Mrs. Santa Claus - Co-owner of The Island Bar and The Waterfront:

(Pictures by Bob Davis)   

Wednesday night at The Island Bar found us (and loads of you) partying today, March 24, from 6-ish until far too late-ish for those of us who had to go to work at 9-ish the following morning!

Supported by Bahouki - front-man John, Fiddler Dave & Bass-man Neil were there to help the celebrations - the crowd was really appreciative of the music, most appreciative of the snacks provided by The Waterfront and the great cakes provided by friends, and especially appreciative of the open bar provided by Kumar, between 7-8pm.

Kumar, attractive young guy that he is (well he has ONLY JUST joined the over 50's club) attracted a really great group of friends who all contributed to a wonderful evening of fun and frivolity which culminated in dancing (so what's new???) and finished with the Dragon Boaters arriving to help him party (OK, they arrived late; so what, they had only been to see Uncle Tom Jones perform in person in Hong Kong) in their own inimitable way at The Island Bar.

Thank you to all Kumar's Friends.

Jay Scott Kanes - Official Court Reviewer - Cairns Media

(Pictures by Christine Coleman, from her blog)

The pleasant lifestyles on Hong Kong's outlying islands usually beat bottled medicine as a tonic for big-city stress, long-term problems or even family feuds. That's what Ann, the leading character in British author Christine Coleman's new novel, Paper Lanterns (Novel Press, 2010, Birmingham, England, 287 pages), learns in a life-changing one-week visit to her elderly mother on "beautiful" Lamma Island.

Driven by adultery and yearning hearts, the story swirls around love-starved characters of all ages, many of them Lamma Islanders. The multi-generational plot bounces from 2008 to the 1970s to the 1930s and back.

For most of her life, Ann, "a dumpy, plain, middle-aged woman with an over-large chin", has simmered in resentment at Vivienne, the "irresponsible" mother who took a young lover, abandoned her family and resettled on far-away Lamma. Decades later, the lover forsakes Vivienne, and Ann reluctantly travels to offer comfort.

Ann's first impressions of Lamma can't be mistaken for anywhere else. She "blinks and looks around her as the track veers to the right along the waterfront and leads them under a yellow canopy between a shop front on the left with its displays of tanks full of large, colourful fish and, on the right, white-clothed tables overlooking the small boats in the bay. It's like walking through the middle of somebody's house."

What happens next is "typically Lamma" too. "There's a squeak of bicycle brakes, a shrill ting-a-ling and two young Chinese girls on cycles speed by, calling out, 'Sorree! So sorree!' as Ann sidesteps out of the way, banging her thigh against the edge of one of the tables."

Like most first-time visitors, Ann's surprised that Lamma has no cars or buses, only glorified delivery carts. There's no mistaking them.

"'Watch out, Ann!' Just in time, she presses herself against the railing as the rattle and clank of a noisy motor bears down on her. The narrow vehicle looks like a tall version of a go-cart, and is driven by a grim-faced man in a dark blue jacket, gripping the steering wheel and staring straight ahead as if to say to any pedestrian, 'Live or die – it's up to you!'"

To Ann's surprise, Vivienne, a garment-shop proprietor on the Main Street, shows little despair. Even more remarkably, she shares an old diary and letters that reveal family secrets and lead Ann into a dilemma.

More than a nice setting, Lamma plays a greater role – almost like a leading character. "Far below, boats are slowly drifting on their moorings…. A ferry is chugging towards the pier. A couple of dark brown birds are circling above…. In between the distant screech of bicycle brakes, the twittering of birds, the sudden deep-throated bark of a dog, she registers the underlying hum of the power station. The heartbeat of the island, she thinks, and for a moment Lamma itself seems like a living entity."

Coleman has spent enough time on Lamma to understand its ebb-and-flow and to accurately depict it. She knows that most Lamma Islanders show mild eccentricities. So do her characters.

"Poppy is no fool. She's a highly intelligent woman. We all have our little quirks….
'Has her cat died or something?'
'One of her cats has died. One of her 27 cats.'"

