It’s Saturday: let’s have fun!
Possibly not peaceful, though I think it’s fine, and definitely fun!
To me, they are such a sweet couple!
(I watched the Tonys Sunday; I just have to, I’m a stage/dramaforensics nerd. Enjoy!)
Gotta do the Conga; and make it a great weekend for yourself!
(You may listen to this, on the page linked above)
Sparky the Baltimore Oriole. Photo by Melissa Groo.
One early May, I watched a pair of Baltimore Orioles courting in my backyard. Before long, the female was weaving an intricate nest in the sugar maple outside my bedroom window. Three weeks later, the begging calls of chicks emanated from within.
As a self-professed “wildlife biographer,” I sought to photograph every stage of their story. I learned each oriole’s unique traits: the father’s dulcet chirrups as he patrolled his territory and the specific flight paths he took to the nest, the mother’s burnt-orange plumage as she moved surreptitiously through the trees, and her cryptic, leaf-like flutter down to the jelly feeder. I marveled at their tireless vigilance against marauding Blue Jays and squirrels and the dozens of daily forays they made to find insects for their nestlings.
One day, hearing a great ruckus, I rushed outside to find the parents flitting about a chick on the ground. She was injured and squawking piteously, likely captured by a predator and then released in the ensuing fray.
I scooped her up, pleading uselessly with the parents for forgiveness, and raced her to Cornell University’s wildlife hospital, not far from my home. She’d suffered puncture wounds and a ruptured air sac. After a stint in the hospital and then with a rehabilitator, she was transferred to me (a subpermittee under a wildlife rehabilitator’s license) in hopes of a release. But first, we needed to prove she could fly.
I named this tiny, spunky bird Sparky. (snip-MORE)
Cepphus columba
Also Known As
The Pigeon Guillemot is an attractive member of the auk family, a group of marine birds that also includes the puffins, murres, and auklets. The auks are largely known to forage on the open ocean, with some species diving to extraordinary depths for their food. The Pigeon Guillemot, however, forages in shallow waters near the shore and doesn’t usually dive deeper than about 100 feet. Nonetheless, they are graceful divers, “flying” underwater, their partially opened wings helping them maneuver and propelling them along. Like other auks, they use their feet as rudders.
Pigeon Guillemots are particularly fond of small fish and crustaceans, which they chase out from under rocks on the sea floor. But foraging among the nooks and crannies is not without its risks — the Pigeon Guillemot itself is food for other marine life, including the giant Pacific octopus!
Nesting colonies can be quite large, especially on small offshore islands with few predators. And Pigeon Guillemots dress quite elegantly for the occasion: During the breeding season, males and females sport velvety black plumage with a broad, white, vaguely V-shaped wing patch, all set off by their flashy, bright red feet. After the breeding season concludes, however, these birds molt to a mostly white and ashy black-and-gray plumage. (snip-MORE)
From friends of Playtime, Bee and Sherky:
Mo Turner — queer, Muslim and Black — faced discrimination and censure in the Oklahoma legislature. They have found healing through activism.
This story was originally reported by Orion Rummler of The 19th. Meet Orion and read more of their reporting on gender, politics and policy.
Mo Turner doesn’t often think about their time in the Oklahoma House of Representatives.
In that building, they were Mauree — the first out nonbinary state legislator in United States history; the first Muslim elected in Oklahoma; a Black, queer, gender non-conforming lawmaker in one of the most conservative states in the country. Elected at 27 to represent House District 88, which includes much of Oklahoma City, they stepped into a political institution that had never belonged to someone like them before.
The job almost broke them. Turner left office in November 2024, four years into their tenure, after the work took a toll on their health. They are still recovering.
“I spent January 2026 walking. And weeping. And reading,” Turner said. After the legislature took over their life, they had to find a way back to who they were before a national spotlight brought constant harassment, abuse and stress. They’ve found solace in a particular song near the end of the Hamilton musical, when the eponymous founding father takes long, quiet walks after losing his son and stepping away from politics.
Turner’s own walks can go on for three hours.
If there’s one lesson Turner took from their time at the statehouse, it’s that politics won’t help communities. People will.
“I want people to understand that policy is not coming to save you,” they said. “We get justice, we get faith, we get warm meals, we get community right here when we start talking to folks.”
