I had a gig on Sunday afternoon in Adelaide, in a quaint old stone building called “The Chapel” within the precinct of the Migration Museum. Afterwards, chatting with audience members (friends and strangers), I met Melvyn Cann, a silver-haired gentleman in an elegant, but slightly crumpled, purple suit and snake-skin shoes. He complimented me on my shakuhachi playing and talked of his sadness that, on the whole, musicians no longer perform with spiritual depth, not like they did in his youth (I am not expressing this as eloquently as he did). He was clearly a musician, and I soon discovered, also a poet. We exchanged details and I cheekily asked him for a review.