From The Soul
The Age
Wednesday October 10, 2001
GARRY, who is 44, gave up his beloved music five years ago when he became officially homeless. A relationship broke down and he went down, and out. He put his guitars away, strapped on a backpack and went walkabout.
Garry got as far as Bundaberg in Queensland, then came back south. With nowhere to go, he ended up seeking charity at Ozanam Community Centre, in North Melbourne, and living in a squat out west, existing hand to mouth, alone, with few prospects.
But inside him, repressed but still alive, the music went on.
By this time, Ozanam had a scratchy band; staff had scrounged some used instruments and amps and a group of the homeless, all with musical expertise from their prehomeless lives, had formed Breakwater Jam United, playing blues and rock.
A bloke called TC was in the band, a top multiinstrumentalist. He studied music at universities before his luck went bad. ``One day," says Garry, ``TC asked me to be the drummer. So I picked up my music again at Ozanam. This was at the tailend of Breakwater Jam, before they split up because of ... street problems. It kind of rekindled my interest in playing. I picked up my electric guitar again and then I was playing eight hours a day."
Says TC: ``It's amazing the talent that can walk through that door. Garry's a terrific musician."
More than that - he's got soul, the elusive quality that defines a really great musician. It's something you can't learn.
In the 1970s he played in a garage band in country Victoria. ``When I was 15, I was a babyfaced boy and I met a bloke at high school who played electric guitar," he says. ``I already had an acoustic. The drummer lived three doors up; he had a washing basket for his bass tomtom. We played in his parents' garage. I was the singer. We played a few pubs. These were the days of Black Sabbath and Led Zeppelin."
Thirty years on, after all the ups and downs, Garry likes it a little more mellow. He's retrieved his record collection and mines for gold. Now, inspired again, living and breathing music, he's breathless over Little Feat, The Rolling Stones, Cream and Clapton.
Every Friday afternoon at Ozanam, there's a session. The centre has access to a Roland keyboard, drums, acoustic guitars, microphones and a bass. Set up in the lunchroom, it's open to all. Garry brings his amps and his guitar. A motley bunch of homeless players do their best. Music teacher George Butrumlis, who visits Ozanam every Friday, tries to make sense, and order, of it all.
Garry steps up, in bare feet and torn jeans. He plugs in his guitar and adjusts the mike on the stand and begins Ain't No Sunshine, written by the great Bill Withers. Just Garry and his guitar, he sings it beautifully, delicately, soulfully, with his eyes shut, lost in the music. `` ... and this house just ain't no home/anytime she goes away ..."
It's a gorgeous thing in a quiet moment, like there's nothing else that matters in the world. Then he does Walking The Dog, by Rufus Thomas, followed by Mystery Man, by Canadian singer/songwriter Marc Jordan, from 1978. Then It Makes No Difference, by The Band, written by Robbie Robertson ``... and the sun don't shine any more/and the rains fall down on my door ..."
Garry warmly and richly renders them complete as well. His talent and soul fill the makeshift rehearsal room.
``He sings these great songs and he's believable, which is the art," says Butrumlis. ``He's got a great voice and he believes in what he's doing and he puts it all over with a lot of integrity."
Garry is also Ozanam's team leader for the music sessions. The centre uses other homeless ``clients" as volunteer team leaders for organising chess tournaments, theatre groups, answering the phones, working the front desk, writing the newsletter, maintenance and cleaning. It is also an esteembuilding exercise. For Garry, it means organising the weekly music sessions and helping George to make it listenable.
OZANAM support worker Mick Cummins says the volunteers are a substitute family who are good for the atmosphere in the community centre, a frontline in the spectre of homelessness. ``Part of the role they play is informal," he says, ``keeping the place happy, being someone for others to talk to and befriend. It cooks up a bit in here so it's important everyone feels a sense of belonging.
``It's real work that they do," he says. ``We couldn't function without them."
With his mojo fully working again, with the songs and the music pouring out of him, Garry's now working on ways to record music at Ozanam. He's working out computer software. He's writing his own stuff and looking at trying to get proper paid gigs in pubs. He's also helping knock the Ozanam band into shape for performances.
Recently the bass player died, of a stomach ulcer. Garry sung Knocking On Heaven's Door at the funeral. But mainly he's practising hard, playing a lot of music and refining his gift.
``I know I have the ability to play well," he says. ``But I'm still learning more. I can come up with ideas and riffs as good as anyone else. It might not be scorching lead these days but it has a good hard edge. The voice is pretty smooth, I suppose, but smooth's not exactly the word I was looking for. It's not Black Sabbath now, put it that way."
© 2001 The Age