The ever-so Victorian Turramurra Folk Music Camp - the view from the land of no-necks

It's nearly midnight. Half the audience have now bailed, but we are on, second last in the last set. It'll be after one by the time we get on. It is easy to be pissed off, but I am over that. Besides. Do you know how difficult it is to sing (as the audience does here) whilst typing on this noisy machine (keys tap tap tap). I think I'm a bit weird, and this perhaps confirms it, a performer, who is engaged, yet illicitly typing on a computer at the back of the room in breaks. The girls around me (aged 9-26) are intrigued. No. You cannot read it. Only when it is online.

The Turramurra Folk Music Camp Sunday night concert is legendary. Packed, literally to the rafters, tables and benches stacked into raked seating all along the walls in this small homestead. Jane and I are here, guest visitors after two years ago being formal ukulele tutors. We got a raincheck on the guest tickets from last year (Beela the cat was dying. Priorities). But we are back with a vengeance this year: participating in the New Orleans style parade on trumpet and banjo; joining the basses (pffffttt) and altos in the amaaazing choir; doing the Americana guitar workshop; helping the eminently equable, legendary and sublime Dani Rocca tune the beginner ukulele group's ukuleles; conducting a guerilla ukestration workshop then performance; and playing / reading music for the intermediate ukulele group performance. Jane banjos, sings and ukes her way through the evening, getting voyeuristic pleasure from peering over the shoulder of an acquaintance audient who compulsively doodles every act in quirky detail, next to the acquaintances who knit, or weave. Maybe the guy at the back on the computer isn't too weird after all.

The room is full for two of the three sets. Maybe 200 men, women and children, crushed in, OH&S be damned. Each participant is generally only allowed to contribute one song. Regardless, each set takes an hour or more, and so, at midnight after the second set, half the people leave.

And then, almost as a coda. Jane and I. Second last. Until the MC (self interest uppermost in mind) decides to bump us ignominiously to last - just before the limbo. Our performance of one of my songs to a captive attentive audience proves its immediate gut-wrenching quality just for a moment. The applause is preceded by a barely audible grunt or groan of self-acknowledged pain from the audience, one that only comes from lyrical self-recognition. Success.

The concert is composed of the results of all the weekend's workshops, plus much some. It is the plus much some which floors me occasionally, and that gives me so much hope for the future of music. At least in this tight little valley.

Turra is my idea of family. For a weekend it is my idea of heaven. So many aspects are heavenly, idyllic and idealistic. The music, the environment (masses of finches, cockatoos, dawn raucous), the all-in-family atmosphere, the acknowledgment of death, to the circle of life that is in your face, if only over decades of watching. This is my third time here. But I have known this community for maybe 15 years. In Australia I'm sure that this thing can only happen in Victoria. Damn Victoria. Damn Victoria and your compassionately diverse and creatively wonderful social consciousness. Damn you and your increasingly insufferable climate. How I wish you were in NSW and next to our beaches. Alas. You are not.

If only we NSW no-necks could forsake our jet-skis and do and be something like this. If only.

What makes Turra so?

This. These.

• The two girls at tonight's concert, frail in their age and confidence, almost tweenies, the youngest maybe 11, the eldest? 14/15?. A song, delicate, probably original, slight celtic affectations (so popular at these folk festivally-type events), perfect barely audible harmonies. The girls, frail in their reluctant acceptance of the uproar that follows. I smash my aluminium drinking bottle on the timber floor for a full minute, unable to stop bashing out my delight and approval. The MC restrains them from leaving, at least until the applause has ceased. Now. Now you can go.

• The New Orelans style street band parade - 4 trombones, 4 trumpets, umpteen ukuleles, myriad other instruments, saxes, guitars, voices, clarinets, innumerable dancers, jiving their way through the tall trees
  
  of this narrow north-south valley down near the Victorian west coast. We stop near the memorial tree planting which is accompanied by a vegetated mural. The mural will blow away in the wind, as did Ebenezer - a refugee 11 year old boy whose family was sponsored to be included at Turra last year and then he was killed a few weeks later in a car accident. His mother leads an Ethiopian drumming grieving dance, us whities trying to help join and salve her pain by poorly emulating the passion of her home culture. We are so not-Ethiopian at that, but at least we are here, a year later, a community still including and acknowledging her in her/our grief. Tears. Lumps in throat. Some success must be there if we are feeling such emotions.
  

