Iva Lamkum tells us Why Music Matters to her

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Why is music important?

Life defines challenges and that’s the beauty of it when you have a rhythm, a melody, a sound in your ear – you feel unstoppable.

Music could best describe itself as a drug of healing, a drug of freedom, and better tasting than a beer on a sunny day or night. A freedom to be what you want to be and the urge to strive for success in everything; music just gives you that power and control to define what life means to you.

My biggest challenge and opportunity so far is seeing my craft enter a world of incredible things which can be challenging, beautiful, sometimes useful, tactile, extraordinary, and to understand, enjoy and care about that which has gone into the making. At the end of the day I grow not only as a musician but as a person. The beauty of it all is music!

This is why music matters to me.

By Iva Lamkum

Will Hull Brown of The Cat Empire tells us why music is important

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Why is music important?

What a question! A famous quote says it all: “Writing about music is like dancing about architecture”. It is quite hard to articulate and put down on paper! But i guess when I start thinking about it, there are some standout reasons for me.

Music has a special ability to reach out to people and create a world where nothing else matters. In a world full of tangible objects and gadgets that can provide superficial and short term gratification, music sifts through this and takes you to another place entirely. Of course there is music with defined causes – political undertone and what have you, and this is a great way sending a message (Bob Marley, Rage Against The Machine), but i think the real importance of music is about freedom of expression and mutual escapism. Watching a concert, or just listening to music at home or in the car, it creates a scene for you and takes you away from what otherwise might be the daily grind, monotony or whatever you want to call it. It can provide the soundtrack to your life. People may experience this scene or soundtrack differently, but they still seem united in why they’re listening to it. I think the same goes for the people making the music, as well as the listener.

The escapism of music relates directly to freedom of expression. Not everyone has the freedom to express their true self in the job they are in, but music gives you a platform to express yourself however you want! I think this expression from a musician can be a very raw, revealing and powerful thing, and can in turn make you, as an audience member feel perhaps vulnerable on one side of the scale, or on the other side, safe. Music can also be evocative, like a scent. But you can touch it or see it. This is the power of music, and there is music out there for everyone!

Growing up what music did you listen to?

I grew up listening to lots of different music. I am the youngest, with an older brother and sister so i always listened to what they were playing because it was cool to me! The usual suspects like Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, Cat Stevens, The Police, Dire Straits, Cold Chisel, Ice House, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Soundgarden, Metallica etc. Mum would play Liberace, Billy Joel, Bett Midler, Les Miserables. Dad would play John Williams (the guitarist), Vivaldi and anything that Mark Knopfler did, like Cal or Local Hero. There were 5 sound systems in the house, nearly one for every room, so often there would be 3 or 4 pieces of music playing at any one time! All this music gave me a great base for learning the drums, which i started doing when i was 10 year old.

It wasn’t until high school that i started listening to jazz, and this was around the time that i started playing in the school big band. But like most teenagers in the mid 90’s, i was often listening to, and playing drums to anything that came out of California or Seattle! But of course i was eventually exposed to whole other worlds of music once i met the guys in The Cat Empire, which was fantastic!

When did you start your band? What inspired you to make music together?

The Cat Empire started back in 2001. We were all teenagers and very keen to play our instruments. Just coming out of High School, i felt like there was this freedom to do whatever i wanted, and playing music with the other guys was just so exhilarating. The fact that we all had different musical upbringings and experiences in our respective schools meant that we all had inspiration to draw on and energy to show each other, and audiences, what we liked to play. The very stage that you share with your fellow musicians is inspirational, especially when you are just starting up. Not knowing exactly what’s going to happen at a gig keeps you on your toes, and i think this has always been a big part of what we do as a band. This links to the audience as well. An audience can stir you to play in different ways. If they’re energised, you can feed off that energy and use it. If the audience is much more passive, like perhaps their sitting down, then we might play quieter, or pull out songs that have more subtleties. To this day, i know for myself that the mood of the audience and of the other guys on stage can really shape how i play.

Renee Maurice shares her story about why music matters

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If someone were to ask me why I chose to have a career in music, I would have to say, I didn’t.

I never chose music. Music chose me. I wrote my first song when I was 8 years old, and my family thought it was delightful – and I guess I didn’t think it was half bad either! I wrote the song for my Grandma, who I affectionately called “Nama” and who was my best friend. We always used to listen to “Tears in Heaven” by Eric Clapton whenever we drove in her car. The tape would never go to the next track. I would constantly rewind it back to the start of the song.

