Sydney Reviews

It's a regular Wednesday night thing. It's a scene, man. The place is called Ruby's, and it's named after Ruby Fulton, a generous benefactor who enabled Ruby's Place Performance Cafe, to give it its full due, to come into being. Ruby might be long gone, but Liz Page is still very much alive and almost singlehandedly responsible for imbuing what would otherwise be a limited, nondescript space with vitality, character, charm and atmosphere which would do a Haight-Ashbury hash cafe in its heyday proud. The clientele has that confident air which tends to betray it as regular. The garb and vibe is slightly offbeat; alternative; left; bent. It's a colourful and interesting crowd, numerous of whom seem like they've got something a bit special in their tea, a little LSD with their Lipton's, perhaps. But no, just tea. I seriously suspect peppermint's the strongest stimulant going 'round. And camomile the only dope. Which is cool.

What's also cool is that there's a kitchen cooking up dishes that entice the moment one picks up the scent, on entering the building, downstairs. Think laksa for a main and a naughty noughties cupcake for afters. Like the cover, at a very modest ask. It's byo, so you'll save a bob there too.

And then there's the entertainment. Once you've settled into a sumptuous old couch, plucked a tome from the well-stocked bookshelf, shuffled through the bursting basket of vinyl, and cracked open a cabernet, you can feast your ears and eyes. Typically, I gather, from browsing the online archive, this might mean the likes of, say, Emanuel Schmidt, a jazz-blues guitarist of distinction and originality, notable for his understated staccato savoir faire. The latin-jazz fusion of Urban Gypsies. Or tabla savant, Bobby Singh.

Last Wednesday evening, however, was something rather more informal, guided by dearly-departing guest programmer, Sin. Akin to open mic, it brought together an eclectic lineup, starting with a softly-spoken gentleman of a certain age: Clem Gorman, who may or may not have been that Clem Gorman (the prolific playwright).

Neither the world's most confident singer, nor pianist, he did nonetheless sport an engaging demeanour and timbre. What stood out were his songs: one speaking out against war; another a readymade, solid-gold, country-blues hit for Willy Nelson, should he be offered it. Well, that's my opinion, anyway. It was shameful to observe and hear so many people, including others on the bill, conversing throughout this performer's set. Said behaviour may be commonplace, even typical, but it's never excusable, or appropriate. The small PA was unable to surmount the disrespectful din and I felt for the sensitive soul behind the mike, and electric keys.

One of the above offenders was Pauly Vella, another singer-songwriter, this time armed with guitars. His MySpace touts his genre as acoustic pop-punk, but you'll be hard-pressed to discern the punk 'tude. His songs, voice and guitar are pleasant (even if the first a little off-key) enough originals, but seem derivative and too innocuous; there's a discomfiting sense of catchy deja vu about them.

Lewis. Just Lewis (as far as I know). An Aboriginal man with dreadies who sounds as he looks: composed; chilled; utterly sincere, without any affectation or confection. And his songs (too few) were every bit as disarming as that implies. A couple about his saltwater roots and totems; a heartrending one about his faithful blue heeler, Boomerang; and his kookaburra song, replete with faithful trills of laughter. It's nothing short of astonishing to contemplate this was his first-ever public performance before adults, since he consummately inhabited the self-assured, charismatic, easy space of a practiced and polished veteran. It's certainly transparently obvious why kids, who he's targeted to date, would adore him. He has the cleverness, insight, warmth and fun vibe of the Wiggles, but he'll wriggle into your big person's heart just as easily. Lewis, apparently, is on a continuous tour of the continent. I hope we see him back in our backyards really soon.

Next up was the favoured combo of Spencer 'The People's Poet' Harding, accompanied by the improvisations and interjections of singer-songwriter Patrick Coyte, on keys. Harding, with his porkchop sideburns and white linen suit, has the tasteless, fashion-free, sartorial anti-splendour of his calling, his work falling somewhere between Elliott Goblet and Brian Nankervis' rhymeworthy alter-ego, Raymond J Bartholomew. In other words, he's not entirely serious. Not at all, actually. But he is entertaining; if better-suited, perhaps, to gen y and younger, with work such as his ode to Tetris. There's something slightly annoying about Coyte's egocentric pseudo-MCing, but he has a quick, honed wit, is a deft player with, I suspect, classical training, and has a canon of originals both intriguing & beguiling: sad, affecting lyrics; fragile, beautiful melodies. He's also a dab hand at reinventing iconic pop megahits.

The denouement was a magic man, who had considerable and suitably inscrutable skills with cards, rings and things, but few in terms of stagecraft beyond those. His act was, perhaps, entertaining for as many wrong reasons as right. He seemed like the kind of guy who'd spent, on the one hand, too many long hours, alone, in his room, honing his craft and yet, not quite long enough.

This was, in fact, a deviation from Ruby's formula, if there is one: a name world music act, with one or two surprises thrown-in. But Ruby's on any given Wednesday, will always, I think, be a cosy, comfortable home to eastern suburbs eccentrics and lovers of them. If you have a penchant for fringe, oddballs, sensible shoes, hemp clothing, community, socialism and creativity, you'll be amongst friends and fellow-travellers.


Ruby's Place

Venue: Ruby's Place Performance Cafe | 95 Roscoe St, Bondi Beach
Bookings: 02 9130 3445
Visit: www.chapelbythesea.unitingchurch.org.au/EVopn.html