Dave and Hannah send the ocassional chill down the spine... or it may just have been cold.

It's always refreshing to catch a loved artist in a different format. A rock band doing the sit-down acoustic thing has been a proven success; or the All Tomorrow's Parties format of a band playing their seminal album from start to finish are just 2 examples.

Tonight it was checking out young troubadour David Di Marco in a male-female duet, which was quite interesting. I came across Dave as a fresh 17 year old competitor in the Fretfest Find Of The Year 2007, winning the Under 18 age category. His songs are as catchy as hell (with his song-writing belying his young age) and are complimented beautifully by his sometimes astounding voice. He's been a pleasure to work with and listen to for the past couple of years, and was even invited to play at our wedding. Suffice to say I've been an ardent supporter and admirer of his music, and have been keen for him to branch out for some time.



The duet aspect came from his love interest (I'm guessing here) Hannah Shepherd. Setting up under an awning on the footpath in front of a coffee shop in a back street in West End seemed the perfect scene for this 'intimate' show which saw the duo draw a crowd spilling onto the street (which was still great, despite the shivering cold which was rapidly descending). With Hannah on occasional keys and Dave in the familiar acoustic-vox set up, the pair are honest and innocent enough to wear their influences not only on their sleeves, but also within their setlist: the few covers they cracked out included Angus and Julia as well as the benchmarking Glen and Marketa. And while their harmonies were not always on the money, the chemistry was evident enough to know that a bit more work and they'd nearly be there... the silence of the captivated crowd gathering on the street was sure of it. Now Dave just needs to find a way to ensure that pesky g-string stops breaking in the crucial bits.

From Big Things

I've always been a firm believer in a person identifying deeply with a genre or style of art: it's an intrinsic part of our being. Not the artistic vehicle (ie, music, film, stage, etc) as such, but the overall genre, field and intent of the art. I can totally appreciate, for example, the pure bliss of the escapism science-fiction can hold for people. I can admire those who immerse themselves so fully in soap operas, no matter the abject absurdity it brings. For me, however, it's the mirror-to-the-world honesty of heart-felt storytelling which gives me that pit-of-the-stomach resonance with anart form . And so I immediately identify with singer-songwriters as a whole, and straight-talking novelists who 'speak my tongue'; those who actively seek out the beauty in the mundane and find a deeper meaning in the process.

I'm also a proponent of the idea that many people will look towards a select few artists in their lifetime whom they truly hold dear as experts of their craft. Be it Speilberg, Spelling or The Strokes, people will latch on to a touchstone artist which will tap into that special place deep in our psyche. We continually turn to those touchstones as a reference point throughout our lives. It's why I will make a point of seeking out the literary works of, say, Andrew McGahan, Irvine Welsh, Alan Duff and John Birmingham (apart from his alternate reality guff :-) as a way to remind myself of the simple art of lovely storytelling. In music, I have a very similar bent and while I venture far and wide in my musical discoveries, will constantly lead myself back to my touchstone artists in order to give myself an effective reference point. These artists are fairly obvious for most - Pearl Jam, The Frames, The Go Betweens, Jeff Lang and, QPAC's guest this week, Paul Kelly.

Before the main event, however, was a new discovery in my world. Sitting alone and seemingly lost in the massive bare space of the Concert Hall's stage was US swampy blues man Charlie Parr. His gorgeous finger-picked resonator guitar sung beautifully to fill the space, but his muddy vocals and oftenexaggerated and ill-conceived stomp-boxing made it hard to really penetrate to appreciate what was going on. That, and the massive space between the nose-bleed seats and the stage, meant it was hard to feel a connection to something as relatively intricate as Parr's style. He doesn't disappoint, really, and sustains my intrigue for the full 40 minute set, but whether by design or circumstance, fails to fully engage his audience.

