It’s doubtful Bob Fosse had in mind a conservative calisthenics club in Melbourne’s industrial west when he choreographed All That Jazz in 1975.
Welcome to Centre Stage, where we shine the spotlight on Stereo Stories' most enduring writers.
We engaged Joie's Mazda 818's unofficial air conditioning—two windows down and eighty kilometres an hour—and raised our voices in chat and song over the wind streaming into the car.
Lucia Nardo Melbourne, June 1992 While it is true that in death we travel alone, wherever it is George Michael has gone, he's taken a part of me with him.
Lucia Nardo Family gathering, Melbourne, 1996 I felt a plum-size lump, unyielding to my touch. Dan yelped with pain. That moment is etched in my memory. I knew our lives were about to change. I wanted to push the lump back down, along with all the terror it was about to unleash.
Lucia Nardo Hospital, Melbourne, 2015 There’s only one way to take a diagnosis of cancer in our family. You get on with it. But the day of Martin's surgery, I’m not getting on with it very well.
Le mie memorie in relazione alla musica di mio padre, ebbe inizio quando avevo circa tre anni. Abitiamo in una casa in affitto durante il periodo del dopoguerra, scarsamente ammobiliata, ma allo stesso tempo dava un senso d’abbondanza.
Lucia Nardo Rod Laver Arena, Melbourne, February 2015 I guess the passage of time buffers down the sharp points on everything, not just voices, but love and loss.
Lucia Nardo A recording studio in Altona North. March 2007 I spend the session at the mixing desk, watching Dad in the recording booth, reflecting on the importance of his music to our family’s identity. It’s been the soundtrack to my entire life.
Lucia Nardo Fire-place, Melbourne, July 1993 The thick door of my home couldn’t protect me from that winter’s chill. Icy wind whistled between the jambs and into the house.