if music be the food of love…

My husband had a really big concert on the weekend.

Every year, he puts together a big band of young people to play with a famous jazz musician (or two, three, or more!). I've written about this band before, here, but that was almost three years ago! Time for a retell, I think. :) Every year, these kids and young adults get together on the day of the performance (for their one and only rehearsal!), get given sheet music they haven't seen before, plus a t-shirt to wear on the night, and get shown where to sit. They rehearse, hard, for 6 hours, then come back that night to perform. It's incredibly exciting for a lot of these kids—there's nothing like it in the area. I suspect there might be nothing like it in the country.

Now, when I say a big band, I mean, a really really REALLY big band. It is made up of 150 people. 150! Yes. All those young people work together to create a concert, led by a man with huge vision and energy (my amazing husband, who is helped by lovely, tireless colleagues), all of them running on sheer exuberance, talent, and courage. Some kids have only been playing for a year, and they sit beside people who are in their last year of highschool (even early university), and somehow, it works.

The only things they're asked to do? To have fun. To either play (or look like they're playing!). And to go for it.

My husband came up with this idea about 7 years ago, and his wonderful Conservatorium of Music has put on six Megaband shows so far. I've designed the t-shirt for every concert, and my son has played four times. We've had jazz, funk, and latin greats all come to play as guest artists, and on Friday night, we had 900 people come to watch. It's a thing now. Like, a real THING, something you might imagine kids remembering when they grow up…like, how maybe they got their guitar or music or drum sticks signed by this awesome musician, or how maybe that was the first time they ever properly performed and they were so nervous but they did it, and this maybe was the beginning of them realising they wanted to be a musician.

This lovely night has become part of our mutual history now, part of my family's and my town's story. It makes up some of the colours, the woven pattern of our place here. What a beautiful thing for people to be part (and proud) of.

For me, however, my favourite part of the night was a small and perfect thing. Something that felt so personal, but was shared with over a thousand other people. And afterwards, I felt all weepy with pride.

You see, my husband directed the band wearing Converse sneakers.

Second-hand ones, at that.

He wore a gorgeous black suit, crisp white shirt, grey tie, and these grey canvas "classic" Chuck Taylors. He bought them from the op-shop the other day, scrubbed them clean, and wore them to this "big deal" event. And the lack of black leather 'dress shoes' was noticeable—so much so that one of our two famous guest artists called my husband on it.

The guest who is a friend of my husband's, made a joke about my husband's tennis shoes. He suggested maybe my husband forgot to change shoes, and perhaps my husband needed to borrow his again, like that time four years ago (when my husband actually forgot to bring his own).

That got a good laugh, and then my husband good-humouredly went to the microphone and said something to this effect:

"These aren't just tennis shoes, man. These are Converse all-stars. These were made with no animal products."

Applause rippled through the audience, rose like a quiet wave through the theatre.

"So don't be givin' me grief 'bout my shoes no mo'."

And he grinned at the famous jazz man, who grinned back, and my husband turned to the band and began conducting the next piece, and the famous jazz man began to play something beautiful.

And while the night wasn't—at all—about animals or about ethics or choices or beliefs, the night, for me, became in that moment about something bigger than music, bigger than us sitting here, bigger than 150 kids having the time of their lives. It became about standing up for, reaching up towards, something that is as big as spirit, and as deep.

When my husband could have said nothing, he spoke for living things that do not sing or play or have a voice as we do, but feel as we do. He spoke for creatures who might have loved to listen to the music as we did, and been lifted by that music into joy.

month of beauty: feeling deeper

Today felt… kind of ragged

kind of like I wasn't on top of everything

and perhaps that's because the house is upside down and upside down makes for chaos and opens the door sometimes to worry and to the feeling that you are racing towards a finish line that keeps ducking, weaving, hiding behind trees.

Today I felt…more.

I felt things Deeper.

Today I missed Jennifer.

Today, music crept in and tucked itself into my corners

and, so, I spent the day listening.

Tapping my feet and sinking into sound (in the art gallery as I waited for my girl to finish her art workshop),

creaking a little inside with sorrow (as I sang in the shower),

and singing at the top of my lungs (at the computer in the living room) as my husband made another amazing dinner.

I felt better and bigger and sadder and joyful-er and deeper and more all day.


I just came home from book club,
where my friend played music the whole night,

and the whole night I kept interrupting what people were saying with, "Oh! I love this!" and "Oh! I remember listening to this when I was young!" and "Oh! This is from that movie!"

(And no, of course that wasn't at all distracting to the women trying to talk about a book!)

The last song I really heard was this:

I had to blink really, really hard

chew on my lip

and concentrate

so that I didn't totally cry, right there, in front of 5 women,

for a reason I probably could not have explained.


It's a beautiful, beautiful song.

It captures the whole day and how I felt and all the rawness and the sorrow and the joy

the joy of sound

and the joy of simply being here,

the joy of being able to listen, able to feel, able to sit here right now, in this moment, and write about the beauty I found.

month of beauty: bedtime

My husband is up in Sydney tonight, catching a jazz show. It's only taken him about ten years to agree to go out and just Enjoy himself, for no good reason other than it would be FUN. I hope he's had a beautiful night. I hope he's feeling joy like balloons and cats in the sun do, like fish must when they leap.

I was cleaning up the kitchen while the kids were getting ready for bed and suddenly felt Wrong. Queasy. Nauseous. The not-at-all-okay feeling you get when dinner doesn't want to stay in but wants to get Out! Now!

So I sat myself down. And thought, "I'll find music. That'll be a good distraction."

I found this:

And the kids came down like moths to a flame.