• The inter-generational baton passing is the most impressive thing about Turra. It has been going maybe 30 years, and people born over the life of this camp are now taking responsibility for its spirit. Not so much taking responsibility, for they are glad for it, they own it. It is a natural consquence of their life in this community, of this place. 12,000 trees have been planted out of a culture has been nurtured by a few families of note in the Victorian and Australian folk music scenes. The names Rigby, Gruner, Vadiveloo and Wise are replete. Stars have come out of this place, younguns who still deliver, make Turra acoustic music offerings here, but are the core of the funk, rock and electronic youth scenes in Melbourne. Folks cross over don't you know?

• Early on in the concert three-quarters of the audience leave. The choir has to get ready for their two songs, to become reacquainted with their unorthodox musical parts that have been put together over two days by idiot choir savant leader Stephen Taberner. He is utterly brilliant, and is no idiot. But 'idiot savant' conveys so much more than 'eccentric savant'. The songs he wrote, only possible from him, cross rhythms that I didn't think I could do. But I did, as did all of us other singing novitiates. Brilliant. whada we do now, whada we do? … where do we go, what do we do now? what do we do …

• It is hard to distinguish between audience and performer. This is as it should be.

• The hobbit driven bass marimba. Straight out of a Peter Jackson film, the mere mortal stands on a
  
  chair to play it, assembled from enormous plastic drain piping, structural framing and about ten carved strikers (the notes). Long after I go to bed its tones resonate along the valley, almost rising through my mat on the ground, about 500m away. The younguns still stomping to its insistence. 3am, 4am pass bassfully.  Please, go to bed. Please, someone murder the marimba hobbit.
  

• Throughout the camp, long haired barefoot kids whizz, exploring the creek, making and destroying swiftly made bridges, becoming trolls on the main footbridge only letting you pass when you scream like a harridan or speak in a foreign tongue, waking you at dawn with their plotting and playing.

• Teens flirt with their trombones and trumpets, sharing music and time with their parents and other musical compadres, saving sly glances for the girl / boy who is their weekend adoration. Collaborating and experimenting musically, and maybe in other ways should parents, and time, allow.

• The night ends with a massive limbo competition. The domain of supple youth backs. For 25+ years the limbo has segued out of the finale, probably previously driven by mandolins, fiddle, bodhrans and whistles, now by vigorous 15-25 year old horn players, horns, bass and snare. Jane refuses, she respects her back. I have one token go, and then as the stick gets lower and lower, and the competition fiercer and fiercer I go closer and closer to marvel and cheer. The two left, at less than my knee height, battle it out to chiropractic depths, abs rippling (I didn't know that's what you needed!), ankles floor sliding, heads hanging backwards. I barrack for Alistair Watson, lanky and still growing at 14/16 years old, and upcoming musician, treading the respected steps of his father. He just loses to Dan of the Impossibly Taut and Rippling Abdominals, equally lanky, equally impressive musically

I wake in the morning. Stuffed. Sick. Exhausted. 2 nights of little sleep. No alcohol. That must be it. No alcohol. Maybe if I had drunk I would feel better. I am now insufferable, but Jane persists with her loving and I appreciate this, in packing up the campsite, in driving, in tolerating the whinges.

In the loo (mobile phone in hand) I try to come to terms with the reality - that another world will intercept us when we leave this wireless-free refuge. Vestiges of emails (for the moment disconnected) remind us that tarred roads, wars, supermarkets, jet skis and a job awaits, jaws to hell open at the gates of the valley. 

Oh the pain.

AirBnB brings savings, surprises, community and ukulele teachers

If you are open to them, surprises and serendipity can take you on journeys that are truly lovely. (I guess they can be truly ugly too, but I ain't talkin' bout that right now, or probly eva; why waste my life's breath?).

So with the following testimonial, I doth tangentially protest the current New York furore about giant hotel chains having their profits stolen by little old ladies and their youthful counterparts.

Community linking

Many years ago I was involved in a trading scheme called LETS in which I traded veges and other things. Mostly, though, it helped me make new friends, and catalysed the formation of a band for a dozen years. LETS was an invaluable community connection for me offering numerous surprises and opportunities for serendipity. This was the mid 90s and whilst it helped me make local connections, I was also part of a global research and activist community, courtesy of a new thing called the internet. Remember, it wasn't the www then, just the internet. 

The ukulele is doing exactly the same thing for me now, not only locally, but globally.  

The www is sooooo developed, it shapes our lives, and shapes our exposure to surprises, serendipity and organised chaos. The peer reviewed social networks are especially niche life changers, whilst the main webbie bits are transforming corporate America (and hence the globe). For capitalism, think Amazon, Facebook, Google, Apple, iTunes, and on and on.

For peer networking think Facebook (!), Freecycle, Car Share schemes, ukulele music networks ...
 

... and AirBnB.

