There wasn’t a dry eye in the house as Marlon Williams waved his way off stage at Melbourne Town Hall, beaming from ear to ear.
Bets are, a fair majority of the 2000-odd punters huddling away from the icy Naarm winter under the tall majestic ceiling of Melbourne Town Hall on Wednesday night don’t know te reo Māori. But when it comes to music – particularly music in which Marlon Williams is at the helm – it frankly doesn’t matter.
The Aotearoa musician opened Naarm’s RISING festival with a simple exercise in humanity. Williams’ signature charm, witty between-song banter and deep, intimate love for the people he was sharing the stage with – and, subsequently, the entire hall – would alone have won over anyone. And that’s before he even started singing.
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Opening the sold out show for Williams was Ngā Mātai Pūrua, a Naarm-based Kapa Haka group that left jaws on the floor and tear ducts dry. Singing in te reo Māori and performing haka, waiata and poi, Ngā Mātai Pūrua set up the night for the kind of spiritual, cultural and sonic connectivity that would continue flooding through the Town Hall like a tsunami of heart throughout the night. They exited the stage at the end of the set with a standing ovation to suit, but they weren’t done quite yet.
The time came, and Williams appeared like an embroidered tracksuit-wearing apparition under the iconic RISING blue beam of light. Beginning with just a guitar, the artist then traded in the instrument for a lamp-lit piano and The Yarra Benders.
With his mother’s album artwork backgrounding the set and his long-time band filling the spaces in between, the intimacy created by the music and the man would fool you into thinking that you were merely at a dinner party, Williams serenading the guests between courses.
A powerful exploration of home backdropped the stage, and – just as profoundly – it rose to the forefront of the night’s proceedings. Williams painted the performance with colours he mostly drew from his latest album, Te Whare Tīwekaweka.
The musician performs the album – which translates to ‘This Messy House’ – entirely in te reo Māori. While Te Whare Tīwekaweka details Williams’ reconnection with his Ngāi Tahu and Ngāi Tai roots through language, his performance was an exercise in proving that the power of music knows no language barriers.
Later, perched on the stage and cradling his guitar and a cheeky grin, Williams said that he wasn’t sure what to play next. After asking for audience suggestions, a loud and knowing punter yelled out Aua Atu Rā. Seamlessly, Williams flew into the tune and sent the crowd soaring.
Williams closed out the night by inviting Ngā Mātai Pūrua back on stage to join in the last few dreamy songs. All of a sudden, the infectious energy emanating from Williams and his peers on stage and had been bubbling under the surface of the crowd throughout the night erupted. The punters that weren’t pushing their seats to the side and dancing between the rows were wiping away the wet from their cheeks.
The connective force of home – who is it, what it sounds like, where one can find it – was weaved into the tapestry of the show. As Marlon Williams, the Yarra Benders and Ngā Mātai Pūrua joined together on stage, arms wrapped around each other, smiling to the onlookers in the hall, the image on that tapestry was crystallised. They were a family of sorts, and for just one night they had invited us to join them.
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