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High live Vibe scribe

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OK, the gypsys are counterfeit but the smile is real. Counterfeit Gypsys fiddle with the punters' passions at the Northcote Social Club.

The tunes only get wilder as the show progesses.

They say that music is the backdrop for sex and money, but the gutsiest music always shoots from the hip. A double waist of double bass and gypsy pricess.

Meanwhile, out on the street a DJ prays, struggling to hear what the music god says.

Not exactly the Raj at the Regal Ballroom, British India rip it up and put the "party on" back into Partition.

Finally, with Tzigas on the PBS stage, a late-night clarinettist fumbles blindly towards the true black seam of sound.

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Mud, sweat and tears

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On a Sunday in mid-October, a friend of mine went to see the choral group e21 perform a program centered around the music and school of Claudio Monteverdi. She's no marshmallow, but by the end of the concert she was in floods of tears. Why? Because she was moved by the perfection of the intersection between the genius of the composer and the skill and interpretation of the performers.

This reminder that trancendence is possible, that "ordinary" working Melbourne musicians like singers Vivien Hamilton and Stephen Grant can for a moment achieve so exquisite a distillation of art and feeling, gives a point to all this sad grubbing in the mud which so often forms the bulk of a musician's life. We seek better conditions simply to better perform our art. None of us does this music thing just for money. But in most cases, to put in the endless hours required to reach, even for a moment, that pinnacle of perfection, to move audiences beyond themselves, we need a living.

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