You gotta spare room? Rent it out to international passers-by – but only if you want, and when it is convenient. You'll meet nice people; or get reviews about people who may not be your type (and hence you can say no). The peer-review mechanism allows you to get a fairly good idea of what sort of people you are getting yourself into.

For instance, in relation to Seattle, our host said …

Wow....I loved these guys....Mark, his wife and a friend stayed for 1 night and they were lovely. Respectful, quiet, clean and best of all great people....thanks you three

And our brief review said… Utterly delightful host and place.

Or...in relation to a defacto suburban, probably illegal sorta hostel thingie in Vancouver, we mechanically said … Good clean central secure place.

They responded in slightly more effusive kind (entirely unwarranted – we really didn't have a 'host', just a poorly paid (probably exploited) 'manager' – we barely met her) … Mark and Jane were delightful, polite and lovely guests. They left our room tidy.

(oh that I'd be tidy at home!)

It is a shame that NYC and other places have banned it.

Whitianga, New Zealand, has not …

I like to write my blogs almost immediately, but I didn't get the chance after this choice experience. We stayed in this rather functional tourist town on the Coromandel Peninsula just because we wanted to. It was pure speculation. Google Maps suggested it was a hilly location. Nope.  Dead flat with obligatory tsunami evacuation route warning signs here and there. We found the cheap accomm – Sarah and Mike's – a rather functional inelegant house with a hallway that would be great for children's winter cricket. Despite initial Jane-like comments (you only take me to the best places darling) we stumbled well.

Sarah (non…non…Saha…possibly a francais pronunciation, possibly unique), our French host, was in the garden. We said hello, midst the strawberry picking frenzy we immediately embarked upon. Moustachioed Mike (for Movember) was suitably hirsute and a bit formidably Maori looking. Both of them the most delightful people ...

... we said ...

Staying with Sarah and Mike was the quintessential Air BnB experience. Absolutely lovely. We connected really well socially with them and they are both impeccable hosts making us so welcome in their humble house. We would have loved to have stayed longer but had to keep moving.

... they said …  

It was great to have Mark and Jane staying at our place. We learnt a lot about ukulele, and loved their workshop at our school!

And so, conversations turned, ukes mutually presented, vocations swapped. Mike is the school Maori teacher, 1^st year graduate, brimming with 1^st year passion and idealism, work a mere leap over the back fence.

Mark: Do they have uke at your school? I wonder if they would be interested in us doing an impromptu workshop?

Mike: Wow! I'll check it out first thing tomorrow, I reckon they would like that!

So it happened, and what a delight.

Into the arms of a loving school

We leapt the back fence into their charming kiwi school, armed with ukes and music, across the field, quizzical eyes on us and them.

What we loved most at first sight was the barefootedness. Kids everywhere with no shoes, running, playing, rejoicing in their childhood. Of course some were shod too. In Australia they would be shot by the principal, and immediately told to be shod.

We were (metaphorically) embraced by the music teacher who herded 25 or so kids ranging from 8 to 15 years old into the music room. Ukes were pulled out of the immense classroom set (Makalas) and after 25 minutes of teaching we had four uke parts, one amazing lead singer and a complete version of Royals by Lorde. Jane and I teach well as a team.We do have some video evidence, but are awaiting school permission.

Mission successful, we head back across the field, only to be waylaid by an enthusiastic prep-teacher who herded 3 classes into her one room to hear the visitors play some songs. (WTF do we play???!!!! We've never done a kids' concert before!). We managed to pull out of our proverbials a terribly played one-chord version of Kookaburra sits (electric wire etc), Hey Soul Sister (I can't believe little kids in late 2013 are aware of this 2010 pop song. I mean, they were three or something! But they sang with gusto), and Pokarekare Ana.

Note the kid on left pulling a face. Not the one in yellow.

That last song was good as we felt that any Maori kids would probably feel affirmed that some white fellas from Orstralia thought their song good enough to sing properly! In turn the kids sang us a song (along with that infernal pre-recorded music that invariably accompanies children in place of the now rare musically literate primary school teacher who can actually wield a piano, guitar or ukulele). 

The teacher so loved us that she shared with us the following song advice – Wonky Donkey – a kiwi classic.  

After extricating ourselves from endless children's questions we left Whitianga, drove for 40 minutes to reach a place 2 km away and gave a workshop to a grand total of 3 adults – not the greatest highlight of our trip (though our host was, as ever, delightful). It was rather eclipsed by our uplifting AirBnB and school adventure.

Back home ...

A week later, back home in Oz, I did a bit of internet surfing which went something like this. iPad in hand, otherwise occupied, wikipedia Whitianga, ooohhh, a link to the school, click on link ... I wonder if we get a mention in their newsletter? Et voila!

