Category: Journalism

Writing

Curtis the Singin Chevy – July 8

mickdaleyo

The extraordinary thing about bureaucracy is the different versions you can have of any one supposedly set-in-concrete law. Thus when we were trying to change the registration of Curtis, our indomitable Chevrolet Van, over from the name of the generous Canadian who originally insured him for us, I spoke to a variety of desk-denizens, most of whom told me similar yet different versions of what I’d need to do the job.

Armed with the knowledge that I could probably get it done we drove two hundred kilometres through the Rockies, not in itself an onerous task in this glorious weather with the elk out chewing the grassy verges and the constant threat of bears browsing. Having to cross the border into British Columbia to be validified, we arrived in Golden only to get a different version of the bylaws involved. And were told that we couldn’t swap the rego over with what we had. Oh dear.

So its back to Calgary, where the other night our backyard party was interrupted by the fire brigade, in full lights and sirens blazing-mode, arriving to douse our small campfire owing to its imminent threat to the neighbourhood. We were told that it was against a bylaw.
Less than thrilled, we broke a dozen more bylaws by partying till dawn, to ensure we had horrific hangovers for our fruitless drive to BC. Viva le Revolution.
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Northern Star Column

Saskatchewan – 14th July

mickdaleyo
Our last show was 200 kilometres down a dirt road in the middle of Saskatchewan. It had been raining, so the black dirt of the prairies was thick and sticky as hot tar. We were shown to an old barn by our host, an enormously fat man with bifocals who proffered doughnuts – the meal we had been promised.
Our audience consisted mainly of elderly people – most of whom promptly fell asleep. We played a subdued set – we were enormously hungover after our two nights in a row at Lydia’s in Saskatoon. In our break we were shown around the farm – a few heifers had wandered over, curious over the strains of banjo and watched as we pottered around flower beds and green paddocks now sparkling in brilliant sunshine. Uncle Burnin’ Love was sleeping it off in the van and Jones was beside him nursing a sore nose from his face plant outside the pub at 5am.

Back in the shed – my mike stand consisting of a cow prodder gaffa-taped to some farm implements – we played some more to the resting concert goers. Then we motored off – with another plate of doughnuts donated by our host. We’ve got a few days off before playing to five thousand at the Ness Creek Festival. That’s up in bear country, in the north where there’s more lakes than mosquitoes – and those buggers bite you through your jeans.

Northern Star Column

Home

mickdaleyo

Back from Canada for three weeks, the Re-Mains are settling into their old habits nicely – we played two shows at our old stomping grounds, Nimbin and Lennox Head pubs, on the weekend. Nimbin was, as ever, a brilliant, bawdy experience. The much-maligned hamlet is, for mine, the most vibrant and important town in the region, a brawling, majestic colony of the furthest reaches of the human condition. Playing there is a unique privilege and its good to see folk I’ve known there for years still responding to the majesty of country rock and roll. At Lennox the Trojan’s had won their final and were carousing steadily – they had no choice but to submit to the sinister powers of the banjo.
Which brings me back to Canada – and another epic tour conducted in Curtis, our doughty V8 Chevy Van, which swallowed 18,000 kilometres as we played 51 shows across that gargantuan nation. Highlights included playing Breakfast TV in Calgary, criss-crossing the Rockies to play such remote venues as the Zoo in Prince George, venue voted most likely to have your ear bitten off in, and supporting the likes of the Joey Only Outlaw Band, the Secretaries, the Bush Pilots and The Beauties, all bands that I consider among the best I’ve ever seen.

Northern Star Column

Dorrigo, 24/9/09

mickdaleyo

I was up in Dorrigo recently with the Lonely Horse Band. That’s the mob with whom I’ve done projects at the opal fields in White Cliffs, and out on the malleee at Nymagee, writing, recording and performing songs about these remote, eroded communities.

Dorrigo used to be at the heart of the forestry wars, back in the 90s when the timber barons could sense the coming of the end, as the country began to wake up to the fact that we need trees to survive. That was in the days before Howard, when the ferals raged through the forests, locking down dozers in bare-faced defiance of antiquated laws, while aggressive Unions firing up disgruntled loggers in the pubs.

Dorrigo’s a different town now, the pubs outnumbered by coffee shops. It produces more mementoes of the past than timber and boasts a terrific museum that graphically portrays a tough and often brutal past for the settlers and the dispossessed, casually referred to as the Wild Blacks. The only really wild action occurs on the footy fields or at the RSL when The Re-Mains are in town, which we will be on October 16, or the Lonely Horse Band returns to the Plateau to play the Dorrigo Bluegrass Festival on Oct 22-24th. It’s a lovely town, if you’re not locked on to a dozer.