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Last Sunday morning I went to a church service at St. James' Anglican in the city. St. James is the oldest church in Sydney, and they run the service in the old-school traditional style; the whole place was full of smoke from the incense canister thing, and there were candles and robes and a procession; the whole works. Although it's known as the heart of the city, I couldn't help but notice that, besides me and a few of the choristers, there wasn't anyone there under about 40 years of age. That's not necessarily a bad thing – every church has their own niche demographic that they serve.
The music was fantastic. The pipes for the organ were on both sides of the church, and stretched from the floor to the ceiling. It was obviously a well maintained organ and the organist really knew how to use it.
They did a sung Eucharist and everything. We were all given handouts with the liturgy and a melody line all written out. It was nice, but I think anyone who wasn't a trained musician (fortunately I am one) might find it difficult to engage with the service in any meaningful way. But it was nice to listen to.
The sermon was interesting. I've grown accustomed to having a scripture passage read out and fully explored in depth, to make sure the full meaning of a passage is understood. The pastor (Priest? Minister? Rector? Primate? I don't know) just took one phrase "Prepare ye the way of the Lord" and gave us his thoughts on how what this might look like in a modern context, since we're still waiting for Christ's return almost 2000 years later. It wasn't what I was used to, but at least it made sense and I could see where he was coming from.
Overall, it was a nice way to spend an hour and a half, but I just didn't come away from it feeling like I'd gained anything useful.
I don't want to be too negative. The old school traditions still mean a lot to some people, and if you can get your head inside all the pageantry and symbolism, there's some fantastic truth there. It's just not my thing, and it certainly made me appreciate my church a whole lot more.
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Well… It's now December. 35 days from today until I leave for Madrid. Final preparations are being made. I've started putting the finishing touches to my plans, getting quotes from removalists and that sort of thing.
I've also stocked up on green and gold clothing with 'Australia' written on it. The last thing I want to do is get in a taxi with a disgruntled nationalist who thinks I'm American. And to keep warm, I've bought a rather dashing Bourke and Wills coat. Actually, I think winter in Spain is a fair bit more temperate than say England or Switzerland, but I reckon it will get cold enough to get away with it. Actually, I just want to wear a Bourke and Wills coat and walk around saying "g'day" a lot.
People at work are getting to the part where they offer me advice on where I should go while I'm over there. While I’m sure it’s all well intentioned, it actually makes me want to hit them sometimes.
“Oh, you’re going to Spain? How lovely. I remember when I was in Europe. What city are you staying in? Madrid? Oh no, you don’t want to go there. Make sure you get out to Salamanca. They’ve got this fantastic bakery you have to check out.”
“You’re going to Madrid? Oh, I much preferred Barcelona, to be honest. I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time, but make sure you get up north. It’s much nicer.”
“Are you going to France at all? What do you mean, filthy?”
“Well, if you go travelling, make sure you get down south. Are you heading over to Morocco? Yeah, see the south, that’s where the real Spain is. Madrid was just so cold and boring.”
You know what? It might well make me an uncultured Strine, but I’ve never actually been further afield than Invercargill (I’m measuring in distance from Darwin, so technically I think Singapore is closer). I have it in mind to see as many new things as I can while I’m there, and to be honest, even dull, cold old Madrid is going to be a big adventure for this particular Territorian, so I really don’t care how many darling antique silverware shops you found last time you were in Venice. And I don’t want to see photos of your last skiing holiday in Germany. I have no interest in the classical guitarist you met this one time in Lisbon.
I’m not interested in comparing notes with you before I’ve actually taken any. And no. I can’t speak freaking Spanish (kiss me) yet.
Far from home (how ironic)
Garry with 2 Rs
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I wrote my letter of resignation from work this week. I'm not actually leaving until sometime in December, but I wanted to give them plenty of notice, even though it's technically pre-ordained by the expiry date of my contract. It was just a few lines long; short and to the point (Yes... apparently I am actually capable of this).
I was thinking a lot about the conventions we use when we write these sorts of things. Of course the first line was "it is with some sadness that I inform you..." which, whichever way you look at it, is complete baloney. A more honest line would be something like "It is with a smug sense of self-satisfaction and vindication that I'm here to tell you..." Or perhaps just "I quit, damnit!" in preposterously large font.
Anyway, it all comes to a head later this week when I go and hand the letter in. Unless of course, someone from work happens to read my blog for some reason, in which case I guess I've just stolen my own thunder.