Ukulele workshop and MBAS music opportunities

We had a wonderful opportunity drop into our lap this Wednesday with the impromptu visit of Jane and Mark from NSW. They are in New Zealand to attend the ukulele festival and asked their host Mike Bennett if there was a ukulele group at our school that they could offer a short workshop to. What they didn’t know is that we have 200 students in Y3-6 alone, all of whom are learning the ukulele, and many more in Y7 and above who also have the ukulele as part of their learning programmes. With a bit of quick thinking we were able to find 25 children from Y4-8 to join them for what was an amazing half hour where Jane and Mark taught us to play Lorde’s song “Royals” in three parts. The fact that our students were so quickly able to pull this together with the help of Jane and Mark is testament to the “give it a go” attitude of our students and the excellent foundational music skills we have been able to help them develop.

The music education on offer at our school is extraordinary. There are very few other public schools that offer the same depth and breadth for students that we do from such an early age. I am in the process of collating our itinerant music requests for 2014, and once again we already … etc … 
 

à bientôt et kia ora! Whitianga.

We'll be back.

Et merci AirBnB.

Hubris and contrition

Hubris. Contrition. Neither word really grabs me. The first reeks, not only of its meaning, but of John Howard. It seemed to be his favourite word. That and the inappropriately used 'fulsomeness'.

The second reeks of insincere regret and apology. And my regrettable behaviour sometimes. And of apologetically insincere governments. And of ... “I'm sorry you feel that way about what I said”. Not a real apology at all.

But we'll look up the dictionary.com meanings of the words after a short word from our sponsor.

Rant of Contrition in a room full of mentors
In the fulsomeness (dictionary.com – later) of time I do wonder if I will feel more contrite. I guess I could feel no worse than I regretfully did yesterday arvo, for my hubris was in full flight during our workshop. We were the support act for James Hill's teacher training session at the New Zealand Ukulele Festival. In attendance at our session was James Himself, still my favourite ukulele player in the world, still my favourite teacher. Such style, skill, grace, expertise, humility, humour, dry wit, compassion. He is the Dalai Lama of ukulele. Genuine, deep. James! I love you!

Also there was Dave Parker, from New Zealand's favourite original ukuleletrio. Everywhere we gave a uke workshop in NZ, or stuck even a small part of an ukulele above the public parapet, the phrase was "have you heard of The Nukes?", … or … “The Nukes were here this year and they had 85 people at their workshop". (Thanks for that. Thanks for reminding me that we only had 3 people at our Flaxmill Bay ukestration workshop, and that I lost it (internally) with a woman who refused to acknowledge that her fingers who doing things her brain refused to let her believe that they were doing).

But back to Dave (ever so briefly). Dave is the awkward thin edge of the wedge – how does one coin a term that no-one seems to have yet used? – ukestration – and then talk comfortably with someone who also seems to have coined the term? Tell me that Mr Trademark Lawyer! (probably rightfully so, we were told by the powers that be that we could not use the word 'ukestra' to describe what we do, at least not in any exclusive way. Oh the hubris).

And then there were other god/mentors. Age (yes – his name), and Steve (that too). Both from the Wellington International Ukulele Orchestra. Oh my. They were the first ukulele band to inspire our ukestra – probably moreso than the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain. They were at OUR workshop! Wow. What a privilege, that people of their stature and history in our own nascent development were coming along (albeit scheduled as an afterthought to the James Hill workshop) to see what we do!

Well you blew that, didn't you Mark Jackson? Possibly for the millionth time in your own professional history.

The Act of Hubris

So this is what happened.

In introducing ourselves, and our workshop, I had to contextualise. (and so I continue to tangentialise in order to further contextualise. Go on – look up dictionary.com you unrepresentative swill – and while you're at it – look up some other Paul Keating classics).

You see. We are getting lots of affirmations that we are really quite good (I wanted to say REALLY good, but I didn't want to display too much hubris). In 2011 the Ukastle Ukestra were awarded the Melbourne Ukulele Festival's 'Golden Ukulele'. It was our first big ukulele festival debut. Whoa. And yes. I get all the wry humour around a cheap plastic ukulele being spray painted gold, and having scrawled on it in texta “Golden Ukulele”.

But peer acknowledgement is peer acknowledgement. Man that was an ego expander. Thank-you, thank-you very much. “I'd like to thank God, my family, and my Attorney”, (as Bob Slacks once so famously said). And if I needed any further ego embellishment, I only had to stumble across this video (starts at the relevant bit).

And then the ukulele teaching business in Newcastle just keeps growing and growing, until there are two of us making a reasonable living out of it. Not heaps, mind you, just reasonable.

