Special Saturday

"Who's coming with me."  "Nah, We're going later."  "OK, I'll see you in there."  Clutching my roadie, I headed off to the bus so I could catch The Decemberists at Mojo.

Storm clouds had been building along with the humidity and I could feel perspiration dripping down my back.  Oregon's favourite indie folk rock band were back headed by leader Colin Meloy.  While The Decemberists figurehead mightn't exactly fit the rockstar mould, the band's popularity is hard to ignore.  So it shouldn't have been a surprise to me when the four nut cases in front of me went nuts!  Their album "The Hazards of Love" a tale of pregnancy, murder and shape shifting has occasionally accompanied a late night port by the fire, however, I wouldn't have thought it would go down so well in festive Byron.

Every Bluesfest an artist emerges that just blows you away, and at the 2016 Bluesfest that is St Paul and The Broken Bones.  Today's description, care of a tie-dyed baby boomer, was an accountant with a shoe fetish.  Around about the second song of the set that said sequinned shoe soared over the drummers' head and was soon followed by his suit jacket.  Capturing the spirit of Otis Redding they represent the new generation of blue-eyed soul.  Singer Paul Janeway channels Otis's voice and James Brown's stage presence but remains completely individual.  More please!!

Surprisingly, Saturday night wasn't the most attractive of Bluesfest's five nights, with a number of repeat performances at Mojo by D'Angelo and the hip hop crowd.  At Crossroads, The Mick Fleetwood Blues Band were playing the same earlier set we had enjoyed on Friday replete with Mick's entertaining history lesson on the British Blues bands I had grown up with.  Things were going on swimmingly when crash, bang, wallop!, down came the rain.  As photographed earlier by my cousin SueEllen who resides near Lismore, the inky black clouds dumped 50ml on Tyagarah in a very short time.  Those thousands of gumboots will finally get an outing.

The previously dry and dusty grass in the 5 Seeds bar was engulfed by a tsunami causing the crowd to clump together on the bar's duckboards.  When the rain stopped, we gingerly made our way out through the sodden Bluesfest crowd in search of surer footing.  "Hey, let's go down to the Juke Joint."  "I want to check out the Residents."  "Who?" quizzed Kim and James.  "You know, that legendary avant-garde performance group who have kept their identity secret for over 40 years by hiding their true identities behind masks including giant eyeball heads, and are currently answering to Randy, Chuck and Bob."  "Oh, that Residents" they responded.  We lasted one minute.

Steve Earle and the Dukes were on again at Jambalaya, as we farewelled Alicia on her quest for the hip hop/modern jazz/urban R'n'B Nivana that was Mojo.

Good Friday Grooves

It was like calcium carbonate and ambrosia comparing last night's offering of "Contemporary#" artists to tonight's value-packed program. Sure, there were artists and bands who could be lumped in with the Kendricks and  D'Angelos of last night, but Good Friday's program had much wider appeal.
# Bluesfest's description.

James and I arrived just as Graham Nash made his entrance at Crossroads with former Springsteen sideman Shane Fontayne.  Steamy conditions more suited to swamp fox Tony Joe White warmed the audience as Graham opened with "a song from last century" ~ Bus Stop!  "I didn't know he was in The Hollies" exclaimed James, furthering his education.  It would be one of those days that made you love Bluesfest all the more.

Three songs from his new album "This Path Tonight" nestle in between Nash's earlier compositions including "Marrakesh Express", "Cathedral" and "Immigration Man".  The background to the latter was amusing: CSNY were passing through UK Customs and an officious bureaucrat passed Stills, Young and even The Cros through before preventing Graham from entering his homeland.  "What the....?".  More celebrity tales ensued with the story of how He and Joni were shopping and she saw a vase in a shop window that would be perfect for the flowers they bought that day.  "Our House" was followed by "Chicago" and "Teach Your Children".  A memorable performance with more than one grown man later admitting he had tears in his eyes.

Jeff Tweedy (Wilco) was next up on Crossroads and kicked off with some serious sonic disturbance powered by his band including son Spencer on drums.  His long ranging set included a solo acoustic portion that provided background to the family reuniting just outside a drinks tent with fellow Canberran Mark O'Brien, who, like daughter Alicia, was enjoying his first 'fest.  Next up, St Paul and The Broken Bones.  Who?....

