Richard's Music Diary
Last year, I trashed more than 43,000 e-mails, and lots of people have trashed a few of mine. I like writing e-mails, and I save the better ones. Now I have this website, I can share a few of them with other people. Full of laughs, information, occasional wise counsel and super-fast writing on the fly....Richard
AUSTRALIA: The Country on the other side of the world
Australia is a long way from here. I could Google this and find out
just HOW far away it is, but I can better express it by telling you how
long it took me to get there.
One five and a half hour flight from Toronto to Los Angeles. Eight
hours in Los Angeles (saved by my friend Bob Hunka, who took me to his
home, mixed Hunkaritas, and then took me out for curry). Sixteen hours
to Sydney. Two hours in Sydney and another hour to Brisbane. With
airport time at both ends and the middle, we’re talkin’ 34 hours from
door to door; I’m too exhausted thinking about it to count properly….
All I know is that I left Toronto on December 23 and arrived on
Christmas Day, and left on January 1 and arrived on January 1. I don’t
understand the International Date Line, and I can’t be bothered to
learn about it.
The whole trip came in the form of a surprise offer of a free ticket
from an old friend, John Sinclair, an agent with a huge organization in
Melbourne who once lived in Toronto. Back in the day, he brought over
Australian groups like Weddings, Parties, Anything (still the best name
ever for a band) and The Black Sorrows and I presented them in the
Diamond and at Mariposa and in some skuzzy bar in Kensington Market I
can’t remember the name of.
Eight years ago I introduced John to Serena Ryder at a showcase in
Winnipeg, and he’s brought her to Australia seven or eight times since.
So, dammit, he owes me! Would I come out to Oz, he asked, go to a
festival, check out some of his artists, and see if I could spread the
word about them in Canada? Answer: Yes indeed.
My other links to Oz
Apart from John, though, I have other links to Australia. One is my
dear friend Kathleen Miller, who, in the day, was a memorable character
in these parts — outrageous, in your face, and a manic dancer at the
good old El Mocambo. Apart from the fact that she would cheerfully
flash anyone who would likely get the joke and enjoy the view, she also
introduced me to my wife Donna, so I owe her for that, too.
Bless her, she picked me up at the airport in Brisbane and took me to
the nice suburban house she shares with Col, who has a business fixing
microscopes (hey, it’s a complicated job these days, and he’s about the
only guy in that part of Oz who does it). Within three hours, she
served up a Christmas dinner — turkey, stuffing, mashed and snags
(which is what the Australians call sausages) from the barbie (which is
what Australians call the BBQ). The heat was staggering, the meal
terrific, and — over the next couple of days — I met a gang of her
friends, Lyn and Kathy, ABC music director Bill Riner, Kath’s
ex-husband Cam, her son Magnus, and my old friend Ritchie Yorke and his
wife.
Australians drink beer, friends, on a scale you can’t imagine here in
Canada. And Col found me a grand Australian-brewed stout that was very
nourishing indeed; believe it or not I never even saw a sign for
Fosters, let alone get offered one to drink.
The biggest festival in the world?
After a day and a half, a guided tour of Brisbane, and quick trip to
the Boxing Day sales downtown, I went back to the airport to meet John
and his new wife, Prue, as they flew in from Melbourne; we all set off
for Woodford, picking up one of the two Canadian acts on the bill
(Ember Swift) on the way.
The Woodford Folk Festival is MASSIVE. 30,000 people a day, for SIX
days; the major folk festivals here — Edmonton, Vancouver, Winnipeg and
Calgary— pale into insignificance. A total of 22 stages and all but one
or two inside under tents; many of them have bars attached — I already
told you that Aussies love their beer. The festival hires almost 600
artists in a wide variety of genres, ranging from major Australian
music names and dozens and dozens of singer-songwriters to itinerant
buskers, jugglers, poets and even the Rt. Hon. Robert Hawke, former
prime minister of Australia and now 80 years old and full of vigour.
(When I met him, I asked whether I should address his as Mr. Prime
Minister. “Nah, mate” was his response, “Call me Bob”).
There are close to 2,500 volunteers — but, unlike those at Canadian
festivals, they are not identified. No T-shirts, no badges (although
the volunteers in the parking lot do wear reflective jackets, and the
mainstage crews do have tiny laminates). But the invisible volunteers
do their tasks anonymously, for the most part, and the whole event runs
like clockwork. Even in the mud, volunteers quietly picked up trash,
emptied recycling bins, rounded up artists, and kept the impossible
schedule almost always on time.
