Last weekend Darwin Memorial Uniting Church, the church I was brought up in, celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of its building’s construction. It was quite a grand affair with performances from the Darwin City Brass Band and the Darwin Chorale, as well as visits from past and present clergy and the odd politician not to mention my family, who made the trip up from Adelaide for the weekend. Fifty years might not sound like much, but in a city that was blown up by the Japanese in 1942 and then blown down by Cyclone Tracy in 1974, a building with some staying power is something to celebrate, especially given the rate at which the city skyline is changing.
Since arriving back in Darwin in November, I’ve been heard to say that walking back into my old church after nine years was a bit like stepping back in time. The same faces were all there to welcome me to the same style of service and same music that we were singing the day I left oh so many lifetimes ago. Having been associated with the congregation since I was born, I really got a sense of having been part of the congregation forever.
It blew my mind and put me right back in my place to see how many people attended the celebration who have been around the church since it was opened in 1960 and had also been part of the seed congregations that went before it. It gave me a real sense of continuity, and of being part of something much larger than even my whole lifetime. Of course, most things in the universe are much larger than my lifetime, but in a society that prides itself on constantly advancing and changing, it was comforting to know that at least some human endeavours have the ability to stick it out.
One of the more moving aspects of the celebration was the music. Someone had managed to dig up copies of music which was composed and performed especially for the opening of the church fifty years ago. As far as anyone knows, it hadn’t been performed again since, until someone slipped a copy to the brass band. Listening to the same arrangement of Abide With Me blended with The Last Post (the church building also serves as a war memorial) that had been played fifty years ago gave me the same sort goose bumps as opening a time capsule, or stepping out of the DeLorean after a flux capacitor malfunction.
Having celebrated the past, the capstone of the weekend was an open discussion on what the future might hold for Uniting Church in Australia. It was fascinating to hear different people’s ideas on what the church might become once the mysterious and unpredictable under 30’s crowd inherit control. I have my own ideas on that front, and I'm planning on putting my grand takeover plan into effect sometime in the next few months. Watch this space.
...
Garry with 2 Rs
28 July 2010
24 July 2010
The Random of the Opera
Yep that’s done it.
Last post I suggested that in the comparatively calm wake of the madness that was a Midsummer Night’s Dream, I would find some new and creative way to throw my life into the general chaos that I tend to prefer. The usual techniques for turning one’s life upside-down include tried and true methods such as quitting your job, meeting a special woman or experimenting with a new religion. And as usual, the usual techniques don’t apply to me.
I auditioned to be in an opera.
It seems like an almost logical step, following my re-emergence on the local theatre scene, apart from the small hiccup that I’ve never been in an opera before, and haven’t sung properly since I left college five years ago. A fellow cast member from Midsummers emailed me to say the company was desperate for tenors and invited me to go along for an audition. I suspected there was no way I was going to get into the cast of an opera. But I had also suspected there was no way I going to get in Midsummers either, so I impulsively decided to give it a go. What the hell.
About half an hour before the audition started, it suddenly occurred to me that I would probably be asked to sing something. I started to panic a bit here. Most proper singers, or at least those who’d had any sort of vocal training experience, would have thought to come along with something prepared, complete with sheet music and possibly an accompanist. By contrast, the only time I ever sing these days is when I’m accompanying myself on a piano in an empty church and that’s only when I’m confident no-one else is around. I frantically went over every song I knew trying to come up with something that would sound halfway presentable.
I had it narrowed down to two equally ridiculous possibilities when the audition room door opened and I walked in. I stood in front of a table with three people I’d never met looking back at me. It was kind of like “Australia’s Got Talent” except with out the TV cameras. Or the talent. And then came the $63.50 question.
“And what are you going to sing for us today, Garry?” Snap decision time.
“A Song of Freedom, by Murray Gold.” Odd decision, but it was either that or Psalm number 40 by U2. Besides, it was dramatic, melodic and in Latin which automatically made it sound like a proper audition song. The fact that it’s from the sound track to series four of Doctor Who is obviously irrelevant.
I finished my song and was rewarded with polite smiles form the casters.
“What language was that in?”
“Latin”.