As Kelly strides out with his trusty band, it's almost an immediate wave of euphoria enveloping me which doesn't let up until many hours after the gig (and is still giving slight aftershocks with memory). The hall is the perfect venue for such an artist. Every ping, every note, every nuance can be heard amongst the deafening roars of some of his greatest hits. When it comes to touchstones, there are hardly any better than this right now. Superb stories, told in mesmerising ways, by fully accomplished musicians on impeccable equipment and set in a wonderfully sounding room can only be considered a true blessing in my world. And let's not forget the voice, as Robert Forster eloquently outlined in his recent review in The Monthly magazine:

"None of these songs would be as good or as pleasurable if Paul Kelly wasn't the singer he is. It is his most overlooked talent ... there are no growls or yelps, or strange ticks, or Americanisms, or faux-Pommy bits; he hasn't fallen into the horrible trap of so many old and new folk singers who sound like they've just stepped off the boat at Botany Bay, circa 1800. In fact, Kelly doesn't seem to be interested in authenticity at all - it just comes naturally to him, and it reaches further because of that, to the campfires and the bush, the suburbs and suburban pub, and the inner-city sophisticates. His voice - sly and warm, laconic and sometimes frail - may be the closest thing we have to a national one."

The songs flowed beautifully on from each other, and each musician had their moments in the spotlight. Pete Luscombe oozed rhythm through every movement of his polka-dot-shirt-wearing body, Ash Naylor was suitably restrained, but allowed the odd moment of superbly timed riff-work for effect and poignancy. Bill's bass proved to underlying foil to it all, as well as keyboardists Cam's finishing touches on the whole shebang.

It was the inclusion of Vika Bull on backup duties which astounded me the most, however, as she proceeded to slowly steal the show from under Paul's nose. Granted, from an outsider's perspective (The Tiger's, for example), the intrusion of this relatively unknown woman on Paul's songs was a little strange. And, as she proceeded to take the entire lead vocal for a number of songs, the audience might be forgiven for thinking they were gypped with their gig ticket. A little analysis revealed, however, that she was simply interpreting the many Paul songs he had written from and for the female perspective. One by one her booming deep, ethereal voice stole back the feminine side of Paul and his songs. The crowning, tear-jerking crescendo was the tale of betrayal and loss of trust in Everything's Turned To White. Vika took the majority of the vocal, with just Cam's spooky undertone of keys providing the murky underwater backing to this tale of woe. When a guitar-less Paul stepped from the shadows to sing the male protagonists pathetic plea of stupid innocence, it was earth-shattering raw emotion.

Indeed, it was Vika who led the vocal on the first of a triumvirate of sublime music which provided the evening's absolute highlight in my eyes. An extended jam of Sweet Guy had Vika plunging the depths of her vocal range and tone as she let out guttural moans of despair which provided the brushstrokes to the 3 guitarists' riff work ending out this classic of Paul's mid-80s ballads. From there, the band when into full rock mode with Deeper Water, beginning with Paul's bittersweet coming of age tale, being driven largely by a mind-bendingly simple and extremely effective bass and keys riff underlying the whole song. Pete and Paul's crashing finale segued straight into Paul's rebirth song God Told Me To, as the band well and truly found its feet within the massive space.

A double encore ended, somewhat predictably, with the Kev Carmody co-penned classic From Little Things, Big Things Grow. Starting with just Paul solo on stage, each verse saw a new band member casually walk on stage and join in the playing by the time the chorus kicked in. And while Ash needed to kick his guitar tech up the bum for missing his cue, the idea cemented beautifully as the entire band was in full swing by the final, neck-hair-raising chorus which signalled an end to yet another wonderfully crafted evening at the sonic hands of one of Australia's finest musical touchstones.

Venues suck... Or Am I Getting Old?



Ending off our Fiesta regime, we trotted off to a midweek gig by Gothic guitar maestro Jeff Martin - the one and the same of The Tea Party fame.

It was his first ever real 'solo' show in Australia, with all his other 'solo' shows since he disbanded The Tea Party being, well, less than solo in the true sense of the word. Being a fan of his previous incarnation, and being a fan (by necessity, thanks to my current extra-curricular activities with Fretfest) of solo singer song-writer acoustic shows, I was actually quite excited by this gig.

Things did not bode well, however, as the Tiger and I chowed down at the cafe directly underneath tonight's venue (I'm in 2 minds as to whether to actually name the venue, considering I'm about to slander them). The ticket clearly stated "doors open at 8pm", but that didn't stop a few keen fans turning up extra early and milling around the entrance. Trying hard to be nonchalant and cool, we tried to not listen in to their extroverted conversations. It was impossible. One guy was clearly besotted with Jeff and spent the good 40 minutes or so valiantly tying each conversation piece back to his amazing tales of being an audience member at one or other of the featured artist's shows. He was annoying in a very cute way, and his clobber of black stove-pipes, black singlet, sneakers and shoulder-length lank hair would have been just as welcomed at a newly-reformed The Angels gig as it was here.