And then we are able to go overseas a bit. And someone holds the ukulele pa back home. (look it up. It's a maori word – it means 'fort').

And then we have groups in other nations say to us – “What you do is really different. It's really good!”

And then two Vietnamese television stations vie over rights to interview us, once again proving that Mark has far more hubris than dear Jane (not to mention a subtle condescending racist undertone in his interview technique with Vietnamese audiences).

And back home people come up to us heaps and tell us how the ukulele has changed their lives and thank-you so much for introducing it to me and my husband etc. etc.

And then our own press releases start to tell us how good we are.

And then, and then. And then we are supporting our own mentor – James Hill – in New Zealand.

And then – back to the WIUO, and the presence of Age and Steve.

So back in 2011, back at the Melbourne Ukulele Festival, after our debut performance, a highly esteemed elder of the Australian Ukulele Community (I can't help myself – it was Rose), came up to us and said “you guys are fabulous, I reckon you are better than the Wellington International Ukulele Orchestra”.

Jaw Drop. Get out! Wow. Oh my. Oh my hat. Wow. Thank you Rose. I'll keep that under my hat. And then Rose said “I don't care, put it in your blurbs”. We never did. Until now. And what a way to release it.

So. At our workshop here – with James, Age, Steve, Dave (and 50 other people) – all present in the room, checking us out. I choose now to release that little snippet. Great. I reserve the word 'dickhead' to apply to myself at times like these. ... dickhead dickhead dickhead …conceited, boastful dickhead...

The only way to assuage my sins, to work it out, or perhaps to make things worse, is to write it in a blog.

I'm sorry. I am such a conceited idiot.

And I bet Age and Steve came away from the workshop going – “well, there goes a dickhead. We won't talk to him again”.

...but ... but ... but ... I love you guys! You have inspired so much!

awwww....sheeeeeeetttttt....

Dictionary.com

hu·bris

noun

excessive pride or self-confidence; arrogance.

con·tri·tion

noun

1. sincere penitence or remorse.
2. Theology . sorrow for and detestation of sin with a true purpose of amendment, arising from a love of God for His own perfections (perfect contrition) or from some inferior motive, as fear of divine punishment (imperfect contrition)

I am certain my contrition is the latter (2b).

And for good measure

ful·some
adjective

1. offensive to good taste, especially as being excessive; overdone or gross: fulsome praise that embarrassed her deeply; fulsome décor.

2. disgusting; sickening; repulsive: a table heaped with fulsome mounds of greasy foods.

3. excessively or insincerely lavish: fulsome admiration.

4. encompassing all aspects; comprehensive: a fulsome survey of the political situation in Central America.

5. abundant or copious.

And so endeth the fulsome rant (meaning 1 or 2) and the tossed and turned sleeplessness. Back to bed. We have a rather large day ahead of us with 3000 children, 8 of ours, and burgeoning egos.

Don't dare ask - because it Matamata(s)

Dannie is a ten year old ukulele player, swiftly growing in confidence and skill in singing and uke.  And in perspicacity. We both teach her in different classes. She's disconcertingly observant about how Jane and I differ in our approaches to the world.

We are probably an interesting couple to observe. For me this becomes evident when preparing for travel - she stressie and packie before we leave - intejecting with occasional "can't we just stay home?!?!"  Me - relaxed, last minute. Have a casual chat to a distant friend on Skype. Get roused on to pack and leave.

I do initiate, plan and communicate the majority of our sojourns. I am very organised in so many regards. But like all of us (he says hopefully), I do have the rare personal flaw. For instance, I like thinking about cooking dinner, planning, shopping, chopping, creating, doing most of it, but then finding some distraction to waylay completion. Jane will finish it.

The final ukestration workshop booking in New Zealand only fell into place on the day before we left, and much of it is rather on spec, swayed by the desires to go here or there, a familiar place, a free bed, an old acquaintance, an opportunity. It's a lot of chasing. But someone has to finish serving up the meal. Guess who that is?

And just to add to the last minute mayhem and Jane's stress levels, on the way to Sydney, we get a call. It's a festival. "We lost most of your application, but we are interested. Can you get us this, this and this and the names of 22 people who will definitely come, and get it to us in the next few hours?"

Gee. Thanks. Only have to sleep and then catch a plane.

But Miss Stressie pulls it all together, talks on the phone like the consummate professional she is, writes stuff, orders me around, calls 20 people, gets up at 2am to deal with something worrying her, and we get it all back to the festival before we leave for Sydney airport. Gotta love her. Gotta love the pace of life. You wouldn't do it otherwise would you?!

