When the Pigeon Can’t Make it Through

Blessings, Betty here,

Our apologies at the lack of post during our recent and final excursion into the volcanic wonderland. Our pigeon flew the coop in search of riper berries and a springtime missus. But the musically drawn opossum (scratching at the french door like a drugged monkey) was his stupid friendly self, while somewhere down in the gully, Porky the Wild Pig woke from his resting place in the old 1950′s Humber to break squeals into dark nights.

And dark they were for the first few days. It seems between when we left last time and arrived this, something surged the power and most of the lights were out. And blew the oven. And subsequently left us bereft of both hot water and cold. But good old Rob at DOC to the rescue and the kinks were ironed out in a jiffy. We really didn’t mind being smelly for a few extra days. In fact, we’ve grown to expect it.

Linesman for the County.

Plus, the linesman came to visit and Billy got excited.

I learnt amongst other things to relish running water and cut myself a fringe, while Billy got a sore back from all the computer-hunching and grew himself a beard.

But together we completed what we set out to achieve within the first stage of this Wild Creations project: a new album.

Although there’s still some way to go between now and when you can hold it, we’re fairly chuffed with what we’ve got to work with – 12 tunes all written and recorded in situ. Personally I’m looking forward to the design phase, while Billy’s eager for the mix.

Betty and Fringe

We’ll keep you posted as we start airing the songs to willing ears.

Oh, and before I sign off; congratulations to Rob and his partner Georgie at DOC, who during our stay had a baby girl. And although we were unable to perform at the birth, are still quietly stoked at her name – Billie.

Let’s hope she doesn’t grow a beard.

Billy and Beard

Although if I dare say it Billy – you do look smashing.

B x

Steaming

Yesterday on our return from town to collect supplies, Billy and I revisited the Buried Village, Te Wairoa, to peruse the books for purchase. The locals there have been nothing short of obliging and seem genuinely interested in our endeavour. Finally found R.F Keams’ tome ‘Tarawera’ – bible-like in weight and volume – but with a price tag of $245! I’m afraid our adequate but hardly luxurious stipend will not cover such outlay. It really is such a handsome book with large photographs reproduced in both colour and black and white. After our book-buying disappointment, we were kindly offered to tour the remains of Te Wairoa again – this time with a guide called Kiri. Her nature amiable, her manner warm Kiri was a wealth of knowledge. We both agreed she was quite beautiful, and the impression she made upon us is a lasting one. And would you believe it, she is a direct descendant of the Tohunga (a Maori medicine man, priest and seer) Tuhoto Ariki, who after the eruption was deserted in his whare buried to his neck in mud. The villagers of Te Wairoa refused to touch him, believing it was he who caused the catastrophe. It is thought Tuhoto was 100 years old, although Kiri informed us he was actually 110! Some four days later, European rescuers dug the Tohunga out of his internment, and to their amazement, found he was still alive. We can only dream of such fortitude. However, this only served to strengthen the fear of his voodoo and reluctantly he was taken to the European sanitorium above Ohinemotu. There, a poor young doctor (who none-the-wiser) washed and cut the Tohunga’s hair. In Maori culture the hair and top of the pate is most sacred, and it is said the old man died soon after the offence. To add further mystery, the doctor who cut his hair died himself, just days later.

Isn’t it fascinating? From characters Maori to Pakeha, Missionary to Surveyor the entire Tarawera region is steeped in such songwriting fodder.

Billy and I returned from our extended jaunt home to our little whare, of which we are both becoming gratefully endeared. We shall both miss it so, and upon our return to Wellington will go about our days with bated breath until our imminent return.

This clement April morning, the sun streams so brightly I fear smudging ink on the page while Tarawera looms lake-side – the colour of a bruise against the sky.

With warmest regards,

Betty x

Omen or Superstition?