Anyway, with the audience segmentation complete, the doors did eventually open and we filed up the narrow staircase and into the long, thin venue of choice for the eve. After scoping this place out for a few local bands before, I was keen to see how it would go with a fairly large international artist and a full room. It's a long, narrow room without much head room and absolutely no stage presence to speak of. A 3-inch scaffolding platform was all that separated the unwashed masses from the talent. Keeping in mind this was an acoustic singer-songwriter gig with an artist known to sit down during his gigs, meant that without getting nose-to-armpit with our fellow audience members left us with a fleeing glimpse of the guitar maestro's middle part for most of the evening.

The back part of the room is filled with very old and worn long couches, along with a feature wall of a pleasant autumn scene and a homely bar area. It gives it a nice lounge-room feel, I guess. Well, it's certainly the feel the owners were going for, I'm sure. Sadly, the very lumpy couches, the inconsistent sound levels from the mixing desk and the constant to and fro of the punters made it feel all too much like a crappy share-house lounge room circa 1992, rather than a serious music venue in Brisbane in 2008 which I had paid $40 to enter.

Never-the-less, I was here for the music and not the decor, so I guess I shouldn't be quick to condemn. Problem was that it took so bloody long from doors open to the main artist getting to the stage that we had a lot of time to contemplate the surrounds. An atrocious set by Jeff's support act (who supplemented his value tonight by being the merch-bitch as well) left a bitter taste and had us tearing down the staircase in search of some kind of respite. Brisbane's sleepy small town tag hasn't quite been disowned yet, though, with the midweek offerings in the heart of the entertainment district being very slim indeed. Unless watching a drunken local getting the full force of the constabulary's move along laws is entertainment... well, considering what was on offer at the top of the stairs, then yes, it was a damn sight better than even that.

Anyway, we trawled back up into the belly of the beast and endured yet more interminable waits before the artiste of the night deigned us with his presence... only to be gone before he even had a chance to start due to his guitar not actually working properly. I mean, these guys took a full 50 minutes setting up a stage for one guitar and a microphone... and couldn't even get that right! In an almost comical move, Jeff tells us he's leaving the stage for them to sort out before coming back on. A couple of minutes later he does just that, and proceeds to make light of it and pretend as if it happened all the time. I don't know, maybe it does. But really, this is not a $40 show and any artist doing what he just did to his audience is truly taking the piss.

I decide to forgive first sins, however, and allow him the good grace of being listened to before fully condemning him. The room's sound was pitiful and tiny... with absolutely no bottom end in the sound to speak of, the first 3 songs or so sounded like very slow versions of the chipmunks, crossed with that sound made by your matronly Year 4 teacher dragging her fingernails down the blackboard. You know the sound...

Not his fault, sure... I get that. And so I forgive yet more sins and persevere even longer. We settled into the back of the room and tried vainly to block out the inane chatter of the bar staff who are clearly non-plussed by the fact that there is someone on stage trying to peddle his wares. Their talking, laughing and general mischief was completely inexcusable, especially for a venue purporting itself to be one of Brisbane's homes of the musical elite.

Still, this didn't have my blood reaching its limits of heat resistance. What got it to that critical boiling point was the complete lack of self-awareness, knowledge and acceptance of where the artist was in the real world. Listening to his gig was like listening to a facsimile of Rachmaninoff, sent while on a severe hang-over. The guy was churlish, sloppy and bored. He veered between self-mockery and Spinal Tap-esque moments of brilliance, and all without any air whatsoever of irony or sarcasm. Comparing his setlist to that which peppered his released live albums, and you could tell he had struck on to a formula and was milking the fuck out of it at every opportunity he could. The boys hanging at the front of the stage, consisting of endless clones of the black-singletted lank-haired friend from the beginning of the night fed this viscious cycle of self-love and bullshit until it was clear to almost everyone except those in that tight front-of-stage circle that the artist had firmly planted his head up his own asshole. With little to no hope of it being removed any time soon.

