Maharaja Blues

This image is used in the rear cover of our CD/LP https://elasticstage.com/maharajablues/releases/house-of-roots-devauden-festival-album Maharajas at the Edge of Winter Halloween has slipped away, but something lingers in the trees old spirits rustle through the withering leaves and winter whispers through the reeds. Behind us dies the little day, it flickers, gasps, then disappears the darkness gathers round the stage with all its borrowed, ancient years. So play the blues, Maharajas, play, let strings and harp disturb the night summon ghosts from Mississippi mud to stand between the dark and light. Let Delta spirits guard our souls, let our notes rise through smoke and cold for somewhere between this world and theirs the blues remembers what we've told. And when the final daylight dies and frost settled a silver on stone, we'll play until the shadows learn that none who have the blues are quite alone. By Maharaja Miku the Bear Bard 🐻  The Nonsense Chronicle, Ysbrydnos / Spir...

Monday woke in a strange attractor, My inbox humming like a faulty reactor. Up quarks rose, while down quarks sighed, As pending jobs packed tightly inside. The fraction climbed. The system jammed. My coffee cooled. My neurons crammed. One tiny task perturbed the day, And chaos fluttered all the way. In a nonlinear universe, there’s one hard rule one rues Come Monday morning, even quarks feel the blues. by Maharaja Miku the Bear Bard 🐻  🦩Pink Flamingo helps save the Monday 🦩 I pirouetted through your strange attractor's haze, Balancing on one leg through the Monday maze. While quarks were grumbling deep inside the stack, I poked a pink beak in and gave the day a whack. Your reactor buzzed, your inbox hissed, Several deadlines escaped and were briefly missed. But chaos and flamingos share a secret creed: The stranger the currents, the better we proceed. So when up quarks bicker and workflows refuse, Just add one pink flamingo to the quantum blues. For somewhere past the turbulenc...

An old friend  I have known him for some sixteen years, And we have never exchanged angry words. He has watched me getting older, but has never noticed how I have changed.  He has always been there to welcome me home, Even if I left him alone all day. And in the evening, he sits on my lap, just happy that I'm back.  My friend is very old now, He is blind in one eye. He has lost most of his teeth, though he still loves to eat! He walks slowly, and can't jump any more, But he has still got the most beautiful, black, fur coat.  I think you must have guessed by now, Who my old friend is, And I hope he thinks of me, As an old friend of his. Written by Carmen Anna Staines.   Full story index blog-story-category-index

  Selfie by Maharaja Jonathan Browning. Jon blew his harp by Bosherton’s lilies, And startled the frogs from their watery sillies. Beneath a sky burnished in shimmering gold, His blues made the warm water turn cold. The frogs they croaked a jubilant choir, As Jon bent his notes with bluesy desire. The lilies, bewitched, dreamt backwards to June, And vanished like summer beneath a blue moon. Left naked and shivering, the frogs softly knew Even frogs, when abandoned, must suffer the Bosherton Blues. By Maharaja Miku the Bear Bard 🐻  Full story index blog-story-category-index

A message from Chrononova about the catastrophic consequences of forgetting to change your clocks on DST. The Time Devil and the Cat Who Fixes Midnight When daylight savings rolls around and clocks refuse to shift, the Time Devil Grindleflux awakens with a wicked little twist. He slinks through every household where the hour stays unchanged, and warps each stubborn timepiece into universe‑shaking strange. A bedside clock becomes a comet, a wristwatch turns to steam, a kitchen timer detonates into a howling fractal dream. He laughs in spirals, bends the dawn, rewrites the shape of noon, and plants a ticking chaos seed inside each wayward room. But Chrononova, guardian cat, with whiskers tuned to fate, hears the tremors in the timeline and knows she can’t be late. He prowls across the star‑lit hours, collects each cursed device, and gently resets every one to the proper temporal slice. His paws restore the fragile threads that Grindleflux unspun, and by the time the sun returns the unive...

Official release date: 7th November 2026 And its now released. Spotify Hi-res downloads are available already. https://maharajablues.bandcamp.com/album/house-of-roots-devauden-festival And CDs https://elasticstage.com/maharajablues/releases/house-of-roots-devauden-festival-album 🦩 Pink Flamingo Nonsense Chronicler Review — House of Roots (Expectation Edition) The cosmic flamingo quills are twitching,  because the universe has begun humming in anticipation of Maharaja Blues’ incoming EP, House of Roots.  Not a normal hum either. More like the sound a galaxy makes when it’s trying to tune a resonator through a nebula while a bear bard warms up backstage. 🦩 The Flamingo’s Opening Declaration Expectation levels have risen so high that several astronomers have mistaken them for a new ring around Saturn. Critics perched at the edge of the universe — the ones who wear monocles forged from collapsed stars — have already set up camp, waiting for the first vibration of the EP to reach...

