Waiting for Guinness, tired in the ‘toomba and still letting the blood run free, or A lonely lost night of mariachis in the haze of festive fatigue.

Someone, somewhere was heard to say, at considerable volume “ Oh come on, don’t go you tie-dyed jeans wearin’ hippies ! This is Australian music, genuine, isn’t that right Ulrich Horchmiester ?” or was it Dirkland Kruithoffhiemer, or something of equal ethno-woggish wonder.

A singer implored late night rows of festival goers and sitters, to stand as one and dance in the true spirit of fiesta, (after all it was only night 2 of the festival). …and indeed provoked, some enthusiastic damsels rose, a distinct lack of valour or perhaps folked out fug meant that those dancing girls went without partners. But then, women are so often braver than men. Perhaps it was the enveloping fog or the venue being short on dancing / swinging space but there appeared to be a lot of waiting and too little Guinness, on the audience’s part. [I have seen WfG play to a hotter tent in the humidity of a Bellingen spring, also full of hippies, where the crowd jumped and danced till the rows of seats were pushed back by the sheer power of the possessed moving to those devil’s songs] Katoomba was in peril this evening of looking staid.

A lack of festiveness at the festival could be a demographic prob, maybe. (see Babyboomeration article), those who danced, those who made the move to be festive were young and exceptional of spirit perhaps.

The word Australian was cast about like a searchlight in quest for an answer; the multiethnic reality of myriad national musical styles mixing with seven different shades of showmanship presented something brilliantine and confoundingly unique when strapped together with distinct antipodean idiom and Australian accents. Were we a nation of people whom marked and celebrated our own development in cultural terms, we would hail and resound with this talented mob. Bugger it, Let’s do it anyway ! They were tops! Yes, tops !

Anger flashed through the air as a point was put that the song being sung was written by Irishmen who died for the writing of it, not by a once a year puffy hat wearing ‘ kiss me I’m Irish’ chancer. “ I’m not staying here to be yelled at..’ bemoaned one mug, and left. Celtic sensitivity suitably inflamed by ‘irish pigs’ being berated by Irish currency lads, the evening dived into a seedy Brechtian standoff between the player and the assembled punters.

The lead offender seemed to be going through what appeared to be the drug induced equivalent of hyperglycemia, “I will start punching something very soon”, the uber-titles said, “ … and if I am not fed soon, I will eat my audience. I will not be held responsible for my actions!” Certainly some had disappeared already, and whilst his comrades tried to quell the disquiet of the quiet, the effront-man surveyed us all with hunger in his eyes. The clever in the public seats were keeping a cool eye on the exit points available to them; this dynamic was creative, artistic maybe, but what was being created was in doubt to quilted nannas looking on admirably until the frontman grabbed his balls and announced the equal separation provided by his besuited member! The gauntlet enunciated, the knowing nannas smiled on, staunch. The ice cracked in this gentle way, and the audience edited in this gentle way, a point of no return was reached for the throng. The ones remaining were not letting each other off the hook.

The less sensitive punters called the showman’s bluff and stayed on regardless, shouting “Play the Lost Mariachi !”, a circus event ensued as the trumpeters strolled through the tent and blew merry serenade into the crowd, guitarists mounted the shoulders of alto saxophonists, or was it piano players surmounting the string section, I really can’t remember. A waltz was danced before the stage, and the carousing thing was done! A good time was had by all those who danced, and the humoured whom watched on good humouredly.

The challenge of local radical music is not that you were changed for life by it instantly, but that you were awake enough to recognize it when you were there. Musicianship and energy (especially the energy that comes of Weilish desperation) needs to be more than heard or seen, it needs to rake across your better judgement. Without it we may be trapped in the land of the boring four/four, forevermore. Something passing strange happened there in the tent. Verfremdungseffekt or killkennyred effect, a moment was witnessed at the festival.

Mt.VicMist. 2006