Music is medicine

Angie McMahon – Just Like North

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I was lucky enough to be at one of Angie’s shows at The Forum at the end of May when she surprised us with this beautiful new song.  She explained that it was recorded at the time of making her latest album Light, Dark, Light Again but didn’t make sense anywhere in the sequencing of the tracks.

I’m not sure I agree, but I’m kind of glad that such a special song was released into its own spotlight this week.  Perhaps it was always supposed to serve as a reassuring overview of the personal journey she describes on her album.

pain will be on every map, just like north is
pain will be in every year, just like August

failure is on every map, just like north is
failure is in every year, just like August

Life (for me) ended up being all A Bit Much at the time of the Forum show, so I didn’t end up finding the spoons to do anything with the photos and videos that I took that night.  Seeing more live music this year has been one of the greatest joys, and I remember feeling especially present for this show and managing to pause all of the white noise in my life for a few hours.

It’s a particular gift of hers, the way that she captures the attention of the crowd between songs with her gentle and fragile storytelling, and then sweeps us off our feet with ferocious strength when she sings.

When Angie talked about how different she was the last time she played this venue (anxious, scared, “didn’t know how to hold a crowd”, as she put it), I was catapulted back to that night in 2018 and reminded that my life was different then, too.  It was a highly anticipated show for me, and it was almost ruined by the person I chose to see it with.

What an absolute joy and healing experience to see Angie again a few years later, in one of our favourite venues, both of us a little older and wiser and in love with the right people.

Failure is on every map, just like north is
Failure is in every year, just like August
You had to be ugly before you were gorgeous
Balancing tiger with rhythm of tortoise
Here in your (Chest) chest, (Chest) chest, chest

You’re not gonna blow it ’cause slowness is calling
You don’t have to know where your feet will be falling
If you get everything right, then there’s nothing else left, left
If you get everything right, then there’s nothing else left, left

Here’s some little memories from that night in May, when this song first landed on my ears.




Sarah McLeod, George Lane – 29 June, 2024 (101 Things: #071)

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Thing #71 on my list of 101 Things in 1001 Days: See live music in 20 different venues (3/20)

Sarah McLeod
George Lane, St Kilda
29 June

This show by Sarah McLeod was one of the most delightfully chaotic gigs of my entire life.

We arrived about an hour before the show, hoping to grab a coveted table near the stage.  We hadn’t counted on the rain, or the cold, or the fact that the venue would be about 20 minutes late opening its doors to punters.  We were freezing and drenched, but each time a staff member came out with a “5 more minutes!” update I told myself it would be worth it.

I was right.

The cold was forgotten once we were inside and warm, and we managed to grab a table where we could settle in for the night.  We ordered food and beers, and before long Sarah walked onto the tiny stage at the front of the room.

“Funny story”, Sarah tells us, and explains that the cover band had fallen through at the last minute.  The delay in bringing everyone inside had been because she was quickly writing another set of songs, which unexpectedly meant playing the haunted underwater piano at the back of the room, behind the audience.

It was at around this point that I got really excited, because I could see that this was somebody who was willing to make magic out of a shitty situation and not be precious about any of it.  The piano was an absolute piece of shit, but every single person in the room was dying to see how this unfolded and so the energy was electric.

And off she went.

There was an alarming amount of unsolicited audience participation, a dramatic love story in the crowd (followed by breakup), and a punter who invited himself up on stage to sing a duet.  Another artist might have cracked it over the multiple technical glitches, the snarky AV technician and eye-watering overfamiliarity of the audience, but instead Sarah seemed to run towards danger and embrace it all.  The end result was one of the most joyful, improvised and intimate shows I’ll ever experience.

An incredible night, all set to Sarah McLeod’s phenomenal voice and songwriting. There will never be another gig like this one and we will never ever forget it, or just how generous and talented she is as a performer.  I left one of her biggest fans and can’t wait to see her again.

