We have it pretty good in this country. I know I do. Most of us have a roof over our heads and access to reasonably useful food. And for those who don’t, there’s access to services, welfare and community aid programs. No-one in a privileged place like Australia really has much to complain about.
And yet…
I’m having a hard time finding a job. I mean… I have a job, but my contract expires in June and there’s no funding available to keep me on after that, so I’m looking for a new one. I’ve had a couple of close calls for jobs which would have been fantastic, but even after making it to the interview stages, I’ve been denied. So that’s disappointing.
Another thing that’s annoying me more than it should lately is the NT Literary Awards. More specifically, my failure to get shortlisted for them. I don’t want to seem like a bad sport or like I have a higher opinion of my own writing than I should, but I was quite disappointed not to make the last round with a play I submitted. That’s fine. I decided to submit a request for feedback to find out what went wrong. I got this reply from the organisers:
Unfortunately, of your four pieces, only one has received written comments. It’s one of the hardships of dealing with a panel of volunteer judges, that you can’t tick them off for failing to follow orders! Please find one piece of feedback attached for Traditional English Hospitality.
I don’t want to bag the Lit. Awards too hard, because they do a great job promoting NT writing, but I do wonder how they made the decision not to shortlist me when there was no feedback on anything I’d written. Well… whatever. I’m not bitter. I’m never at home to Mr Bitterbottom.
And it doesn’t matter anyway. I’ve always been of the opinion that as long as I’ve got my keyboard and my car, there’s nothing I can’t do. It seems a strange thing to base my independence and self-confidence on, but there you have it. If I can go anywhere and I’ve got Samantha with me, we’re all good.
On Saturday night my car broke down. This is a calamity in anyone’s life, but in Darwin it’s particularly disastrous, as buses tend to come about once every fifteen years. And for me it was a double blow as I watched the otherwise faithful GSS Unity being hoisted onto the tow truck: Genius that I am I left my keyboard sitting on the back seat.
Fortunately I’m in a position where I can walk to both work and church from my house, so the loss of my car doesn’t cripple me completely like it did when I was without a car in Palmerston. But here I am in the middle of the year when everything was supposed to be falling into place for me and I can’t get a job, apparently I can’t write, and now I have no car and no keyboard. At times like this a man falls back on the only recourse left to him: Whinging about it on his blog. I mean… praying.
Fresh from last week's spectacular demonstration of things going right for me, I'm just a little frustrated at my seeming inability to catch a single break. Ah well. One Body and Happy Yess comedy are both coming up. Hopefully that will turn things around.
Make of that what you will.
Garry with 2 Rs
Showing posts with label Samantha. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Samantha. Show all posts
23 May 2013
31 December 2012
The Write-Me-Back Falls: Episode 3
Previously on Cum Tacent Clament…
“Stop changing the subject and tell me what’s wrong,” I yelled.
“We can’t,” explained OG in a voice that implied I was missing something flagrantly obvious, “We’re not all here yet.”
“Oh good grief,” I groaned. “Who else could we possibly be waiting for?”
“For me, of course,” said a voice behind me. And since I was standing with my back to the cliff edge, that was a little disconcerting. I turned around slowly and realised that it couldn’t possibly have been anyone else.
“Nice of you to join us,” I said to … Samantha Triton.
And now… Write-Me-Back Falls continues.
Ba daah, de dat daah da de dah de dat dat daah – Dat daah de daah de dada daah Daaaaaah.
“Theme music? Really?’ asked Samantha “On a text only blog?”
“Shut up,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
“And as if Write-Me-Back Falls would have the theme from A Country Practice as its opening titles anyway.”
“…I was going for the theme from Jurassic Park, actually.”
“You really need to learn to sing better.”
“I really do. How come you can fly?”
“Rocket Boots,” explained Samantha as if it was obvious. She touched down with a hint of overdrive and toggled the rotary speaker effect off.
“Of course,” I sighed. “I suppose there’s no point asking why you’re teaming up with OG and BL over there? I thought you were on my side.”
“Of course I am,” she said, with reverb.
“Then this doesn’t make sense,” I said, by way of plot exposition. “Oxfam Girl is almost completely imaginary, and Biscuit Lady is one hundred per cent metaphorical. You’re real. Or at least, you are when you’re being a piano. Not so much when you’re a flying woman. Also: Why are you dressed like that?”
“I’m a time-travelling space pirate.”
“YOU’RE A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT!”
“I hate to interrupt,” interrupted Oxfam girl. I suspect she quite enjoyed it actually. “But could we get on to what’s really going on here?”
“I’d love nothing more,” I said
“Hmph,” hmphed Biscuit Lady.
“We’re all here because we’re about to be blasted out of existence,” said Samantha, a little too matter-of-factly.
“Don’t be stupid,” I replied, “It’s clear that none of you exist except in my mixed up mind anyway. What have you got to be worried about?”
“That,” said all three of them in unison, pointing out to the electrical storm gathering over the ocean. I laughed at them.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little rain cloud?” I chided. “What kind of tropical girls are you?”
“I’m from a musical outlet in Brisbane,” said Samantha.
“I’m from an Oxfam Shop in Sydney. Sort of,” said Oxfam Girl.
“I’m a sociological metaphor, and I don’t like thunder,” said Biscuit Lady.
“Besides,” said Samantha, rolling her eyes, “That’s no ordinary thunder storm. If you look closely you’ll see the lightning is flashing steel blue, with a band of green around the middle.”
“That is unusual,” I admitted. “What do you suppose is causing it?”
