The Case For Symmetry.

As was the case when I stayed with Don and Linda in Adelaide, I'm fortunate to have time to experience a little more of Perth than was the case the last two occasions I visited. On the Saturday, John and Deb took me to Fremantle, about a half hour from the suburb of Carine where they live. It has to be a “must see” place for anyone visiting this part of the world, with a style and history all of its own. And if you’re a beer lover, check out the local “Little Creatures” brew; with an IPA that’s 6.5 on the richter scale I was feeling pretty happy there for a while. 

There are plenty of impressive wineries to visit around Perth and in the Swan Valley. The only down side to our own winery tour was the crowds; it just happened to be Mothers Day and everyone had the same idea as we. The final excursion was to Kings Park, which holds a lavish and exotic mixture of plant life, and offers a breathtaking view of Perth from its raised vantage point.

A winery in the Swan Valley. 

Now there’s just one more night of work to think about. It was something I felt very uncertain about. John had tried hard to put another show together for me in Perth, and had come up with this - the Monday Supper Club at a café called The Dome. What would it be like? I wondered. Some of these restaurant gigs are not good at all; people generally don’t go and eat with the intention of listening to music. Well, I’ll tell you what it was like - bloody brilliant. It was as if we both did our jobs well; I was good, and I don’t mind admitting it ... and the audience? - God damn, they were good too! … we were both on top form. 

And a strange thing occurred on this night. One of the most difficult things to know before you leave for a tour like this is how many CDs you might sell, and therefore how many to take with you. I have a system, to save on weight and bulk I take whatever number I decided out of their jewel cases, along with the inlays and booklets, and I mail them ahead of time to someone in the territory I’m about to visit. When I arrive I’ll buy the cases, and put the CDs back into them. On this trip I'd sent a batch to Anne-Marie in Auckland, and also to Dominic in Victoria, plus I had quite a few in my suitcase. 

Throughout the tour they were selling well, and by the time I reached The Dome, after twenty one gigs plus a festival, there were just thirteen left in my possession. After finishing my forty five minute spot, all thirteen were sold without there being one more potential customer. In fact, I’m convinced that if I’d had a fourteenth CD it would be travelling home with me right now.  

As I wrote my first post, Outward Bound, 25th March sat on a Boeing 777, so I complete the symmetry this 14th May in the same plane heading back home. I love symmetry. Much of what I write in music could parallel this journey, in that it usually ends as it begins. 

Often, I’ve considered whether this might be a weakness, an unwillingness, or inability even to embrace the natural haphazardness of life. But to me life does appear to have both, and whether it’s chance or design you’re after, randomness or order, whichever one you’re convinced of, what you see is the reflection and projection of your own preference.  

Munich is about three hours away now, and Manchester a further two. On my arrival there are eight days to decompress, to catch up with business, then it’s back to the airport for a long overdue visit to Italy, Tuscany to be precise, and then the next episode - albeit a much shorter one - begins.

Fixed On The Horizon.

2 a.m. Don and I seized the one last chance we had to recall the times, the places, people, the very events that have brought smiles to our faces before. It’s not something that happens all that often, in fact these occasions are so rare that they can become the very thing we reminisce about. But despite the many salient moments that fall naturally from the lips, the one thing we cannot recall is how we first met. “It was probably at a folk club in Preston”, I say. Don agrees, “Yes, I think you must be right”.  

It had to be something like 1970 when we did meet, Don moving up from his native Liverpool to study graphics at the Harris College in Preston, a time when many - not just we - shared a deep interest in all things acoustic. The term “Folk music” back then could apply to pretty much anything played on an acoustic guitar; it’s as though it hadn’t been around long enough for divisions such as “traditional”, “contemporary”, “blues” and the like, to dominate our evaluation of this inclusive genre. And it was mainstream then.

Since those earliest of days, I’d describe occasions such as these–finding ourselves back in each other’s company–as both fleeting and rare - in a span of over forty years, they really can be counted on one hand. Still, the regularity of encounter or contact, and an unspoken yet understood bond that connects two individuals, are by no means synonymous with one another.  

Don’s Wife, Linda, and Son, Thomas were at the airport to meet me when I arrived at Adelaide on the Tuesday afternoon. The plan is to have a couple of days in which I can familiarise myself a little more with a city I’ve twice visited before, but whilst there have only seen the venue, the usual hotel and the tour bus. To be more accurate, I’m going to see a lot more than just a city, Don’s eager to show me something about the route he’s chosen to take in life, and all that which has come to pass as a consequence. 

