EMMYLOU HARRIS AND THE RED DIRT BOYS
The Domain, Sydney
Saturday, January 8, 2011
By BOB SHORT
Share Sydney was once a tremendous trollop of a city. When US forces stopped off for R’N’R on their way to Korea or Vietnam, Kings Cross was turned into a magical, violent, frontier town full of bar fights and drunken revelry. Rest and relaxation was built on Rock and Roll but the pubs chucked out at ten. Down on the street, the kid goes down like a sack of shit courtesy of a wildly swung haymaker. He reaches to his back pocket but his opponent stares him down. “That had better be a sandwich you’re reaching for, coz you’re gonna eat it.”
Sydney was a party girl. She didn’t mind spreading her legs just so long as it was just for kicks. Radio stations used to shove bands on in the park and you’d head on down no matter what shit was on offer. The Angels on top of the swimming pool roof in Victoria Park? Thin Lizzy on the steps of the Opera House? Yeah, we’ll go down to that. It was always rowdy. The law stayed clear and no-one had ever heard of event co-ordinators and dinky little reflective yellow vests. There were big Flagons of piss venom wine. Men in long overcoats selling drugs in the middle of summer, makeshift pockets displaying a pharmaceutical department store. Hell, there was even the chance of a quick furtive fuck hidden in plain sight under a blanket. You’d go out in the afternoon because there was always the chance that something was going to happen somewhere. You wouldn’t go home until you’d wrung every possibility out of the day.
So what the fuck happened? When Sydney Mayor Clover Moore and her cronies throw a party in town these days it’s more like visiting hours at the local hospital. In the Domain, the dreary folk from the suburbs have been rolling in all day, setting up their territories and erecting their private fences. They go to one gig every year and this is it. They haven’t bought any new records since their 21st birthday. They set up their blankets and picnics tables and arm chairs. They put up their camera tripods and drink their “special” 12 dollar bottle of sweet white wine. Go back to your armchairs at home. Your special indentation misses you and you’ll be happier watching TV.
Worse still, huge areas have been roped off for this mythical beast, the VIP. Their deck chairs line the park, glistening in the moonlight. The dead are wheeled in and propped up. I scan their ranks to spot celebrities, industry people or any of the usual hangers on. Nope. I’m guessing it’s just sponsors and council workers (but none of the important ones – they’re off picking up the garbage.)
I go to the front five minutes before the show starts (the way you do when you go to gigs) and walk into a hail of abuse. I tell them what I think. Someone who has set up his own mobile television studio tells me that I’m a rude cunt. I tell him, yes. I am a rude cunt and better yet, the night is still young. I’m sure I’ll get ruder still. That shuts him up.
What is this thing about filming gigs from beginning to end? I don’t get it. Doesn’t anyone live in the moment anymore? Doesn’t anyone paste raw experience directly into their brains? Sometimes you can’t get near the front of the stage because of the sea of mobile phones held aloft. And everyone is watching their mobile phone instead of the band. What happened to dancing?
Why do we have to put a window between ourselves and our fun?It is the opening night of the Sydney Festival and the opening acts are beneath contempt. Paul Kelly gets his usual opening spot and one wonders if he has a single pair of pants left with knees intact. I’m thinking he must make a career out of arse kissing.
If Mr Kelly thinks playing this gig does his career any favours, even his ego must be put in place by the fact that the act that follows him is a cabaret bunch of ukulele players who really shouldn’t have been able to score a gig at the Lismore branch of the RSL.
So why have I put myself through this? I could have gone to see the Hits at the Excelsior. Well, I know this may surprise some readers, but I think Emmylou Harris is pretty damn wonderful.
Before she started hanging out with Gram Parsons, there were two kinds of music; Country and Western. After them, there was a third - even if this thing they call Alt is a beast of a fairly unspecified nature and one open to applicants of any hue. Emmylou possesses one of the most remarkable voices in popular music. She writes the most exposed songs you can imagine. The wounds still drip raw emotion. When she performs you have no doubts about what she has seen, where she has been, what she’s done and what she feels about it. Anyone who thinks her work is in any way “middle of the road” has not listened closely enough.
Her backing band, The Red Dirt Boys are more than a bunch of session players roped in for the money. They watch over their singer and adore her. She’s older now but still beautiful. I could say she looked frail but she kind of always did. The truth is, however, she’s not a mighty stage presence. Seeing her is more like catching a glimpse of some rare and fabulous bird in the trees. It is almost embarrassing to be caught watching her. She is almost too naked to bear. And still these beautiful, mournful songs keep coming.
She concentrates on material from her last couple of albums “Red Dirt Girl” and “Stumble into Grace”. The majority of the audience, as I’ve said, haven’t bought a record since the age of beta video and the eight-track tape. They chatter loudly amongst themselves especially during the quieter songs.
As 85 percent of the songs were slow and quiet I get to hear a lot of conversations between petrified old mummies who want everyone to know they have been there since three o’clock. I wonder what kind of idiot sits around for seven hours to see a performer and then talks all the way through it. Maybe they’ll watch it at home on video later.
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