One of the greatest blessings whilst in Australia are the small breaths of home that occasionally intrude upon my otherwise separate existence here. Recently I read The Kite Runner (I know, I know about 4 years later than the rest of the world), and visibly flinched at the mention of Los Altos, San Jose, Fremont, and all those other locations so tied in my memories that now are so far away from me. Yet I have had the immense pleasure of reuniting with some wonderful people from home; namely my wonderful parents and sister, who flew all the way to Melbourne to visit me. But additionally, I have also run into a couple old friends, the most recent of which was this past weekend.
Claire and I grew up in the same town, went to the same church, and in fact, being eight years older than me, she was often called upon by my parents to babysit me and my sister. In recent years, her life has taken her far from Los Altos, finally settling in Mt. Eliza, a small town about an hour south of Melbourne. She lives with her partner and their adorable dog in their self-described slice of Melbourne domestic bliss in Mt. Eliza, within walking distance of the ashram that represents a large part of their life.
Though I exist in my own suburban existence here in Bundoora, it lacks a certain home-like, non-ghetto quality that was readily apparent and available in Mt. Eliza. We did some shopping in the downtown area, bought some presents (hear that, Mom and Dad?) and took the dog to the dog park before heading back to Claire's to get ready for satsang that night at the ashram. The ashram is a spiritual center based around the teachings of Swami Shankarananda, known informally as Swamiji. Born a Brooklyn Jew, Swamiji graduated from Columbia and was working as a professor at Indiana University when one night, he opened the door to find a gun pressed to his head. Right as he began to ponder the meaninglessness of his existence thus far, the gunman looked at him closely, said "Wrong house," and left.
If that isn't the kind of encounter that leaves one grasping for answers, I don't know what is, and indeed, for him it sparked a journey that would take him to India, New York, LA, and finally leave him in Melbourne, Australia, where he runs the spiritual center. My first encounter with Swamiji occurred when I was helping Claire de-thorn roses in preparation for that night's festivities. There was suddenly a flurry of activity around me and I turned to find myself looking into the eyes of a man, perhaps in his fifties, about my height, clad in orange robes and obviously in a hurry.
"Swamiji, this is Ellen," Claire said. "I used to babysit her."
"No kidding," he said, the Brooklyn still evident in his voice. We made small talk, he asked me how I liked Obama, we high-fived, and then, in a swirl of orange, he was gone. I didn't realize how flustered I had been until after he was gone.
The rest of the de-thorning passed uneventfully, and, once finished, we went to join the gathering party in the meeting hall. We took our places on cushions on the floor and I began to look around the room. Cushions sat in rows on the floor, some occupied, some with a shawl hurriedly thrown over them, clearly reserved. People greeted each other, smiling, extending their smiles to me, asking how I liked Australia, what I was studying, etc. Music began to start, guitar, bass, sitar, saxophone, a wonderful hodge podge of music, sounding both improvisatory and deliberate all at the same time and people began to quietly sway along with the music.
After a few brief announcements by one of the ashramites who was the emcee for the night, we began to chant, at first all together, then with the men echoing the women. Then swamiji arrived and began to speak. He would speak, interspersing spiritual wisdom with personal anecdotes and questions that in any other setting might be hypothetical, but in this case which he clearly expected answers to, waiting expectantly until a tentative hand was raised and an answer was volunteered. At the end of the talk, Claire whispered that now we would have the opportunity to meet Swamiji, and we dutifully took our place in the line forming before him. After not an insignificant time spent in line, we were standing in front of Swamiji.
I followed Claire's and Jess' cue and knelt before him. He had a sort of fan made out of peacock feathers that he would tap people with in a sort of benediction, and we were dutifully swatted. I don't remember what was said, just again that flustered feeling. We made more small talk, I smiled like an idiot and soon he was folding the three of us into an embrace. His cheek pressed against my hair and though I probably should have felt uncomfortable, I didn't. He handed each of us a square of chocolate, as though we had been good at the doctor's office, and with one final goodbye swat, we were off.
We moved a few feet down the line to Ma Devi, Swamiji's partner at the ashram, and a Swami in her own right. Claire introduced us, and we made the same small talk. "Here," she said, "Take this" and handed me a small photograph of a robed saint, smiling broadly and making the "ok" sign. "He'll protect you," she said and chucked me gently under the chin. We rose and headed to the kitchen for chai and cake, which we ate as I was introduced to countless new and smiling faces. I was constantly struck by how friendly everyone was, chattering away happily to me about their experiences with Swamiji and at the ashram, asking me questions about myself, seeming genuinely interested.
