Day six at the 2003 ottawa Bluesfest.

We sat happily and awaited White Cockatoo.

"White Cockatoo is a unique performing company that hails from Arnhem Land in the Northern Territory of Australia. The artists are a group of senior Aboriginal men from the Mialili, Rembarrnga, Guningu, and Burrara language groups, who share the same social and family affiliations. Their corroboree (music, song and dance) is a part of one of the earth's oldest unbroken artistic traditions. Their homeland is the traditional birthplace of the Australian Aboriginal musical instrument the Didjeridu."

Eventually he introduced one of the members of the troupe, who walked out wearing a red loincloth, his body covered in swathes of white paint. The man then played the didjeridu - his circular breathing was incredible (ie, he never stopped for air), but there was a perplexing lack of dynamics in his performance. For those of us who have heard so-called "professional" didj players, it's interesting to see that the original Aborigine tradition calls for very little of the fancy "barks" that people associate with expertise.

When the didjeridu player finished, our Colonialist Guide then introduced the rest of White Cockatoo - two singers ("songmen"), and two dancers. What followed were six or eight songs, each with sameish didjeridu playing, sameish wail-singing, sameish stick-hitting (each of the performers hit two pieces of wood together, with alternating rhythms), and sameish dancing. While some of the rest of the audience was bored by the (apparent) monotony, I found it mesmerising. Hearing the little differences in style and feeling, trying to understand the different way-of-thinking that abstracted these strange dances out of conventional stories. It was the dancing that was most wonderful - sudden, high-stepping movements; careless twisting of legs. If I didn't know better, I would have thought it was contemporary dance - surprising, moving, different.

Of course, my postcolonialist alarms were going off like crazy. I've read too many essays on cultural imperialism, subalterns, mimic-men and orientalism to be able to view this through a naive North American lens. There was something alternatingly infuriating and hilarious (such gall!) about the fact that a white man in a tuxedo was explaining each song, cracking light jokes about how different we are from the "noble" Aborigines (They believe in "devils," ha ha! And you can tell someone's not a devil because they eat or go to the toilet! Ha ha ha!). It's not that I think that the performers were innocant, oppressed, Pocahontas-like victims - how could I think that, having delved into Spivak, Said and Bhabha - but worse still, I couldn't imagine them in a sustained way as anything other that cynical, Coca-Cola-swilling, fully indoctrinated Australians. I pictured the members of White Cockatoo going backstage, scrubbing off the make-up, throwing on a pair of Levis and watching Survivor: The Amazon. Flashes of this image kept interrupting my viewing of the show. "Is that guy faking it?" I kept wondering. "Or are they playing us 'lovers of Culture' for fools?"

And I don't know the answer.

Later, we made our way to the front of the mainstage for Kool and the Gang. We only stayed for three songs, however. It was simply the cheesiest thing I've ever heard. While I had been hoping for some organic funk awesomeness, Kool and the Gang's performance was instead saturated with skyhigh eighties synths, the funk on par with the theme-song to Perfect Strangers (but without Balki's hilarious antics). What's more, 80% of the band was under 35 - this wasn't Kool and the Gang, it was Kool and the Gang of Kids Who Auditioned for the Record Label. The players were all competent, the fresh-faced singer charming, but the music was simply loathsome. A huge disappointment.

Hawksley Workman wasn't much better. "Oh, get over yourself," said Julian as Workman cooed and preened on-stage. I've never liked the guy's stuff, and my opinion goes unchanged. He's like a junkie Rufus Wainwright, and I like neither junkies nor Rufus.

I went home, and listened to Ron Sexsmith's "Cobblestone Runway", Elbow's Cast of Thousands and Doves' Last Broadcast using my new (blissful and comfy) headphone pads.