“Come dressed as your favorite music sound, funk, soul, jazz, bebop, hard rock, whatever it is that turns you on bring it”.
Yes folks, on closer inspection, the invitation to party to the funky sounds of The Sneaky Weasel Gang in Pinjarra revealed that it was indeed not only a fundraiser, but fancy dress too.
It’s 8pm on Friday night and Patchouli Girl and I are driving in convoy through the darkness to attempt to catch the set that we are already two hours behind schedule to see. Three out of four of my children are asleep whilst wearing full “Emo-Goth-Rock” ish type garb [their choice, not mine] and smudging black 
eyeliner all over the Funbus in the process; Poetboy has gotten himself all into character and is blaring My Chemical Romance lyrics at me over the top of my beloved Triple J. It’s all starting to feel like a fairly bad idea to have attempted such a late night with five children in tow in the first place. Ms “Soul” (Patchouli) and Master “Country and Western” {SunGod) are in the car ahead of us, SunGod also catching some zeds whilst Patchouli fields calls from The Sneaky Weasel Gang’s management as to where on earth we are and how far away are we really?
I’m starting to feel like a bit of a let-down, particularly as I am not strictly wearing fancy dress…after a wholly conceited chat with Patchouli, I have decided that my usual style reflects my taste in music far more proficiently than a contrived outfit anyway and so I have come as, well, me. It strikes me that “me” doesn’t feel so impressive now that I am driving with my foot to the floor, in mild panic through the country roads of somewhere south of Perth.
On arrival at Redcliffe on the Murray, the heel on one of Patchouli’s shoes, snaps. This could have been the moment that we threw our hands up in the air and decided to turn around and drive straight back home, but frankly, we’re tougher than that; so we wake the children and smile winningly at the girls on the door who are gorgeously ooing and ahhing at the boys and their convincing slumber induced Emo-like strops and who sweetly inform us that we are on the guest list and we should just go right in. Fabulous. Thank you very much.
So we all danced our way through a set which by some miracle only just started as we weaved our way to the front of the venue. Things were certainly looking up.
Soul Sista
Patchouli was rightfully turning heads with her black afro and huge hoop earrings and set about cutting some beautiful shapes on the dancefloor. I was clearly not the only one who had noticed as she later won prizes for both “best dressed” and her groovy moves.
By eleven or so, even the excitement of wearing black nail varnish couldn’t hold the younger members of our party up on their feet, so it was time to drive half an hour or so to the next stop on our journey – a farm whose energy is so spectacularly calm, that it is a wonder that anyone can exist there on a full time basis without falling into a blissful coma.
As we pulled off the dusty red dirt road onto the property, the familiar shape of a large bonfire lit our path as the shadows of both our host and those guests whom were already fully ensconced, flickered, danced and welcomed us in. Breathing in the clear air tinged with woodsmoke, I couldn’t have been happier that we had not turned home when things had felt so wearing, just a few hours before. Not only had I witnessed the best set that I have seen the Sneaky’s perform to date (enough old stuff to keep us all happy and bopping away, blended with some amazing new stuff that I’d never heard) amongst a massive and friendly crowd, I was now here in the bosom of a tiny country town with a bottle of red, no phone signal even if I wanted it and some stunningly interesting people to while away the night with.
We spoke of our northward trip and thrashed out some details, warming ourselves by the fir
e and savouring the immense silence of the night and early morning. By morning light, our five interestingly dressed little dudes (complete with “morning after” make up) were awake and eating a breakfast of porridge beside the still glorious light of last night’s fire. In the cold of the morning, the porridge would have brought a welcome warmth, though Patchouli and I predictably opted for coffee and a trip to the local store for homemade cookies…
…as we left Dwellingup (not for the last time), my phone whirred into life and I made arrangements to catch up with some friends…the familiarity of which I will have to learn to live without whilst we are on the road. Here we go…