No guarantees on the festival, but damn! we hope we get in!

We also accepted an offer this week to tutor at a legendary week long folk music camp in the redwood forests of Northern California. Lark Camp still needs confirmation, and linking in with other potential opportunities. In this same week we also committed to performing at the Hawaii Ukulele Festival again (our 4th year). We have a bunch of keen talented ukers and singers indicating their commitment as well, so that'll be fun. This was after Sunday where we helped coordinate some 200 people to perform to some 400+ audience. 5 hours with one soft drink and no breaks.

And so. Do I hear you occasionally ask ... why do these people who are just helping others to play music getting paid?

See the title of this post.

What I really love about our work is that we are paid to be a focus for opportunities. Business 'men' keep their eye out for opportunities to make money. We keep our ears out for opportunities to help others make music. And the opportunities that we find (and create) only arise because we can make a living from it.

And praise be to that!!!

Written from a little standard cabin in a caravan park overlooking hot thermal mineral pools - max temp 39deg. Matamata, New Zealand. 

p.s. Miss Stressie is having a great time.

Don't write off a Root Canal in Thailand.

I'm tired. It's late. I'm sitting amongst a planeload of ozzies, heading for Phuket, Thailand from KL. Everyone Australian, broad accents blazing.

This trip is precipated by a Charlestown Endodontist telling me that I owed him $2500 if I wanted my tooth fixed. My lateral and cheapskate mind immediately crossed into holiday and Thailand. So here I am.

However I also thought ....

"if I am ever to write up some sort of manual about things ukestran, then I need to get away from the dishes, and teaching, and my favourite beach and woman I love wiling and working away the hours with".

So here I am.

The flight from Sydney to KL was a daytime one, potentially 8 hours of writing. I spent a considerable amount of time doing that, a good start.

But the whole process is a bit fraught. What am I writing? In what voice am I writing? Who is the audience? What is my goal? How much can I sell it for? Or is this something that I should share freely?

If I talk publically like this, tiredly, on a 1:25 minute flight from KL to Phuket, maybe I'll get some clarity (as long as those pissheads a few seats ahead of me keep a lid on it).

3 years and 11 months ago I started off, flying blind, teaching ukulele, no quals, no clue, just a bunch of personality, musicality and a supportive inquisitive partner. Within 6 months it seemed like I had the makings of some sort of business. 18 months later we lead a bunch of people to perform at the Hawaii Ukulele Festival. 30 months after starting, the curious love partner also became my business partner and we were developing a name for ourselves at ukulele festivals and clubs around Australia, in Canada and in the USA. Our 'approach', dubbed 'ukestation', was apparently unique and fun.

Busted

Then just the other day a peer burst our bubble - "Pardon me if this seems naive or rude, but isn't 'ukestration' just arranging for ukulele'?

Bursted.... but not ... 

Because... hang on ... aren't we making a reasonable living? Aren't we working hard? Don't people all over the globe tell us that what we are doing is unique? Don't we get people each week telling us how much joy and life affirmation they are getting from their weekly participation in Hunter Ukestras?

Yes. All that is true. But so too is Yanai's bald statement.

So here I am, needing to justify what we do, because it is about time. Perhaps it will be in some novella form, perhaps in some first person bloggy rant like this, perhaps in some nebulous 'business in a box' form. Still not sure. Won't be sure until I sit down in my writers' garret, my hideaway Manohra Cozy Village near the Kata Art Dental Clinic, and just a short open sewer walk up from the indescribable Thai beach which no doubt will not rival the beach back home.

Beware the charlatan insurance snake oil salesman crying "Franchise!"

About a year ago, we had a guy come and sit on our front verandah. We needed insurance and he was some sort of broker. But he was more than that. This guy reckoned that we were on to a good thing, and he could help us spread the business model around the world. And he'd only take 30% of all future income. Forever. Bargain. I suppose I'm not the sorta guy that jumps at those get rich quick schemes.

Pffftttt. Thanks for the loving help.

Others have said similar things, though in a less charlatan manner. On our recent 'tour' of the west coast of the USA, we talked incessantly about how we might spread the ukestration gospel.

So now it is crunch time. I have to get stuff down on paper (metaphorically) that can get the approval of the business partner, and some sort of agreement from Danielle who has put a lot of effort into developing (at our behest) a 'ukestra curriculum'.

Is it possible to get coherent writing and cogitating amidst root canal therapy (saving of $2000), appointments for new glasses (?savings of $3-400) and a haircut (saving of $20?)? Not to mention all the distractions of a supposed island paradise.

P.s. I'm here now. The garret is a shithole. Good luck with that.

Adjust your medication – you can sing ...