The site is 600 areas of forests, ponds, ill-marked paths — and all the
structures are temporary, save the “amenities” (which is what the
Australians call the toilets/showers). There are well over 100
restaurants, stalls, shops, crafts sellers, and coffee spots spread
throughout the site, but mostly on the main “roads” that link the
stages. Once the festival’s over, everything is taken down and
disappears into storage off-site, and the animals (wallabies, toads,
rabbits, butterflies, exotic birds) take over again.
Woodford is also known as Mudford, and it hardly stopped raining for
the three days I was there, although the temperature never dropped
below 40 degrees, even in the middle of the night. As a guest of the
festival, I was given a small room in what is called the Woodford
Hilton, a collection of construction site trailers, divided into
cramped bedrooms. The amenities, alas, were a two-minute walk away in
the rain, and there was always a line of wet, muddy, tired people with
towels waiting for one of the two showers. On the second night, I
smelled so badly that I woke myself up at 5.30 a.m., and got a shower
without having to wait 20 minutes.
Ah, and what about the music, you ask?
The first point to make is that while the music is obviously important,
Woodford is more about a gathering of the tribes than it is about the
music. Australians are way, way more concerned about water
conservation, recycling, and green initiatives of all kinds than we are
even coming close to in Canada. And Woodford features concerts (but
very few “workshops” in the way we understand them in Canada), films,
burlesque, a circus, dance of all kinds, vaudeville, an enormous spoken
word component (Bob Hawke was one of dozens of participants), comedy,
folk and visual arts, and an ambitiously extensive programme for kids.
In short, Woodford is community driven, not music driven. That said,
there was a hell of a lot of music, but thanks to my continual jet-lag
and the foul weather (paddling through mud in the heat and mugginess
did not encourage the treks between stages) I didn’t hear as much in
three days as I would in a single afternoon at, say, Winnipeg or
Mariposa.
By far the biggest attraction at Woodford this time was the John Butler
Trio, who packed some 10,000 into the Amphitheatre (the only stage not
in a tent) and followed it up the next day with an appearance at the
largest tented venue, with some 4,000 people. His encore included an
appearance by a group ox robed Tibetan monks, singing background
chants.
Certainly Toni Childs, a pop singer who had some hits in the late ’80s
and early ’90s, was a major attraction. With a tough band (including a
couple of musicians from Victoria BC) she did a spectacular rock show
in the same tent Butler appeared in, and to a similar-sized crowd. No
show biz, though — bare feet, shorts, and a camouflage top. She prowled
the huge stage like a tigress in heat, showcasing new material (she
said she’d play the hits at her show the next day). Childs, who now
lives in Hawaii (“Buffy Ste-Marie’s my neighbour,” she told me) is
widely popular in Australia, and is making a comeback after 12 years
away from music, coping with a condition called Graves Disease; I
expect she’ll tackle the American and Canadian markets next.
And I got a nice shout-out from stage by James Blundell, a
singer-songwriter who’s seen as country in Australia, and whom I met in
Toronto many years ago, keeping in occasional e-mail contact.
There are few international artists at Woodford. Toni Childs and Kaki
King, the extraordinary guitarist, were the only guests from the US,
Ember Swift and Nathan were the only Canadians — and Ember, who leads a
group called Lentic, is now a resident in China, and sang much of her
set in Mandarin. Nathan, sweet and pretty, played to small crowds in
one of the smaller tents. And very few of the Australian artists are
known outside of Australia, and with the obvious exception of Butler,
none of them were major “stars.”
One final note about the festival: The folk who run Woodford are
amazing – Bill Hauritz, who heads the affair, is affable and friendly,
and holds court in the Director’s Tent, a civilized oasis a five-minute
walk away from the stages and, of course, featuring a well-stocked and
inexpensive bar. In addition to meeting Bob Hawke there, I also met the
good people who run the Byron Bay Blues Festival and the Port Fairy
Folk Festival.
Bill seemed genuinely upset that I bailed after only three days. Alas,
my tolerance for mud — despite an excellent training course at Hillside
last year — is less than it was when I was the AD at Mariposa in the
1988-1902 period when it rained for four of the five festivals I
helmed. And I did want to see a little more of Australia.