Betty here. Yesterday Billy and I took ourselves just down the road, firstly along the lake shore where we discovered an unmarked grave To do: find someone who knows who/what /why grave and then to New Zealand’s oldest tourist attraction, The Buried Village. You may have childhood memories like Billy’s: of the old water pump (prop for photographic evidence of a boy growing through decades), or of the semi-emerged Whare, suffocated by mud and ash that spewed forth courtesy of the Mount Tarawera Eruption in 1886. A lovely guide showed us around and rather surprisingly Billy and I managed to while away an easy three hours which included a Devonshire tea replete with whipped cream. Simultaneously sated and tickled, we headed home; a song was coming on. 

There’s no doubt this place is beautiful. Perched above the lake with views of bush without a house in sight it’s difficult to not feel blessed. Except when the freaky shit starts to happen. And the imagination runs riot. Then you’re just thankful you’re blessed otherwise all the ghosts here might think it’s party time. This area and it’s people are very superstitious and stories abound of preemptive signs and omens prior to the mountain blowing its brains out. These stories became our musical fodder last night as we nutted out a tricky wee song, All Mountains are Men, written on omnichord and guitar. It relays the premonitions of the famous guide Sophia (pronounced So-fire) as she paddled tourists across the lake to the world-renown Pink and White Terraces. From cursed honey to a phantom canoe, ‘All who of eat of that honey’ said she,’ are sure to die’ and they did. Those who refused the honey survived the eruption. Fingers crossed Billy and I survive our own eruption, a creative one. So far the weather has been gentle, the people friendly, but alas, the water cold. I believe we may be starting to smell. Good thing we’re in the Rotorua district.   

  

  

Arrival

Greetings, it’s Billy. Well. We’re here. Here, is Lake Tarawera. Rosy Tin Teacaddy is undertaking a Wild Creations writing residency, compliments of the good folk at Creative NZ and the Dept of Conservation. This is six weeks ensconced in a wee cottage over looking the lake, where we plan to write and record a new collection of songs based on our experience, the land, the people and the stories we find – and make up. We feel pretty lucky for the opportunity.

We’ve decided to split the six weeks up into three, two week blocks spread out over the year. This first stint is mainly dedicated to devising our stage show playing at BATS theatre May 19 to 22. We kind of roped ourselves into that too – which is proving fruitful in itself, by the fact that one informs the other. The show and the album project have become parts of the same thing. The show almost the springboard into the project as a whole, the slap in the face.

The cottage is empty save for two desks, two mattresses, some cooking equipment and all that we’ve brought. The hot water isn’t working yet, so we’re hoping to get that fixed soon. We have come somewhat perfectly prepared, a little knowing here, and some unknowing there – there will be some threads to follow and some surprises to unveil for certain.

The thing is, we’ve hit the ground running. You’ve not heard from us much lately perhaps, possibly because we knew this excursion was in the pipeline (but more likely from shear laziness). Now, we’re here, and we’re very much hoping to keep you in the loop with how things are progressing. Our updates may be intermittent, as we are without regular internet access, but the odd trip into town will allow an upload from time to time. Goodness! We may even bestow the odd photo or two. Heavens! We might actually throw you some demo recordings once we get cracking. Regardless, rest assured that we are terribly excited, for it is our intention to connect with the tales this environment has to offer and to deliver the next installment in the story of Billy and Betty.

Super.

Tour tour snow snow tour tour snow.

Yep, well she’s a nippy one in Welly today, but nothing as fearsome as the minus 6 in deep South. That same deep south that awaits our pearly little extremities to set it’s icicles into.

Yes. Billy and Betty are hitting the road for a revue-style tour.
Should be fun. Got some grand music pals who promise so snuggle up to us in their sleeping bags and not fight over the stretch of random carpet we may be sharing.

Auckland’s Broken Heartbreakers and Bond Street Bridge are joining us as are Lyttelton Harbour’s lonesome road dogs The Eastern.
The concept is simple: each band promises a short yet swaggering set of their bluest ballads, then they join each other in a celebration sing-along of heartbreak and hope.

The Slow Song Revue traverses the country over New Zealand’s coldest months offering shelter from storms both meteorological and personal.
Here are the dates. We sure would love to see you on the adventures!