“We don’t know,” admitted Biscuit Lady. “I’ve never seen anything like it. I asked the Bureau of Meteorology about it and they said they don’t really have a classification for it yet either.”
“I have a bureau of meteorology in my subconscious?” I asked.
“Stay focussed,” said Oxfam Girl. “No-one knows what that thing is, but we all know it’s dangerous. We can feel it.”
“We’re calling it Resolution Seven,” said Samantha.
“That’s… an awesome name for a thunder storm,” I said as a brilliant flash of blue lightning, the colour of the ocean at sunset, was followed by a particularly resonant thunderclap. And it was certainly getting closer. I watched, fascinated, as the clouds blew in and hovered over the cliff top. The imaginatrixes shivered beside me, and Biscuit Lady was looking decidedly pixelated.
“Get behind me girls,” I said as I smiled insolently at the storm, “This will only take a second.”
It sure did. Almost without warning, a steel blue thunderbolt flashed straight through my chest. The ground shook around me, but I stood my ground, just barely. As a good Christian Boy, I’d never felt more Weird. And as the fireball dissipated and the rain began to fall in warm, huge splotches (none of this rubbish southern rain, thank you very much. It’s my brain after all), I looked around to make sure the girls were okay.
They were gone.
In their place stood a piano, a 'make poverty history' wrist band and a plate of damp biscuits with a 'highly commended' certificate. I smiled, nodded once to say goodbye, and left them behind. As the storm of Resolution Seven closed in, without looking back I stepped to the edge of the cliff and jumped.
This is the part of the dream where I’m supposed to wake up and get on with writing. Apparently I still haven’t. It’s possible this blog is about to get really strange. Either that or I’ll be back in 2013 with more of the usual nonsense. Who knows?
Make of that what you will.
Garry with 2 Rs
“Stop changing the subject and tell me what’s wrong,” I yelled.
“We can’t,” explained OG in a voice that implied I was missing something flagrantly obvious, “We’re not all here yet.”
“Oh good grief,” I groaned. “Who else could we possibly be waiting for?”
“For me, of course,” said a voice behind me. And since I was standing with my back to the cliff edge, that was a little disconcerting. I turned around slowly and realised that it couldn’t possibly have been anyone else.
“Nice of you to join us,” I said to … Samantha Triton.
And now… Write-Me-Back Falls continues.
Ba daah, de dat daah da de dah de dat dat daah – Dat daah de daah de dada daah Daaaaaah.
“Theme music? Really?’ asked Samantha “On a text only blog?”
“Shut up,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
“And as if Write-Me-Back Falls would have the theme from A Country Practice as its opening titles anyway.”
“…I was going for the theme from Jurassic Park, actually.”
“You really need to learn to sing better.”
“I really do. How come you can fly?”
“Rocket Boots,” explained Samantha as if it was obvious. She touched down with a hint of overdrive and toggled the rotary speaker effect off.
“Of course,” I sighed. “I suppose there’s no point asking why you’re teaming up with OG and BL over there? I thought you were on my side.”
“Of course I am,” she said, with reverb.
“Then this doesn’t make sense,” I said, by way of plot exposition. “Oxfam Girl is almost completely imaginary, and Biscuit Lady is one hundred per cent metaphorical. You’re real. Or at least, you are when you’re being a piano. Not so much when you’re a flying woman. Also: Why are you dressed like that?”
“I’m a time-travelling space pirate.”
“YOU’RE A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT!”
“I hate to interrupt,” interrupted Oxfam girl. I suspect she quite enjoyed it actually. “But could we get on to what’s really going on here?”
“I’d love nothing more,” I said
“Hmph,” hmphed Biscuit Lady.
“We’re all here because we’re about to be blasted out of existence,” said Samantha, a little too matter-of-factly.
“Don’t be stupid,” I replied, “It’s clear that none of you exist except in my mixed up mind anyway. What have you got to be worried about?”
“That,” said all three of them in unison, pointing out to the electrical storm gathering over the ocean. I laughed at them.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little rain cloud?” I chided. “What kind of tropical girls are you?”
“I’m from a musical outlet in Brisbane,” said Samantha.
“I’m from an Oxfam Shop in Sydney. Sort of,” said Oxfam Girl.
“I’m a sociological metaphor, and I don’t like thunder,” said Biscuit Lady.
“Besides,” said Samantha, rolling her eyes, “That’s no ordinary thunder storm. If you look closely you’ll see the lightning is flashing steel blue, with a band of green around the middle.”
“That is unusual,” I admitted. “What do you suppose is causing it?”
“We don’t know,” admitted Biscuit Lady. “I’ve never seen anything like it. I asked the Bureau of Meteorology about it and they said they don’t really have a classification for it yet either.”
“I have a bureau of meteorology in my subconscious?” I asked.
“Stay focussed,” said Oxfam Girl. “No-one knows what that thing is, but we all know it’s dangerous. We can feel it.”
“We’re calling it Resolution Seven,” said Samantha.
“That’s… an awesome name for a thunder storm,” I said as a brilliant flash of blue lightning, the colour of the ocean at sunset, was followed by a particularly resonant thunderclap. And it was certainly getting closer. I watched, fascinated, as the clouds blew in and hovered over the cliff top. The imaginatrixes shivered beside me, and Biscuit Lady was looking decidedly pixelated.
“Get behind me girls,” I said as I smiled insolently at the storm, “This will only take a second.”
It sure did. Almost without warning, a steel blue thunderbolt flashed straight through my chest. The ground shook around me, but I stood my ground, just barely. As a good Christian Boy, I’d never felt more Weird. And as the fireball dissipated and the rain began to fall in warm, huge splotches (none of this rubbish southern rain, thank you very much. It’s my brain after all), I looked around to make sure the girls were okay.
