Got back from the Outback, suitably grubby. Threw all the clothes in the wash. Had a shower. Well, more than a shower. A ‘southerly buster’ showed up: the heat builds, clouds form, they explode. There were state warnings not to go out. The sky was black at 5pm, with only the lightning to brighten things up. That, and the prospect of my first visit to the Sydney Opera House.

In high heat and torrential rain, I made it to town. Traffic at a standstill, headlights on, umbrella negotiation chaos – some things you just can’t teach the natives. Got down to Circular Quay (the hub of the harbour) and could barely see the bridge or even the Opera House through the downpour, but trundled on, the warm smell of hot rain bouncing off the pavement, and that feeling of being one with a crowd, but alone in it.  

Up to now, the Opera House hasn’t held much attraction. Yes, it’s an ‘iconic’ building but I’d given my heart to the Harbour Bridge. I think it’s the Bridge that defines Sydney. It is dominant. You catch it from unsuspecting angles, making you say ‘Really? It’s there?’ It is massive, with thousands of huge riven bolts each the size of your fist, massive structures of steel that arch high over you, that sweep from south (the heart of the city) to north, carrying trains, cars and people, that announce the building of a nation, the triumph of industrial and economic intent, the taming of nature – the confidence and celebration that comes with, quite literally, forging the future. I guess you’re a Bridge person or an Opera House person.

That’s until you step into the Opera House on concert night. There’s a massive and hideous concourse outside, where tourists gather and take photos. But in the rain, diving underneath it along the harbour perimeter, you find yourself in a curved dark walkway of bars and restaurants that are filled with the anticipation of performance. Looking out to the bridge, the rain tumbling down, people sipping cocktails under the canopy, eating snacks you know you shouldn’t, everyone soaked to the skin, fairy lights, a dearth of signs… The sense of occasion and wonder just builds.

Then you rise up through the levels, catching sight of the fancy glamorous restaurant into the womb of the Opera House. So welcoming, so organic. It’s all sweeps and curves, windows at unsuspecting places, glimpses of the famous tiled roof even from inside. And at the rear, harbour side, a 180 degree view, from the quay to Luna Park and the bridge, the zoo and eventually the heads. Part of which is your imagination on such an awful night of course! Everything shrouded in a deep mist of rain and more rain.

And inside the concert hall, a real sense of occasion. It manages to be large and intimate, with a regular rake of maybe 60 rows offset by 6 large cantilevered balconies reaching over from the sides, each holding another 100 people. And my seat was there, slightly side on, so I could watch both the gig and the audience, arriving doleful and wet. Settle down. It’s Joanna Newsom time. An American ingenue – as if Kate Bush had sat still and tried to be Joni Mitchell. What’s different is that her first instrument is the harp, and with her small acoustic band the harp plucked and thrung (my word) doing the job of a rhythm guitar, weaving odd, melodic and angular rhythmic lines that build a mantra, one that she constantly subverts. I really admire her musical bravery and invention, but it’s not to everyone’s taste. I’m not even sure it’s to mine. Still, an event, a happening, an experience – the whole evening.  

Today is Saturday, and I’m about to meet N for a day at the cricket – thanks B for the tickets: get better quickly! – Australia v India in a one day match. The storm clouds are gathering already, but I’m really looking forward to another piece of magical theatre! Gotta go….