Saharadja at Mont Kiara Jazz Fest

I had been looking forward to the Merdeka gig at No Black Tie, which was meant to be a night of poetry and music featuring the likes of Amir Muhammad, Azmyl Yunor, Pang, Mia Palencia and Isaac Entry. However, when we got there, I realised (i) I was underdressed; (ii) we needed a reservation.

Dang dang dang.

So, by virtue of being booted out of NBT, a friend and I found ourselves on the road to Sunrise, Mont Kiara for its annual jazz fest. We arrived just in time to get coffee and settle down for the second set, which featured a band from Bali called Saharadja.

If this had been the World Rainforest Music Festival, they would have so totally rocked. But their brand of world music, heavy on the percussions and with an interesting mix of violin, djembe, trumpet, flute, didgeridoo, guitar, drums, bass and tribal calls, seemed wasted amidst the concrete walls that surrounded the soundstage. The crowd's response was rather mediocre, as is expected when you have a free sit-down-type event that is F&B and kid-friendly. (It is also likely that the hot Aussie violinist in the centre diverted substantial attention away from the music.)

After a while, I picked up the camera and went in front to shoot some pics. Immediately, I was zapped by the energy that bounced off the stage, and my impression of them improved 100%. They rock, and so do free gigs.

Saharadja's guitarist: a really animated dude

Lennie develops on the night of the lunar eclipse

The blank Polaroid lay flat on the table. "Shake it! Shake it!" I said excitedly.

"No! That's the wrong way," said Rach. "You'll mix all the colours up." Tickled by the cleverness of the sentence in her head, Rach grinned and said, "Let's watch Lennie develop."

( |o }===:::

At times, the imposing nature of age—that always increasing, never decreasing number—gets the better of me. Almost. It is as if I were a subject strapped onto a sterile metal table in a lab, society and all her expectations giving me a curt, disdainful glance before proceeding with the mandatory exam.

Married? No.
Attached? No.
Car? Second-hand; purchased this year.
House? Parents'.
Income? Err... it's complicated.
Career success? Blank.
Goals? Blank.
Spiritual health?
Relationships?

And so they prod before the morphine kicks in and I am dreaming again that I am singing and playing in front of an audience, their monotonous queries fading into the background.

( |o }===:::

The office celebrated the August babies today, in what must have been a stroke of numerical genius in my favour. There were four candles side-by-side on the cake, and I had trouble blowing mine out without killing someone else's lifeline. You'd think that perhaps, one would get better at blowing out candles as they grow older, but no, that's simply not true. Your puff of candle-blowing power decreases from a developing bad posture, your accuracy suffers from neckache and your reluctance to answer to the call of a higher integer means that you need to try at least three times before you 'succeed', thus inadvertently prolonging the moment of symbolic aging in the spotlight.

( |o }===:::

I once bought a book at a warehouse sale that was about a white explorer who had been caught by the natives in some far-off land. As I don't remember the details, we shall imagine that they were bloodthirsty cannibals who hissed, snarled and sucked their ulcers dry at the chance to taste this exotic white meat. Did it taste like chicken? Or did it taste like the stillborns, only perhaps less tender (and much hairier)? While they danced around the fire and lowered him into the gigantic charcoaled pot, he suddenly remembered a piece of news he'd read a few weeks before embarking on this suicide mission. It had said that on this exact date, there would be a total solar eclipse happening in the region he was in. Battling fear and a semi-conscious urge to crap his pants, he cried out to the translator (for how else would the locals know what he was saying?) and the people: "WAIT!"

The croak came out dry, bouncing off the skin of the pounding drums and an earth that roared under the soles of hungry warriors. Again:

"WAAIIIIIIIIIITTT!"

The celebratory march stopped. Cold eyes peered at him, spears lifted. Warily, the white explorer gazed for a hint of hope in the sky—and there it was. A sliver. Pacman nibbling into the sun. Pointing to it, he put on his best imitation of God and said, "I will kill the sun."

Needless to say, the white explorer lived to tell the story.

( |o }===:::

If you didn't already know, a total lunar eclipse happened today. Rach called it a 'happy birthday present to you from God' as we watched it live over the Discovery Channel website while engaging in collective oohs and aaahs. Sure, it was cool, very cool in fact, but a more meaningful 'present' were some simple acts of care showed by thoughtful friends. Overall, it was a very nice birthday, and a possible reminder to a weary cynic of 'churchese' that God cares. So thanks to you guys who rock so well.

