Well here we are at the famous Railway Club in Vancouver, where a model train rolls above and all around the club all night. A raucous show, with support act Joey Only and the Outlaw Band uploading a big, bouncy crowd who are all confirmed country rock and roll addicts as of now.
In particular a large chap named Steve, a plumber by profession, who had this tale to tell;
He was at Jericho Beach, near Vancouver last summer, with his girlfriend. They went out for a swim, and returned to the beach, which was deserted. On a rock just by their towels and clothes, was a cd, which proved to be The Re-Mains compilation. There was nobody in sight. Steve duly took the cd and played it at home. It is now on high rotation on his ipod and he knew the words to all the songs on it, though as he got drunker on Red Truck Ale his diction became less articulate.
One of the bargirls was from Perth, which explained why she sounded like a Kiwi. She was last seen leaping hysterically to ‘Folksinger Blues’.
We’re soon to take possession of the Canadian version of our new album ‘Inland Sea’, impeccably recorded out at Christian Pyle’s Lot 64 studios. If last night is anything to go by, they oughta sell by the truckload over here.

Last night in the capital we played the tiny Phoenix Bar with Hank Denfield, aka Den Hanrahan the singin’ shearer, not to be confused with Jeff Gibson the other singin’ shearer. Uncle Burnin’ Love and Sasquatch Elliott had opted, for family and finance reasons, to fly down and meet us in Melbourne on Friday, thus avoiding the onerous three day drive and potential vehicular mishaps such as have been known to occur on this dark and lonely stretch.

Hank hasn’t played with us in a coupla years but still managed to reach into the abyss and rip out a barrage of fine steel and gittar lines to prettify up such ballads, dirges, epics and emetics as we threw at him.

At halftime the Shake Your Money Maker crew of Adam Bell, Vanessa Barbay and Rob CanCan edificated us with some exquisite psychobilly, recalling phantom yores of that dusky reverb clang when it was all over the radio.
A small but lusty mob of onlookers drank pints, cheered and even danced in the miniscule recreation area front of stage and the Reverend Al Fisk’s mum was on hand to see her son’s fifth show with the band.

Today we drive south to Melbourne, just Jones and I. Into the inferno lands.

We probably won’t play the Phoenix Bar again. like many venues in this philistine country, it’s decided bands are making too much money off their backs, making punters slake thirsts at their expense or some who-how, and have cut the dividends they’re prepared to pay. That’s what kept us away from Tamworth this year, and that’s what will kill good original music in this country. Unless people are prepared to pay for what they want, you’ll just get the desperate and the covers of those who got through in the years before the crut and the gombeen took over for ever.

A lot of soft air up in Dorrigo. The morning after there were lost hats to contend with, vodka memories slinking in, the pack and the Lug. But beauteous hills were rolling away around us and there was that spring high-range glow.

The carnage had been considerable. A vicious melee down by the bar during ‘Motherlode’. Much hilarity and dancing, particularly in ‘Tequila and Methadone’. Three sets of maximum country rock and roll in this mountaintop RSL where The Re-mains had never played before. Fuelled by a particularly aggressive home brew prepared by my fellow columnist ‘The Loon’ and called, appropriately ‘Stupid’, we’d embarked on the night in high spirits.

Afficionados of the band had come from as far afield as Bellingen, Coffs Harbour and even Mackay to hear the latest tunes from the new line-up, comprising recruit Jason Caspen and the return of Uncle Burnin’ Love.

Afterwards we attended a soiree at the house of Danny, who’d provided the PA gratis. There we were provided with a bar of mythical proportions. A mystical glaze filmed over Jones’ eyes.

Things were less convivial in the morning. But it was Sunday, and Hawthorn had won the AFL Final. Not that I ain’t a confirmed Collingwood man, it’s just that I haven’t watched a game in months, and I missed this one too. But I get all nostalgic about the 70’s and that.

