... COWbells that is!
Y'know, as I think of it, I may have posted that link once before. But no matter. You can never have too much cowbell!
"I got a fever, and the only prescription is more cowbell!"
Monday, August 30, 2004
Saturday, August 28, 2004
How Sweet It Was
There are some things you just can't pass up. For years I'd been telling myself that I have to go see Emmylou Harris play live. Is there a more immediately identifiable voice in the world? Well, maybe a few, but none as beautiful or as awe-inspiring. And I've also been dying to see Gillian Welch since I first started listening to her records a few years ago. I was bummed that the Bluesfest got canceled this summer, because for me, she was the primary attraction. So when I saw tickets were going on sale for the Sweet Harmony Traveling Revue, with both Emmylou and Gillian, I wasn't about to miss it. Musical manna from heaven.
I took Thursday and Friday off, rounded up my friends Heather and Greg, who were also jazzed about the show, and went down to my old stomping grounds, Detroit/Windsor, to catch the tour stop at the Meadowbrook music festival. We stayed at my friend Janet's place in Windsor, and she also came to the show.
The show was everything I had hoped it would be and more. Meadowbrook is an outdoor amphitheatre on the grounds of Oakland University in Rochester, MI, about 45 minutes on the other side of Detroit. As a venue, it's smaller and cozier than most outdoor sheds. It has kind of a folky vibe to it. We had seats under the canopy, so we were okay in case it rained, but that was not going to be a concern. It was a beautifully warm night, just perfect for this kind of concert.
Tickets said the show was at 7:30, so we figured we'd be okay getting there sometime between then and 8:00. We arrived at about 7:50, and Emmylou was already onstage! As we walked from the parking field to our seats we could hear her singing "To Know Him Is To Love Him", with at least one other female voice, which was probably Patty Griffin, although it's possible Gillian was in there as well (The sound was a bit muffled at that distance and over the lip of a hill). I heard her say something like "How are you Detroit?", so I assumed this must have been her first song of the evening, second at best.
I stopped just long enough to visit the mensroom and to pick up a $7 jug of beer (that's about $12 CDN - you can almost buy a 12-pack for that!) As I got to the seats, Emmylou was just finishing the marvelous Daniel Lanois song "Blackhawk". What a thrill to hear that voice live in front of me for the first time! She encapsulates everything that's right about beautiful singing: strength, nuance, delicacy, emotion, reserve, poise, abandon, tradition, individuality... Just so beautiful.
I may be forgetting a few songs from her mini-set, but I know she also did "Orphan Girl", joined by Miss Gillian of course, and I'm pretty sure she also did "My Antonia". And there's another thrill: seeing Emmylou and Gillian Welch singing together. Man, how do you top that?
I was soon to find out.
But that was the template for the Revue. Each of the main artists would do a mini-set, often joined by the others in various configurations. It was very fluid.
I'm not sure of the exact order of things, but I think Buddy Miller's set followed Emmylou's. I don't know his stuff very well, but I was quite impressed with his voice. Very distinctive. The highlight of his set came when he was joined by Gillian and David Rawlings for a few numbers, with Rawlings on electric guitar and Gillian on bass!. They were rocking out and having a good ol' time! Great stuff.
It's almost pointless to talk about highlights, there were so many wonderful moments. At some point the stage lights came down, while Emmylou, Gillian and Patty Griffin gathered around one mic under a lone, overhead spotlight to sing the a cappella gem from the "O Brother" soundtrack, "Didn't Leave Nobody But The Baby". Absolutely spellbinding.
Patty Griffin's mini-set was next, I think. I've only heard a few of her songs, and only recently. She possesses a marvelous voice. For me, the highlight of her set was her haunting, solo rendition of Springsteen's "Stolen Car" and her closing number, "Mary", which she wrote for her grandmother. For this one, Emmylou and Gillian stood unassumingly on either side and a few feet back of Patty, like any old back-up singers. Their three voices closed out the song, lifting up the grandmother's name -- homage, veneration, benediction.
Gillian Welch's and David Rawlings' set was simply amazing. They started with "I Wanna Play That Rock And Roll", then into "Elvis Presley Blues". We were remarking afterwards how well their voices blend together. There were times when I thought Rawlings' mic may have been off, but when I listened closer, there he was, just blending in as if there were one voice. Gillian broke out the banjo for a few songs, and I think they did "I Had A Real Good Mother", "No One Knows My Name" and "One Little Song", although I may be imagining one of these, possibly heard it in the car on the way over to the show. They also did another song that I didn't recognize; maybe a song from Soul Journey that I'm not so familiar with.
Another thing I had been looking forward to was bearing witness to David Rawlings' guitar playing. This man is an amazing guitarist. There's something about his playing, as if he's almost colouring outside the lines, but not quite. Sort of like what Marc Ribot is to avant pop/jazz, David Rawlings is to roots moderne. He's not in charge of his playing; he just lets it come through and follows where it leads him. It plays him. The last song of their set was "Revelator", and it was just incredible. I think I have bruises on my chin from where my jaw hit the floor during some of his solos.
I think they closed out the main set with an ensemble rendition of "I'll Fly Away". For the first encore, again with the whole ensemble, David Rawlings strapped on a 12-string Rickenbacker, and following a plea from Emmylou that everyone get registered to vote, they launched into a note-perfect intro to the Byrds' version of "Turn Turn Turn". That was followed by what was probably the best rendition of "The Weight" that I had ever heard in person.
They left the stage to another standing ovation (there had been several throughout the evening). I noticed the guitar tech removing one of Emmylou's guitars, and replacing it with her big jumbo Gibson acoustic, so I knew there would be another encore. And something about the way he placed that guitar on its stand at the front of the stage facing Emmylou's mic stand made me think...Gram Parsons. There was just something reverential and near-iconic about the way the roadie placed that guitar on the stage.
They came back out, and Emmylou mentioned that even though it had been such a fun and wonderful experience traveling and playing with these other artists, and how grateful she was to them for doing it, none of it would have been possible for her if it hadn't been for Gram Parsons. Then they closed the book on the evening with Parsons' prayer "In My Hour Of Darkness".
An incredible evening of beautiful music.
I took Thursday and Friday off, rounded up my friends Heather and Greg, who were also jazzed about the show, and went down to my old stomping grounds, Detroit/Windsor, to catch the tour stop at the Meadowbrook music festival. We stayed at my friend Janet's place in Windsor, and she also came to the show.
