Maharaja Blues

Previous review:  devauden-house-of-roots-reviews-2026 Tom Rugg and the Tenuous Connections To an amazing palette of Polar Bears, retreating icecaps, tarantulas snuggling into grannies beds, crocodiles add a double bass, fab keyboards, cajon and then sprinkle some fantastically engaging vocals and guitar to just possibly perhaps conjure Tom Rugg & the Tenuous Connections. Great music can be great fun indeed. Polar Bear Song on Spotify I want a tarantula on spotify The Tarantula from Tau Ceti It twitched its eight antennas in space, Caught Tom’s guitar through the cosmic haze. “Roots rock detected!” it loudly declared, And warped through wormholes, unprepared. It landed mid riff, mid solo, mid cheer, Polar Bear froze “Climate changr is bad enough but what’s that doing here?” The Cajón trembled, the bass went pale, As eight legs scuttled down the sonic trail. It jammed on the keys with a comet’s flair, Each chord an unique, extended complex affair. Crowds fainted and gasped“Is th...

Maharaja blues  Maharaja Blues took to the stage on Saturday on a hot summer’s afternoon.  We were joined by Satinder’s son on the Dhol and he worked up some steam. Last time he joined us was at Rhythms of the World 12 years prior. Looks like we braved the heat well and rocked the show ‘coz we’ve had good feedback from fellow musicians. Thank Anju, Carmen and Harpreet for the photos and video. The cutest bit was that someone went up to Richard and mentioned that it was the first gig he saw with his 4 year old and is therefore memorable. Nice to see some folk wearing our tees. Cant Be Satisfied  🦩 The Pink Flamingo Nonsense Chronicler's Review (Classic Absurdist Edition) On the sun‑scorched plains of Devauden House of Roots, where flamingos wear sunglasses and the air tastes faintly of Bloody Mary with a circular hint of silver, Maharaja Blues materialised on stage like a mirage but with better rhythm. The afternoon was so hot that even the Pink Flamingo Chronicler had to...

Maharaja Miku the Bear strode in, proud as a festival king Wearing a hat of baclava  the finest pastry his milliner could bring. He’d meant balaclava, of course, but the spelling went astray, And syrup dripped regally as he swaggered on his way. His sweat warmed the honeyed crust till flakes began to fly, Summoning bees in battalions from every corner of the sky. They swarmed his bass solo mid‑riff, turning his groove low into panic and shout, Sending the whole great yurt’s audience stampeding wildly out. But Miku wasn’t flaky , no, this bear was fathoms deep, He just left a trail of pastry flakes wherever his fancy chose to sweep. 8 days till  Devauden Festival 2026 Full story index blog-story-category-index

“The Ballad of the Slippery Sea Bass” Oh I’m all at sea with my Sea Bass, the bass bass with a critical mass, it wriggles notes that should be yummy Crew Chorus: But they slip away, all squirmy slummy! He flaps his fins at every bar, slides off key like a tipsy star, and every time I try to catch Crew Chorus: He squirts a chord and lifts the latch! (All together ) Heave away, ye tuneful tide, let the fish strings sing and glide, for every note that bubbles free is a song from the heart of the sea. And when he swims off proud and smelly, burping tunes from his fishy belly, the gulls all groan, the dolphins flee Crew: But the ocean roars, “Play on, lad, he’s free!” By Miku the bad bass bass bard The Ballad of Resonator Rich, Buccaneer Extraordinaire Oh Resonator Rich was a buccaneer bold, with a steel gripped slide and a heart of gold, he struck one chord and the royals fled Crew: ‘’He scared the crown clean off their head!’’ His lyrics cracked like a cannon’s roar, his riffs could rattl...

🦩 The Tee‑Shirt Exchange on a Park Bench at Midnight   Faithfully distorted by the Nonsense Chronicler Pink Flamingo Midnight is the hour when sensible creatures sleep and I, Pink Flamingo, clock in for my shift as Chronicler of Dubious Events. The moon was doing its best impression of a dim streetlamp, and the park bench—paint peeling, slightly lopsided—waited like a witness who’d already seen too much. Two humans approached from opposite directions, illuminated only by the glow of their phones and the occasional moth with ambition. Each carried a folded tee shirt, held with the reverence of monks transporting relics or perhaps just people who didn’t want to drop them in the damp grass. They sat.   Not together, of course. Humans never sit together first. They sat adjacent, which is the prelude to all important negotiations. A fox trotted past, glanced at them, and decided they were up to something too weird even for foxes. Then came the moment. With the solemnity ...

