We had a great time in Sydney last weekend. For the first time since arriving in Australia, the city seemed to agree with us. Traffic was manageable, the weather was good, we actually managed to find some restaurants that we liked and generally enjoyed being in the city. We stayed in the smallest and most inventive hotel room ever. The bed, desk, bathroom and fridge were all creatively placed in a space the size of our dining room. Very impressive.
On Saturday evening we found a great place to eat on the wharf that served a wide array of James Squire beer on tap. We wanted to try them all, but only managed to get through a couple of pints.
The lowest moment of the entire weekend took place when we arrived at The Basement – the venue where Hawksley Workman was performing. Downtown Sydney is a snobby place at the best of times. Having experienced the dress code regulations at a few clubs on previous occasions, Phil and I made sure we were dressed nicely for the concert. Closed shoes, no sandals, no tank tops, no track pants. Cool. I had already purchased tickets and as such didn’t think the club could refuse us entry. Especially for a folk-rock concert. But apparently Phil’s nice shorts were not suitable attire and the bouncer wouldn’t let us in. He even refused to negotiate, despite the fact that we had traveled 500km just to see the show and people were allowed in the club wearing dirty jeans, sandals and even shorts – but only if you were female. At a loss since Phil hadn’t brought a single pair of pants with him to Sydney and no shops were open, we sat down outside the club where I cried more than a few tears of frustration. Once I had regained my composure, I went back to ask the bouncer if I could get my tickets refunded. He must have felt guilty because he decided to talk to the manager and sheepishly came back to let us know that we could go in after all. All that fuss for nothing.
My mood was completely ruined, but Hawksley fixed me up. I have been a fan for years but never had an opportunity to see him play in Canada. The wait was worth it. He played for a solid two hours, belting out a mix of old and new songs. His on-stage banter was hilarious and painfully Canadian. It made me ridiculously homesick to listen to his stories of snow, Toronto and canoeing. He was quirky but charming. And insanely talented. Singer, guitar player, pianist, drummer, producer, writer extraordinaire. I only wish I could catch a few more shows before he leaves Australia. And maybe see him in a less uptight club!
www.hawksleyworkman.com
Sunday was a blur of markets, shopping and the traditional trip to Ikea. We didn’t get home until nearly 10pm after getting caught in some really freaky weather outside of Orange. As a result I spent most of this week trying to catch up on sleep and am desperately awaiting a quiet weekend.