The show was everything I had hoped it would be and more. Meadowbrook is an outdoor amphitheatre on the grounds of Oakland University in Rochester, MI, about 45 minutes on the other side of Detroit. As a venue, it's smaller and cozier than most outdoor sheds. It has kind of a folky vibe to it. We had seats under the canopy, so we were okay in case it rained, but that was not going to be a concern. It was a beautifully warm night, just perfect for this kind of concert.
Tickets said the show was at 7:30, so we figured we'd be okay getting there sometime between then and 8:00. We arrived at about 7:50, and Emmylou was already onstage! As we walked from the parking field to our seats we could hear her singing "To Know Him Is To Love Him", with at least one other female voice, which was probably Patty Griffin, although it's possible Gillian was in there as well (The sound was a bit muffled at that distance and over the lip of a hill). I heard her say something like "How are you Detroit?", so I assumed this must have been her first song of the evening, second at best.
I stopped just long enough to visit the mensroom and to pick up a $7 jug of beer (that's about $12 CDN - you can almost buy a 12-pack for that!) As I got to the seats, Emmylou was just finishing the marvelous Daniel Lanois song "Blackhawk". What a thrill to hear that voice live in front of me for the first time! She encapsulates everything that's right about beautiful singing: strength, nuance, delicacy, emotion, reserve, poise, abandon, tradition, individuality... Just so beautiful.
I may be forgetting a few songs from her mini-set, but I know she also did "Orphan Girl", joined by Miss Gillian of course, and I'm pretty sure she also did "My Antonia". And there's another thrill: seeing Emmylou and Gillian Welch singing together. Man, how do you top that?
I was soon to find out.
But that was the template for the Revue. Each of the main artists would do a mini-set, often joined by the others in various configurations. It was very fluid.
I'm not sure of the exact order of things, but I think Buddy Miller's set followed Emmylou's. I don't know his stuff very well, but I was quite impressed with his voice. Very distinctive. The highlight of his set came when he was joined by Gillian and David Rawlings for a few numbers, with Rawlings on electric guitar and Gillian on bass!. They were rocking out and having a good ol' time! Great stuff.
It's almost pointless to talk about highlights, there were so many wonderful moments. At some point the stage lights came down, while Emmylou, Gillian and Patty Griffin gathered around one mic under a lone, overhead spotlight to sing the a cappella gem from the "O Brother" soundtrack, "Didn't Leave Nobody But The Baby". Absolutely spellbinding.
Patty Griffin's mini-set was next, I think. I've only heard a few of her songs, and only recently. She possesses a marvelous voice. For me, the highlight of her set was her haunting, solo rendition of Springsteen's "Stolen Car" and her closing number, "Mary", which she wrote for her grandmother. For this one, Emmylou and Gillian stood unassumingly on either side and a few feet back of Patty, like any old back-up singers. Their three voices closed out the song, lifting up the grandmother's name -- homage, veneration, benediction.
Gillian Welch's and David Rawlings' set was simply amazing. They started with "I Wanna Play That Rock And Roll", then into "Elvis Presley Blues". We were remarking afterwards how well their voices blend together. There were times when I thought Rawlings' mic may have been off, but when I listened closer, there he was, just blending in as if there were one voice. Gillian broke out the banjo for a few songs, and I think they did "I Had A Real Good Mother", "No One Knows My Name" and "One Little Song", although I may be imagining one of these, possibly heard it in the car on the way over to the show. They also did another song that I didn't recognize; maybe a song from Soul Journey that I'm not so familiar with.
Another thing I had been looking forward to was bearing witness to David Rawlings' guitar playing. This man is an amazing guitarist. There's something about his playing, as if he's almost colouring outside the lines, but not quite. Sort of like what Marc Ribot is to avant pop/jazz, David Rawlings is to roots moderne. He's not in charge of his playing; he just lets it come through and follows where it leads him. It plays him. The last song of their set was "Revelator", and it was just incredible. I think I have bruises on my chin from where my jaw hit the floor during some of his solos.
I think they closed out the main set with an ensemble rendition of "I'll Fly Away". For the first encore, again with the whole ensemble, David Rawlings strapped on a 12-string Rickenbacker, and following a plea from Emmylou that everyone get registered to vote, they launched into a note-perfect intro to the Byrds' version of "Turn Turn Turn". That was followed by what was probably the best rendition of "The Weight" that I had ever heard in person.
They left the stage to another standing ovation (there had been several throughout the evening). I noticed the guitar tech removing one of Emmylou's guitars, and replacing it with her big jumbo Gibson acoustic, so I knew there would be another encore. And something about the way he placed that guitar on its stand at the front of the stage facing Emmylou's mic stand made me think...Gram Parsons. There was just something reverential and near-iconic about the way the roadie placed that guitar on the stage.
They came back out, and Emmylou mentioned that even though it had been such a fun and wonderful experience traveling and playing with these other artists, and how grateful she was to them for doing it, none of it would have been possible for her if it hadn't been for Gram Parsons. Then they closed the book on the evening with Parsons' prayer "In My Hour Of Darkness".
An incredible evening of beautiful music.
Sunday, August 22, 2004
Can-do, Can-did, Got The T-Shirt
I'm kinda tardy with this post... again, my deepest apologies.
Two weekends ago I attended the big Sloan/Sam Roberts co-headlining festival over on the Toronto Islands. It was an all-Canadian bill that also included Broken Social Scene, The Constantines, Buck 65, The Stills, Pilate and Death From Above. By all accounts it was a huge success, notable because this summer saw the cancelation of at least two other festivals: Lollapalooza and The Toronto Blues Festival.
I think Eye magazine hit the nail on the head with this story about the festival.
It was a great day. Started out kind of overcast, but as the day went on it cleared up and warmed up. Olympic Island is a very cool place for a show like that. Lots of green space, trees, places to wander off and escape the crowd if you want to, and a great view of the downtown skyline.
Crowd behaviour at these things is always fascinating. Observing real, live flesh-and-blood interaction between masses of people and pop music and pop culture--at the moment of spontaneous(?) consumption--is rife with all kinds of interesting paradoxes and revelations. For instance, there was the moment in Sam Roberts' set when he was performing "Brother Down", and the crowd picks up the refrain (with a little urging from Sam). People have their arms raised, fists in the air, voices jubilently belting it out...
"I think my life is passing me by"
um, yee haw.
And then of course there's Sam's other big sing-along moment in "The Canadian Dream"--part manifesto, part spelling bee...