The next morning, Claire took the dog to the dog park and Jess brought me back to the ashram for the Gurugita, a chant with 216 verses that we all dutifully recited. Though I found myself occasionally lost and often stumbling over twelve-syllable Sanskrit words, I was congratulated effusively by my neighbors for "keeping up," proving once again their extreme kindness. After the chanting we went to breakfast where everyone, probably twenty people, sat together around a large table and chatted. I saw Swamiji signalling to Claire and nodding his head in my direction. Dutifully, she stood and introduced me to the whole table, as though I were the new kid in class. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked expectantly at me. I found myself on the receiving end of several questions, asked in rapid succession:
"What are you studying?" "How long are you in Australia?" "How do you find university here?"
I felt like a sports star at a press conference and answered as best I could. When Swamiji and Ma Devi left, Swamiji stopped by me. "Come back and see us sometime," he said, and as our eyes locked I knew he meant it.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
In which I've got the Blues
I apologize for my long absence from the blogosphere. I have had the immense good fortune to have been overwhelmed by outside events for the past nearly three weeks, including but not limited to: a visit by the Lathrops, camping through Queensland, five days in Tasmania and a visit to the Byron Bay Bluesfest. I will definitely go more into detail on the rest of my adventures in my next couple posts, because I want to give them the attention they deserve, but I really need to talk about Bluesfest.
My friend Kara and I had made plans to do some traveling over Easter break to Queensland, hoping to hit the Gold Coast as well as Brisbane. Now I can only speak for myself on this one, but my traveling is motivated by one thing, and one thing only: cost. So I can honestly say that I knew nothing about Brisbane, the Gold Coast, or the surrounding areas prior to booking other than that the flights were cheap. Possibly not the most culturally elevated perspective to take, but I am a struggling student, so lay off.
A few weeks before our departure, Kara sent me a link to a music festival she had heard about, relatively near to where we would be traveling. Being the thrifty traveler that I am, I quickly clicked through to the ticket prices, saw that it was 130 dollars for a single day pass and did a double take that would make any cartoon character green with envy. I quickly wrote Kara back and said that it just wasn't in my budget, but something made me stay on their page, just poking around, I told myself. The lineup was impressive, I had to admit. I had always wanted to see Matisyahu live and all the Aussies were raving about Jon Butler Trio. And then I saw it. I thought it must have been a typo, but there it was: The Avett Brothers. Before I knew it, my fingers were punching in my credit card number and I was on my way to see one of my favorite bands, one I was sure would be the Next Big Thing but hardly anyone had heard of stateside.
As the days ticked down to Bluesfest, Kara and I both had several "Are we really doing this moments." The side trip to Byron Bay, in addition to costing us 130 dollars for one day of entertainment, would throw off the rest of our schedule. Regardless, we found ourselves up squatting illegally on a campsite Thursday night in the Gold Coast, awaiting the Greyhound bus that would take us two and a half hours south into the sleepy coastal town of Byron Bay, that for 5 days every year in April explodes with musicians, hippies, and revelers of all shapes and sizes, coming from near and far for the Bluesfest.
Kara and I arrived, blinking in the bright morning sunshine with all our possessions on our backs and no where to stay that night. After being assured by multiple people that everything was booked and we would be better off just setting up on a nice park bench somewhere, we managed to talk ourselves into two nights at a campsite for one person. While technically we were two people, we comforted ourselves in the dubious knowledge that this night, unlike the night before, at least one of us was staying legally at a campgrounds. We quickly pitched our tent and sat down in the grass to feast on a meal of peanut butter sandwiches, skittles, and Goon (boxed wine) that we passed back and forth. When we had drunk enough Goon that we felt we could safely smuggle the remainder into the festival,* we struck out for town where we would catch the shuttle to the grounds.
