FINDING HER VOICE

Singer-songwriter Clare Bowditch on grief, anxiety and the mid-90s musical encounter that changed everything for her.

Clare Bowditch’s debut memoir, Your Own Kind of Girl, lays bare the Australian singer-songwriter’s extraordinary gift for storytelling and recounts what she likes to call her adventures with grief, anxiety and self-doubt, and her development as an artist. Here she shares some of the seminal musical experiences that shaped her future – meeting Jeff Buckley in the mid-90s, performing in the UK and starting a band.

When I was 20 and working at the call centre, I heard this guy singing on the radio and, although he sounded a little morose, I quite liked his voice. His name was Jeff Buckley. I’ve told you about this, haven’t I? How I bought his album Grace and then went to see him play an instore? There were only about 50 of us at Gaslight Music that night, including me, my friend Jill and our schoolmate, Anna. The fluorescent lights were switched off and in their place was a candelabra. When Jeff arrived – lean and small, a guitar strapped to his chest – he struck me as fragile and sweet. What surprised me were the jokes he told us before the show, to warm us up, about the Melbourne weather, about the way we spoke – just shooting the breeze, all casual like, but so fun, and so cool. When he did finally sing, when that sound coming out of his mouth hit my chest, dear God, I thought I would explode with the beauty of it. Eyes as big as saucers, I could not believe what I was hearing, the power of it, the way it sucked all the loneliness up and out of my chest and put there instead the most remarkable feeling of connection and warmth and hope. It was this night, this feeling, that really changed things for me again – that reminded me of the brilliant power of song, of the way it can change a heart, change a feeling, change a life. I was reminded, yet again, that music matters.

Later that night, me and Jill and Anna made friends with Jeff’s sound guy. We went out for a drink with him. At the end of the night, he asked for my number. The next time Jeff came to town to play, the sound guy got us seats right up the front, once even sitting on stage. We saw him in Melbourne, and we also drove up to Sydney to see him perform at the Enmore Theatre. But at this show everything felt different. At that first small instore, we felt like we were part of only a handful of people in the world who knew of Jeff. We’d seen him play twice more since then, and still felt part of a secret club. Now, at the Enmore, with every cool kid in town in attendance, it felt like the whole world wanted a piece of him – and it also seemed obvious to us that he was not enjoying the pressure. The thing I’d noticed first with my sister Anna, the model, and could see here too, was that fame was not all it was cracked up to be.

Later that night, Anna and Jill and I were invited upstairs, backstage, for the after-party. It was a small room, there were only about a dozen people in there to begin with, and the feeling was quite calm, until Jeff walked into the room. As we watched strangers swarm around Jeff with their words and their wants and their need to be near him, a feeling of sadness came over me. Me and the girls hardly spoke, just watched. At one point our mate the sound guy called me over, and then introduced me to Jeff himself. He told Jeff that I was a singer and he should hear me sing. I didn’t know what to say. We exchanged just a few words, a joke. I think I may have even attempted to speak Spanish. (There is no logical explanation for this. It’s possible I was trying to be funny. More likely, I think I was just freaking out!)

Another time, our mate tried to get Jeff and I together for a jam in Jeff’s hotel room. We went late in the afternoon before the Melbourne gig, and a bunch of us sat on Jeff’s bed, me playing Jeff’s guitar, waiting for him to appear; he was in the next room apparently, occupied with his lady. I remember feeling so scared I actually dropped his guitar.

Jeff Buckley and I never did get to play together. And what I saw behind the scenes of his fame, how people wanted a piece of him, wanted him to smile and dance and listen to their problems, scared me.

Just like in the movies, once Jeff’s sound guy realised we were not going back to, well, shag him, he dumped us. What a sleaze. The whole thing – everything about being a young woman backstage at those shows – made me even more fearful of the music industry, of what lay ahead for those ‘privileged enough’ to sign record contracts.

But what did not leave me was that feeling of when Jeff stood up, heart on his sleeve, chest to the world, and let us have it – all of it. All the beauty and all the horror and all the brutality and all the joy in his soul, and it hit us in our faces and our hearts and this, I think, is when I returned in earnest to teaching myself the art of writing songs, and I longed then and forever more to keep looking for and trying to make moments through song that shimmered, and were true, and meant something.

