They're called Aluka, but the out-there, on-something Clare Bowditch refers to them as her, ahem, Lady Garden; so it amounts to an alter ego. They're like fairies at the bottom of it (the garden, that is). Petite and angel-voiced. An acapella threesome, who call to mind, with profound fondness and nostagia, Tiddas and (whatever happened to) Stiff Gins. They aren't those groups, of course; they're heavenly messengers of an entirely different hue. But they do share a talent for starkly original vocal compositions and arrangements, albeit of very different textures.Aluka opened Bowditch's bidding, for an early evening cabaret, in the more laissez-faire sense of the term, at The Studio. I'm completely unfamiliar with their material, or was. About all I know is they hail from Shepparton (where they made their debut, just last year, at the arts festival) and sing considerably more sweetly than Julia Goolia, even if the last knows all the right words. Aluka's hypnotic harmonies are well out of the ordinary; their original songs made all the more arresting & vital thanks to variations in tempo and time-signature. They seem determined to wear their musicianship on their sleeves. Clever girls, just like their ranga mistress; not to mention our fearless leader.
There's a sprinkling of bodily percussion, too: handclaps, fingersnaps and the like, not to mention what sounded, to my ears, like an invented, nonsensical-but-beautiful meta-language, with African sonic sensibilities. It's evident, for instance, in the intro to Warm As Toast ('five degrees and she steps outside her door; she thinks to herself, 'I should've put on so much more'), a sophisticated, affecting song about the changing seasons of life and love.
It's all quite wonderful; fresh, vibrant colours painted with the most delicate brush and the lightest touch. Like perfectly-formed Papunya Tula dots on a western desert painting. Or snowflakes falling on virgin earth. Would you believe virgins, falling on snow? (All clearly evident, thanks to superlative sound.)
But it's one thing to produce scintillating vocals collectively, quite another to also standout, individually, as distinctive vocalists. But Annabelle, Rachael and Sally are, as they amply demonstrated, singers in their own respective and respectable rights, too. The legendary Myles Mumford has helped them produce a debut EP. Meanwhile, you can refresh & rejuvenate your bombarded, defiled senses with their cascades on MySpace. Perhaps the tribute to end all tributes comes from the acerbic Ms Bowditch: 'if they get any better, I'm definitely going to have to fire them'.
Who could possibly follow these ripe peaches, but Henry Wagons (who looks a little like a bespectacled John McEnroe, thanks to a daggy '80s 'let's get physical' headband; but with a much enhanced sense of humour)? The band he hails from, The Wagons, cite, for example Lee Hazelwood and Johnny Cash as influences and these are a cinch to discern in Wagons' stupendous vocals (at times he's very like Jim Morrison especially on Love Me Like I Love You), that share an unmistakably country-meets-rock machismo sensibility.
It's country with big, hairy balls; (compare & contrast with Aluka). Charming and enigmatic, he's as mad as a hatter, as funny a fellow as Humphrey. Maybe even funnier. 'I think I've played very well', makes a refreshing change from the faux self-deprecation of buy-in-bulk egos available elsewhere. And he was right on.
His funny-bastard persona is epitomised in his sarcastic Goodtown which, as I remember, he introduced thus: 'sometimes you find a place on the coast, or with a farmland view, and you move there, with the same old partner, and you do the same old job, and wonder why your life's still fucked'. He's twisted, but not bitter. In fact, I'd speculate he's a true romantic; an idealist, disappointed by life. Laughing about that is good therapy. For him. And us.
He characterises the rock 'n' roll lifestyle as equating to driving all day to get somewhere and eating egg-and-lettuce sandwiches from a convenience store. He writes and sings about it, too (Drive All Night Til Dawn). There are songs about losing at cards (The Gambler; no relation to Kenny Rogers classic, but '65% as good'). Overall, there's a dark aesthetic and absurdist comic sensibility that puts me very much in mind of Mikelangelo & The Black Sea Gentlemen, exemplified in one of my favourites, Never Been To Spain, which borders on just plain silly, in the best possible way: 'I ain't never been to Spain, but I kinda like the music'. Could the tongue be planted any more firmly in the cheek? He's heavily influenced by underground Melbournians The Wayfaring Strangers, as evidenced by his reverent cover of their Willie Nelson.
