Yesterday
was the launch of the City of the Blue Mountains annual nod to its glory days
in the 1920s, the portmanteau-entitled
“Roaring ‘20s and All That Jazz Festival” for 2013. Day One, after weeks of
desultory rain and atypical humidity, turned back to form and gave us truly
iconic ‘Mountains weather – freezing cold, fog and driving (though sporadic)
rain. Umbrella in hand, I tootled off to Leura to see the kick-off: the “Automobile
Picnic” and “Blue Mountains Charleston Challenge”.
I
left the train and hit the station platform which, but for colour, was an echo
of the last few scenes of Casablanca.
Pine trees were dripping and everyone disembarking was tensing suddenly, as if
they’d been hit with a bucket of ice-water. Needless to say it was the weather
neither for al fresco dining nor
open-air dancing, but nevertheless, there were many people showing up in their
flapper outfits ready to do the deed, albeit with an air of bloody-mindedness.
The guys had it relatively easy in their suits and waistcoats; the ladies, on
the other hand were at a severe disadvantage, kitten heels and beaded
mini-dresses not being known for their weather-proofing qualities. There’s only
so much drizzle a feather boa can take before it starts to shed drearily, and
the top end of Leura Mall looked like a chicken-plucking marathon had recently
taken place.
From
the top of the Mall we hustled our way down to where the action was to happen;
although, from this vantage, with the weather in full swing, the lower end of
the Mall was completely invisible. Somewhere ahead some boofhead on a
microphone was tongue-twisting his way through some attempts at creating cheer,
but the echo turned everything he said into gibberish (at this point in the
proceedings I was unaware that everything he said was gibberish anyway). The
steam-powered hurdy-gurdy pumping out “Rule
Britannia” from outside Megalong Books certainly didn’t help matters. I
decided that, festival or not, what I required was a coffee and warmth, so I hustled
south past the Volunteer Fire-fighters (performing marshalling duties and
First-Aid as required) and the many costumed attendees, being pointed at and
photographed by tourists. The lower two-thirds of the Mall had been roped off
as the dance area, so I skirted this ‘Charleston Zone’ and ducked into the
Wayzgoose Cafe for sustenance and warmth.
Inside,
the hurdy-gurdy was, thankfully, less shrill and, as I got outside a fruit
toast and a long black, I heard the MC muddle his way through the announcement
for the start of the practice-session for the dance-off. I joined a tide of
exiting patrons, reluctantly girding themselves for the bracing weather
outside, and I found myself a good position to observe. However, a sudden
renewal of the rain sent everybody ducking under the eaves and the practice was
postponed for another five minutes. I wandered over to Megalong Books and was
disappointed to notice that they hadn’t bothered to come to the party: I would
have thought that they’d have thrown a display of 1920s authors into the front
window, but no: the merchandising space was duly allocated to the Queen of
Simper and her new cookbook, “Nigellissima!”
Wondering
if this was an aberration, I set off up the Mall and checked the other shops: it
was a clean sweep – no-one had taken the effort to join in, although the Toy
Shop had hired a face-painter for the kiddies (I’m guessing face-painting was a
thing in the ‘Twenties?). The new trendy cafe hadn’t even bothered to open;
this in Leura, the Blue Mountains’ biggest tourist-trap on offer. As I got near
the Westpac Bank I discovered that the guy who sells Aboriginal paintings
outside on the weekends to raise funds for the local Darug tribe, was dressed
in ‘20s costume from top-to–tail: given that he’s barely an itinerant retailer,
he definitely put the rest of the retail community to shame.
I
took advantage of a break in the rain to get out onto the closed-off street and
observe the cars. This was what I was really looking forward to, and they
didn’t disappoint. These old motorcars had been restored to peak condition and
they looked fantastic parked along the kerb. I duly took shots of them all,
although getting close to the Rolls Royce was tricky: being the only car that
the tourists could recognise, they were swarming all over it like bikini-clad
blondes over a Maserati at Summernats. This was okay, since the Model-T truck
next to it was being relatively ignored and I had a good long look at it.
By
now the rain had held off long enough and the practice could begin. The
choreographer, Amanda, had appeared and everyone traipsed into the Charleston
Zone. There were some technical issues with Amanda’s head mic, but it turned
out that she had lungs like leather bellows and could hoof and holler at the
same time. We were slowly (spectators and participators) introduced to the quirks
and idiosyncrasies of the danse du jour
and much merriment was had by all. At a crucial point, the MC announced that
everyone taking part had to register at the tent on the top end of the Mall in
order that the event be deemed kosher
by the editors of the Guinness Book of
World Records, and this had everyone scooting away to sign up before the
practice could be kicked up a notch and a trial with the music attempted.
Amanda was somewhat miffed by what she must certainly have read as a lack of
support by the event co-ordinators.
Given
that the Charleston Zone was at best one-third full, I had distinct
reservations about the organisers’ belief that they would attain any kind of
record for massed 1920s choreography. I had a few minutes to get to the train
station to catch my ride so I decided to leave them to it. As I waited on the
platform the MC’s voice, boosted by the PA system, floated across the tracks:
“Ladies!
If you’re wearing a feather boa – throw it in the air! Gents! If you’re wearing
a hat – throw it in the air! Everyone! If you’re wearing underpants – don’t
throw them this way!”
This,
in a week where the First Bloke copped a raspberry for working blue at the mic
of a Prime Ministerial event, only proved that there are easily-absorbed
lessons out there to which many are fully resistant. Sad too, since it had been
the only coherent thought which he’d managed to verbalise so far without
mangling.
*****
So,
the festival has kicked off and it will run until the 24th of
February. Events are due to be held at The Carrington Hotel and the swanky
Avalon Cafe in Katoomba, as well as at many other picturesque venues: after
all, Deco is what we do up here! There will be speakeasies and ‘20s balls and a
series of jazz events: I’m seriously thinking of attending a talk with the
costumers and writers of the “Phryne
Fisher” TV series at the Carrington which definitely sounds interesting.
In
the meantime, if anything interesting occurs, I’ll keep you posted!
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