"S-O-C-I-A,
L-I-S-M is here to stay!"
Gee, suddenly we're standing in the middle of thousands of real live socialists! Who knew? Up to that point they had appeared to be a bunch of students and young urban and suburban 20- and 30-somethings. And me not even partaking in the jubilent celebration of my fellow travellers, even though I was wearing my DJ Guevara t-shirt! (Note the Mao vinyl!)
...speaking of which...
When I was at the concert, I went to get a beer and as I was coming back from the serving area, this guy runs up to me and stops me, saying that his friend is doing a project on Che Guevara, and would I mind if he took a picture of my shirt for the project. I said, sure. So I go over and meet the guy, and he explains that he's a professor at Ryerson University, and his project (which sounded like part research project, part art project) involves investigating uses of Che images; talking to kids--university students, mostly--about why they're wearing the Che t-shirt, what it means to them, etc. A lot of these kids, of course, don't even know much about Che Guevara, other than that it's a cool image, I would guess on a par to them with Jim Morrison, John Lennon or Kurt Cobain. A cool icon. Projection of some kind of fuzzy rebelliousness.
So I was certainly willing to let him take a few snaps of me and my shirt, especially since mine represents a different...spin, shall we say...on the appropriation of the image. He asked me where I had found the t-shirt, and I told him that I had bought it in a little boardwalk store near Cavendish, P.E.I. when I was home visiting a few summers ago. The guy who initially approached me then says that he's from the East Coast, too. Antigonish, N.S. Says he wouldn't have guessed I was an Islander because he didn't hear an accent in my voice. I explain that we moved to the Moncton, N.B. area when I was 13, and I probably lost some of it as a result, plus living in Ontario for the past 14 years likely took care of the rest. He says, "No kidding! I lived in the Moncton area, too. Riverview." I say, "That's where I lived. Went to Riverview High. Class of '81". He says, "I was Class of '83!".
I say, "What's your name"?
"Patrick Decoste."
"Pat Decoste! I know you! ... I think... do I?"
Turns out it was his brother Mark who I knew from high school. He and his then-girlfriend-then-wife-then-ex-wife Sue Ellen (long story) were in several classes with me. And my friend Dan had dated their sister for a short time. But Pat and I had a few common friends, and we spent a few minutes working out the connections.
Too funny.
Che Guevara. Uniting people around the world.
Two weekends ago I attended the big Sloan/Sam Roberts co-headlining festival over on the Toronto Islands. It was an all-Canadian bill that also included Broken Social Scene, The Constantines, Buck 65, The Stills, Pilate and Death From Above. By all accounts it was a huge success, notable because this summer saw the cancelation of at least two other festivals: Lollapalooza and The Toronto Blues Festival.
I think Eye magazine hit the nail on the head with this story about the festival.
It was a great day. Started out kind of overcast, but as the day went on it cleared up and warmed up. Olympic Island is a very cool place for a show like that. Lots of green space, trees, places to wander off and escape the crowd if you want to, and a great view of the downtown skyline.
Crowd behaviour at these things is always fascinating. Observing real, live flesh-and-blood interaction between masses of people and pop music and pop culture--at the moment of spontaneous(?) consumption--is rife with all kinds of interesting paradoxes and revelations. For instance, there was the moment in Sam Roberts' set when he was performing "Brother Down", and the crowd picks up the refrain (with a little urging from Sam). People have their arms raised, fists in the air, voices jubilently belting it out...
"I think my life is passing me by"
um, yee haw.
And then of course there's Sam's other big sing-along moment in "The Canadian Dream"--part manifesto, part spelling bee...
"S-O-C-I-A,
L-I-S-M is here to stay!"
Gee, suddenly we're standing in the middle of thousands of real live socialists! Who knew? Up to that point they had appeared to be a bunch of students and young urban and suburban 20- and 30-somethings. And me not even partaking in the jubilent celebration of my fellow travellers, even though I was wearing my DJ Guevara t-shirt! (Note the Mao vinyl!)
...speaking of which...
When I was at the concert, I went to get a beer and as I was coming back from the serving area, this guy runs up to me and stops me, saying that his friend is doing a project on Che Guevara, and would I mind if he took a picture of my shirt for the project. I said, sure. So I go over and meet the guy, and he explains that he's a professor at Ryerson University, and his project (which sounded like part research project, part art project) involves investigating uses of Che images; talking to kids--university students, mostly--about why they're wearing the Che t-shirt, what it means to them, etc. A lot of these kids, of course, don't even know much about Che Guevara, other than that it's a cool image, I would guess on a par to them with Jim Morrison, John Lennon or Kurt Cobain. A cool icon. Projection of some kind of fuzzy rebelliousness.
So I was certainly willing to let him take a few snaps of me and my shirt, especially since mine represents a different...spin, shall we say...on the appropriation of the image. He asked me where I had found the t-shirt, and I told him that I had bought it in a little boardwalk store near Cavendish, P.E.I. when I was home visiting a few summers ago. The guy who initially approached me then says that he's from the East Coast, too. Antigonish, N.S. Says he wouldn't have guessed I was an Islander because he didn't hear an accent in my voice. I explain that we moved to the Moncton, N.B. area when I was 13, and I probably lost some of it as a result, plus living in Ontario for the past 14 years likely took care of the rest. He says, "No kidding! I lived in the Moncton area, too. Riverview." I say, "That's where I lived. Went to Riverview High. Class of '81". He says, "I was Class of '83!".
I say, "What's your name"?
"Patrick Decoste."
"Pat Decoste! I know you! ... I think... do I?"
Turns out it was his brother Mark who I knew from high school. He and his then-girlfriend-then-wife-then-ex-wife Sue Ellen (long story) were in several classes with me. And my friend Dan had dated their sister for a short time. But Pat and I had a few common friends, and we spent a few minutes working out the connections.
Too funny.
Che Guevara. Uniting people around the world.
Sunday, August 15, 2004
Sunday Papers
For your reading pleasure: My article on Emm Gryner from two years ago.
I didn't realize it was available online until a few days ago when I came across it on her website. Enjoy!
I didn't realize it was available online until a few days ago when I came across it on her website. Enjoy!
Saturday, August 14, 2004
Serenstrippity
Sometimes the right piece of furniture just falls into your lap...so to speak.
Somehow I doubt this coffee table has seen much coffee. More like a tea table...as in T(ea) & A!
Somehow I doubt this coffee table has seen much coffee. More like a tea table...as in T(ea) & A!