Like Poppy, some real Lamma residents loom "larger than life" as "the life and soul of any party… well able to hold their own…, out-drinking, out-talking, out-dancing, out-playing". The author has attended some Lamma house-parties. When Ann does too, a vaguely familiar crowd joins her:

Alternative cover design, the author's favourite

"There's the German women who runs the deli and has lived on Lamma with her American husband for nearly 20 years. She's talking to the young English couple who stopped off at Hong Kong on their way back from Australia and decided to extend their stay for a few weeks. And there's that pleasant Dutch man who sells second-hand books from a roadside stall, taking to Julian's Chinese friend, Charlie. Among the disparate group of 30 or more guests, the one common factor is the lack of conformity: the ages range from late teens to 80 and there seem to be almost as many nationalities as there are people present…."

Suddenly, Ann recognizes what most Lamma Islanders instinctively know. "The realization strikes her like a revelation: everyone here is at ease with themselves. Tall or short, dumpy or scrawny, old or young – smart, scruffy, long hair, no hair – white, brown, black, pink, tanned and freckled…. Ann's mouth stretches itself into a wide smile. She feels almost dizzy as the words shout in her head: I'm the same as everyone else… because I'm different. Because I'm me."

Ann also rides the Peak Tram and explores the Mid-Levels on Hong Kong Island, but she makes her most important spiritual discoveries on Lamma. The concrete jungle and its skyscrapers lack the same appeal. "Look at those huge blocks of flats over there – like vertical ant-hills. Some would say total eyesores. Only a very few years ago that was hillside – now, those few square yards, maybe as much as an acre, are home to tens of thousands, I guess."

The book's title comes from a passage likening human souls to flames that flicker in gusts of wind. They need colorful paper lanterns as protection.

Coleman shows a nice touch with details, often inserting meaningful objects at suitable moments. For example, Ann recalls being an angry teenager who retreats to her bedroom and flips through Anne of Green Gables, a classic novel about childhood angst.

The cover of Paper Lanterns, showing three green lanterns on a lofty Lamma balcony, may cause confusion. Usually, Chinese lanterns are red. Do these green ones symbolize Lamma's trees and hillsides?

A former high-school teacher turned novelist and poet, Coleman toils part-time in a British adult-education program. Her idea for Paper Lanterns came from two directions. She found a collection of 1920s-era love letters written in China by two women to the same man. On visits to Hong Kong, she grew "fascinated by the contrasts between the busy urban districts and the beautiful scenery of the outlying islands".

Coleman wrote one earlier novel, The Dangerous Sports Euthanasia Society, published in 2005. That's about lust for life as an escapee from a seniors home makes new friends on a quest to find her grandchildren.

More than most tales, Paper Lanterns satisfies its readers by drawing strength from the setting. When Coleman mentions Hong Kong "working its magic" on people, she really means Lamma-style serenity. Urban Hong Kong lacks that remedy, but the outlying islands deliver it in generous doses.

Approval rating: 82 per cent.

For more information: www.christinecoleman.net or www.novelpress.co.uk.

Roz Keep - Lamma Artist - art gallery:

See all images...

Mandy: A view of a typical Lamma house.

Roz: Fruit and veg shop on high street.

Nick the Bookman - Official Court Music Reviewer - Nick's website.

(video stills by Alba; text edited by L-G)

Steve's acoustic night at Diesel's
March 7, 2010

Once upon a time in deepest, darkest wherever, there lived a mighty tribe of pygmies called the Faqawi. Their homelands were verdant and lush with tall semi-impenetrable foliage. Quite often, individuals would get lost and the jungle/veldt/ high plains would echo to their plaintive cries of "We're the Faqawi"...

I'm reminded of their sorry plight, because I've been walking up and down Main Street for about 20 minutes, trying to find Steve Cray's (semi-)unplugged gig. I thought it would be at The Island Bar, but no! Eventually, someone says it's taking place at Diesel's.

