The all too common rain pours down over Vivid, but there is one place in town that will warm your heart and alight your senses.
At Machine Hall (14 June), Numbulwar songman Ngulmiya has come from Arnhem Land, taking to the stage to graciously share his songs and stories from the culture that has known this land for the longest time.He enters dressed in a tan suit, taking his place with solemnity. His son Nayurryurr Nundhirribala wears a smart red shirt that matches his red crocodile-skin shoes. He picks up his didgeridoo and parts the air with its booming notes.
Ngulmiya stirs, clapping his sticks before releasing his voice. A voice so guttural, so undefinable, so deep and emotional. It carries a rough edge that speaks of the pain and victory of the journeys of his people.
Piano and strings join, amping up the intensity, before Nayurryurr releases his own vocal torrent in harmony with his father. They blend in an unfamiliar way that seems truer, more authentic, as sheer power streams forth from the stage.
The song culminates in a frenzy of sound, bashing into you as if violently breaking down the walls around your heart. "Thank you," Ngulmiya announces its end, as the stunned crowd erupt in applause. A short didgeridoo interlude follows at a faster tempo before dropping back to allow Ngulmiya to share his first story.
He speaks of the connection of his people with birds, a theme that will reappear throughout the night. It is a stirring number, as father and son gesture together, moving the energy in the room here and there, speaking with both mouth and hand.
The violin floats above like a bird drifting across the landscape, looking down, observing. The frontmen raise their hands to the sky in unison as their harmonies cry out. The song soars.
Ngulmiya tells of receiving the call that told of the heartbreaking loss of his oldest sister. "I was moved, and my woman, she felt me and came over to me," he says a sentence that will stay with you forever. "That night, I dreamt that my sister came to me on the front of a big boat in a red dress. Her name means the boats come, and she told me I have to take my kids home."
He sings leaving nothing in the tank, baring his soul as he vocalises the wrestlings of grief. He accesses the deepest parts of himself and expresses them so easily. His is a life lived by true expression. Nayurryurr offers his own perspective of grief, his voice lashing the air with power. It is so much more than you could ever expect.
"Water is very important to my people," Ngulmiya speaks. "Water can heal you, it can clean you of bad thoughts. This is a song about water." He softens into a deeper register, as the frontmen swirl their hands like waves lapping at your face.
The song ebbs between gentle flows and raging tsunamis, reflecting a life lived beside the sea of Arnhem Land. The sound becomes intense, a harsh reminder of the realities of mother nature.
"My dad used to sing this song about the seagull," Ngulmiya intimates. "Every night before bed, I would ask him to sing the song of the seagull. I have his permission to sing it."
The song flies along on invisible string, pulled here and there as Ngulmiya again expounds tenaciously through his vocal. The powerful connection between man and land becomes ever so apparent, and our need to restore such ways of life, blindingly so. What a gift to hear generational stories handed down in such a way.
"When my grandfather first went to the aeroplane field with my father, he looked up and said, 'what is this great bird flying at me?' And my father said, 'it's not a bird, it's an aeroplane.' So my grandfather went and wrote this song about the aeroplane, and I have permission to share it with you," Ngulmiya says tenderly.
Nayurryurr pulses the didgeridoo like the incessant engines of the plane, shaking the air. Ngulmiya sings, rattling you once more to your bones with the strange sensation of something new, much like the aeroplane.
The bass ukulele takes over from the didgeridoo, pumping along like the imposing engines. The frontmen raise their arms expressing the wings of the plane coming in to land in the same way Ngulmiya's grandfather would have done when he told the story. It cuts out suddenly and peace is restored.
"My grandfather used to ask my aunties and uncles when they were going to return to our homeland. One day, my auntie took my father and said, 'this is our homeland now'. I feel what my grandfather felt. When I sing this, I close my eyes and I can see my grandfather there in the audience," Ngulmiya smiles, breaking your heart.
The song is moving, the arrangement almost gospel. The blending of musical styles in the show is tasteful and very effective.
"When my grandfather would go out in the land, he would call to the birds and they would answer him, telling him he is not alone," Ngulmiya shares another astonishing tale. He sings 'Guwaag (Rainbird)', calling out to the birds who would reply in the form of Nayurryurr cooing back to his father. These songs must be experienced to be even slightly understood, they are so textural and layered, as good stories are.
Ngulmiya ends with 'Water Ceremony (Ayanjanarri)', clapping his sticks and commanding the audience to keep clapping until the end of the song. By a miracle of crowd engagement, the audience stays in time throughout. The song is energetic, telling the story of circumcision time, before Ngulmiya exits singing the final notes, the audience claps ringing into a cheer.
The show is a bone-rattling, reality-shifting crack to the head. Ngulmiya's voice must stand as one of Australia's best ever, and his profound charity in sharing such intimacies of his life is truly humbling. It was such an honour to share space with such a mighty man of song and legacy.