They were gone.
In their place stood a piano, a 'make poverty history' wrist band and a plate of damp biscuits with a 'highly commended' certificate. I smiled, nodded once to say goodbye, and left them behind. As the storm of Resolution Seven closed in, without looking back I stepped to the edge of the cliff and jumped.
This is the part of the dream where I’m supposed to wake up and get on with writing. Apparently I still haven’t. It’s possible this blog is about to get really strange. Either that or I’ll be back in 2013 with more of the usual nonsense. Who knows?
Make of that what you will.
Garry with 2 Rs
04 May 2012
Cheater's Guilt
I don’t know how it came to this.
I’ve been with Samantha for a long time now. It’s been ten great years. Sometimes it seems like forty (even though I’m only twenty-mumble years old) and sometimes it seems like just two weeks, like we’re only just getting to know each other all over again. Every week we’re discovering new sounds, new ideas and new ways to complement each other. I never fail to be amazed by what happens when we’re together, and she’s always been there for me.
There was a time when the comforting and familiar straight lines of her silver casing would bring a smile to my face as I wandered back home after a hard day of doing … whatever it is I do, to say nothing of the joy of turning her on and watching her touch screen light up. Even when other keyboards came along like my old flame Mary, Sasha from the church or even Mary’s successor Marian, it’s always been us; Garry and Samantha. Just a simple guy and his disturbingly anthropomorphised electric piano.
It can happen so fast, can’t it? All it takes is one unexpected meeting; a flash of curvy red chrome across a low lit room, a manual interface that’s so fresh, new and dangerous. And weighted keys. It was just a night of laughs among friends; and then a couple of drinks later, before I even knew what was happening (impro comedy will do that…) I was on stage with my hands on another keyboard. It was all a swirl of lights, passion, retro interfaces and music (obviously). It was so exciting to be lost in another world, just for a night.
God, I didn’t even know her name.
And now I face the long, cold walk back to my flat in Malak. It doesn’t matter that she doesn’t have to know. It doesn’t matter that it was a one time thing. It doesn’t even matter that the long cold walk is in a car, and that the air-con is on because even at half past eleven at night it’s still pretty warm for May. And still raining. How can I be worried about inapplicable environmental metaphors at a time like this?
I know she’ll still be there. I’ll walk in late and the touch screen will light up room like always. But somehow the light will be a little dimmer. The response will be a little less smooth. The rotary speaker effect will be just that little less Waaahwawawawawawaawaawaaawaaaaaaaa-y.
Things will never be the same again.
Garry with 2 Rs
I’ve been with Samantha for a long time now. It’s been ten great years. Sometimes it seems like forty (even though I’m only twenty-mumble years old) and sometimes it seems like just two weeks, like we’re only just getting to know each other all over again. Every week we’re discovering new sounds, new ideas and new ways to complement each other. I never fail to be amazed by what happens when we’re together, and she’s always been there for me.
There was a time when the comforting and familiar straight lines of her silver casing would bring a smile to my face as I wandered back home after a hard day of doing … whatever it is I do, to say nothing of the joy of turning her on and watching her touch screen light up. Even when other keyboards came along like my old flame Mary, Sasha from the church or even Mary’s successor Marian, it’s always been us; Garry and Samantha. Just a simple guy and his disturbingly anthropomorphised electric piano.
It can happen so fast, can’t it? All it takes is one unexpected meeting; a flash of curvy red chrome across a low lit room, a manual interface that’s so fresh, new and dangerous. And weighted keys. It was just a night of laughs among friends; and then a couple of drinks later, before I even knew what was happening (impro comedy will do that…) I was on stage with my hands on another keyboard. It was all a swirl of lights, passion, retro interfaces and music (obviously). It was so exciting to be lost in another world, just for a night.
God, I didn’t even know her name.
And now I face the long, cold walk back to my flat in Malak. It doesn’t matter that she doesn’t have to know. It doesn’t matter that it was a one time thing. It doesn’t even matter that the long cold walk is in a car, and that the air-con is on because even at half past eleven at night it’s still pretty warm for May. And still raining. How can I be worried about inapplicable environmental metaphors at a time like this?
I know she’ll still be there. I’ll walk in late and the touch screen will light up room like always. But somehow the light will be a little dimmer. The response will be a little less smooth. The rotary speaker effect will be just that little less Waaahwawawawawawaawaawaaawaaaaaaaa-y.
Things will never be the same again.
Garry with 2 Rs
31 August 2011
In Memorium
It’s been an emotionally troubling week. I lost an old and dear friend who I shared a good deal of my upbringing with. Not exactly flesh and blood, but near enough.
Last year I wrote about how overjoyed I was when Mary, the Yamaha PSR 225 that had provided the soundtrack to my highschool years, had come back into my life. It’s been a happy year and a half as we’ve relived old times, rolling out like we used to for the fortnightly prison ministry. Even if it has caused a few arguments between me and Samantha, it's been worth every minute.
It is with deep sorrow and the greatest respect that I announce that two weeks ago Mary lost her battle with old age and a tropical disease known commonly as ‘cockroach corrosion’. She had lived a full and meaningful life and she will never be forgotten.
Could such a devastating loss as this spell the end for prison ministry?
Pffft. No.