Then, when I was 10, my Grandma’s car was hit by a speeding vehicle, an accident which took my Grandma’s life. The car was a wreck, it was a wonder anyone survived, I believed that everything inside would have been lost.

I was injured badly, and for a while I had a sort of amnesia. I knew who I was and who my family was, what I liked and disliked, but I didn’t feel any kind of a connection to my Grandma, who had been such a huge and beautiful part of my life.

I felt like this for a few months, until one day I went to my Grandma’s house, before it was due to be sold. I went to the spare bedroom where her piano was that she had helped me learn to play. I began to play a little song, staring up at her photograph on top of the piano. Suddenly, I caught a glimpse of something, beside my Grandma’s photo. It was our “Tears in Heaven” tape. I couldn’t believe it! I reached up and took it in my hands, just staring at it. I started to cry. As the tears came flooding in, so did the memories of my wonderful Nama.

Since then, I have written over 170 songs. It has always been easier to express myself through music, than through plain speech. I usually don’t think about anything I write, it just happens, as though the pen is being moved by someone else’s hand, maybe my Grandma is still guiding me through all of my writing and all of my performances.

One thing I know for sure is that she is still in every note, and every word.

By Renee Maurice

The Adderley Rule

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It was the early sixties. I was a Ponsonby boy almost fifteen years old excited by the scene around me, the music I was hearing and the people I was meeting.

The Shiralee nightclub in Customs Street would always present well known Kiwi artists and musicians with their weekly Sunday Showcase. Those appearing were advertised on the billboard out front.? ?One afternoon when passing by with Mother I saw that Tommy Adderley was to be appearing the forthcoming Sunday.I asked my Mum if she would take me and much to my surprise she agreed. I believe her decision that day is the reason I have spent my life singing for a living. It was one of the best nights of my short life. The night I first met Tommy Adderley who was to become my lifelong friend. After his show where he was backed by Max Merritt & the Meteors he came to our table for a chat.

Tommy was a regular customer at Dairyland my parents shop in Jervois Road and so he knew my parents reasonably well. I did not know that at the time and so I was real chuffed when Tommy took an interest in what I had to say. Many years later & in a very altered state we were talking about our mutual love – music.

Although it was now 1978 the NZ music scene still in its infancy and would need continuing care and attention. I remember reminding Tommy that he was the one that had initially helped me by giving me free advice when I was fourteen!

That’s right mate and now you have a moral obligation to pass on what you have learned to other musicians that follow you. Right? Right indeed.

Growing up Kenny Cooper and Johnny Devlin were the first real hit parade stars of the NZ music scene that I became aware of. That was the mid to late fifties before Tommy had entered the music business. Subsequently both Ken and Johnny gave Tommy lots of advice and assistance during the early part of his music journey. That is how we all learn the stuff you can’t find in any book. From listening and watching the many great musicians that have come before us.

We musicians who have been there and done it have an unwritten obligation to pass on what we have learned to the younger ones coming through. That is what I call the Adderley rule. Written without paper but spoken so sincerely that lazy summers day that it literally passed down to me.

With that in mind if you are an aspiring musician who could do with some free advice then you can contact me on larrymorris@xtra.co.nz. I am happy to give you my time.  My knowledge is the experience that forty eight years at the coalface of popular music brings to the table. If that experience could benefit you in some small way then please contact me and have a chat free of charge.

Better yet we will both playing a part in preserving the Adderley rule. My dear friend the late great Tommy Adderley would really love that.

By Larry Morris

Marcus Azon of Jinja Safari

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My good mate, Dan, had his first child, Frankie, last week. I was fortunate enough to be there for her first bath the next day. They used Frankie as the Demo Baby, to show everyone how the bathing situation works. In all the noise in a room full of people: crying babies, dazed mothers, confused fathers, visitors chatting and idiots like me taking photos; Frankie always knew where Dan was, and knew his voice amongst the noise. Seeing the deep connection between Dan and Frankie was really moving. And was kind of surprising, seeing that they had only really met each other the day before.

It made me start to wonder what it would sound like on those first few days out of the womb?  After hearing everything in a sort of surround underwater sound. It would be nice to go back to this place, before I had an identity or a ‘taste’ in music, or an attachment to a certain genre or artist.

There are a whole list of ‘first time’ moments, that I think stay with us for the entirety of our lives. First kiss, first day at a new school, first time learning that a pet has died. The first time you drove off by yourself after getting your P plates. The first time you were pulled over by the cops. But there is no way I can remember the first time I became aware of music as something that could be constructed or contained in some way.

