A number of people have spoken to me about the episode of ABC’s Q&A talking about the power of music. I was offered a place in the audience, in case I wanted to ask a question. I have also had a few people talk to me about the essay in this month’s ‘The Monthly’ about the diminishing support for the arts in Australia. It’s grim reading.

I just don’t have the energy to jump up and down about this any more. Don’t get me wrong – I agree with it all. Music education SHOULD BE IN EVERY SCHOOL. Good music education. Taught properly. The science is in. IT CHANGES PEOPLE. (Yes – I am shouting. Well, raising my voice.) And there should be more support for artists in the country. Absolutely. The statistics are in. Arts activity contributed $111 billion to the economy (in 2016-7, but it’s not really changed.). The Arts alone brought in $4.6 billion. And cultural spending is 0.5 per cent of the budget ($2.6 billion. Subsidies to the fossil fuel economy came to $29 billion. Just sayin’.).

Oh, I can be outraged. It makes me angry if I think about it. But I really have two options. I can work in a different sector. I’m not prepared to do that. Or I can do something about it. And I don’t have the tact or diplomacy to be a lobbyist. So I’ll do the next thing – I’ll educate. Children. Audiences. Myself. And I’ll try and infect as many people I can with the love of music so that they support it.

However this makes me tired. Too tired to jump up and down. Too busy. Busy actually doing stuff. But if anyone reading this wants to jump up and down for me, please do.

Ask any musician, and there will be a few people that were pivotal in their lives. Most of them would be their teachers, but there will be others as well. I have three such people in my life who were hugely influential and made me the musician and performer I am today. I thank them in my head nearly every day.

One was my Australian cello teacher, David Pereira. Another was my teacher when I went to London, Robert Cohen. And the third was the Australian composer, Martin Wesley-Smith. Last Thursday, Martin died after a long battle with cancer.

I knew it was coming. But it still hit me like a punch in my solar plexus. I am remembering him a lot right now – sometimes sadly, sometimes with tears, sometimes with a grin. Vincent Plush wrote the most beautiful piece in Limelight – it is such a wonderful tribute. Read it. It sums up Martin perfectly.

He was such a fabulous man. He taught me so much by his example. He was charming, fiercely intelligent, full of integrity and saw through all the bullshit that goes on in the musical world of this country. He taught me to take myself seriously and follow my artistic convictions, however crazy they might be. He also taught me to not take myself too seriously, and to be the first to laugh at myself. It was because of Martin that I went to Timor and trained teachers. It was because of Martin’s music I learned to sing and play at the same time. (There’s a piece of his, ‘Uluru Song’, that I have played in every country I’ve visited- you have to sing and play at the same time. It’s a wonderful, wonderful piece.) He made me laugh and cry. He made me angry. He made me play better. He made me examine and question. He made me smile. He made me listen.

I heard the news of his death on Friday morning, and had to play on Friday night. I was raw. I tried to play the cello in a way he would have liked – thoughtfully, honestly, lovingly. I did this on Saturday and Sunday too.

Dear Martin, this is one cellist remembering you. One person you have touched. Thank you for inspiring me. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for all your music. You are so very missed…

I am a recent convert to vinyl. About a year ago, I convinced long-suffering-husband to get rid of the TV, and we invested in a record player, a good set of speakers and all the other bits that we needed for listening. We still own a CD player, and also have some black boxy thing (who knows what the proper term for it is? An amplifier? Probably. My head is full of other stuff that I need to know. I just know what it does, and how it works.) to enable us to also listen to streaming services.

I have loved listening to records. Sitting reading the back of the covers, just like I used to (it was where I started my internal collection of fun facts about composers. Sitting with my back up against the brown velvety cover of my mum’s sofa.). Reading lyrics, recording histories (did you know that at the end of the Beatles’ output Paul used to record the bass line in last so that he could know what was going on around it, and make it as interesting and fitting as possible?), looking at art work designed for each album – and most importantly hearing new stuff.

For example, we have a Peter Gabriel album I adore now. I knew one song on it when we bought it. I love the whole thing now – it’s crazy, and over the top, and totally wonderful. Same goes for numerous Sly and the Family Stone tracks. I love this journey. And playing it all on vinyl means you can’t really skip stuff – it’s actually just too much bother.