On the road again
Backing out of the festival’s gigantic car park with Ritchie Yorke and
his wife Min took time — but (though I fell asleep in the car) they
safely navigated their way to an empty range-style house somewhere in
the middle of nowhere (the Australians call it outback, I think) where
I slept in a real bed and had a real shower. The house, owned by one of
Ritchie’s relatives, was a joy – huge rooms, a veranda around the whole
house and (as I discovered when I woke up) a main road and fields of
sod as a view from the front steps…
They then took me for a tour of the Sunshine Coast; white architecture
(reminded me a bit of the south of France, oddly enough), a hearty
breakfast, a quick paddle in the Pacific (New Zealand and South America
are over the horizon, somewhere) and the chance to buy a smashing pair
of silver earrings for Donna… and then a visit to an old friend of the
Yorkes’ — a Barbadian musician called Kenny Griffith, who remembered
his eight years in Toronto (and Scarborough) with affection, but is
grateful for the sunny weather and the relaxed atmosphere.
The next day, I wandered around Brisbane on my own. Interesting place,
with a marvelous downtown shopping mall with elegantly modern
architecture, bars and restaurants in the middle of the pedestrian
street — it looked different, but it had something of the atmosphere,
of Los Ramblas in Barcelona. Good bookshops, and the chance to get
something to read on the plane back, a couple of CDs featuring Mick
Thomas and his old band, Weddings, Parties Anything.
That night, Kathleen’s friends Bill, Lyn and Kathy were cheerful New
Year’s Eve company, although everyone left well before midnight and I
was asleep by 11 p.m.
Anti-climactic, I suppose, but the sun was shining in the morning, and
when Kathleen delivered me to the airport on New Year’s Day, I really
did want to stay – although I was a little homesick and part of me
wanted back to Toronto in a hurry, snow and cold be damned!
A final note
Australia has many parallels with Canada – a big place “with miles and
miles of bugger all” (to use a Peter Gzowski phrase). It’s so far away
from here that you half expect it not be very developed, not to be very
“civilized.”
Instead, you have a modern, brightly lit, pale colour-painted,
urban society that reminds you of the US without African Americans
(boy, is Brisbane ever “white”!), or a brand-new Canada when the sun’s
shining. The British links remain a little stronger than the American
ones — even though a significant number of Aussies want their country
to be a republic, and finally forget about the Queen’s picture on the
five-dollar bill.
I always wanted to go to Australia, and I finally made it. Now, if I
can persuade some Australian festivals to take some of the artists I
work with, I might be able to go back as a guitar-carrier or road
mangler. I can only hope…
Music notes: Sept. 15 – Sept. 27, 2008
Kathleen Edwards
Los Lobos
Randy Newman
The Good Lovelies
Corin Raymond
Jadea Kelly
Andrea Ramolo
Martin Tielli
Tuesday Sept. 16
The day began with a round of interviews for New York rock photographer Bob Gruen, including a great time with the George Stromboulopoulis; radio show and The Hour at CBC, followed by a smart and witty interview with MuchMusic at the Liss Gallery (140 Yorkville, right above where the Riverboat used to be), where Gruen’s photographic exhibition was on display.
A few weeks ago, I had an argument at the Dakota Tavern with my friend Like Doucet. “This is the best bar in Toronto,” I insisted. “No, Flohil, you are dead WRONG!” he shot back. “This is the best bar in CANADA!”
He may be right. After all, where else can you hear Kathleen Edwards doing a benefit gig for 150 people (the $20.00 cover went to War Child Canada). She sure says “fuck” a lot, but she delivered a really good show, and was obviously having a ball.
Wednesday Sept. 17
Tonight there was a major receptions for Gruen’s exhibit, which runs through October 11. Good to see Joan Besen of Prairie Oyster, my pal Suzanne Nuttall and her smashing new partner, Christopher Ward and his wife, Sam Collins’ band (he’s Phil’s son, and, yes, he’s a drummer too), Ritchie Yorke and his partner, Nash the Slash (in bandages!), Dallas Good of The Sadies, photographer Kevin Kelly, A Man Called Wrycraft and dozens more … And my friend Irene Carroll, who got me involved in this project, is a wonder woman, so there.