"Lennie develops, 2007"

Polaroid: RM3.50. Company: Priceless. Line: So corny

Andy McKee playing 'Drifting'

I stumbled into the arms of an amazing fingerstyle guitarist today. No, not Tommy Emmanuel. StumbleUpon, that nifty surfing tool, introduced me to Andy McKee playing a song he wrote called 'Drifting'. I immediately forwarded it to my guitar buddies online, and soon, an oasis of sorts (saliva, actually) had formed on our keyboards.



Stuff like this inspires me to want to pick up fingerstyle guitar. It's the most comprehensive style that allows you to perform solo yet still sound 'full'. Don't know where I can find a teacher, though, and the time. Roger Wang lives too far away and Az Samad is in Berklee. Sighs.

Janice is back! But where are the housemates?

"lol", 2001

Janice, a good friend who used to hang with me in Canberra, is back in Singapore after spending some time in the States dancing and making coffee and going for Bible classes. Wheeeee! If you didn't know, Janice is a professionally trained psychologist who prefers working in a cafe and trying out new recipes. She's a good person to talk to, and one of the handful who can stand shopping with me. So she totally rocks. See you soon, Janice!

Since I'm reminiscing my uni days, here is an ex-housemate of mine, Nat, caught reading during the summer hols. She used to blast Britney over her hi-fi and torture the rest of the housemates with it. Hers was an amazing display of consistency, except for the times when she blasted the Backstreet Boys. Then when Jess, my other housemate, tried using Hootie and the Blowfish to out-blast Britney, Nat would retaliate by knocking up the volume even more. Things could get pretty ugly, especially if you had to study with 'Hit Me Baby One More Time' on repeat. Besides that, Nat also dressed a lot in pink. Shocking pink. Tight tops in shocking pink. But what's most shocking is that she was the oldest amongst us at—what, 26 then? Yep.

"Natalie in Summer", 2001

And here's Jess, my musical buddy, singing in the N1 laundry where we used to jam till the grog or our throats ran dry, or until Nat or the weird neighbour from upstairs appeared, yelling at us to shut-up-do-you-know-what-freaking-time-it-is? How I miss those good ol' days.

"Nights at N1", 2001 (My favourite shot of Jess)

Singapore Pt. II

Singapore is a fine city. In both senses of the word. It's my second visit to Singapore in a year, which makes that a personal record. One day I imagine I might work here, since I know more than five people and therefore shouldn't feel completely lonely, and also because it's a fine city. If you earned the same amount as you did in that country up its border (where I currently reside), all you'd need to do is multiply that by 2.3 and wahlau, you'd be rich! Your parents would be happier with the extra pocket money and so would you. Yes, I might work here one day. (I'd just have to deal with not being able to understand Mandarin-speaking cabbies and waitresses.)

What I have been doing since getting here on Friday night.
Eating fine food (had Jap and one of those real-meat-with-juices-flowing burgers today), tossing between getting a Macbook or a normal laptop or the office's Dell one, hanging out with my ex-colleagues Cheok and William who have been really angelic, walking in and out of shops, spending a bomb on stationery, shopping, getting fat, learning to surf the web on an iBook and discovering the joys of two-finger page scrolling, oversleeping (woke up at 1.35pm today; how absolutely piggish), and attending the TOMMY EMMANUEL concert at Esplanade.

I'd been wanting to see Tommy in action for some time now, but when I was in Australia for a month last year, he was shuttling in between some weird-named Scandinavian country and another planet. Then this year, while reading Mia Palencia's blog, she happened to mention that she'd been to a Tommy E gig last year. Lo and behold, a whim like a dim sum came ker-plonk into my brain, and so I googled "Tommy Emmanuel" and "tour", and excitedly found out that he was going to be playing in a few months in Singapore!

So who's this Tommy guy actually? Well, he's an oldish chap from Melbourne, Australia with two daughters and a few more kids via World Vision, who also happens to be among one of two(?) Certified Guitar Players in the world. He's most known as a fine fingerstyle player, which is a playing style that combines a moving bassline, rhythm and melody/lead section played at the same time by the same guitar player. He also does rather crazy stuff on the guitar. I mean, he doesn't pick strings with his teeth or salivate all over the strings, but what he does is beat it up real bad till it sounds pretty good. Like today, he used a drum brush to beat the guitar body below the saddle to create a purely rhythm jamming session. The pickup on the first guitar used today is also VERY sensitive, and each time he thumped over the soundhole, a heavy 'boom' akin to a kicked bass drum was produced.

