Jetty Road Weekly Blog 15/6/25

The Piano

A joyful dash of human spirit in an ever darkening world

She was dressed in a stylish knee length woollen coat in the chilly Launceston morning. I was setting up my busking gear when she stopped and enquired about my autoharp. She was a paid musician she informed me. Played piano in Europe but has not played for years. No money around she said. I asked if she was watching The Piano. No way she said. Too classical. I play jazz.  We talked a bit longer. She then said I’ll be back.

Well she was short of the mark on both counts. No intention of coming back and tipping a humble busker. And she had The Piano all wrong. Yes there had to be competence. And there was - in spades.   Maybe forty performers all up across performances at Central Station and the Transport hub in Sydney; and Southern Cross Station and the Preston Market in Melbourne. They came from all walks of life. All ages from 10 to a 100. All manner of styles from child prodigies to grieving septuagenarians. From a stroke survivor playing one handed to a young woman who had successfully recovered from anorexia. From a woman who was both deaf and blind to a refugee from Gaza. They played classical music. They played INXS. They played original songs and tunes. They played scores from musicals.

Conducting and mediating through the mayhem of rush hour and setting the scene for each performance was Amanda Keller. Compassionate, generous, witty, empathic and never inserting herself above her subjects. Behind the scenes Harry Connick Jnr restoring a  semblance of trust and humility in a decent America;  and Andrea Lam with the brightest smile to go with her amazing talent  and insightful commentary.

This was no reality show as we have come to know it. This was grace and vulnerability teamed with grit and the spontaneous magic that only live performances can bring.

We loved it.

Photo: Martin Canning

The Edge of the World

I have been to the edge of the world. Twice.

The First Time. It is winter 1960. I am seven years old and the youngest member of Rosebery’s boxing troupe which goes all the way up to the middle weights and light heavy weights. We board the rail motor at Barkers Crossing at eight in the morning. We arrive in  Burnie around midday. From there it is on to Smithton. Us boys then pile into the back of a ute with a canvas cover and journey on to Marrawah. By the time we arrive at the pub it is dark. I can remember standing in front of a fire place that is taller than me.

I am one of the first bouts. Up against a boy from Redpa. It’s a three rounder and thankfully he like me is just hoping to get through without any tears or falling to the canvas. At the final bell two bobs and pennies are tossed into the ring. This is a tradition for kid’s bouts. As a visitor I am given the first pick of the two prizes on offer. It makes it look as of I have won. Even at such a tender age I am under no illusions. My younger brother who has seen me spar has taken to aping my style: tongue doubled over between my teeth and whirling arms that provide both a hopeful defence and unlikely attack. Thankfully my boxing career is a short one otherwise one well timed upper cut  may have left me mute this past 65 years.  I choose a thermos flask over a cup and saucer – which I promptly give to my Mum upon my return. I’ve only been to Marrawah but at seven years of age I feel I have been to the edge of the world and back.

The Second Time It is summer 2013.  My mate Ted and I have travelled up the Arthur River on a guided tour. At the landing we are led into the bush where our guide, who despise Greenies, does a knowledgable impression of everything a greenie stands for. If he was any greener we would not have been able to distinguish him from the foliage.  Among the information he imparts is the life cycle of eucalypts that keel over into the river and sink to the bottom then many seasons later rise to the surface and get carried out to sea by the swollen winter river only to be tossed back onto shore like match sticks. There above the beach I see the signage. The Edge of the World. I know. I have been here before.

Image: UTC

Refugees

Migrants and refugees are on the nose these days. Thanks mainly to hard right conservative politics and the Murdoch press in our country echoing Donald Trump and providing succour to white supremacists.

I have a good mate who has been through the wringer this past twelve months. Long stints in hospital and finally ending up in a nursing home. This is what I have seen. Lots of brown faces doing all the menial tasks. Cleaning, serving food, assisting with mobility, fetching, carrying, wiping bums etc; and invariably smiling and courteous.

My GP is Sri Lankan. My dentist is Indian. My physio is Pakistani.

The fruit and veg we eat, especially seasonal berries, these days mostly harvested by Pacific Islanders and Timorese.

I could go on.

For those in this country who vilify refugees and swallow the misinformation on migrants be thankful should you end up in a nursing home that you will be treated respectfully when what you truly deserve is to have your arse wiped with sandpaper.

Song: Second Skin

Second Skin

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