It’s true that Samantha’s lack of onboard speakers (you can tell if a keyboard is hard core by whether it has onboard speakers or not. If you can get a sound out of it without a power pack, amplifier and a couple of leads, you’re not trying hard enough) makes her a bad choice for carrying in and out of prison (don’t tell her I said that). But all that was needed was a new portable keyboard. A better portable keyboard. A portable keyboard with such destructive power it…
Sorry.
We’ve all chucked in a bit of money, and I've made a very special trip to the music shop in Casuarina. Prepare to experience the fury of the Yamaha PSR E423! She's in the same series as Mary was, but is fifteen years younger and - being of the next generation - just a little more tech-savvy, more environmentally friendly and more likely to miss the sunset while playing on her iphone. All the old faithful Yamaha voices are there, plus a new pitch bend wheel, a usb interface and about a billion times more onboard memory.
In honour of her predecessor, I’ve named her Marian.
Make of that what you will.
Garry with 2 Rs
Last year I wrote about how overjoyed I was when Mary, the Yamaha PSR 225 that had provided the soundtrack to my highschool years, had come back into my life. It’s been a happy year and a half as we’ve relived old times, rolling out like we used to for the fortnightly prison ministry. Even if it has caused a few arguments between me and Samantha, it's been worth every minute.
It is with deep sorrow and the greatest respect that I announce that two weeks ago Mary lost her battle with old age and a tropical disease known commonly as ‘cockroach corrosion’. She had lived a full and meaningful life and she will never be forgotten.
Could such a devastating loss as this spell the end for prison ministry?
Pffft. No.
It’s true that Samantha’s lack of onboard speakers (you can tell if a keyboard is hard core by whether it has onboard speakers or not. If you can get a sound out of it without a power pack, amplifier and a couple of leads, you’re not trying hard enough) makes her a bad choice for carrying in and out of prison (don’t tell her I said that). But all that was needed was a new portable keyboard. A better portable keyboard. A portable keyboard with such destructive power it…
Sorry.
We’ve all chucked in a bit of money, and I've made a very special trip to the music shop in Casuarina. Prepare to experience the fury of the Yamaha PSR E423! She's in the same series as Mary was, but is fifteen years younger and - being of the next generation - just a little more tech-savvy, more environmentally friendly and more likely to miss the sunset while playing on her iphone. All the old faithful Yamaha voices are there, plus a new pitch bend wheel, a usb interface and about a billion times more onboard memory.
In honour of her predecessor, I’ve named her Marian.
Make of that what you will.
Garry with 2 Rs
19 April 2011
The Proper Way to Treat a Lady
One of the salient points of living in a room with a hole in the roof during the wet season was that I had to keep anything electrical somewhere else. Fortunately, being a man of simple means and small bedroom, this really only affected two things. The first was my computer, which is a laptop and easy to move around.
The other was Samantha, my Korg Triton synthesiser and ever faithful companion through thick and thin. Over the years we’ve spent many an insomnious monsoonal night together, listening to the rain beat down, watching the lightning and pouring our souls out to each other through that special bond that can only be shared between a man and an electric piano.
But recently we’ve started to grow apart.
I first noticed the problem when Mary came back into my life. Mary is my old flame from high school who returned from out of nowhere over twelve months ago now. She has nothing like the bond with me that I share with Sam, but then I guess you never forget your first love. When prison ministry came along, Mary’s lighter body and … ability to run on batteries made her the perfect choice to carry along with me. Suddenly Samantha found herself left at home in her box while I was out ministering with another keyboard.
When we moved into a room with a crack in the wall, it was the last straw. We both decided it would be better if Samantha stayed at the church for a while until I could figure stuff out with … the roof. The roof has long since been repaired, but Samantha seems happy in her semi-permanent position up front at the church. It’s convenient for everyone (well, everyone except Sasha the church’s old Roland piano who has been unceremoniously relegated to the floor behind the wings) but there have been plenty of nights when I’ve come home late and missed the comforting glow from Samantha’s touch screen after a long night at sepak takraw training.
To be honest, things had been rocky for a while before Mary came back. Ever since we started up with the local apostolic church it hasn’t been the same. The music is all guitar based and all in the same key (E major, also known as “the key of alto”, “the key of Hillsong” and “the key of ‘for God’s sake hasn’t anyone told them there are 11 other major keys, to say nothing of the minor ones?’”) and there really hasn’t been the chance for us to expand, explore and experiment with the sounds we’re capable of producing together. Even when I bought her a brand new Roland amplifier for us to play with together, it just wasn’t enough to compensate for a life of repetitive chord progressions and shallow (some might say theologically untenable, but that’s a rant for another post) lyrics.
All that changed last Sunday morning. We amiably and respectfully went through the motions like we do every Sunday morning; two fast songs to get everyone hyped and then two slow songs to get everyone “worshipping” (Why do we even associate ‘worship’ with slow and emotional would-be power ballads?) and then the special guest preacher stood up to speak.
It had been a while since we’d had a guest speaker at church. I had forgotten that pentecostal pastors – especially pentecostal pastors from big flashy churches down south – like to have the big finish to their sermons accompanied by reflective piano and string music.
I’ve managed to convince the worship team at church not to make me do this, because in my opinion if the words the preacher is saying are true and spirit-breathed, then they’ll carry enough impact all on their own and won’t need help from a musician. And if they don’t carry the sort of impact that comes inherently with being spirit-breathed and true, then I’ll be damned if I’m going to lend any power to a bung message with my expertly crafted and emotionally manipulative soundtrack in the background. It makes me into a hypocrite and makes Samantha feel like a cheap prostitute.
Unfortunately, no-one had thought to warn the guest speaker that this church was possessed of a methodologically rebellious keyboardist, so when the preacher reached the end of her talk and realised she wasn’t quite as powerful as she wanted to be, she actually called over the microphone for the keyboardist to come up and help.