Which means I'm going to have to go round up my trusty crew of noble yet rugged outlaw brethren, and go get it back. Leaping from the back of my noble steed, I'll draw my long-blade dramatically and pronounce "You've stolen the thunder from your last resignation letter, 2 Rs!" To which, I will defiantly reply "What the hell are you talking about?"
Filthy neo-conservatives...
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
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There are only a few times in your life when, if someone asks you "what are you doing this weekend?" you get to respond truthfully with
"I'm singing in the final of Australian Idol".
Granted, there is usually only one weekend a year when that could possibly be true anyway, but I said it last weekend which by a happy coincidence turned out to be the weekend that I could say it on.
No, I wasn't one of the top two. Nor did I make the top twelve, having not actually entered the competition. And I am not secretly an alter ego of Kasey Chambers or Jessica Mauboy (although it's on my to-do list).
For reasons I haven't yet fully figured out, Australian Idol found themselves short of people to sing in the backing choir, so they got people who were signed up to do a ring around their friends and family to see if anyone wanted to help out. Basically anyone with links to the school choirs they had brought in was a potential target. And I'm in a bible study group with someone who works with someone who runs a choir, so naturally I was pretty high up there on the list. That they even bothered to hire choirs in the first place is hilarious in itself – but I'll get to that later. For now, here's my insider's guide to the greatest spectacle in Australian pop culture this week.
The Contract
Everyone appearing in the show had to sign a release form. Some of the terms and conditions are fascinating.
“I hereby assign irrevocably to the Producer the entire copyright and all other rights of whatsoever nature in and to my contribution to the Programme including but not limited to any literary, dramatic, musical or artistic work incorporated therein in which I own copyright such that the Producer shall be entitled to use and exploit and license to others to use and exploit such Contributions by all means and in all media forms whether now known or hereafter invented throughout the Universe.”
“I… hereby irrevocably consent to the Producer editing, producing amending and adapting the results and proceeds of the Contributions or any other act or omission in relation to the Works as the Producer deems fit in its absolute discretion and whether or not such acts or omissions constitute an infringements of my moral rights as that term is understood pursuant to any provision of law prevailing now or in the future in any part of the world.”
“I agree not to disclose to any third party any information relating to the Programme or the affairs of the Producer which may come to my knowledge during or in connection with my participation in the Programme.”
Clearly I’m in breach of that last one by even posting this blog, but if Fremantle Media can trace this blog back to the name I put on the contract, then good luck to them.
Meanwhile, I’m taking my recording of the one and a half seconds I was on camera for, and I’m going to a parallel world, where they’ll have no hold over me whatsoever, having foolishly left parallel universes out of the terms and conditions. Unlucky!
The Score
A couple of weeks before the big event, we were all sent our three-part harmony score, and set about learning our bits for Viva la Vida. It was nice and simple, and I was pleasantly surprised that we would get to sing a half-way decent song instead of some gammon disco track about how excited we all were to be there.
The Rehearsal
On Saturday afternoon they herded us into a large theatrette type room in the Sydney Opera House to be given the low-down on what would happen the following night. I was expecting a couple of runs through the score with everyone together, but actually the first thing we were told was that the vocal tracks had all been pre-recorded. We would effectively be lip synching, but it was important that we were all there because there were actions to learn. There were no actions for the Cold Play song, but we had some very exciting hand movements to learn for the big opening song "Can You Feel It?" (a gammon disco track about how excited we all were to be there). We even got to do the 'raise-the-roof' actions, which I hadn't done since high school (and with good reason…).
The really important part came when they spent a good twenty minutes sorting us in carefully arranged lines so we would all fit on the stage. They had us all tell them what row number we were in so we would all remember. Then they marched us out onto the steps of the Opera House and discovered that actually we wouldn't all fit on the stage, so we just crammed ourselves on in whatever fashion we could manage, line numbers be damned. They weren't impressed at all.
Professionalism
When I say 'they,' I'm referring to the people wandering around wearing jeans, black shirts and headsets. Normally all black or jeans and black is the logical uniform for the back-stage crew at any sort of production. However, this one was being put on outside in an open air stage, which couldn't really be said to have a back stage area. And these guys weren't exactly dressing to camouflage with the back stage sets; they were in a completely different room inside the Opera House itself, looking after our jumpers for us while we were on stage. Furthermore, it was Saturday, and the show wasn't until Sunday evening. But there was no doubting that they all looked really cool. I know I remarked on more than one occasion how badly I wanted to get myself one of those headsets.
