Day 3 of the Tauranga Arts Fest began with what could only be classed as the mildest of hangovers and a sleep in. Amanda and I had clearly enjoyed the wine from the previous evening a little too much. After gathering my thoughts and posting Day 2's blog, I was collected by family and whisked off to the street theatre on The Strand.
We stopped at the eclectic crowd gathered around Whip Cracking Noodles Man whose humour cleverly disguised his attempts to crack a handful of dry spaghetti from his assistant's grasp. She didn't flinch. I wondered how much danger money I’d demand if I was her.
Upon returning from lets go all out and devour delicious desserts, we came back to the dance crew from Hullapolloi. They weren’t in coloured Lycra, but they did perform some cool dances when a rehearsed flash mob entered. I’m a fan of flash mobs. Aunty Di joined in, as my cousin filmed it. This was going to be ‘gold’ around the Christmas table.
Later I came back to the Pacific Crystal Palace, like a homing pigeon.
Outfit: Inspired by the senorita music of last night, a floral David Pond skirt and black cowl neck top that I had purchased 10 years ago.
Shoes: Dangerously high black stilettos with peep toes.
I was a dash late for Liam Ryan and friends, as I sat at the last empty booth right next to the stage. It was almost as though I had a curtain view from backstage where I could really see what was going on. A fringed mat that could’ve belonged in my Nana’s house 30 years ago cushioned the drum kit. An old brown music suitcase that revealed its past with its scratched ‘Fragile’ sticker stood proudly in the background. A solitary pickle looking suspiciously like a poo stared at me from under the table.
The jazzy musical arrangements were all composed online, as tunes had been emailed and their first practice together as a band was in fact yesterday. It was a sounds cape of ambient music that was classy and smooth. One dancy intro conjured up an image of a 50 year old driving off in his mid-life crisis convertible, with his comb-over flapping in the wind.
I had become a recent jazz fan and was pleasantly surprised. Greg the Director revealed his flute playing skills. My only knowledge of the flute was that it was the sister to the dreaded recorder and the bad primary school memories of selecting one from a bucket of disinfectant. I didn’t realise jazzy flute ever existed. I left for the Repertory Theatre feeling revived. If I ever got married again, I’d want Liam Ryan and his mates to play live in the background.
I was curious about the play Drowning in Veronica Lake, as I had only recently heard of her from the research for my Old Hollywood Glam birthday party. The opening scene revealed a costume that dripped with old fashioned sex appeal and clothed the entire stage floor. It was a one woman show most aptly named as the actress was limited in movement, with the humanness of a silver screen starlet stripped back and handed to you in raw pieces. Amid the humour, you felt sorry for Ms Lake as the actress made it all appear so real and now. Taboo issues such as alcoholism unwrapped and presented to you, like the family cat leaving half a dead rat on the front porch. I want to applaud the actress for her ability to convincingly switch from character to character. It definitely has left an impression on me.
Amanda had bought some more sensible shoes for me to slip into. I had forgotten that over the years the stilettos had stretched and that mile-high wedges would be a better option. Thank all the holy cows in India that she did, because as I slipped back into Antonio Forcione & Andriano Adewale’s concert again, I was only left with standing room.
It wasn’t a secret; I had fallen for the music. It was like an affair that kept beckoning for more. I actually wanted to package up the musical duo and display them as a permanent fixture in the lounge at home, performing on demand. I’d build them a fort out of couches and cushions as payment.
As promised, Forcione had worn a different shirt. The music was even more intimate on your own. The graceful hands of Adewale, cleverly changing sounds at the flick of his agile wrists. I could hear the songs speaking to so many different people. I imagined it would be perfect for lovers, hand in hand. I pictured my late husband there, embracing me and becoming even more passionate about his other wife – the guitar.
Another day of the Tauranga Arts Fest draws to a close. I cannot express how much the experience is in fact worth it. People have paid hundreds of dollars for rugby matches and here we have high calibre culture for under $50.
Drowning in Veronica Lake’s last show is on tonight (Sunday 23rd) at 7pm. I promise you’ll be out in time for the rugby!
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