*For contextual purposes I feel I should include a brief account of the Goon: A bag of Goon holds 4 liters of (cheap, bad) wine. For cost-cutting purposes we decided that we would be much better off sneaking a bag of Goon in with us than purchasing drinks at the festival all day, however, we failed to take into consideration how much 4 liters of wine weighs. After a couple minutes of trying to walk with the bag of wine in the shoulder bag we were taking turns to carry, we decided this simply wouldn't work. We had to make the bag lighter somehow, or one of us was going to end up hunchbacked. As any starving student knows, wasting alcohol is a cardinal sin, so the only option was to drink as much wine as possible before we left for the festival. To lighten the load you see. Well one thing led to another, and though the bag was much easier to carry, the walk to town, shuttle bus ride, and process of getting into the festival is a little blurry, and the next thing I remember is getting a rather vulgar word henna tattooed on my wrist (in my defense, who puts a henna tattoo booth somewhere drunk people can access it? irresponsible, if you ask me.). Post-tattoo, we headed into the music tents to begin our day of music.
Matisyahu
For those of you who may not know, Matisyahu is a Hasidic Jew reggae artist. If that alone doesn't intrigue you, he is incredibly talented and manages to blends traditional Jewish themes with sweet reggae beats. If you haven't already, I highly recommend you check him out. Live, he is...fascinating. Kara and I joined the crowd milling about in front of the stage about 20 minutes before the performance was to start at 4. At 4, with little to no fanfare, Matisyahu sauntered out onstage, wearing khakis, a button down, yamulke, and payot, the long sideburns worn by some Orthodox Jews. Not exactly the most rock n roll image, but nonetheless, he ambled to the edge of the stage and hurled his well over 6 foot frame into the crowd. When he had safely been deposited back onto the stage by some of the (presumably very strong) audience members, he launched into his set. I have to say, for someone who looks like he was interrupted sitting down to a nice meal with his grandparents to come onstage, he put on an amazing show. The energy in the crowd was palpable and we danced throughout the whole set. The atmosphere at his show was also the best I would say. We met a ton of friends, shared drinks and conversation and swayed to the music together, enjoying the communal experience of great music on a beautiful (if somewhat overcast) day.
Swell Season
Swell Season is a band I hadn't heard of, but Kara had and so I tagged along. Sometimes it can be awkward to go see a band you know nothing about. You can't sing along, you don't know what to expect, you just feel slightly out of sync. With Swell Season, and with any truly impressive band, there was no such discomfort. I was instantly swept up in the raw intensity and emotion captured by the music. I bought their CD and have been listening to it ever since. They're hauntingly, achingly beautiful, wryly, dryly funny, and completely honest. If you haven't heard of them, I highly recommend you check them out.
Buddy Guy
Buddy Guy is a legend, pure and simple. He held his own as an established bluesman among all these up and coming acts hungry for their big break. We didn't get to stay at his set, as we were pressed for time, but I sincerely hope to have the opportunity to see him again.
Blue King Brown
I'm a sucker for artists who understand the gravity of their position as mouthpieces for global causes (though it can be taken too far, I'm looking at you, Bono) and strive for more than just rock star preening while performing. We watched Blue King Brown and it was impossibly not to get swept up in their energy. They're young, fresh, vibrant, and struggling to make the world a better place. What could be better? If you haven't heard of them....yeah, yeah, you know the drill by now.
Jon Butler Trio
Jon Butler was the last act we saw that night. We were drunk and exhausted and muddy (it had started raining torrentially about 45 minutes earlier, and the entire festival grounds were flooding) and barefoot. We contemplated ducking out, but decided we couldn't give up the instant street cred gained among Aussies by casually mentioned we had seen Jon Butler live. Also, someone had mentioned that Jon Butler never cuts his fingernails on his right hand to pick with, and I really wanted to see that. So we packed into the already packed tent and joined gamely in with the chants of "J-B-3" until the man himself appeared. The fingernails were long, the music was bomb, and we went home happy in the knowledge that we had seen what all the fuss was about.
The Avett Brothers
In my retelling of the day/night I went slightly out of order. Technically, we saw the Avett Brothers before Buddy Guy, Blue King Brown and Jon Butler, but as they are the main reason I spent 130 dollars, I felt I should save them for last. Simply put, they're dynamic. Mark my words, they'll be the Next Big Thing in 2010. Two brothers from North Carolina heavily influenced by bluegrass and traditional melodies, plus a cellist, and one guy who alternates between bass guitar and actual, enormous slappin-da-bass bass, though to be fair, all the guys play multiple instruments. Their music is simple, sweet, and completely heartfelt.
