LIVE M SIC
WOODSTOCK COMES TO BRUNS On 17 August 1969 the Woodstock Music and Art Fair attracted unprecedented crowds to witness one of the most iconic cultural events of the 20th century. To celebrate the 50th anniversary of Woodstock, folk balladeer Smokey Fields, alter ego of local singer/songwriter Chris Mallory, has gathered a group of talented local artists to perform fresh versions of the songs we know and love, paying homage to an event close to his heart. ‘To me, even though the event happened almost a decade before I was born, the music of Woodstock has had a strong impact on my life. I think my first exposure to Joe Cocker’s Help From My Friends was in the theme song for the 90s show The Wonder Years. I never got sick of the intro and seemed to understand instinctively that they were referring to something culturally significant. In the late 90s a friend with great taste in music gave me a bunch of mixed tapes; one of the songs on these tapes was Richie Haven’s Freedom. I always knew it was a fantastic piece of live music, but it wasn’t until I started researching for this project that I realised it was from Woodstock and that he had made it up on the spot to stop the hippies rioting because they couldn’t fly in more artists. Years later in 2009 I watched the entire performance of Joe Cocker at Woodstock for the first time in my life and I was completely blown away. He was superhuman in his delivery; I haven’t been the same since,’ said Chris.
ENTERTAINMENT
BRICKLAYERS BUILD THE ROCK Bricklayers celebrate the release of their debut album Tan Black and Brown at the Hotel Great Northern on Saturday. Hailing from the murky depths of the Brisbane music scene, Bricklayers first formed for an impromptu support lot for WA’s Peter Bibby in 2017. Since then they have gone to work at creating their own brand of junkyard swamp rock. While writing and recording has been more of a focus, they have played sold-out shows around Brisbane, the DIY festival Calypso Beach Vibes in northern NSW, and helped to curate Forest Fuzz Festival north of Brisbane. Hailing from the psychedelic scene in Brisbane, playing in bands such as Swapt Jenson and Belligerent Goat, the guys have made a decision to step away from the sound they are known for and move towards a more angular, industrial, junkyard vibe. Showing their tender side in the title track Tan Black and Brown, this is also an open letter to frontman Nathan Glen’s dog! Hotel Great Northern on Saturday. 9pm. Free entry.
Chris first hit on the idea to do a Woodstock 50th anniversary event earlier in the year when he was looking at the subject for a musical play that he is helping a Lismore-based disability organisation, Multitask, produce. ‘I started to research the music and the more live performances that I saw from Woodstock the more I wanted to do a separate show on the actual 50th anniversary date. So here we are, two weeks out, and it’s going ahead,’ said Chris. The event will feature solo performances from accomplished local artists Rebecca Ireland, Áine Tyrrell, and the enigmatic Josh Shelton. Smokey has enlisted fellow fake Russians Matt Gulliford and James Dodds to add harmony and acoustic flair to the night. The audience is in for a musical treat, with the stellar lineup, along with a true heartfelt connection to the sentiments of the history of Woodstock and what it represents in the modern era. Woodstock Reimagined is at The Brunswick Picture House on Saturday 17 August at 7pm. Tix $20/25 at brunswickpicturehouse.com.