Friday, August 13, 2004
Fables Of The Reconstruction
Bless me bloggers, for I have sinned. It's been over a week since my last blog entry.
Sorry, but I've been either too busy or too pooped to peep. But I am happy to report that my CD storage unit did finally arrive on Monday. For some reason it came through Greyhound delivery, not UPS. Maybe that explains why everything went okay.
No shoes were harmed in the completion of this transaction.
Speaking of the wayward shoes, they finally left the building--yesterday! I saw the mailroom guy, Chris, as he was on his deliveries around the office (he bears a striking resemblence to SuperMario, even has an Italian accent), and when he saw me he said "The shoes are gone! It's over! It's finally over!"
Anyway, so I put the CD thing together over two nights. Last night I opened up all the boxes containing my CD collection. Wasn't really sure how to proceed, seeing as I had packed the CDs rather haphazardly; just grabbed clusters and put them in whichever box they fit, although I did try to keep artists together. So my Beatles, Stones, Neil Young, Dylan, Costello collections, for instance, were pretty much intact. I wasn't exactly sure how much of the rack the CDs would occupy, and how much room there'd be for DVDs and VHS tapes, so I just decided to throw everything on the shelves to see how much room there was. It all fit fine, but now, aside from the aforementioned artists, it's all pretty mixed up.
That's tonight's task. Arrange my CD collection into some semblence of order. Now, I'm one of those people who order their CDs quite meticulously. Within Artist, CDs are arranged chronologically going from earliest albums to latest albums, left to right. The major artists and favourites get prominent billing on the top shelves--so Beatles, Neil Young, Stones, Dylan, Costello, etc. Those are also my largest collections, so it's good to have them prominently displayed. I also try to group artists for whom I have fewer CDs by genre or association. Power pop, country, classic rock, jazz, reggae/world music, blues, soundtracks, etc. Then there's usually a shelf or two of Canadian indie artists, maybe female artists. Ah, but there I hit a snag and encounter ethical quandaries.
First of all, is it sexist of me to group female artists together? Shouldn't they simply go with whatever genre they belong to? Perhaps. But there are times when I want to hear a female voice, and when that's the case, I'll know where to look. And besides, isn't there something distinctly female about the way Kate Bush or Jane Siberry or even Patti Smith present themselves through their music? Something that is more than a mere genre? And what genre is Kate Bush exactly?
On the other hand, I have no problem putting Lucinda Willams and Emmylou Harris on the country/alt-country shelf. They can take care of themselves. But what about a group like Starling? Do they go on the Canadian indie shelf, or in with power-poppers like Big Star? And what about Badfinger? Classic rock? Power pop? Maybe they should be orbiting the Beatles shelf somehow?
Maybe I'm suffering from too much shelf-consciousness?
It's a tough chore though. Since 80% of the CDs are all mixed up across the shelves, how do I approach reconciling this CD diaspora? The only way I can figure, is to go through CD by CD, shelf by shelf and start shepherding them into the spaces where they belong. It's "Oh, there's a Tom Waits! That goes over here with the others. Jazz compilation! Let's put that in this stack on the floor. Lemonheads! That goes on the power pop shelf..." I think I'll have to make numerous passes through it all, and each time it'll get a little more organized. Then I'll probably have to make some wholesale shelf swaps. Country gets swapped with classic rock/brit pop/radiohead/coldplay/travis, etc.
I also got Stella back from the shop today, all happy with a new set-up and a new set of flat-wound strings. I'm listening to Wings Over America as I arrange my CD collection. I wanted to hear some good bass playing, and Macca's playing throughout that album always hits the spot. It makes for good CD-collection-arranging music. Not too demanding on the ears or attention span, and enjoyable for the spirit. Wings was the first band I really got into when I was a teeny bopper. These days I wouldn't call Wings a guilty pleasure--more like an innocent pleasure.
All right, back at it! These CDs ain't a-gonna library-ize themselves.
Sorry, but I've been either too busy or too pooped to peep. But I am happy to report that my CD storage unit did finally arrive on Monday. For some reason it came through Greyhound delivery, not UPS. Maybe that explains why everything went okay.
No shoes were harmed in the completion of this transaction.
Speaking of the wayward shoes, they finally left the building--yesterday! I saw the mailroom guy, Chris, as he was on his deliveries around the office (he bears a striking resemblence to SuperMario, even has an Italian accent), and when he saw me he said "The shoes are gone! It's over! It's finally over!"
Anyway, so I put the CD thing together over two nights. Last night I opened up all the boxes containing my CD collection. Wasn't really sure how to proceed, seeing as I had packed the CDs rather haphazardly; just grabbed clusters and put them in whichever box they fit, although I did try to keep artists together. So my Beatles, Stones, Neil Young, Dylan, Costello collections, for instance, were pretty much intact. I wasn't exactly sure how much of the rack the CDs would occupy, and how much room there'd be for DVDs and VHS tapes, so I just decided to throw everything on the shelves to see how much room there was. It all fit fine, but now, aside from the aforementioned artists, it's all pretty mixed up.
That's tonight's task. Arrange my CD collection into some semblence of order. Now, I'm one of those people who order their CDs quite meticulously. Within Artist, CDs are arranged chronologically going from earliest albums to latest albums, left to right. The major artists and favourites get prominent billing on the top shelves--so Beatles, Neil Young, Stones, Dylan, Costello, etc. Those are also my largest collections, so it's good to have them prominently displayed. I also try to group artists for whom I have fewer CDs by genre or association. Power pop, country, classic rock, jazz, reggae/world music, blues, soundtracks, etc. Then there's usually a shelf or two of Canadian indie artists, maybe female artists. Ah, but there I hit a snag and encounter ethical quandaries.
First of all, is it sexist of me to group female artists together? Shouldn't they simply go with whatever genre they belong to? Perhaps. But there are times when I want to hear a female voice, and when that's the case, I'll know where to look. And besides, isn't there something distinctly female about the way Kate Bush or Jane Siberry or even Patti Smith present themselves through their music? Something that is more than a mere genre? And what genre is Kate Bush exactly?
On the other hand, I have no problem putting Lucinda Willams and Emmylou Harris on the country/alt-country shelf. They can take care of themselves. But what about a group like Starling? Do they go on the Canadian indie shelf, or in with power-poppers like Big Star? And what about Badfinger? Classic rock? Power pop? Maybe they should be orbiting the Beatles shelf somehow?
