Thursday, December 8, 2016

HOBART WEEKEND



                                                                 (the good ship lady nelson)

What a strange thing -- the great living exponents of Tristan and Isolde (Stuart Skelton and Nina Stemme) hot from the Met stage popping up in Tassie for a one night stand with the best bits of Wagner's great meditation on Sex Love and Death. What's to think about?

Let's see - well, I'm a bit of a Skelton groupie (that would be the Skelton who got crook, like real crook, and couldn't debut his Tristan in Sydney); Nina Stemme's Brünnhilde remains a very compelling memory; there's friends to catch up with; the flight is 90 mins and on points; there's heaps of other local Wagner Nutters going down; and speaking of sex and death and stuff, there's MONA. So we were off - dogs in the kennels, lightly packed, breakfast in Sydney, and now fish and chips for lunch by the Lady Nelson in Hobart under that wonderful deep south sky. Chatting (one does chat) to our same table neighbours it turns out there's a chorus (yo ho steersmen), and he's a baritone, and she's a sculptor, and they live (separately) way down the river, and commute to Hobart by boat, where moorings are cheaper than Sydney parking, and for a minute or two I'm wildly envious.



It was quite a buzzy night - locals and out-of- towers, the small and acoustically very forward Federation Hall whose entrance is from the lobby of a large and unattractive hotel (and that's being kind - Hobart is scarred with a couple of completely gross late 20C monsters, oh that they had been more thoughtful), the very fine Tasmanian Symphony Orchestra with a very fine cor anglaisist, the maestro chief conductor from Slovenia Marko Letonja who arranged the abridgement, and of course the glamour stars plus Monika Bohinec's (yep, Slovenian) Brangäne. And the Steersmen, and my new best friend, heard but not seen from offstage.

No. It's not the way it's meant to be heard. It's meant to go forever, and then some. Till death do we part, drained of breath and life, them and us, I'm dead already. While the journey was lost, the story held up well enough with surtitles filling in some gaps across the very good job that Mr Letonja had done in stitching it all together. Moi would have preferred a little less Act 1 and a little more Act 3, but with Ms Bohinec having flown really quite a long way (and back again the very next day to Vienna for Aunty rehearsals in Grimes) then the luxury of her luxurious pulsing messo was compensation enough.

So what we got was really a brilliant night of full-on full-throttle in your face in your bathroom singing from these great vocalists, the need to save or hold off or do much else other than sing the hell out of it left in New York.

                                                           (letonja, bohenic, skelton, stemme)

I don't mean to suggest it was unsubtle. I mean to mean the clarity was amazing, the voices bright and clean, and right 'there' and yes, it had all the nuance, the colours, the shading these great singers are capable of wedded to (what was very apparent) complete familiarity with each other and the work. Stuart Skelton was sounding especially golden, with beautiful finessing of his quite moments (the 'O sink herneider was just gorgeous), and a ringing halo around his highs. And Ms Stemme was so completely capable that it was frankly gobsmacking to be so close and watch and hear her pour it out.

The night went long.

Come Sunday and came Sex and Death part II - MONA for the afternoon after a BBQ in the suburbs under the mountain where friends have settled into a new life, next to a house still empty since the German man next door died years ago and where a kangaroo now lives in the long grass of the unkept backyard. No kidding. P (of the amazing collection and vast knowledge department) drove us up and steered us around, our very own guide, and he knows a thing. He's there at least weekly.

                                       (the james turrell installation designed for sunset and sunrise)

The temporary exhibition is On The Origin Of Art, and worthy of much more than our couple of hours, escorted notwithstanding, with each of the four guest curators, 'bio-cultural science-philosophers, with a room of their own. Some very non-representative snaps, a few hurried memories:










Tuesday, December 6, 2016

WONDER OF WONDERS





Spurred on by rave notices (Limelight and Harry) and the forecast of a perfect Friday night, I snapped up some good seats at shortish notice and off we went - idling into town on a perfect (and I mean perfect) balmy Sydney evening to see 'Sydney Opera House - The Opera - The Eighth Wonder' (cast and production details) which used to be, and forever should be, known simply as 'The Eighth Wonder.'

