Music Washes The Dust From My Soul
Without Prejudice
Music was is and will always be life blood to me. My Father was a musician who could read write and play it. I am convinced that if you had sliced my Dad's arm open music notes would have floated out. Just as with me words would flow out.
My Dad grew up singing and playing with his Sisters, Heather and Gladys in a band. We had photos and in those day they were dressed in Hawaiian costumes. Gladys and Heather in grass skirts and Dad in Hawaiian shirt. He played a twenty four string hawaiian guitar that he could make sing.
It stood on four legs and he stood behind it, foot tapping a rythmn. The pedesatl guitar was tiered in steps of three, eight strings to each tier. And when he played "In The Mood or the Hawaian War Chant, he was a man in love, with the music and song.
As far back as I can remember he would rehearse on Sundays, all day. He had his work a day jobs, Panel Beating mostly but Sundays were devoted to his passion. We would sit around in awe as he made this inaminate object come to life. We were enchanted and entranced, Our Daddy, so talented.
He would dress for "gigs" in Black pants with a stripe down the side, white shirt, a tie, clean shaven and he would let me sit and watch him as he readied himself for the night. Clean shaved and after shave and California Poppy in his short hair. He would pretend to let me shave. I still love the smell and feel of a clean shaven face and after shave and want to kiss that cheek.
He was anal my Dad about his music. He would spend hours and hours pulling apart his guitar, restringing it, playing with plectrum and steel. The amp had to be right, and then he would say,
"Listen to this bit, Janette"
And I would sit and listen, a devotee at the feet of the Master, absorbing, feeling the music. He taught us all to listen to the nuances in the music, the phrasing, the soaring climaxes, the silences between notes. He would write his music and change it to suit his voice and playing.
Mum was not that interested so Jackie and I became Dad's acolytes, adoring and Jackie had a voice and would sing along. I was hopeless at singing but I listened carefully and watched avidly. He bought us records and then would listen carefully to the recording artists such as Tennesee Ernie Ford, Perry Como, Frank Sinatra, Peggy Lee, Little Miss Dyanmite Brenda Lee.
Jackie became Brenda Lee, tiny as she was with a powerful voice. Jackie could belt out a song like a professional and she was so little. I never thought to be jealous of her, she had the singing talent and she was brilliant. I watched and observed, shy as a wilting flower at sunset.
I was always an observer as shy children tend to be. I wrote stories and I began as soon as I could read and write. I was so fascinated with the word and the structure of sentences. Mum taught me to read and write before I went to school. I was then put up to Grade 1 half way through prep.
Mum and Dad were delighted as they were typical immigrant parents in a new country and wanted their children to do well in the new country. The more exams I won the more delighted they became and the more rewards I received. I was first published in The Courier Mail at 10 years old.
Just a short story and won money and was beyond thrilled and went out and bought my sibs loads of icy poles. I was 10, when I was first published. Ian was the "genius" of the family in Academia but I out stripped him in general knowledge as I was such a reader. Head always in a book. By six I could read adult books and became the "Reader" for the school where I would read over the microphone stories to younger kids.
My parents were highly educated people and revelled in every little success of their children. Jackie a talented singer and bass player. Ian singer and guitar player and brainy. Jamie my older brother who died at 11 in a shocking accident had also won prizes for his writing. Just before he died he and Mum and Dad had been down to Adelaide from Port Augusta to collect his National Prize for an essay he had written on Road Safety.
He was so brainy and sweet and funny to me at 5. And then he was gone. he stepped off the edge of the world on the 30th November 1957. A day that would come back to haunt us 32 years later. Jamie was like me, not the least bit musical but in love with the written word. He couldn't spell and his hand writing was like a scribble but he was a writer, just like me he lived in his imagination.
After Jamie died the family was devastated and we had to carry on without being able to speak of him at all in case we upset Mum and Dad. We became the silent watchers. me especially and I retired to my room a lot with books. I devoured The Wind In the Willows, Little Women, The Water Babies, I was about 6 then. The boys didn't speak of Jamie again but George regularly woke screaming. He had been buried alive in the same tragedy that had killed Jamie.
When he yelled out in terror Mum and Dad would run to comfort him and tell him it was just a nightmare. I thought he was just doing it for attention as George was naughty and got a lot of attention for it. He was Mum's blue eyed boy and he was allowed to get away with murder. The rest of us thought he was a pain and he was only 19 months older than me.
George was also not musical and neither was David my younger brother who was 4 years younger than me. David was a baby when Jamie died, so probably has very little memory of him but the rest of us did. I remember him as wide faced with a grin and short crew cut hair. Blondish and flat on top as was the fashion then.