One can see how and why Wagons and Bowditch get on. What is that woman on? First of all, she does an impression of the Gillartine that's almost too convincing. And we all know she's a political animal. (As such, only the statuesque Kate Ellis rivals her in the looks department.) After all, she was probably the most cogent commentator on a recent Q & A panel. And her new album's called Modern Day Addiction, but you'll have to wait till August 13 to cop it. And features a song (performed live on Q & A, with the lady garden) called Bigger Than The Money. I was only just reading, in the oracle that is the Sunday paper, redheads are harder to anaesthetise than the rest of us. I can well imagine this particular irrepressible flame-haired yummy mummy is hard to keep down. Opinions just pop out of her unbidden, like tiny, dangerous toys tumbling out of a pinata.
There was, arguably, a little too much Casio but, that aside, she's a fascinating, sassy woman. No wonder she's sassy: she's been doing this, professionally, since the tender age of 17 (even if there's something about Clare that says she's never been tender, in the sense of innocent; she's the very quintessence of ferocity and precocity, in emotional and other intelligences). She blows into a teapot named Frank, she picked-up in Amsterdam. She talks and refers to 'him'. (Come to think of it, Frank bears an uncanny resemblance to Alexander Downer. No, Christopher Pyne. Same thing, backwards.) This may not be a prime example of the intelligences to which I refer.
She recently returned from Berlin, where she recorded the aforementioned, her fourth album, at the renowned Hansa studios, where Bowie recorded Heroes. Occasionally, she gets serious for a moment, relating that, as much as she'd like to blame magazines for putting pressure on us, she thinks we do it ourselves. It seems to be kinda what the whole album is about. The songs inveigle with catch hooks, but have pointed messages just below the surface.
The Start Of War would be a case-in-point. 'Big men, talking all the time, and none of us are sure what they're saying'. How eerie and chilling she should write this in the German capital. The cool Casio electronica and singalong chorus only but add to the haunting effect. Sounding so easy and casual, while putting the jackboot in hard, is magnetic.
This seems to be the sound of the album-in-waiting. She's nothing if not surprising, since it's a near-complete reinvention of herself. She's the thinking woman's Maddie.
The latest wares are compelling, more assertive, even aggressive, but it's hard to go past a song like Between The Tea & Toast; dedicated, on the night, to her mum, who was present. 'Of all the days we've ever had, it's these quiet days that leave me satisfied the most, when our holy ghosts have room to dance between the tea and the toast.' That line alone can bring you to your knees: can there be anything more poignantly descriptive of the indescribable fabric of the bond 'tween mother and daughter? Then there's her (never proffered, other than 'anonymously', in Divorcee By 23) cutting-but-caring counsel to a girlfriend tending towards train-wreck: 'Well, it seems you've got a baby girl, to a man who will not love you well, and you're walkin' down Brunswick street, buyin' the baby's tears with treats'.
This is Clare Bowditch; writer and singer of fearless, tell-it-like-it-is, truth-hurtful songs sung not always blue, but always beautifully. She locks onto our foibles and failings, painfully picks apart our pecadillos, exposes our hypocrisies, while acknowledging our humanity and knowing love when she sees it. Acute, acidic, inimitable and irreplaceable. And if a woman can be judged by the company she keeps, she's elevated even higher in my estimation.
Just one thing, Clare. Time to put the Casio away.
Clare Bowditch and Friends
Venue: The Studio, Sydney Opera House
Dates: 2 – 4 July, 2010
Times: 7.30pm (Fri/Sat) and 6pm (Sun)
Tickets: Tables from $39 or $29 concession. Seats $29/$24.
Bookings: 02 9250 7777 | www.sydneyoperahouse.com
