Sad songs tend to intrigue us. Not just because of the complexity their introspective narratives often carry – a sometimes-mysterious ‘archaeology of the self’ is frequently at the heart of mournful music and lyrics alike – but also because of the apparently perplexing contradiction behind their steadfast cultural popularity. Why do people seek out sadness? Why are we so often drawn to emphasise and sharpen – rather than shift or alleviate – feelings of regret or ennui, grief and heartbreak, by dwelling and delving further into them via art?
Many possible answers have been proposed, from aesthetic catharsis to the appeal of bittersweet longing. But in this thematic showcase of emotionally charged songwriting, Kate Lewis and Katie Pomery reflect primarily on how sharing sadness can help in overcoming it, through the articulation or reframing of hurt in social solidarity. As their co-written opening song ‘Talk About It’ makes explicit, describing the physical weight and warning signs of unprocessed trauma or psychological wounds: “There’s a pain in my chest that’s trying to keep me out of harm’s way / A pain in my chest I notice every time that I don’t talk about it.”
This is fitting for two best friends and long-time collaborators who are both singing teachers and co-conductors of the Adelaide CBD With One Voice community choir. In that vein (for those who weren’t already members) the Grace Emily crowd had the experience of lending vocals to the chorus of ABBA’s ‘Slipping Through My Fingers’ – the show’s only cover – about the “well-known sadness” a mother feels sensing her daughter growing up and ever more distant. Lewis quipped at one point that 95% of the audience were people she knew and, however accurate or not that ratio was, the set’s overall feel was anchored in easy-going warmth and endearing banter.
While they share much in common, each songwriter also has their own distinct approach to evoking sorrow. While Lewis tends toward an orchestral soundscape – with numbers like ‘Maybe I Will’ reminiscent of Adele’s soul-pop ballads, a lush melancholy of piano and soaring chorus that rises toward ethereal memory – Pomery’s sound leans toward an earthier nostalgia, planted in plucked or strummed guitar and conversational lyrics delivered with a broad Australian lilt.
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This gig presents a rich combination of both, with some particularly lush and effective vocal layering on shared tracks like ‘Little Girl’ and ‘One Sec’ – named for an app ironically designed to help people spend less time on their phones. Again, though, the thread of self-analysis and communal connection runs throughout a constellation of songs which culminate with a nostalgic ode from Pomery about friendship, share housing and Robbie Williams: “since my friends moved in, I don’t go quiet anymore / I love all my sad songs.”
It’s worth getting along to find one compelling answer as to why we all do love our sad songs – the sense of connection they can bring, that we aren’t “the only one” and that maybe, just maybe, it’s going to be okay.
An Hour of Sad Songs is playing two more shows at the Grace Emily Hotel on March 15
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