M A N D Y N O LA N ’S
SOAPBOX
W W W . E C H O . N E T. A
U / S OA P - B OX
SOME LIKE IT HOT
I’m experiencing climate change. Every night I am a planet that heats up. I won’t use the M-word. I don’t like it. When you use the ‘m’ word people glaze over. They stop listening. I know I used to. I was even on an ABC show last year called Ask the Doctor with a doctor talking about the M thing and I should have listened because then I’d know what’s happening. But I didn’t pay attention because I didn’t have climate change back then. I think that’s why it’s such a surprise when it happens, because none of us has a clue what the hell is going on. All I know is that I’m out of eggs. That makes me sad. In the fridge of life I am now an empty carton. I loved my eggs. I make great omelettes. All that’s left in my uterus now is a feather and a postit note that says, ‘I owe you an egg’. I don’t sleep, either. I have this wicked insomnia where I’m pretty well awake most of the night. Unfortunately in the cinema of my brain I don’t get to choose the movie. It’s not like Netflix; there’s only one show on. You end up watching the weird shit your subconscious plays, which is a very cheap little short film about how much money you owe, all the things you haven’t done, and how little time you have to do it all. Although the acting is terrible and the script even worse, the tension is overwhelming. And you can’t help but watch it again and again. It seems to be on a loop. The only relief from the film is my personal climate change. The heating thing is weird. I don’t really understand how it relates to the eggs. But it happens mainly at night. I wake up every halfhour hot. Not just hot. On fire. Like the heat is coming through my head; it’s in my hair, it radiates from the inside out. I think about cutting my hair into one of those practical older-lady styles. I always wondered why women did that. Now I understand. I’ve had to hide the scissors. Because even your fricking hair gets stupid hot. I don’t think I’ve felt heat like it. As soon as it happens you have to rip off all your clothes. Everything. If this is a hot flush I hope it doesn’t happen at Woolies because I’ll be naked in an instant. It’s not a choice, it’s a reflex. I’ll be the naked woman climbing into the cheese fridge. You’ll find me in there covered in cooling slabs of haloumi. Oh bliss. Naked covered in cold, soft cheese. I fantasise about emptying out my own fridge just so I can use it as my personal climate-control unit. I think I am awful to sleep with right now. My husband hasn’t said as much but I do hear him whimpering in the night. I constantly seek the cool side of the pillow. Which means I’m auditioning pillows all night. Rejected pillows are hurled from the volcano of my bed, and when they cool, I scramble to gather them. They feel a bit like smooth, cold haloumi. I can’t work out whether I need bedcovers on or off. As soon as I get hot I kick them off.
PORT ROYAL AT THE NORTHERN Formed over a shared passion for classic rock’n’roll culture, Brisbane’s Port Royal are fast spreading their message of selfbelief and unity through their music across the country. Hailed as one of Brisbane’s most exciting bands to watch, their latest single Ain’t Got You was released this June and swiftly reached 14K streams within its first two weeks. The uplifting, party-oriented nature of the track is a move away from the band’s bluesier rock’n’roll origins, but has been enthusiastically received by fans and critics alike. Joining the bill are Toxic Fox, who have been busy developing a growing local fanbase in Byron and who also release their next, highly anticipated single Oil Painted Hill on 9 August. The gig promises to be an all-round celebration of new music. Also joining the lineup are local band Plenko. Friday | Hotel Great Northern | 9pm | Free
34 The Byron Shire Echo ƖīƖƆƐ Ǯǽ ǩǧǨǰ
Kick is the wrong word. I explode them off. My husband shrieks in shock. He’s freezing his nuts off over there, but I don’t care. I’m heartless like that. I notice I have droplets of sweat beading on my forehead, between my breasts. Like I’m lying on a towel at the beach on a 40-degree day. But it’s a cold winter night. I look over the vast continent of my bed and way in the distance I see my husband attempting to huddle under what’s left of the doona. He’s freezing. Lucky him. Just a metre away I am naked, and on fricking fire. I put the fan on. I’ve have a cold shower. How can two complete temperatures exist in one bed? Then as quickly as I heat, I’m freezing. This is when I steal what’s left of the doona off my husband. This happens every half-hour. Apparently it’s some sort of hormonal change as I move ‘towards’ the M-word. For my husband it’s more like hypothermia. It’s a medical emergency where his body loses heat faster than it can produce heat. Next time he complains I’ll wrap him in alfoil. Like a spinach roll. I’ve seen them do that on the news when they rescue people who’ve gone missing on long walks in the Blue Mountains. Except he needs a rescue team in the bedroom. I expect he’s almost dead some mornings; he certainly looks it.
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