West End Stories | West End Community House + Guest Artists
The interior parameters of the Norman Price Theatre absolutely BURST forth at the seams with an energetic gusto. This was, of course, the result of a crowd of attendees ripening with excitement, gaining strength in numbers, and taking up space earnestly, enthusiastically, unapologetically before the show officially opened. Groups of people spilled over onto the stairs messily as all the seats began to be taken up swiftly against a lively backdrop of friendly chatter and eager anticipation. Several members of the audience sat on the floor with their backs against the walls. The unspoken but palpable idea was for all of us present to consciously share time, space, and our collective humanity embodied by our imperfectly perfect selves in a makeshift community-led jigsaw puzzle of our own design.
We steadily settled into a nebulous mold of keen viewers ready to receive the evening’s offering. It was off to a gently provocative start with Auntie Chantay Link’s spoken word introduction drawing our attention to the abuse of Maiwar. Many urban forces at play have, over the years, ‘tried to poison, choke her’ she articulated. Her sentiments coupled with stern expressions and a no-nonsense delivery came across as chiding laced with contempt for the ways of the modern world which have, over the years, tainted and taunted the Brisbane River (Maiwar in Turrbal).
It was Jessie Lloyd who then continued and carried that conversation further through her song urging us to ‘reset Maiwar’. Her rendition of this piece earned her a resounding applause for she was the ultimate vocal powerhouse, strumming away spiritedly on her guitar. A gifted Songkeeper in possession of an undeniable ability to stir emotions through her musical prowess, her voice filled and fed the ravenous belly of the entire theatre, enveloping it with notes which inspired a visceral sense of revolutionary zeal. With the Aboriginal flag purposefully projected against the velvet curtains, it became crystal clear at that juncture that this stage was set for some bold and precious voices to be heard through singing and storytelling.
Meanjin Recovered was in essence an invaluable History lesson which wore its fractured but indefatigable heart on its sleeves. It was on a mission to entertain and educate its viewers by humanising the trials, tribulations, tragedies, and triumphs of the Aboriginal peoples of Meanjin. The sharing of the Elders’ stories rendered with immense grace and generosity took me on a learning journey highlighting a series of flashpoints in Meanjin’s problematic histories. They let truth-telling lead the way. I followed suit. I sensed that there was a tacit understanding amongst some or rather most members of the audience who instinctively understood the layered nuances of the Elders’ deep hurts. This was more than understandable for I belong to the new wave of first-generation immigrants endeavouring to put down roots in Meanjin. I realised at the onset of my relocation eight years ago that I had a responsibility to reciprocate the truth-telling I received in its varied, complex, and intricate forms by engaging in my personal labour of truth-knowing. I listened especially intently that night.
Prompted by Lloyd’s questions, I heard Uncle Adam Hopkins and Uncle Barry Tanner describe the nature of violence they had witnessed on Boundary Street. Although it was expressed matter-of-factly by both men, an unnerving presence silenced us in those moments of their remembering. We heard, in their own words, how the ‘Black and White police’ attempted to ‘keep the Murris out’ by having them ‘flogged’ and ‘whipped’. Those in authority would ‘run them over by horses’.
The theme of irrevocable violence unleashed upon the Indigenous communities of Queensland continued in Auntie Dawn Daylight’s personal recounts of her adolescence stolen as she was removed from her family under mysterious circumstances. Taken by the Sisters of Mercy convent located at the All Hallows school in Brisbane, she spent her teenage years in ‘servitude’. ‘Locked up at the domestic servants’ dormitory’, Auntie Dawn was put to work for all those years only to earn an incredibly measly amount of wages. Auntie Dawn had her years and wages stolen from her. Difficult facts she has had to contend with and navigate in her adult years. Auntie Dawn would also realise eventually that her sisters, Auntie Margaret, and Auntie Cathy unfortunately endured a similar fate as slaves, having to toil behind the walls of the same institution of learning she was kept in. However, they never crossed paths in those fateful years.
Lloyd’s rendition of ‘Dormitory Days’ contained folkish elements with an eerie nursery-rhyme feel to it. ‘Bring light to dark children in dormitories tonight,’ she crooned smoothly. This musical arrangement bore testimony to her masterful ability to bring out the essence of this song as well as the rest of the songs she subsequently belted out, and the respective messages they carried.
As much as it was impossible to ignore Auntie Dawn’s soulful singing which seemed to surface and sustain itself from the depths of a chasm- one of unimaginable pain and resilience, it was her forthcoming style of storytelling which left an indelible impression on me. Choked with emotion, she lamented the plight of her sister, Auntie Margaret who was suffering from dementia and living out her days at a nursing home. I would learn later in a short film that I would encounter privately post the show that Auntie Dawn would recall a time when she had seen and heard Auntie Margaret perform her version of the late singer-songwriter Tina Turner’s ‘rolling on the river’ at Musgrave Park for NAIDOC Day in 2004. Auntie Dawn’s love for her elder sister manifested itself that night into her interpretation of that very song. Underneath that valiant and light-hearted display of showmanship by Auntie Dawn, the subtext rang louder for me: Nobody, not a thing could ever return nor replace the time the Daylight sisters lost during their formative years.
We then travelled to the year 1982 when ‘Brisbane Blacks’ , the anthem birthed by the highly respected Indigenous rock outfit Mop & The Dropouts, exploded into the politically charged scene of the time. It was a volatile period marked by long-standing contentious issues of the Indigenous population of Queensland pertaining to land rights, denial of civil liberties, and self-determination. Set against the backdrop of protests surrounding the 1982 Commonwealth Games held in Brisbane, the song was more than a response by the late frontman of the band, Uncle Dennis Conlon. It gained momentum to serve as a voice of solidarity and symbol of visibility for the displaced Aboriginal peoples of urban centres. Following through on the hard-hitting lyrics of ‘Brisbane Blacks’, Uncle Barry drew our attention to the song, ‘Murri Sister’-an ode to the struggle of street kids.
Murri Sister walks the street at nightEvery day is a fight
These words breathed to life by Lloyd felt heavy but were not devoid of strength. It was on that note of hope and healing where a group of women took their spots on the stage and sang ‘Meanjin Sunrise’ for themselves, their babies, and the betterment of their communities. I, along with the rest of the members of the audience, gave a standing ovation to the performing artists of West End Stories. That night I bore witness to the coming together of a slice of Meanjin’s mosaic make-up of diverse peoples. West End Stories deserves to have its narratives learnt and continuously listened to in Meanjin and beyond. This history is necessary. *mic drop*