“… Oh. … Really?”
Fortunately the next step was a script reading, which I could do with a little more confidence. That was, until casters asked me if I could read the same part again, but in a French accent. I ended up sounding like cross between Russian and Chinese, so I’m not sure how that all went down with them.
Finally, to check my ability to hold pitch with an accompanist, they asked me to sing the national anthem while one of them played it on the piano. Given my previous performance with other languages and accents, they were kind enough to let me sing the Australian national anthem, and to sing it in English. By this stage I was so tripped out by the whole experience, I very nearly forgot the words, which never happens to me; not with the national anthem anyway.
Having crashed through the final hurdle, I thanked the casters for their time and got the hell out of there. I still don't know quite what's going on with final casting. Apparently I'm going to find out tomorrow, but I think I know what the answer's going to be.
…
Garry with 2 Rs
I offer absolutely no apologies to those affronted by the use of 'random' as a noun. Get over it.
Last post I suggested that in the comparatively calm wake of the madness that was a Midsummer Night’s Dream, I would find some new and creative way to throw my life into the general chaos that I tend to prefer. The usual techniques for turning one’s life upside-down include tried and true methods such as quitting your job, meeting a special woman or experimenting with a new religion. And as usual, the usual techniques don’t apply to me.
I auditioned to be in an opera.
It seems like an almost logical step, following my re-emergence on the local theatre scene, apart from the small hiccup that I’ve never been in an opera before, and haven’t sung properly since I left college five years ago. A fellow cast member from Midsummers emailed me to say the company was desperate for tenors and invited me to go along for an audition. I suspected there was no way I was going to get into the cast of an opera. But I had also suspected there was no way I going to get in Midsummers either, so I impulsively decided to give it a go. What the hell.
About half an hour before the audition started, it suddenly occurred to me that I would probably be asked to sing something. I started to panic a bit here. Most proper singers, or at least those who’d had any sort of vocal training experience, would have thought to come along with something prepared, complete with sheet music and possibly an accompanist. By contrast, the only time I ever sing these days is when I’m accompanying myself on a piano in an empty church and that’s only when I’m confident no-one else is around. I frantically went over every song I knew trying to come up with something that would sound halfway presentable.
I had it narrowed down to two equally ridiculous possibilities when the audition room door opened and I walked in. I stood in front of a table with three people I’d never met looking back at me. It was kind of like “Australia’s Got Talent” except with out the TV cameras. Or the talent. And then came the $63.50 question.
“And what are you going to sing for us today, Garry?” Snap decision time.
“A Song of Freedom, by Murray Gold.” Odd decision, but it was either that or Psalm number 40 by U2. Besides, it was dramatic, melodic and in Latin which automatically made it sound like a proper audition song. The fact that it’s from the sound track to series four of Doctor Who is obviously irrelevant.
I finished my song and was rewarded with polite smiles form the casters.
“What language was that in?”
“Latin”.
“… Oh. … Really?”
Fortunately the next step was a script reading, which I could do with a little more confidence. That was, until casters asked me if I could read the same part again, but in a French accent. I ended up sounding like cross between Russian and Chinese, so I’m not sure how that all went down with them.
Finally, to check my ability to hold pitch with an accompanist, they asked me to sing the national anthem while one of them played it on the piano. Given my previous performance with other languages and accents, they were kind enough to let me sing the Australian national anthem, and to sing it in English. By this stage I was so tripped out by the whole experience, I very nearly forgot the words, which never happens to me; not with the national anthem anyway.
Having crashed through the final hurdle, I thanked the casters for their time and got the hell out of there. I still don't know quite what's going on with final casting. Apparently I'm going to find out tomorrow, but I think I know what the answer's going to be.
…
Garry with 2 Rs
I offer absolutely no apologies to those affronted by the use of 'random' as a noun. Get over it.
15 July 2010
Bed Time
The biggest disadvantage of my move to Coconut Grove has been shifting from a furnished unit to a completely unfurnished room. I don’t own any furniture apart from a plastic trestle table and a glass top coffee table I ‘inherited’ when a mate moved house and couldn’t fit it in his new place. I don’t currently have any of the more useful items of bedroom furniture like a bed or a wardrobe, or even a chair. I’ve borrowed a thermorest from a friend for the moment, but since it’s tax return time I decided to start looking around for something a little more substantial.