Only the STARS of Bluesfest 2016!.  James takes up the story:

"Mmm gurl. St Paul. What a voice!."  He reminded me of an American Idol contestant.  You know, the type of contestant who on first viewing isn't exactly appealing to the eyes.  But man oh man, once they start singing, they're suddenly the best-looking person in the room.  Think your stout IT geek, mixed with the voice of Otis Redding and you get St Paul.  Close your eyes and you would have thought it was the great Otis himself.  Let's not forget about St Paul's fabulous backing band, with the brass section particularly on point.  A great melting pot of Soul and RnB originals straight out of Birmingham Alabama, mixed with a couple of fantastic covers ~ "Shake" by Sam Cooke and "She's So Heavy!" by the Beatles.  St Paul and the Broken Bones were definitely my Friday night highlight.
Thanks James!

The National in Mojo were delivering, but a 30 metre deep mosh pit is simply not my scene.  Rather, the next destination must be back at Crossroads to see the Mick Fleetwood Blues Band.

For some, Bluesfest is getting in early, picking a seat, storing your luggage/food/drinks/blanket/crystals etc and getting nice and comfy so you can stare at a screen just like in the cinema.  Getting down up front with the singing, dancing and sweating hoi poli is not their thing.  We, however, like to move about checking out the stages at the dark end of the street.  Tex Perkins (and his Ape) were doing their thang at Delta, sending a frisson of uncertainty down the spines of the uninitiated.  "How you doin'?", Tex enquired.  "Boy!  This is some Bluesfest ~ something here for everyone."  Pause.  "The Residents?...... Really??........ Wow! Who booked them???.  He must be a shill for the legendary experimental avant-garde currently answering to Randy, Chuck and Bob.  Tick, another notch on my schedule!

Across to the tiny Juke Joint for Chain and their Robert Johnson fixation before dropping into Jambalaya where The Wailers were performing their album "Uprising".  Fantastic, just as good as last night, and probably just as great tomorrow.  The bus line was getting rowdy as we wearily joined the queue for the trip back home. Au revoir.

Hip-Hop Holy Thursday

Thursday night loomed large at Bluesfest as premier stage Mojo was turned over to the contemporary sounds of urban RnB, a move to attract the younger aficionados and fans of Grammy winner Kendrick Lamar, D'Angelo, Kamais Washington and our own Hiatus Kayote.  To emphasise the significance of the occasion, daughter Alicia likened tonight to my seeing The Beatles.  Hmmm...
As subsequently reported to my friend Barry McGloin, a fellow Bluesfest tragic, that tonight Mojo was not quite my cup of tea with melody replaced by 'tude and way too much motherf.......

Like a country rube wandering the State Fair goggle-eyed, I dipped in and out of various stalls and stages window-shopping their contents.  Juke Joint featured stalwarts Chain, Eugene 'Hideaway' Bridges and gem of a blues pianist Lucky Peterson.  He was entertaining  a small crowd hardly commensurate with his talent, the usual Thursday night crowd vacuumed up by Mojo's headliners.  Nearby big brother venue Crossroads was partially filled as the Cold War Kids presented their indie pop, followed by the classy, if slightly indulgent Tedeschi Trucks Band.  I caught a little of Mali blues band Songhoy Blues with their unique take on the blues, and up and coming Rhiannon Giddings who is garnering exceptionally good revues.  I would have stayed, however my appetite was insisting I search for forgotten sustenance from the always inviting Crossroads food hall.

Past festivals have convinced me Jambalaya is just about my favourite stage, and tonight was no exception where The Wailers were playing album "Exodus" in its entirety, the first of three successive performances that would include "Uprising" tomorrow night and "Survival" on Saturday.  As I entered the tent "Jammin'", a crowd pleaser if there ever was one kicked in and I was soon getting down along with the crowd.  Original Wailer Aston 'Family Man' Barrett, topped with an ancient dreadlock crown, laid down a seriously pure chunky reggae groove for the new lineup led by singer Dwayne Anglin who channeled Bob Marley.  So great, we will return.

On The Road Again to Bluesfest

Like a two bob watch or a politicians' promise, Bluesfest and it's gym buddy Easter has again arrived irregularly.  Five days of fun, feasting and music await.

