Bri(ana) Cowlishaw is yet another walking, talking and, in this case, singing advertisement for the Australian Institute of Music, from which she graduated only a year or so ago. Her influences are diverse (she's a Joni freak, reverent disciple of Vince Jones and doesn't mind admitting she's borrowed a bit, from Jaco Pastorius); her demeanour humble, disarmingly shy and retiring, her announcements trailing-off and segueing into song. Yet, at what, barely 20-something(?), she's a mature and prolific songwriter; her lyrics resonating with the kind of insight that could only really be born of her very own experience. More than this, her compositions already reflect a distinctive style, that promises to be unmistakable, in the way of, say Bacharach: jazz-informed and inflected popular music, of the sophisticated, not superficial, kind. Her structures and arrangements are always interesting, her melodies transporting. Oh yeah, she's an utterly delicious vocalist too. This is no afterthought. It's just that her virtuosity as a composer is so striking, especially given her tender age and stage, that it almost threatens to overwhelm her gift and skills as a singer. Almost. For she shows a propensity which well-and-truly transcends her youthfulness: there mightn't be the seasoned, lived-in timbre that can only come from the passing of real-time years, but there is control, restraint and what is commonly referred to as taste; whether innate, a tribute to her training, or both. She understands, inhabits and embodies the adage 'less is more', something many of her elders would be well-served to observe, at times. Nothing is overwrought, overdone, or oversung. Her delivery is as gentle and close as a fragrant summer breeze.Of course, all of her talent was brought all the more effectively and, indeed, sublimely, to the fore thanks to the efforts (actually, effortlessness) of her exceptionally well-chosen collaborators: the mellifluous Tom O'Halloran (sadly, I gather, we're losing him to the west coast), on grand; the astonishingly fluid James Muller, on electric guitar; the strong, silent type, in Brendan Clarke, on acoustic and electric basses; the deft and delicate touch of Nic Cecire, on drums. Collectively, Bri couldn't wish for a more empathic, supportive, or sensitive backbone.
She has a number of projects out there, of which this is but one. While she hinted at funk, this evening (at the newly-named Colbourne Avenue, off St. John's Road, in Glebe), was pure jazz. Highlights were many; lowlights non-existent.
If memory serves, the evening began with Little Things, underpinned by an insistent, infectious, toe-tapping piano syncopation, reflects 'it's the little things that reveal your happiness, it's the little things that give it all away', tending to a melancholic and solitary sensibility: 'and when you're down, there's far too much else to worry about; remove yourself, and let your life unfold'; sage, acute observation, from the mouth of a relative babe. The incomparable Cecire drove it home, with a relentless, yet understated, Latin rhythmic matrix (Jobim's in there), interspersed with changes that keep things lively, while O'Halloran's melodic musings, tinkling and soloing echo the lyrical disposition, which is, by turns, celebratory of the lifeforce and deeply introspective. This seems to be a very personal testament and all the more poignant for it. It is, I think, a truly great song, with very long legs, if anyone should choose to walk a mile in its shoes. All it needs is a Buble to give it the global exposure it deserves; although the ideal would be if Cowlishaw could take it to the streets herself. I'm sure her idol, Mr Jones, could do it immense and impressive justice, as could the goddess-like Ms Mitchell.
Just A Game funks it up, opening with a menacing bass-and-drum groove and a sweetly sexy scat. But even with that danceworthy context, BC can't resist strident self-criticism, or social commentary (strike out that which is not applicable): 'it seems that we hide, rehearsing our lives; keep waiting for more, you're left hanging, but will you fall?'. The feel is an open invitation for key soloists O'Halloran and Muller to really open up, and they both fire on all sixteen cylinders; O'H has one exclaiming just that (oh, wow!), while the big M is blistering. All-in-all, it's raunchy, but wrapped, exquisitely, in a slippery, sleek, satin vocal.
The Changing Seasons is every bit as confessional: even in introducing it, Bri speaks of the last couple of years of her life veering wildly between summer and winter. One almost feels like a voyeur, peering into a secret diary, embarrassed to be in the presence of such frankness and candour. Poetic candour, at that. There's still the authentic counterpoint of bright optimism, rhythmically and melodically, tempered with a pronounced penchant for self-examination and scrutiny, but Seasons takes this trademark to a whole other level, as it suddenly embarks on a reckless, chaotic, feverish, vertiginous interplay between all the players: it takes off, a whirling, swirling dervish, swooping and diving all over the room, as well as the thinking and feeling places and spaces in oneself.
Vince's Call saw just Cowlishaw and O'Halloran share the spotlight and, in paying homage, treads the same deep, dark and dangerous ground, musically and verbally, for which VJ is known and treasured. Inasmuch, it's a fitting and moving tribute, if a premature eulogy.
There were many more fine songs. And I do mean fine; in the sense that Cole Porter songs are fine. That is, refined. And, given the benefit of a few exposures, irresistible and, thus, unforgettable. They're that good. She's that good.
Close your eyes and Bri Cowlishaw will take you places familiar, new, nostalgic, painful, peaceful, visceral, and elsewhere. Places you've been. Places you've seen. And places known that look quite different, when viewed from her sharply-defined angle.
Finally, a tribute to Andrew Lorien and all who've reinvented what is otherwise the arty Cafe Churchspace, in rebranding the former, temporally-oriented Eight O'Clock Sharp as the geographically-oriented Colbourne Avenue. Given the commitment invested, the quality output, longevity and kicked-back, chilled-out loungeroom vibe, it's tempting and easy to fantasise one's in, say, a New York institution, of the ilk, calibre and reputation of the Blue Note. It's BYO anything (wine, cheese, fruit and crackers would seem like a good idea, at any time), there's free tea, coffee, water and more, and it's homier than home. Just pull up your choice of sumptuous couch and bathe in the candlelight. Last night, there was even a sympathetic moon, none too cheesy, shining brightly through the big, old, arched windows. Music, and its presentation, doesn't get much, if any better. But, for God's sake, don't go. I want it all to myself.
Colbourne Ave presents
Bri Cowlishaw
Venue: The Cafe Church Space | cnr Colbourne Ave & St. Johns Road, Glebe Sydney
Date/Time: 8:00pm Thursday 25 February, 2010
Web: www.cafechurch.org.au/eightoclocksharp