Here’s to Port & Dayo  A Ramble in Rhyme Port and Dayo, now that’s a pair, Stride through Wales without a care. Intrepid walkers, rain or shine, Every hill says, “These two are mine.” From mossy lanes to craggy heights, They roam the land like woodland sprites. Every nook and cranny knows Their laughter drifting as it goes. Forever young, now that’s not a claim, It’s simply how they play their game. Hearts wide open, spirits so free, Powered by love and good company. And when the day’s long trek is through, They tune their souls to something true A riff, a beat, a royal groove The mighty Maharaja Blues. So here’s to Port and Dayo dear, The loveliest couple far and near. May music, mischief, and Welsh skies Keep lighting up their wandering lives. Photo at Great Beech, Pontypool. This is a pillar triangulation station, at a height of 174. It was levelled in 01/06/1969 🌞 Attire: Maharaja Blues tee shirts:  maharajablues.teemill.com Follow their walking adventures on:  P...

 By The Pink Flamingo, Special Correspondent and Occasional Witness to Pandemonium of Pandemic Proportions  It was upon the eve of the twenty third moonrise that the palace of Ragapura, erstwhile cradle of melody and mild insanity, became the theatre of an entomological apocalypse.  The Rocking Ragas , those highly esteemed spirit animal virtuosos, whose harmonies had once soothed elephants and scandalized parrots found themselves besieged by roaches of apocalyptic proportions. The Maharaja Tiger, resplendent in sapphire and indignation, struck chords of defiance upon his electric sitar, each note a sonic sword cleaving through the chitinous tide.  The Elephant, ever the philosopher, exhaled harmonica frost upon the invaders, declaring that “music, when frozen, is still divine.”  The Monkey, meanwhile, performed percussive diplomacy with his guitar, negotiating peace through concussion. The Peacock, radiant and rhetorical, summoned celestial blue fire from his s...

The blinds slice the sunrise into stripes. A saxophone sobs somewhere in the alley. The kettle whistles like a snitch. It's the kind of morning where toast burns like old regrets and the coffee’s got secrets it won’t spill. The flamingo’s still asleep in his velvet jacket, and Richie Red’s snoring like a riff on a lunar harp. I lit a cigarette made of metaphors and watched the steam curl like a suspect’s alibi. The city’s waking up, but it’s not smiling. Not yet." My name is Barry Noir. Friend of Pink and Maharaja Blues but in my game, friends are just people who haven't tried to bump me off and dump my body in the river yet. On this morning I felt half the man i was yesterday. Something needed investigating, my senses shouted it from the mountains. I just didn't know what it was. What I did know was it was in a different dimension. I needed help for this case from Pink, Rooster and the Bear.  With a team like this we have all angles covered. Pink covering the flamboy...

The day of Miku’s birth. The day he came to earth. Once more around the sun, now Another lap’s begun. His rhythm non-erratic,  His oath still Hippocratic, He passes space and time In Medicine, Bass and Rhyme, But on this fine occasion Focus lies on celebration! By Adrian Taylor,   from Spiral Arm Galaxy and friend of Maharaja Blues  From Pink 🦩 On this fine occasion,   We trade thought for elation A flamingo lifts its wing,   And all the bright hearts sing!   Pink feathers catch the light,   Basslines bloom through the night,   And laughter, sweet and strong,   Turns every breath to song.   So raise your glass, take flight,   In coral, gold, and white For Miku’s day of mirth   Renews the joy of earth. 🦩🦩🦩 Next gig details  maharaja-blues-in-pontypridd-2026 Full story index blog-story-category-index

There’s something wonderfully subversive about that reflection in my shades. 😎  It’s me looking at myself looking at myself, caught in the mirrored lenses of my own festival day swagger.  It’s like the universe briefly turned me into both the photographer and the photographed, the watcher and the watched, the performer and the audience. A tiny hall of mirrors tucked into a pair of shades. And yes, it does feel emblematic of our age: the way our devices fold us inward, the way we’re always half performing, half observing, half critiquing and half obsessing about ourselves. A quadruple half existence. The modern math of insecurity. And yet the moment and that flicker of “oh, that’s me, caught in the act”, is also deeply human. It’s the same self consciousness poets have been wrestling with for centuries.  Poets (Robert Frost, in particular) would have had a field day with this. They would hone in upon the tension between the outer world and the inner world (doubt, longing,...