I hardly had time to breath before being whisked off to a rehearsal with his band: Bogaduck. Tuesday is their regular weekly rehearsal night, and as I sat, observed and drank wine, Don and fellow musicians, Thatch, Ken and Gus tolerated my presence gracefully. 

Bogaduck

For miles upon mile, the coastline in this part of the world is golden and expansive, something I couldn’t help noticing on my inbound plane journey. On Wednesday I forgot about the guitar, became a tourist, and was given a guided tour out along the Fleurieu Peninsula to Goolwa, a lovely area especially popular with surfers. We tried hard to do some kangaroo spotting on our way back, though not very successfully. Apart from one poor deceased creature lying by the road, there may have been a couple I caught the briefest glimpse of out of the corner of my eye.

Goolwa beach.

Port Noarlunga’s a good forty five minutes drive from Don’s house in Echunga, and is the location of the South Coast Folk Club where I’m booked to play tonight, Thursday. I get my soundcheck out of the way and we, five of us, go in search of food, fish and chips. 

It was this big!

It’s ridiculous really to consume such foods before a gig, but I did it anyway; they were heavenly, and I might’ve even performed better because of it. Perhaps the carbs that didn’t find their way to my waist provided a little fuel for my fingers to burn off! The excellent Ray Smith opened the evening. 

At the South Coast Folk Club.

Back home, at the end of a very good evening, Don and I sat, and we talked, and remembered, and laughed, and eventually we wished each other a good night … until next time, whenever that might be.

Friday afternoon, 1:40 p.m. and I’m bound for Perth, a journey of considerable distance. To say that Australia’s a huge country is … well … it’s stating the obvious, but let me tell you, it’s really bloody huge. And now that I’ve accurately described its size I’ll tell you about my time in Perth. After the 3 h 40 min flight I was greeted by John Ralph, an ex Brummy who runs the Wanneroo Folk Club, a club that’s not actually in Wanneroo anymore but once was … hence the name. After a brief introduction to my room, and to John’s Wife, Deb, we load up with PA and guitars and head for the venue. 

Perth from Kings Park.

This is all feeling decidedly strange - not this particular gig or anything, it’s just the dawning realisation that my time down here is drawing to a close … and I don’t know if I want it to end. It’s been hard … and it’s been beautiful. I don’t know which way the scale is tipping, if it’s tipping at all … there couldn’t possibly be exactly the same number of “ups” to “downs” … and I haven’t been counting, I’ve just been doing. I’ve been a traveller … a meeter … a hand shaker … and a leaver … but the leaving that’s imminent is on a different level. I’m about to leave the whole journey; before I only left within it. And this is too early for such thoughts … “Just tackle it when it happens”, I tell myself, knowing full well that’s not exclusively what I do. 

The Round House - historic prison, Fremantle.

Once, during a session with the Ouija Board (The Glass Chronicles), I was likened to the Captain of a ship who always had his eyes fixed firmly on the horizon, consequently neglecting the needs of his crew, and those aiding in the passage.

It’s very much about living in the moment, and that’s what happens most when playing and performing. On a more technical note though, for my liking I could’ve done with a little more level on the guitar at John’s gig here in Perth, but regardless, the night did seem to go well, extremely well. And once again I was privileged to meet with the most appreciative and generous people.

The Beauty Of Completion.

Melbourne airport, Tuesday 11:35 a.m. and after a good number of attempted text messages and calls that just ended up floating in the ether, Wendy eventually tracks me down outside the domestic arrivals terminal. She concluded, quite logically due to my journey originating in Wellington, it would be international, but I must’ve neglected to inform her about the transfer made in Sydney.  

It was very generous of her to pick me up, and I was grateful for such good company. We had a few stops to make, first to a music shop so I could buy some strings and a jack-to-jack lead, second stop: lunch, third stop: the manicurist for a layer of acrylic on three nails (of my picking fingers), fourth stop: an Ozzy sim card, and a bit of shopping. With all essential tasks completed she dropped me off in the rain outside Southern Cross station. 

It had been such a long day already, and now I was faced with a good forty five minute wait for a train to Warragul, the town in which Dominic lives, then once on that train, there was another two hours fifteen minutes of travel time. The train pulled in, we rendezvoused, and I headed for an evening of food, wine and good company with Dom and his lovely wife, Christina. These long, long days of travel can feel worth the attrition for the beauty of their completion; perhaps a metaphor applicable to life also!

