How fast does sound travel? I’ve walked 9 miles around the Kaikoura Peninsula today, stopping off for lobster and salad at a roadside café. They’re playing Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young – and Cat Stevens. Everywhere, from the bars and cafes in downtown Wellington, to the little seaside towns, on the radio, you can get your fill of Elton John, Chris Rea, Supertramp, Santana, Wings and Fleetwood Mac. I was in Napier last week, and the Mission Winery had Phil Collins on, in their annual concert in front of 15,000 people. Phil’s calling it his ‘Not Dead Yet’ tour. Quite.

And, for our sins, there’s loads of Ed Blinking Sheeran. They love him here. They have T shirts with ‘Ed Shearan’ and a flock of sheep. The young backpackers playing in all the cafes sing his songs, or theirs – which are exactly the same. Never has one songwriting formula been twisted, copied and turned inside out to produce so many dreary songs. Even I’ve done it.

Basically, the music here is all so safe and boring. There’s nothing edgy, nothing new. It’s mostly like it’s 1977. I’m crying out for some vaguely new stuff… someone says I should try Lorde, whoever that might be.

I made my long awaited debut here the other week. I did a set in a Welsh bar in downtown Wellington, where there are St David flags flying and Tom Jones LP covers behind the bar. There were some men and a dog. At least the dog listened. Well, not strictly true. There were a few women not listening either.

But there was this great burly drunk who was clearly into my music, clapping and cheering after every tune. I couldn’t make out why.

Then I sang my song Katie and Kitty and Me, about an ambiguous relationship on a long road trip between a taxi driver and two young women. The drunk stands up and lurches towards me. He puts both hands on my shoulders, facing me earnestly. ‘Is it true? Is it true, mate?’ His breath could sink a battleship. I’ve long forgotten how to deal with hecklers. So, like a smart arse I say ‘All songs have some truth in them.’ Blimey, it comes out sounding as if I am about to give a lesson in composition. Mistake. ‘Look mate I just want to know – were you having it away with them? Were you? Both of them?’ A thousand thoughts rush through my mind. Not so much how to answer, more how to avoid physical violence. So I mumble ‘Maybe’ and I hope for the best. The drunk shrieks ‘Good on yer, mate. I knew it! I just knew it!’ Everyone laughs. Phew – they’re on my side. Afterwards people ask me how long I’m in town , would I like to play here there and everywhere. But I’m leaving the next day…

I head to South Island on the ferry. We go through the beautiful Marlborough Sounds, where I’ll be staying in a little cabin hideaway. I’ll see a humpback whale later on that week, slowly moving through the Sounds. I’ll walk the Queen Charlotte Track, and see the ferries and boats come and go along the archipelago, and the Tui in the tree outside my deck will mimic my guitar as I write a song there, as if it’s approving my chord changes. Or maybe he’s telling me what to play.

But on this first day on South Island I arrive in Picton and quickly get a shuttle to the annual Marlborough Wine Festival, where 50 or so of your favourite NZ Sauvignon Blanc producers decant you a taste for $3 a pop. I get through $30 in a couple of hours in the searing heat. There are bands playing. Again it’s the Maori ones that interest me: Polynesian rhythms, elements of chanting (and rap), performance more about shared experience than ‘poor little me and my insights into the human condition’. But of the thousands of mostly local people there, most have one thing on their minds. How much can they drink by closing time? And maybe, will their eyelashes last the day? A pretty sight it is not.

Later that week I learn a lot about Marlborough wine. We drink it almost exclusively at home, so it was great to go to wineries I knew well. And also to have my prejudices and safe choices challenged. There are some wines I wouldn’t touch now, and many others I’ve discovered. Headlines: don’t drink Cloudy Bay or Villa Maria; do drink Lawsons Dry Hills, The Doctors and Wither Hills; Ned is actually OK although it’s pretty cheap – because they’re the good guys; and it’s defo not all about Sauvignon Blanc. If enough of you want, I’ll write about it. Or book me for a night out in the spring!

And tonight I’ve been out on the town in Kaikoura. M told me that local musicians play at The Strawberry Tree on Friday nights, and there’s always some talent in from out of town. I slung my guitar in the back of my truck (well, my super sized Toyota SUV), more in hope than expectation, and I headed down, as the sun started to set throwing shadows into the Pacific Ocean. Yesterday out there on the waves, I saw the beautiful Wandering Albatross, was close up to Sperm Whales, and had Dusky Dolphins cavorting along with our boat. Would the music experience match?

So I get there, get myself a beer, and the band comes on. And guess what. Yes, they’re playing Santana covers. They’re playing Black Magic Woman, as recorded by Santana, who were covering a song by Fleetwood Mac.

Got a black magic woman,

Got a black magic woman,

I’ve got a black magic woman

Got me so blind I can’t see

That she’s a black magic woman

Trying to make a devil out of me…

I’m driven to distraction. I’m driven to drink. I stumble up to the stage, put my hands on the singer’s shoulders and say ‘Is true, mate? Tell me, is it true?’