Oxford in autumn is breathtakingly beautiful, just like I’d imagined. Blue skies, golden trees, gothic spires overlooking you from every corner. Walking from the bus station with my backpack and guitar, I felt hopeful about my move to the UK. Maybe this was just what I needed: a few trees, a little peace and quiet, some old buildings to inspire the imagination.

When I checked into the backpackers – the cheapest I could find mentioned in my Lonely Planet guidebook – the lady behind the counter saw my guitar and asked if I played. “A little,” I said. She told me that I was in luck; there was an open mic tonight at the local, the Catweazle Club. I felt my heart beat fast in my chest with excitement. This was one of the promises I’d made to myself, that when I was 21, I would start playing my own songs in public. I only knew the names of a few chords, but that was no excuse. You didn’t need to know the names of chords in order to play your own songs. Maybe I’d try the new song, I thought: the Amazing Life one. It wasn’t finished, but I guess I could just play the bit that I had? And if it was awful, who cares? No-one knew me here anyway.

And so it was that I ended up that night at the Catweazle Club in Oxford, which was really just a cosy room in an old fire-lit Oxford pub with tattered red velvet curtains covering the windows and a tiny stage in the corner. Inside this room, the world felt exciting and intimate and new. The event organiser, a friendly fellow called Matt, introduced himself and smiled warmly as I wrote my name on the list. He said when it was my turn I’d hear them call my name. I leaned my guitar against the bar and,

even though I had technically ‘given up drinking’, I bought myself a beer. Dutch courage, because … I felt like I’d need it. I could already feel the heat building in my body. My frosted pint of beer trembled in my hands. What even was this feeling? Was it excitement? Or fear? Both, I suppose.

Once I heard them call my name, heard “Clare from Australia”, the feeling inside me changed. Before I knew it, I was up there on the stool, shaking still, wanting very much to run, run away! but I stayed put, and once I was past those first few awkward chords, there it was, that feeling of rightness, as though I was telling the truth for the first time in my life. What a relief it was, to sing my truth, and no-one else’s. I could do it here in a way that just didn’t feel possible at home, where people knew me, might worry about me. It felt … vulnerable, and brilliant, like I was doing the exact thing I was born to do. As I sang, it was as though – for the length of the song – all the wrong feelings in me, and in the world, were suddenly put right. The audience was so kind, whooping, clapping, encouraging me when I missed a chord. There were only about 20 of them, but that was all I needed: just a few kind people who seemed to get me and my song.

And, still, the applause came as a shock. It was loud and generous, and someone even whistled. Matt, I think. How did it sound? No idea. Probably terrible said the voice in my head, but I didn’t care. I felt proud just for getting up there. I’d never played my own song in public before; I had faced a fear. It felt … exhilarating.

I rushed off stage clumsily, and was almost finished packing up my guitar when Matt came over with a beer for me and said something that has stayed with me all of these years. “You’ve got something special about you,” he said. Then he smiled and patted me on the shoulder, as though we were both … soldiers. He told me he hoped I’d be back, because they could do with my sort around here.

A year or so later, having returned to Australia, my second year of uni rolled around and I was feeling braver, less scared, more myself – a ‘myself’ I had never felt before. I was getting better and better at telling hopeful stories, better and better at telling the voice of my inner-critic (who I had named Frank – long story!) to fuck off.

Also, I was making friends. New friends. Friendships that started over cups of tea and coffee in between lectures and went from there. We would do assignments together, have a drink after lectures, go to each other’s art happenings. I was getting better at showing people who I was.

One fateful weekend, some uni girlfriends and I decided to go on a last-minute road trip to ConFest: a hippy festival on the banks of the mighty Murray River on the border of Victoria and New South Wales.

