read me or eat me — it's all the same

blah, blah, blah…

December 1, 2009 at 12:42 pm (Uncategorized) (ali, kmh, love, music)

Actually, listening to Kate Miller-Heidke, especially in smaller scale concerts where, in fact, the audience is so spellbound that you can hear a pin drop, turns me into a hyperbolic, gleeful mess. But that IS the song’s title and the dance that goes with it is rather amusing.

Just spent the last few days up in Hepburn Springs, about ten minutes from Dalesford and an hour and a half from Melbourne. I went–with the patient and obliging L, who let me drag her all over the place as I traispsed through childhood memories–mostly to see the KMH gig, and was not disapointed. My photography, on the otherhand: disapointing.

(here’s ONE that I quite like):

I’ve always loved live music. I’ve always loved music, almost obsessively requring some combination of beat and lyric (and, preferably, a cascade of piano) to get through my day, mad as that sounds. I love live gigs, the force of a bassline hijacking my spine and breath so that, when the perfomer gets it right, I am, briefly, sound and pressure. Kate, even before listening to her songs became near-synonymous with all that is beautiful and sweet and funny, glorious and mundane, all that istwisted and poignant, and heartwrenching, about loving the alternate lexographer was a singer that took me out and upward, so I had no breath, and a heart that skipped so much that a new beat was formed from scratch. This gig–a full acoustic set at The Palais , with only Keir Nuttall accompanying on guitar and occasional ridiculous backing vocals–was almost as wonderful as the first time I heard Space They Cannot Touch on the radio and knew that yes, there were, sometimes (just sometimes), words for how I felt Ali. They weren’t my words, but they were perfect, and all I wanted to do was share them.

I still feel the same way. Especially now, when–although at a gig out in the country at twenty-three, rather than doing my homework in a now-demolished bedroom at seventeen–I can only share in degrees, with delays, what I wish I could simply pass on with a kiss, a look, hands held in the blackness beneath stage lights.