I was reading an article in ‘The Monthly’ the other day about a writer comparing her digital music library to her actual music library. (It’s here, if you are interested.) She’s a fabulous writer, and raises some really interesting points. She also said this “… I find my online listening becoming narrower, more predictably situated within my established tastes. …there is the mirroring of algorithmic recommendations, giving me more versions of myself and that self’s habits…” And it got me thinking. I do put on streaming services, but I know realise they are playing me much of the same stuff. This isn’t a bad thing, but it seems a shame, when there’s all this music out there.

So – I am going to challenge myself, and if you have read this far, why not try it too. Every time you sit and listen to music for the next little while, listen to something new. As in, new for you. I’m going to do it. And I’m going to look forward to unearthing things I’ve never heard before. I may find some awful stuff I’ll never listen to again. But I’ll probably find some excellent music too…

I haven’t blogged for a while. Things have been pretty crazy here. Let me just fill you in on my weeks.

For most weeks in the school term, I teach for three days. They are huge days – I don’t get much time off. I see as many kids as I can and lessons are all pretty high energy. In my experience, kids learn music best by doing. Playing music as much as possible. So this means that things are noisy. And I have to manage things carefully. I’m often asked why I teach like this. Well, a number of reasons. Most of the time, I like to be high-energy. I’m an extrovert, so it’s a pretty easy way for me to be. But most of all, I love seeing kids really engage – laughing, energised themselves. It means, after a while I have been teaching in their school, they rush into their music lessons. It’s fun. They love the energy and the slight craziness. It does mean I go home pretty tired though…

I’m paid well for what I do. I’ve negotiated this, and I work hard for it. The other days I don’t teach, I manage a concert series and I’m a cellist. People assume I ‘have a day off’. But I don’t. I’m up, just as early. I’m practising. Emailing. Keeping up with social media, and scheduling posts. Listening to stuff to see if it would work in a program. Updating websites. It’s busy. And requires constant work.

I don’t often have a ‘day off’. I was reading this article this morning. And it rang very true. Most artists don’t dodge taxes, despite what people think. We don’t shirk. We are tremendously disciplined. Sometimes too much so. But it’s not an easy path to walk. I wouldn’t encourage young people to walk down this road. Not unless they can’t imagine doing anything else.

Because I am so many things. I am a performer. A teacher. A business person. A dreamer. An editor. A researcher. It’s hard not to feel overwhelmed.

(As I write this, I imagine your response. Please know, I’m not asking for your sympathy. I’m just being truthful. I’m writing this the day after a concert. I always feel pretty raw on those days. It leads to honesty.)

Is it worth it? Sometimes. When I play a fabulous concert and feel like I’m almost flying, yes. When I see a kid in a music class having a wonderful time, absolutely. When a cello student blossoms, it’s wonderful. When things all fall into place to create a really good program, yep. But it’s relentless. And often lonely. It’s sometimes self-destructive. It’s often disheartening.

But could I do anything else? No. It’s a like a drug. I couldn’t give it up.

There are some pieces that exhilarate you when you play them. And then when you finish you feel like leaping around like a springbok. It’s the most wonderful feeling – the Dvorak cello concerto does that for me. Some Vivaldi too.

There are other pieces that leave you very satisfied after you’ve lowered your bow at the end of them – like you’ve sat down and eaten a really good meal of just the right amount of food. And the food was just what you wanted. And there was some really lovely wine there as well. I get that with a lot of Bach.

And then there are other pieces.

I had one of them in my last set of concerts that happened on the weekend. We played a piece by John Tavener called ‘Svyati’ – ‘O Holy One’ in Russian. It’s incredible. It’s for cello and choir – the choir sings a Russian Orthodox chant, and the cello ‘sings’ over the top as a priest would do. It’s the chant used in most funeral services – the priest leads the coffin out of the church, and the mourners follow, carrying candles. It’s really hard. It’s very slow and atmospheric. It requires nerves of steel from the cellist, and very long breaths from the choir.

I played this with the choir of St James, down in a very dark crypt on the weekend. I had practised and practised it. I had thought about it, sung it, worried about it, loved it. And at the end, when it was over, and I was placing my music on the floor I was hit by a wave of emotion. Really hit. And it was all I could do to not cry. Not from relief, although I was relieved. But by this very powerful grief.

The next two songs the choir sang by themselves, and I had to sit and piece myself together. And I was amazed at how this music had affected me. I wasn’t thinking of what it represented as I played. I was thinking phrasing and sound production. But yet it had that effect. I knew what was coming in the piece. I knew it backwards – yet it took my heart and changed it.

What an extraordinary thing music is.