SLOW SONG REVUE TOUR
 
24 Jun 9pm WHAMMY BAR, Auckland
25 Jun 8pm ST PETER’S HALL, Paekakariki
26 Jun 8pm THE BOATHOUSE, Nelson
27 Jun 8pm FRANK’S CAFÉ, Greymouth
28 Jun 8pm MONSOON BAR, Franz Josef
29 Jun 8pm DUX de LUX, Queenstown
30 Jun 8pm BLUE DUCK LODGE, Milford Sound
2 Jul 8pm CHICK’S HOTEL, Port Chalmers
3 Jul 8pm GOODBYE BLUE MONDAY, ChCh

Review number two

Hey, Billy here.

Another positive review of our release gig at Mighty. However, please read my disclaimer after the review.

Enjoy.

Live at Mighty Mighty, March 4 2009
Reviewed by Sophie Schroder
Capital Times (March 11, 2009)

What’s in your teapot?

Sobriety wasn’t top of the to-do list, but Rosy Tin Teacaddy pulled the gig off anyway.
In a live homage to their new album, The Homeward Stretch, Teacaddy played the songs in the order they appear, adding moments of insight in-between.
They set the scene of one particular mushroom trip, which spanned three songs, starting with ingestion, and ending with a bike ride in the park.
We learnt that catchy Bangers and Mash was in fact a tribute to German cannibal Armin Meiwes.
The audience didn’t lose their appetite for good music however, and the poetic sound of Billy Earl and Betty Grey harmonising to a gentle violin and cello made me forget the ironic and sometimes raw lyrics.
The affair was full of great music, lots of laughs and more than moderate drinking.
“Can someone get me a f***ing whiskey,” a jovial Earl shouted towards the end.
Stiff drinks and folk music must mix – the encore was a killer.

Yeah. So. To clarify. A great review, but Sophie intimates that the gig was some kind of alcohol fueled orgy, which isn’t quite true. Although yes, it’s fair to say, Betty and I enjoy the odd tipple and I’m sure by the standards of some government health department we’re both raging alcoholics. That aside, on the night, I had precisely three drinks. Okay, four drinks. A small glass of Pinot Noir when i got there and a Macs ‘Sassy Red’ whilst M. Langley and J. Chambers were playing. As I was about to go and play our set my buddy Brett suggested a tall gin and tonic, “refreshing” I thought. Plus of course, the aforementioned whiskey. Which I’m almost sure I didn’t demand for with such profanity, but as I’m prone to using some, ahem, ‘colourful’ language it’s highly possibly an expletive may have slipped in there, merely for emphasis you understand.
I’m certainly not trying to defend myself and I very much like the tone of the review, but to say that we ‘pulled the gig off anyway’ as though we were falling down drunk and it was amazing we could see straight let alone play a gig, seemed a little inaccurate.
It was a cracker night, but to be honest we were somewhat consumed with all the various facets of running an evening of quality entertainment, more than pouring booze down our throats. In stark contrast to some other gigs, where even I am amazed we pulled it off.

Reviews are quite subjective aren’t they? It is after all, only one person’s personal opinion of their own experience of something, whether it be a play, gig, movie or album etc and it must take some effort to strike a balance in the end article.
I’m just happy that ultimately it seems Sophie enjoyed herself, and that she got what we we’re trying to really pull off, that is, a show where the audience feels compelled to be completely absorbed into our crazy little world. I really like her comment that “stiff drinks and folk music must mix” because otherwise it’s all cutesy kittens and pretty folksy-dokesy wallpaper waffle, and life ain’t like that. Neither are we.

Right, so I’m almost through the bottle of Riesling I opened LAST NIGHT, which is quite delicious. Just spoke to Betty on the phone too, she reckons she’s not quite drinking so much. This week at least.

What ever. Cheers, and chin-chin.

