Ian Bland: Photo By Tim Chmielewski

Ian Bland: Photo By Tim Chmielewski

The JVG radio Method was broadcast live this week from “The 18th Annual Apollo Bay Music Festival” – naturally enough in Apollo Bay.

Rather than the usual single word theme, Jon, our benevolent dictator decreed I should write general observations about the festival and those locals who contribute to it’s success.

As a consequence I was still adding/deleting as I was reciting.

It was a great weekend – no, it was one of the great weekends.

Great bands (both international and local) a great crowd and great organisation.

As Wes Harrington from ‘The Large Number Twelves’ (one of the standout bands of the festival) noted over a beer on the balcony of the surf club during the final gig “We won’t forget this in a hurry”

He’s right there, but after another ten or twenty beers no-one can say we didn’t try!

I now have an insight into what a ‘community festival’ involves having witnessed the Festival Secretary changing bed linen for “Lil Band O Gold”, the Festival Director selling CDs at the side of the stage and the Festival President cleaning up the streets on the Monday morning.

Hopefully we will again broadcast the show from the festival next year and I look forward to making a few more observations – only next time not on an empty stomach!

There are some great shots taken at the show over at Tim Chuma’s site

No Ed Bates this week, but audience do a nice job of accompanying us

To play this poem directly in your browser – just click the “play” button below:
[audio:JVG_Poem20100328.mp3]


18th Annual Apollo Bay Festival 2010

I rose this morning well before dawn
For me, somewhat of a first
The last time I saw 5am
Was the day our water main burst

The weather, as fickle as any Diva
Charming, then cuts up rough
No point worrying about things you can’t change
Besides, no-one here gives a stuff

I went for a stroll along the beach
Hiked all the way to Skene’s Creek
I chatted to those I met on my journey
All seemed happy to speak

Hailey, from a town who’s name escapes me
A few hundred clicks north of Perth
Drove all the way to see Lil’ Band O Gold
Overjoyed, she now craved a surf

Buddha, a sculptor, of no fixed address
Well, it’s fixed once he’s parked his car
Nailed it one with a dry knowing grin
“We don’t know how lucky we are”

“You don’t get this vibe at a stadium concert
Least not at any I’ve heard
Performers and punters enjoying the town
And the line that divides becomes blurred”

800 musicians, headliners, buskers
Locals, interstaters and beyond
Country to punk, choral to hip-hop
Music, itself is the bond

They’ve come from the Gold Coast, Melbourne, NZ
Canada, Spain, USA
Africa, India, England and Ireland
Not forgetting Apollo Bay

This is no place for delicate egos
Prima Donnas with their hands on their hips
You won’t find Trout Pate on the rider
But the pubs do a good fish and chips

An endless army of volunteers
Checking in, setting up, packing down
Selling CDs and managing stages
Helping clear rubbish round town

The locals, shopkeepers, stall holders, nurses
The bar staff at both the hotels
The coppers and ambos, street sweepers, doctors
This is their party as well

The President Peter Fillmore
Will be breathing a sigh of relief
Conducting this years post- mortem
From his board, just off the reef

Chris Mariner, Treasurer, heads back to Johanna
Still with a long night ahead
Working out roughly how much in the blak
Or God help us, how much in the red

The Secretary, Anton Tibbets
Still has plenty of secratarying to do
He’s expected to perform minor miracles
But then Jesus was a carpenter too

Caroline Moore, Festival Director
Last seen ripping up her notes
Being stretchered screaming, to the First Aid tent
By two goons in clean white coats

That musical slut, Phil Langdon
All over this town like a rash
Can’t seem to keep his guitar case closed
He’ll mount any stage in a flash

But tomorrow he’ll be Phil the Pharmacist
The applause only memories and dreams
Back to the real world of anti-biotics
Condoms and Heamaroid creams

This evening I’ll return to the beach
With the sun, at my back, as it sets
As Buddha observed, rain, hail or shine
“Mate, this is as good as it gets”

© Copyright 2010 Ian Bland

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