Lesley’s interest in country music started when her 14-year-old granddaughter Kyla, who sings and yodels, joined the Morrinsville Country Music Club. ‘I follow her everywhere; there are a lot of clubs.’
Morrinsville, Whangamatā, Pirongia, Tokoroa, Te Awamutu, Cambridge, Matamata, Te Aroha, Morrinsville, Cambridge, Paeroa, Ngāruawāhia, Kerepēhi – country music is vital to the New Zealand way of life. It was the music I heard most during my travels, a high, lonesome, warm sound, twanging in the telephone wires, as rural as floods and saw doctors. Country music clubs travelled like a subterranean river all over the land. There were handwritten signs on bakery and library windows for the next meeting, the next event: in Golden Bay, where yodelling was strong; in Hastings, where the annual awards would be held in October at Lindisfarne College – accommodation available in the school dormitory, $25 per night, please bring own bedding.
It was the music of recession, company, loneliness, broken promises, good times, truth. It swept across the plains and filled the valleys. It was homely music, road music. Death notice, 2011: ‘Condolences from the Fountain City Country Music Club, the Mt Pirongia Country Music Club and the Te Awamutu Country Music Club.’ Graeme Fitzsimons had died instantly when his car was sliced in two by a double-decker truck in Taranaki. Half of the car was jammed between the bank and the truck; the other half was further up the road. Fitzsimons and his wife Janice were described as regulars on the New Zealand country music scene. They sang harmonies, and travelled to country music club meetings in their mobile home.
Other regulars worked behind the scenes. Merle Howarth, QSM, 84, a life member of Te Aroha’s club, could be found behind a stall at the Paeroa market, selling her plum sauce and grapefruit marmalade for three dollars. Vilma Berger, treasurer of Paeroa’s club, said, ‘That’s V–i–l–m–a. I’ve met one other lady with that name. She said, “D’you know where it’s from?” I said, “No, but if I ever find out, I’ll tell them to put it back down from wherever they found it.”’ The name of Ngāruawāhia’s club secretary was Daisy Rangi.
But the country music river was changing course. Bernie Eva wanted it to go ‘mainstream’. As president of the Pro-Am supporters club and convenor of the national awards, his great mission was to eradicate the word ‘western’ from country music. Last week, he said, he’d called a special general meeting in Morrinsville and got approval from members to change the club’s name from Morrinsville Country & Western Club to Morrinsville Country Music Club.
He was a stocky man, 62, with a broad gentle face and a fear of flying: ‘A pity. Aeroplanes fascinate me but I won’t fly in them.’ His son Paul had just gone in for his seventh skin graft – he’d burned 70 percent of his body in a roadworks accident and had no sweat glands in the lower half of his body.
There were two freshly baked and iced carrot cakes by the front door of the house: Bernie’s wife Rita was one of the caterers for the awards night. The couple had met when Rita was waitressing in Hamilton. ‘She’s a Mormon. Both our kids were brought up in the church. I’m not a believer but I harm nobody.’ Their bookcase included The Lives of Our Prophets, Trucking 2005 Diary, Rugby Greats and Living Well in Retirement.
For over twenty years Bernie contracted a trucking business to a mushroom producer. ‘Only small trucks, six-wheelers, 14 to 17 tonnes, single units. We had very comfortable trucks with air suspension and parabolic springing, because mushrooms can’t vibrate around on the back of the truck. Mushrooms have to be looked after.’
There was a falling-out with management. ‘I packed it in under principles, and then I paid the price. My loyalty and service never mattered a razoo to the new CEOs. It was very disappointing. I was angry. I was angry for nearly two years. We argued over $35 in the end. I drove both trucks off the yard that night. Told them to go get stuffed. And then I couldn’t sell my trucks, and I struggled, and… Awww, that’s another story.’
Now he worked in liquid fertiliser. ‘I like the product,’ he said. ‘It’s interesting. I did an adult apprenticeship in golf course greenkeeping, so I appreciate that greenkeepers deal with the biology of the soil. They put a lot of selenium, molasses and sugars into it.’
It was Friday morning. He had already driven to Hamilton and back to deliver stage gear to Founders Theatre for the awards show. He said, ‘It’s an amazing amount of work. Thirty-five or so people are involved with running the show. It’s big, big. Our show is budgeted up to $67,000.
‘Money like that never gets spent on country music! Country music club people will not spend money on country music. Country music club people get their country music very cheap. We want the general public. The Golden Guitars show in Gore – they do an extremely great job. Gore is acknowledged as the home of country music, and rightfully so, but basically that’s amateur. We consider ourselves professional. We’re the next step up.’
He talked about the Pro-Am supporters club. ‘We want two thousand members. It’s around two hundred at the moment.’ He had dreams, good intentions. The awards show had the Hamilton City Council on board, funding from Creative New Zealand, generous sponsorship. He was making country music respectable; as such, he had to stay vigilant and remove all trace of country and western. ‘We do not want the word “western”,’ he said. ‘We do not use the word “western”.’ He urged, cajoled, nagged clubs to drop it from their name.
The word frightened people, he said, put them off. The general public looked on country and western music as a joke, kitsch at best, ridiculous at worst – ‘the whole cowboy