The set-up was brilliant. It is a grand space and surely one of the great public spaces of the world with those monumental Aztec inspired stairs (on which the opera would play out) with the great arcs of the roof like some hypnotic pinnacles entrancing you in. The seating was as good as it gets; the food outlets many and varied and well sorted with tables and chairs and bibs and bobs - we ate with holidaying Dutch; the bathroom facilities immaculately clean and lit and mirrored and carpeted, and the vibe friendly and infused with great expectation for if nothing else, to sit there, just sit there, as the day slipped away and the night brought its own magic would have more than sufficed.



(sea gulls)

There is a great story here and it begins mid last Century. It is a story that I said to the English woman directly in front as we stood at the end, both teary eyed, that is in many respects the story of my life, in that it spans my existence to a very real extent and a story I followed closely in the city I love most dearly. And more importantly it is a story of democracy, and of its imperfections, of its weaknesses, of its great failures, and wherein lie its great strengths: answerable to the people, to the process, to the egos, to the deceits, to the half truths. Mussolini might have got it right. 

And the story is a great and living lesson in the difference in attitude to the Arts between our two major political parties. It didn't set out to give it; it didn't overplay it; but the story is the story and the Libs and Nats are bastards when it comes to much anything other than shortsightedness and profit.

But you know, one is left to wonder that actually and finally we still got more than we deserved - something approaching sacred - and the two names to remember are John Joseph Cahill (I share both of those given names in my three) and Jorn Utzon. 

And what was so moving about the opera is simply that -- it told the story. Each character was finely fleshed out, each circumstance brilliantly defined, each period beautifully evoked, each conflict chillingly enacted, and each triumph gloriously celebrated, and all underpinned with a musical composition that was, how to say, friendly contemporary, never intrusive and always ready to accent and build up emotional reflexes. 

                                                             (utzon in the danish forest)

Now I've left the biggest gushy rave till last. The sound system. The orchestra was in the Playhouse (I believe), the singers close miked, and all was run from the huge control tower with conductor video et al at the rear up against the great sandstone wall.



The mix was brilliant, and in a move of genius, the sound was sent wi-fi to individual head phones connected to round-your-neck receivers which were given out and tested by ever friendly (and always enough of them) young techies. While there were subtitles, and yes I did read them on and off, it wouldn't have mattered that much if there weren't. The clarity was excellent, every word and note coming cleanly timbre intact. If this technology is to be used for the Handa Opera on the Harbour, then that will solve one of the major problems with that set up once and for all.

Well done OA. The whole experience was completely satisfying. 



Tuesday, November 29, 2016

MIRROOL CREEK




Coming back, we took the Hay-Goolgowi-Griffith sealed road route. The road was still listed as flood affected, but open to single lane traffic, and we had time to deal with any delays.

It's uncertain what to expect as you approach. But we were about to cross Mirrool Creek.

(midwestern h'way mirrool creek and insect on screen)

Mirrool Creek is no piddly creek. It's a significant 264 Km watercourse, a river in fact, arising near Temora and wending its way to the Lachlan, and outside Griffith it flows into the Barren Box Swamp, which we had unknowingly skirted leaving Griffith on the way down (see link above).


No, it doesn't look much. It is only when you get closer do you appreciate just how much water there is, and the relentlessness of it. It might just look like some water either side of the road, but it is moving, and moving very steadily.



The stench was bad. Rotting organic matter - vegetable and animal no doubt.






RIVER GUMS AND OTHER THINGS


From Hay we crossed the legendary Hay Plain as green as you'll ever see it, through Balranald, met the Murray River at Mildura, and followed it on and off to Renmark, before heading south to Adelaide. It's a book, not a blog post.

                                                                 (murrumbidgee at hay)

(murrumbidgee at hay)

(storm building up over the hay plain, green as you've never seen it)

(oranges outside mildura - yes, you can't take them into sth aust)

(river gums at renmark)



(fred williams murray river adelaide festival centre)


And finally, a magnificent gum on the Torrens, roadside directly outside the Adelaide Oval. It wouldn't last a week in Sydney.






FLOODS AND PLAINS II



Where was I?*

We were wending our way through the South West Slopes and Plains and across the Riverina. We'd finally made Griffith and keen to get to Hay for the night, we pressed on. I drove. He navigated. Dusk wasn't too far away.

Within a few Kms, we had left the main road (which took you up to Goolgowi and back down the Mid-Western Highway to Hay over a section we knew was already partially closed by flood water - the map for all this is here) and alarmingly, the paddocks were already flooded.




