Hughie and I recently made a trip to Sydney to attend the APRA AMCOS Art Music Awards. Definitely an ear opening experience. We caught the Woy Woy train into the city on our second attempt (we may have ran...) but arrived on time. Go us. The awards ceremony honoured musical genres that were overlooked by more commercial accolades... the acts that performed between presentations ranged from experimental music to contemporary classical and jazz. We asked ourselves some big questions that night, about our personal definitions of what makes "good" music.
If music can be dryly defined as any auditory stimulus that evokes an imaginative or emotional response (I know... I know... how romantic) then what we heard that night sits comfortably within that definition. But until that night I had never had to think about music in those terms before. My concept of music was blown wide open by score sheets rubbed percussively on cello bodies, and unfathomable rhythms beat out on old cars. Some pieces I understood, but did not care for, others I did not care to understand, and occasionally something resonated with me. In this last, I suppose it was a similar experience listening to commercial radio.
The upshot is this: we write songs, not pieces. But I like that.
There was plenty of time for semi-intellectual-trash-talk on the train home post Ivy Bar afterparty, where we had an hour stopover at Hornsby Station around midnight. We ended up leaving the station to grab some tea at the World's Best Kebab shop. You'd think we might have tried the kebabs, but neither of us was drunk enough at that point. Same goes for the magic hotdogs I guess. It was freezing cold, and Hughie had made a bad call in not wearing his suit jacket. We stood in the relative warmth of the station elevator for the remainder of the stopover.