Why do we do it every year?

The Queen’s Birthday long weekend is celebrated, in Victoria, over the second weekend of June and for all but one of the last 17(?) years I have been heading to the little Bellarine Penninsula town of Portarlington to attend the National Celtic Festival. I am not Irish, Scottish or Welsh, though my ancestry has strong Irish leanings, however we are talking four generations back, if not further, and nobody in my family has a musical bent.

I only attended my first festival because my boyfriend at the time was a roadie for one of the bands, yet I find myself returning year after year. It is permanently marked on my calendar. I organise my Saturday work shift months in advance so that I am free that weekend and I have been a volunteer for a number of years now.

I’m not the only one who returns to this festival every year. There are dozens of us who, even if it is just for one day, make the annual pilgrimage to Portarlington.

Why do I do it? Why do we do it? Why does this festival have such meaning to so many people?

As I edited a selection of the 1500 photos I took over the weekend (I’m a volunteer and an official photographer) the meaning of the festival became clear.

It means friendship.

It means dancing.

It means fun.

It means music.

It means singing.

It means sore feet and losing your voice.

It means learning that you can attend a festival on your own and not be alone.

It means magical moments such as watching strangers lose themselves in movement.

It means a room full of people of all ages and abilities dancing a jig or a reel with joyous abandon.

It means men in kilts and women in hand knitted beanies.

It means fiddles and bagpipes and guitars and flutes and harps and pianos and banjos…..

It means seeing four generations of the one family enjoying a weekend together.

It means finding your ‘tribe’.

It means hearing ‘Whiskey in the jar’ a dozen times and loving every rendition.

It means discovering new artists from Australia and overseas and becoming fans for life.

It means seeing cultures that seem to have no connection come together in music and love.

It means seeing the same faces from last year and being so delighted that they are there again.

It means having bands you know stop their set mid-song to have you take their photo.

It means watching craftsmen in action, passing on their knowledge of the old arts.

It means watching young musicians flourish and develop.

It means witnessing a room of adults sit in silent weeping as a gifted singer/story-teller hypnotises them with words.

It means knowing that we have history and traditions and stories and songs that mean something.

It means that I will be back there again next June.

 

 

So what if I’m in my car!!!

Before I get into the whys and wherefores of today’s blog, can anyone tell me why Flinders Lane is called Flinders Lane. Why doesn’t it follow the pattern of the other streets in the grid? It’s Collins Street then Little Collins, Bourke Street then Little Bourke. Shouldn’t it have started with Flinders Street then Little Flinders?

But I do digress.

The other day I was driving down Flinders Lane, heading out of my marvellous Melbourne after a full day of photography work…….

I’m going to digress again.

I can hardly say that I was driving down Flinders Lane because the traffic was moving so slowly I could have got out of my car and taken the above photo from a dozen different angles before leisurely returning to the driver’s seat and inching forward a few more metres.

Anyhoo………….

I was sitting patiently in my stationary vehicle when I happened to glance to my left and spot these two rough and ready buskers propped on milk crates on the footpath outside a cafe. There was so much activity around them, but they were oblivious to everything except their conversation and their instruments.

Fortunately for me, my camera bag was on the passenger seat beside me and all I had to do was whip out the camera, wind down the window and wait for the moment where I had inched forward enough in my car to get a shot that was as clear of the bicycles as possible.

So what if I was in my car. So what if I felt like I was some paparazzi. One does what one has to do to get the shot one wants.

Finally…… a reason to go to church

I am NOT a religious person, therefore, there are only certain things that will cause me to set foot, willingly, inside a place of religious worship. Those things are weddings, christenings, funerals and photo opportunities.

I can now add one more item to this list. Music!!

This year the organisers of the National Celtic Festival, in the gorgeous bayside town of Portarlington, managed to secure the use of St Patrick’s Church as an added music venue. And in their wisdom they scheduled one of my favourite voices to sing there….Gallie.

To be honest, I’d happily sit there all day listening to the man talk because I do have a fondness for the Irish accent, (I’d almost listen to him quote bible passages if he so desired.) but when he starts to sing……………

If one was to describe a premium Whisky would one use terms along the lines of ‘smooth and warming’ or ‘mellow and rich with a woody vibrancy’? I have no idea what a good whisky (or even a bad whisky) tastes like, but this man’s singing voice is ……………….

Ok…..I’ll try to describe it in terms I understand…… A good hot chocolate. Rich, but not overpoweringly so, warm, smooth, comforting, soothing, warming to the soul.

I think all churches should become good music venues. The acoustics are generally pretty good, there’s usually a little podium/stage to allow height for the performers, they have good lighting…………….

Take all the religious crap out of churches and I might set foot inside them more often.

That thing I like

So there’s this thing that I like to do.

A photographic thing. (Keep your minds out of the gutter please peoples)

I like to take a photo of the photo people are taking with their phone.

It started at the Night Market. All these random people with one arm in the air, phone in hand, camera app turned on, trying to get the best shot of the zig zag string of light bulbs………

Now I find myself doing it at art galleries and music festivals.

And the best bit……………

The person taking the photo via their phone usually has no idea what I’m doing.

 

How do you choose that ONE picture?