Fortunately my house is just around the corner from the Homemaker Village, which promised everything I could need to furnish my home, including a large chain store which specialises in beds, so I figured I’d be fine. I’d just pop over and see what they had, and maybe pick up a new laundry basket while I was there.
I was well prepared for how expensive beds can be. Manchester stores are quite obviously designed to intimidate people who really don’t have any business being there by putting all the really impressive looking king size displays right at the front, complete with a price tag that might as well say “don’t bother”. But I figured somewhere out the back in a less seductively lit corner they must just have a standard single mattress section.
Not so much, as it turns out. The “specialist” bed shop didn’t stock anything smaller than a queen size, which for me was annoying. I’m still on a fairly tight budget these days, and don’t really have the funds, or space for that matter, for a full-on double bed. And let’s be frank: I’m a well behaved (well…) single Christian, so I don’t really have any need for a double bed.
Don’t look at me like that. It is what it is.
I arrived quite quickly at the suspicion that I wasn’t going to find anything helpful in the bed shop, and just started wandering aimlessly, looking at various bedroom settings and avoiding judgmental glances from shop assistants who obviously didn’t think I should be there either. Some of them were really nice (the furniture, that is, not the assistants), and if I were a recently married billionaire I could have had a great time choosing upholstery for my master bedroom
Without warning I arrived in a section with single mattresses and even single bed frames. They didn’t seem to be too expensive either. I almost smiled to myself, but something wasn’t quite right. As I tried to imagine what each one might look like along the far wall of my room, I realised they were all unrealistically short. I looked around to find a wall full teddy bears and duck-themed wall paper. I had unwittingly walked into the kids’ section and was drawing concerned stares from parents standing protectively in front of their children. I left.
I realise that I am part of an increasingly small minority here, but I resent the implication that once you reach a certain age you are assumed to be either married or lecherous. I’m not judging those who choose those lifestyles (okay, I am a little judgemental of people who choose to be married) but as someone who chooses neither of them I am feeling decidedly uncatered-for. And surely it can’t just be those Christians who bucked the trend of getting married in their early twenties that shop for single mattresses. There must be plenty of folk out there who, for one reason or another, “don’t entertain much”. If I didn’t have my religion as an excuse I’d probably be one of them. I think it’s high time single people all over the country stood up against this sort of commercial discrimination and fought for their God-ordained right to sleep on their own. And in the meantime, next weekend I’m off to an op-shop to buy a second hand single mattress. Thank God for the Salvos.
And then I looked through every single shop in the Homemaker Village and couldn’t find a single washing basket. Apparently promiscuous billionaires don’t do laundry either.
…
Garry with 2 Rs
Fortunately my house is just around the corner from the Homemaker Village, which promised everything I could need to furnish my home, including a large chain store which specialises in beds, so I figured I’d be fine. I’d just pop over and see what they had, and maybe pick up a new laundry basket while I was there.
I was well prepared for how expensive beds can be. Manchester stores are quite obviously designed to intimidate people who really don’t have any business being there by putting all the really impressive looking king size displays right at the front, complete with a price tag that might as well say “don’t bother”. But I figured somewhere out the back in a less seductively lit corner they must just have a standard single mattress section.
Not so much, as it turns out. The “specialist” bed shop didn’t stock anything smaller than a queen size, which for me was annoying. I’m still on a fairly tight budget these days, and don’t really have the funds, or space for that matter, for a full-on double bed. And let’s be frank: I’m a well behaved (well…) single Christian, so I don’t really have any need for a double bed.
Don’t look at me like that. It is what it is.
I arrived quite quickly at the suspicion that I wasn’t going to find anything helpful in the bed shop, and just started wandering aimlessly, looking at various bedroom settings and avoiding judgmental glances from shop assistants who obviously didn’t think I should be there either. Some of them were really nice (the furniture, that is, not the assistants), and if I were a recently married billionaire I could have had a great time choosing upholstery for my master bedroom
Without warning I arrived in a section with single mattresses and even single bed frames. They didn’t seem to be too expensive either. I almost smiled to myself, but something wasn’t quite right. As I tried to imagine what each one might look like along the far wall of my room, I realised they were all unrealistically short. I looked around to find a wall full teddy bears and duck-themed wall paper. I had unwittingly walked into the kids’ section and was drawing concerned stares from parents standing protectively in front of their children. I left.
