Came back from a week amongst the canefields and dolphin-rich waters (buggers were everywhere - getting in the way when you're paddling for waves and generally being a nuisance) of the NSW north coast to play a fundraiser for a big charity. Fun as it was to play in a massive venue with such a great sound system (and for a good cause, at that), the crowd seemed almost exclusively young south of the river types, and all attendant south yarra stereotypes were in full effect; the young, rich and beautiful all out and misbehaving predictably. Was a bit of a shock to come straight from one of the last places in the country where hippies can weave beads, twirl fire and not wash with impunity only to be confronted by a thousand-odd well dressed youngsters crowded six deep around the free bars to make sure they got their ticket-price worth of champagne in. But maybe if Byron's free spirits had paid $80 for a glitzy open bar'd night on the tiles, they too would have donned their stilletoes and fake tan and got their elbows out in the queue for drinks.
Recieved the following from a good friend in London and thinking of coming home, which reminds me why I loved/loved to hate that city.
Went to the Jazz Cafe picnic yesterday which was the most middle class
festival ever, in the history of mankind, with Lambchop, Gilles Peterson,
the Matthew Herbert Big Band, and about a 99 / 1 ratio of birkenstocks to all
I guess I'll feel more like leaving come December, but in the middle of the
london summer where everyone is constantly frolicking in a park with a large can
of beer i just keep thinking...the cans aren't that large in Australia.