This week we head to Sydney and the Hunter Valley for a short tour, culminating at Gibbo-Stock in Nundle, near Tamworth. Here the likes of Jackie Marshall, Swaino, ex-Sydney stevedore/chanteuse and Gibbo himself, a notorious shearer with a voice like Caruso are gathering to rekindle the spirit of wherever we were last time we got together.

Heres a pic of us playin to 15,000 at the Big Valley jamboree the other day. And gettin jiggy by a lake near Ottawa.

One month in Canada and I’ve finally worked up the courage to drive. It’s not just that our vehicle of choice – a two tonne Chevrolet conversion van with a 350 V8 donk – has no power steering and pulls like a river, its that I’m frankly terrified of heaving to and finding myself in the wrong lane headed straight for a semi-trailer. I’ve done it before, in Toronto in a hire car and aged two years in five seconds.

But after four weeks of steering from the passenger seat I’ve acclimatised my mind to the idea that what’s wrong is right – I might run for Council when I get home.

After Curtis – that’s the Chevy, pulled us effortlessly over the Rockies, playing three shows on the way, he pulled into a Chevrolet parts shop in Calgary, and having previously flicked off a busted windscreen wiper a few k’s back, promptly expired. He needed a new starter motor, (split), a new battery, (cracked and bubbling) and a new alternator (completely dead).

But after these requisites were fulfilled he was back into the fray, and he’s now hauled us over 5,000 k’s, the equivalent of Sydney to Perth and then up to Port Hedland. After our experiences with Toyota vans, Curtis has become sainted, shrined and fetished – my mate Pedro from Bellingen is starting up a ‘Bring Curtis Home’ lobby group.

We’re now in Kitchener, presumably named after the mental bastard who sent Anzacs to needless deaths, but so far no-one’s tried to shoot us. They sure stare at us funny though – and they can’t understand our accents too well. It’s all in the vowels – our ‘a’ is their ‘i’ and our ‘e’ is anybody’s guess – thus Michael becomes either ‘Marco’ and Mick becomes Mike. Go figure, or, if you prefer, do the math.
They stare because, admittedly, we look like a band – funny hats, outrageous beards, outmoded or as we would put it, ‘timeless’ flared trousers. A guy actually collared us today in a carpark and asked us where we were from.

“I knew it,” he grinned. “You don’t look like you’re from here. Only an Australian would dress like you guys. Four denkam!”

Gigs have been mostly good and always well received – even in the wings and ribs restaurant where the promoter neglected to tell us there was no PA and we had to improvise, McGyver-like with amps and a mike stand made from gaffa tape, a coathanger and ockie strap – we played to about 10 people and sold nearly as many cds.

And in the big music cities -  Calgary, Edmonton, Winnipeg, Saskatoon we’ve been received like royalty. Canada is certainly ripe for a country rock and roll invasion – we’re getting major station radio airplay, TV time and our music is being used solely to promote two big festivals – we got promoted to second headliner at Ness Creek after our Saskatoon debut.

We’re getting return bookings too – enthusiastic publicans sweeping all aside to ensure we play their venues again – we even got rebooked after supporting a karaoke night.

We’ve been camping the last few days, saturated by heavy rains, inadequately prepared for elements or even outdoors, but unperturbed. I’ve personally spotted a bear, raccoon, several elk, deer, gophers, squirrels and a chipmunk with Tourettes.

Two more shows out here in rural Ontario, then we roll into Toronto for our NXNE showcase – a big deal.
A couple more city gigs then we’re being flown back to Edmonton for the North Country Fair, variously described as Woodford meets Nimbin Mardi Grass and Return of the Grateful Dead. Thence up into Quebec where we have a show in Ottawa and we’re going to visit Montreal even though we could’nt get a gig there – this bastion of French chique is supposedly impregnable to first-timers, maybe next year.
Then we start the long drive back West, with several more festivals and heaps more pub and club dates. I’ll try and write another bulletin but for updates feel free to check out www.myspace.com/countryrockandroll