Maybe I'm suffering from too much shelf-consciousness?
It's a tough chore though. Since 80% of the CDs are all mixed up across the shelves, how do I approach reconciling this CD diaspora? The only way I can figure, is to go through CD by CD, shelf by shelf and start shepherding them into the spaces where they belong. It's "Oh, there's a Tom Waits! That goes over here with the others. Jazz compilation! Let's put that in this stack on the floor. Lemonheads! That goes on the power pop shelf..." I think I'll have to make numerous passes through it all, and each time it'll get a little more organized. Then I'll probably have to make some wholesale shelf swaps. Country gets swapped with classic rock/brit pop/radiohead/coldplay/travis, etc.
I also got Stella back from the shop today, all happy with a new set-up and a new set of flat-wound strings. I'm listening to Wings Over America as I arrange my CD collection. I wanted to hear some good bass playing, and Macca's playing throughout that album always hits the spot. It makes for good CD-collection-arranging music. Not too demanding on the ears or attention span, and enjoyable for the spirit. Wings was the first band I really got into when I was a teeny bopper. These days I wouldn't call Wings a guilty pleasure--more like an innocent pleasure.
All right, back at it! These CDs ain't a-gonna library-ize themselves.
Wednesday, August 04, 2004
These Shoes Were Meant For Rockin'
Well, the Wilco tickets finally arrived Tuesday morning at work. Whew. Typed instructions on a sticker on the UPS envelope clearly telling the driver to take it to reception, business hours 9-5. Naturally, it was delivered to the warehouse mailroom at the back of the building. I didn't get a chance to see the driver. I was curious to find out which was lower: the knuckles, the slack jaw or the IQ.
And then, just when I thought my long, irrational nightmare was over ... sometime just before high noon ... THE SHOES CAME BACK!
Yes, poor Tracey Kelly's (no relation) wayward shoes landed back in this absurd landscape for a second tour of duty.
I escorted them back down to the mailroom and explained The Mistake II. They said they'd get the UPS guy to take them back. But they wanted to make sure that I was "rejecting" the shoes. The poor shoes. Shunted around aimlessly, and now I have to provide the final indignity -- the coup de grace -- of stating my rejection of them. But I think they could take it. They were cork soles.
Half an hour later, the guy from the mailroom calls me and says that he was talking to the people at UPS, and he wasn't able to explain the situation to them properly because he didn't have all the information -- was this woman related to me? Did I know her? He says I should call UPS and explain it to them.
Fair enough. I call UPS and explain The Mistake III. They say they'll send someone round.
(Y'know, it seems a fairly simple situation. A rather uncomplicated scenario. To wit: "These shoes are not mine. They belong to someone else. They were sent to me by mistake. Please take them away." And yet... somehow I get the feeling I would have had a breezier time explaining quantum physics to a flock of pigeons.)
A little while later, our receptionist calls me, and asks if everything was straightened away, because the guy from UPS is here (seems he's finally found his way to the reception area). I say yes, it's all straightened away, I got my package. I assumed he knew that he was to pick up the box of shoes.
As I was leaving for the day, I passed by reception and the receptionist says, "So, it's all squared away?" And I say, shaking my head and shrugging, "Yes, it looks that way. He got the shoes, did he?" Her face drops. "What shoes?"
Guess Mr. UPS will have to make another return trip. Shame.
Oh... and the Wilco show?
It was great. Getting away from his addiction to pain-killers must have done Jeff Tweedy a world of good. I've never seen the man smile so much! While he's playing and singing! Maybe the migraines are gone too. (He's been tortured for years with severe migraines, which led to the pain-killer dependence.)
Very cool venue too. It was my first time seeing a show at The Mod Club, and it was a treat. Not too big, not too small. Not sure what's up with the whole Mod thing, but anything's better than 80s nostalgia.
The set consisted only of songs from the last two albums. The new members of the band fill out the sound nicely. Sort of like The Wilco Wall Of Sound. Tweedy played a Gibson SG for most of the songs that needed guitar wankery soloing, but I was pleased to see him bring out the lovely, cherry red Epiphone Casino with the Bigsby tailpiece for "Jesus, Etc." Beauty of a guitar.
In the encores, they reached back to Summerteeth for "Via Chicago" and "I'm The Man That Loves You", and came back a couple of times, ending the night with an absolutely gorgeous-as-velvet reading of "The Lonely 1" from Being There.
Maximum soul satisfaction.
And then, just when I thought my long, irrational nightmare was over ... sometime just before high noon ... THE SHOES CAME BACK!
Yes, poor Tracey Kelly's (no relation) wayward shoes landed back in this absurd landscape for a second tour of duty.
I escorted them back down to the mailroom and explained The Mistake II. They said they'd get the UPS guy to take them back. But they wanted to make sure that I was "rejecting" the shoes. The poor shoes. Shunted around aimlessly, and now I have to provide the final indignity -- the coup de grace -- of stating my rejection of them. But I think they could take it. They were cork soles.
Half an hour later, the guy from the mailroom calls me and says that he was talking to the people at UPS, and he wasn't able to explain the situation to them properly because he didn't have all the information -- was this woman related to me? Did I know her? He says I should call UPS and explain it to them.
Fair enough. I call UPS and explain The Mistake III. They say they'll send someone round.
(Y'know, it seems a fairly simple situation. A rather uncomplicated scenario. To wit: "These shoes are not mine. They belong to someone else. They were sent to me by mistake. Please take them away." And yet... somehow I get the feeling I would have had a breezier time explaining quantum physics to a flock of pigeons.)
A little while later, our receptionist calls me, and asks if everything was straightened away, because the guy from UPS is here (seems he's finally found his way to the reception area). I say yes, it's all straightened away, I got my package. I assumed he knew that he was to pick up the box of shoes.
As I was leaving for the day, I passed by reception and the receptionist says, "So, it's all squared away?" And I say, shaking my head and shrugging, "Yes, it looks that way. He got the shoes, did he?" Her face drops. "What shoes?"
Guess Mr. UPS will have to make another return trip. Shame.
Oh... and the Wilco show?
It was great. Getting away from his addiction to pain-killers must have done Jeff Tweedy a world of good. I've never seen the man smile so much! While he's playing and singing! Maybe the migraines are gone too. (He's been tortured for years with severe migraines, which led to the pain-killer dependence.)
Very cool venue too. It was my first time seeing a show at The Mod Club, and it was a treat. Not too big, not too small. Not sure what's up with the whole Mod thing, but anything's better than 80s nostalgia.