But what THE highlight of the night was for me, by far, a song called 'Initiation', which he wrote after spending time with the Aboriginals in Alice Springs as a lad. I'm not sure of the time span between the inspiration and actualisation of the song, perhaps 30 years as he joked, but what he had wanted to do was to capture the sounds of the Aborigines and produce that on a guitar. Today, he did just that, immaculately, splendidly, magically. Using heavy delay effects and certain other effects (I'm guessing a Phase Shifter though I've never used that effect myself), he created a populated oasis in the middle of an arid bushland, where the calls of the original inhabitants of Australia melded with their droning beats, clucks, atmospherics and waaah-waaaaah didgeridoo sounds. It was the most amazing thing I've seen produced on a guitar, ever. (The Esplanade has wonderful acoustics too, which did wonders to the listening experience.)

With that, I'll end my adventures for today. Tomorrow, if I wake up on time, I'll visit Felix's church with him. Then on to more shopping! :D

Anson & Alex do their thang

More fluke shots from Ai Mei and Terence's wedding. Here we have Anson on rhythm guitar and Alex on congas. Motion is natural—my PhotoShop skills ain't that advanced. :)

Music Binge

Over the past few days, I have found myself addicted to downloading mp3s ever since I rediscovered mp3 blogs and mp3 blog aggregators like The Hype Machine. When I say addicted, I mean seriously addicted, to the point that I figure out strategies for my downloading activities, as not all of these activities take place at err... private property, and because one particular machine at this non-private place has err... Alzheimer's, and err, perhaps I am supposed to be doing other things...

Anyway, mp3 blog aggregators really do help you scour the high seas for free mp3s while discovering new music you like (they compile the latest mp3 blog postings and make the content searchable). I download music torrents a lot, but there are major limitations like i) you first need to know what you want to download; ii) most torrents are for latest releases--the old albums are usually taken off; iii) if you're into niche music, it'd be easier to find me at a Paris Hilton concert than you getting your feed here.

While hunting down great music on your own can be very rewarding, it also takes time. A lot of time. I've sat through hours of patient downloading, all the while reading other people's glowing reviews of said band, only to click 'play' and discover the music sucks--to me at least. (On a side note, with the gluttony of music in the world today, you do need to start sharpening your own earbuds to what you like so that you don't drown in all the sounds. Different people like different music, so it's useless trying to find reasons to agree with all the hype if you really don't.)

Anyway, three bands / artistes that stand out from my current binging, in no particular order, are:

1. The National (listen to them on Spinner here)
2. Thomas Dybdahl (whose collaborations led me to discover another amazing voice, Christel Alsos)
   
3. Peter and the Wolf (among other things, this dude plays in cemeteries at night and travels to gigs by boat)
   

It's all great music. You really should check them out. By the power vetoed me by My Honourable Self, go!!!


mp3 blog aggregators, the national, thomas dybdahl, christel alsos, peter & the wolf

Stuff you don't want to hear at night

After waiting weeks for my Spidey 2 download to finish, I sit down in a semi-comfortable chair, turn off the lights and double-click the file only to find that...

IT'S IN FRENCH!!!!!

:(

~

There are two big yellow tractors and two big dust-coloured trucks filled with dirt outside the gate. For the past few nights, they have been digging a big long hole in the road about one foot deep, covering it back again so that I can drive out to work in the mornings, then returning late at night to dig another big long hole at exactly the same spot. Despite staring at the mess below, I fail to understand why. There are no pipes, no wires, no anything to make sense of the confounded hullabaloo that is happening at 3am. I pity my parents as their room faces the din. To add to the annoyance, tonight, the workers have decided to dig to Indian music on the radio.

BANG! Another crazily loud bang that sounded like a collision between a bike and a car. In reality, it's just more of the careless shoveling. I bet they feel honoured they have the power to keep people from having a decent night's rest.

A glance out the window again, and finally, I see the pipes. They look like gigantic red caterpillars with a never-ending wobbly midsection. They'd better not be of some dodgy material, supplied by some corrupt government contact's brother-in-law and designed to disintegrate in two weeks.

Gah. Loud noises can drive you mad.

~

When I horridly broke my Kyser the other day, I recalled that I'd lent a friend my old Dunlop trigger capo. So I texted her and asked if she could return it. She came along on Wednesday night, and presented to me a SHINY NEW SHUBB CAPO. And 2 boxes of Ferrero Rocher! She apologised and said she had lost the capo at a friend's wedding; would this new one do? Would it?! Of course it would! I still want the black Kyser (in memory of my old one) but this is great. Thanks, Debbie!! :D

Champs, we're back in business.

In the ruins

Nine years I have loved you.
Nine years you have loved me.
Nine years on, you lie in the ruins.

Today, for clamping you the 'right' way for a song I wrote (which is upside down of how I usually clamp you), you paid a hefty price. You died in service. Faithfully, just like always.

This picture is in memory of how a spanking new you looked like outta the package, and the spot where you received your death blow. Now I will wait to get one of your black brothers, but remember, I will miss you.

