Graham Chaplow.
In 2004, at a Blues cabaret in Austin, Texas, my wife and I watched a stooped old geezer on a Zimmer frame struggle upstairs to his table.
Mid-set, with top Austin Blues guitarist W.C. Clark in full flight, he was up dancing, his Zimmer frame surplus to requirements, upturned and discarded beside his chair.
"That'll be you when you're his age," said my wife; a prophecy she still finds amusing, but one I can't foresee happening here.
God willing that Zimmer frame might not be necessary; not that HB District Health would fund one chic enough for my style (with psychedelic frame and marshmallow tyres). And not that the Zimmer frame's the problem, either; it's the venue where this Zimmer-free dance might occur.
My father was the piano player in a popular 50s dance band, Snow Chaplow's Rhythm Rascals. They played the dance hall circuit across Hawke's Bay. I spent my formative years hanging off his piano, spellbound watching hundreds of dancers dressed to the nines singing and waltzing to the popular dance tunes of their day. I was taught the Foxtrot, the Gay Gordons, and at school dances where the band sometimes played, I learnt to Twist, too.
In 1968, my wife and I saw The Who and Small Faces at the Wellington Town Hall. Ushers, freaked-out by the noise and mayhem, deserted their posts mid-matinee, granting us access to see both shows. It was sheer bliss. No dancing, but so dynamic we stood agog, utterly in awe.
We planned our Big UK OE around seeing both bands on their home turf. In 71, we purchased a tent, sleeping bags and cooking equipment from Millets in Yorkshire and set off to the Weeley Pop Festival near Clacton-on-Sea. The Faces, with Rod Stewart then on vocals, topped the bill. Hippies, after fending off chapters of Hell's Angels with metal pipes, badgered us for food. They built straw bivouacs and lit fires to keep warm. Their fires set our field alight forcing us to pack our tent into our rusty Cortina and check into a seaside hotel similar to Fawlty Towers. Old ladies on walkers scowled at us over bifocals while gumming their toast and jam.
In London, at the hallowed Oval cricket ground, at a concert organised by George Harrison to raise funds for Bangladesh, The Who and Faces topped the bill once more. Hippies tripping on free LSD begged us to share our Kiwi cut lunch and orange cordial. By the end of the night we were ankle deep in hippie vomit, standing on scavenged Coke can stacks to see. It was glorious. But my days of replicating concerts such as these are long gone. Back home, we attended shows at Western Springs by The Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, Fleetwood Mac and David Bowie. Sweetwaters and its ilk weren't our cup of tea.
I prefer artists and bands who are, or remain (Dylan, Neil Young), relevant. Acts either too huge or alternative for our neck of the woods, but who often stop off mid-tour in our main cities.
I'll go to shows at the Cathedral or Municipal and Century theatres (Marlon Williams, Neil Finn, Lloyd Cole), or make the occasional pilgrimage to SXSW in Austin, or to smaller gigs in Wellington, at the St. James, State Opera House or clubs off Cuba St.
Anywhere to be among like-minded music aficionados there for the music, not for an event. And not there to get sozzled, talk over the band, or record the entire concert on their phone (negating the reason for being there).
Somewhere where there's no chance of getting wet (a multi-purpose stadium not a velodrome).
Wellington's where my Zimmer dance will likely occur. Not at The Mission (on the skids like the Sevens since its BYO ban) or Black Barn (with its scrappy pre-loaders); nor, sadly, The Cabana: once the best live music pub in NZ, ruined by patrons who drink to outshout the band - an annoyingly unique homegrown trend; why more and more budding Zimmer-free dancers opt to dance faraway from home.
- Graham Chaplow is a retiree, volunteer teachers' aide and award-winning writer.
- Views expressed here are the writer's opinion and not the newspaper's. Email: editor@hbtoday.co.nz