Review – The Homeward Stretch release – Mighty Mighty Wellington Live Music Review – by Jenah Shaw

All photo's courtesy of Robert Fisher and Wellington Live Music

Wednesday night heralded the launch of The Homeward Stretch, second release of Rosy Tin Teacaddy, the dynamic indie-folk pairing of Billy Earl (Andy Hummel) and Betty Grey (Holly Jane Ewens). Having previously received glowing reviews for opening performances to Iron and Wine and Jose Gonzalez, the launch more then lived up to the quite emphatic praise.
Mighty Mighty had pulled those fabulous red curtains down half of the room to completely separate the bar from the stage. In the more private half, the tables were pulled forward and floated, adrift, around the central gravity of the stage. It was here that the opening acts played as the audience filtered slowly in – a shame, really, as both acts of Matt Langley, and Jess Chambers with Justin Firefly Clarke were fantastic acts in themselves. By the time Rosy Tin Teacaddy began to play the room had filled and there were people sitting on the ground beside us.
The intimacy of the atmosphere was perfect. The music, in itself, demands it: the themes of love and loss and despair, all delivered with Rosy Tin Teacaddy’s charming mix of playfulness and irreverence, work best with this close and casual proximity of performance. The songs are at turns melancholic and bittersweet, at others imbued with an indelible sense of optimism. Their promotional blurb had had promised “a collection of loosely interwoven vignettes featuring temptresses and miscreants”, and in many ways these stories seem to all play out against the same slightly off kilter, slightly other-worldly, backdrop – songs that exist in a nostalgic part of the countryside, or a quiet corner of the past, or conceivably both. There are Sunday mornings, and sunlit mornings, and sunlit afternoons, too, for that matter. There are departures but there is also the imminent return, because in the songs all revisit, inevitably, the theme of homecoming, of finding – or of re-finding – home.
Rosy Tin Teacaddy’s interactions with the audience were pitch-perfect. The pair addressed the crowd like a group of friends and casual acquaintances (which many probably were), clearly comfortable in front of a crowd. Before their fourth song, Bangers and Mash, Billy Earl reminded the audience of the infamous case of the German cannibal, the man who advertised online for his, er, dining partner.
“In a little way,” Billy said, “the next song is about that. Just a little bit.”
And they go on to sing – eyes wide and with an ironic, angelic demeanor – ‘Serve me up a plate of you/You’re better than/Bangers and mash.’
It’s all really quite touching.
As a duo they were vibrant and engaging. Teamed with a band of four equally polished musicians (Janet Holborow on cello, Shona Holborow on violin, Al Fraser on bass and Ben Fulton on guitar) their music was lively and engaging, a complimentary backdrop to Holly’s stunning voice and the changing, playful nuances of their songs. And although launches of this kind usually attract those already familiar with the music, or friends with the musicians, the applause at the end of the set quite drowned out the Wednesday night clammer from the other side of those red velvet curtains.

Hallelujah

Oh joyous delivery.

One brown box full of newly pressed CD’s. A perfect cure for a head to head with uncountable bottles of red wine.?

We’re pretty happy. The God Willing mantra appears to warrant further employment, even in this god-querying household.

There was no better time to have some communion with the divine than at 1am this morning. Billy and I baring our white dolphin-bums to the surf in some holy midnight cabaret. They don’t happen very often these days; star-burst, alcohol inspired acts of bravery. I’m writing this now, proud as punch we can still be fools.

Apologies Patricia, for sneaking into your beachfront hot tub

and leaving three empties

on the motor.

I’m resisting the low call of bedtime. I need to get some beauty sleep, brain sleep, or just plain eye-lid shuttage to pave the way for a right old knees up tomorrow night; the release of The Homeward Stretch at St Peter’s Hall, Paekakariki. I have dyed my hair, a rather perplexing shade. The carton said Auburn. I’d say more…hmm… burning leaves or electric chestnut. Speaking of which, I’ve just watched the last cut of our video that Ed made.

It’s a wee cracker. The bruise on my back is still healing. Two high doses of arnica later and I have more plum sized bruises on my body than fingers. Self-inflicted. I expected him to catch me. He didn’t. Same old story a thousand times over.

Off to recover and sing in my sleep,

hope to see you

Betty x