Tragically I was out in the lobby at the time, as I had quietly removed myself from the auditorium about half way through the sermon. I found her theology a little wobbly, but didn’t want to ruin it for everyone else, who seemed to think her interpretation of Haggai was fantastic. The worship leader had to come out and find me and tell me to get my butt on stage and fire up the emotionatron.
Ordinarily I would have resented this, but I realised something amazing as I reluctantly climbed on stage and started to play: It was just me and Samantha up there. No guitarists, no drummer and no singers. Just me and my keyboard, together again. We didn’t have to play in E if we didn’t want to. We were free to express ourselves properly and let the music flow into whatever key, mode or range she wanted.
And freak me sideways if we didn’t set that room on fire. Garry and Samantha: the reunion album. Except it wasn’t an album, it was just an altar call. But what an altar call it was. The congregation must have really got into Haggai that morning, because at least half of them came forward for prayer. And we weren’t going to fade out, as if the people who were prayed for last were any less important than the ones who rushed forward to be first. We kept playing until the last person had said amen and the preacher had finished.
Forty five minutes later.
For Samantha and I it was a new team record for endurance altar call backing, but the time just seemed to drift past like a … big ball of wibbly wobbly, timey wimey stuff. Me and Sam were back at last, better than ever. And now that the crack in the wall is gone, we’re thinking it might be time for us to move back in together. God knows I’ve missed her.
You can make of that what you will if you want to, but it’s probably best not to over-think it.
Garry with 2 Rs
18 December 2010
Australia's Too Cool To Be There
On Sundays my post-church conversations (at least those that don't come after a Sunday when I'm on bass) generally go something like this:
Gw2Rs: So what are you up to for the rest of the day?
Whoever: I dunno. A few guys were talking about getting together for lunch somewhere.
Gw2Rs: Sounds good. Who? Where? When?
Whoever. I dunno. Ask Hannah.
Last weekend, sandwiched between the Brisbane trip and a week in Ramingining (East Arnhem Land) with work, my post-church conversation took a slightly different turn.
Gw2Rs: So what are you up to for the rest of the day?
Phil: A TV producer rang me and asked me to audition for Australia's Got Talent. Apparently they're short on applicants and need comedians.
Gw2Rs: ... ?
Phil: Want to come along?
Gw2Rs: Um...
Phil: Let me put it another way. Can you give me a lift?
For any normal Australian, the fact that producers of prime time national television shows are ringing up and asking for favours would be the stuff of several blog posts in its own right, but for Phil it's just one of those things that happen in the universe he inhabits. If John Lennon came back from the dead and announced that the Beatles were organising a comeback tour, the first thing he would do would be to call Phil and ask him to open the show for him. Phil would then put him on hold to check his calendar.
And so it was that I packed up Samantha after worship and drove Phil into town for the auditions. And being a compulsive attention junkie with an electric keyboard in my car, I figured 'what the hell?' and grabbed a sign up sheet of my own.
Much like the producers, I figured there wouldn't be many people there. I hadn't heard anything about it until that morning, so I assumed it would be a low key affair.
Just like the producers, I couldn't have been more wrong. The foyer of the Plaza Hotel was packed out by every wannabe singer, dancer, juggler, comic, rapper and contemporary poet the city could generate. I hadn't heard about it because I don't watch TV, but apparently Channel Seven had been advertising it for weeks.
It should go without saying (but it probably doesn't, so I'll say it to be on the safe side) that Phil and I were both way too cool to be there. But since Phil had been called up specially and since we'd come all the way into town and since sitting around doing nothing was all I had planned for the afternoon anyway, we decided to go through with it.
We were then treated to a parade of young hopefuls walking into the audition room as their numbers were called, each one trying nervously to pretend that they were too cool to be there. Obviously the exceptions were Phil and I, who were neither nervous nor pretending. We just really are that awesome.
Highlights:
1) At one point I saw in the queue a line of three highschool girls dressed identically carrying identical accoustic guitars. I assumed they were a group act, but they all went in identically one at a time and sang identical accoustic renderings of 'Torn' by Natalie Imbruglia. I guess they were all trying to stand out with their distinctive look.
2) Just after Phil went on, a troupe of a dozen septegenarian dancing girls in bikini body t-shirts arrived and performed an upbeat square jive. I don't know if they had talent or not, but they were bizarre enough to get their photos in the newspaper.
3) The cake was taken by an elderly cowboy who wandered into the foyer of the Plaza with his horse and began asking young hopefuls, including Phil, if they would like to perform their acts while standing on a horse. Phil politely declined. The Channel Seven crew arrived and offered the man an audtion form, which he then refused to accept. That done, he took his horse and went home. It turns out he really was too cool to be there.
As for my audition, I'm not really sure I'm the reality television type.
Gw2Rs: My name is Garry with 2 Rs and I'm a singer, song writer and stunt linguist.
Judge: A star what?
Gw2Rs: No.
Still, I sang my song, thanked the judges for their time and got the hell out of there. I doubt I made the required impression, but I've been fooled before. So either I'll rule a line under my blossoming reality television career for now, or you'll be reading the mother of all blog posts in February/March next year. I'm not holding my breath for that as it's at least two months away and my current breath holding record is 34 seconds (I have shallow lungs).
And I'm too cool to be there anyway.
Garry with 2 Rs
P.S. I'll be in Adelaide until after Christmas. It's a well established fact that nothing blog-worthy ever happens in Adelaide, so have a great Christmas and I'll see you in 2011! Peace.