Although the United States is a representative democracy, our political system still rejects anyone who strays too far from the norm. Turner’s story shows how far from equal the nation’s politics still are — and how being an out LGBTQ+ elected official today is just as revolutionary as it was five decades ago.
Elaine Noble was the first openly LGBTQ+ person ever elected to a state legislature, serving two terms in the Massachusetts House of Representatives in the 1970s. She described the campaign as ugly: her car was destroyed, her windows were shot through, her headquarters were vandalized. The harassment she received from colleagues in the statehouse was ugly, too. She routinely heard obscene profanities. Once, someone left human feces on her desk. Another time, a man stopped her as she walked to work and spat on her.
These are not just scenes from a distant past. Political violence against LGBTQ+ candidates is rising, according to a new report from the Victory Institute. Many LGBTQ+ candidates who ran for office between 2023 and 2025 experienced death threats on the trail. One candidate said their house was shot up by a neighbor. Another said that someone posted in a local newspaper’s online thread that a bullet should be put through their brain. Another candidate was shoved off a porch while door-knocking.
Some LGBTQ+ candidates receive death threats on social media at least once a week, according to the Victory Institute. A number of them respond to those threats by limiting voter engagement. Some avoid door-knocking and social media. Others decline public events entirely.
Rising violence against LGBTQ+ candidates doesn’t just scar candidates; it scars democracy, according to the authors of the report.
“This is changing who feels able to run for office, how candidates are showing up in their campaigns, whether they can even remain in public life at all,” said Pooja Prabhakaran, director of elected and appointed officials engagement at the LGBTQ+ Victory Institute. “The broader piece of it is, who is able to serve and participate in democracy?”
Death threats against Turner began as soon as they entered office. They received voicemails filled with racial slurs and obscene emails targeting their religion and LGBTQ+ identity. As a freshman lawmaker, they were surprised to learn that not everyone was treated that way. They thought death threats were commonplace.
Turner has dealt with harassment on a larger scale than many other LGBTQ+ candidates do, Prabhakaran said. For other trans people or LGBTQ+ people of color who consider running for office, there is a chilling effect: Do they want to be subjected to the same treatment?
Threats against Turner escalated after they were censured by the Oklahoma House of Representatives in 2023, during their second term. They were accused by the Republican leadership of “harboring a fugitive” — a trans person who went to the statehouse with their partner to protest a bill that would ban gender-affirming care for minors.
At the protest, the couple got into a scuffle with a state trooper after one of them threw water at a state representative. One was arrested. The other sought out Turner’s office.
“This person’s spouse was just arrested. They came to my office to process. That’s what happened,” Turner told The 19th at the time, in 2023. “I let folks get their affairs in order, because everyone was in agreeance that they were going to go ahead and turn themselves over.”
Democrats said Turner cooperated with law enforcement during the search for the protester. Still, they were punished. Republicans asked Turner for a formal apology in exchange for keeping their committee assignments. They declined.
“I think an apology for loving the people of Oklahoma is something that I cannot do,” they said at a press conference following the censure.
Many constituents already saw Turner as a trusted confidant. People would call to ask where they should move to escape anti-LGBTQ+ laws and how to crowdfund to help someone travel for an abortion. As politics restricted daily life, more and more people came to Turner for help.
Now, after earning that trust, they were silenced. They couldn’t shape legislation through committees or join caucus discussions to speak on behalf of voters in their district.
The threatening calls and emails got worse.
Some political violence is based on a candidate’s beliefs. Some of it is driven by a desire to intimidate them out of politics altogether because of their identity. Those who challenge the status quo often face the most backlash, said Kelly Dittmar, director of research at the Center for American Women and Politics at Rutgers University. And those conditions don’t just stop once someone gets into office, she said.
“I can have an elected position, but my power in that position is very much influenced by all of these other dynamics that are not formalized,” Dittmar said. There’s a difference between politics as usual within a two-party system, where everyone jockeys for influence, and being seen as a threat for being different or a minority, she said.
In 2023, Oklahoma lawmakers introduced 35 anti-LGBTQ+ bills, according to the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) — a lot more than most other states at the time. They passed laws enabling broad discrimination against trans people and restricting young students from learning about LGBTQ+ people. Inside the statehouse, Turner felt demoralized.