Kyser, you're da best!

xxx.

(P/S: I am sad. Kyser is the best!)

(P/P/S: This is a capo, not an idiosyncratic instrument of torture.)

Sounds like SG$48,000 (or not)

Three guys. One girl. Three days. One car.

Saturday
Late! Jon forgot his passport and so we left late.
Jam! Stupid roadworks on the North-South highway delayed us further.
Rain! The conspiracy was beginning. Obviously the Government paid money to some skilled cloud seeders to stop us from crossing the border.
Storm! We couldn't see beyond a few metres. Good thing Terk (the most experienced driver) was driving.
"No white card?!" A sarky Singapore Immigration Officer surled. Jon blamed the Malaysian Immigration, which was true... they said to go ahead to Singapore even without the card.
Delays! EVPs, cash cards, yadda yadda yadda which made us late, late, late.
Lost! FELIX!!!!!!!!!!!!! ("Let me drive! I know the way! Err... hmm. Hang on....")
Lost again! No coin-operated public phones. Where does Jon's uncle (who's not really his uncle) stay?
Arghhhhh! Near-accident number one.
Arrgggghhh! Near-accident number two.
Arrrggghhhh! Near-accident number three.
Uncountable! The number of traffic rules we broke that night.
Finally! Rest. Almost midnight.

Sunday
Skipped church. I was totally okay with that but Jon's spiritual conscience was pricked. Around noon, we picked up Fel and headed to Vivocity, Singapore's newest mall. It's got a pretty spiffy design. Had a lousy lunch at The Fish Shop--the fish batter was so rough it scraped the top of my mouth till it felt sore. Then I met up with Cheok and William, my ex-art directors, who forced me to insisted I have lunch a second time at Superdog with them, a new Singaporean hotdog/burger place.

After some misunderstanding with the group (the cable car ride was too expensive so they decided to wait for me though I'd wanted more time to chill and shop and meet them there later), we went to Sentosa Island. It was raining heat waves. The place was packed with tourists, even though I didn't see anything special about the place. The huge trees were... fake. There was nothing much that interested me there. Jon and Terk tried the luge while I had a drink at Coffee Bean and Felix had a Subway sandwich. (I was to learn how perpetually hungry Terk and Felix are.) Spent my time looking at the small birds hopping around for tidbits and the numerous lovebirds shopping around for tidbits.

Terk wanted to check out the miniature gold course after that but it seemed pretty abandoned. (I guess golf games of a different nature are more popular on the island.) Next, we went to the Underwater World. While it was expensive (SG$19.50), I did enjoy the touch pools where visitors can gently stroke a select population of stingrays, starfish and other slimy/scaly creatures.

After having heard good stuff from different people about Sentosa's 'Song of the Sea' i.e. musical lights display, Jon and I persuaded the rest to go for it. Unfortunately, it was one of the lamest shows I've watched. DO NOT go there unless you want to feel annoyed. The lighting effects were great, but the script and human acting were corny beyond corny. Huge disappointment considering the technical potential.

Sunday also saw a huge chunk of skin grated away by my left slipper from all that walking. And later on, in the wee hours of the morning, I woke up, realised I'd fallen asleep without bathing, then proceeded to make a royally disgusting/embarrassing mistake. I shall not tell you what it was.

Monday
Final day. Shopping day. Walked, walked, walked. Walked, walked, walked. Gah, gah, gah. The guitar shops I wanted open were closed or didn't have the right electric gig bag at the right price. After visiting about 10 music shops, I settled for the bag I wanted at SG$70. The shop I bought it from also carried the most expensive guitar in Singapore: a one-and-only-in-the-world SG$48,000 Santa Cruz with an ancient woolly mammoth bridge that was specially procured from a museum in the US, extensive mother-of-pearl inlay on the neck and naturally aged wood which had a musky scent (all this according to the shop owner lah). After asking the boss to play a tune and demo it (of all things, he started strumming 'Your Cheating Heart and singing along... argh!), I asked in my sweetest most innocent voice if I could have a go at the guitar. Hee hee hee. And so I will remember this trip for those few seconds playing on a $48,000 guitar. It was much lighter than expected (the top even feeling like plywood) and certainly had a very resonant sound, but IMHO it's not worth SG$48,000 at all.

We left Felix on the island as he started sem again today. During the drive home, Terk and Jon started singing together to keep awake--first oldies (after which they realised they didn't know any lyrics), then church songs, followed by Disney songs. It was absolutely funny/troubling. Wish I had a video of it.

Hmm-bop

I am a phoney. I am a faker. I am a professional poser.

