We moved our feet to the sound of the music

There is a moment, when the door shuts to the outside world. The room is lit only by the flicker of candles on the table, the applause from the introduction quiets and an artist takes the stage. Even if you have listened to their music before, hearing someone live for the first time leaves an impression, hearing Ryan McMullan for the first time leaves a mark on your soul.

From the first verse, you know the man can sing. What becomes abundantly clear, the further you sink into the set, is that this charming twenty something Irishman has a way about him that doesn’t fit his chronological age. Generations of Celtic passion have combined to produce a lyricist who can make you smile and bring you to tears as you sit quietly in the dark.

It’s a skill that exceptional songwriters have that is different to other great writes. Those who write well can craft a stunning turn of phrase and invoke emotion but there is something about music and its delivery which allow you to be present in the moment while at the same time transport you to a different place and time.

Ryan sang a song which he had explained was about the last 10 minutes he spent with his parents at the airport before he came from Ireland to Australia for an extended visit. The song entitled, Letting go for a little while, was about a very specific experience. By the end of the first chorus, I felt my lip begin to quiver and found myself thinking about hugging my mum just before she went into surgery. Though the doctors had told us she was fine, I knew she wasn’t. She was 20kg underweight and I was quietly terrified that she was not going to make it through the procedure.

Though we were unaware at the time, this was the moment that would begin a sadly familiar journey for so many people through chemo and radiation, which my ageing hippy mum handled like a warrior. For me, nothing was more terrifying than knowing there was something wrong with no confirmation or a plan. Thankful music will get you through most things. The week mum was told she had cancer, I bought her an iPad so she could read books or listen to music during treatment. Given I set it up using my apple ID, all my music was automatically loaded so when the old girl went to use it the first song that played was When I die by The Waifs. My mum laughed her ass off. We are a family with a very dark sense of humour.

There is something exhilarating about discovering an artist for the first time. Chances are when you finally hear them, it’s not the first time they have picked up a guitar. By the time you are on board, there is this whole treasure trove of material to track down. It’s like discovering Sons of Anarchy in season 5. So, you make your way through their music and this rich tapestry of songs about love, life and loss.

While Ryan was in town we thought an empty stadium would make a nice back drop to record a video. He chose to sing an acapella version of Lakes of Pontchartrain. It’s a song that dates back to the 1800’s, a beautiful story about a man who is sheltered by a creole woman from Louisiana who he falls in love with but she is already in love with a sailor. The song is about his longing and the memory of her. There we stood in the open space built to hold 35,000 people, my baby girl, the video journalist, myself and Ryan. Then he began to sing. His voice filled the space. You could be nowhere but in that moment. With goose bumps I listened to his voice echo through the air and watched my daughter dance across the field. I think it was the closest this atheist girl may ever come to a religious experience.

We are so lucky in Australia to have some of the greatest lyricists on the planet. A well written tune by a talented song writer is like the gift you didn’t even know you wanted until you hear it. Don Walker delivers these gifts better than almost anyone. When I was 23 I lost someone, I loved. Dean was only two years older than me. He was sweet, funny and undeniably handsome. He died and I was heartbroken. Every time the instantly recognisable open chords of Flame Trees, written by Don Walker and Steve Prestwich, begins to play, I’m taken to the same place in my mind. I can feel Dean’s arms over mine in the back room of our favourite pub in my home town, correcting my pool shot. I can see his smile and hear his voice.

Even though it was 20 years ago that sensation is often followed by the all-consuming guilt, pain and sadness I felt in the months following his death. When memories are all you have any connection, even a sad one, is a blessing.

All the great artists that you love, the songs that changed your life, that made you cry, that made you think about all the things you wanted and didn’t want in your life were probably played for the first time in a small space, to a small crowd. Somewhere like Lizotte’s Newcastle or The Basement Sydney or Memo Music Hall. This week we will lose one of these iconic venues as the Basement closes it’s doors after 45 years of serving audiences in Sydney.

Ryan McMullan was one of the last ever artists to play a sold out show in the room, with news of the closure breaking the morning of his show. There is now one less space to discover new artists and the thing that really matters in life, passion.

“When the night is over, can I walk you home?

I promise you that my intentions are honourable.

And if it gets colder, you can have my coat.

I’ll be alright ’cause you warm my soul

You gave me something I can’t explain

I felt it in my heart and now I can’t walk away

So hopefully tomorrow we can do it all over again

Yeah, we moved our feet to the sound of the music”

Ryan McMullan – You don’t dance