It might have just been that they were all professional production type people, and black and denim were the only things they had in their wardrobe. But no, it turned out they were all data analysts and shop workers doing some weekend work for Fremantle Media for some extra cash.
So for that reason, I'm prepared to forgive them for the monumental schmozzle that characterised the entire operation, and transfer the blame back onto Fremantle Media themselves, where it obviously squarely belongs. They clearly hadn't given much thought to the necessary training required to get 120 people to go where they wanted them to at the right time. I had thought that a production the size of Idol would have a pretty strict regime of professional conduct, but honestly I think I've been in high school plays with a greater level of professionalism. Here's a shout out for anyone who ever did year 12 drama with Mr Mac.
Uniform
Of course, it wasn't just the back-stage baby-sitters that had to be dressed the same; every member of the choir was going to get their very own Australian Idol t-shirt. Well… we were all given identical blue shirts. They didn't have anything on them, they were just blue shirts. And we were all warned very sternly that if we forgot to wear them on Sunday, we would not be allowed to perform. And possibly we would be arrested for indecent exposure.
Can you feel it?
The big moment finally came around Sunday night. We all lined up in yet another formation inside the Opera House and waited for our signal to take the stage. Outside, we could hear the sounds of the most optimistic choreographer in theatrical history attempting to teach the crowd of 6000 teenage girls the actions to 'Can You Feel it?' The idea was to get a great aerial shot of the whole Opera House forecourt packed people all raising the roof (there was no roof). Anyone who has spent more than two months in this country would know that the only movement it is possible to get Australians to produce en masse is the Mexican wave, but she was adamant that this was going to be the best thing ever. In the end, I think they got a great shot of 120 people in blue shirts raising the roof, and 6000 teenage girls screaming incessantly and taking photographs. We sang our song, did our dance and got the hell off stage again until the other choir song. I feel confident that whether or not the crowd could feel it, they had certainly been asked whether or not they could.
Viva la Vida!
This was by far my favourite part of the weekend for a number of reasons:
First was the song itself. Although Cold Play usually make me want to claw my eyes out, I actually like this song, although I prefer it being sung by Cold Play than by the Idol top twelve. Nonetheless, at least it was fun to sing.
Secondly, despite all the preparations done over two days of rehearsals, the back stage crew managed to send us on late. The introduction was halfway through and the choir was still running out over the cables and steps we'd all been warned not to run on. We formed up in lines once again not resembling any formation we'd ever stood in before, but fortunately it didn't matter, because there were no movements for this song, just singing.
Thirdly, we were accompanied (sort of) by a cello ensemble.
Finally, right at the big climax of the song with the Idols singing the chorus, and the choir singing the oh-oh-oooooooooooh bit, there were fireworks going off overhead and the sound was huge and for about fifteen seconds I thought "actually, this is pretty cool".
Viewers watching at home would almost certainly have been impressed, if not by hugeness of the sound, then by the fact that it was being produced without any of the choir or strings having any microphones whatsoever.
In Summary
I left well before the event finished. Apparently Wes won. I'm told I was on TV for about a second and a half at one stage. When everyone else put their fist in the air, I did a llama. And I came away from the event with a cool 'Australian Idol 2008 Grand Final Performer' tag, which should provide hours of fun if I take it overseas with me.
Questions for Discussion
If everything (and I mean everything, including strings, drums and choir) except the Idols' voices was pre-recorded, why did they feel they needed a 120 voice choir on hand?
Having decided they wanted a 120 voice choir to do the actions but not to sing, why did they need to hire actual choirs?
Having resolved to bring in actual choirs, why did they go to the trouble of sending said choirs a three part score for a song that was pre-recorded?
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs
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Chatswood Mall is the spruiker capital of the world.
Alright, that’s probably not true. The international spruiker convention probably has more spruikers per capita than Chatswood Mall, but only just. And I’m not even talking about the guys out the front of soon-to-close-down jewellery shops telling us all about how passionately they believe in the never-to-be-repeated bargains on offer here this morning shoppers. I’m talking about these spruikers:
“Do you have a moment to talk about human rights in China?”
“Have you heard about the humanitarian disaster in Pakistan?”
“Can I chat with you for a minute about heart disease?”