I realise that I am part of an increasingly small minority here, but I resent the implication that once you reach a certain age you are assumed to be either married or lecherous. I’m not judging those who choose those lifestyles (okay, I am a little judgemental of people who choose to be married) but as someone who chooses neither of them I am feeling decidedly uncatered-for. And surely it can’t just be those Christians who bucked the trend of getting married in their early twenties that shop for single mattresses. There must be plenty of folk out there who, for one reason or another, “don’t entertain much”. If I didn’t have my religion as an excuse I’d probably be one of them. I think it’s high time single people all over the country stood up against this sort of commercial discrimination and fought for their God-ordained right to sleep on their own. And in the meantime, next weekend I’m off to an op-shop to buy a second hand single mattress. Thank God for the Salvos.
And then I looked through every single shop in the Homemaker Village and couldn’t find a single washing basket. Apparently promiscuous billionaires don’t do laundry either.
…
Garry with 2 Rs
07 July 2010
The On-Coming Storm
A few posts ago I mentioned an unshakable feeling that there was a lifestyle change coming, but that I wasn’t quite sure what it was. Now, I’d like to pretend I had some sort of premonition regarding the ascension of Prime Minister Gillard, or that I could offer some reason as to why it’s currently raining in Darwin in July. And given the lack of specific details in my posts, I think I could probably get away with it. Whether or not I could convince anyone that I was for real is another matter entirely.
What I have just undergone is a lifestyle change of a geographic nature: I’ve moved out of the unit in Palmerston to make way for my landlord’s sister. I’m now living with two randoms from an internet ad. in a three bedroom unit in Coconut Grove. It’s much closer to work, church and pretty much everything except my cricket club, which I chose based entirely on how convenient it was while I was living in Palmerston. Ironic? Yes. Problematic? Not really, so in the overall scheme of things the whole situation is basically a win.
A win that is, in hind sight. In the middle of it, attempting to work full time, act part time, have a cold and move house all during the same week was, on the balance of it, not a my best idea ever. Consequently my new and exciting life in the Grove seems to be positively pedestrian by comparison. Not to worry. I'll soon find some way to throw things out of control again.
Now that Midsummers is done, my next trick is to get moving on a short film to be shot on location in Darwin. And one of these days I really am going to sit down and get some serious writing done. Probably straight after I get over spamming out self-indulgent rubbish on my blog all the time.
…
Garry with 2 Rs
What I have just undergone is a lifestyle change of a geographic nature: I’ve moved out of the unit in Palmerston to make way for my landlord’s sister. I’m now living with two randoms from an internet ad. in a three bedroom unit in Coconut Grove. It’s much closer to work, church and pretty much everything except my cricket club, which I chose based entirely on how convenient it was while I was living in Palmerston. Ironic? Yes. Problematic? Not really, so in the overall scheme of things the whole situation is basically a win.
A win that is, in hind sight. In the middle of it, attempting to work full time, act part time, have a cold and move house all during the same week was, on the balance of it, not a my best idea ever. Consequently my new and exciting life in the Grove seems to be positively pedestrian by comparison. Not to worry. I'll soon find some way to throw things out of control again.
Now that Midsummers is done, my next trick is to get moving on a short film to be shot on location in Darwin. And one of these days I really am going to sit down and get some serious writing done. Probably straight after I get over spamming out self-indulgent rubbish on my blog all the time.