Twice, yesterday, I caught myself trying to impress random strangers by:

a) Speaking in good English
b) Bopping my head to jazz music
(Three times, if you count that pseudo-artsy look I was trying to achieve with my face.)

GOSH! WHAT A LOSER!

Ever since I was old smart enough to realise that certain patterns of behaviour I displayed (mainly showing off on the guitar or banging the drums in church) were probably due to insecurity issues unresolved during my childhood, I have luckily managed to move past the chagrin of being such a loser and plonked myself in the frontlines of the punch line: me.

Which is why, in these days of post-enlightenment, I am sometimes wary of how I behave at gigs. (And in another setting, how I play in church. I have a specific prayer to address this—just need to remember to say it.) You see, although I am a phoney, a faker and a poser, I am an honest one. Hence, if I suddenly realise I am bopping my head to music in a gig, I try to check my motivations. Was it automatic? Did it happen subconsciously as I got into the groove? Or was I just trying to show I can keep time? It sounds pathetic, but that’s because it really is.

I can’t say that I’ve ceased this bad habit of fishing for compliments, because obviously, I haven’t. Somewhere deep inside still lurks that inferior beast squealing like a spring pig for attention. Two options remain: to reach a celestial level of snobbery so that earthly comments become so inconsequential to my identity I could flick them light years away with a gigantic middle finger, or to remember to root my identity in a Higher Being, which I am so slack in doing.

In the meantime, if you ever catch me smiling to myself while bopping to a beat then suddenly stopping, know that I was merely rejoicing in the idiot that I am.

P/S: The North Rhine Westphalia Youth Jazz Orchestra was good. Better than expected. Their discordant rendition of ‘Rasa Sayang’ with haunting vocals made my night. And unlike the Earth, Wind & Fire concert or the gig at Little Havana, this was FREE. :D

This is a Happy Bass Riff

If a bass riff had the power to make humans happy and contented, it'd probably sound like the one on The Magic Numbers' 'This is a Song'. Technically, it's not very difficult at all, but it sure can make me smile. :)

United & Mosquito Bites

I apologise for not writing. Not that anyone reads what I write here anyway. Oh well, hell.

So I've started a new job. It requires much multi-tasking, as it's a small company and you tend to dip your feet in this and that. Or maybe it's like swimming in a pool of Paddlepop colours. Yes, work's been taking up a lot of my time.

But I did manage to catch United's concert last Friday. It was GREAT!! That sorta upped my spiritual life a bit; the music was great, much better than PS. The buffed-up guitarist has the loveliest clear voice. The bassist was this cool understated dude with a freaking ugly shirt. His bass solo, leading up to Amazing Grace, was da bomb. All in all, it was a nice experience worshipping with the United team. I just wonder if they're gonna stop dressing so emo... the tight jeans and shirt ain't exactly sightly.

Then last weekend, I attended my youth's Core Group Planning Retreat. It's my last year as a Core Superviser, so I still got to attend for free. Muahaha. It was a good break even though I'd only started work recently. Despite the many mosquito bites that continue to plague me with a terrible itch, I've come away from Bukit Tinggi more refreshed and spiritually encouraged. Thanks to all Core Leaders for the fun time! (Not that any of you read my blog anyway.)

Okies... work calls. It leaves me tired and sleepy, but it's work. I'm looking forward to my first pay cheque since too long ago.

10 Things I Miss about Australia

(In no particular order)

1. Taking a walk around Lake Ginninderra, Belconnen, which is just a stone’s throw away from the residences of the University of Canberra. Although it is a manmade lake, nature has populated the surroundings with an undeniable sense of serenity and beauty. In autumn, trees shed their golden-red leaves, and as the season turns over to winter, cyclists, joggers and strollers disappear from the tarred path. The lake becomes barren and quiet. Once in a while, if you’re lucky, you can spot black swans and other long-necked birds gracing the lake’s surface.

Ducks going for a dip in summer

Two birds at the mini-pier at Lake Ginninderra

Seconds later, they fly off together into the setting sun

2. Jamming and singing with Jess, my housemate—an excellent musician and the person who got me into the habit of drinking scotch during winter, especially before singing. Less than a quarter glass (on the rocks or with juice) would be enough to warm up our voices and get the blood flowing to our numb fingers, even though our buttocks froze on the metal-framed chairs.

3. The open spaces, the starry skies, the clean air, the bush, wallabies hopping by, shooting stars, double rainbows, the beach, grey gulls, going on a road trip, the land, the strange feeling that this was home.

A sample of the bush landscape

4. Playing guitar for Bethany International church, where practice for four songs lasted two hours and there was always an ample supply of Indonesian food and hospitality awaiting us after. Church population: +/- 20.

