End of an era that felt more precious than money
David Free
I was devastated but not surprised when Byron Bay Bluesfest ended last week, just 20 days before its scheduled 2026 start. I don’t have the heart right now to count how many Bluesfests I’ve been to over the years. This would almost be my 20th. If I want, I can check the drawer where I keep my old programs. But I won’t want to do this for a while.
I bought my ticket to this year’s Bluesfest months ago. But as a seasoned inflammatrix, I had begun to feel in recent weeks that not everything was right. There wasn’t the usual barrage of mass emails. Unfortunately, the daily game schedule was not revealed.
Then came the terrible news on Friday, March 13th. For the first time in my life I received an email from a liquidator. “At this stage,” he said with raw honesty that you have to admire, “it seems unlikely that you will be given any refund.”
I should probably feel angry right now. If we take into account the cost of my non-refundable flights, I was out of pocket for more than a thousand dollars. But if the Bluesfest era is over, we’ve all lost something more valuable than money. For those of us who cherish the annual pilgrimage to Byron, this feels like a death in the family. If the carnival is over, I can’t help but say how much I love Bluesfest.
The annual excitement of wearing the wristband on the first day. Moving between tents in the heat of the day and the cool of the beach night. Organic donuts. Food tent. There are half-hour waits between shows, and die-hard fans are already perched on the railings, watching the roads being built.
The CD tent, back when CDs still existed. The feeling of emptiness on Monday nights when most people go home. Volunteers with cans, garbage bags and garbage tongs dropped into illuminated tents. The ghost bracelet that you feel on your skin for days, long after the real one is gone.
Opening of Bluesfest It took place in 1990 at Byron’s cozy venue called The Piggery. When I attended my first Bluesfest in 2002, the venue was Red Devil Park, home of the local league team. Soon the festival moved to a larger area in the Belongil Meadows. Finally, in 2010, he moved to his permanent home in Tyagarah, 10 minutes from Byron.
Bluesfest set dangerously high standards for itself, which is probably why it ended up burning out rather than dying. There was a year when Robert Plant and Iggy Pop were playing different stages at the same time. A festival that made you choose between Plant and Pop was a festival that, in at least one sense, had already become too big for its own good.
The festival’s director, Peter Noble, must be in a lot more pain than I am right now. I have no intention of kicking him when he’s down. Instead, I think about the things I wouldn’t dream of seeing if Noble and his team hadn’t spent decades bringing the world’s biggest names to our shores.
I gotta see Plant sing Black Dog. I got to see Jeff Beck play I put a Spell on YouFeaturing barefoot Joss Stone on vocals. I saw BB King play The excitement is overand Buddy Guy plays It Feels Like Rain. I saw Gregg Allman singing with a cast on his wrist Statesboro Blues.
I saw you playing Toto Africa. I saw Rodriguez being guided to the microphone by a sighted assistant and singing. Candyman. I saw Tim Rogers burst into tears while singing during his solo acoustic set Paragon Cafe.
I saw Booker T. play Scallionand Ray Davies plays You Really Got Me, and ZZ Best game Legs. I saw Tim Finn do this Dirty Creature dance. I saw Toni Childs close a show in a chilling way I Have To Go Now.
I saw Sinead O’Connor sing Nothing compares to 2U. I saw Don McLean do it Vincent And American Pie. I saw Santana play Straight In a packed and steaming tent, curtains of falling rain obscured the night outside.
I saw John Fogerty play Evil Moon Rising. “We will be doing some songs from the new album tonight,” he said. Then it was paused. Then, before shooting, he said: “This. Isn’t. One of them.” Bad MoonThe cheerful opening chords of .
At this point, I saw Tex Perkins spitting into the air. honeymoon is overthen deftly avoid the descending loogie. I saw Cold Chisel play Cheap Wine. (“It’s about time we had an Australian headliner at this festival,” Barnesy said.) I saw Australia’s best guitarist, Jeff Lang, play. London.
I saw Paul Simon sing The Voice of SilenceAlone in a spotlight with an acoustic guitar. Never before, and never again, have I heard a Bluesfest crowd get this quiet. Okay, that was the sound of silence: the sound of thousands of people holding their breath at the same time.
I saw Brian Wilson play the entire game. Pet Sounds. I saw Bob Dylan sing Don’t Think Twice It’s No Problem. (He actually murdered her, but now is not the time to blame him.) Just last year I saw Crowded House sing. Don’t Imagine It’s Over.
I have seen younger actors reach their best through Byron’s many appearances. Jason Isbell. Tedeschi Truck Group. Gary Clark Jr. Taj Farrant.
I watched Eagles of Death Metal in 2016, four months after terrorists killed 86 members of the audience and four members of the crew at the Bataclan. The group itself barely escaped the massacre.
When a song or two was played in the Bluesfest shows, a spontaneous and loud applause broke out in the tent. It was a wave of human solidarity that was the antithesis of the bawdiness of the Bataclan. He continued, his voice rising. The band stood there without playing. Their pioneers were crying.
I saw Jimmy Barnes play his comeback show after open heart surgery in 2024. Just months ago he was on the verge of death. By the third song of her set, she was screaming with all her might, as if she didn’t know any other way to perform.
With time left for one last song, Barnes brought in a guest: Ian Moss, wielding his creamy Stratocaster. they played When the War is Over. Barnesy and Mossy put their arms around each other and sing Chisel together. It came so close to never happening again; we were there to see it when it happened.
The song has ended. Barnes was out of time. And Bluesfest sets never lasted long. But wait. Barnes and his group weren’t leaving. It wasn’t Mossy either. They started another song. happened Flame Trees. When the song ended, complete strangers in the crowd turned to each other in awe, wondering if they had just witnessed the best thing ever.
And then the band started Khe Sanh. I still can’t think of that moment without coming back to life. You had to be there, to say the least. The idea that there is no longer a “place” to get to—that magical place will remain silent forever, inhabited only by ghosts—seems too awful to be true.
I don’t want it all to end. I can’t believe it is. I remember one of the best Bluesfest closers I’ve ever seen: Noel Gallagher singing Don’t Look Back in Anger. While he was singing, the house lights turned on. British backpackers swayed on each other’s shoulders and sang along to the choruses.
“Everything you see will slowly disappear,” Gallagher sang. “But don’t look back in anger… At least not today.”
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