I was reading this article the other day – and it’s so true. People are buying tickets for things later and later these days. And it’s scary – really scary, being someone who puts on concerts – and guarantees fees for the performers I work alongside.

I understand that people are waiting to see if gigs fit in with what they have to do. I understand that people don’t have as much disposable income. But it’s becoming riskier and riskier to put on concerts – and more and more stressful. Thoughts happen like ‘will I be able to pay everyone?’ and ‘will I be able to pay myself?’. And then the spiral begins… ‘maybe I’m not good enough anymore’ and ‘possibly what I’m doing isn’t artistically relevant anymore’.

Please don’t think I want comments about my playing. Or that what I’m doing is artistically okay. That’s not what I’m after here. You see, as a small concert-putter-on-person, I am having to have difficult conversations with other artists about cancelling things, or putting in huge amounts of practise only to have to cancel things at the last minute. It’s really disheartening. And it also means that smaller series, people doing intimate performance things, will probably stop. And I just want to start a discussion here, and let concert-goers know what it’s like from the other side…

I used to have concerts sell really quickly. They’d sell out months in advance. Last week I sent out some publicity to a pretty large mailing list – and there were no tickets bought. Nothing. Sometimes, artistically, I want to do things that are a bit different. I need to do these things to challenge myself, and keep myself growing as an artist. I thought that after so many years of people coming to my concerts that they’d learned to trust that what I’d choose to play, and how it would be presented would be good. It’d be worth coming to. But it seems not any more. I get messages like “We liked it better when you streamed concerts and we could watch in our pyjamas.” But you see, as a performer, streaming things, with no audience, isn’t very satisfying. And there’s such a huge amount of work put in, I would hope that you’d respect that – and for me, watching through a not-so-great sound system, in your pyjamas, well….. it’s not what you’d wear to the Opera, is it?

Please don’t think I am telling anyone off here. I’m not. I’m just shaking my head and wondering. Do I still take artistic gambles? Do I still bother putting things on? I could make my life so much easier if I stopped. It’s a scary path at the moment, let me tell you….

Last year, I found myself playing at the 80th birthday party of Martin and Peter Wesley-Smith, down in Kangaroo Valley. Martin died in 2019 (for those of you who don’t know about Martin, he was a composer, and big influence on me – I loved him dearly), but Peter (who I also adore!) is very much alive, and decided to celebrate with a really beautiful afternoon in the local church hall, full of family and friends. The Wesley-Smith twins had lived in the Valley for decades, and Martin used to put on loads of concerts, and run a little choir down there. Loads of people at the party used to come to concerts of mine when I played down there (playing lots of Martin’s music!). I had SO many conversations with people about music, and concerts, and how much they loved Martin’s music.

I had been asked to play some music at the event – a piece that Pete had written lyrics to (not by Martin), and then a piece for singing cellist by Martin (no lyrics – just wonderful music), and then we finished with a children’s song (by Martin) called ‘Walking in the City‘. Ben came to sing that with me – and the audience joined in too. It was wonderful. Before I played, I was introduced as ‘the cellist that plays Martin’s music’. Which is right. I do.

On the way home I said to Ben ‘What a shame no-one else plays this music. It’s really excellent.’ Ben pointed out that there were no recordings of some of the pieces. And then others had been recorded, but not very well. So it was hardly surprising.

So we hatched a plan. I would record them. All the pieces for solo cello Martin had written. I don’t like recording much, but if I didn’t do it, then who would? And lucky me – Ben is a very good sound engineer, and an even better editor. So we’d do it together.

This project is HUGE. We’re still going. But these pieces sound good, you know. (I hate listening to myself, so ‘good’ is all you’re going to get from me.) And they are excellent pieces. And soon, there’ll be a CD of them (or a neat download), with really good notes written about them. And I can’t help think that Martin would be pleased too….

I’ve been meaning to write a new blog post for a while, but I’ve been doing a lot. The start of the year in schools is always big – setting up spaces, timetables, over-arching plans for the years, plans just for term 1. I’ve just started a new program in a new school – and that’s always a big thing. And I’ve been practising a lot – I’ve had some hard programs to learn, and a big piece to record.

And it was when I was sitting and practising for the umpteenth hour that I stopped and thought something. It was that playing the cello well, as well as I can, is incredibly important to me. Hugely important. And it might be different for other musicians, but the only way that I can maintain the standard I want to be at, and possibly even get better, is to sit and spend hours – many hours – at the cello, exploring pieces, trying new things, making myself play hard things, taking myself out of what is comfortable.