We had worked our way up to the second row, just behind the barricades separating us from the stage, and waited, tense and excited, our bodies thrumming with the energy of the gathering crowd. When the band emerged, they launched smoothly into their set, sampling early Bluegress-influenced songs melded seamlessly with their newer releases. The brothers switched off on vocals smoothly, their close harmonies blending effortlessly, eyes closed in concentration. No blustering bravado, no ego stroking, only pure, good music that comes from somewhere most people have no concept of and can only hope to be lucky enough to bear witness to when it emerges. There is something incredibly beautiful about watching people do things they clearly love more than anything in world, and watching such a thing, it becomes impossible not to love it yourself. We threw back our heads and screamed over the music, and when that wasn't enough we offered up our hearts in our cupped palms pointed towards the music, and on that raining Good Friday night, we believed in Salvation.
My friend Kara and I had made plans to do some traveling over Easter break to Queensland, hoping to hit the Gold Coast as well as Brisbane. Now I can only speak for myself on this one, but my traveling is motivated by one thing, and one thing only: cost. So I can honestly say that I knew nothing about Brisbane, the Gold Coast, or the surrounding areas prior to booking other than that the flights were cheap. Possibly not the most culturally elevated perspective to take, but I am a struggling student, so lay off.
A few weeks before our departure, Kara sent me a link to a music festival she had heard about, relatively near to where we would be traveling. Being the thrifty traveler that I am, I quickly clicked through to the ticket prices, saw that it was 130 dollars for a single day pass and did a double take that would make any cartoon character green with envy. I quickly wrote Kara back and said that it just wasn't in my budget, but something made me stay on their page, just poking around, I told myself. The lineup was impressive, I had to admit. I had always wanted to see Matisyahu live and all the Aussies were raving about Jon Butler Trio. And then I saw it. I thought it must have been a typo, but there it was: The Avett Brothers. Before I knew it, my fingers were punching in my credit card number and I was on my way to see one of my favorite bands, one I was sure would be the Next Big Thing but hardly anyone had heard of stateside.
As the days ticked down to Bluesfest, Kara and I both had several "Are we really doing this moments." The side trip to Byron Bay, in addition to costing us 130 dollars for one day of entertainment, would throw off the rest of our schedule. Regardless, we found ourselves up squatting illegally on a campsite Thursday night in the Gold Coast, awaiting the Greyhound bus that would take us two and a half hours south into the sleepy coastal town of Byron Bay, that for 5 days every year in April explodes with musicians, hippies, and revelers of all shapes and sizes, coming from near and far for the Bluesfest.
Kara and I arrived, blinking in the bright morning sunshine with all our possessions on our backs and no where to stay that night. After being assured by multiple people that everything was booked and we would be better off just setting up on a nice park bench somewhere, we managed to talk ourselves into two nights at a campsite for one person. While technically we were two people, we comforted ourselves in the dubious knowledge that this night, unlike the night before, at least one of us was staying legally at a campgrounds. We quickly pitched our tent and sat down in the grass to feast on a meal of peanut butter sandwiches, skittles, and Goon (boxed wine) that we passed back and forth. When we had drunk enough Goon that we felt we could safely smuggle the remainder into the festival,* we struck out for town where we would catch the shuttle to the grounds.
*For contextual purposes I feel I should include a brief account of the Goon: A bag of Goon holds 4 liters of (cheap, bad) wine. For cost-cutting purposes we decided that we would be much better off sneaking a bag of Goon in with us than purchasing drinks at the festival all day, however, we failed to take into consideration how much 4 liters of wine weighs. After a couple minutes of trying to walk with the bag of wine in the shoulder bag we were taking turns to carry, we decided this simply wouldn't work. We had to make the bag lighter somehow, or one of us was going to end up hunchbacked. As any starving student knows, wasting alcohol is a cardinal sin, so the only option was to drink as much wine as possible before we left for the festival. To lighten the load you see. Well one thing led to another, and though the bag was much easier to carry, the walk to town, shuttle bus ride, and process of getting into the festival is a little blurry, and the next thing I remember is getting a rather vulgar word henna tattooed on my wrist (in my defense, who puts a henna tattoo booth somewhere drunk people can access it? irresponsible, if you ask me.). Post-tattoo, we headed into the music tents to begin our day of music.