Our trek north from the nations'capital has proved yet again that the journey is as vital and enjoyable as Bluesfest itself.  We committed early in our planning to drive the 1000 plus kilometres instead of flying, but chose an internal route rather than that stressful beast ~ the Pacific Highway.  Departing Canberra late morning, we travelled to Cowra where we lunched on sambos washed down with a cuppa ~ "Where's the fruit cake?".  On to school-exiting Bathurst and our destination Mudgee.  As more road works temporarily blocked our way, we turned right into historic Sofala, Australia's oldest surviving gold-rush town.  "Great, there's a pub, I'm parched", any excuse will do.  "A glass of your finest Chardonnay and a schooner of Toohey's Old, Thanks."

Ben, mine host at the Gungegong Valley Motel, suggested I top up with cheap fuel as Easter was approaching and it's boon companion price-gouging was awakening.  Seeking sage culinary advice I approached old school friend Paul Marshall, an expert on Mudgee's hospitality.  "Whatever you do, don't drink and drive ~ the cops are deadly".  Despite Paul's faint disapproval, we walked into central Mudgee and dined at The Court House Hotel opposite the cop shop.  My never-ending search for a pepper sauce that rivals Kim's remains, however it wasn't bad with the rare inclusion of green peppercorns gracing the gravy boat of sauce.  We complimented our hostess Amanda on the meal and the robust local Shiraz she suggested and found that she and Kim shared North Shore roots having both grown up in Pymble.

A leisurely jaunt back to our motel was enlivened by the undulating streetscape and the various architectural stylings.  Good vibes and good night!.

Train trip to York

Our 9.24am train trip to York from Edinburgh was taken in the company of a host of Newcastle United fans lagering up for the big home match with Leicester later that day.  Fortunately they were in the next but one carriage, and closer to the buffet than us, should their store run dry.  Six ample ladies ensconced nearby were Eating for Britain ~ Well, it had been two hours since they last had tasted breakfast tatties and pudding.

The silver-liveried Eastcoast train terminating at Kings Cross flew by fields and stone walls at 90mph leaving M1 traffic in its' wake.  Sorry about the mixed transport terminology.  White sheep, black sheep, white sheep with black faces, brown sheep with white faces, you get the idea..., grazed on rolling and tumbling Herriot hills reminiscent of every BBC rural series you have seen.  As we slowed to navigate a rural Yorkshire siding a faded green sign suggested Hadrian's Wall was nearby.

The five nice English ladies in the adjacent seats, having exhausted their conversation, picked up their reading material.  "Well!, Who would have thought that?.  According to Best magazine, "Dawn French has a new lover!.  Pass the crisps will you Jane?."  Outside a crop of peas pumped nitrogen back into the soil, and fly fishermen in green waders cast their lines upon swiftly running shallows beneath a miniature harbour bridge.

Approaching Newcastle, fields gave way to business parks, hire centres and wasteland pile with refuse.  "Aye, thar's brass in muck!"  Vacant pigeon coops and Geordie graffiti assumed prominence as we rolled into Newcastle's outer burbs.  A host of bridges jammed with traffic crossed the Tyne just before the station.

"Controversial, Compelling, Confronting!" threatened the sign promoting football legend Roy Keanes's biography.  The same could be said for the departing soccer hooligans who yahoo-ed and kicked a Tennent's can along the platform, narrowing missing a porter pushing a trolley laden with fresh supplies of Corkers Crisps and Yorkie Bars.

Edinburgh

Edinburgh

Mission accomplished!.  We have returned the hire car despite the GPS giving up the task just around the corner from the depot. Meeting a hire car deadline in an unfamiliar city is one of life's more uncomfortable crisis.  Thankfully our hotel had advised us to look for the multi-storey carpark just past Waverley Station.

Our trip from Pitlochry was memorable following our determination to take any road but the A9.  The minor road leading us over the high passes of Perthshire took us by breathtaking scenery and past a laird's pheasant shoot at Grandtully complete with beaters.  Penny asked for a photo to be taken of her at the Crieff town sign because she knows Crieff is significant to her family.  She just doesn't know why.  As is traditional, we stopped for more coffee and cake at the Waterford Crystal shop where we feared the car would be swallowed by deep, still potholes.

We visited Stirling Castle on one of the few inclement days we have experienced.  It was cold, windy and magnificent up on the summit overlooking Stirling and the battlegrounds that determined Scotland's history.  After a slight detour, that included another potholed suburban wasteland, we exited the city for Edinburgh.  Our side trip to Dunfermline was disappointing as we were unable to locate the street in which Penny's grandparents had lived prior to emigrating to Australia.

