We roadtested the first of the new tunes at Woodford and I was pleased at the reception they got. ‘Night Parrots’ in particular seemed to strike a chord and at least 3 actual ornithologists approached me afterwards at shows to set me straight on the ‘true’ colouring of the feathers etc. I only pretended to be listening.

But it was camping with Camilla’s Hodgkin’s family (and their entourage of German backpackers who had been ‘woofing’ at the Hodgkin family farm) which my family and I will remember most fondly. Camilla played with King Curly this Woodford festival – but she is best known for her own fantastic family jugband .

On arrival at Woodford we set up our camp in frighteningly close proximity to the mock log-cabin tent where 4 of the Hodgkins siblings stayed.  Add to that the German backpackers and temperatures in the upper 30′s and you would imagine this to be an explosive mixture indeed. I watched on in amazement for 6 days and while arguments did occasionally arise, nothing ever got out of hand – You see the Hodgkins’ are kind of like proper circus kids, grown used to living on-top of each other, and finding pleasure in all kinds of things. It was fun.

It soon became obvious that the Hodgkins (having attended the last 13 Woodfords!) were known to just about everyone there. And as a way of illustrating that best I can tell you this most astounding story.

Each of the Hodgkins has a kind of semi-super power. Eldest brother Ira has an eye for impossibly small mundane things – not unlike Sherlock Holmes. He announced to us one morning that he had found a digital camera card on the floor whilst dancing the previous night and so with the help of our own camera he set about finding its owner by perusing the photographs on it. We listened in awe to his electrifying monologue – as he retraced the camera-card owners steps right up to the last frenzied moments on the dance floor when the camera and the card must have parted company.

There was a tattoo on someone in a crowd. A photo of two plastic chairs. The blur of a mismatched pair of thongs on another.  And that was more than enough for Ira to say he was confident  he knew whose card it must be.  “The friend of a girl I noticed I’ll bet ” – he had noticed her – not a friend of his, or even acquaintance, just a girl who was a fan of a particular band or something……  In a crowd of 100 and something thousand, this struck me as a miracle, but like I said, the Hodgkins know everyone and Ira has his super powers on top of that.

Now, days later, Im told that he was right and girl has her camera card back. I love things like that

Steve

 Special Festival Missive from John Hibbard

I sat, addled and fatigued, watching the sun rise over the Glasshouse mountains, accompanied by the drones and moans of the Tibetan service and assembled drunkards. We all worshipped the rising New Year’s sun in our various ways and I inwardly smirked at the irony. The sun was about to make the next seventeen hours hell on Earth, and contribute to unbearable hangovers, including my own. How did I get here again? I anticipated my fifth Woodford experience to be my first sober one, and I was determined to spin the whole thing positive, for once, rather than lapse into the lazy cynicism and secret love as I had done so many times before.

For the first day, I was a success, smiley, enthusiastic and willing. King Curly did our first forty minute set at the Bazaar and I saw it was good. The band settled at a table overlooking the Lagoon and ordered beers. Blinkered by the warm evening, the good vibe, my beloved bandmates, I took my first drink in almost two years, toasting to an affirmation of life, fool I had become.

Remember well children, it’s not ever the first beer…

The next night I endeavoured to reintroduce myself to my old lovers, rather than meet new, fleshy ones. Guinness, Kilkenny, red wine and vodka. Etc. Etc. Early the next morn, my first hateful, shameful hangover for almost two years.

Weather-wise, Woodford was a mild place to be, those first couple of days. But sure enough, the heat arrived, in lockstep with my hangover. One violent storm sent us lunging for our gumboots, but it was really all about the heat. Wet heat, dry heat. A superheated trombone, the air in it so sluggish that the instrument refused to speak. The tent an awful torture chamber, ovenlike by 7am. Walking the length of the site at virtually any time of day a lesson in the primacy of the sun. The sun giveth life, the sun taketh away.

The Curly clan escaped to the not so secret waterhole a couple of times. Though cool and shady, the place was crawling with local braves, who ignored the signs and insisted on throwing themselves headlong into the brackish pool, to the delight of onlookers, inspiring fear and derision in me. Perhaps these are the same people who fracture the forest air with trailbikes, 4wd on a beach, spit on the street. Anyway, I was amongst them at last, drowning in liquor, succumimg to the nasty second voice that told me I was nothing, this was nothing, and if I loved, I should destroy the loved. I listened to the chatter of a family hurling insults to and fro, a cheap common currency. You’re fat, you’re a wimp, you’re stupid, hopeless. No wonder they were throwing themselves from the rocks, if only to be free for a moment.

I loved my family that was there, Augie March, Devilish Mary, the Curly Clan, Artist Transfers, Spaghetti Junction, the Committee Room and the shady hill. I can’t wait to get back to Woodford again, not despite but because of it all. There’s never been a stronger place for me.

Cheers
John