I love that feeling in my gut, but I have to watch myself as it is often followed by a tear or somesuch. For it happened again today at Seaview Clinic, my private mental health ward. Sadly, it doesn't happen all that often.

This is a rave about singing, about our societal delusion that we can't sing, about doing music in a mental health ward, and about Sam's singing. Click on the link to have Sam serenade you while I ramble on...



The Musical Mental Health Context
Seaview, where I have worked as a musician every Friday afternoon for the last 5-6 years, is the last vestige of my previous vocation as a mental health worker. The vibe at the weekly session really depends upon who is in, and with what illness symptoms. Suffice to say that I can tell the predominating mood or illness - even one person in a 'high' phase of bipolar disorder can shift the mood of the room, and of me. The strategy at these times is generally to try and 'keep a lid' on things, though not too much. I enjoy a bit of joyous mania as much as the next person!

However, if most people are in there to have their medication adjusted for depression, then my role is more one of holding a mood of quiet respect, joy, hope and optimism. It's relatively easy to do when music is your primary tool, and when one is accepting of the vagaries of mental health and has an appropriate modicum of 'there, but for the grace of God, go I'. It is a sad indictment on broader society that mental illness is still so marginalised in our communities. (So here I am, concealing identities, even that of the clinic!)

Seaview's patients are rarely 'florid', and have relatively mild symptoms. The public hospital system is universally acknowledged as being the more out there 'nuthouse'.  Here is also a place for 'drying out', and I find that the people with substance abuse issues are more natural, and even display a sort of guilty pleasure and cheekiness. It's a funny mental illness that one. The mental illness you have when you don't have a mental illness, or when you are trying to self-medicate your way out of one. I suppose I don't understand it, not being much of a drinker. But I do get the sort of intouchness that these people have with the edginess of life, and the aforesaid cheekiness.

Oh the joys and privileged safety of the privately health-insured. Coal miners who are drying out from their marijuana addiction so they can keep their 150 grand a year job; doctors who quietly reveal their vocation; school teachers who are cautious to acknowledge that they know me from another context.

And then there are the age differences. As a musician I appreciate having a diverse repertoire, part of my sanity preserver. There are the old ladies who enjoy an old Tin Pan Alley tune; the occasional school kid who likes more modern pop; my peers who revel in a fondly remembered rousing pub version of Khe Sanh (then marvel for the first time at the lyrics of a man returned from Vietnam with post-traumatic stress disorder). And then there are the young funksters who like some ACDC or 'folk metal'. (What the hell is folk metal??!!!!).

Today

Just your average everyday girls. "There but for the ..."

So today, after a couple of months of not having any funky young women attending my one hour music session, I am deluged, with engagement. I'm sure they are on the ward frequently, but are often way too scared, cool, or unwell to come out of their musical bedroom, or reluctant to pull away from the computer screens (large and small) which provide such wonderfully isolating and individually tailored satisfaction.

Three young women impress me. The girl with the straight bob haircut who likes ACDC and aspires to playing banjo; the blue haired one who plays fiddle and likes 'folk metal'; and the gorgeous Sam who stole my heart. They all steal my heart in different ways, not least because so much potential and talent is often submerged in anguish.

All the girls are somewhere between 17 and 25 I'd reckon, but it's so hard to tell when everyone's skin is so smooth and fine, especially in contrast to mine.

When asked about whether she plays an instrument, Sam immediately volunteers that she sings. I comment how rare it is that people admit to singing, then I ramble on about how much I hate that our culture says that you have to be famous to sing, even to be allowed to sing. It is a dramatic, yet rarely acknowledged symptom of a society-wide cultural mental illness. It is a malaise that many other cultures do not suffer, a delusion they do not know.

I think we need a mental health program for us to get over our greatest delusion – that we can't sing. 

Not singing.
Ha! Tom Waits can't sing, nor Mark Knopfler, Leonard Cohen; let's not even mention Sir Bob. Shockers, the lot of them.  But they deliver. Heart and soul theft is nigh, regardless of throat nodules and other biological impediments.

Nevertheless, the attacks on our ability to sing are constant and replete.

My family says I shouldn't sing. 

                My husband says I will break mirrors. 

... and just as bad ...

Boy you can sing! You should go on The Voice!

My blah blah bullshit bullshit.

STOP!

We can sing. We should sing.



But anyway, back to Sam.

I sing. At funerals.
She had sung at funerals for the family, and played flute until Year 8. But that sounded like a way to get into the school she wanted, and once the school admission was approved, music seemed to be relegated back to the cupboard.

So Sam could sing. Listen to her.



The first whispers encouraged by me.

