I literally started writing this four weeks before I saw the Fireworks Finale show at the Hollywood Bowl, because I knew what I was setting myself up for, and I just wanted to get the heading and central remarks in place, so it might not be so painful when I came to write about the absolute final time I ever saw Chicago in concert.
That was last night, so I am finishing this piece today.
I was there. Three words, and then some.
We frequently see people posting a link or photo on social media these days saying, “No words.” What a strange way to describe something so incredible, beautiful, sad, devastating, any or all of the above. “No words” – well, those are actually words. There are always words.
I did consider just posting all these photos with literally no words. But even though for a few days I felt challenged to find some original, revelatory words, I was not copping out. I had to offer some of my own words about what I experienced last weekend at the Hollywood Bowl. And here they are pouring forth.
It is no accident, although unplanned, that Kylie Minogue performed the final show of her US “Tension” tour the same night as the Australian federal election. While the humungous audience at Crypto Arena was largely American and male and gay and sparkly, the joy and pride for the Aussie icon whose unpretentious star shines so bright, whose home accent seems more evident than I’ve heard in years, whose decades of hard work have ascended her to global success few really imagined possible when she released “I Should Be So Lucky”, was as glorious and victorious as an election result in favour of what is good and true and fair and free.
I love Cold Chisel – Aussies all, or mostly, do – but this is not going to be the kind of write-up all those blokey music writers were writing during this 50th anniversary tour or the kind of breathless salivating social media posting everyone – men, women, children and their pets – were populating my feeds with through 2024.
It is difficult for me to write anything particularly original about a band that is so adored and lauded and so cocky that they refuse to even take a bow to acknowledge their adoring audience at the end of their show but whose music I genuinely do enjoy. Sharing the photos I took over the two nights I saw them might be the best I have to offer, along with a potted history of my experience of getting into their music.
“I love you Nick!”
Between every song came that call out. From a woman or a man, a disembodied voice from somewhere in the audience.
“I love you Nick!”
“I love you, too,” replied the gentleman on stage at the piano, each and every time.
And now and then he would add, “Now shut the fuck up.”
Night three of Nick Cave’s sold-out run at Los Angeles’ historic Orpheum Theatre, final night of a North American solo tour, accompanied only by bass player Colin Greenwood of Radiohead, and there was a huge amount of love in the room.
Somebody told me today that I live an enchanted life. I had been sitting on the beach thinking about what to write to accompany my photos from last night’s Brandi Carlile and Friends show at the Hollywood Bowl, and as music is inextricable from life for me, naturally I dived into existentialism and experientialism. …
For four years I have started to write about Brandi Carlile and stalled several times. There is so much to say and I’m surprised at how hard I have been finding it to say it in prose, to rise up to the standard of such an extraordinarily impactful artist. A much longer piece must be written but today I am just going to post these photos from a magical night at my favourite venue in the world.
And then, at last, I was there.
At last I got to my bucket list concert venue, at last I was initiated into the Bramily ritual of travelling to Colorado and climbing up and down and all around at Red Rocks. It all happened magically and perfectly, getting excellent seats for both nights, finding great gals to sit with … doing some of the pre-show hanging individually and collectively with the other fans, even finding a wonderful hostess with a beautiful home just a mile from the venue entrance to accommodate me. Yes, all perfect.
I returned to LA a couple months ago with the intention of writing for the rest of this year. It’s been hard to do that so far. So I’m glad to have a story to tell that gets the fingers moving on the keyboard, a story of writers inspiring other writers, a story of music and magic. An LA story.
If I sit in front of Chicago, I take photos. These are here to serve as a testament to the fact that I was there, seeing them again, seeing them ageing on, seeing their lineup changed yet again. Seeing them but for now, not saying – writing – anything else.
I’ve railed against ageism in recent years, ageism for women particularly, as it has affected my professional life. But there are a number of women in music whose lights are shining more brilliantly than ever in their old age and, in some cases, ill health, and I think it’s an interesting and powerful movement. If they are anything like me – and they must be, because I am a woman and I am human – they likely still feel childlike beneath their lined and weary skins and bones.