"What's that you're listening to?" "It's awesome!" "It sounds like *insert famous jazz musician's name* and *other jazz musician's name*!" "Boy, that trumpet player's got some chops!"

Yeah. You know it!

Next thing, the kids are both dancing. Shaking their bums, my girl pirouetting, my son grabbing his juggling balls, and dancing while juggling. (As you do).

We all get our groove on, kids on the floor, me in the chair. The music swells and lifts us; it's like a Get Better Elixir. Music always is, for me.


And then I say, Off to Bed with You and off they go

and ten minutes later it's cuddle time.

Which I could do every single night with these kids until they're oh, 100 and I'm all wrinkles and gums.

I lie with my girl. I say, "I never want to leave," and she says, "Then stay." I breathe her in for about a million years and the nausea feels like a low buzz, faraway. If I stay forever, I will always feel this good.

Time for my boy, now. And he's all concern, all "Lie here, Mum. Don't stay long if you don't feel well." I lie down and he says, "Are you okay?" and I start to sing.

"When you're weary. Feelin' small…"

It's Bridge Over Troubled Water, which I have always loved, but don't remember so well these days. I make up stuff, and sing and sing. I run my hand through his hair (which he loves). Some of my song comes as a hum, but that's okay. He loves it when I sing to him.

I say, "I can't believe how lucky I am that I get to be your mum." We tell each other we love each other about a thousand and fifty times.

And then I'm off downstairs, calling my Good Nights and I Love You's.

Time for a restorative Cup of Tea.

My boy is down first; he has an itch, here and here and here and is it okay to put cream on? Yes, I say. I help him dab, and sneak an extra hug.

My daughter is next. There's a buzzing in her ears. It's never going to go away! And she's SO tired! So up I go again. More cuddles, cuddles forever, smoothing her hair back, listening to her breathing start to slow. And my thoughts slow down too and the nausea drifts away like it was never there. And when I go to leave my son calls out, even though it's 10.40 by now. Good night! he says. I love you! he says. Good night, I whisper. I love you.

Peppermint tea now.

Husband home soon, I think. This one's for you, mr beautiful.

Peace, only. It's a beautiful night.

I liked it…and not just 'cause I'm his mum

Five young people

busking their hearts out.

Want to see?



I 'specially love the little boy dancing, part way through.
And look at my boy's right foot. Playing the invisible bass drum. Gorgeous.

Yeah, I was proud.

But I didn't hover!

Played it so cool in fact, that we wandered off for a bit and I missed one of his solos.

"What? You didn't see me trading 4's, Mum?"

No sweetheart,

I left you to the adoring crowds. :)

linking up today with Stephanie's

lovely Saturday's Artist

jazz boy

Today I said to a friend, "It's like my boy goes to homeschool Music School." And it's true!

He spends the equivalent of a school day (minus free time) at our local Conservatorium of Music every week. Plus he practices. Plus he has jam sessions with his dad, plus there are concerts on Friday nights and workshops on the weekends. Perhaps you could fill him up with more music, but then he'd start leaking notes. :)

Last night was another whole night of music—the end of term Jazz Showcase. Kids ran around, going off to hear or play in various bands, laughing and talking on the grass. An espresso van came and served coffee and hot chocolates, and there was a sausage sizzle (such an Oz icon!). You could hear music at three different venues around the Conservatorium. Sound literally poured out of the windows.

My girl watched from the grass outside and danced. We held hands and spun in sweet, grinning circles. It was magic.

My boy played jazz piano for the first time in concert! He soloed on every song, along with the other kids in his beginning Jazz Band (the only band where he doesn't play drums). I wanted to post him playing here, but you'd be listening for about 10 seconds, the solos were that short. Next time maybe they'll stretch further. After all, they are just testing their wings right now.

But I got a video of my boy playing drums in his Jazz Combo. Trading 4's, as they call it, with the rest of the band.

It's just beautiful. And he's beautiful. And I'm proud.




Guess what we're doing tomorrow?

Another concert! My boy playing drums.  And maybe some more dancing on the grass…

drum solo!

My son "trading 4s" (as it's called in the Jazz World) with his bandmates!

It was the first time he'd ever solo-ed on drums in a performance.

The song is "Sonny Moon for Two," by Sonny Rollins.

And the hootin' and hollerin' at the end is me. Sorry about that!

bliss

Tonight we went to a concert. A trio. Piano, bass, drums.

Simple, and not simple at all.

My kids sat and listened to the entire concert, for the first time ever. Normally they get full by the first set, and need to play outside, go home, be elsewhere. That has always been fine—over the years I've become used to getting a "taste" of the music, and being content with that.

But this time…we were transfixed. The music filled us, lulled us, excited us, captivated us. The musicians explored sounds and rhythms we'd not heard played that way before. My son danced in his seat with a friend; at one point he shut his eyes and just moved his head. My daughter sat on my lap and rested against me, perfectly still.

The musicians talked to each other through their music—it was as though they were a single creation, an invention, a complicated organism. Three music makers, all understanding each other, what the other was doing, what the other was about to do. It felt like being pulled into a kaleidescope. At one point, I closed my eyes, and smiled.

When I wrote—in an earlier post—about the importance of following your dreams, a friend said it reminded her of Joseph Campbell's statement: "Follow your bliss."

Tonight, I could see the musicians were following their bliss. Absolutely. They were inside their own world as they played, where nothing existed but the sounds they were making.

By listening, I was drawn into that bliss, and could make it my own. My kids too, were drawn into a world of Fine, and Pure, and True. Afterwards, it was like they were lit from within.

It was a magical night. I never wanted the music to end.

(Oh, and the name of the band? The Ben Winkelman Trio.)