Check out this review – from Rob Slack,  a journo in Sault Ste Marie

The Re-Mains hate the fucking Eagles. Fingernails  on a chalkboard, a fork being dragged across a plate, hate. There’s a moment in The Big Lebowski when The Dude gets thrown out of a cab for saying he hates the fucking eagles, and it’s my favourite scene in all of filmdom. With their vapid, dead fish-eye Southern Californian stares and their ability to make James Taylor sound like The Minutemen by comparison, the fucking Eagles represent that makes me crazy and crazy and angst-ridden about modern mainstream country. The crap that country radio has been pumping out for the last thirty years plus has been nothing more than one long extended version of “Hotel California”. As Mojo Nixon once said, “Don Henley is the anti-Elvis.”
Now, picture a world where the fucking eagles never found each other, never made music for elevators and grocery stores, never defamed country rock by taking both the country and the rock out of music. Nice isn’t it.

The Re-Mains are  from that alternate world. It’s a world where Dead Flowers by The Rolling Stones was a mainstream hit, where Townes Van Zandt is a household name, where Uncle Tupelo never split but Son Volt and Wilco still play and record. An alternate universe where every time you turn on the radio you can hear Kris Kristofferson and Corb Lund and John Prine and The Poor Choices and Elliott Brood and Cuff The Duke and Blackie & The Rodeo Kings. Willie P. Bennett is given a state funeral and The Perpetrator are given The Order of Canada. I will call that world Austin World and I will live their very happily, thank you very much.

The Re-Mains are the bastard children of Keith Richards and Wanda Jackson, of Jeff Tweedy and Bob Dylan. The are the war orphans left behind by Nick Cave’s murder ballads, by Johnny Cash’s evil seed. They are Willie Nelson’s outlaw country taken home and given a cold bath and a warm beer. They are the promise fulfilled by the union of Jack White and Loretta Lynn.

And they are Australian. Of course they’re from Australia. A country populated by folk who left Africa 50,000 years ago and hiked halfway around the world in only a couple of generations. A country colonized by criminals and outlaws. A country whose extremes make our extremes look like suburban fantasies provided by Sears. If kick-you-in-the-ass country rock is going to be perfected anywhere, it should be in the land of Vegemite and the southern cross.

Rolling Stone Magazine, which gave The Re-Mains’ Love Last Stand four stars, describes them as “Northern NSW country rock & roll hellraisers… combining a rootsy twang with inner-city smarts and genuine affection for rollicking, tumbling hillbilly sounds.” Someone else said “Think the Eels after a ten day binge.” I say the Re-Mains will kick you in the ass and leave you wanting more.

Six reasons to line up to see The Re-Mains:

1. Ballad of a Wrong ‘un – an amazing murder song, violent and mean. With the great line “He always wanted to be a star football player / But the poor guy had a build like Leo Sayer…”
2. The Dirt Farmer’s Gavotte. It’s just brilliant. Fred Eaglesmith should write a song this good
3. Othello’s P76. “If everybody sang like Pavarotti then we’d all sound just the same / But everybody does their best, beats their chest, and tries and tries again…” Yeah.
4. Day in The Sun. ‘Cause it is a piece of heaven.
5. They once killed a man. Really. They played for some shearers in the Australian bush who had been on a three day speed and booze powered bender. When The Re-Mains finished their set, the crowd wanted more. And so they kicked into ” A whole lot Of Rosie” and one of the shearers dropped dead of a heart attack. He was in his mid-twenties.
6. “Imagine a 70’s Holden which has been fanged, hooned, thrashed and cruised from one end of the country to the other, mainly on bad roads, never breaking down but continually having parts replaced as the long distances take their toll.” ABC Radio had that to say about The Re-Mains and I don’t really know what some of the words means (it’s like the Australians speak in code to keep the rest of the world guessing) but I think a Holden is a car.

And so it goes. I hate the fucking Eagles. I love The Re-Mains