The National Country Music Muster held in the Amamoor Creek State Forest, Gympie, Queensland, is something to see. It was not the dusty paddock fete I was expecting; it is a very large, well organised country music experience featuring big hats, meat and rum. For Them-in-the-know the Tamworth Festival comes a distant 2nd nowadays. The fact that King Curly (and a few other oddities) were invited to play at Gympie says something positive about the open mindedness of the people involved. I hope they and their whip crackin’ mates feel the choice was justified – King Curly took the task of paying tribute to Country – the highest of all musical genres, with great pride – and had a good time in the process.
Since returning home I have already eaten 2 pieces of fruit (that’s 2 more than normal) – in the hope of re-introducing some essential vitamins to my bloodstream. We ate a great deal of meat you see. Elmo – a troublesome vegetarian – was surviving only on buckets of fried calamari.
It has long been a fantasy of mine to be a big hearty country person – but the mirror in the festival toilet block showed me that sadly that would never be. Proper cowboys/women are often big and red – while the musicians who play to them are skinny and little with fine fingers and sad little mummys-boy eyes. And there’s nowhere to hide like there is in the fancy boutique homo-houses of Sydney and Melbourne. I knew the ruse was over from day one when John and I took our first walk through the festival in our brand-spanking-new cowboy hats. The locals kept saying “nice hats, boys” EVEN THOUGH OUR HATS WERE THE SAME AS THEIRS! Humiliating.
Huddled in our tents at night, we listened nervously to the sound of whips cracking and wanton women shrieking somewhere deep in the forest where thousands of country-music lover’s tents and 4wheel drives lay. As night approached the whips cracked more often and the women cackled louder. One nice little performer we befriended told us that he had met an uncouth woman on a banana chair, who lifted her stocky leg and offered him (and his pal) a “lucky dip”. But it was clear to everyone with ears that marauding amongst the trees beyond the fortified safety of the performers encampment, was one particularly large and frightening woman. We heard a trumpet sound the ‘Last Post’ (quite beautifully) – followed by the sound of something large snatching it away.
Many of the camp sites were elaborate pub/shrines made of corrugated iron and bits of wood and rum was the main thing to drink. There were also a lot of Southern Cross flags. 
My one gripe – the same I have at most festivals – is we inevitably discover the one massive stage in the middle is occupied by the worst acts at the festival (with the occasional exception). I dearly love Country music but like with all genres – there is some real shit out there and sadly I think folks just assume that because they are on a big stage they are worth watching. NOT TRUE – (I say to myself as I hungrily eye that mighty stage). And it is
partly the fault of the public that this problem continues. So next time you find yourself at a festival, at the biggest venue, amongst the biggest crowd, take notice of the people around you: If they look like the sort of people who buy one CD a year to put on a coffee table, to play at one of their sallow parties where they talk about real estate – get yourself up off your little camp-chair and move yourself elsewhere to the smaller venues where the real, hungry talent might be waiting.
I discovered a great act called The Gin Club Id never seen before. At least 7 cocky young rockers (from Brisbane I think) playing gutsy,well written songs.
KC
