Tom isn’t the affluent yacht-racing philanthropist you might expect. Too far to walk without refreshments, so I stopped at Tom McHugo’s on the way. The gigs had taken me by surprise and subsequently left me thirsty. It had been finished for a good minute before everyone floated out of the space, having been captured entirely and then released. It didn’t take the audiences on a journey but instead suspended them in thin air. There was purpose and beauty in every note. The mesmerised masses resembled what I imagine election night living rooms in the U.S. Her voice guided the tour through an elastic landscape. Tujiko Noriko – the second performer on stage – brought an ethereal calm with her sound. A subtle nod from the artist to their audience. A manic heartbeat dropped into silence and the story ended. Heavy beats came in waves and then disappeared the piece was breathing but with an excited stutter. It felt like the artist evolved throughout the piece and as they grew strength the music grew power. There was a quiet in the opening embrace that heavied the eyelids and softened your palette, right before the confrontation of act two began to arise and things ramped up. The performance slowly told an electronic coming-of-age story. Hiro Kone was on stage, standing almost statue still, subtle electronic pulses filling the space. As a relatively new father that actually sounded way more appealing than normal so I continued into the pitch-black room. As I approached The Odeon Theatre, three ladies came bursting out of the doors and turned to me and said “Don’t bother, unless you’re looking to have a nap”. My first gig was at 6 pm and I had to get across town. There was no time to finish my Guinness or the long-winded tale I was regaling four Alpaca farmers with. The night came fast as the sun called it quits early. The crusty old captain looked at me without contempt but with the curiosity of someone who thought they were about to be sold old bibles and said “Fine”. I sidled up next to the wharf like I knew what I was talking about and yelled “How is it out there?”. Real fishermen, the hipster’s poster boy, wearing tiny beanies and flannel, smelling of fish guts and ocean spray. So I walked down to the harbourfront and I saw the city’s charm. The city itself is grey and dark and still has shops that you thought would’ve fossilised around the same time as the bedrock. Built on the estuary of the River Derwent it sits on primarily Jurassic dolerite a rock often used for the headstones of people’s dead hopes and ambitions.

Just shapes and beats close to me art