The mind is just a hard drive

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Cassandra Jenkins – Hard Drive (An Overview On Phenomenal Nature)
He said, “You know, the mind, the mind is just a hard driveIn this life, the mind is just a hard drive”

The first Cassandra Jenkins song to ever grab my attention was this one, from her kaleidoscopic album An Overview On Phenomenal Nature.  When I was introduced to this album I was barely surviving a deep personal crisis – just a few months into clawing my way out of a toxic relationship that simply would not flush, and navigating associated losses that at times felt insurmountable.  It was early 2021, and I listened to this song for the very first time as I was driving to work – a rare opportunity to leave my 5km radius during Melbourne’s second year of lockdown.

When people around me talk about the pandemic lockdowns of 2020-2021 I have to choose my words so carefully.  For so many people, those two years represented a complete halt to life and progress – no weddings, funerals or birthday parties, no holidays or school camps.  It was a time when people said goodbye to loved ones over Facetime instead of by their hospital beds, and children missed developmental and social milestones stuck in their bedrooms.  Relationships broke down, businesses closed, and many people were forced to face up to their personal demons for the very first time.

I know this now, and I knew it at the time.  We are not designed for solitary confinement and so many people buckled under the pressure of it.

I was one of the lucky few.  Lockdown was my salvation.

 

Darryl’s been teaching me to driveI finally got my license when I was thirty-fiveSpeeding up the west side, changing lanes,He reminds me to leave room for grace
He said, “Have you been seeing your therapist?You seem a little on edge. Are you always this nervous?”
I said, “Yes, and this is a hard drive.”

Melbourne was the most locked down city in the world, and I experienced it so differently to most people.  My stupid little email job meant that my salary was never interrupted, and some of my work was significantly easier when I was doing it from home.  I had a house and a yard and a hammock all to myself, so I never had to negotiate with kids or housemates for a quiet hour to have my meeting.

I had space, space to spread out and the time to make my home a sanctuary from the fear and misery outside.  I was never low on fresh air or sunshine.  I missed my friends and family, but things had gotten so bad that I was just grateful to not be trapped inside with somebody who was mistreating me.

With no cars humming outside my window after curfew I slept deeply.  I learned how to tell my magpies apart, and knew which one would pretend to have a sore foot until he was rewarded with a piece of meat.  With no people or cars around at night, life passed more slowly and foxes made themselves at home in the quiet of my garden.  I took online classes in whatever I could find – painting, ethics, how to write a budget.  I lacked the foresight or attention span to sink my teeth into any meaty projects, but with every day that passed I was stronger and more like myself again.  Only better than before.

When lockdown began in March 2020 I was suddenly and completely alone, physically sick and fighting to stay above water.  By the end of 2021 I had largely rebuilt myself from the ashes, and while everyone else yearned for the freedom to leave our suburbs, I was just beginning to enjoy the newfound freedom in my mind.

 

I ran into Perry at Lowell’s placeHer gemstone eyes caught my gazeShe said, “Oh, dear, I can see you’ve had a rough few monthsBut this year, it’s gonna be a good oneI’ll count to three and tap your shoulderWe’re gonna put your heart back togetherSo all those little pieces they took from youThey’re coming back now, they’ll miss ’em tooSo close your eyes, I’ll count to threeTake a deep breath, count with me”

Hard Drive became a kind of anthem for this period in my life.  When crisis descended, I instinctively tried to rebuild myself according to the original blueprint.  But what are we to do when entire building blocks are missing, warped or eroded?

When I heard this song for the first time I found solace in this notion of all my little pieces coming back to me, in their own time, and in whatever shape they found themselves in.  Welcoming back the parts that were always supposed to be mine, without worrying too much about what the final product would look like when I got around to putting them together.

When time stopped being linear, the journey became far more important.  And this song arrived in my life when the finish line was so unattainable that it wasn’t worth picturing.

She said, “One, two, three.
Just breathe.”

This song reminds me of healing, and hope, and slowing down for long enough to formulate a plan.  Part of me wonders where I’d be right now without those two gentle (for me) years, and this specific album.