Matisyahu
For those of you who may not know, Matisyahu is a Hasidic Jew reggae artist. If that alone doesn't intrigue you, he is incredibly talented and manages to blends traditional Jewish themes with sweet reggae beats. If you haven't already, I highly recommend you check him out. Live, he is...fascinating. Kara and I joined the crowd milling about in front of the stage about 20 minutes before the performance was to start at 4. At 4, with little to no fanfare, Matisyahu sauntered out onstage, wearing khakis, a button down, yamulke, and payot, the long sideburns worn by some Orthodox Jews. Not exactly the most rock n roll image, but nonetheless, he ambled to the edge of the stage and hurled his well over 6 foot frame into the crowd. When he had safely been deposited back onto the stage by some of the (presumably very strong) audience members, he launched into his set. I have to say, for someone who looks like he was interrupted sitting down to a nice meal with his grandparents to come onstage, he put on an amazing show. The energy in the crowd was palpable and we danced throughout the whole set. The atmosphere at his show was also the best I would say. We met a ton of friends, shared drinks and conversation and swayed to the music together, enjoying the communal experience of great music on a beautiful (if somewhat overcast) day.
Swell Season
Swell Season is a band I hadn't heard of, but Kara had and so I tagged along. Sometimes it can be awkward to go see a band you know nothing about. You can't sing along, you don't know what to expect, you just feel slightly out of sync. With Swell Season, and with any truly impressive band, there was no such discomfort. I was instantly swept up in the raw intensity and emotion captured by the music. I bought their CD and have been listening to it ever since. They're hauntingly, achingly beautiful, wryly, dryly funny, and completely honest. If you haven't heard of them, I highly recommend you check them out.
Buddy Guy
Buddy Guy is a legend, pure and simple. He held his own as an established bluesman among all these up and coming acts hungry for their big break. We didn't get to stay at his set, as we were pressed for time, but I sincerely hope to have the opportunity to see him again.
Blue King Brown
I'm a sucker for artists who understand the gravity of their position as mouthpieces for global causes (though it can be taken too far, I'm looking at you, Bono) and strive for more than just rock star preening while performing. We watched Blue King Brown and it was impossibly not to get swept up in their energy. They're young, fresh, vibrant, and struggling to make the world a better place. What could be better? If you haven't heard of them....yeah, yeah, you know the drill by now.
Jon Butler Trio
Jon Butler was the last act we saw that night. We were drunk and exhausted and muddy (it had started raining torrentially about 45 minutes earlier, and the entire festival grounds were flooding) and barefoot. We contemplated ducking out, but decided we couldn't give up the instant street cred gained among Aussies by casually mentioned we had seen Jon Butler live. Also, someone had mentioned that Jon Butler never cuts his fingernails on his right hand to pick with, and I really wanted to see that. So we packed into the already packed tent and joined gamely in with the chants of "J-B-3" until the man himself appeared. The fingernails were long, the music was bomb, and we went home happy in the knowledge that we had seen what all the fuss was about.
The Avett Brothers
In my retelling of the day/night I went slightly out of order. Technically, we saw the Avett Brothers before Buddy Guy, Blue King Brown and Jon Butler, but as they are the main reason I spent 130 dollars, I felt I should save them for last. Simply put, they're dynamic. Mark my words, they'll be the Next Big Thing in 2010. Two brothers from North Carolina heavily influenced by bluegrass and traditional melodies, plus a cellist, and one guy who alternates between bass guitar and actual, enormous slappin-da-bass bass, though to be fair, all the guys play multiple instruments. Their music is simple, sweet, and completely heartfelt.
We had worked our way up to the second row, just behind the barricades separating us from the stage, and waited, tense and excited, our bodies thrumming with the energy of the gathering crowd. When the band emerged, they launched smoothly into their set, sampling early Bluegress-influenced songs melded seamlessly with their newer releases. The brothers switched off on vocals smoothly, their close harmonies blending effortlessly, eyes closed in concentration. No blustering bravado, no ego stroking, only pure, good music that comes from somewhere most people have no concept of and can only hope to be lucky enough to bear witness to when it emerges. There is something incredibly beautiful about watching people do things they clearly love more than anything in world, and watching such a thing, it becomes impossible not to love it yourself. We threw back our heads and screamed over the music, and when that wasn't enough we offered up our hearts in our cupped palms pointed towards the music, and on that raining Good Friday night, we believed in Salvation.
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