Gw2Rs: So what are you up to for the rest of the day?
Whoever: I dunno. A few guys were talking about getting together for lunch somewhere.
Gw2Rs: Sounds good. Who? Where? When?
Whoever. I dunno. Ask Hannah.
Last weekend, sandwiched between the Brisbane trip and a week in Ramingining (East Arnhem Land) with work, my post-church conversation took a slightly different turn.
Gw2Rs: So what are you up to for the rest of the day?
Phil: A TV producer rang me and asked me to audition for Australia's Got Talent. Apparently they're short on applicants and need comedians.
Gw2Rs: ... ?
Phil: Want to come along?
Gw2Rs: Um...
Phil: Let me put it another way. Can you give me a lift?
For any normal Australian, the fact that producers of prime time national television shows are ringing up and asking for favours would be the stuff of several blog posts in its own right, but for Phil it's just one of those things that happen in the universe he inhabits. If John Lennon came back from the dead and announced that the Beatles were organising a comeback tour, the first thing he would do would be to call Phil and ask him to open the show for him. Phil would then put him on hold to check his calendar.
And so it was that I packed up Samantha after worship and drove Phil into town for the auditions. And being a compulsive attention junkie with an electric keyboard in my car, I figured 'what the hell?' and grabbed a sign up sheet of my own.
Much like the producers, I figured there wouldn't be many people there. I hadn't heard anything about it until that morning, so I assumed it would be a low key affair.
Just like the producers, I couldn't have been more wrong. The foyer of the Plaza Hotel was packed out by every wannabe singer, dancer, juggler, comic, rapper and contemporary poet the city could generate. I hadn't heard about it because I don't watch TV, but apparently Channel Seven had been advertising it for weeks.
It should go without saying (but it probably doesn't, so I'll say it to be on the safe side) that Phil and I were both way too cool to be there. But since Phil had been called up specially and since we'd come all the way into town and since sitting around doing nothing was all I had planned for the afternoon anyway, we decided to go through with it.
We were then treated to a parade of young hopefuls walking into the audition room as their numbers were called, each one trying nervously to pretend that they were too cool to be there. Obviously the exceptions were Phil and I, who were neither nervous nor pretending. We just really are that awesome.
Highlights:
1) At one point I saw in the queue a line of three highschool girls dressed identically carrying identical accoustic guitars. I assumed they were a group act, but they all went in identically one at a time and sang identical accoustic renderings of 'Torn' by Natalie Imbruglia. I guess they were all trying to stand out with their distinctive look.
2) Just after Phil went on, a troupe of a dozen septegenarian dancing girls in bikini body t-shirts arrived and performed an upbeat square jive. I don't know if they had talent or not, but they were bizarre enough to get their photos in the newspaper.
3) The cake was taken by an elderly cowboy who wandered into the foyer of the Plaza with his horse and began asking young hopefuls, including Phil, if they would like to perform their acts while standing on a horse. Phil politely declined. The Channel Seven crew arrived and offered the man an audtion form, which he then refused to accept. That done, he took his horse and went home. It turns out he really was too cool to be there.
As for my audition, I'm not really sure I'm the reality television type.
Gw2Rs: My name is Garry with 2 Rs and I'm a singer, song writer and stunt linguist.
Judge: A star what?
Gw2Rs: No.
Still, I sang my song, thanked the judges for their time and got the hell out of there. I doubt I made the required impression, but I've been fooled before. So either I'll rule a line under my blossoming reality television career for now, or you'll be reading the mother of all blog posts in February/March next year. I'm not holding my breath for that as it's at least two months away and my current breath holding record is 34 seconds (I have shallow lungs).
And I'm too cool to be there anyway.
Garry with 2 Rs
P.S. I'll be in Adelaide until after Christmas. It's a well established fact that nothing blog-worthy ever happens in Adelaide, so have a great Christmas and I'll see you in 2011! Peace.
14 May 2010
The Eleventh Garry
I’ve been doing some critical introspection just recently; re-evaluating who I am and what direction my life is taking. It all came to a head the other night as I was …
The next phrase is supposed to be something like ‘glancing over some old photos from college’ or ‘speaking to an old friend who has just returned from a soul cleansing pilgrimage to South America’ or ‘reading from the book of Jeremiah’, but it isn’t. Sorry for the confusion.
… watching Doctor Who. I was watching David Tennant regenerate into Matt Smith and reflecting on the unfair advantages the Doctor has.
If I want to reinvent myself, I have to have money and a new job and some way of keeping myself afloat while I readjust. It’s not enough to just say “I want to be an opthamologist now" and go do it. There’s always some stupid practical consideration in the way, usually in the form of dollar signs or obstinate people. It would be so much easier if I could just stand in the middle of my spaceship, strike a dramatic pose and wait for my head to catch on fire.
If I were a newly regenerated Time Lord, I think this would be the part of the episode where I double over, grab my stomach, wince, cough up some sparkly orange light and say “Oh no… my regeneration… it’s… going wrong,” before passing out to let the other characters squirm for a while, returning to full health at the last minute to save the day with a quick flick of the sonic screwdriver.
When I got back from Europe all full of vision and enthusiasm, I had huge ideas about finally having the stable base of operations I would need to do all the things left on my to-do list that had been taking second place to “travel through Europe.” But then I bunged up my car, discovered that my job was less than salubrious, came face to face with the harsh reality of how much credit cards suck and failed miserably to assign myself to a worship band. I’ve been home in Darwin since November, but I haven’t played a single Sunday morning service since leaving Adelaide. That might sound like a petty or self important complaint, but given that “worship musician” is one of the only terms by which I ever feel comfortable defining my own personality, it’s clear that somewhere in the last seven months or so something has gone horribly wrong.