Everything is new for kids, and so there is no framework in which to judge the creative merit of music. It’s probably just all sound with differing decibel levels. Whether it’s the sound of a bird at the window or of the chippies next door telling tall stories while listening to Triple M. Our ‘taste’ in music is being formed by the chance encounters that we have from the very beginning. So what onslaught of sound it must be for a child born in ‘87, 4 days after the release of Joshua Tree, at the height of glam rock, the end of punk, and the beginning of grunge.

I have a vague memory that may be mine, or may be a combination of photos, and my mother’s stories. There was an ad for an instant coffee company, for a brand of coffee beans that were grown in Uganda. They had featured African music, djembes and joyful voices, and Ugandan women dancing. I don’t remember the song, but I remember the colours and the movement, and the pattern of the coffee packaging. My mum says that no matter where I was in the house, if I heard the ad come on the TV, I would come running in. As fast as a toddler can run in a nappy, just to stare at the screen. Maybe this is part of the reason I have some sort of an emotional connection to African music.

My grandmother worked in an orphanage in Uganda and both my parents are preachers, so gospel music was an important part of my upbringing. There is a lot of pain, and love, joy, anger, desire and other extremes in this music. So, this is how I grew to understand what music, as an expression, was designed to be. My dad started showing me some chords on his acoustic, when I was about 7, and I started piano lessons when I was 8. I met the drummer of the band I am in now, when I was 9. I made him a drum kit out of paint cans when I was 10, and told him he would play drums and I would play guitar. And 14 years later, that is what we are doing.

There is something so pure about kids playing music- before they realize what else is at stake. Before people start telling you that you can make money, or a career, or have the attention of popular girls as a result. In my short existence as a ‘touring musician’, I’ve found being in a band, and dealing with the business side, the creative egos, the back packer motels, can be really exhausting. But all of that is completely separate from the feeling of picking up your guitar in your living room, with your oldest mate on the drums, and making any sort of sound you want. And when those moments happen on stage, when you forget where you are, and you are just making sounds, you are reminded why you jump through all the other hoops to get to this place.

Up until last year, I had let the idea of becoming a full-time musician disappear completely. For about 5 years, I put my focus elsewhere, and tried to ignore that conflicting feeling I had every time I saw live music or bought a new CD. I was doing covert song writing, secretly, never showing anyone. And I always had my guitar in Melbourne, Brisbane, Sydney, Hobart, LA and every other city I lived in during this time. But I was convinced that there was no way that I could fit into this world of music, or more importantly, bring anything new to the table.

It was such a specific set of circumstances that led me back to playing music. And something that I will always be grateful for. It started, when I arrived back in Hobart, broke, after 6 months in LA. Alister was in a local band that was making a name for themselves, and they had a band van, which is a real and definite sign of success. We got a few friends together, and went up to the east coast of Tasmania, to a place called Douglas River. The land that we camped on belongs to a sheep famer, and the river runs down from the gorge, to the sea. We had a few acoustic guitars, a couple of Djembes, a campfire and a lot of voices. We had a few jams that went late into the night, and there is no one around, just the mountains, the lagoon, the clear night, sitting in the middle of a paddock of sunburnt grass. We did a lot of naked swimming in the canyons, and naked rock running down the river bed. It may sound like a 69 free love revival, and that’s exactly what it was.

When we came back to civilization, it felt a bit strange, wearing clothes, and walking around the concrete mess of Hobart. But I was convinced that I had to do something with music. We started busking down at Salamanca, on some of the open string tuning songs we had been improvising up at Douglas- and we started getting little crowds, which reminded me of that rush of live performance. So, I moved back to Sydney, joined a band, playing keyboards, still writing secretly. Eventually I met Pepa, (keyboardist/producer of Jinja Safari)- and the rest is the reason I am here writing a blog for you.

I don’t know if music really matters in the bigger scheme, other than how it affects the individual. At the end of the day music is just personal expression, and how people receive it is up to them. I don’t know if you can really change the world, or social structures with the ‘power of music’. Sure there have been some great political bands, that united an audience in their anger against oppression, but it’s not like any world leader heard a Rage Against the Machine lyric, and had an intense epiphany, that sparked an immigration reform.

