‘I don't want to give up': Why Chris Parker refuses to join the brain drain
Alex Casey talks to comedian Chris Parker about his love of touring the country and going head-to-head with Marlon Williams at the Christchurch Town Hall.
Chris Parker fancied himself a bit of a singer growing up. He was in the special choir, competed in Christchurch Music Festival competitions and even starred as Caiaphas in the Christchurch Boys' High production of Jesus Christ Superstar. But as he got older, he describes feeling self-conscious about it. 'I started to think, 'maybe I'm not actually a good singer at all',' he says. It was only years later that he realised where that insecurity had stemmed from – next to him in many of those choirs, competitions and performances had been his classmate, Marlon Williams.
' That's why I was so hard on myself,' Parker laughs. 'Because I grew up singing alongside our country's greatest voice.'
In a fortuitous turn of events, the pair will be reunited once more in Christchurch's Town Hall, with Williams' Te Whare Tīwekaweka tour in the Douglas Lilburn Auditorium and Parker's Stop Being So Dramatic in the James Hay Theatre on Saturday June 28. 'Huge booking error on my behalf,' says Parker. 'Luckily he has already sold out so I'll just get any riff raff that's left.' While he hasn't talked to Williams about the coincidence, Parker has high hopes: 'afterwards we can swing open the doors and all climb into the big cone in the square, something fun like that.'
He jokes, but there are nerves around performing in front of his home crowd. 'A lot of the show is about Christchurch – doing ballet as a kid and amateur dramatics as a young boy, and the community that you form,' he says. 'It's also about the cringe that makes you give up what you love the most.' There's also a bigger and timelier motivation behind the show. 'I got really bummed out about all the Destiny Church stuff and I felt myself getting quieter,' Parker says. 'I've been driven by that feeling of not giving up – because that's what they want.'
The other thing that keeps Parker going is his love of touring stand-up around Aotearoa, even if it does get lonely sometimes. 'You go crazy because you're just on your own all day not talking to anyone, and then suddenly you're on the Wellington Opera House stage talking to everyone.' While there are some similarly large venues on the tour, he has a soft spot for 'unlocking' the audience in a new small town. 'Especially somewhere like Ranfurly and they come up and say 'you picked a terrible night to visit because it's Jan's 50th and we're all there'. I love that.'
From performing everywhere 'right down the bottom to the very top' Parker has also seen the inside of a lot of shopping centres and malls, and intends to review them on Instagram during his tour in a series called Top of the Shops. 'Growing up in Christchurch I was raised in the mall, so I always find it really relaxing walking past a Strandbags on my way to a Muffin Break,' he says. 'There's some great malls in this country, especially The Meridian in Dunedin. In Christchurch it might be Riccarton, but I also think that South City is a phenomenal mall.'
The flipside of this is that he's also familiar with the 'grim' town centres that have either not bounced back post-Covid, or been ravaged by the cost of living. Paired with a record number of young New Zealanders leaving the country, including many of Parker's comedy contemporaries like Two Hearts, David Correos and Alice Snedden, he's been thinking a lot about why people would want to stay. 'We have to figure out what's going to keep young people here, and I think a big part of that is that our cities are these fun, vibrant and amazing places to live.'
The local entertainment industry has a lot to do with that vibrancy, but Parker likens the current situation to a candle that burns too quickly. 'It tunnels down fast, but then not enough oxygen gets in, and it snuffs itself out,' he says. 'There's just not enough people here who can keep turning up to stuff.' Even with its challenges, he feels a sense of duty to keep championing live events across Aotearoa. 'To an extent, it is up to people like us to be the reason why people want to go out and enjoy their life, rather than sitting at home watching AI videos.'
His current tour includes sold out dates across Australia and the UK, but Parker insists he won't be going anywhere – and not just because he recently adopted a rescue dog. 'I don't want to give up on New Zealand. Whenever I'm in Australia, everyone's like 'surely, you'll just move over?' And I just say 'I love breakfast TV too much. I love Chris Chang, we can't move'.' His only hope is that audiences continue to show the same enthusiasm for live acts. 'It's our local talent who want the best for our country, so we need to keep turning up for them.'
'We want to stay here – I'm gagging to stay here.'
