RHUM

“What the hell is an Elvis Festival?” you are probably asking right now- unless you follow me on Twitter, in which case you have seen some of the photos. Prepare to be enlightened, my friend. Once a year, like a fat, polyester onesie-suited, plastic glued-on sideburns wearing, crooning, sexy Father Christmas, Elvis comes to Parkes. Actually several thousand Elvises, Priscillas and blinged up hound dogs come to Parkes and live and breathe Elvis for one glorious weekend. If you decide to play “Punch Elvis” (a variation on Punch Buggy) in the car on the way up as we did, make sure you call it quits before you hit the main drag- the 10,000 population of Parkes more than doubles for the weekend as 15,000 Elvii and Elvettes roll into town. Shut up, that’s what they’re called.

Everything seems to remind me of the 80's at the moment, movies, music and fashion are all paying homage and, as a result, my everyday life seems to be speckled with it. The last time I visited The Buffalo Club there was a picture of The Queen hanging above a piano, where expats in funny hats probably stood drunkenly singing patriotic songs. Tonight, the ceiling is decked out in reflective foil and the stage lights have been updated to fling neon colours out at you. There's a new smoke machine and they finally framed the stage, but it still has the ramshackle vibe of a working men's club, and when you're presented with the twee electro stylings of Gosteleradio, it feels like you're on a night out in Berlin in 1985.

Think about the soundtrack to your most wonderful, memorable dreams. If they're anything like mine they'll be filled with complex soaring harmonies and large, fuzzy soundcapes; feelings akin to floating. All of this I already get from Grizzly Bear. Chris Taylor from the band has stepped out and released his first album. But this isn't more of the same - there's an inventiveness and willingness to dabble which is pretty invigorating.

There's something about the festive season which makes me want to listen to drinking songs, the rollocking pissed up anarchy of The Pogues and the regretful, morning after like tones of Bert Jansch or Dan Auerbach. So it is with great excitement that I sit down in a post festive fug with a rum and a beer to listen to someone who by all accounts is part of this stable.