Similarly, I wonder what would actually happen if the lead singer of band once famous for instance on nuclear energy, became a national minister for the environment. I wonder if he would change all the things he wanted to change? Or maybe it was just the sound of an impassioned young lawyer, expressing his emotional reaction to situations louder than everyone else, simple because he had a microphone and was at the front of a brilliant band.

And I certainly wouldn’t blame any young artist for doing that. Because, for me, I know music/lyric writing is sometimes just a way of saying those things that constantly run around in your thoughts, turning your head into a blender. Sometimes you get to a point when finally you just have to yell it out- You just hope that it’s in the right key.

I went to see Frankie again yesterday, just after feed time. She was doing a little yelling of her own. This was a treat, because she hasn’t formed the muscles of the oesophagus to keep food down just yet, so she threw up on my shoulder. I’m sure she didn’t really want to do it to me, it was just an automatic reaction. After that she was fine, and went back to looking around the room. She was taking note of everything- observing and learning by osmosis. We were watching her becoming ‘smarter’, forming a personality, ideals, emotional ties, and it was all happening right in my arms.

I want to keep my relationship to music as simple as possible.

Everything moves so fast in life, and it is just so easy to become self focused. No one can relate to a musician who is only thinking about their life and their problems. I am just one of 6.8 billion people. Just the sound of one drop in pouring rain. I don’t want music to be anything more than what it was when we played with a paint can drum kit and my dad’s acoustic nylon string guitar.

Ruby Frost on the importance of music in her life

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Music matters. But the problem is, sometimes I find it goes way beyond that, and outright takes over. It stands up and shouts until I comply with it. I’m not just saying this so I don’t have to be responsible for my actions; but sometimes music barges in and bluntly tells me what to do.

Once, music told me to break up with my boyfriend. We’d been going out for four months, and it was okay. I wasn’t over-the-moon, but I definitely wasn’t planning on ending it yet. Until I wrote a song, and played it back off my laptop speakers. And it told me loud and clear, “You’re not happy. End it”.

I don’t know how it does this. But songwriting for me is like this mystical, magnifying emotion-processor. I sit down, and strum some chords and open my mouth. And the sound that comes out tells me exactly, in succinct summary form, what’s what. I normally don’t understand what mood I’m in, but whenever I sit down to write it suddenly becomes very obvious. Everything gets laid out, all crystal clear.

Music doesn’t stop there. The moment you start relying on it to sort your emotions, it demands more and more of your attention. It’s gotten to the point where I become severely tangled up if I can’t write music. I can’t find much clarity without writing. I find it hard deciding what to do next without consulting this ridiculous emotion-processor.

Music’s becoming my crutch. We have this symbiotic relationship; it started off as a small growth on my neck but now the parasite is growing and growing and I’m relying on it more than ever. I’m not sure that I could ever get rid of it. But then, why would I want to?

By Ruby Frost

Lisa Blatchford from Ivy Lies on the importance of music in her life

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Music has been with me for my whole life, it started with a love for musicals especially if they starred Julie Andrews. “Do rei me” is one of the best example’s of teaching melody writing I have ever seen or heard.

Later I was inspired by my grandfather’s piano playing. He was entirely self taught and had an amazing ear. As a nine year old there was something so magical about sitting by the piano singing songs from “My Fair Lady.

When I hit high school I really wanted to play guitar but my older sister told me I wasn’t allowed to copy her so I started to learn bass. From that I started writing little songs and jamming with the girls in my band Ivy Lies. I’d always wanted to be a songwriter and i finally had gained enough confidence to give it a go.

For me writing songs is like keeping a diary. Things I don’t want to talk about or tell people I put in my songs. I can hide messages in the lyrics or belt out emotions in the vocal melodies.

It’s pretty much the best form of therapy I know of, I can’t recommend it enough!

By Lisa Blatchford from Ivy Lies

Jeremy Redmore shares an inspiring story about how music can help through tough times

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Earlier this year while touring New Zealand, the band found itself wasting some time in a bar at a regional airport when a middle-aged man approached us asking if we were Midnight Youth.

After some pleasantries, a story about his daughter’s love for the band and a few signed beer coasters, the man told us the only reason he knew who we were was because the surgery he helped run used one of our songs in their playlist while performing serious operations. That was some deep stuff to us – our song had possibly helped a surgeon keep calm or focussed while they were saving someone’s life. It was a nice feeling to know that. But this was just the beginning of how this man reminded us how much music can matter.

A week later we received an email from him saying how embarrassed he was to only have known one of our songs and how the next day he bought our album before heading to Christchurch for a week to attend a conference. That was the week Christchurch was hit by an extremely shallow 6.3 earthquake which killed 181 people, the second large quake to strike the city within six months.