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‘I don't want to give up': Why Chris Parker refuses to join the brain drain
Alex Casey talks to comedian Chris Parker about his love of touring the country and going head-to-head with Marlon Williams at the Christchurch Town Hall. Chris Parker fancied himself a bit of a singer growing up. He was in the special choir, competed in Christchurch Music Festival competitions and even starred as Caiaphas in the Christchurch Boys' High production of Jesus Christ Superstar. But as he got older, he describes feeling self-conscious about it. 'I started to think, 'maybe I'm not actually a good singer at all',' he says. It was only years later that he realised where that insecurity had stemmed from – next to him in many of those choirs, competitions and performances had been his classmate, Marlon Williams. ' That's why I was so hard on myself,' Parker laughs. 'Because I grew up singing alongside our country's greatest voice.' In a fortuitous turn of events, the pair will be reunited once more in Christchurch's Town Hall, with Williams' Te Whare Tīwekaweka tour in the Douglas Lilburn Auditorium and Parker's Stop Being So Dramatic in the James Hay Theatre on Saturday June 28. 'Huge booking error on my behalf,' says Parker. 'Luckily he has already sold out so I'll just get any riff raff that's left.' While he hasn't talked to Williams about the coincidence, Parker has high hopes: 'afterwards we can swing open the doors and all climb into the big cone in the square, something fun like that.' He jokes, but there are nerves around performing in front of his home crowd. 'A lot of the show is about Christchurch – doing ballet as a kid and amateur dramatics as a young boy, and the community that you form,' he says. 'It's also about the cringe that makes you give up what you love the most.' There's also a bigger and timelier motivation behind the show. 'I got really bummed out about all the Destiny Church stuff and I felt myself getting quieter,' Parker says. 'I've been driven by that feeling of not giving up – because that's what they want.' The other thing that keeps Parker going is his love of touring stand-up around Aotearoa, even if it does get lonely sometimes. 'You go crazy because you're just on your own all day not talking to anyone, and then suddenly you're on the Wellington Opera House stage talking to everyone.' While there are some similarly large venues on the tour, he has a soft spot for 'unlocking' the audience in a new small town. 'Especially somewhere like Ranfurly and they come up and say 'you picked a terrible night to visit because it's Jan's 50th and we're all there'. I love that.' From performing everywhere 'right down the bottom to the very top' Parker has also seen the inside of a lot of shopping centres and malls, and intends to review them on Instagram during his tour in a series called Top of the Shops. 'Growing up in Christchurch I was raised in the mall, so I always find it really relaxing walking past a Strandbags on my way to a Muffin Break,' he says. 'There's some great malls in this country, especially The Meridian in Dunedin. In Christchurch it might be Riccarton, but I also think that South City is a phenomenal mall.' The flipside of this is that he's also familiar with the 'grim' town centres that have either not bounced back post-Covid, or been ravaged by the cost of living. Paired with a record number of young New Zealanders leaving the country, including many of Parker's comedy contemporaries like Two Hearts, David Correos and Alice Snedden, he's been thinking a lot about why people would want to stay. 'We have to figure out what's going to keep young people here, and I think a big part of that is that our cities are these fun, vibrant and amazing places to live.' The local entertainment industry has a lot to do with that vibrancy, but Parker likens the current situation to a candle that burns too quickly. 'It tunnels down fast, but then not enough oxygen gets in, and it snuffs itself out,' he says. 'There's just not enough people here who can keep turning up to stuff.' Even with its challenges, he feels a sense of duty to keep championing live events across Aotearoa. 'To an extent, it is up to people like us to be the reason why people want to go out and enjoy their life, rather than sitting at home watching AI videos.' His current tour includes sold out dates across Australia and the UK, but Parker insists he won't be going anywhere – and not just because he recently adopted a rescue dog. 'I don't want to give up on New Zealand. Whenever I'm in Australia, everyone's like 'surely, you'll just move over?' And I just say 'I love breakfast TV too much. I love Chris Chang, we can't move'.' His only hope is that audiences continue to show the same enthusiasm for live acts. 'It's our local talent who want the best for our country, so we need to keep turning up for them.' 'We want to stay here – I'm gagging to stay here.'
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On Saturday night Marlon Williams played at the Spark Arena with The Yarra Benders, Kommi and Ngā Mātai Pūrua. As his Te Whare Tīwekaweka tour nears its end, it felt like a beginning. 'Lets try some stadium shit,' Marlon Williams told the crowd. He was alone on the stage, perched on his piano stool, long legs crossed and an acoustic guitar tightly in his grip. From the seats of the Spark Arena, a few phone torches were swaying. The crowd was eager to please – a few seconds later, thousands of lights swayed in the stadium. Williams, the indie heart throb of Kāi Tahu and Ngāi Tai from New Zealand's alt-folk capital Lyttelton, was aware, but unafraid, of the cringe. He has never thought much of phone-torch-swaying, but it looked 'so cool' from up on stage and 'Ed Sheeran loves it when you do that.' He then dove into a soulful rendition of an audience request – his 2016 song 'Arahura'. Halfway through, two of The Yarra Benders slipped on stage, filling the song with violin and double bass. It was the most beautiful song in the world. My torchlight quivered with emotion. Saturday night was the 18th stop (there are 21 shows all together, 11 of them in Aotearoa) on Williams' tour of his new album Te Whare Tīwekaweka. The album, lauded for being entirely in te reo Māori, was performed in full. The only English additions were 'Arahura' and the