Ash Grunwald - Goes Off Mate !

... And so it was that he did come to the Clarendon and he did play upon his tin thing. Reflective guitar, that is, chrome dazzling twanging thang. Grunwald said he had just been asleep in his hotel room, so he was feeling "sooky" when he came on stage. It must have been an inspired sleep. The mountains Crowd, and not a few interlopers who had come to the mount for the sound of the riff, warmed in a flash. The surfing blues boy belted out his rhythms in a house electrifying gig. It was enough to make even the most staid bystander stop standing by. The clapping and stomping got loud, mate. The mic fell off his drum, he improvised and strapped it back together in a truely inspiring display of 'making-do'the antipodean way. He did not lose a beat. He gained some. And then more. The crowd stomped more. He is a down and dirty improvisor on stage. His shark song is a triumph of ideolect. If a shark had bitten off both limbs in the water he would play with his toes. [if you don't know what I'm saying then go see him] Throwing in his three bits worth between clarion twangs and metalic gruff. If there were pots there we would all have bashed along with him. As it was my hands were sore from clappin'. He had us all standing by the end. Strong persuader that he is. Energy in the altitude dark he was, thankyou ashman thankyou.

MtV.M

Ashok Roy

"May i sit !", enquired the venerable sarod player. Of course, i replied, with a joy reserved for occassions when the talented wished to sit with the awed. It was 5 minutes before the performance, and before stepping on stage the master musician came to take in the crowd he was to be playing for tonight. There were music loving regulars, mountain musicians (some of whom had played this room themselves but were now coming to listen), acolytes, katoomboreans, mistdwellers and vegans all smiled quietly in the dim light. Our anticipation was not to be let down. Ashok played as a man in control of his art.

The night started with sitar. Tabla joined for a fantastic accompanyment. The human prowess on display multiplied the joy of hearing it. Speed and precision was delux. The ladies on my left and right swooned in most unladylike fashion. When Ashok entered the set the night became an inevitable venue of mountains accord. Music like this belongs on the Blue Mountains. Not historically but spiritually. The quarter notes of the fretless sarod and the drone of the sitar are cosmological bretherin to the clapstick and the chant. They are from another musical heritage entirely to the eon long songs of the escarpement tribal lands, but with some humility on the part of the listeners they can open the mind to how exotic a place we inhabit and free us from the conventions of limited experiences in the mundane world of conventional listening habits. Somehow they ready us for hearing the music that has been lost. Anything that frees us a little from convention prepares us for listening to the unheard.

In it's own right the night was an evening of spectacular talent playing in an ancient land. And if it was my place to invite him to sit with us I would.
Mt.VM