The next year, their Republican colleagues introduced 55 anti-LGBTQ+ bills. Oklahoma already had few legal protections for LGBTQ+ people, and things only got worse.
“I’m going into a job that doesn’t care about me in a state that it feels like doesn’t care about me,” they said, reflecting on how they felt at the time.
Still, Turner was making an impact. As the first out transgender lawmaker in Oklahoma’s statehouse, they inspired young people. Students told Turner that they had never cared about politics until seeing them in office. High school and middle school students would approach them in the capitol to ask questions about their tenure for class reports.
They represented more than just House District 88. They represented younger generations of queer people in Oklahoma and beyond. Turner felt the weight of the responsibility. That’s what made it so hard for them to leave.
Turner found an ally in then-Rep. Monroe Nichols, a Democrat who now serves as the first Black mayor of Tulsa. Nichols was the only one who seemed to genuinely care that Turner was receiving death threats. He was the only one who made them feel human.
“I do think that there was solidarity in him being a Black man from Tulsa of all places, understanding what it looked like to feel discrimination or oppression,” Turner said.
Once Turner took office, there were eight Black legislators in the Oklahoma statehouse — a record. Currently, there are six. Most politicians in the building are White. The status quo of power in Oklahoma is very much White, cisgender, heterosexual and male, said Dittmar of Rutgers University. And those who break that mold are seen by others as a threat, she said.
Then there’s this: In a state like Oklahoma, Democrats have very little leverage. On top of the low pay and high stress, there’s a small chance of achieving any concrete policy wins. Republicans sponsor most state laws because 80 percent of the lawmakers are Republicans. Barely any bill passes without Republican support. Being in the minority party means taking on the steep personal costs of being in office in exchange for little payoff.
Toward the end of those four long years, Turner didn’t feel like a good legislator anymore. In their words, they were phoning it in. Although they did spark a committee hearing on repealing the state’s HIV criminalization law, none of their bills advanced.
Turner would frequently sit in their car in the parking lot before work, trying to breathe through the rising panic and find the will to go inside. Walking into the statehouse each day was taking a deep toll on them.
The stress grew until they landed in the emergency room. At the beginning of their last legislative session, they were diagnosed with multiple sclerosis and underwent a procedure to have cancerous cells removed from their body. That health scare followed bouts of migraines, panic attacks and depression.
As their health cratered, they felt alone. After their visit to the emergency room, none of their colleagues checked to see how they were doing.
Turner knew something had to change. They were worried for their nephew, Anthony, whom they are raising on their own. While juggling their job and all the harassment that came with it, they were setting up daycare and school drop-offs — everything that comes with being a single parent. Sometimes, Anthony would join them on the House floor if work ran late. But they had to leave by 7 p.m. to make it home at a reasonable time for dinner, bath and bedtime.
“I remember one day thinking, I would like to see him grow up,” they said.
So they left. They walked away from politics.
“It was a tough decision to make because I know that representation matters. And some days, me just showing up to work is the representation that people need,” they said.
This is the passion that still fuels Turner: showing up for Oklahomans and showing up for young LGBTQ+ people who don’t feel heard by their elected representatives.
In March, Turner went back to the statehouse to help a friend, the executive director at Freedom Oklahoma,a state LGBTQ+ advocacy group, monitor anti-trans bills. But the building is still full of red tape: Initially, they were barred from entering the gallery by statehouse security. The experience became a reminder of why they left.
To actually make change in their community, Turner knew they would have to work outside of politics.
Here’s how: They’re working with the immigrant advocacy group Dream Action Oklahoma, making and distributing zines on how bystanders can intervene when Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents are out making arrests. They help serve community breakfast with the Foundation for Liberating Minds, a Black-led abolitionist group based in Oklahoma. And in their new job, they get to work with LGBTQ+ students from across the country.
Turner is the director of public policy and advocacy at GLISTEN, a national nonprofit that lobbies for LGBTQ+ students. They’re working to expand GLISTEN’s National Student Council, a leadership program for high schoolers. They’re working on the curriculum for that program and thinking about how these students want to grow. Many of them want to become activists, or already are. These students represent a future that is rapidly changing, regardless of how many anti-LGBTQ+ laws are passed; more and more young people are identifying as queer and trans.