5. Busking without fear of being robbed of my guitar/spoils. Although I did this only once, I would do it again. And again. And again. Judith, my Kenyan friend sang in her rich African timbre while I harmonised with a raw Chinese voice and played guitar. Grave accent differences aside, we managed to collect AUD$40+ within two hours, on a slow Sunday afternoon in Canberra’s city centre. I guess many Canberrans have either a really kind heart or too much money.

6. Eating Australian Milo from the tin. Aussie Milo, compared to Malaysian Milo, is smoother, richer and ain’t as sweet. It’s like a prime piece of real estate in heaven. It doesn't fully melt in your mouth — you have to chew it.

7. Doing a Tim Tam Slam. Ironically, I learnt this trick from someone I met online who lives in the States. You bite the ends off an Aussie Tim Tam (again, the original is far superior to the Indonesian-made ones found in Malaysia), then dunk one end into a steaming cup of coffee. Suck through the top like a straw. I usually like to dip both ends in to wet them, so that sucking up the coffee (best unsweetened) is easier. Watch out though—slammed Tim Tams usually melt quite fast, leaving a chocolatey mess on your fingers.

8. Taking photographs where everything looks crisp and clear under the Aussie sun, versus the muddy colours you get in KL because of the smoke and haze.

9. Being able to wear my Akubra hat out without attracting weird stares. (Then again, the sight of a Chinese girl wearing an Akubra hat will always attract stares even in Australia—probably more amused than weird, though.)

10. The thriving live music and arts scene. Jazz in the basement, jazz in the park, folk, singer-songwriter, film screenings at the university and rock gigs at the refectory left me feeling more ‘cultured’ and a very satisfied soul.

( |o }===:::

A few days from now, I will make my way once again to the vast land of Australia for a holiday. I wish it were spring or autumn (it’s winter now), but since I can’t change the seasons, I’ll try to make the most of it. At least I can recall the services of my long, woolly winter coat. I'm so excited I can't work. I can’t wait.

Knowing You

There seems to be a growing derth in meaning in many contemporary praise and worship songs. Stuff like "Looking out my window / I see the trees blowing in the breeze / Looking out my window / I see the birds flying in the sky" (Planet Shakers) doesn't really do it for me. Ugh.

Okay, so maybe it's wrong to assume that just because I can't relate to these lyrics, it's a bad song. But perhaps Christian songwriters need to do some soul-searching. After all, our source of inspiration is God, who did more than create the most majestic living artworks in the universe. Our songs should strive to capture greater depth and meaning. Yes, they can be simple, as musical and lyrical accessorising run the risk of reducing a song's purity, but we do need to be mindful of at least two dangers.

1. Being simplistic
The Bible holds many basic truths. A lot of which have been sung over and over again, reincarnating themselves in words that reflect the language of the time. The ease of using familiar themes becomes a crutch. There is no end to songs with the words 'love', 'presence', 'glory', 'grace', 'awesome'. While I'm not saying this is bad, my point is that we often just limit our expressions to these themes until it feels like a nauseating rewrite of a 1990s Church Top 40 song in the latest musical fashion. Meanwhile, the temptation to rhyme also gets in the way, as words that rhyme don't always offer the best meaning. We need to be careful that we don't dilute, or worse, twist biblical truth just so our verses end in a nice rhyme.

2. Being emo. Totally
While being emo is in, we also need to remember that we worship God with our minds too, not just until the ends of our hair stand up and our hearts are flush in a warm fuzzy frenzy. Yet a time is coming and has now come when the true worshippers will worship the Father in spirit and truth, for they are the kind of worshipers the Father seeks. God is Spirit, and his worshipers must worship in spirit and in truth. (John 4:23-24, NIV). Sometimes I need to be reminded of God's all-sufficient grace; His Lordship; His power; His victory over my sin and past; that He holds my future. I can't sing 'I love you Lord' when what my mind and heart really need are things like healing, comfort or forgiveness at that moment. If I need faith. If more than half the songs in a worship session mush me into a lovey dovey feeling, I think we will die a diabetic church.

If we are to write songs, let it come from the heart. Search the Bible for nuggets of untapped words, wisdom, truths. But more importantly, we need to go back to our own growth as Christians, for it is in a personal walk with God that our hearts are actually lifted up, encouraged, humbled, touched. The music and words will then flow out naturally.