So I’ve decided it’s time to start doing things a little differently. Tonight I’m joining some church friends in a battle of the bands at Palmerston markets. It’s time to let the old rock star version of Garry out of the cage again, not to mention giving Samantha a chance to cut loose. I’ve also auditioned for a local production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. God only knows what will happen if I get to be in that. I have plans to co-write and possibly appear in a short film to be shot in July and a renewed enthusiasm for finally getting my first novel finished.
And at Woodroffe oval last Tuesday, for the first time in recorded history, I batted for a full 15 minutes in the nets and didn’t get bowled once. I have a thumping great bruise on my stomach to show for it, and another one on the back of my leg. Things are looking up, as long as I don’t take my shirt off.
Actually, I could probably just take that last sentence and assign it to a folder marked ‘general wisdom’.
I’m going to be travelling to remote communities with work again for the next couple of weeks, so the next post might be a while coming. But it will totally be worth the wait.
That’s all folks.
Garry with 2 Rs
The next phrase is supposed to be something like ‘glancing over some old photos from college’ or ‘speaking to an old friend who has just returned from a soul cleansing pilgrimage to South America’ or ‘reading from the book of Jeremiah’, but it isn’t. Sorry for the confusion.
… watching Doctor Who. I was watching David Tennant regenerate into Matt Smith and reflecting on the unfair advantages the Doctor has.
If I want to reinvent myself, I have to have money and a new job and some way of keeping myself afloat while I readjust. It’s not enough to just say “I want to be an opthamologist now" and go do it. There’s always some stupid practical consideration in the way, usually in the form of dollar signs or obstinate people. It would be so much easier if I could just stand in the middle of my spaceship, strike a dramatic pose and wait for my head to catch on fire.
If I were a newly regenerated Time Lord, I think this would be the part of the episode where I double over, grab my stomach, wince, cough up some sparkly orange light and say “Oh no… my regeneration… it’s… going wrong,” before passing out to let the other characters squirm for a while, returning to full health at the last minute to save the day with a quick flick of the sonic screwdriver.
When I got back from Europe all full of vision and enthusiasm, I had huge ideas about finally having the stable base of operations I would need to do all the things left on my to-do list that had been taking second place to “travel through Europe.” But then I bunged up my car, discovered that my job was less than salubrious, came face to face with the harsh reality of how much credit cards suck and failed miserably to assign myself to a worship band. I’ve been home in Darwin since November, but I haven’t played a single Sunday morning service since leaving Adelaide. That might sound like a petty or self important complaint, but given that “worship musician” is one of the only terms by which I ever feel comfortable defining my own personality, it’s clear that somewhere in the last seven months or so something has gone horribly wrong.
So I’ve decided it’s time to start doing things a little differently. Tonight I’m joining some church friends in a battle of the bands at Palmerston markets. It’s time to let the old rock star version of Garry out of the cage again, not to mention giving Samantha a chance to cut loose. I’ve also auditioned for a local production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. God only knows what will happen if I get to be in that. I have plans to co-write and possibly appear in a short film to be shot in July and a renewed enthusiasm for finally getting my first novel finished.
And at Woodroffe oval last Tuesday, for the first time in recorded history, I batted for a full 15 minutes in the nets and didn’t get bowled once. I have a thumping great bruise on my stomach to show for it, and another one on the back of my leg. Things are looking up, as long as I don’t take my shirt off.
Actually, I could probably just take that last sentence and assign it to a folder marked ‘general wisdom’.
I’m going to be travelling to remote communities with work again for the next couple of weeks, so the next post might be a while coming. But it will totally be worth the wait.
That’s all folks.
Garry with 2 Rs
11 February 2010
A Blast From the Past
As early as the mid nineties, when I was thirteen years old and half way through year eight, it became fairly clear to me and a quite a few people around me that my life was headed down the rocky, sporadically lit and capsicum flavoured (not really, I just felt I needed a third descriptor in order to generate the right cadence, which I have now, ironically, destroyed) road that is the life of a worship musician.
The problem was, even in the mid nineties, the most advanced musical instrument Darwin Memorial Uniting Church owned was a Casio keyboard which had been constructed sometime in the early seventies. It got the job done in terms of accompanying the Sunday School sing along each Sunday morning, but once I graduated to playing in the real service, it was clear I was going to need something a little more sophisticated. Although I will say this: When the church got rid of the old Casio, my dad bought it off them for about twenty bucks. It still works.
This was the time of the great DMUC bakesale of ’95. Basically a posse of church leaders, figureheaded by my mum, went bananas cooking shortbread, apricot slice, rum balls without the rum (it was church, after all) and about a billion different variations on lamingtons. Every Sunday morning after church we’d sell them to the congregation and put the money into a fund to buy a new keyboard. It was a hectic few weeks, but when the shaved coconut settled we had put enough cash together for the glory that was the Yamaha PSR 225.
Two hundred voices. Sixty-one touch sensitive keys. Ninety-nine different rhythmic accompaniments. I was in my own worship musician Nirvana, which is the stupidest cross-religious metaphor I’ve ever tried to get away with. The point is I loved that old keyboard. I knew every voice inside out, and exactly what sound I should use for whatever songs they picked for any Sunday service. Although it technically didn’t belong to me, we took it home most weeks so I could practise. All through high school, that old Yamaha was close enough to being a part of who I was. It wasn’t just regular church services either; That baby handled camping trips, Scripture Union mega youth services, school concerts and birthday parties. I think I even used her for a couple of gigs with the rock band we formed in year twelve. That keyboard rocked.