Wednesday, and I prepare for the Guitar Masterclass to be held at the Victoria Railway Institute Hall. Dom prints off a stack of manuscript and guitar tabalature for me, more than I’ll need - it’s always better to go into these things with more subject matter than is needed, that way to avoid any potentially awkward moments as one subject or exercise draws to its natural end, and needs to be followed by the next. Nine people attended in all, a good number, all very friendly, amiable and inquisitive.

On Friday it was the Burrinja Cultural Centre in Upway. Tonight I not only had the pleasure of seeing one or two familiar faces from the concert I played in Emerald three weeks earlier (see post: “The Good The Bad And The Purgatory”), but also had the privilege of meeting Nick Charles - a well known guitar player in these parts and beyond - who turned up with his partner, Penny. It was great to meet Nick; and speaking with each other later, there may well be one or more irons in the fire for joint ventures somewhere down the line.  

Back to the Railway Institute on Saturday for the Warragul show, a self-promoted evening - Dominic not only being the “self-promoter”, but also the provider of all things sound, lighting and refreshment-wise. Not a huge audience tonight, but more than we predicted. 

The final show of this Victoria stint was a more unlikely venue: The Cranbourne Uniting Church. For anyone who isn’t familiar with Uniting Churches - as I wasn’t - it’s a collective of three faiths: Presbyterian Church of Australia, Methodist Church of Australasia, and the Congregational Union of Australia. You find them all over Australia. Maybe one could liken it to what has happened with a few football teams in the UK; with attendances falling, it can make more economic sense to share a ground with the team down the road rather than incur the unmanageable costs of remaining independent. Football and the Church, both suffering from a decline in attendees, and both religions. 

The hosts and the audience at Cranbourne were some of the warmest people you could hope to meet. Nick and Penny turned up again - I really appreciated that. And the biggest of surprises that evening was the most unlikely appearance of friend, Keith, who I’ve known for years, and who I’ve never previously seen outside the boundaries of Preston. He just happened to be visiting his son in Melbourne, spotted I was playing nearby, and there he was. As he stood there facing me, for longer than just a moment I thought I hadn’t gone anywhere, and that this Antipodean experience had been nothing but a journey imagined or dreamed.  

Tuesday. Next up, again, is the leaving; it just keeps happening. Goodbyes are said to Dom and Christina, then I head for the 05:15 train to Melbourne, the Skybus to the airport, and then flight VA 219 to Adelaide.

Main Street to Mongolia.

Following the Canterbury festival, three days with Cousin, Mike Nicol and his wife Elaine in Burnside, Christchurch was exactly what the doctor ordered. I loved every minute of their company and of my time there. 

Shipping containers now used as retail outlets in Christchurch city centre.

A chair for each of those lost in the 13/06/2011 quake 

A mural illustrates the spirit and imagination of the people.  

Thursday, and I’m on the final leg of the NZ shows. Whilst here, apart from the lifts I’ve been offered, I’ve become pleasantly accustomed to travelling by bus, but on these last few gigs it wasn’t going to be practical. I was about to head for the wild west, and to areas where the bus services are sparse; the only solution was car hire.    

I’m on my fifth visit to New Zealand, and only now am I beginning to appreciate how diverse the place is. The west coast could almost pass as a different country, both in landscape and in the character of its inhabitants. The road that takes you across from Christchurch to Greymouth, called Arthur’s Pass, is a route that takes you through yet more glorious settings. Once on the other side, the clean and prosperous look of the east coast is replaced by something a little more earthy and rustic. 

My final destination that day was the tiny settlement of Barrytown, about 20km north of Greymouth, in fact the evening’s venue was the Barrytown Settlers Hall. Now, back in the UK, through the years, I’ve performed in many a small village hall in many a small village, some smaller and more remote than others, but here was a town more remote than any I’ve had included on a gig list before.

This evening's venue.

When I stepped from the car onto the one street that runs through the town from Highway 6 down to the sea - aptly called Main Street - and as I looked over to my right at the hall - not exactly dilapidated or ramshackle, yet obviously not the recipient of recent lottery funding - an inner belief that a concert would successfully take place on this day was hard to locate.

A view along Main Street.

Without going into too much detail, in truth, I’d travelled to an event that had not been well organised at all - much of the business end of things having been cobbled together at the very last minute, and just how “last minute” I would discover later. I’m afraid this has become a theme running throughout almost all of these NZ shows. I’ll expand on this at some point, but for the meantime I shall leave it at that.  

Where Main Street ends.

Almost directly across from the hall was my Backpackers accommodation. I noticed an envelope held by a clip on the front door of the building. It had the name Ken written on it. Inside were instructions that told me where my room was, and the fee, $60, that I needed to pay. “Room number two”, it said, and sure enough, there was a key in the door of No 2. It seemed a strange paradox that one would need a key for a room in an area where it’s obviously safe to leave a key in the door. 

