William Barton
The Hub 23/8/25
William Barton didgeridoo
“The didgeridoo is a language, a speaking language and like any language it’s … got to be a part of you and what you do.” Barton quoting his uncle
Dappled lighting forms a backdrop to a pair of didgeridoos waiting side by side on their stands at the front of the stage. The room darkens and Barton’s voice breaks upon us. It is powerful as a horn, out of this world and yet the sounds of many worlds are there in one, as he enters and approaches the spotlight not from backstage but from behind us, the public way in. That choice of entry establishes both his dramatic flair and his sense of community. As he sits to introduce himself, he waves to the oft-forgotten souls up in the gallery.
The first song on the didgeridoo is extraordinarily expressive with chirps, woofs, growls and shifting overtones, and ends with a subversive whale-size raspberry. Aside from some rattling on the casing from a small stick its voice seems to be generated by Barton’s voice alone and as such it is surely, most out of all instruments, “part of you”. You might say it is human voice not digitally- but didgeridoo-enhanced.
Not that when hearing Barton sing with the naked voice you might think it needed any enhancing. He alternates between that and the instrument, sometimes with a backing track of drums and other voices, adding flourishes from the pipe, and notably with guitar, in which he is proficient. As he strums he intermittently moves onto the didgeridoo, like Bob Dylan with his mouthorgan. I am reminded of the 90-year-old at our local open mic, who always comes with his selection of moothies in different keys for the communal numbers, and am glad for him that he is not a didgeridoo player. They too are set in different keys; hence the choice of two set up onstage for tonight.
Early on Barton explains how sounds on his instrument transmit/transpose imitations of nature used by the Kalkadunga story tellers, and teaches us to accompany him as he plays the didgeridoo, conducting us with prearranged hand signals. We become wind in the leaves, rain-showers, kookaburras, dingoes and daddy, mummy or baby kangaroos. A wonderful ice-breaker, if one were needed. He talks of his people’s awareness of the earth’s energy, of the need to return it, how he is obliged to compose quite different music in different places; say Edinburgh’s more “sombre locale”.
I have to say that this was my most enthralling, satisfying musical experience for a long time. Not only because it was novel, though that did add to the thrill. I am so lucky to have got to meet this instrument for the first time at the hands of a virtuoso; technically and spiritually. The range of tone, volume, texture and feeling in both didgeridoo and naked voice blew me away.
There was a cherry on this richest of pies. To finish, Barton declared he would be joined by another instrumentalist. I think the name was Bede Patterson. Slight confusion ran through the audience. On walked a slim kilted young piper and began to play. But not as one is used to hearing. He played the pipes like a violin, with passion and pathos, bittersweet tones reminiscent of the Balkans. Barton picked up a third didgeridoo, keyed for the pipes and side by side, they played their hearts out.