Blog entry Tuesday, January 21, 2025.

Posted by Hayden Category: Uncategorized

Wednesday January 15, 2025 started my first gig of the week at Mellar Park food truck event 5-8:30pm. 

Bibra Lake, Mellar Park – A Caffeine and Chomp Fest

I kicked off the evening with a coffee strong enough to wake the dead and a feed that could probably put them back to sleep. Armed with my trusty Maton Performer, I strummed away for what felt like a marathon – 3 1/2 hours of pure, unadulterated musical magic (or so I’d like to think). I made a decent haul, enough to convince myself I’m not just playing for the love of the art. By 10pm, I was more than ready to dive back into the sweet embrace of air conditioning at home, my guitar strings probably sighing in relief as I packed up to call it a night.

Mandurah’s Oysterbedz – Echoes of the Past

Friday, January 17, marked my return to the Oysterbedz in Mandurah, my first gig there since April 2023. I arrived around 4:45pm with plenty of time to set up and get the equipment in position for a 6pm start. They’ve spruced the place up with new renovations, leading to the hopeful expectation of better acoustics. Oh, how wrong we were!

The reverberation was so profound, you could start a note and go grab a drink while it played on loop. Imagine playing your heart out only to hear yourself not once, not twice, but ten times over in a bizarre echo chamber. It’s like the room decided to join the band, playing every note you’ve ever hit, all at once. Next time, I’ll bring earplugs or maybe a sound engineer with a magic wand. 

Nothing beats the warm, fuzzy feeling of having your mates show up to your gig. There was my old mate Frank Fleay, looking as timeless as a vintage whiskey bottle – the dude hasn’t aged a day since ’98 when we were slinging rural merchandise in Ravensthorpe! He was there for the meal, the pint, and the tunes. Then there were Shirley and Chris, my loyal support crew, proving friendship doesn’t fade like my guitar strings. 

Despite a few sound gremlins trying to sabotage the night, the gig was a hit. I packed up, hit the hay by 11pm, and was ready to tackle whatever Saturday had in store.

Saturday, January 18, 2025 – Dawesville Morning Markets. 

The morning started with an early wake-up call, the kind where the sun and coffee machine are your only allies. I mumbled a “G’day” to Meagan, who must’ve thought I was still dreaming. The coffee was a lifeline, preparing me for 3.5 hours of what I like to call “public serenading.” 

With my Bose S1 and Cube street amp, I was ready to take on the day. The air was a cocktail of estuary salt, coffee, and donut glory – my nostrils were living their best life. I strummed away, probably out-singing the seagulls begging for handouts.

The midday sun turned into a kitchen blowtorch, signaling it was time to pack up faster than a kangaroo on caffeine. Off to the Exchange Hotel in Pinjarra I went, where the crowd had been feasting on more than just food – they were stuffed and spirited. I provided the musical digestif, hoping my tunes would be the icing on their culinary cake. 

I was home by 7pm, enjoying the aircon and a relaxing beer, dreaming of the next day’s gig.

Sunday, January 19 – Madora Bay Morning Markets. 

Up at 5:30 and set up and back at it by 8:00am, I set up under the big tree, ready for another round of busking. The day promised to be a scorcher, but with my tunes and the shade, I was prepared to serenade the early birds and the sun lovers alike. 

I thought I’d mix things up by bringing out the big guns – the Gibson 335. But let me tell you, that guitar must have been made of lead because after about ten minutes, my shoulder was crying for mercy. It was like carrying a toddler who refuses to walk. 

I packed that beast away faster than you can say “chiropractor,” and out came my trusty Maton 808 performer. Ah, what a relief! It’s like switching from a heavy backpack to a feather pillow. With the Maton, I could play for hours without even needing a breather, giving me the confidence of a seasoned busker. 

As the sun cranked up the heat and the wind decided to join the party, I strummed away, thinking this would be another day of pocket change and smiles. But oh, how the tides had turned – or rather, how the market goblin, which definitely isn’t a real thing, decided to play a prank on me. 

For the first time in my illustrious busking career, I received zero tips. Not a single coin clinked in my guitar case. It was like I was performing in a vacuum, or maybe everyone had suddenly decided to go cashless – with their wallets, not their appreciation. 

Maybe it was the curse of the non-existent market goblin, or perhaps it was just one of those days where everyone’s pockets were as empty as my tip jar. Either way, I broke a record, but not the kind you’d want to frame on your wall. Next time, I’ll bring my own goblin repellent – or at least, a sign that says “Tips appreciated, even if goblins are not.”

I went for the rock ‘n’ roll vibe, thinking, “Hey, let’s channel some positive energy with this hip red floral shirt over my black jeans and singlet.” But boy, did I forget one key detail – the Australian sun doesn’t care for fashion statements. 