KNOWING YOU
Graham Kendrick

All I once held dear, built my life upon
All this world reveres and wars to own
All I once thought gain I have counted loss
Spent and worthless now compared to this

Knowing You, Jesus, knowing You
There is no greater thing
You're my all, You're the best
You're my joy, my righteousness
And I love You Lord

Now my heart's desire is to know You more
To be found in You and known as Yours
To possess by faith what I could not earn
All surpassing gift of righteousness

Oh to know the power of Your risen life
And to know You in Your sufferings
To become like You in Your death, my Lord
So with You to live and never die

Evacuate! I just farted*

From smelling like flowers, my post-gig panties are toxic enough to knock out a two-year-old toddler. Imagine what my outer clothes smell like.

Even now, the room reeks of stale cigarette smoke any clogged nose can trace to my post-gig bag. The hair’s washed and I’m relatively clean, but the olfactory offence remains. I don’t want to speculate how many minutes of my life was cut short tonight — not that I lead a very interesting existence anyway.

But the point of this post is not to give a lecture on public smoking and its ill-effects on the health of an innocent bystander. You see, there really is no point in this post at all.

I have just returned from Moonshine—an acoustic gig at The Curve’s Laundry Bar—where Qings and Kueens, Mia Palencia, Reza Salleh, and Couple played earlier. And boy was I excited when Melina Williams made a guest appearance on her five-string bass, smiling a little more than usual.

While the overall music failed to leave a big impression, what I discovered from my first Moonshine outing is that I need some gigging buddies. People who love live music and can endure uncomfortable standing positions, smoky rooms and questionable crowds. Tonight, my sole company left halfway because he couldn't stand the smoke. (To his credit, he took a walk and waited outside till I had my fill of music.)

I shall now tell you a humble little tale of a smoke-fearing ex-copywriter and how having smoker friends helped her overcome the fear.

( |o }===:::

Once upon a time, I worked with an ad agency. We worked long hours; stressed hours. Hours stuck in an office with no air-cond after 6pm. Hours stuck in an office where almost everyone smoked.

Nicotine calmed their nerves, and the familiar movement to and from the lips—inhale, exhale—became a crucial extension of their physiological posturing. Fagging was also an important social activity where the latest gossip within the company would be exchanged; Marlboros and Mild Sevens burning together; the muted orange glow counting down the lifeline of their conversations.

They usually smoked in the stairwells or near the lifts. But it was when they smoked inside, at their desks, that I almost died.

At once! In my mind! I would see an image of the respiratory passageway from my nasal cavity down to my lungs turn from a clear blue to red, spreading out across the veins, arteries and alveoli like the changing colours of karaoke lyrics; then to black, as the poison seeped into my condemned bloodstream. Every time I breathed this defiled air in, the image replayed itself, as I imagined my oxygen cells dying, withering, screaming in vain for some fresh air. I’m dying! My nose would start getting congested with grey snot and I’d get a headache. Subconsciously—and this is where the trouble really starts—I’d also try not to breathe.

I admit, holding your breath while trying to think of creative ideas isn’t very smart. Nonetheless, my body was just trying to preserve itself. I did try dropping some hints to my smoking colleagues, such as wrinkling my nose in disdain, but obviously, the smoke clouded their vision. I hated it/them.

The turning point came when some of these smoker colleagues became my friends. It was something you had to accept in a relationship — much like bad breath. I got used to lunches under the hot and humid Malaysian sun (i.e. smoking section), as less considerate colleagues blew smoke and bad breath in my face. I learnt to hide disgust when ash from other tables flew into my water and food. I’d gaze enviously at the diners inside, enjoying free air conditioning and piped in muzak. And when the awful haze came, my tolerance greatly improved. How on earth my colleagues could think of sitting outside in the thick of pollution while others were sweeping pharmacies clean of surgical masks is beyond me. But they still had to eat—and smoke—and so I joined them.

Perhaps what I’d like to say is this: although I don’t enjoy the smoky confines where live music often takes place, I’ve somewhat learnt to live with it. And thanks to my ex-colleagues, the mental image of me dying at that very moment! from tar and carbon monoxide poisoning now haunts me less.

I guess breathing in some smoke is better than not breathing at all.

*Taken from a cool T-shirt someone wore at the gig today.

Under the Weather

Besides being a cool song by KT Tunstall, it also describes what I feel now.

Sick.

"Life is Difficult" (a.k.a. A Lunchbreak Spent Breaking Into Church and Removing Musical Instruments)

I got a call today asking for help in packing the church keyboard for a memorial service. Thinking that explaining which keyboard to take (Korg or Roland?), which amp (brown Peavey? black Peavey? big black Peavey? big big big black Peavey? how about this hh...h...Hartke?), which jacks (what's a jack? oh, the heads are different? what's the difference? how many?) and adapter (adapter is which one ah?) might prove too taxing on the person's memory and my patience, I said alright, pick me up during lunch.