He went on to tell us his story of the day the quake hit and how he managed to escape the city’s CBD unhurt before joining thousands at an emergency centre in a field nearby. His words probably tell the story better than mine:

“I was near a group of international visitors who were praying and others started to join in.  At that time all we could do was wait.  The phones were down and I decided to play my new CD in my iPhone (I wish the speakers were a little larger).  The praying stopped, people starting listening and the depressed mood picked up.  I turned the (your) music off thinking that people may not want to here it.  “Turn it back on” was shouted out.

We heard five songs before my battery ran out. I can’t express how comforting it was for people to hear some inspiring New Zealand music, at a time where it seemed the world had fallen around us.

He went on.

“Some of us (in the health sector) have the opportunity to touch the lives of individual people and families.  What you do touches the hearts, minds and spirits of thousands.  Be great, write great music, play great music, inspire the lives of people greatly.  Your music was a bright light in a dark day.  I was lucky to be flying out the next day, I cannot imaging how the people of Christchurch will cope over the coming months.”

This was an emotional time for all New Zealanders, everyone knew someone that was affected and most people outside of the Christchurch region, I’d say, would have felt a little helpless as to what they could do to help – us included.

This message showed us how we helped and how we can continue to help.?As a musician and songwriter, I express a part of myself that isn’t overly evident in my regular daily life – it is quite a mystery to me how it happens and all I know is that I feel satisfied and excited when that process is in motion. But once it leaves my mouth, the stage or a studio, it is out of my control as to how it affects the world around me and it’s particularly hard to rationalise that thought – it’s moments like these that give me a greater sense of the power that music has and the amazing gift I’ve been given and am doing my best to use.

By Jeremy Redmore from Midnight Youth

Annah Mac tells us why music matters to her

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I began playing and writing songs before I can remember. Inspired by the music that surrounded me as a young girl, I was often seen carrying around a playschool recorder to ‘lay down my tracks’.

Life was interesting with a Kiwi father who was Willie Nelson obsessed, and a Nana Mouskouri flavoured mother who was full blown Norwegian. I became increasingly frustrated when at 7 years old, my younger sister informed me that ‘all your songs sound like Coat Of Many Colours’ (By Dolly Parton). Pissed, I decided I had to start writing something a bit more original. Pen in hand, I wrote furiously through my primary school years until I finally won a competition at 15. The song I entered did not sound the slightest bit like Dolly Parton. It was in fact labelled Pop. I decided to write more pop songs; in the hopeful attempt that people might think I was cool. I became notorious for writing number 1 hits in my high school Maths class.

Unfortunately only one of these Math class songs would make the record. And it was not to be a number 1 hit much to the dismay of my new-found friends. It was, however, featured on The Great New Zealand Songbook (which I told them was much more of an honour anyway).

I think that New Zealand is a very special environment for cultivating young musicians. What is happening right now with the youth of New Zealand is very exciting. With people like Mike Chunn, the Play It Strange Trust, Rockquest, and NZ On Air, music is becoming as much a part of the New Zealand curriculum as Saturday rugby or netball. I think this is an exciting prospect, and I am proud to be at the forefront of this movement.

For me, music was something I could never escape and have always been transfixed by. It is the breath of life. With the encouragement of my family, and the support of wonderful people in this country, I have been given the opportunity to live out a dream that I’ve had since I was 7 years old. I am forever grateful for this.

Music has the power to speak of love, loss, forgiveness, anger, and allows us to feel understood. For at least three minutes of our grey lives.

And that is why music matters.

By Annah Mac

Marcus Powell from Blindspott on what music means to him

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For me, music is one of the most important things in my life. It is a creative outlet which allows me to release emotions that disrupt my calm if held inside. It is my ability to tell a story about things that are happening in my life but also a way of recognising what is happening in my life and dealing with it.

Blindspott had many successes because people could relate to our stories. People who listen to us have said “That’s exactly what is going on for me.”

Music is like a photograph for me. A still that can take me to a place in time. The first time I heard Deftones and Kyuss I was with my friends sharing some great moments. When I listen to Brothers in Arms it reminds me of my brother who passed away. I hear Boys to Men and I think back to my A Capella group when I was 11. I hear the cure and it reminds me of a break up.

Music has a powerful effect on us. A translation of vibration I call it.

By Marcus Powell from Blindspott.