I'm really looking forward to this Thursday's show at the Lomond. I'll be sharing the stage with five other terrific songwriters, Bec Goring, Frank Jones, David Hyams, Anna Cordell and Mandy Connell. The theme for this month is "money" (which is timely as I don't have any) and the idea is that each of us perform three songs relating to the theme. Like a dutiful little song writer I looked at my current batch and figured that I had three songs that would fit the bill (kind of) but wouldn't it be hip and cool to write one. So I started, and waited, and waited, and waited....... still waited, and then gave up. A true case of writer's block if ever there was one. So I went back to the bushranger ballad I've been working on for the last 25 years and wrote another 38 verses, none of which will see the light of day should this song ever actually escape and be sung somewhere, when suddenly, I thought I'd better do the banking, logged on to my account and there it was... the song I'd been looking for.
I can't tell you what it is except to say I'm pretty happy with it and it's called "A Scented Lemon".
You'll have to come along on Thursday night (kicks off at 8.00pm and it's free folks!) to hear it along with the other two songs I reckon will pass muster. If they don't bring along some lemons and throw them at me... Which reminds me of my dear departed friend Neil Nicholas who had vegies thrown at him while singing a parody of the Ryebuck Shearer called "The Veggie Eater" at the Bush Inn down in Geelong in the very early 80s (or was it late 70s?). Apparently his Maton CW80 was destroyed by a well aimed carrot but that's another story....
See you there

Well, what a crazy few months it's been! I've done a few shows here and there with my good friend Suzette Herft and my old mate Danny Spooner (which have been great) but mostly it's been about renovating, painting and moving back into our home after 10 months or so living with Ann's parents (amazingly generous people and my mother in law is a sensational cook as my waist line will attest). But, we're back now and I have a music room and a shed so no excuses any more. As my father used to say "Patrick, it's time to set to".
So, a few things coming up but the one I'm looking forward to most is tomorrow night (July 23) at The Skylark Room in Upwey. A great venue and a ripper of an idea by the Writers' Patch. This is the first of a regular event where three songwriters perform together and talk about their craft, inspirations and anything else related to their songwriting. It's bound to be an interesting night. Doors open @ 6.30 so get in early if you can. It'll be a lovely way to spend a winter's night. Tickets are $10 on the door.
Hope to see you there....

Man, does it come around fast! Once again I'm packing the bags to head down to Port Fairy for the 40th Port Fairy Folk Festival. I don't like to dwell too much on the fact that this is something like my 35th or so (missed a couple in the 80's if my memory serves, and maybe one or two in the last twenty years through circumstances beyond my control ). It makes me start to feel a tad on the old side.
Speaking of which it's been downright depressing with the number of  brilliant musicians and performers shuffling off this mortal coil in recent times. It just goes to show you have to make hay while the sun shines. They did and Vale to them all.....
It's been a mad summer full of renovation and sundry other activities, none of which have much to do with music but the end is in sight and I'm really looking forward to getting back into some gigs and recording soon. I do have a few shows coming up including a couple of solo gigs , some duo shows with Suzette Herft ,a St Pat's gig with Ewen Baker and a bush dance with Emma Rodda and Gordon Tresider.  I'm really looking forward to getting back in the saddle. It's been far too long and there's nothing better than making music with good friends. Check out the upcoming shows page for details.
So, hope to catch up with old friends at Port Fairy and maybe sink a Guinness or three.
And, congratulations to Marcia Howard on being Port Fairy's Artist Of The Year for 2016! 
Here's a pic of Marcia, Gary Dalton and myself around 1989.
Cheers
Patrick
 

I can't say for sure that all of this happened, or that it all happened on he same day, or even the same year. It's funny how our memories tend to cluster into periods or even decades and I'm sure that we end up confusing things that we probably would have done with things we actually did do, not to mention the urban myths that arise in families when some memories become shared or even misappropriated.  I'm still arguing with Richard over which of us lived in the real "House of Angles" although I am prepared to concede it sounds like his turn of phrase and us songwriters are notorious thieves when it comes to these things. Anyway, let's take a trip back to December 25, 1974 (this'll do as the date most likely to fit the bill).