Working with students is a bright spot for Turner. Their organization is asking LGBTQ+ students about their experiences, their school policies and what they think needs to be different. And amid so much anti-LGBTQ+ hostility in politics, kids are making it clear that they’re ready to make change on their own terms.
“Youth aren’t just saying, ‘Oh, god, policy is so bad, whatever.’ They’re saying, ‘No, maybe I will run for office. Or ‘I’ll work on my friend’s campaign.’ They’re being outspoken,” Turner said. “Our power lies in the streets, outside of any state legislature, and it always will.”
Turner doesn’t think they will ever go back to politics. But that doesn’t mean they’ve stopped paying attention. They still keep tabs on bills moving through Oklahoma’s legislature. Lately, they said, things have been going from bad to worse.
The legislature just passed a law to create criminal penalties for providing gender-affirming care to minors and adults. No public funds or property may be used to provide the care, which threatens state university hospitals. The state Medicaid program will also no longer cover gender-affirming care for any patients.
This bill is just another step in stripping health care from all Oklahomans, Turner said. They want people to respond to laws like this by doing more than signing a petition or calling their local reps. They can reach out directly to state agencies, donate to local healthcare fundraisers or just talk to their neighbors.
“When the government fails us, what do we have?” they said. For Turner, the answer is clear: community.
In a way, Turner has returned to their home turf as an activist. Before elected office, Turner worked with local branches of the ACLU, the NAACP and the Council on American-Islamic Relations. They learned the ways of the statehouse and now they know how to push for change outside.
And they don’t plan on leaving the state or their community in House District 88. Their brother went to college in this district. They worked an internship here. They met friends at Picasso Cafe and The Red Cup and had first kisses at local bars. Oklahoma City feels like such a queer place to them, and they have fallen in love with it.
“This is my home. I love it,” they said. “I’m going to stay and fight.”
I first read about Bayard Rustin in “The Nation” in the late 1990s. His story was both sad and inspirational. Here is some background on an unrecognized star (not that article I read years ago, I’m sorry. I have no access.)
(1912–1987)
Bayard Rustin (1912–1987) was a human rights activist known for his work during the Civil Rights Movement
Rustin was a key organizer of the 1963 March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom and was one of Martin Luther King Jr.’s closest advisors, especially on techniques of nonviolent resistance. Rustin was extremely active in the Congress of Racial Equality (CORE) and helped to create the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC).
Early in his career, he was arrested for “moral cause” which led to his outing to the public. However, once outed, Rustin was completely open about his sexuality and was never ashamed. Criticism and discrimination over his sexuality led Rustin to have a more background role in the Civil Rights Movement. He never wanted his sexuality to have a negative effect on the Movement, which is often the reason that Rustin’s efforts are not widely known. (snip-MORE)
Bayard Rustin was an American leader in social movements for civil rights, socialism, pacifism and non-violence, and gay rights.
2HKJNR6 Bayard Rustin (1912-1987), American civil rights activist, attending Walter Reuther Press Conference, Warren K. Leffler, US News & World Report Magazine Collection, March 17, 1965
Born on March 17, 1912, in West Chester, Pennsylvania, Rustin was nurtured in a household steeped in activism and moral conviction. Raised by his Quaker grandparents, particularly his grandmother, Julia Rustin, a dedicated member of the NAACP, he absorbed the values of equality and social justice from an early age. This upbringing ignited a spark within him that would blaze throughout his lifetime.
Rustin’s early education at Wilberforce University and Cheyney State Teachers College further fueled his activist spirit. Though he did not complete his degree, these institutions were fertile ground for his burgeoning political consciousness. His move to Harlem in 1936 immersed him in the heart of African-American culture and political activism, setting the stage for his life’s work.
Rustin’s commitment to nonviolence was both a strategic choice and a deeply held belief. His association with the Fellowship of Reconciliation (FOR), a pacifist organisation, was pivotal. Under the mentorship of A. J. Muste, Rustin honed his skills in civil disobedience and nonviolent resistance, becoming a leading voice in the fight against racial injustice.
In 1947, Rustin co-organised the Journey of Reconciliation, a courageous precursor to the Freedom Rides of the 1960s. This daring initiative aimed to dismantle segregation on interstate buses through direct action. Facing arrests and brutality, Rustin’s unwavering resolve demonstrated the transformative power of nonviolent protest and set a powerful precedent for future civil rights campaigns.