There wasn’t a soul to be seen, not in the Backpackers hostel, the street, or the hall. Still, I’m learning not to anticipate imagined outcomes so much these days; this is New Zealand, the land of surprises. 

So it’s 7:55 p.m. and one person has turned up - Clint, the sound man. In darkness we stand outside the venue waiting … waiting for someone to unlock the building. According to the information I have, the show starts at 8 p.m. which means I’m due onstage in five minutes. I’m ready to call the show off … but wait … another car is pulling up … we have an audience. Now three of us are standing outside the hall. 

Things start to get decidedly busy when a fourth person arrives, and it’s the man with the door keys. First thing he says is, “Didn’t anyone tell you, the side door is open? … we told your agent”. “No, I’m afraid the information wasn’t passed on to me”, I replied without the slightest hint of surprise. We proceeded to carry the PA equipment into the hall … Clint, myself and our audience of one.   

I feel certain that in following the story so far, the projected sense of something akin to futility in the reader probably corresponds quite closely to that which pervaded my thoughts at the time.
          

Clint assembled the PA, we did the most briefest of sound checks, and one-by-one an audience gradually materialised before my very eyes. I had been informed earlier that that was how things worked in this neck of the woods, reliably informed - by the evidence in front of me - but I did have to see it to believe it. I’d also been previously warned that “those people over there on the west side would probably have a knees-up”, and yes, a certain element at the back were definitely in the mood to party. It was OK though, and the evening, though not a huge success, fell far short of what had looked a certain failure.

The staff were great, very generous and friendly - as most are here in New Zealand, nevertheless, at the night’s end they spoke the ever familiar words to me, “We didn’t receive the posters until a few days ago” … “the gig wasn’t confirmed until the last minute” … “please give us more notice when you come next”, etc., etc. It would be way too easy for me to feel a little dispirited about these repeated sentiments expressed at almost every venue I’ve turned up at, but to be honest it’s too late for despondency … I’ve taken the decision to enjoy the positives, and believe me, there are plenty of them.

The drive north along the west coast north towards Nelson, is, quite frankly sensational, some of the most colourful and dynamic terrain you could ever wish to see. 

I was heading to my next stop: Havelock, with a house concert arranged at the last minute at Liz and Tom’s there. Lord knows how she did it, but Liz managed to fill their sizeable front room with only about 24 hours to get the word out. It was a good night, and they were great hosts. 

Saturday, and the first time I’ve ever performed in a yurt. No, I’d never heard of one before either. It’s Mongolian, a bit like a big tent but made of wool, and it smells a bit. I had a great night inside it, performing to a decent and appreciative crowd, many of whom seemed to be drawn there by the Steeleye connection, in fact I was asked if I could play “All Around My Hat”, not for the first time I might add. 

Earlier that Saturday afternoon I drove over to the Nelson suburb of Richmond, and visited my Aunt Grace, the last surviving relative of my Father’s family. She recently turned 90, and it’s hard to believe just how sharp and on the ball she is, astonishingly so. She and Cousin Alan filled me in on all that’s happened in their lives since the last time we saw each other back in 2011. 

My final NZ gig took place on Sunday afternoon at Salvador Diego’s house in Blenheim. Salvador, from Argentina, is a great music enthusiast, and one of the first things he did was wave a Steeleye Span CD in front of me - the last one I worked on with the band: Cogs, Wheels and Lovers. Signing the album “To Salvador” was obviously in the terms and condition of my appearance there. 

This was a house concert unlike others I’ve played in the past - a real family affair - with children … quite young ones who ran back and forth from one side of the room to the other as I manoeuvred my way about the fretboard. They then ran round my legs; if I'd stood legs apart, they’d have probably gone through them; I tried to look unperturbed, but really, this was not the desired performance scenario I’d spent years working towards. I have to admit, the gracious smile placed on my face belied that which lay behind it.    

During the process of events that afternoon I also uncovered an important piece of information; it concerned the accommodation for that night … I hadn’t got any. Just another minor detail missed! Luckily, Tina and Paul, who where in attendance that afternoon came to my rescue, and I couldn’t have wished for a more congenial outcome; they were great company and I most definitely landed on my feet.   

Monday morning, and the ferry I boarded in Picton took me back across the Cook Strait to Wellington. The farewell curry that evening with Mary, Peter, Sarah and Robin was the perfect finishing touch to my New Zealand tour. Next stop: Australia ... again!