And so we drove to church, just to find the outer gate locked. Great. After some unnecessary phone calls, which could have been avoided had proper arrangements been made, someone came down and opened the grill. He had a caller on hold, so he passed me the keys to the main sanctuary. I stared and sighed. It meant I'd be going solo.

Ding! Level 3.

For those of you who hold keys to secured/commercial properties, you'd understand the intricacies and annoyances that come with having to open up/lock up. First, the shrieking, grating shutters. Then more locks. My church has two - one in the middle, one at the bottom. I selected the slim, cylindrical key for the bottom lock, then the flat, fat one for the belly. Turning this way and that, jiggling them, both finally clicked open. Next, I pushed the shrieking, grating shutters up. EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK! Metal-on-metal, the shrieking, grating shutters killed my ears all the way to the top.

Second, the glass door. Took a wild guess at the bunch of keys and selected one. Amazingly, the lock turned. So far so good.

Third. Disarmament. I punched in the security code, then rushed in to disarm the system. BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEE---- it cried, then faded.

Now, it was time to pack. I walked to the stage, laid my hands on the keyboard, then...

"Err, I double-parked lah. I think I'll go down and check on my car."

Grrr. "I can't carry all the stuff down alone," I said.

A pause.

"Never mind lah, I'll come up again. How long you need?"

"Ten minutes."

And so he left.

After getting the Roland from the stand, the jacks, the adapter, the pedal, and the keyboard bag from the back, I packed them up and was almost done. Then he reappeared.

"Finish ah?"

"Yah, almost."

I walked towards the big black Peavey amp and stared at it. It was cumbersome.

"This is kinda heavy. You could get the smaller amp from the first floor or SS1 church," I suggested.

"Nevermind lah. Get it here. Convenient. Can right?"

Okay. I unplugged it.

"I'll carry the heavier one," he said, and proceeded to carry the amp. He lifted, struggled, shifted his feet, tried again, shuffled, then slowly hobbled across the stage. It was quite comical.

Since he wanted a keyboard stand, I grabbed the spare stand from the PA room. I heaved the almost five-foot keyboard bag unto my shoulder, then dragged my way out, bumping now and then into the walls, door, stairs. Of course, with the church keys in hand, it also meant I had to lock up.

Dumping the keyboard bag on the floor outside, I repeated all the earlier steps, in reverse. Alone. With the church armed once more, I considered it almost an accomplishment.

After returning the keys and loading the car, we were off. On the way back to my office, stuck in a jam and having a rather meaningless conversation...

"Quite heavy, ah, the instruments?" he said.

"Yeah."

"I thought very easy - just take the keyboard."

I nodded. Right.

"Which one heavier ah, the keyboard or the amp?"

"Err, I think they're about the same lah, just that the keyboard is harder to carry cos of its shape."

"Oh. Hmmm. So, the musicians have to carry all this when you go for camps lah?"

"Yeah."

"Ooohhhh."

A pause. Then came the afternoon activity's conclusion.

"Hmm... life is difficult," he said, shaking his head.

( |o }===:::

Rolling my eyes under my sunnies and grinning to myself, I couldn't help agreeing.

Floored

Darn you Melina.

You and your five-string bass. Kicking ass like nobody's business. You literally floored me and everyone else, including every (male) bassist who played tonight. Totally. You're like the Fingers of the female muso community. Males too. That wasn't meant to sound rude, by the way.

How do you move your digits so fast?

You have effectively obliterated my theory that girl guitarists / bassists / whatever can't be as fast as guys. I still think there are guys who are faster than you, but then again, there are more guy players, period. What am I to do now without a valid excuse?

Stop slapping and pulling in between bars - you make me and my bass playing look sorely juvenile.

You are one crazy nut.

How did you get so good?

Oh, and you sing while you play. Now that's amazing. The most I can do while spewing out lyrics is play simple notes, let alone a whole verse full of complicated bass riffs. You're da bomb.

You know, you looked so cool today. Absolutely sizzling. It's like you'd kill any band member who played the wrong note or went off-time. Maybe that helps keep them in check. Or maybe the non-smiling schlock heightens the drama of your playing. For a moment, I was tempted to take up the bass seriously; practising, practising, practising at the expense of my guitar playing. I want to look cool on stage too. But luckily, I came to my senses. I doubt I can be as good as you even if I practised solidly for two hours a day (anything more and the fingers would be in a permanent cramp). And it pricks me that you're *slightly* younger than me. Damn.

Melina William of Tempered Mental, you rock my socks. If you're ever looking for a girl band or another singer-songwriter to form a duo, you know where to find me.

Love,
An unwilling groupie