Thursday Sept. 18
Tonight was the BIG reception for Bob’s Rockers photo show; 225 people crammed into the gallery, pictures and books were sold in abundance, more interviews got done, and Greg Quill of the Star did a major piece in today’s paper. A wonderful schmooze.
Friday Sept. 20
Ok, there are three things I NEVER want to hear at a Massey Hall concert (or anywhere else or that matter):
HELLO TORONTO!!!
HOW’RE Y’ALL DOIN’?!
ARE YA HAVIN’ A GOOD TIME!?!?!
Guilty on all three counts were Los Lobos, who played a ho-hum show to half a house at Massey. Dull vocals, windy and extended guitar wanking, over-busy drumming, and the only redeeming feature was three or four Tex-Mex songs toward the end of the show. Emma Barnett (who never sat through a whole show when she worked for eight years with House of Blues) and I left just before the band roared into the obligatory finale, La Bamba. Which is right up there with Danny Boy as one of my least favourite tunes…
Saturday Sept. 20
Ah, here’s another flat out opinion: Randy Newman is one of the world’s greatest songwriters. He inhabits the lives of the fictional characters whose songs he delivers — who else could be so savage, so politically incorrect, to deliver songs like his commercial for slavery, Sail Away, or his best song, Rednecks (”I saw Lester Maddox on a TV show, with a smart-arse New York Jew…”).
He wasn’t on top form, and apparently forgot exactly where he was (the Toronto show at Convocation Hall was sandwiched between Carnegie Hall in New York, and Symphony Hall in Boston). Later, he confided to the audience that there are two show business rules, never leave your wallet in the dressing room, and never tell the audience that you’re sick. He delivered two 50-minute sets, and the new songs (I’ve GOT to buy the new CD). Donna and I enjoyed a very special performance, even he wasn’t well…
Tuesday Sept. 23
Okay, I’ll admit it, I’m in love with The Good Lovelies. Three smashing women, terrific harmonies and more fun on stage than the audience at the Cameron House deserves. When they’ve written the killer repertoire (the current songs are okay, but not killer), they’ll be unstoppable.
Thursday Sept. 25
Back to the Cameron, to hear Corin Raymond (with David Baxter and Treasa Levasseur) work through an early set of gentle and bitter-sweet songs. “There’ll always be a small time…” Corin sings, and there always will be, and if artists can make a living there, good for them. You don’t have to be a “star” — you just have to make music that connects with people.
Later, in the back room, my busy-as-a-bee assistant, Jadea Kelly, put on her performance hat, and (despite dodgy sound that prevented me from hearing the lyrics properly) delivered a good-natured set to a pretty full house.
Saturday Sept. 26
A couple of weeks back, I had breakfast with a young singer called Andrea Ramolo, and she delivered her debut record to me a couple of days later – which turned out to be a more than respectable roots rock record, with some almost-sexy songs and a decent sense of humour. The drums are too prominent, and I wasn’t surprised to discover that he ex, who is the drummer, produced the CD.
Tonight I went to hear her in a tiny Italian restaurant/bar called Ferro, where she had to sing over a loud, boisterous, talkative crowd who didn’t give a hoot about the music. Every artist has to face this, sometimes, and it’s dispiriting – Andrea over-sang to get the attention of the audience, but didn’t really succeed, but she did gain a couple of fans.
Afterwards, I took her to hear Martin Tielli play for a packed house at Hugh’s Room; it was a bit like church – deadly quiet – and when I mentioned that to my pal Shauna de Cartier (who manages Martin) she whispered, “Yes, and that’s God on stage!”
To be honest, I’ve managed to pretty well missed the Rheostatics, the band Tielli came from, and his brand of art rock has gone under or over what passes for my radar. Of course, I’m familiar with Dave Bidini, who also came out of that now-retired band, and I love his books on music, especially On a Cold Road, a primer for anyone who needs to know about the history of Canadian rock. (And in which, I add modestly, there are a couple of Flohil stories).
By the second set, though, an initially unimpressed Andrea got right into Martin’s performance, which turned into a free form rock show with energy, wit, and a lot of grit. Obviously, I;m gonna have to do my research, and get Shauna to give me an introductory course into the Rheos and their offshoots.
More, no doubt, is a couple of weeks….
Richard