The set consisted only of songs from the last two albums. The new members of the band fill out the sound nicely. Sort of like The Wilco Wall Of Sound. Tweedy played a Gibson SG for most of the songs that needed guitar wankery soloing, but I was pleased to see him bring out the lovely, cherry red Epiphone Casino with the Bigsby tailpiece for "Jesus, Etc." Beauty of a guitar.
In the encores, they reached back to Summerteeth for "Via Chicago" and "I'm The Man That Loves You", and came back a couple of times, ending the night with an absolutely gorgeous-as-velvet reading of "The Lonely 1" from Being There.
Maximum soul satisfaction.
Monday, August 02, 2004
Quote of the Week
Just read this interview with Jeff Tweedy in advance of tomorrow night's show. I nominate this for Quote of the Week:
"The guitar became a big voice on the record. It felt right to give it things the lyrics weren't able to get out. I mean, that's why God invented the electric guitar, so you can say things that you can't say with your voice."
Amen Brother Tweedy.
"The guitar became a big voice on the record. It felt right to give it things the lyrics weren't able to get out. I mean, that's why God invented the electric guitar, so you can say things that you can't say with your voice."
Amen Brother Tweedy.
Sunday, August 01, 2004
More UPS And Downs
Follow-up from the previous blog entry: UPS did not come through on Friday. If I could've reached through the phone and strangled them, I would have.
I had received nothing from them by late morning, so I decided to call to see if I could find out if the tickets were at least on the truck. The customer rep person told me that the driver had been at my work address at 8:54 a.m. and had been unable to make the delivery. Something to do with "no such receiver" or something, whatever that means. I verified that they had the address right. Yup. The rep asked if there was any other businesses at this address. Nope. It's the only building at this address. Large building on the corner with a huge sign out front. Can't miss it. They said it appeared the driver had been there at 8:54 and had attempted to make the delivery, but couldn't, for some reason. This despite the fact I had told them the previous day that my business hours were 9-5. So the driver shows up at 8:54?
But it gets weirder. I went down to talk to our receptionist, and she said she had been there since 8:30, and hadn't seen any UPS person come in. I checked with the guys in the mailroom, at the back door of the building (even though, UPS always delivers to the receptionist at the front), and they had received nothing.
I called UPS yet again. I was not my usual pleasant self. I expressed my dissatisfaction in very strong terms. They said the driver was on his/her route and there was a chance of a return visit later in the day, but they couldn't guarantee it. The lady I talked to was apologetic, but said there wasn't much she could do. She again offered the option of having me pick up the tickets at their depot way the hell across god's creation. I not-so-politely declined, citing the aforementioned notion that when a person pays for DELIVERY of something, there should at least be some semblance of the concept involved at some point, not requiring the alleged receiver to spend hours on a hot city bus travelling to pick up the "delivery". She said if the driver doesn't attempt a return delivery, all that I could do was wait for Tuesday.
I used my favourite Disgruntled Consumer phrase: "This is completely unacceptable." It's worked for me in the past. Didn't seem to have much of an impact in this instance. The customer rep lady was sympathetic, in a customer rep kind of way, but said there wasn't much else that could be done. There were some prolonged silences on my end, just to let the dissatisfaction soak into the conversation. I told her that since UPS had made the mistake of delivering someone else's shoes to me instead of my tickets the previous day, it was incumbent upon them to try a little harder to fix their mistake. I told her I didn't think they were trying hard enough. She repeated that there wasn't anything she could do. I replied, "Well, I guess I'll just have to be DISsatisfied with that."
We're on summer hours at work, and can leave by 1 p.m. on Fridays. I had work to do that would have kept me there till about 3:00 or so, but I stuck around longer on the off-chance the UPS numbskull returned. I waited until 4:30, and then left. On the way out, I left a note at reception that if there's a UPS delivery for me, to call my extension or leave it at reception. Just trying to cover all the bases. I plan to be there early on Tuesday morning.
But that's not the only bad customer experience of the day. Oh no! You might remember from a previous post that I had ordered from an online store a CD wall unit for my apartment. Shipment was supposedly to occur within 7 to 10 days. I had put the order in two weeks ago. There was supposed to be an email notifying me when the shipment left the factory in Vancouver. I had received nothing from them. I called them last week around Tuesday, got a voice mail, left a message. Heard nothing from them. I called them again on Friday. They looked into the situation and told me that apparently my order had not been downloaded with the rest of the orders from that day. Sigh. I had to give them my credit card info again to get the order processed. So hopefully I'll have that delivered in a week or so.
But here's the kicker: Guess who's delivering it?
Yup. The lovely delivery experts at UPS.
Can't wait to see what shows up at my door this time. Maybe more shoes! Whatever it is, I'm gonna make sure I'm home on delivery day, and I'm holding it hostage until I get what I ordered.
I had received nothing from them by late morning, so I decided to call to see if I could find out if the tickets were at least on the truck. The customer rep person told me that the driver had been at my work address at 8:54 a.m. and had been unable to make the delivery. Something to do with "no such receiver" or something, whatever that means. I verified that they had the address right. Yup. The rep asked if there was any other businesses at this address. Nope. It's the only building at this address. Large building on the corner with a huge sign out front. Can't miss it. They said it appeared the driver had been there at 8:54 and had attempted to make the delivery, but couldn't, for some reason. This despite the fact I had told them the previous day that my business hours were 9-5. So the driver shows up at 8:54?
But it gets weirder. I went down to talk to our receptionist, and she said she had been there since 8:30, and hadn't seen any UPS person come in. I checked with the guys in the mailroom, at the back door of the building (even though, UPS always delivers to the receptionist at the front), and they had received nothing.
I called UPS yet again. I was not my usual pleasant self. I expressed my dissatisfaction in very strong terms. They said the driver was on his/her route and there was a chance of a return visit later in the day, but they couldn't guarantee it. The lady I talked to was apologetic, but said there wasn't much she could do. She again offered the option of having me pick up the tickets at their depot way the hell across god's creation. I not-so-politely declined, citing the aforementioned notion that when a person pays for DELIVERY of something, there should at least be some semblance of the concept involved at some point, not requiring the alleged receiver to spend hours on a hot city bus travelling to pick up the "delivery". She said if the driver doesn't attempt a return delivery, all that I could do was wait for Tuesday.