…
Garry with 2 Rs
04 July 2010
A Midsummer Night's Dream
So over the last few weeks I’ve been gearing up for a local production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, by Shakespeare. It’s all been a bit random, as I only auditioned for the play on a whim and on about a day’s notice. I wasn’t really expecting to get in, let alone have a speaking role, but the next thing I knew I was issued with a script, a contact list and a month’s worth of rehearsal dates. They may have been blown away by my raw and untapped theatrical potential. They may also have been struggling to locate enough male players. We may never know for sure. All we can say for certain is that, for some reason, for the last week and a bit I’ve spent every evening pretending to be Francis Flute the bellows-mender. There’s been a bit of life imitating art going on, and it’s getting harder and harder to tell where Shakespeare ends and normal Darwin life picks up.
Flute is one of a group of amateur actors who randomly decide to put on a play, but don’t really have any idea what’s going on. People start behaving in peculiar ways because of love, largely due to the mischievous influence of a tricksy fairy. And it all takes place as the forces of nature and order seem to be out of alignment somehow. Also, just before the actors’ show, one of them gets turned into an anthropomorphised donkey.
Okay, the donkey one doesn’t really work.
Actors and other theatre types are a funny sort. They (I suppose I should really say “we”, but I like to pretend I’m different) seem to spend a great deal of time and effort showing how well versed and experienced they are in matters of the theatre, and the rest of their time trying to show how they don’t buy into it at all, but are really just there for the love of the art. They also occasionally learn lines, but obviously that’s over-rated. I spent most of my time figuring out what the hell was going on and how to make it look like I knew what the hell was going on.
Maybe I’m not so different after all. Either way, we ran the show for a week and sold out most nights. It was all great fun and the director and production staff all seemed really happy. For a cast and crew comprised entirely of locals (it was just the director who was a complete ring-in) I'd have to say we broke some serious legs.
Now, I know I promised you all some juicy backstage gossip but to be honest there really isn’t any. Most of the cast had full or part time jobs and by the time we all finished a day’s work and then put another four hours in for the show, we really didn’t have much energy left for any shenanigans. However, I can make the following observations:
1) Shakespeare is well renowned for his genius use of imagery, rhyme, metre and wit. However, the fastest way to impress an audience is still to have two chicks fighting in a paddling pool.
2) Despite the Fairy King’s assertions that everything had been restored to its natural order, no-one seemed to mind that Demetrius finishes the play still under the fairies’ enchantment.
3) There is absolutely nothing that an audience finds funnier than a man dressed as a woman.
And what with all the high-culture fun going on, there hasn’t really been much else to write about lately. Or has there?
…
Garry with 2 Rs
Flute is one of a group of amateur actors who randomly decide to put on a play, but don’t really have any idea what’s going on. People start behaving in peculiar ways because of love, largely due to the mischievous influence of a tricksy fairy. And it all takes place as the forces of nature and order seem to be out of alignment somehow. Also, just before the actors’ show, one of them gets turned into an anthropomorphised donkey.
Okay, the donkey one doesn’t really work.
Actors and other theatre types are a funny sort. They (I suppose I should really say “we”, but I like to pretend I’m different) seem to spend a great deal of time and effort showing how well versed and experienced they are in matters of the theatre, and the rest of their time trying to show how they don’t buy into it at all, but are really just there for the love of the art. They also occasionally learn lines, but obviously that’s over-rated. I spent most of my time figuring out what the hell was going on and how to make it look like I knew what the hell was going on.
Maybe I’m not so different after all. Either way, we ran the show for a week and sold out most nights. It was all great fun and the director and production staff all seemed really happy. For a cast and crew comprised entirely of locals (it was just the director who was a complete ring-in) I'd have to say we broke some serious legs.
Now, I know I promised you all some juicy backstage gossip but to be honest there really isn’t any. Most of the cast had full or part time jobs and by the time we all finished a day’s work and then put another four hours in for the show, we really didn’t have much energy left for any shenanigans. However, I can make the following observations:
1) Shakespeare is well renowned for his genius use of imagery, rhyme, metre and wit. However, the fastest way to impress an audience is still to have two chicks fighting in a paddling pool.
2) Despite the Fairy King’s assertions that everything had been restored to its natural order, no-one seemed to mind that Demetrius finishes the play still under the fairies’ enchantment.
3) There is absolutely nothing that an audience finds funnier than a man dressed as a woman.
And what with all the high-culture fun going on, there hasn’t really been much else to write about lately. Or has there?
…
Garry with 2 Rs
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