It's Steve Cray's second acoustic/electric set at Diesel's, and there's quite a large audience waiting in anticipation. The show's supposed to start at 1930, but is running about 30 minutes late, due to some last minute rehearsals between Steve and Franklin, his amiable new bassist in Red Star Rising. Apparently Franklin had about one day to learn 13 new MP3 downloads of tonight's material. Will he rise to the challenge? We shall see.

The gig starts about 2000 hours. Alba is filming the show for her never-ending Lamma documentary. Marc has also bought his camera along to get extra footage of the show, the bar, the audience etc. Handy for the cut-aways. Gary (in his kilt) and Nicola are still celebrating her birthday with Peta joining in the frolics. Dick(stock) Jones, Jilted John, Moonie, Maria (of jewellery fame) and American John the Lawyer are opposite me. Jason and Clare (YSW's newest residents) pop over.

Steve introduces "Franklin Torres, my bass player from Colombia and good guy all round". Bit of strumming. "This [first song] is Turning Tide." It's an original that has a full-bodied sound and hints of Jethro Tull and the Hendrix version of "All Along the Watchtower" scattered through its construction. Franklin is doing a great job on the bass, providing extra melody lines. It's an affecting piece of Americana in its way and not too much blues seeping in yet. On the big screen, a Premier league replay shows Arsenal going 1-0 up against Burnley, who soon draw level 1-1. A couple of other original songs quickly follow as Steve informs us that this is "a sort of serious rehearsal" for an upcoming tour of European folk festivals this summer.

It's amazing what one can learn in a pub, aided by huge intakes of grog. Phil comes over and almost drools in envy as he tells me that Steve's acoustic axe is a "Martin Om Orchestral model guitar. Very expensive (and with rare red strings). The OM model was made between WW1 and WW2 from Adirondack spruce trees - none of which are left, especially for making guitars."

Meanwhile, Steve and Franklin have played a few more tunes. It's probably just my fevered imagination, but there are reminders of Leo Kottke, Fairport Convention and early Who in some of Steve's playing and finger techniques. And then Franklin starts to strut his stuff...

One other thing about the Faqawi. They love their drums, which cause unease and panic among seasoned travellers and explorers to their mystery lands. One expedition resulted in all the native porters fleeing in terror as the drums stopped. When asked why, they replied that it's "very bad when the drums stop." "Why is that? Are we all going to be killed?" "Oh, no. Very bad when the drums stop, because then the bass solo starts..."

This whimsical observation can most definitely NOT be applied to Franklin. His left hand has made a bridge at the bottom of his base while his right hand is plucking relentless, throb-free notes which augment and enhance Steve's input. His stylish effects draw whoops of praise from Dick(stock) and calls for some Robert Johnson. Steve obliges with "Walking Blues" and unleashes some fiery harmonica action to boot. One of the best solo bass vs. solo harmonica solo duets I've heard. While listening, the audience forgets that there are no other instruments in the mix. Franklin is that masterful in weaving a spellbinding sonic tapestry. At one point he somehow manages to replicate clucking, scratching chickens, adding a down home Southern gothic reality to the song.

I'm starting to flag a little, so time to wind this up. There's a great song called "Shampoo the Dog". Inspired by an anonymous Lamma resident who declined a snifter in the pub with Steve because the missus was coming back after a few days and he had to go home and... you know. Almost a bit of the late Jake Thackray in there. Steve also plays a 16th Century madrigal as a nod to his classical early roots and to show us that anything Sting can do, he can do better.

The evening ends with a second more storming version of "Walking Blues". Finally, "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we'll go out on a sensible note with 'Wild Wind' in modal G." Reminiscent of early Cat Stevens in places. The match has finished 3-1 to Arsenal. Franklin has made many female friends, especially Peta who is sort of tingling at the thought of an upcoming possible date. If she gets any happier, she'll look like she's sat in a huge puddle. Thanks for the beer, Gary. Happy belated, Nicola.

Well done Steve and Franklin. You did the biz. Now, I'm off to crash.