Let's Dance

Dancing. I do it, or at least I used to (mostly after application of alcohol), but I don't watch it. Not often. So it was kind of strange to find myself sitting in the dark red interior of Edinburgh's Playhouse having brow-beaten J, M, L & JH into forking out £20 to attend Michael Clarke's new show Come, Been and Gone. I hoped they weren't going to be grossly disappointed. At the time I booked I knew nothing about him. I didn't care. All I needed to know was that his new show was to have a soundtrack provided by Iggy Pop, Lou Reed, and my patron saint David Bowie, so nothing was going to keep me away.

These tracks are not just part of my history, they are woven into my bones. You'd think in such circumstances disappointment would be almost inevitable. Surely it was impossible for a dance, even if made by the Golden Boy (and Golden Arm, apparently) of modern dance, to avoid clashing all those weighty preconceptions that I already had about what these songs meant, and what they should feel like?

The fact that I know nothing about dance probably helped, but throughout the night I didn't have a single "that's not right!" moment. From the silver-clad lycra visions of the early track to the red legs and slash-backed black and white blazers against an azure background of Jean Jeanie (photo above courtesy of The Guardian), I was mesmerised. Moved to tears more than once, as well. Whether that was because of the dance or my own resonances with the music, I don't know, but it doesn't really matter: if the dance hadn't been so right the connection would not have occurred.

All those lycra-clad bodies did make me wonder though, as I looked around the packed house, whether part of the appeal of dance was that it was the only forum in which one can legitimately perv the human body. The show we trotted off to the next morning would suggest the answer is yes. Daniel K's Q & A played around with notions of art and democracy and consumerism by taking a survey-based approach to dance production, with all the research documented in a very weighty tome distributed to us all, courtesy of funding from the Singapore Arts Council. According to Daniel's survey, 'appreciating the human body' was the most popularly nominated response the audience made when asked what the objective of modern dance was, and the second most important after 'enriching our souls/spirits'.

We saw the same piece three times, once to open, once after having the research presented to us, and once after voting on our preferences for key elements such as music and costume, by the end of which we all knew a lot more about the decision making process of choreography than we did at the beginning. It also did a great job in raising key questions about art and the artist's relationship with their audience. Do they want to be loved? If so, is giving people what they want the way to acheive it? And where does truth and honesty, versus craft and artifice, come in to the whole equation?

I feel an essay coming on. So I will stop and go and get ready to go to Iceland. No, really.

Gypsy memories

Ms J. sent the e-mail in the afternoon. What happened to Dirty Three, she wondered. Weren't they on the bill? Well, I thought so too, and a quick check on last.fm showed we weren't alone.

It didn't matter. The night had a Saintly Mojo all its own. I was heading to the City from the ragged heart of Footscray when I suddently recollected that Ms J., Southside Supreme, worked in Footscray herself. Lo and behold, instant door-to-door transport and a happy journey in the J-mobile. When we arrive, Ms. J's famous Parking Fairy (bless her little cotton socks) finds us a spot.

We head towards the New Gold Mountain.Only one day till I leave. We wonder about a rendevous in New York. How did I start having such surreal conversations? Maybe it can happen, maybe it can. Hunger diverts to the neighbouring Japanese, Horoki, where my sashimi salad (with daikon, seaweed and a light tangy dressing) proves to be spectacularly good. The Saki Samurai (saki, ice, and a fat wedge of lime)are pretty damn good as well.

JL the Magnificent turns up to find us, and we all head to The Forum. Ms. J. and I discover that A., the waitter that always looked after the CSBM (Children's Service's Branch Mafia) at Nudel, just happens to have been a friend of Ms J's for 20-odd years. The delicate little threads that tie us all together flicker into view in the soft evening light. I ask her to relay our regards.

I collect the tickets at the Box Office, nearly tripping over a member of Blue Ruin in the process, and head on in. JL says that X are making her ears bleed, and heads for the seats at the back. I can't sit down at a gig, though, and head to the standing area with Ms. J. We soon find B., former collegue whose rock pig instincts have snaffled him a great spot against the railing. He is happy to share. X are great, and the bass is making my breast-bone vibrate just the way I like it. There is still at least one bass-player in the world who goes with the open-shirt look. It's good to know. The big vertical spit into the air is also particularly impressive. Not everyone can break the 6-foot barrier with a big gob of slag.

In the break between bands, B. confesses that he started the rumour that Dirty Three were on the bill. Says it serves us right for trusting networking sites and other scurrilous gossip. Meanwhile, JL comes down from her pew and is soon is having deja vu about Ms J's cat, though she has met neither Jane (or the cat) before tonight. Invisible threads are suspected.

The Saints come on, and I finally see Chris Bailey and Ed Kuepper in the same place at the same time. They open with Stranded. Can't get better than that. Chris Bailey keeps berating us all for being stupid enough to pay $60 to hear an album played that we could all listen to at home: ("I hate fucking matinees.Don't worry, it will be over soon.") Ed Kuepper looks earnest, Chris Bailey shows of relentlessly and occasionally remembers to pretend he is not enjoying himself. We yell and scream and coax them out for a great couple of encores, complete with a little diversion into a river deep rendition of River Deep Mountain High. The sweat and beer eases the collective creak of our old arthritic bones, and we dance. Someone even musters a stage dive. Sweet.

Ms J. spots Jimmy G. through the crowd, who was not only with us at RMIT years ago, but also was a primary school with me.

Hello, hello. How are you? Good to see you.

L. is here somewhere, but I can't see him. We walk to a bar off Bourke for a post-gig drink, talking about Otis Redding & Stevie Wonder. KC walks in the door, a face from another time: flashbacks of a party in her tiny Balaclava flat, dancing in a tiny living room.

Hello, hello. How's things? Whatcha up to? Yes, I heard you'd gone.

KC & JL start hatching plans for a Big Day Out. Conversation breaks off suddenly "Neil!". JL has seen a face she used to work with. She doesn't know it's the same Neil that I did my Masters with, and with whom I have shared many a beery chat.

Hello, hello. You know eachother? Can't believe I bumped into you. How's the family? How's the life?

I need to write this down, try and capture it lest the threads stretch and break. I sit down in the State Library this morning to write this blog, and look up Horoki. The review says the name means 'gypsy memories' or 'tastes of the wanderer'. Who knew?

See you soon, Melbourne. Look after yourself. I'll miss you.