Stereo Stories In Concert
Writers and musicians take their bow at Williamstown Literary Festival, 15 June 2019. "A night of wonder and joy," said author and audience member for the first time, Carmel Bird. See Sweet dreams in Williamstown. Photo by Melissa Longo/Ink Cloud.
Rijn Collins, writer: "There’s this moment when you hear the amazing Stereo Stories band bring a song you love to life, when you’re at the podium reading your story and the audience is watching and the music starts…and you realise how utterly magical storytelling can be, and how honoured you feel to be doing it, especially in such talented and passionate company."
“Stereo Stories has emerged from a melting pot of writers and musicians to become one of the most interesting ways for people to enjoy, understand, and connect with the live performance of songs that have been pivotal in people’s lives. ” – Michael Stewart, Director, Newport Folk Festival, Melbourne
See also Word of Mouth
For enquiries about performances, contact Vin Maskell
For details of shows, see our Concerts & YouTube page.
Every so often you come across a song which can demolish you; take you down in slow-mo, floor by floor like an old hotel, ending in a puff of plaster and dust. Maria Majsa, writing about Between The Bars by Elliot Smith.
About five minutes into the program I heard a slither of music that sent a shiver up my body. It sounded perfect. It touched a nerve of sadness. And also gave rise to joy.
David Oke The Dancing Dog, Footscray, May 2015 Heather and I grinned and looked at each other through the night, as if to say, ‘How did all this happen?’ ‘Is our son really this good?’ and ‘Who would have believed this?’
I’m standing at the end of a long queue talking to a complete stranger. We both agree we never do this sort of thing. Myself, I’ve generally abided that warning about meeting your heroes.
At 15, I could throw off the school uniform and fire up the mixtape and be transported to somewhere un-suburban and fun. Until, of course, it was time for dinner. Or Home and Away was about to begin.
With a scowl that could scorch the tops of crème brûlée, I would stalk through the bar to the alleyway to glower outside until the song ended. Even the rotting potato peels and pools of stale beer were preferable to hearing it again.
It was a tiny rose the colour of musk sticks and fairy floss and just blown, on the climber that never flowered after that one winter when we cut it right back.