pop hit 'My Boy'. It's been a big year for Williams – Te Whare Tīwekaweka, released in April is the result of a six year journey, and as well as the tour, its release was accompanied by a feature length documentary, Ngā Ao E Rua – Two Worlds, which was four years in the making. All this activity has not gone unnoticed. Marlon-mania has been sweeping across New Zealand (and beyond?). The old biddies are giddy and excited, but so are the trendy young people. It was apparent in Saturday night's crowd: we arrived on time, filled out the (fully seated) arena, wore big smiles for the duration of the show and were diverse in age, ethnicity and gender. Someone was wearing a Warriors beanie. Someone else was wearing ballet flats crossed with soccer boots. It's been said that 'everyone' was there, and as far as I could tell everyone loved it. The night began with Ngā Mātai Pūrua, a Melbourne based kapa haka rōpū that performed with Williams at sold-out shows at the Sydney Opera House and the Melbourne town hall. The rōpū of at least 30 performed waiata-a-ringa and poi, which felt like a welcoming of what was to come, an anchor for the artists that followed. Next up was KOMMI. Those who have watched Ngā Ao E Rua would have recognised the lead musician Kommi Tamati-Elliffe (Kāi Tahu, Te-Āti-Awa) as Williams' songwriting collaborator and reo mentor. They are often described as Williams' 'dear friend' and are accompanying him for the whole tour. Tamati-Elliffe's presence on stage was instantly powerful. They stepped on in a voluminous white cotton shirt, long plaid kilt, and widebrimmed hat with four feathers protruding from its crown. So fashionable, and so many nods to history. The solo rapper/chanter/singer was joined by a drummer, guitarist and singer who seamlessly supported the songs. Tamati-Elliffe's songs are exclusively in reo, the Kāi Tahu dialect, but they were kind enough to give hilarious introductions in English for people like me. One song told a story of Tamati-Elliffe running away from a haunted house, hiding in the bush only to be found by tūrehu and future anthropologists finding their bones and thinking 'What an idiot!' It was during the KOMMI set that Williams first appeared. The cameo is mainly notable because of his custom Adidas tracksuit, which I believe was made by his friend and artist Turumeke Harrington (Kāi Tahu). Zipped up all the way, it was embellished with koru designs and Williams paired it with a black beanie. Later, Tamati-Elliffe would appear during Williams' set in a matching set. Friendship is so sweet. To begin his headline set, Williams appeared spotlit in the middle of the stage – that beloved, almost-gangly, silhouette in a suit. His hair was not slicked back as has been his signature in the past – instead it was soft and tousled. He began the first waiata, 'Me Uaua Kē' – 'Tērā motu tērā te wāhī i kai ai taiohi i ngā hua o te koreke.' (That island, the place where the youth ate the fruits of the koreke). Suddenly it was obvious why this goofy man was on an arena stage. His voice – the tone so pure, so assured, effortless yet elevated, seemingly knowing and gentle. On stage with Williams were The Yarra Benders, who have been performing with him for over a decade, and known him for even longer. Switching between violin, keyboard and guitar is Dave Khan. Ben Woolley is on bass, double bass and vocals and Gus Agars is on drums. All three are Pākehā and all three accompanied Williams into his fumbling, stumbling reo journey. They too sing in reo. Though I can't recall the exact words, Williams noted how he's proud of them for following him, and that it represents something bigger, about unity and the future. It seems that the whole night – and the whole project of Te Whare Tīwekaweka – represents that. Most of Williams' fans, and most of the people in the crowd are unlikely to understand much reo – and yet here they were, taking in the beauty of the songs, guided by a man who is open about his stumbling and incomplete journey, and willing to tell a silly joke about a cat. Williams was regularly switching instruments too, with a guitar tech appearing in between songs to switch from an acoustic guitar to a red electric guitar (just like the emoji), or take them off his hands as he ascended the stairs to the piano. It's boring but true to write that the beautiful songs were perfectly performed. And although Spark Arena is a big, cold space, the performance felt warm and intimate. The stage design was simple and soft – the ghostly album artwork by Williams' artist mum Jenny Rendall was printed onto a huge fabric banner and hung in front of a gathered purple curtain, a vintage lampshade hung over a piano that looked like it might have come from a granny's house and the platform for it, with a little staircase that Williams was constantly ascending and descending, was constructed from wood. There was even a doily draped over the piano stool. My only complaint is that the overhead lighting was harsh, meaning that strong shadows fell over Williams' face and often obscured his eyes. The encore, which had been all but promised by Williams who seemingly hides nothing from his audience, proved the perfect encapsulation of the show. Williams and The Yarra Benders reappeared on stage with short feathered korowai over their suits. Standing in a line, they performed the bare bones of 'Whakameatia Mai'. When Woolley took a verse in perfect reo, the crowd cheered. Then everyone was welcomed back to the stage – Ngā Mātai Pūrua's wahine gathered around microphones while tane stood tall on the platform at the back of the stage. Somewhere tucked away Tamati-Elliffe grooved in their tracksuit. The final song of the night was 'Ngoi Ngoi', a lesser-known 1988 single by Pātea Māori Club. The crowd was keen to join in the celebration, phone torches again swaying around the stadium. It was so good that you started to wish the world's leaders were all there, so they could experience what it could mean to live alongside one another in difference and unity. Marlon Williams' first show in an arena was beautiful. It was another wave in the growing fandom for the musician, but also something else – a huge crowd of people willing to follow Williams out of a country that has become a whare tīwekaweka (a haunted house, a house in disarray) and stumble into a different future.