But, as the Oracle (not the one from Delphi, the one from the Matrix) so wisely declared, "Everything that has a beginning has an end". The time came for me to move to university in Queensland. I passed the Yamaha on to the next generation of church DMUC musos, knowing full well that none of them could ever love her the same way I had.
Once I got to Brisbane, I decided it was time to get serious, so I got myself what was, at the time, a top of the line Korg Triton named Samantha. Sam is basically the best thing ever, and is still sitting in my room next to me as I write this, but I never did forget the Yamaha that started it all.
I’m back living in Darwin now, and last weekend my mother came through town to visit me. We decided to head into DMUC to catch up with old friends. DMUC have bought a new electric piano with weighted keys and a good stereo sound they can run through the sound system. Things really have changed since the old days.
Having said that, some things seem to be immovable constants of the universe. Mrs S., the same woman who taught me in Sunday school is still running that side of things. She called me aside after church and asked if I could have a go at fixing a problem the current Sunday School musos were having with their keyboard. I couldn’t believe my eyes when we opened to the cupboard to check things out. There she was; my old Yamaha, just as I remembered her. She’s got some loose connections now, so the onboard speakers (Samantha thinks those things are so quaint) cut in and out. Mrs S. said I could take the keyboard home if I wanted to try to fix her.
I’m absolutely useless at all things electronic, but there was no way I was passing this one up, especially after they threatened to put her in the op shop if she couldn’t be fixed. So I put the old cover on, tucked her up under my arm like I always did, and carried her out to my mum's car like it was 1999 all over again.
The Oracle can shove it; the PSR rides again! Now all I have to do is find a way to keep her from fighting with Samantha.
And since I still haven’t settled on a usable new sign-off line of my own, I can think of no better way to end this post than with the benediction we used to say every week after Sunday School (for all I know, they still do).
May the Lord watch between me and thee while we are absent one from the other.
Amen.
Garry with 2 Rs
The problem was, even in the mid nineties, the most advanced musical instrument Darwin Memorial Uniting Church owned was a Casio keyboard which had been constructed sometime in the early seventies. It got the job done in terms of accompanying the Sunday School sing along each Sunday morning, but once I graduated to playing in the real service, it was clear I was going to need something a little more sophisticated. Although I will say this: When the church got rid of the old Casio, my dad bought it off them for about twenty bucks. It still works.
This was the time of the great DMUC bakesale of ’95. Basically a posse of church leaders, figureheaded by my mum, went bananas cooking shortbread, apricot slice, rum balls without the rum (it was church, after all) and about a billion different variations on lamingtons. Every Sunday morning after church we’d sell them to the congregation and put the money into a fund to buy a new keyboard. It was a hectic few weeks, but when the shaved coconut settled we had put enough cash together for the glory that was the Yamaha PSR 225.
Two hundred voices. Sixty-one touch sensitive keys. Ninety-nine different rhythmic accompaniments. I was in my own worship musician Nirvana, which is the stupidest cross-religious metaphor I’ve ever tried to get away with. The point is I loved that old keyboard. I knew every voice inside out, and exactly what sound I should use for whatever songs they picked for any Sunday service. Although it technically didn’t belong to me, we took it home most weeks so I could practise. All through high school, that old Yamaha was close enough to being a part of who I was. It wasn’t just regular church services either; That baby handled camping trips, Scripture Union mega youth services, school concerts and birthday parties. I think I even used her for a couple of gigs with the rock band we formed in year twelve. That keyboard rocked.
But, as the Oracle (not the one from Delphi, the one from the Matrix) so wisely declared, "Everything that has a beginning has an end". The time came for me to move to university in Queensland. I passed the Yamaha on to the next generation of church DMUC musos, knowing full well that none of them could ever love her the same way I had.
Once I got to Brisbane, I decided it was time to get serious, so I got myself what was, at the time, a top of the line Korg Triton named Samantha. Sam is basically the best thing ever, and is still sitting in my room next to me as I write this, but I never did forget the Yamaha that started it all.
I’m back living in Darwin now, and last weekend my mother came through town to visit me. We decided to head into DMUC to catch up with old friends. DMUC have bought a new electric piano with weighted keys and a good stereo sound they can run through the sound system. Things really have changed since the old days.
Having said that, some things seem to be immovable constants of the universe. Mrs S., the same woman who taught me in Sunday school is still running that side of things. She called me aside after church and asked if I could have a go at fixing a problem the current Sunday School musos were having with their keyboard. I couldn’t believe my eyes when we opened to the cupboard to check things out. There she was; my old Yamaha, just as I remembered her. She’s got some loose connections now, so the onboard speakers (Samantha thinks those things are so quaint) cut in and out. Mrs S. said I could take the keyboard home if I wanted to try to fix her.
I’m absolutely useless at all things electronic, but there was no way I was passing this one up, especially after they threatened to put her in the op shop if she couldn’t be fixed. So I put the old cover on, tucked her up under my arm like I always did, and carried her out to my mum's car like it was 1999 all over again.
The Oracle can shove it; the PSR rides again! Now all I have to do is find a way to keep her from fighting with Samantha.
And since I still haven’t settled on a usable new sign-off line of my own, I can think of no better way to end this post than with the benediction we used to say every week after Sunday School (for all I know, they still do).
May the Lord watch between me and thee while we are absent one from the other.
Amen.
Garry with 2 Rs
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