Music was is and will always be life blood to me. My Father was a musician who could read write and play it. I am convinced that if you had sliced my Dad's arm open music notes would have floated out. Just as with me words would flow out.
My Dad grew up singing and playing with his Sisters, Heather and Gladys in a band. We had photos and in those day they were dressed in Hawaiian costumes. Gladys and Heather in grass skirts and Dad in Hawaiian shirt. He played a twenty four string hawaiian guitar that he could make sing.
It stood on four legs and he stood behind it, foot tapping a rythmn. The pedesatl guitar was tiered in steps of three, eight strings to each tier. And when he played "In The Mood or the Hawaian War Chant, he was a man in love, with the music and song.
As far back as I can remember he would rehearse on Sundays, all day. He had his work a day jobs, Panel Beating mostly but Sundays were devoted to his passion. We would sit around in awe as he made this inaminate object come to life. We were enchanted and entranced, Our Daddy, so talented.
He would dress for "gigs" in Black pants with a stripe down the side, white shirt, a tie, clean shaven and he would let me sit and watch him as he readied himself for the night. Clean shaved and after shave and California Poppy in his short hair. He would pretend to let me shave. I still love the smell and feel of a clean shaven face and after shave and want to kiss that cheek.
He was anal my Dad about his music. He would spend hours and hours pulling apart his guitar, restringing it, playing with plectrum and steel. The amp had to be right, and then he would say,
"Listen to this bit, Janette"
And I would sit and listen, a devotee at the feet of the Master, absorbing, feeling the music. He taught us all to listen to the nuances in the music, the phrasing, the soaring climaxes, the silences between notes. He would write his music and change it to suit his voice and playing.
Mum was not that interested so Jackie and I became Dad's acolytes, adoring and Jackie had a voice and would sing along. I was hopeless at singing but I listened carefully and watched avidly. He bought us records and then would listen carefully to the recording artists such as Tennesee Ernie Ford, Perry Como, Frank Sinatra, Peggy Lee, Little Miss Dyanmite Brenda Lee.
Jackie became Brenda Lee, tiny as she was with a powerful voice. Jackie could belt out a song like a professional and she was so little. I never thought to be jealous of her, she had the singing talent and she was brilliant. I watched and observed, shy as a wilting flower at sunset.
I was always an observer as shy children tend to be. I wrote stories and I began as soon as I could read and write. I was so fascinated with the word and the structure of sentences. Mum taught me to read and write before I went to school. I was then put up to Grade 1 half way through prep.
Mum and Dad were delighted as they were typical immigrant parents in a new country and wanted their children to do well in the new country. The more exams I won the more delighted they became and the more rewards I received. I was first published in The Courier Mail at 10 years old.
Just a short story and won money and was beyond thrilled and went out and bought my sibs loads of icy poles. I was 10, when I was first published. Ian was the "genius" of the family in Academia but I out stripped him in general knowledge as I was such a reader. Head always in a book. By six I could read adult books and became the "Reader" for the school where I would read over the microphone stories to younger kids.
My parents were highly educated people and revelled in every little success of their children. Jackie a talented singer and bass player. Ian singer and guitar player and brainy. Jamie my older brother who died at 11 in a shocking accident had also won prizes for his writing. Just before he died he and Mum and Dad had been down to Adelaide from Port Augusta to collect his National Prize for an essay he had written on Road Safety.
He was so brainy and sweet and funny to me at 5. And then he was gone. he stepped off the edge of the world on the 30th November 1957. A day that would come back to haunt us 32 years later. Jamie was like me, not the least bit musical but in love with the written word. He couldn't spell and his hand writing was like a scribble but he was a writer, just like me he lived in his imagination.
After Jamie died the family was devastated and we had to carry on without being able to speak of him at all in case we upset Mum and Dad. We became the silent watchers. me especially and I retired to my room a lot with books. I devoured The Wind In the Willows, Little Women, The Water Babies, I was about 6 then. The boys didn't speak of Jamie again but George regularly woke screaming. He had been buried alive in the same tragedy that had killed Jamie.
When he yelled out in terror Mum and Dad would run to comfort him and tell him it was just a nightmare. I thought he was just doing it for attention as George was naughty and got a lot of attention for it. He was Mum's blue eyed boy and he was allowed to get away with murder. The rest of us thought he was a pain and he was only 19 months older than me.
George was also not musical and neither was David my younger brother who was 4 years younger than me. David was a baby when Jamie died, so probably has very little memory of him but the rest of us did. I remember him as wide faced with a grin and short crew cut hair. Blondish and flat on top as was the fashion then.
