Mesmerise

The subtle power of music

Dear Poet,

Blessed are the weird people
The poets and misfits
The artists, the writers
And music makers,
The dreamers and the outsiders,
For they force us to see the world differently.

- Jacob Nordby, Blessed Are the Weird: A Manifesto for Creatives

I haven’t read Blessed Are the Weird by Jacob Nordby. I am not beginning with his quote as a stepping off point to reviewing or recommending his book. It might be a work of genius; it might be utter rubbish. I don’t know. Perhaps I will read it and let you know. The point of beginning with this random quote provided by the internet is to explain my salutation, Dear Poet.

I wanted to begin with something that was personal, that might make you feel like I am writing directly and specifically to you, which of course I am. I subscribe to a newsletter which begins each time with Dear Friend. I like that. It’s cosy and gets me into the feel of the text immediately. I have chosen Dear Poet as my lead-in as a kind of polite shorthand for Dear Weirdo. I figured that anyone remotely interested in reading my thoughts, opinions and ideas must be a poet, misfit, artist, writer, music maker, dreamer, outsider… weirdo. Besides, we are all poets, right?

Actually, I would love to have been a musician rather than a poet if I’m honest. I lack the natural talent, the musician’s ear, the intense dedication, and the stamina that becoming, and being, a great musician requires. I lacked the diluted, half-arsed dedication to even practise for the assigned thirty minutes a day when I was learning piano as a child. But what I do have is an immense and eclectic love of music. This is best illustrated by my 2025 Spotify Wrapped.

Yes, I love David Bowie. He is always on top of my list – no matter what the list is. And there is always at least one of the great classic masters in my Wrapped. This time it was Shostakovich. (I’d put my money on Rachmaninov for 2026 if the last few days is any indication.) The inclusion of The Rolling Stones and Hoodoo Gurus is a reflection of my marriage – I’m an eighties teen married to a sixties teen. If you don’t know the work of Jack Vaul, you are missing out. Go check it out. This is my motivational music. (Not so much for writing poetry - sorry Jack - but for cleaning the bathroom.)

When I’m writing, I often have an orchestral playlist humming away in the background. It is a wonder to me that much of this music is centuries old, yet it still resonates. We are blessed here in little old Adelaide, South Australia, to have our very own world-class orchestra playing regular concerts. One such concert is truly one of my standout memories of 2025. The program was titled Mesmerise and featured Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No.2, under the baton of impossibly young, and not unattractive, Brazilian conductor, Eduardo Strausser. It was grand.

But the true highlight came in the form of the finale – Ravel’s Bolero. I know, you’re thinking ice-dancing, eighties, twee, a little bland and repetitive. But to paraphrase Strausser, if you have not heard the Bolero live, you have not heard the Bolero. It was an experience, made doubly beautiful and memorable by the proximity of a delightful, and delighted, elderly lady with a mobility aid at the end of our row. She was in a world of her own, carried along with the music, until the final clash of cymbals when she threw her arms and feet into the air and shouted “Hooray!” Our standing ovation was as much for her as for the orchestra.

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Mesmerised
-	After a performance of Ravel’s Bolero by Adelaide Symphony Orchestra,
conducted by Eduardo Strausser, 20 June 2025

This music was written for dancing. French in its sophistication,
Spanish in the way it sways, builds, looks you directly in the eye
through the hazy light of a late summer sunset. The working classes,
after the factories close, enjoy what the upper classes never think to
dream of. But she knows - this bent old woman in the cheap seats,
her lace shawl loose at her elbows, her face lifted, lashes fluttering
lightly on her still high cheek bones. She feels the music in her feet,
in her belly, in long-dormant parts of herself where she and Eduardo
once held each other. The snare repeats the same two-bar, eight
beat rhythm. Now louder, firmer, with more insistence, the horns and
wood hand the melody back and forth, remixing and reimagining,
until the final crescendo. The music lifts the orchestra, the snare, the
horns, the wood, and she and Eduardo are dancing in the rafters.
Cymbals clash and crash them all into a reverberating afterglow.

Pam Makin

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That is the effect of music, whether it be an orchestra playing music written a hundred years ago, or a local “multi-purpose creative tool […] with decades of experience in frivolous nonsense.” It inspires.

Before I sign off, let me return for a moment to David Bowie. I have this poetry project going on with my friend Jazz. We call it Ellipsis Poetry. We began with an open mic night and we grew it from there. And we wrote a show for Adelaide Fringe. It’s called All Roads Lead to Bowie. It on in March and you could come see it if you want to.

I have enjoyed writing this very first edition of whatever this is. I have no idea who might be reading it, but if you got this far, thank you. You are my favourite (don’t tell the others).

Now it’s time to leave the capsule, if you dare…

Pam, the Poet