Having written my last blog post about how much I enjoyed my almost empty house, as if to make me eat my words, we had an unexpected visit from one of our far-flung family members. My older son’s girlfriend was back from London for one week, to attend her much-loved, almost-95-year-old grandmother’s funeral.
Having her back in residence for three nights, coming home to her bubbly, elfin presence and shared G&Ts reminded me of how lovely it is to have young people around. In the evenings, the four of us lounged over dinner, talking and talking. It’s the same when our oldest and her bloke visit from the bush. Phones, emails and skype are all very well, but there’s nothing quite like sitting across a fire place from someone whose company you enjoy, tummies full of a good meal you have just shared.
The two girls went out on the verandah and their light voices wafted into the house, chattering endlessly, words tumbling out and over each other in their excitement at being together again.
We hadn’t seen her for a year, and I had worried needlessly that we might feel shy and awkward together, might run out of things to say. But it couldn’t have been easier, and there was the satisfaction of having time to ask about the minutiae of their lives in London. Had they been worried on the days of the rioting? What did an ordinary working day consist of? Did they think they would come back to Melbourne eventually?
On Thursday night the four of us went to a concert in the ornate intimacy of the Athenaeum. Clare Bowditch was performing Tales from the life of Eva Cassidy who, like another of my heroes, died at the age of 33. The two singers are very different in just about every way, but they are among my favourite artists, and I had booked tickets months in advance.
It was a foretaste of heaven. As Bowditch walked slowly onto a darkened stage and launched softly into Time after Time, her musicians creeping on, one by one and joining in, I was aware of a mounting sense of sheer joy. ‘We’re in for a treat,’ whispered my husband, as we joined in the applause.
I didn’t want it to end. The Blues Alley Band – five brilliant jazz-blues musicians put their own stamp on Cassidy’s stamp on so many classics. Their artistry was breathtaking. Their obvious enjoyment of the music, their instruments and each other was infectious. They felt like our friends, offering us the gift of their soulful, passionate music. They gave their all.
As for Bowditch, I’ve seen her live several times, and she never disappoints. This gig, however, gave more scope for her acting and story-telling skills and comedic timing. ‘She’s really funny Mum,’ said my youngest to me at interval.
She is seriously beautiful too, aware of her own sexiness but never taking it too seriously. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m a woman who enjoys a good meal!’ she said, standing before us in all her Rubinesque glory.
In between the songs Bowditch (who spent a year researching) and the lead guitarist told stories about Eva’s short life. And interwoven were experiences of Bowditch’s own life as a musician. A past boyfriend, she told us, who loved gravelly-voiced male singers like Leonard Cohen and Tom Waits, had ambiguously told her she sang ‘like a girl’.
Through the evening a vivid picture of both singers emerged – the Cassidy who was almost unknown in her own life time and refused to play the game in the 90s music scene – wouldn’t conform, wouldn’t sing ‘crap pop’, wouldn’t wear anything but leggings and oversized lumber-jack shirts, absolutely refused to schmooze.
It was a packed house and we lapped it up - the humour, the poignant tales, the ad libbed one-liners, the down-to-earth Australianness of the whole night, the glorious mixture of music. Eva, Clare told us, derived pleasure from giving other people joy when she sang. I can’t help hoping that somehow, where and whatever she is now, she knows of the extent of the joy she is still bringing to vast numbers of listeners.