Rustin’s encounter with Martin Luther King Jr. during the Montgomery Bus Boycott marked a turning point in the civil rights movement. Recognising King’s potential, Rustin became a crucial advisor, infusing the movement with his vast experience and strategic acumen. His efforts were instrumental in the formation of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC) in 1957, strengthening the infrastructure of the civil rights struggle.
Rustin’s strategic brilliance shone through his emphasis on Gandhian principles of nonviolence. He played a key role in guiding King towards these philosophies, ensuring that nonviolent resistance remained at the heart of the movement. Rustin’s behind-the-scenes influence was a driving force that propelled the civil rights movement forward, even amidst escalating tensions and opposition.
And from Quakers In Action,
1912-1987
Bayard Rustin was a black Civil Rights activist, a close associate of Martin Luther King, and an advocate of gay and lesbian rights, and a Quaker.
Rustin was born in West Chester, Pennsylvania and was brought up by his grandmother, who had been raised as a Quaker. He himself became a Quaker in 1936, shortly before moving to New York where he lived most of his adult life. He was a pacifist and a primary influence in bringing non-violent resistance into the American Civil Rights Movement, much inspired by Gandhi’s approach in India.
In 1941, he joined the pacifist Fellowship of Reconciliation. He protested against segregation within the armed forces, and worked with the American Friends Service Committee to protect the property of interned Japanese Americans.
Despite his membership of the Society of Friends (one of the so-called ‘Historic Peace Churches’), Rustin was jailed in 1944 for his conscientious objection to cooperating with the draft. While in jail, he organised protests against segregated seating in the dining hall. In a letter to the prison warden, he wrote:
Both morally and practically, segregation is to me a basic injustice. Since I believe it to be so, I must attempt to remove it. There are three ways in which one can deal with an injustice. (a) One can accept it without protest. (b) On can seek to avoid it. (c) One can resist the injustice non-violently. To accept it is to perpetuate it.
After the War, he took part in the Journey of Reconciliation across four southern States, to protest against illegal segregation in inter-state travel. He was arrested, along with his fellow protestors, several times in the course of the journey and in North Carolina was sentenced to thirty days on a chain gang. The protest became a model for future ‘Freedom Rides’.
In 1956, he was asked to advise Martin Luther King on the application of non-violent resistance to the boycott of public transport in Montgomery, Alabama. In August 1963, Rustin had the mammoth task of organising the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom – a rally attended by twenty thousand people that culminated in King’s ‘I have a dream’ speech. In 1968, shortly before King’s assassination, he drafted the ‘Economic Bill of Rights’ which called for – among other things – a meaningful job and a living wage for people of all colours.
Rustin’s concern for Human Rights was never confined to black Americans. In the 1940s and 50s, He supported independence movements in India, Ghana and Nigeria. In the 1970s and 1980s, Rustin became an election and human rights observer in countries like Chile, El Salvador, Grenada, Haiti, Poland, and Zimbabwe. As Vice Chairman of the International Rescue Committee he participated in the international March for Survival on the Thai-Cambodian border and helped raise awareness of the plight of the Vietnamese boat people. He was Co-Chairman of the Citizens Commission on Indochinese Refugees and helped found the National Emergency Coalition for Haitian Refugees.
Rustin was an openly gay man who had once been arrested for public indecency at a time when homosexuality was illegal in all US states. This fact was used against him more than once and contributed to his relatively low profile in the Civil Rights movement. However, in the 1970s and 80s he wrote a number of essays which drew parallels between the black civil rights movement and the gay liberation movement. In 1986, Rustin wrote:
Today, blacks are no longer the litmus paper or the barometer of social change. Blacks are in every segment of society and there are laws that help to protect them from racial discrimination… It is in this sense that gay people are the new barometer for social change… The question of social change should be framed with the most vulnerable group in mind: gay people.
Rustin fell ill during a human rights expedition to Haiti in 1987 and died shortly after from a perforated appendix.
His life was documented in the film Brother Outsider.
His collected writings were published in A Time On Two Crosses.
Sterling Nasa had tickets to see Justin Hurwitz’s La La Land in Concert. When the keyboardist suddenly fell ill, he found himself on stage performing
La La Land is a much adored homage to Hollywood, where dreamers take chances and seize unexpected moments.