The sun shone bright that Christmas morning and the Evans children (all five of us) were busy playing with our exciting new gifts provided by loving grandparents and ignoring the practical gifts provided by our practical parents. There were the usual shrieks of anger from my younger siblings as I tried to show them "how to do it properly" or my sister Jackie attempted to organize us into some kind of game of which she was the boss. Then, as the sun rose in the east the ominous sounds of Dad's voice echoed through the house. "Come on children, it's time to get ready for Church". 
I was roped into this as at that time I was the only "server' or alter boy at St James Drysdale so I had no choice. Off I went to find my Sunday clothes from the bedroom. It didn't much matter what they were as they would be covered by my Cassock and Surplus (funny how I can still remember the names of those ridiculous garments) however I did need to look reasonable after church so muddy shoes and pants were not appropriate. 
My brothers and sisters, on the other hand, had no official duties and hated church with an intensity that I was reminded of years later when taking my dog to the vet. As the word "church" reverberated off the large plate glass windows of the sun room the back door slammed shut as the last sibling escaped out into the wide world in a desperate attempt to avoid the hour of stultifying boredom they knew awaited them. Some climbed up the pine trees that lined the back yard. Others, a little older and more courageous, made it down the dirt track at the back of the yard that led to the beach, sliding down the coverage of pine needles and rabbit droppings on the bottoms of their trousers looking for a hole in the box thorn bushes they could escape into and hide.
It was all to no avail. One by one my mother found them and hauled them up into the Combi Van where Dad and I were sitting, engine idling, waiting to start the two mile journey to St James' Anglican Church, Drysdale. It must have been a rare sight, the Evans clan arriving at church with Dad dressed in his suit, Mum in her dress but still slightly puffed after chasing her offspring up and down the steep slopes of Clifton Springs and four little kids, still covered in sticks, spider's webs and with the odd open wound inflicted by a stray box thorn. I went around to the vestry door and went in to greet Father Donnelly, a small red faced man who had partially retired but was still conducting services in this parish while the search for a suitable incumbent continued. I put on my serving garments and got on with the job of kneeling and day dreaming while the service got underway. 
There is nothing quite like the drone of a half engaged clergyman reciting the text from the King James Bible and the Book of Common Prayer. The only thing quite as boring was the reciting of Latin declensions and conjugations I was to endure over the next couple of years at Geelong High School. It is fair to say that I learnt absolutely nothing from either of these experiences except for the ability to switch off and let my mind go where it will, still a useful technique in airport lounges and doctor's waiting rooms. 
As the service came to a close and the last quaky notes echoed from the mouse eaten circuits of the old church Hammond organ our spirits began to rise. This was the best (or least worst) thing about church. The feeling of release as we came out of the old church building and into the sunlight, blinking as our eyes adjusted to the light and our souls adjusted to the new found sense of freedom, was euphoric. There is a particular sense of community and joy among local parishioners as they mill about the front of the church after a service, especially if the turn up has been good (which usually means Christmas and Easter). I remember one of my Dad's old mates contrasting this to the sneaking out, faces hidden, of the audience leaving an adult cinema. I never really did get this one.....
Dad was particularly enthusiastic with his season's greetings this Christmas, partly, no doubt, due to his relief at having managed to get his family there and through the service relatively unscathed. It was a beautiful morning, God was in his heaven and Christmas lunch on the table. Having shaken hands, kissed cheeks and exchanged appropriate salutations he climbed back into the van where the rest of us were already seated and buckled up, anxious to get back home and get on with the real Christmas, meaning a trip to the grandparents, more presents and lashings of ham and gravy. The engine started up, coughed and spluttered into life and Dad swung the van back ready to head through the church gates and back home. CRUNCH!!!!! The sound of breaking glass and crunching metal brought us back to the here and now. Dad had reversed straight into a Hillman that had been parked by a little old lady in her hurry to get into the service on time.