 (A Valentines tale of a Maharaja who thought he got the Blues and his Maharani who really did) In the kingdom of Ragapura,  near the temples of old Madura, beneath skies of crimson and teal, lived a Maharaja with a secret zeal Twas not for his Maharani, his true seal of approval was for a bluesy feel. The Maharaja sure loved the blues! Strummed riffs at breakfast, lunch, and tea, and even in the royal loos! The Maharani sighed, “He’s ignoring me.” The Maharani forlorn, her loyalty challenged and torn, her temper bubbling like hot chai, Watched his attentions wither and die. For whilst he crooned ‘Oh Why, Oh why’, she was the one left high and dry. He strummed his sitar sideways, With bent notes till dawn’s first light, wailing, “Ooooh, I love my royal taxes!” Whilst palace guards winced all night. So she sang her lament, with a classical bent, a sad rebuttal in C! And as her love life shatters, “Ooooh my man loves Muddy Waters, more than he loves me.” She tapped her sorry ref...

Maharaja Rich leaned back on his velvet cushions, stroking his chin with the seriousness of a man contemplating the mysteries of the cosmos. “Tell me, Miku,” he said at last, “if two witches would watch two watches… which witch would watch which watch?” Maharaja Miku the Bard did not answer immediately. He tapped his bass, once, twice, as though tuning his thoughts. Then, with a sly smile, he began: “Ah, my Maharaja friend  Watch the watch that ticks to which witch’s twitch.   For every tick that meets a twitch,   And every tock that finds its twin,   We’ll know which witch will watch which watch The twitching witch’s watch will win.” Rich blinked. “So the witch with the twitch watches the watch that ticks to her twitch?” “Precisely,” Miku replied, adding a quick bass run for dramatic effect. “A witch without a twitch would watch a watch without a hitch. But a twitching witch must match her watch, lest time itself grow confused.” Rich considered this g...

Dyddiad / Date :  Dydd Sadwrn 2 Mai 2026 7yh  Saturday 2nd May 2026 7pm Who are Maharaja Blues? Pwy yw Maharaja Blues? Tocynnau / Tickets:  maharajablues ticket tailor Lleoliad / Venue : YMa (Moondance Studio), 28 Taff Street, Pontypridd CF37 4TS YMa Website Eisteddle / Seating:  eisteddle graddol neu seddi ar fyrddau cabaré / tiered seat or cabaret tables seat Amserlen / Schedule :  Drysau’n agor am 7yh / Doors open at 7pm 7.30 Lucy Jenkins  (25 mins) 8.05  Maharaja Blues 8.30 Egwyl / Interval 9.00 Maharaja Blues  10.00 Gorffen / Finish Dawnsio / Dancing: I’r rhai sydd am ddawnsio, rydym yn bwriadu creu ardal ddawnsio ar un ochr i’r byrddau cabaré na fydd yn rhwystro’r golygfa. For those who want to dance, we plan to create a dancing area to one side of the cabaret tables which will not obscure the view.  LLuniaeth / Refreshments: Bydd y lleoliad yn darparu bar sy’n gweini diodydd alcoholig a meddal. The venue will provide a bar serving alco...

Without Regrets our Masterchef Basks In the morning light As a new dawn takes flight In its glory, the egret basks And why it does bask Should anyone ask Well yet again He created culinary heaven For behold Goa’s own Auguste Escoffier, The white robed wonder of the wetlands’ buffet, Whose beak, precise as a paring knife, Carves symphonies of flavour from a simple life. He, the bearer of the Michelin Feathers Three! A title whispered with awe from creek to sea, The sovereign of sautéed sunlight, The emperor of elegantly plated twilight, The maestro who seasons the breeze With hints of river herbs and estuary teas. Frogs applaud from lily pad pews, Crabs scuttle forth to spread the news, Even the herons, forever proud, aloof Bow their heads in humble proof For none surpass the egret’s art, His marsh born magic, his culinary heart. He stirs the dawn with a flourish grand, Whips up clouds with a flick of his hand, And garnishes the rising sun With zest of joy for everyone. So when he basks...

