be constructive for others endeavouring to waddle their way to making a living grounded in community and in music.
