Never Seen One Like It for Sale … I Should Probably Patent It

Kate Ceberano is Australian music royalty. In a 40-year career, she has released no fewer than 30 albums, including her smash 1989 solo debut, Brave. She has played stages big and small around the world and is gearing up for a greatest hits national tour with Jon Stevens.

Even after four decades of performing, Ceberano sometimes still feels vulnerable in front of a crowd. To feel empowered, the singer-songwriter wears a special handcrafted instrument across her body. Here she shares stories about that “second skin” and two other important belongings.

During Covid, I managed to escape Victoria for a short reprieve in New South Wales, but I felt so guilty and troubled leaving my house, city, and loved ones behind. After the dreaded two-week hotel quarantine, I finally stepped out into the Sydney sun and bawled like a baby. I couldn’t shake the emotions, even when I arrived the next day at Kathrin Longhurst’s studio to sit for her Archibald Prize entry.

I usually find it hard to be photographed head-on. But I stared straight into her lens, without realizing it. My face bore judgment (of whom I’m not really sure), anger, and a look that said, “Hurry up, I can’t see where we are going.”

This portrait won that year’s Packing Room Prize, much to our delight. I asked Kathrin if I could keep it, and she looked at me and said: it was always yours.

It now sits in my library—too strong a face to oversee dinner or TV chatter. I would save her from a fire, although I get the feeling she could probably survive it on her own.

I have played in big bands, little bands, and orchestras. I’ve played piano, drums, and foot stomps. But nothing gives me more pleasure than a little hip snare that I fashioned into a small drum.

I wear it across my body like a bow and arrow, in a braided leather holder, rattling and shaking as I walk. Sometimes I beat that drum just because I can. Other times I neglect it and let it swing like a guitar, swaggering around as if to say, “Yeah, I’m in the band. I’m the singer and the drummer!”

I’ve never seen one like it for sale, and I’ve had many people ask me to make them one. I should probably patent it, but I’m pretty sure most of my mates know exactly who is bonkers enough to create this little percussive gem.

It also helps me hide behind the act of performance when singing becomes too personal. When you’re stranded out front of the band, meeting a crowd for the first time, it feels like being naked. You imagine people are talking behind their hands and turning their backs on purpose. But actually, they just want you to kick in and entertain them.

I do this best when I’m also entertaining myself. Ergo, my drum is perfect. It makes me feel wild, ornamental, experimental, and preoccupied.

I tend to give away precious things, expecting the receiver might appreciate the value and beauty of the object. In this case, I don’t believe this person ever really did. You shouldn’t give things expecting praise or gratitude—you should just give with love and let it go. But I wanted something in exchange which I never received, and it left me bitter and frustrated.

I was coaching an artist who didn’t think too much of me. In fact, thought so little of me that she would do the complete opposite of any advice or mentorship I offered. In a last-ditch attempt to win her over, I gave her a valued piece of jewelry given to me by a dear friend. It was priceless—to me.

She looked at it and, with dead eyes, said, “Ummm, thanks,” then threw it into her jewelry bag. My punt not only didn’t work but my treasured object was now somebody’s junk.

It still hurts. It was a silly thing to try and buy somebody’s respect or interest. But I still love to give things away; I just look for more honorable recipients and never expect anything in exchange. Lesson learned.

Source: The Guardian