“If you don’t stop and talk with me about the environment, my associates will come and throw acid and stink bombs all over your car.”
“Yep, that’s right dude, keep walking you selfish, consumerist wanker. Children are starving and it’s all your fault!”
They’re all (with the exception of Greenpeace) great causes. I really wish I could support them all. I’m a bit of a sucker for the street charities, and quite often I’ll stop and chat with them if they’re friendly and not too confrontational. Or really good looking. And being a moderately affluent young professional, over the last 18 months or so I’ve ended up supporting a few of them. My favourite moments are when I’m talking with one of these guys and they’re just a little too keen to move in for the kill, so they neglect to ask the really important questions first:
Spruiker: Do you have a few minutes to talk about human rights violations in China?
Garry: (Glances at wrist. He doesn’t wear a watch anymore) Sure, why not?
Spruiker: Basically, China has an authoritarian control on freedom of expression. All the newspapers are governments censored and journalists who criticise the government can be arrested.
Garry: That’s terrible.
Spruiker: Amnesty is currently petitioning the United Nations to publicly condemn the policies as a violation of human rights, and advocating support for persecuted journalists.
Garry: That’s fantastic.
Spruiker: Do you think that’s a cause worth supporting?
Garry: Yep, certainly.
Spruiker: Would you be prepared to give a small amount, just one cup of coffee (why is it always coffee?) a week to support Amnesty International?
Garry: I already do.
Spruiker: So you… what?
Garry: I already support Amnesty International.
Spruiker: Why didn’t you tell me that at the start?
Garry: You didn’t ask. You just asked me if I wanted to chat about human rights in China. And we have. It was most informative, thankyou.
Spruiker: Well… yeah. Good on you.
Garry: You too mate. Have a nice day.
The ones I really don’t like are the ones who are out to guilt you. That ask you how much you spend on food in a day, or what your disposable budget for a week is, and then point out that you could feed half of Africa for a decade with the pocket change of the average Sydneysider if only we took a leaf out of the socially aware spruiker’s book and weren’t all so damned selfish.
I met a really rude one today. We had a great chat about the plight of political refugees in Sudan. We came to the inevitable awkward moment of asking for money. I smiled and told him I couldn’t take on any new charities as I was about to leave my job to travel and would probably have to drop the ones I was already supporting.
Spruiker: Oh you’re travelling, are you? Where are you travelling to?
Garry: Spain.
Spruiker: Spain. Yeah, that’s nice. So I’m guessing that would cost around two or three thousand dollars at least.
Garry: … yeah…
Spruiker: So tell me, compared with that, what is twenty five dollars a month? It’s just a cup of coffee a week.
Garry: I don’t drink coffee.
Spruiker: Okay, what about chocolate? A block of chocolate a week then.
Garry: Guess again mate. I only buy fair trade chocolate (flagrantly not true, but this guy got me really angry). You couldn’t buy one of them a week for twenty five dollars a month, mate. I was just on my way to pick some up. And frankly, if you’re out here pontificating to me about respecting human rights in Africa while you’re eating chocolate produced with the blood, sweat and tears of juvenile slaves, you need to have a good hard look at yourself. Shame on you.
Oxfam Girl: (appearing from her shop to see what all the commotion is about) What? You mean this guy eats free trade chocolate? I don’t believe this!
Spruiker: What? I…
Oxfam Girl: I’m going to have to open up a can of woopass on you now.
And she proceeded to do exactly that. That guy messed with the wrong moderately affluent young professional.
So obviously everything after “I don’t drink coffee” didn’t actually happen, I just extrapolated the conversation and included it for a cheap laugh. Actually, I just stopped listening after he mentioned coffee, thanked him for his time and moved on.
The Sudanese refugees do it really tough, and I wish I could save them all, I really do. But nothing in my religion or any others that I know anything about gives any human the right to use guilt on another human being who has done nothing wrong. Or who, at the very least, has done no more wrong than the one doing the guilting (and stone throwing, if you see where I’m going). Being born in Australia is not a crime; it’s a blessing. Travelling to Europe is not a selfish indulgence, it’s an adventure and a chance to broaden my horizons and make myself a more informed, educated, well rounded person. And if I didn’t give so much to charity each month I would probably have been there about six months ago.
At least I can say I acted out of mercy and compassion by walking away, instead of punching him in the head.
Now that’s charity.
Far from home
Garry with 2 Rs