Byron Bay is a town on the easternmost tip of continental Australia two and a half hours by car south of Brisbane.
The Pacific Ocean first meets the almost sheer cliffs of Cape Byron before spreading to lap onto golden, sandy beaches. Lush sub-tropical coastal plains reach west through hinterland to the mountains of the Great Dividing Range, many miles inland. Byron Bay has no high rise buildings, zippo traffic control lights and if Maccas and KFC are in town, I sure didn’t notice them. A majority of voting locals like it that way.
They’re a weird mob. I feel comfortable in Byron Bay.
The Arakwal people have “Native Title” to many of their sacred sites and traditional hunting grounds.
Board surfers “discovered” Byron, a former whaling port, after the huge success of ‘The Endless Summer” and other American surf movies in the Sixties. Now their grandkids are dolphins. Old hippies mix easily with retired city professionals in cafes that serve outstanding espresso and food. Jumbo U-Choose organic fruit juice made before your eyes, $6. Far fucken out, man! The farmers, mainly dairy and sugar cane, shrug and mosey on by without so much as a sideways glance at the legions of international backpackers. Mercifully Club Med were thwarted in a tight Shire Council vote recently, when they tried to weasel in on the potentially huge yuppie tourist action.
The festival began 18 years ago at a local juke joint called The Piggery. Johnny Winter headlined. These days it is held at a football ground, a couple of miles south of Byron. Two large circus tents separately house the Mojo and Crossroads stages , The Jambalaya stage lies beneath a third, smaller tent. Another enclosed bar stage caters for those with a taste for pressure cooker action. Originally a Bluesfest, it’s now a Blues & Roots fest, which gives promoters a lot a scope in bringing musicians and music lovers of many persuasions shoulder to shoulder.
Ben Zweller meet Bo Diddly. Paolo Nuttini, this is Lee “Scratch” Perry. Bela Fleck, say hi to Mojo Webb. The music plays Thursday through Monday of Easter with performances from early afternoon till midnight.
One has to pace oneself to make the most of such a feast. The line up is too long to list. Check it out on http://www.bluesfest.com.au
Standouts were The Sierra Leone Refugee All Stars. They performed a superb repertoire of reggae and West African numbers.
These guys and one lady are the real deal. Bona fide refugees five short years ago, they are infused with joie de vivre such that they can barely believe their change in fortunes. Their music compels all within earshot to dance and smile.
Ziggy Marley: A fully-fledged top shelf Jamaican musician. His band is in the same league as the original Wailers. Although Ziggy’s voice has less of Bob’s embellishments, it is honeyed and true. Every now and then a flick of his dreads or an on-the-spot hop underlines his immediate heritage. Brilliant hour of beautifully mixed reggae music, mon.
The Brownian motion of the passing parade as you move from venue to venue facilitates human interaction. No social barriers. Anyone will talk to you about the music. There was absolutely no aggro or violence. Orderly lines for booze. Very low-key unarmed security. Many punters discreetly puffed reefer, the pleasant aroma was all pervading.
Nobody said boo, sparse heat pointed their snouts the other way. Very civilised. Just thousands of happy people from teens to sixties gettin’ down together with good vibes and quality live music.
Tony Joe White: Dug the guy since I first heard him growl his way through Polk Salad Radio on AM radio all those years ago.
It took a lot of courage for a Southern white boy in the sixties to sing about (in Willie and Laura May Jones);
“When you work in the fields,Backed only by a session drummer, he purred his way through many an old favourite.
You don’t have the time,
To worry about another man’s colour.”
From Tunica Motel:
“I find myself at midnightTony Joe has lost a little of his top register but has found a rasping Neil Young-like buzz in his trusty sky blue Fender. He uses this to magnificent effect in “Closer To The Truth” - sung in 1991 in a gently prophetic tone on CD but here, live at Byron, as an angry call to action:
Moving to the back porch blues
the guitar cries, telling me
About the hard times
Something moves in the shadows
Giving me a little chill
I thought I saw Robert Johnson
Walking out across the field.”
“The eagle watches from the mountainOther impressive performers were Chris Smither: one golden baritone, one amplified
As the warriors turn into fools
And the dice are thrown on sacred ground
And they move closer to the truth
And who's gonna tell the children
How the rivers used to flow crystal blue
And we keep leaving scars on Mother Earth
And moving closer to the truth"
acoustic guitar, one stomp box, a wicked wit and brilliantly timed patter.
The McClymonts: three sisters with harmonies to match The Dixie Chicks but apolitical. Should take Nashville by storm in the manner of Kasey Chambers.
Taj Mahal Trio: After thirty years together they play as one, live. Much more fun than his recordings. Taj cake-walked, hollered chants and demanded responses and made everyone happy. First time I’ve seen him perform without his shades. His eyes twinkle when he hits it.
Thursday teased us with brilliant sunshine, but rolling showers for the next three days pushed many campers to the limit after four days, so I missed Bonnie Raitt who closed the fest on Monday night with a set that “reliable sources” claim was top order. Can’t win ‘em all but a hot bath and fresh-sheeted bed were blissful after the three hour drive home.
I do have reservations about the East Coast Blues and Roots festival. They need a much bigger venue like, for example like Jazzfest at New Orleans, to prevent sounds overlapping from venue to venue. The food choices are appalling compared to what’s on offer in town. Finally, there is a creeping commercialism about the festival that on the one hand I understand, but on the other, is the antithesis of the essence of roots music. The celebration of the human spirit is not about turning a buck.
After 18 years the festival has progressed from a ragin’ roadhouse to an almost-slick House of Blues event. Don’t misconstrue me, I’ll jump at the chance to see great performers play at any corporate House of Blues, anywhere I’m passin’ through, but I know where the real deal went down.
It is practically impossible to get the stuff no more.
It went down on porches and juke joints and clubs like the Checkerboard Lounge on Chicago’s Southside and on Maxwell Street, both long gone tabernacles of the Blues. Before that it went down on plantations and levee bank and railroad camps of the South where Jim Crow perpetually threatened to break out The Klan. On Parchman Farm and Angola Prison, systematically oppressed people reached to their African roots and sang the blues to lift their spirits.
In doing so they kept themselves and their culture alive.
When it comes right down to it, Sam “Lightnin’ ” Hopkins once sang:
“The Blues…….The Blues is a feelin’ ”. Couldn’t agree more





