Geoffrey Gurrumul Yunupingu invited Ego Lemos to support him and the Timorese-born singer/songwriter lifts the tone with his cheerful on-stage banter and cheeky, easy laugh. A second acoustic guitarist and a percussionist complete the trio and while their set is markedly upbeat in comparison to Gurrumul’s album, the similarities in the artists lie not in their sound, but in their style or inspiration, if you like.

Lemus, like Gurrumul, sings predominantly in his language – for Lemos that means Tetum, the native tongue of the East Timorese. In his infectiously happy way, Lemus explains the story behind each song for the benefit of the English speaking audience. Inspired by the women and children who have suffered their country-men’s foray into war, and the environmental degradation that his – and all – people inflict on their land, Lemus clearly hopes to wake people up through his music.

Music that melds country and western threads with island conga beats and flamenco guitar. In one set break Lemos explains that only about eighty per cent of rural farmers in East Timor can afford to send their children to school.

The next song, he continues, is to inspire Timorese children to do the best they can with the opportunities they’ve been afforded. His childlike delight is amplified when Lemos relays an experience he had in Dili, walking past a school and hearing the teacher and children performing his song, an upbeat folk song that kids would sound perfect singing en masse. – œWho taught them?!’ he cackles in gleeful surprise.

Their final song – a love song – is a soaring one of raw anguish and despite his best efforts, Lemus can’t quite get the staid audience to sing along in Tetum. Unruffled, he happily makes way for Gurrumul, pleasantly joking, – œWell, we waiting for Gurrumul. Hopefully, he’s here.’

Geoffrey Gurrumul Yunupingu has, in the short time since his debut self-titled solo album was released, proven something of an enigma. Blind from birth and notoriously shy, he prefers to allow Michael Hohnen (bass player, producer and collaborator) to speak for him.

Accompanied by a guitarist, double bassist (Hohnen) and a string section (violin, viola, cello) Gurrumul – striking in black shirt and slacks – is escorted to centre stage where his acoustic guitar rests upside-down on his lap to allow him left-handed control.

Three large screens behind the musicians ease into focus and a beautifully edited docu-home movie shows clips of Gurrumul’s family remarking on his gift for music and song, and their awareness of it as he grew up in Gumatj Nation, north east Arnhem land. Often amusing (Gurrumul’s dad is nearly upstaged by a camera friendly toddler) it is poignant, particularly Gurrumul’s uncle, who credits his nephew with – œmaking a bridge [for] our culture. To me, he’s a hidden treasure who the world is [now] experiencing today’.

As Gurrumul begins to play, the outer screens reflect simple images of natural flora and fauna while the middle screen literally spells out the themes and lyrics of his voice. With the opening strains of Wiyathul tears prick my eyes. For a song of only two verses, the cries of the orange-footed scrub fowl (family and relative of Gumatj Nation) within it speak volumes.

Below the cultural storylines on screen, sits Gurrumul: effortlessly producing an extraordinary sound. A live image of him is projected, a strip of shadow blacking out his eyes, adding to his air of mystery. Djarrimirra and Bapa follow, the conclusion of each prompting Gurrumul to lightly gauge distance from his face to his microphone with long, almond-shaped fingernails. Hohnen lightens the mood, by teaching the audience a couple of phrases in Gurrumul’s dialect (he speaks five languages, so I’m not sure which it was). The idea is that we should be able to yell out – œThat’s good!’ and – œGreat!’ as the urge takes us. The latest phrase Gurrumul has taught him, – œfat bottom’, is one we don’t have to say, but one that draws a giggle from Gurrumul.

When the words – œHere I am, grieving, I’m crying, because of this sunset,’ float above Gurrumul’s head as he sings Marrandil, his passion is evident.

With the evocative on-screen presentation and the clarity of his vocal delivery Gurrumul makes song its story easy to comprehend. By the time he gets to Gurrumul History (I was born blind) a slideshow of photos is slipping across the screen. Gurrumul at Carnegie Hall; grinning in a bright blue anorak in New York’s Times Square; clutching an ARIA; with his hand on Kevin Rudd’s shoulder. Here is a voice of timelessness, in a time when Australia – indigenous or otherwise – most needs someone like him. Otherworldly and tremendously beautiful as his music, lyric and voice are, it is only one aspect of what Gurrumul has come to represent. However, scents of politics are totally irrelevant when in the presence of his amazing vocal clarity, strength and meaning.

A standing ovation washes over him, moving his head backwards as if a genuine force. His joy is not hard to read this time, and he wiggles his fingers in a fluttering wave as Hohnen leads him offstage like a petulant child.

Gurrumul decides against an individual encore – perhaps because he wants to celebrate the last show of his world tour rather than return to the sombre, contemporary nature of his own solo material. He instead returns to stage with Lemus who chirps, – œHello!’ with a wave and massive grin, just like your neighbour might if you saw each other across the fence.

This final excursion is what’d you imagine they would play together relaxing with friends at home on a Saturday night. Bit raucous, like a fun jam.

The audience could barely be drawn on the crowd participation bit, even at Gurrumul’s demand, – œCome on, everybody clap! All right!’ as he closed an extraordinarily moving and thought provoking performance. Truly an experience to savour.