The afternoon was bright and sunny on that late December day in 1976 with the crowds lining York St dutifully observing the blue honour line and eagerly waiting the start of the parade.
Suddenly, the bands struck up, the bold sound of a fifty strong brass band, pipers and the Albany Silver band; Amity Day had finally arrived and 3,000 Albany residents—Mums, Dads and the their children—all dressed in period costumes of 1826—proudly swung out of the park near the library and promenaded down Albany’s main street to the applause and adulation of a 15,000 strong audience.
This surely was the town’s heartiest show of community spirit; born, not as a result of adversity, but of a passionate willingness to actually participate in a showcasing of their proud heritage and warm friendly society.
Leading the parade was WA Premier Sir Charles Court and Lady Rita Court with Albany Mayor Harold Smith and his hard working wife Doris. Sir Charles added to the sense of occasion with a silver topped swagger stick while the very tall Harold Smith’s ‘stove pipe’ top hat greatly added to his stature.
One couldn’t help but notice the official party at the lead seemed to be ducking and weaving, side-to-side as if dancing down the street. At the end of the festivities Sir Charles proffered his advice that the horses and sulkies should be at the rear—for our honoured guests had to pick their way through masses of horse poo from startled just-fed ponies.
The procession turned right at the bottom of York St and headed for the Princess Royal waterfront and the Brig Amity replica. A labour of love in itself by local boat builder Stan Austin and a team of carpenters hewing keel timbers mostly using traditional hand tools.
Despite my best efforts at getting the town’s head gardener to fertilise the lawns in early spring it was he who approached me on the morning of our big opening, offering to spray the sad looking grass with a green dye. He had been out since first light spraying every bit of grass all over town. Quietly I asked him if the dye was same colour as the many spots that lined his chubby face. Peter nodded in the affirmative so I told him 3,000 people who had spent the best part of a year making their individual period costumes would not appreciate plonking their apparel on newly sprayed green dye.
With the arrival of the procession—followed by the audience—the grass at the Amity precinct was covered anyway by about 8,000 derrieres and a further 10,000 standing behind and spilling onto the harbour roadway.
There were the usual speeches and responses, always attendant at these events, leading up to the launching of the Amity itself, in the usual manner. Sir Charles was to swing the bottle of champagne at the bow (and to ensure a quick christening we had deep etched the champagne bottle with a glass cutter—so deep we even thought it may simply break in Sir Charles hand)
But no!
After 3 embarrassingly unsuccessful swings to crack the bottle, Sir Charles tore off the string, grasped it firmly and hurled it at the ship and the job was finally done, to the mirth of the gathering who thought it a great show!
A series of colourful displays rounded out the balance of the afternoon as folk drifted homeward knowing that there was a full evening programme to follow.
Putting the night-time sound and light show took lotsa planning, principally by the Perth Playhouse producer/directors Tony Youlden and John Toussaint. Local ABC newsman and author Les Johnson wrote a great script surrounding the arrival of Major Edmund Lockyer and perennial Perth actor Edgar Medcalf added his voice to the soundtrack.
Water about the Amity was tidal and fed from concrete pipes under the road linking it with the harbour. At Youlden’s insistence, of countering the limitation of relying on tidal movements for the performance, we hired a giant water pump from Perth and for two weeks blocked off the tidal access and pumped harbour water so that the level of the lake appeared to make the Amity ‘float’.
Council workers even volunteered to spend days wading through the lake and removing all the unsightly algae. Four massive scaffolded lighting towers with over 400 lights ringed the lake and all that was complemented with banks of audio speakers that would fill the harbour itself with sound.
The foreshore location of the Amity and the adjoining Residency Museum can frequently be subject to strong winds, but on the night of the son et lumiere presentation the perfect calm was like manna from heaven.
As darkness fell the crowds returned—again seated on the lawn—with only four chairs for our dignitaries, the Courts and Smiths. Dress for the evening was ‘casual’ which as everyone knows for Sir Charles—meant a jacket over a starched shirt and tie. The mayor arrived at the assembly point under the verandah of the museum with a daggy green t-shirt under his jacket. I pointed out to Harold that we would focus 400 spotlights upon their entry to the event and hastily removed my white dress shirt I had been wearing all day and we did a swap.
The Naval Reserve Cadets played a sizeable role in the show and at the last minute I spotted Lt Cdr Geoff Curran in his brilliant white formal naval dress uniform and so I asked him to accompany the official party to their seats. With a military style fanfare and hundreds of spotlights focussed on them our big kahunas marched to their seats and the show began.
I have always been a fan of sound and light shows and the Albany event was simply the best. There were the usual dramas to contend with; the boatswain in charge of the naval cadets rowing their historical boat past the Amity had had a celebratory drink or two and instructed up-oars too many times, which meant the tape of the show needed to be stopped, while stage crew on the lakes edge told him in loud whispers to get on with it.
Rail enthusiasts in charge of the participating steam train were not answering the telephone on the station platform and radio communication with the fireworks fellow was down. In a move designed to keep me occupied Youlden told me to relay messages about their individual cues directly to the train folk and cracker man. In total darkness I picked my way along the railway line to the station arriving to hear the phone ringing off the platform wall and the train crew shovelling coal, unable to hear it; off then to the harbour shoreline to speak with pyrotechnic expert Fred Cardile instructing him to watch for his cue when the show went to black. As I was about to walk away Fred turned to me and asked “don’t suppose you have a box of matches with you?”
I got back to the show to see the end of the rowing marathon, the colour and magic of folk dancing at the front of the residency, the giant steam train with whistle at full tilt framing the museum building and then the show suddenly went to black.
And Fred Cardile had found a box of matches.
The day had been a once in fifty year’s event.
The people of Albany had enthusiastically embraced the celebrations as their own.
But the last word must go to Sir Charles Court who in a letter written three days later……..”You should look back on the 26th of December as a great day in the life of Albany and its region”
Footnote:
Major Edmund Lockyer on the brig Amity actually arrived in King Georges Sound on Christmas Day 1826 and proceeded to have Xmas dinner on board and going ashore on Boxing Day, knowing full well future celebratory events would have been at risk if he alighted on December 25th. His great grandson Nicholas Lockyer, with his wife, came from their home in Brisbane to attend the celebrations.
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