Sydney Encounters the Gentle Friendship of Jack Davies

If you are yet to meet the nomadic Western Australian folk artist, Jack Davies, let me do you the favour of introducing him the way he was introduced to me – over a beer in a pub.

It is Thursday, May 28, and amidst the laughter, I spot Davies in the warmth of The Eveleigh Hotel’s lively weekly jazz night. Standing quietly at the bar, he is watching his friends perform, and when I approach, his eyes light up with an immediate offering of friendship.

What is meant to be an interview soon trips into something far more casual. We talk about what music he has been listening to recently; the three birthdays he has had since leaving his Fremantle home and starting a life in his van; and what he plans to do when he leaves Sydney (travel up north and spend some time with his grandmother).

You may never know it from talking to him, but for the past four weeks – every Thursday in May, with one additional show this past Sunday – Davies has sold out the upstairs ‘Goodspace’ venue at The Lord Gladstone. In fact, when I ask about these shows, he seems rather uninterested in their success. Instead, he is grateful they have allowed him time to live in the Blue Mountains and rock climb on the days he hasn’t had to travel into the city to ‘work’.

It is this carefree way of life – translated into his gentle folk songs – which attracts me to Davies’ music. Within the whirlwind uphill battle of a life in a big city, a glimpse into this freedom is always refreshing. And as I peer around at those packed crossed-legged onto the Goodspace floor later that night, I feel this audience share my sentiment.

Blue rain falls through a trail of white headlights out a small window to Davies’ right. A pint of Guinness and a box of harmonicas rest on a stool beside him. A tape recorder quietly whirs as he nurses his worn acoustic guitar. Awkwardly he looks out at the glowing red room, and jokes about how full it is.

“I’m sorry that wall’s there,” he says with a wry smile, gesturing to the wall at the back of the room – people crammed under the mixing desk to its left, and in the doorway to its right. “I rocked up with my sledgehammer, but the council shut me down. So unfortunately, we’re stuck with it.”

It is this dry humour which persists through the following hour. Between songs, Davies is not afraid of long, quietly funny explanations of the stories they contain. And within them, wound around observations of life that could only be made when you slow down to really notice the world, he is not afraid to include a joke.

In Penguin, he sings about the safety of lying in bed, eating pizza and watching David Attenborough on a rainy night. Then, in the chorus – gesturing to the sound engineer to turn up the reverb – he floats a whale song over his dancing strings. And in Bunnings Gift Card – which he insists is not meant to be funny – he sings about the modern tragedy of a Bunnings gift card being stolen from his van, and all the things he now won’t be able to purchase with it.

Laughter ripples through the room in each moment of humour, then evolves into a chorus of voices whenever some of Davies’ more beloved lyrics are dropped from the stage.

“This is one I wrote for harmonies,” he says when introducing one of his more popular songs, Never Knew Me at All. “But I’ll attempt to do it myself… I’ve always counted in, because I’m usually like, ‘alright guys get ready to sing it’, but now it’s just me, which is slightly sad.”

But really, it isn’t just him. From the first lyric, the audience are beside Davies. It’s a sad song. About leaving behind the person that you used to be as you grow older. I can see why he likes to sing it with friends. And as the collected voice gathers strength, it appears so can the audience. Until finally, as Davies sings the closing repeated lyrics “I never knew me at all / I never knew me at all” the voices rise to wrap him in a warm, loving hug.

In truth, if you are yet to meet Jack Davies, there is little I can do to fix that. He is a hard one to pin down. But if you ever notice a tall man quietly watching jazz in a crowded pub, maybe take a chance and say hello.