The feeling in my gut.

Listen to her.

Can you hear the tones?

         The nuances?
       
                 The relatively unaffected inflections ... not yet perverted by copying too many US pop princesses?

... Listen to her ...

... don't you love it?...

... don't you love her? ...

My Ted (n Betty) talk

Ted Campbell - Ukulele Player

Six weeks ago 83 year old Ted was still playing ukulele in the LakeMacUkestra. Six months ago he was hauling my PA in for the Tuesday evening group: every week, sometimes twice a week.

Jane n I sang today at Ted's funeral, “I'll see you in my dreams”, the song Joe Brown sang at The Concert for George. A small group of ukestrans then sang and strummed his coffin and cortege away – to the tune of “Don't Sing Aloha When I Go”. Ted was an everlasting ox - until one of those diseases that are meant to get you, got him.

Three reasons make my work worthwhile - Music, Community, and It's a Living. These pillars formed the backbone of my TEDxNewy talk, back in 2010.

It is #2 which underpins this Ted talk.

Ted and Betty came along in the first few weeks of 2010, just after the ukulele group had started. Since then they have rarely missed a Tuesday night. They performed at all the local festivals; took their motor home to festivals further away, except Hawai'i - you can't take a motor home to Hawai'i. But they went anyway, performed for ten minutes in the 2011 Hawai'i Ukulele Festival with 20 or so fellow Ukestrans, then went off on a ten day cruise around the islands. How I so love these tales, tales of people in their 80s being able to tell fresh stories of their active lives. Much better than watching the telly.
Ted made our first Ukastle Ukestra sign. He made, and sold, ukulele holders that attached onto music stands. Our greatest difficulty on Tuesday nights was drink spillage. So Ted invented a drink holder. I think sales of them funded a few beers for Ted.

I only visited their house for the first time the other day. We had scheduled to visit Ted n Betty Saturday afternoon, knowing that Ted wasn't at all well. But we got a call just before we were about to visit - Ted had passed away that morning. Nevertheless, we kept to our plans as we heard Betty was there. Susie, another Ukestran, was there for much of the day as the family still had to arrive.

We banged on all the doors, but deaf-as-a-post-Betty couldn't hear inside her darkened house, hermetically sealed from the traffic noise of the main road. We could see her fussing about, through the windows. Eventually she saw us.

About four walls were dedicated to the productive and reproductive life of Betty n Ted. Beautiful photos, and portraiture shots that everyone has. Though not everyone has a wall dedicated to your 60^th wedding anniversary - official Congratulations letters from Betty Windsor, Barry O'Farrell, Quentin Bryce, Julia Gillard, etc., etc. You can't really lie about your age when you have that sort of thing on your wall!

But one thing really struck me as Ted's essential legacy - the floor. The lounge room floor is a beautiful sprung wooden dance floor, because 'the dance group needed one when the hall down the road closed'. In the corner, the familiar bags, instruments and detritus of any ukulele player.

Ted n Betty are testament to the benefits of a life lived actively and socially, creating and participating in community wherever they go. As a couple they were inseparable, but all of us need more than just the each other of any dynamic duo. We need broader community – the richness within which we swim, the safety net when we, or our partner, falls. 'Families' and 'economies' may be the lexical currency of elections; 'community' not so much. No government creates that for us. 'We' create 'community' ourselves, through dancing, music, children, school, tree planting, drinking, sport, work - through the myriad activities we do every day, morning, evening, afternoon or weekend – usually in an unpaid capacity.

In their life Ted n Betty, like most of us, had children and school, but I'm sure it was the dancing and music that sustained them most in their latter years. For three or more decades they were the backbone of the 'Rainbow Room' – a community of people who shared a love of dancing and concerts every Saturday night. Only in the last 3-4 years had they switched their focus to the ukulele. So we were privileged to have them. The dynamic duo sang 'Boots are made for walking' on microphone, and would argue about who it was who came in at the wrong time. This little clip shows Ted's care for everyone, and for every step he took, but it also speaks volumes of the loving relationship that he and Betty have.



At the funeral his son spoke of Ted's recent love of the ukulele. Gary said that of all the stories of the Ted n Betty travels that they would tell, the trip to Hawai'i was the one Ted loved the most. This reflects what I really value about our work. That people, even in their twilight years, can create new stories to tell loved ones or to share with a drinking buddy.

Surely the richness of our lives is measured in the stories we tell, and it is up to us to enthusiastically participate in life enough that we do actively continue to create our own stories. By his own account I think that Ted, the 83 year old concrete batcher / truck driver, had a very rich life indeed.

Vale Ted Campbell
13 June 1930 - 17 August 2013