You think things like: there'd be signs if the road was closed, surely; wandering stock and roos are the main worry; no, water over the road is the main worry; no-one wants to be out here after sundown; do the phones work; what if ...

Anyway, completely unexpected, we then hit unsealed road, in good condition it must be said, but just where you don't go in floods, now heading south toward the Murrumbidgee, the road seriously slowing us up and the sun now just one finger above the horizon. Gates and mailboxes of distant farm pass by, grapes and citrus either side, gravel and dirt and more gravel and dirt till finally a signpost, a blessed T-junction and we turn onto Murrumbidgee River Road, heading west again, the green snaking river gums marking the river just below us, and the prospect of getting somewhere before first stars looking better.

In the relief of it all, I insisted on stopping. This wonderful open place was darkening quickly, but I needed to step into it, feel it, smell it.


K pushed the flashing trouble lights on 'just in case'. I leant in and snapped them off. My unnecessary 'There's no-one here and we're not in trouble' was broken, yes,  by the sound of a distant engine. Quickly back in the car we sat watching as the head lights came up behind and drew alongside. It was a 4 door ute, the back piled with machinery. Two young boys in hats too big peered out, chins just above the bottom of the windows, one in the front, one in the back. 'Everything alright?" asked the unnervingly handsome father leaning slightly forward across the elder son in the front with him. 'Saw your lights and wanted to check you're OK'. 'Heading to Hay -- we got sidetracked a bit -- just wanted to take a quick (feeling pretty stupid now) photo --- thank you very much --- all OK thanks ---'

And he smiled, a nice smile, a handsome smile, and the boys stared on as he turned and headed back into the night.




*(Actually trying to upgrade this Mac operating system to get photos from my new phone to upload - these things take time for some of us.)



Saturday, November 5, 2016

FLOODS AND PLAINS



                                                          (flooded Murrumbidgee at Hay)


The other week we did the big road trip to Adelaide and back. We gave it two days each way and that's just comfortable without being a strain if you keep the driving pretty steady. There are three main road routes to Adelaide. I've done them all over the years and each is very worthwhile.

You can head west to Broken Hill and from the Far West of New South Wales slip down through South Australia. Or you can take the Mid-Western Highway kicking south-west from Bathurst to West Wyalong, Hay then across the great Hay Plains through Balranald to Mildura, across the top of Victoria following the Murray to Renmark before heading down. Or, and this was our plan this time, you head south down the Hume, and take the Sturt Highway through Wagga and Narrandera and onto Hay that way.

While flooding rivers had been all in the news for weeks, I'd heard from loose enquiry that the main roads were open and foolishly hadn't checked on-line. So the Detour Sign near Yass came as a bit of a surprise - the Murrumbidgee was over the Sturt Highway around Narrandera, and traffic to Hay was sent off along Burley Griffin Way to Griffith. It was a trip that became all about the rivers. Everything is about the rivers.


On the Burley Griffin Way, you ease down through the south west slopes, plush with fence high wheat and crops, and patch-worked with great swathes, squares, and rectangles of blazing yellow canola.


Stopping to take photos - here, there, where - simply didn't happen as the bigness set in, and it all became all about the bigness, with no way of showing and telling. Through Harden (Mille is from Harden) ....

                                                          (the Harden proper dog look)

... on to Temora, a big prosperous substantial looking town, then Barellan, a quaint time-stood-still little place lop-sided along the railway, where a giant tennis racquet proudly sporting the name Yvonne Goolagong (she was actually born in Griffith - and where we nearly are) prods the hot blue sky.


We're some tens of Kilometres north of the Murrumbidgee and its floods, heading all but directly across to Griffith, the road straight and flat, from road to far horizon on either side flat expanses, and the crops now citrus and grapes. Grapes, and more grapes. In fact you could slightly exaggerate and say grapes all the way to the Barossa. 

We've arrived deep in the Riverina, the MIA (Murrumbidgee Irrigation Area as we were taught it way back then) and finally Griffith, and if you've never been, it's a surprise, round-abouts and all. Yes, designed by Walter Burley Griffin. The orange harvest is in full swing, the improbably wide main street dressed with the campest sculptures ever, made from hundreds of fat juicy oranges, the plane trees bursting with spring, the mood smart relaxed, the food Italian and the coffee good. 




to be continued, soon as .....




Monday, September 19, 2016

MILESTONE





14 weeks - one up and one to go.