And to do this I need time. And mental space. I’ve changed what I do each week this year – I am not in schools as many days as I was in 2025, because I could feel my cello playing slipping away from me. And I’m not ready for that yet. I know it’ll happen, at some point, as I get older, or care less. But I’m not at that point.

It interested me that I cared so much. Still. And that I cared SO much. I can’t tell you why. But I do. And I’m loving playing more than I could before. And having time to think up new things. It’s exciting. It reminded me of a Bill Withers song….

Mr. Jones, Booker T., said to me
Don’t worry about it,
Just do what you do –
And do it good.

I knew a man. I knew him for a number of years. He was a very good man. He was an artist. And a gallery owner. And a classical music lover. And frequently, he would open his gallery and host concerts. He’d spread the word. And provide the supper. And the space. And he’d invite musicians around to play, and then give you all the money from the tickets. It was good money. They were great concerts. And he made everyone feel special, and welcome, and important. He also looked after young artists. He’d let let live in the space out the back of the gallery. Or he’d introduce them to people. Or he’d show their work. I think you now know the type of person I am talking about.

A few weeks ago he died. He was over 100. He had a very dignified death. As he died, he was with a friend of his that knew him so well – one of the artists he’d mentored – and they were listening to the Bach cello suites. And during a particular prelude he died.

Today is his memorial service. And I will be playing that particular prelude for him. It’s an honour to do this. I am in the space of St James church – a space I know and love. And I am playing to honour this most excellent man.

It got me thinking about the importance of music. How we use it to mark occasions – perhaps weddings, or births, or deaths, or break-ups. And how certain pieces have such significance. And also it got me thinking of the importance of musicians. And how we can be those people that bring to life that music. It’s special. Very special.

It’s sad that musicians aren’t valued more by the decision makers and the people in power, you know. Because as much as a CEO is paid, that particular CEO can’t do what I will be doing today. (Don’t get me wrong, I’m not the only person who can do what I’m doing today. But there’s not so many of us that can…. And if young people aren’t taught music properly, there’ll be less of us.)

The musicians, and the artists, and the writers, and the poets, and the singers, and the story-tellers – when there are important moments, that’s who everyone needs. It’s a special job we all have. I wouldn’t do anything else.

And today, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but playing that prelude.

I am practising a piece at the moment for the next concerts I’m performing. It’s called ‘Inner World’, by an Australian composer called Carl Vine, and was written for my former teacher, dear friend and Aussie cello legend David Pereira. It’s quite incredible. I’ve played it a few times before, but not for a while. It’s very hard, and there’s no wriggle room anywhere, because you are playing with a backing track. The backing track is made up entirely of sounds made from David playing, and altered (sometimes), or just used as it by Carl. I can’t imagine the painstaking process those two went through to do this… As I practise, I’m listening to the track, studying it – both with music and aurally to perfect how to fit with it. How to play imaginatively. And I am loving it. Sometimes I am nervous. Sometimes I feel like I’m flying. Sometimes I feel like laughing.

I love this piece for so many reasons. It’s amazing, just as a piece. It’s exhilarating to play. It’s fun to listen to. And I am proud to say I am a little part of this piece’s history.

In my second year of study with David, he asked me to drive to Sydney (we were in Canberra) to pick up music and a tape from Carl Vine. I left at around 5pm. I got to Carl’s at around 9pm (it was in 1994 – had to drive through Goulburn!). I was a bit awestruck, but tried to play it cool. (Probably didn’t. I mean, this was CARL VINE and I was a second year music college student!) Carl gave me a coffee, and an envelope. I drove back to Canberra and met David outside the School of Music at around 1.30am. He took the envelope and went to practise.

At 7pm the NEXT DAY he performed it. This piece is fiendish. SO hard. Practising it has made my fingers bleed. Literally. And David walked onto the stage at Tilley’s Cafe, in Lynham, and played this piece. And the place erupted. (I was there, and also so delighted because Carl Vine said hello to me as he came in. Tried to play it cool again. Probably also failed again.) And David played this piece again, as an encore, at the end of the concert. And a bunch of us students jumped up on tables at the cafe and danced.

And so I am practising this piece, remembering these two days. And also remembering how incredible David was. How hard he must have worked in that tiny, tiny timeframe. How he must have had nerves of steel that night. And also, how important he is (still!) to the Australian cello scene. SO many pieces written for him by composers – some of which are now dead. He’s the link to them.

David, you are incredible. Not just as a teacher, but also as a performer. And as a muse. And as someone who is still playing, and composing, and creating, and teaching, and encouraging other musicians. Thank you for all you’ve done.

It is an honour to call you my friend.