I used my favourite Disgruntled Consumer phrase: "This is completely unacceptable." It's worked for me in the past. Didn't seem to have much of an impact in this instance. The customer rep lady was sympathetic, in a customer rep kind of way, but said there wasn't much else that could be done. There were some prolonged silences on my end, just to let the dissatisfaction soak into the conversation. I told her that since UPS had made the mistake of delivering someone else's shoes to me instead of my tickets the previous day, it was incumbent upon them to try a little harder to fix their mistake. I told her I didn't think they were trying hard enough. She repeated that there wasn't anything she could do. I replied, "Well, I guess I'll just have to be DISsatisfied with that."
We're on summer hours at work, and can leave by 1 p.m. on Fridays. I had work to do that would have kept me there till about 3:00 or so, but I stuck around longer on the off-chance the UPS numbskull returned. I waited until 4:30, and then left. On the way out, I left a note at reception that if there's a UPS delivery for me, to call my extension or leave it at reception. Just trying to cover all the bases. I plan to be there early on Tuesday morning.
But that's not the only bad customer experience of the day. Oh no! You might remember from a previous post that I had ordered from an online store a CD wall unit for my apartment. Shipment was supposedly to occur within 7 to 10 days. I had put the order in two weeks ago. There was supposed to be an email notifying me when the shipment left the factory in Vancouver. I had received nothing from them. I called them last week around Tuesday, got a voice mail, left a message. Heard nothing from them. I called them again on Friday. They looked into the situation and told me that apparently my order had not been downloaded with the rest of the orders from that day. Sigh. I had to give them my credit card info again to get the order processed. So hopefully I'll have that delivered in a week or so.
But here's the kicker: Guess who's delivering it?
Yup. The lovely delivery experts at UPS.
Can't wait to see what shows up at my door this time. Maybe more shoes! Whatever it is, I'm gonna make sure I'm home on delivery day, and I'm holding it hostage until I get what I ordered.
Thursday, July 29, 2004
Down With UPS
Three weeks ago I ordered tickets for next Tuesday's Wilco show at the Mod Club. The sale was done over the web, through the band's website. Nice to be able to avoid Ticketmaster--and their service charges--for a change.
The tickets were to be delivered through UPS Worldwide Express. As of middle last week, I hadn't received the tickets. Then I came home Thursday after work, and there was a notice taped to the door in my building's foyer. UPS had attempted to deliver the tickets, but, of course, I was not at home. As is their policy, they attempt delivery for the next two days, and then, if not successful, they hold your order for five business days, and you can arrange to pick it up.
I was kind of hoping UPS would assume that I was not at home at 10 o'clock in the morning two days running because I was at work, and from there, maybe make a logical decision to try the following day's delivery at a different time, like, say after 5 p.m., as is identified on their notice as one of the possible time slots for delivery. No such luck.
But I wasn't worried, because I was sure I could arrange for UPS to redirect the package to my work address. On Tuesday, I called them and arranged just such a thing. But on Wednesday, no tickets. Today, I called them again, and they told me the delivery would be arriving. This afternoon, I returned to my office and noticed a shoebox-sized cardboard box on my desk. It was adorned with UPS stickers and an invoice. Man, I thought, they really go big on the packaging for a pair of tickets. On closer inspection, I noticed the invoice was addressed to one Tracey Kelly (same last name, no relation) in Toronto. Hmmm. Worry began to creep into my mind.
The invoice proclaimed the contents of the shoebox-sized package to be... a box of shoes. I opened the package and confirmed that this was indeed so. Shoes. Tracey Kelly's shoes, apparently. I called UPS again to inform them of the situation. Apparently my tickets were still in their warehouse. I explained that I was getting nervous that my tardy tickets might not arrive in time. The concert is Tuesday night, and Monday is a holiday here. That just leaves tomorrow and (gulp) the day of the show, to get them to me. The first option they offered me was to go and pick them up. Just so happens their office is pretty much as far on the west side of the city as my workplace in on the east side. That means little ol' car-less me hopping on a bus for a trip that would probably take a few hours all told. And this, after I've already paid for the "convenience" of having these tickets delivered to me? No, the pick up is not my first option. In fact, it's pretty damn far down on the list. Like, say, last.
So the UPS woman said she'd send a fax to the warehouse and see if she could get them delivered on Friday, and failing that, she'd authorize a rare "same-day hold" for me, so I could pick them up maybe Friday evening, if need be. Well, we'll see about that. Let's first see if they get them to me tomorrow.
Now, I know there is some sense to UPS's delivery policies, but they didn't really leave me with many options for not being at home during their delivery hours. Seems to me a company that specializes is delivering things should be a little better at it, and maybe have a few more creative solutions to what must be a fairly common situation, i.e., people not being at home during work hours. Like maybe Saturday delivery? And at the very least, if they can manage to deliver someone else's shoes to me, they should be able to find a way to get my tickets to me on time.
As much as I slag Ticketmaster, I've never had a problem getting my tickets by good old postal delivery. Hey Wilco, maybe next time, just send my tickets via the mail?
The tickets were to be delivered through UPS Worldwide Express. As of middle last week, I hadn't received the tickets. Then I came home Thursday after work, and there was a notice taped to the door in my building's foyer. UPS had attempted to deliver the tickets, but, of course, I was not at home. As is their policy, they attempt delivery for the next two days, and then, if not successful, they hold your order for five business days, and you can arrange to pick it up.
I was kind of hoping UPS would assume that I was not at home at 10 o'clock in the morning two days running because I was at work, and from there, maybe make a logical decision to try the following day's delivery at a different time, like, say after 5 p.m., as is identified on their notice as one of the possible time slots for delivery. No such luck.
But I wasn't worried, because I was sure I could arrange for UPS to redirect the package to my work address. On Tuesday, I called them and arranged just such a thing. But on Wednesday, no tickets. Today, I called them again, and they told me the delivery would be arriving. This afternoon, I returned to my office and noticed a shoebox-sized cardboard box on my desk. It was adorned with UPS stickers and an invoice. Man, I thought, they really go big on the packaging for a pair of tickets. On closer inspection, I noticed the invoice was addressed to one Tracey Kelly (same last name, no relation) in Toronto. Hmmm. Worry began to creep into my mind.