The hire car behind us, we bypassed Edinburgh's thousand steps to The Royal Mile and ducked into the second pub, The Malt Shovel on Cockburn Street, for a refresher or two.  A street blackboard promoting another Edinburgh pub crawl had the following request: "Dear Americans, While in Edinburgh, please refrain from saying Sp**k or Fanny and try not to pronounce Cockburn Street."  Our barmaid Elspeth has informed me that citizens of Edinburgh are called Edinburgers.  She also said she used to work at Mooseheads!.

No trip to Scotland is complete without plenty of haggis, neeps and tatties (haggis, mashed turnips and potatoes).  After all, you need a solid foundation if you are intent on sampling every single malt known to man.  Above our table a sign read "There are 2 things a Highlander likes naked, and one is malt whiskey!."  I have found however, that the odd whiskey may require dilution eg Oban, with it's hint of the sea requires a rock or two.  Dalwhinney, on the other hand is "roon" if it should come into contact with H2O.

It might appear to be a cliche but no one with Scots roots can fail to be moved by the skirl of bagpipes.  Yes, it's the equivalent of street magicians, and they're there to make money from passersby, but the sight and sound of a piper in full clan kit complete with dirk got my burn water running.  Young Angus in a blue McEwan kilt stood in a prominent spot on Edinburgh's Royal Mile and blew up a storm.  His only competition for the tourist penny was from the most blatant beggar we have encountered who sat directly next to the Bank of Scotland ATM!

As arranged, Kim and Penny were sitting outside Briddie Maloney's at a corner on Grassmarket enjoying a refresher and a performance from a talented busker.  Despite amplification, his voice was soon inaudible due to the Irish girls who had come to Edinburgh for a raucous hen's night.  The bride, who wore a blow up horse, ran round and round the bar accompanied by her girlfriends who sported blinking jockey caps. Their escapades were encouraged by the boys in the bar and ignored by the bouncer who had seen far worse.  Time would tell.

Highland Perthshire

It is said that "A man's home is his castle."  In Scotland a man's home sometimes is a castle, and for those without a hereditary pile or title, the next best thing is to build a home resembling a castle.  Castles lined the road out of Pitlochry as we passed by the Linn of Tummel Trail at the bridge over the River Garry.

Having heard big wraps about The Queen's View, we stopped en-route to wherever we were headed, and parked at the spot where Queen Victoria once took tea in 1866.  Being The Queen, Victoria assumed the scenic spot was named for her.  Pity help the poor underling who may have had the temerity to suggest the title was named after a previous queen, Isabella the first wife of Robert the Bruce.  The walls of the tea room were inscribed with other historical facts and numerous musings, with one being a silhouette of QV entering the WC facilities and labelled "One might want to go."  Outside another silhouette pictured QV posting a letter under the protection of an umbrella held by good and faithful servant John Brown.

Massive lichen covered trees, that rarely felt the sun's rays, grew up out of the steep slopes next to our road to Tummel Bridge which presented another of those interminable Highland photo opportunities. We drove along the roller coaster B847 past fat sheep and more faux stone castles complete with twiddly bits on gables, until passing under a massive stone bridge and autumnal canopy of larch and oak at Struan.  We now know where many of the names of Australian towns originated.

We bypassed The House of Bruan  with its' high priced fashion statements and tour buses and lunched nearby at The Atholl Arms at Blair Atholl.  Seated near the raging fire, I enjoyed a lentil and vegetable soup that now ranks in my top ten potages.  Hearty, and full of flavour and flatulance.  We have only once broken the unbroken rule ~ "Never drink at the first pub you see" ~ once!  To our detriment, the pub lunch yesterday at McKenzies Hotel was not up to the Scottish standard we have come to expect.  Still it was cheap and the walls around the faded pool table featured album covers by Scots hit makers.

As you travel rounds Scotland , the difference between the Shires is striking.  The denuded mountain tops and cliff-lined lochs of the West Highlands, the stark bare mountains of the Isles and The Cairngormes, and the autumnal splendour of Perthshire.  Another continuing feature of Northern Perthshire are the dead pheasants littering the roads.  Bloody pheasants!  Still, if we can't find a pub we could survive on road kill.