You may, or may not, have noticed that I have been a bit quiet the last few days. However, it has only been on the social media scene that my silence has been noticeable because I have been incredibly social over the past few days.

Victoria has been enjoying a long weekend courtesy of our reigning monarch Queen Elizabeth II. And the June Queen’s Birthday weekend means National Celtic Festival for me. (FYI….it’s incredibly ironic that this festival is held on this particular weekend, considering the animosity Scotland and Ireland have for the British Empire)

I had my volunteer hat on again. This was #14 out of 15 National Celtic Festivals that I have been to and I have been a volunteer for the last 8(?).

I love it.

The people. The music. The wonderful atmosphere. The unpredictable weather.

And this year I had an extra role. ………. as a festival photographer!!!!! Yay!!!!! So this year I got to play photographer with a real purpose. Not just for my own fun and enjoyment.

I wanted to tell you what I’d been up to, but I really had to think about the photo that encapsulated the festival, or at least a good part of it. I didn’t want to single out any band, musician or person. I wanted to create a feeling of the event.

Bloody difficult decision to make when you’re really tired after three late nights, three nights of unsettled sleep, four ling days, a long drive home and have over 1400 images to choose from.

But good golly gosh I’m happy with the images I took this year.

I hope you like this one.

When you get ‘that’ shot.

 

 

 

Is there anything better, for a photographer, than sitting at your computer, looking at the photos you’ve taken and discovering ‘that’ shot?

It makes your heart quicken and the skin on your body tingle.

To say that I am pretty happy with this shot is an understatement. I am stoked.  🙂

 

 

It makes no sense

Honestly, it makes no sense to me.

All in one year. David Bowie, Glenn Fry, Prince, Leonard Cohen and now George Michael. And they’re just the big ones that I adored.

These are not OLD men.

These are men who have created musical history with their voices, their instrumental skills and their incredible songwriting abilities.

It has been a tough year in the world of music. And there are five days to go. I’m afraid to think about who could be lost between now and midnight December 31.

Can somebody please tell me where my quiet weekend disappeared?

I don’t quite know how to get my head around the weekend I have just had. The weekend of the blank diary became the weekend that I was barely home.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not complaining, I just can’t figure out how it managed to turn out the way it did.

My extraordinary weekend wound up with me at a gig in Oakleigh listening to the incredible Gallie followed by an impromptu ‘let’s go eat Greek food’ at a wonderful place called Euro Bites a few minutes drive from the gig……all with a gorgeous girl I went to High School with, her lovely sister and her delightful young son.

As for the shortbread I was going to bake, the Xmas shopping I was going to do, the Xmas cards I was going to have organised, the DVD’s I was going to watch, the photo editing I had planned………… no stress. I’ve still got 6 days. 🙂

FYI….. I wouldn’t change the way my weekend turned out for anything. It was a bloody ripper. 🙂  🙂

A day of contrasts

Well they don’t come more opposite, yet they are so similar.

Sport and theatre. One played out on a sporting arena, the other played out on a stage. Both capable of bring their audience to the brink of despair or total exhilaration. Both loved by thousands, yet it is rare to find a devotee of one as devoted to the other.

I must be one of the rare ones. I am one of those few who love my sport and my theatre (especially musical theatre) and today I was able to indulge my passion for both. (Note to you single blokes out there: I love my sport AND my musicals)

This morning #1 son and I joined the thousands of devoted Bulldogs supporters who were able to attend the final open training session before the big game on Saturday. We proudly watched our brave, talented boys as they proved their fitness before the coaching staff.

Then this evening I drove into my marvellous Melbourne to delight in the magic of live musical theatre. I saw Matilda at the magnificent Princess Theatre. What a joyous show!!

Now I think I might just collapse into my bed. I am all ‘cultured’ out.

Working class boy/ Australian rock royalty

Tonight I was privileged to witness a legend of the Australian music industry hold a packed audience captivated, not by his music, but by his story.

When the boss announced that we were hosting an ‘In conversation with Jimmy Barnes’ event I was so excited I couldn’t wait to put my hand up to help out. The library needed to have its unofficial photographer present!!! And as a person who grew up listening to Cold Chisel and Jimmy Barnes I felt it only natural that I should be there.  🙂

Jimmy Barnes, who one might suggest is lucky to even be alive to even tell a tale, has written the first part of his life story. The man who made the status of ‘working class man’ legendary and honourable has written of his very working class childhood in his autobiography “Working Class Boy” and is travelling around the country talking about what was a not so pretty life.

What a tale this man has to tell. It’s not a unique tale. Sadly, it is a tale that was far too common back in the 40’s and 50’s. It’s a tale that is still common today. Alcohol, family violence, poverty, moving to a new country to start a new life……….

But is seems much more horrible when you hear that it was the life for someone whom you admire. Tonight those in the audience were enthralled and horrified by the memories of Jimmy Barnes. We were totally engaged and could have listened to our idol talk for hours. His gorgeous Scottish lilt certainly doesn’t hurt his story-telling.

This man is a tough cookie. Born in the kitchen weighing in at an eye-watering 14lbs, he has been dealt an interesting hand. He has survived his family, his own drug and alcohol demons and some pretty serious health issues.

I’m looking forward to reading “Working Class Boy” and will be putting my hand up again to be official library photographer when he releases the next instalment.