Dashed Plans & Detours

Well, last night at the festival didn't quite turn out as I had planned, but sometimes that's all right. I arrived at the Black Bull in time to catch the last few songs of Heather's set. The Black Bull is not a great venue for live music. A long room with a bar at one end, a pool table in the middle and then a section of booths leading up to the stage at the street end of the room. So if it's well-attended, people end up jammed into the aisle between the booths, and spilling out into the other areas, which are not spacious and are subject to a high cross-traffic of people trying to get to the restrooms and waitstaff ferrying food and drinks the other way out to the patio.

Not great sound (as Greg pointed out, the sound guy is situated behind and to the side of the stage monitors). Probably sounded good on stage, but it was pretty muddy out in the room. But Heather and company performed well, and were being filmed by someone, don't know who or why. Thought I saw one of the major Canadian label (Warners? Universal?) A&R guys sitting over to the side, enjoying the show and clapping enthusiastically. Not sure if it was the guy I think it was though.

From there I decided to head for the Reverb, an full hour ahead of Feist's set. I assumed it would be packed, and it might be prudent to get there early to make sure I got in. I assumed correctly. There was a pretty hefty line-up on the sidewalk. I waited for a while, amused by the couple in front of me who accosted the girl from the festival when she came down the line to check if there were people with festival badges, because they have priority over those of us with $22 wristbands. The guy was arguing with the festival girl, saying that there are people who get their badges for free, so why should they get in before people like him who "work hard" to pay the $22 for the wristband. The girl was explaining that badges are given priority because companies pay $300+ for the festival/conference badges, and they should therefore get in to festival gigs first. The guy didn't seem to understand that people don't get these badges for free -- well, maybe some people do; media and artists, perhaps -- but I know from first-hand experience, having had to fill out the application forms and requisition the cheques from work, that companies pay $300 for their employees to attend the conference/festival. The passes don't just fall out of the sky.

And it's pissed me off when I've had a badge in years past, and I show up at a festival gig, only to find that I have to line up with people who are just paying the one-off $10-$20 ticket price, and they could get in before me, when my employer has shelled out $300 up front for the badge. Only makes sense that people who pay that kind of money into the festival's coffers should get preference. I was going to explain it to Mr. Complainer, but I couldn't be bothered.

Anyway, it was looking like I wasn't going to get in to see Feist, so instead of wasting time standing in line, I bailed and went to the El Mo to see The Premiums (read my story on them for SOCAN here. They rocked quite righteously. The room was virtually empty before they started. I went up near the front to get a good look-see. When the first song was over, I turned around to find a mass of people had filled the space behind me. It was a good show.

From there, I scooted around the corner to see NYCsmoke at Rancho Relaxo. This guy is apparently a friend of Phillip Glass. But it was just him with a telecaster, tattooed arms (picture Mike Ness from Social Distortion) and a woman accompanying on cello. Interesting. Probably a good show under other circumstances, but the only place to stand was back by the bar, and there were too many people yapping back there. Pitfalls of festival shows.

So I cut out of there after a downed my pint of Rickard's Red. Tried the Oasis a few doors down where a band called Bakersfield was playing. Gotta be good with a name like that. It was four ultra-ordinary-looking guys, one with a backwards baseball cap, playing very straightforward but very uninspired roots rock. Nothing special was going to erupt from them anytime soon, so I hit the exit. I decided to follow my music festival Rule #1.

When all else fails, go to the Horseshoe.

"Special Guests" were slotted to play there. But I read somewhere that it was to be The Lowest Of The Low. Another of their special reunion gigs. What's this, the 14th special reunion gig in the last two years? For a band that's supposed to be broken up, they seem to be busier than a one-legged man at a butt-kicking contest.

But they are a good band, and it was not an unenjoyable way to end the night. Said hi to Alan Pigguns and saw a sweaty-headed Danny Michel trying to wedge his way to the bar to get a beer.

The streetcar ride home provided some amusement, with an old codger yelling obscenities at people on the street with his head stuck out the window ("take 'er home and get 'er into bed!"). A couple of young guys on the streetcar finally told him to shut up, and he threatened to take care of them, but didn't. Then he got off a few blocks before McCaul Street, mumbling to the driver about cleaning those kids' collective clocks. He was an old man, probably in his 60s at least, but he was at least 6'4" and rather hefty looking. He was carrying a cane that was too short to actually reach the ground, and when he got off the street car, he RAN across Queen Street to the north side! Didn't seem to need or use the cane at all.

When the streetcar reached McCaul, there was a bus-car incident blocking the tracks. We sat there for about 5 minutes, before the driver received instructions to detour north on McCaul, which fortunately has streetcar tracks, and take Dundas to get around the accident. So we turn north and start to lumber up McCaul. At the first stop, who should get back on again but the old man with the vestigial cane, who sat down in the same seat and picked up where he left off, periodically tossing comments at passersby, his head thrust fully out the window. I just had to chuckle.

There was also a gaggle of easily confused foreign club girls who didn't know where they were going, only that they needed to get to Yonge Street. They were completely thrown when the streetcar had to detour. They looked like a bunch of young fawns who had suddenly lost their mother. But a scrawny, young East Indian guy bravely volunteered to steer them right, so everything was okay. He got off with them when we reached Yonge Street, ever the helpful guide. I think maybe he thought he might get a "reward". Who knows. Seems like anything's possible at 2:30 a.m. on the Queen streetcar.

"Will I see you tonight, on a downtown tram..."