"Bloody Hell!" Dad shouted. "What stupid idiot left that there?" Actually the language was a bit more colourful that that. Dad could swear like a trooper when he wanted to but for the sake of politeness we'll leave it at that. 
I don't remember the aftermath of this event but I would imagine he had a fairly frosty Christmas day after the incident and as I recall there was no further compulsory church going from then on. I sang with Dad in the choir at St James for a few years later on which I really enjoyed and learnt a lot of my musical heritage during those years. "Alleluia Moves Me Still" is a song about those times. I've posted a demo version of it here. So, Happy Christmas and I hope you have a wonderful New Year.
See you soon.
Patrick

Some time in the mid to late 70's I had the strangest dream. For some reason The Beatles (yes, John, Paul, George and Ringo) came to visit my parents at our rambling old house in Clifton Springs. It didn't matter that they'd been disbanded for seven years, or that my parents didn't have that much of an idea as to who they were, let alone move in their circles. It didn't matter that at that time Clifton springs might not have been the arse end of the world (though you could have definitely seen it from there), no, for whatever reason in my teenage brain they rolled up and were sitting on the old home made couch in the study (most presentable room in the house). I guess it wasn't so strange. My Dad had all manner of well known political figures drop in from time to time and I well remember sitting around the edges of these long conversations, listening late into the night to stories of political intrigue and the goings on behind the events we heard on the news and read in the papers. To this day I never believe half of what I hear in the media. A valuable lesson in life I believe, always look for the hidden agenda.
Anyhow, I digress. I can't remember what was discussed in this dream and I can't imagine (pardon the pun) my Dad and John Lennon agreeing on anything much, except maybe for being original thinkers, but I can still see them vividly, sitting in a row in their White Album clothes sipping a polite cup of tea.
The Beatles were far and away my main musical influence and inspiration. Quite why I still haven't been able to work out. I was four when they released Sergeant Pepper and they were all over by the time I was eight. I dimly remember singing Yellow Submarine in primary school and seem to recall "She Loves You Yeah, Yeah Yeah" but in our house we listened to 3LO or 3AR and had no television so I grew up listening to Sentimental Journey and The Goon Show, oblivious to the frantic youth culture that was happening all around me (apparently). I made myself a crystal set radio in Grade 4 and that was my main connection to the media until Dad bought us an orange transistor radio in about 1975. Then I discovered 3XY and the top 40 and all that crazy stuff. I loved it at first (The Sweet were my heroes) but was introduced to the Beatles by Max Staines, a lovely English chap I worked for during the school holidays, laying tiles. Max played me an album or two, I bought the Rock and Roll album (a compilation put out in 76ish) and I was hooked. When Dad bought me my first guitar (a Goldtone from Kerly's Auction Rooms) I borrowed a Beatles song book from Rob Doole and played till my fingers bled, night after night. When I wasn't practicing I was at the record player, lights switched off, playing the albums all the way through, listening to every little nuance and imagining myself as part of the band. 
As for the music of the time, I was aware of it but I really wasn't interested. The Beatles led me to the Stones then to Muddy Waters. to Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee, to Pete Seeger to the English folk singers and on to Irish music and jazz. In short, they were my window to the musical world.
Cut to 2015 and here I am driving around Melbourne with my nine year old daughter Sofia begging me to play The Love album again. She told me recently that she liked the Beatles much more the "pop music" and that it was partly my fault. I really haven't tried to influence her. I think it's just that she's becoming a fair musician and her ears are attracted to the same sound and harmonies that mine were all those years ago.  I think she loves the stories and the characters in the songs as well. When she was quite young she was absolutely fascinated by the girl in "She's Leaving Home" and wanted to know more about what happened. 
I guess the reason I have spent most of my working life in the guitar business can be directly attributed to them. My fascination with song writing definitely can. I think I still consider John and Paul as the most brilliant writers in modern music (if you can call fifty year old music modern).
I could go on but many have said it better. Many of my friends have similar stories of how the boys from Liverpool changed their lives forever. What a brilliant legacy!