From Bute March to Brewster Meltdown: The Symphony of a South Australian Musical Misadventure In the grand symphonic saga of South Australia, the story of Hooper Josse Brewster-Jones is less a masterpiece and more a raucous cacophony of notes, slips, and the occasional facepalm. Picture a young prodigy composing "The Bute March" at the tender age of nine—an age when most kids are busy figuring out how to unicycle or avoiding homework. Brewster-Jones, however, was busy penning tunes that would make even the most tuned-out listener raise an eyebrow. This was essentially a marching band’s way of saying, “Hey, we’re here!” while the average child might prefer something a bit more conducive to ice cream and mischief. Fast forward to 1901, when young Brewster-Jones rolls into the Elder Conservatorium of Music like a burgeoning rockstar, all set to conquer the next big thing—international fame. There he is, waltzing into the hallowed halls, expecting the red carpet treatment, but instead, he probably faced a few skeptical glances and a tutor who played the piano like an angry squirrel. Winning the Elder Overseas Scholarship was sweet vindication, of course, but little did he know that glory wasn’t just about winning—it was about surviving the shock of being transported to London, where the weather is as pleasant as a wet sock and the locals are as impressed by your piano skills as they are by their tea. Now, let’s address his return to Adelaide in 1909. The boy was back from Britain and had high hopes of carving out a career amidst the tedium of local music society. Imagine the scene—a young man, ready to teach, trying very hard to convince the masses that playing the piano is the apex of human achievement, despite their preference for barbecue and footy. It’s a comic conundrum: Brewster-Jones is presenting virtuosic recitals while the audience is mentally cataloging their grocery lists and wondering if it’s too early for a cold one. Married to a Gerta Homburg, a “lady of music,” Brewster-Jones must have thought he’d hit the jackpot—an amateur singer to accompany him on his journey. But one can only imagine the awkward dinner table discussions: “Darling, how was your day?” “Well, I wrote an opera called ‘Deirdre’ about an old Irish tragedy. And you?” “I...uh...made spaghetti.” The thrilling life of a composer, ladies and gentlemen! Enter the 1920s, a decade where Brewster-Jones allegedly produced an avalanche of compositions, leading to what Kate Bowan dubbed his “transnational modernism." One can only guess that this was a fancy way of saying he was throwing notes at the wall and hoping something would stick. The “Formula Series”? It sounds suspiciously like the musical equivalent of a math exam—after all, who wouldn’t want to endure heavily caffeinated piano preludes that demanded you not just play, but also solve quadratic equations? And what of his role in the Australian Broadcasting Commission? One can envision Brewster-Jones, perhaps wearing a bow tie, frantically conducting his state’s studio orchestra while struggling to communicate with a microphone as easygoing as a caffeinated kangaroo. There he was, the first and perhaps only radio lecturer to convince listeners that double sharps really are essential to understanding life—right before they switched over to the cricket commentary. The Brewster meltdown came dramatically during a performance of Mozart’s D minor piano concerto. One can only imagine the crescendo: lights dimming, audience captivated, then—BANG! A heart attack! A conductor crashing the final note instead of a cheeky “Thank you, and good night!” At least the audience got a memorable finale, even if it was one that perhaps broke a few health codes. In the end, Hooper Brewster-Jones was less a symphony and more an orchestral accident waiting to happen: a passionate, albeit clumsy, maestro whose legacy includes inspirational music, a dazzling but questionable repertoire, and a family tree that includes rock stars the Angels—proof that even amidst musical misadventures, there’s always a potential for greatness, or at least an ear-splitting good time. Cheers to that!