We were greeted at the gate by a leathery old chap who wasn’t wearing any underpants. Later someone told me his nickname – Long Schlong Silver. Long Schlong Silver was pretty much ConFest in a nutshell: just a bunch of friendly naked people greeting each other in peace. I tried to keep my gaze ‘upwards’ as I asked Long Schlong if he could kindly direct us to the quietest area of the campground. We pitched our tent near some majestic old gum trees, painted our faces and stuck on some bindis. I do believe this may have been the first time in my life where I shared the sight of my bellybutton with strangers. As dusk fell, my friends and I walked over to the communal chai tent, and settled in for what we assumed would be a blissful night of drumming and drinking chai.

I brought my book to the chai tent, sat on a communal cushion, tried not to worry about things like scabies, or how many crusty pairs of toes had touched these cushions before me, and was just starting to relax into the cool evening when I heard someone in the corner of the tent yell: “Amber? Amber?” I looked up to see a young, handsome, darkhaired chap strutting around the tent like Elvis.

As it turns out, ‘Elvis’ and his mate were looking for an ‘Amber’, which was made clear by the fact that his friend would not stop yelling Amber’s name. Elvis spotted a communal guitar – one of several instruments that belonged to the tent. Soon, he was leading a singalong. I was a little annoyed at first – I just wanted to read my book, thank you very much – but soon realised what I was feeling wasn’t irritation so much as fear.

There was something in me that wanted to go sing with him. There was another part of me that told me not to be an idiot – I didn’t even know that guy. I heard it then, clear as day: the voice of Frank, of fear, trying to keep me safe, yet again, but I was stronger now, and I wasn’t having it anymore.

I watched the Elvis dude play the guitar and, it occurred to me, shit, he’s really good. And he could sing, too. He was singing songs I knew, by the Beatles, and the Rolling Stones and Creedence Clearwater Revival, and before I knew it I was sitting a little outside the circle, but singing along with him. This felt … awesome!

Turns out, Elvis’s actual name was John. After the jam he came and introduced himself. Told me he liked my harmonies. Asked me where I’d learned to sing. I’m not sure: from my mum, I think. He asked me if I played guitar, and I said not much; he asked did I write songs, and I said not much. He sure did ask a lot of questions, I thought. I was 22-and-a-half by now; it was almost 18 months since I’d returned unexpectedly from London as a thin woman (after a lifetime of being ‘The Big Girl’) and I have to admit I still was not entirely comfortable with male attention. Sometimes, being thin is weird. If they didn’t talk to me when I was fat, why were they talking to me now? But with John, things felt different – he was direct, but something about that set me at ease and, at the same time, terrified me. Or was it excitement? Hard to say. Lots of emotions. We talked and talked. To my surprise, not only did he know all of Jeff Buckley’s songs, he also knew all of Donny Hathaway’s songs and, most impressive, he knew the songs of my favourite local band, the Acapelicans. Who was this guy?

When he finally handed me the guitar and said: “All right, play me something”, two-thirds of me wanted to run. But from somewhere within that third little corner of me a voice encouraged me to stay. To be brave. To try. What was the harm in that? I didn’t know this guy. Would probably never see him again. Something inside me said: Go on. Try. So, in what felt like a little nod to the woman I one day hoped to be, I said: “Okay.”

That was the first time I ever sang [my song] Empty Pockets to anyone. I closed my eyes as I did it, just like I had when I was in Oxford playing the open mic night at the Catweazle Club. I couldn’t stand the thought of seeing John’s face, just in case it said something I didn’t want to hear, such as: “You suck!” But afterwards, when I opened my eyes, John looked at me funny, and smiled, and then he asked: “What’s your name again?” I told him. Actually, I told him my first name, but a fake surname. Like I said, I wasn’t yet used to male attention. It tended to make me nervous.

“Got any more songs?” he asked. ”Yes,” I said. “I suppose so.” And then John said four little words that would truly change the course of my life, and his life, for the better. He smiled, and said: “Let’s start a band!” I also smiled, and said: “Okay.”

This is an edited extract from Your Own Kind of Girl (Allen&Unwin,

$29.99), out October 28.

“As I sang, it was as though – for the length of the song – all the wrong feelings in me, and in the world, were suddenly put right”