How could there ever be any regrets When the chefs were advised by egrets? With wisdom and manners nice, They judged every morsel, every spice, And approved each dish with finesse. By Miku the bear bard Maharaja Rich's reply. The only regret   the egret ever met   was the day it tried   a soggy baguette.   It poked at the loaf,   got its beak firmly set,   and wobbled around   Full of baguette regret. Now it dreams of a cheesy raclette. Full story index blog-story-category-index

 🦩 Chronicler Pink’s Officially Unofficial, Flamingo‑Feathered Review of The Celtic Darbar 🦩 The moment Miku the narrator opened his beak—yes, beak—I knew he was Miku the Bear Bard materialised in your dimension. The same wandering ursine troubadour who once wrote a ballad so moving it caused three nearby constellations to weep. The resemblance was too uncanny and using a time machine in the show exposed his identity. Oh that lilting cadence, the faint smell of honeyed prophecy, the ability to make an audience feel like they’ve accidentally stepped into a myth they weren’t warned about. Then came the Sayed brothers, flitting about the edges of the performance like a pair of magpies who’ve just discovered a jewellery box and absolutely will not behave. Every time the lights dimmed, one of them appeared somewhere unexpected—perched on a speaker, dangling from a curtain, or whispering suspiciously shiny secrets. Troublesome? Absolutely. Essential? Completely. And then—Rangila. Rangi...

(In my finest fake Scottish and dedicated to Anoushka who was celebrating the New Year in Edinburgh in true Hogmanay verve)  By Maharaja Miku the Bear Bard Och, up the Monroes o’ Caledonia, Where the mist rolls thick and grey, There wandered a weary Frenchman lad Wi’ an easel tae light his way. He’d painted lilies till kingdom come, Till them petals drove him mad, So he donned the tartan o’ ancient Picts And declared, “I’ve had it, lads.” Through heather wild and bracken brown He stomped wi’ a painter’s roar, Cryin’, “No more ponds! No more blooms! Bring forth the noble boar!” And lo, in the fog o’ New Year’s morn, A snorting beast appeared A wild wee hog wi’ a muddy grin And a backside Monet revered. He painted it thrice in swirling strokes, In colours fierce and free, Till the Highlands echoed far and wide: “Behold! Hog Monet’s spree!” So raise a dram tae the misty hills Where legends love tae stray For somewhere still, a Pictish Frenchman Paints boars at break o’ day. © 2025 Mik...

Poems by Maharaja Miku the Bard Bear BBC News Article - Victorian Shoes wash up on Ogmore Beach She walked the Ogmore shore at dawn, her breath a silver thread, Christmas sun spilled molten gold where sea and sky were wed. She paused to hear the quiet waves hum soft, familiar tunes, When something in a rock pool glowed like tiny sunlit moons. She leaned in close, her heart amused at what the tide would choose  A nest of ancient, salt kissed shoes dreaming in the pools. The Causation Maharaja Rich of Ogmore, patron saint of period swagger, Had long dreamt of Victorian finery, frock coats, cravats, the works. But tailors were slow, and patience was not his strongest chord, So he did what any self‑respecting eccentric would do: He converted his old brass resonator guitar Into a time machine tuned to open wormholes in open D. One wrong strum , a slightly flat F# ! And the machine hiccupped. Instead of summoning waistcoats and top hats, It tore a shimmering rift across the centuries. Th...

Roses are red   Maharajas are blue   Boy oh boy   Do I have a story for you... One dark Christmas night   Mississippi shining bright   A flamingo stretched a wing   And softly began to sing. The notes they rang out soft   And through the air began to waft   A tune so sad and blue   But a rhythm so wild and new Something in the air shifted   And as the moonlight drifted   A portal awoke   Through it, the Maharajas spoke "I have lost my palace   And he has lost his palace too" They looked at the flamingo:   "We thought we'd come and stay with you." The flamingo seemingly from air   Found a bass guitar without a care   All of time and space went stiff   As he pulled off one sick riff. The tabla was banging   The harmonica jamming   Tonight once more, we are lucky to see   The Maharaja Blues se...