🦩 The Pink Flamingo Nonsense Chronicle of the -1st Leek Blues & Americana Festival, Roebuck Inn, 1626 In the year of 1626, when The Roebuck Inn had only just sprouted its first official roof‑beam and was still learning how to be a pub, the towns folk of Leek decided, for reasons historians still refuse to explain, to host the –1st Blues & Americana Festival. Yes, minus one. A festival held before festivals existed, before blues had been invented, and before anyone in Staffordshire had ever uttered the word “Americana” without sneezing. The Roebuck, barely one year old in building‑years, was thrilled. Its timbers quivered with anticipation. Its ale barrels hummed with premature nostalgia.  But calamity struck: One of the scheduled “Lute‑Driven Rustic Groove Ensembles” failed to appear. Some said they’d been abducted by a travelling choir. Others claimed they’d accidentally joined the wrong century. Either way, the stage sat empty, radiating awkwardness.  That’s when th...

A poem inspired by the photo above. In Room Five, where the sideways clocks all hum, Dr Miku the Bear Bard sits, stored like a misplaced drum. Only laughing gas for company, fizzing neon‑blue delight, As he stitches torn dimensions back together from dawn till night. For the wound between realities was leaking dreams and bees, And only a bard‑bear’s paw could soothe such interstellar unease. So Pink Flamingo chronicled it, quill dipped in lunar foam “Miku heals the multiverse today— and tomorrow, we let him roam". Or do we????? Full story index blog-story-category-index

A big thank you to Krish Banerjee, a talented and dear friend of Maharaja Blues for allowing us to post his poem.   I woke up this morning and hopped out of bed, But landed completely right on my head. The ceiling was flooring, the carpet was sky, And a stray bowl of cereal floated on high. I walked to the kitchen by scaling the wall, Which made it quite tricky to not slip and fall. The fridge was on top of the counter, reversed, And pouring a coffee meant gravity first. I poured out the liquid, it floated right up, And sat on the ceiling, refusing the cup. My slippers were gloves and my trousers a hat, Which made me look foolish, I’m certain of that. The clock on the wall was now ticking back-wards, The morning news anchor spoke nonsense and words. "Good evening," he mumbled, "The weather is dry, With heavy downpours falling up to the sky." If life flips around and gets dizzy and strange, Just stand on your hands and enjoy the big change. There’s no use in crying o...

The Chronicle begins mid‑squawk, as all reputable Pink Flamingo Nonsense Chronicles do.🌺  The Day Year‑12 Miku Was Out‑Acted by a Plant That Knew Too Much.  In the shimmering halls of Glanfflamingo Grammar, where the carpets are pinker than reason itself, young Miku (Year 12, Drama Queen by vocation, student by accident) strode onto the stage ready to deliver his monologue about “the tragic betrayal of the cosmic turnip.”  He had rehearsed for weeks. He had practised his tragic gasp. He had perfected the Year‑12 Thousand‑Yard Stare of Artistic Suffering. But he had not prepared for the plant.  Not a plant. The plant.  A towering, fern‑adjacent diva named Sir Frondsworth the Uncooperative, who had been cast as “Background Foliage #3” but had decided, quite loudly, that this was beneath him. 🌸 Scene: The Murder Weapon Debacle  Miku: “Hand over the cosmic dagger, Frondsworth, the galaxy demands justice.” Sir Frondsworth: “No.”  Not shouted. Not whispere...

Previous House of Roots Review: devauden-house-of-roots-2026 Tenuous Miku's Review Bethan Nia’s gig at the House of Roots was beautiful. Yes a harp sounds wonderful and recently we experienced just how much the harp can contribute to the ambience in The Celtic Darbar play, but for a hot festival afternoon, I still had a slight niggling doubt somewhere. Well, Bethan’s performance blew those doubts away. Two harps, a traditional acoustic one and an electronic one connected to a looper pedal, beautiful singing, great stage presence and her lovely persona all made for a terrific show. She had us the audience singing with her and involved all the way whilst she did wonders with the Welsh National Instrument in her hands as gurgling mountain brooks , beautiful Welsh valleys, a farmer’s cows and magical Welsh folklore took centre stage. Maharaja Rich's Addendum The song of the farmer's cows Brothen and Seren involving audience participation in welsh was a stunning success. It is a...

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 change 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...