The Love Den's Final Fiesta Finale Part San


So here was Sunday, probably the biggest day of the festival in my book. A plethora of acoustic and blues artists were awaiting my ears for the day, but an over-riding sense of lethargy had set in early. Deciding to skip a couple of the earlier in the day artists, the Tiger and I wandered into the Valley (via our new love Campos Coffee) late in the arvo to be greeted by some lurvely sunshine coupled with a nice breeze.

James Grehan was on the list today, and his dreamy styles did not fail to disappoint. Apart from the ill-placed advertising (I mean, who puts a huge video screen as a stage backdrop?), the set went off without a hitch and James seemed to garner a few new fans. Even his ever-present Dad, studiously recording the entire gig as usual, seemed impressed by the turn out. Knowing James from smaller, intimate gigs, I was keen to see how a potentially rowdy and demanding open air day time performance would be handled. And it was with aplomb. His earnest and sweet delivery, matched by his serious guitar playing and shimmery falsettos, seem to break through even the piped pap music emanating from the bar next door.

An early break in proceedings had us wandering a bit and stuffing our faces at the PhoB Vietnamese local, before heading back into the throng. The Tiger headed over to the Brunswick Street Mall stage, while I camped it out at the Chinatown Mall, finally catching Gentle Ben and His Sensitive Side. A band which is probably as close to Valley royalty you can get, it had an impressive array of pure, raunchy, dirty, sweaty, sexy moves down pat. This is saying something, considering it's basically that intense dude from Sixfthick, Dylan McCormack and that dude with the huge mutton chops who I think lives at Ric's (I thought his name was Barry, but it's Tim or Nick or something. He was referred to as the Mayor of the Valley, which seemed fitting). Interestingly, the Mayor's stand up drumming style turned out to be only one of the strange things of band: with the histrionics of the singer, and the out-right boredom of the guitarist and keyboardist making it all a little bizarre. Still, nice for a rocky change. I've been a little mellow and acoustic by necessity with my musical choices lately, so it's good to get out and see some posturing and posing and rocking out. It's still fun.

With the slight drizzle now steadying into a bit of a run shower, Jackie Marshall took the stage and we set about meeting up with some long-lost friends. The former Tulipan singer still seemed to hit all the right notes, and certainly had the moistening masses in the palm of her hands. Unfortunately, my increasing gaggle was not as musically interested as I, so we ventured up the road a bit for some ales and piped muzak while catching up and chin wagging.

The rain had well and truly settled in now, and the conspicuous lack of activity on the main stage had me suspicious that the wetness had spoiled the fun. A quick check with organisers confirmed this, but also informed us that the headline act had been relocated down to the Chinatown Mall. In waiting for the rearrangement, we took in a bit of Katy Steele, which wasn't on the original list of anticipated artists. Being not a big fan of her main incarnation Little Birdy, I was pretty keen to avoid the pseudo-rock chic chick, but now she was thrust upon on us, I was pleasantly surprised. Clad in a skin-tight outfit splendidly replete with massive red sparkly heels and bleach-blond locks, this lass not only had the looks, but the sass and sound to boot. Armed almost solely with a beautiful white Strat (apart from one or two acoustics, plus a keyboard number), she worked the crowd with amazing dexterity and threw up a few of the gems that no doubt some of the great unwashed were salivating for. In all, a rather entertaining mix of attitude and musicality.

With the last time we saw him an unmitigated disaster (at the putrid Joe's Waterhole in Eumundi), Jeff Lang was almost the entire reason for getting out and about all weekend. Still in his stripped down mode of himself, stomp box and bass player, he powered through some newer versions of his own brand of "disturbed folk". With the rain now pretty steady, the crowd thinned considerably, leaving a core collective either braving the wetness or huddling under what sparse shelter there was. Despite the very short set, Jeff was in fine form, showing off all his guitar virtuoso ability early on, and backing it up with some seriously delightful melodies and deeply powerful story-telling. Add to that and enthralled and entranced crowd lapping up every move, and it proved to be a fitting end to a weekend mixed with discoveries and old friends.

And so that was it for Valley Fiesta 2008. And with a newly-extended 6 month lease coming into affect on the Love Den this week, it may prove to be the very last in which this place serves as the base to one of my most favourite contemporary music festivals in the land.