On Saturday night at the ICC’s Darling Harbour theatre, that idea became a reality for a 21-year-old university student who was thrust into the spotlight at a live performance of the movie’s score – and saved a concert from derailment.
Sterling Nasa was in the audience at La La Land in Concert, a touring production where the movie – which features Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone – is projected on to a screen while a live orchestra plays the musical score in synchronisation with the film.
The performance proceeded normally until the interval, which stretched out to 40 minutes. Then the film’s Oscar-winning composer and conductor, Justin Hurwitz, walked out alone to address the audience.
The orchestra’s keyboardist had suddenly fallen ill. Was there by any chance a pianist in the house? And one with exceptional sight-reading skills?
Speaking to Guardian Australia on Monday, Hurwitz revealed that behind the scenes, quiet panic had set in during that extended interval.
“Our first thought was, is there a string player who also knows keyboard? The answer was no.”
As the orchestra’s musicians frantically phoned local contacts, offers started rolling in of backup players who were 15 to 20 minutes away. But Hurwitz knew time had run out.
“I figured nobody’s as close as they say they are … so I just thought, well, we have 2,500 people in here …
“Yes, it was a gamble.
“That’s why I asked a few times. I wanted to make sure that somebody wasn’t just overly confident. I asked a couple of follow-up questions like, ‘Are you sure? Can you really sight-read? Can you play key signatures you’ve never played before?’”
Nasa, who plays piano and organ and is the bagpipes tutor at his old school, Scots College, hesitated when the call went out.
“I was a little bit tentative,” the University of Sydney politics and international studies student told ABC Radio on Monday morning. “I do owe a lot of the experience to my friend, Scarlett, who sort of … put my hand up for me. But I did end up finding the confidence and it was a very good decision to go down and volunteer myself.”
A longtime admirer of Hurwitz’s work, Nasa suddenly found himself sitting at an electric keyboard, staring at a complex score he had never rehearsed.
The ultimate test came during the performance of the John Legend piece Start a Fire, which features an intricate synthesiser solo designed to match the erratic hand movements of Gosling’s character on screen. It was the exact moment Hurwitz was most nervous about.
“The synth solo is really technical, and I thought, even a really high-level professional sight-reader would probably not be able to do it,” he said. “As it was coming up, I was thinking, ‘Oh no, how’s he going to be able to handle the solo?’”
Nasa told the ABC he was thinking the same thing.
“I saw it on the score and I thought, oh, I don’t know if I’m going to be able to sight-read that in one go,” he said.
Like Gosling’s jazz-pianist character Sebastian, the student had to decide whether to stay in the shadows or take a monumental leap of faith. With no time to overthink, he chose to trust his instincts.
“I took a little bit of a creative liberty and just decided to improvise, which I think ended up being a good choice.”
The gamble paid off, carrying the orchestra through the number – and earning Nasa a resounding ovation from the audience.
“He saw it coming up … and he just improvised,” Hurwitz said.
“That is a whole other skill on top of sight-reading. To be able to play a really cool solo in the right key, in the right scale, on the fly with no rehearsal – it was remarkable.”
The backstage debrief after the final bow was full of mutual disbelief.
“I just told him how blown away I was, and obviously how thankful I was,” Hurwitz said. “All of our heads were spinning a little bit because it was such a surreal moment.”
By Monday morning, the 21-year-old was experiencing a different kind of whirlwind, being ferried between breakfast television and radio studios to recount his sudden taste of showbiz fame.
Reflecting on the incredible turn of events, Nasa said it was an unforgettable privilege to play a soundtrack he had loved for years.
“It was quite a blessing to get to play a work that I’m in such admiration of,” he said.
While the production team is now scrambling to rehearse new keyboardists for the upcoming Melbourne and Brisbane legs of the tour, Nasa will be heading back to his regular university lectures.
But has the student missed his calling in life?
Hurwitz said that while the young Sydneysider certainly has the talent for a career in music, the choice is ultimately his to make.
“I don’t know what he’s most passionate about,” Hurwitz said. “Maybe he likes international relations a little more than music. But that’s what La La Land is about. You’ve got to do what you love the most.”
La La Land in Concert will play at the ICC Sydney on Monday, at the Brisbane Convention & Exhibition Centre on Wednesday and at the Hamer Hall in Melbourne from Friday 6 to 8 June.
Scottie's Playtime 