As I started playing, the sweat began its own performance, trickling down my back like I was back in the Pilbara, grinding away on pipeline construction as a TA. It was like my own personal reminder that some looks are better suited for air-conditioned venues than for outdoor gigs under the scorching sun. Lesson learned: Next time, I’ll leave the rock ‘n’ roll look to the cooler parts of the day or stick to breathable fabrics unless I want to end up looking like I just emerged from a sauna.

The Madora Bay shoreline was beckoning me like a siren’s call. There I was, mid-gig, casting longing glances towards the sea, imagining myself in my board shorts and rash vest, floating away from the world’s worries. Once the last note was played, I made a beeline to change into my swimming gear only to find one of my thongs (or jandles if you’re from across the ditch) had vanished into thin air.

So, there I was, mismatched footwear for the ages – one Blundstone and one double plugger, looking like I was about to star in a fashion faux pas documentary. But the beach beckoned, and fashion was the last thing on my mind.

I hobbled down to the water, ditched my eclectic footwear, and plunged into the ocean. Bobbing about like a human buoy, I kept one eye on the waves, half-expecting each one to bring a surprise guest – a shark. Because, in my head, getting taken by a shark seemed about as likely as hitting that elusive $30 million Powerball jackpot. 

Let’s just say, the ocean was refreshing, the swim was invigorating, and I survived to busk another day, all while sporting the most unique beach look Madora Bay had probably ever seen.

After my dip in the ocean, battling the waves and my own imagination, I made a mad dash across the scorching sand, which felt like running over a griddle. That cool shower post-ocean plunge was like a second baptism, washing away not just the salt but the very memory of near-shark encounters – or at least, the imagined ones.

With my skin now fresh and my spirit rejuvenated, I was ready to head to my next gig at the Pink Duck in Rockingham, set for the more civilized hour of 3pm. It was like going from wilderness survival back to civilization, only with a guitar instead of a spear.

As I was wrestling with my gear over the scorching tarmac, my phone decides it’s the perfect time to ring. It’s none other than Chris, my mate from the Oysterbedz gig. He’s down at the beach, helping a mate with his Jet Ski hire business. “Come say G’day,” he says like it’s no big deal. I’m thinking, “Sure, let me just set up the stage first.” 

Once I’ve got everything sorted at the Pink Duck, I dash across the car park, probably looking like a roadrunner. I get there to see a line of people, all geared up in life jackets, eager for their turn on the water. Chris is in the middle of it all, playing Jerry can refueler while bobbing on a Jet Ski. I yell over the water, “Catch you later, mate, you look swamped!” and scurry back to the restaurant.

Back at the Pink Duck, I’m greeted by what could only be described as a culinary delight- a steak sizzling on a hot stone, accompanied by a side salad and what I can only assume was a potato freshly forged in the depths of Mount Doom. One bite into that spud, and I’m pretty sure I could breathe fire. Instead of spitting it out, because that would be uncivilized, I inhaled air like I was trying to inflate myself, feeling the start of a blister forming. 

But, the steak? Absolute perfection, sizzling away like a gourmet’s dream. 

Just as I’m about to start my set, in walk Allan and Ros, friends I haven’t laid eyes on in nearly a year, and my ever-faithful supporter Shirley. With my mouth now cooled down and my spirits high, I strummed into my first set, feeling like I could take on the world – or at least, a few more sets at the Pink Duck.

Trolling for new song inspiration, I decided to throw the audience a curveball by asking for requests after each song. It was like fishing in a pond where the fish were all music critics. But then, I spun the random wheel on my iPad, and who should pop up but David Grey. Forgotten by me, but not by the universe, it seemed. Singing “Babylon” and “Sail Away” breathed new life into my performance, proving that even a seasoned performer can have an “aha!” moment.

Once the last note had faded, I packed up, feeling like an archaeologist after a dig, but instead of artifacts, I was carrying my musical gear. 

On my way home I stopped into Jarrahdale Tavern for a cheeky pint of Guinness. The place was so quiet, you could hear a pin drop – or in my case, the sound of my own thoughts. Steve and Tash were about to lock up, but they were kind enough to keep the lights on for one more round. 

After my pint, I headed home, knowing the next day’s rent inspection at 8:30am loomed like a dark cloud. I got to bed around midnight, the floor still wet from the mop, which made my room feel like a swamp but at least it sparkled.

This week’s blog, penned in the aircon bliss of Rockingham Library while waiting for my van’s new reverse camera to be installed. Because, let’s face it, there’s nothing like seeing what’s behind you, especially when you’re backing into a dark alley for your next gig. Here’s to new songs, old friends, and not backing into anything unexpected… except maybe new adventures. 

This has been my week, ending on Tuesday, January 21, 2025.

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