The invoice proclaimed the contents of the shoebox-sized package to be... a box of shoes. I opened the package and confirmed that this was indeed so. Shoes. Tracey Kelly's shoes, apparently. I called UPS again to inform them of the situation. Apparently my tickets were still in their warehouse. I explained that I was getting nervous that my tardy tickets might not arrive in time. The concert is Tuesday night, and Monday is a holiday here. That just leaves tomorrow and (gulp) the day of the show, to get them to me. The first option they offered me was to go and pick them up. Just so happens their office is pretty much as far on the west side of the city as my workplace in on the east side. That means little ol' car-less me hopping on a bus for a trip that would probably take a few hours all told. And this, after I've already paid for the "convenience" of having these tickets delivered to me? No, the pick up is not my first option. In fact, it's pretty damn far down on the list. Like, say, last.
So the UPS woman said she'd send a fax to the warehouse and see if she could get them delivered on Friday, and failing that, she'd authorize a rare "same-day hold" for me, so I could pick them up maybe Friday evening, if need be. Well, we'll see about that. Let's first see if they get them to me tomorrow.
Now, I know there is some sense to UPS's delivery policies, but they didn't really leave me with many options for not being at home during their delivery hours. Seems to me a company that specializes is delivering things should be a little better at it, and maybe have a few more creative solutions to what must be a fairly common situation, i.e., people not being at home during work hours. Like maybe Saturday delivery? And at the very least, if they can manage to deliver someone else's shoes to me, they should be able to find a way to get my tickets to me on time.
As much as I slag Ticketmaster, I've never had a problem getting my tickets by good old postal delivery. Hey Wilco, maybe next time, just send my tickets via the mail?
Saturday, July 24, 2004
Life Is Cool
I've made a scientific breakthrough in controlling the weather! I've discovered that if you want to change the weather from hot and unbearably humid (temp. 28+ degrees C, humidex in the 40s) to comfortably warm and breezy (22 degrees, little humidity), all you need to do is go out and buy an air conditioner! It works the same way as the better-known Bring-Your-Umbrella-And-It-Won't-Rain/Forget-Your-Umbrella-And-Get-Soaked theory. Only it's more expensive to implement.
But that's okay, I'm sure August will be hot and sticky. And my guitars are thanking me. My little wooden friends are vulnerable to extremes in humidity. Ideal is around 50% humidity in a room (that's the standard some manufacturers use in their factories). In the winter, the air in apartments and houses is much drier, so I use a humidifier to regulate it. At low humidity, wood can crack (as it did on my acoustic several years go). At high humidity, wood expands, which means glued seals and seams can come undone, bridges can start coming off, etc. The other day, my hygrometer was reading 80% humidity in my apartment. So I hid my guitars back in their cases to protect them, and went out to buy the air conditioner. Within a few hours of turning it on, the humidity was down to 50-60%, which is fine.
Stella was not subjected to this, as she's in the shop getting all gussied up. So when she returns, the room will be nice and cool and I won't have to worry about upsetting her delicate constitution. Hey, ya gotta treat the girls nice!
But that's okay, I'm sure August will be hot and sticky. And my guitars are thanking me. My little wooden friends are vulnerable to extremes in humidity. Ideal is around 50% humidity in a room (that's the standard some manufacturers use in their factories). In the winter, the air in apartments and houses is much drier, so I use a humidifier to regulate it. At low humidity, wood can crack (as it did on my acoustic several years go). At high humidity, wood expands, which means glued seals and seams can come undone, bridges can start coming off, etc. The other day, my hygrometer was reading 80% humidity in my apartment. So I hid my guitars back in their cases to protect them, and went out to buy the air conditioner. Within a few hours of turning it on, the humidity was down to 50-60%, which is fine.
Stella was not subjected to this, as she's in the shop getting all gussied up. So when she returns, the room will be nice and cool and I won't have to worry about upsetting her delicate constitution. Hey, ya gotta treat the girls nice!
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
An Off Week
I've taken this week off. Mostly a get-away-from-work-and-chill week, but also a get-stuff-done-that-I-can't-seem-to-get-done-during-a-normal-week/weekend week. Yeah, one of those. Plus, my schedule at work was showing a very unusual and obvious Responsibility Hole. It was like my desk calendar was screaming at me, "Get out of here! Get away! Save yourself! I got ya covered!" And work has been a very frustrating place over the past few months, so I really needed to escape. Besides, if there's one thing I've learned in my years of employment, it's that when my desk calendar screams at me, I listen.
I was tempted to go back east and visit friends and family, but for that I'd really need two weeks, and I want to reserve two weeks for later in the summer when I may get a chance to visit friends in England.
So I'm just chillin'. I have a mental list of things I want to do while I'm off, but when I started stressing over the fact that I might not get to everything on the list, I revised it. Now the first item is, "Don't be a slave to The List."
But I've been pretty good in as far as balancing the three main elements--chillin', activity and accomplishing tasks. Last weekend started things off with the Celebrate Toronto street fest. Caught a very enjoyable set from the Silver Hearts and later an outstanding performance at Yonge & Eglinton from Hawksley Workman.
Next on the evening's agenda was my friend Chris's annual "Chillin' 'n' Grillin' " party in Kensington Market, which was a low-key but enjoyable gathering. I stayed there till about 3:30 or 4 a.m. or so. Hopped on the Queen streetcar for the ride home, and by the time it got to The Beaches, the sun was coming up. So I strolled down to the boardwalk, took my socks and shoes off and walked along the lake's edge in the sand. It was so quiet and peaceful. Only a few other people around. A girl sitting on a group of rocks jutting out into the lake, writing something. The lake was so calm, you could barely tell where the horizon separated water from sky. The sun was up, barely, but it was still around the bend, so everything was painted in a light golden hue, as if shot through a filter; a purer, clearer place.
I sat on some rocks on the edge of the lake and communed with a group of Canada geese floating just a few feet away. The leader eyed me warily, but soon determined I was neither a threat nor a bringer of food, so they went about their business. I sat there for some time, drinking in the peacefulness.
Enjoying the still of the dawn is a fine thing to do. Going to bed past dawn usually means the following day (well, the present day, actually) is more or less a write-off. Such was my Sunday. But it was pleasantly relaxing.
Monday brought more chillin', but I did do a few things around the apartment. I thought about what to do for the remainder of the week, and seeing that the weather forecast was calling for rain from Wednesday onward, I decided that Tuesday would be the day I spend time over on the Toronto Islands. On Tuesday, I dilly-dallied most of the day, then finally got my ass in gear and out the door by 4 p.m. It was also the first day this summer that I took my bike out, so it was good to finally do that. The day was a beautiful, sunny 28 degrees. My goal was to start off with some heavy pedaling and really get a good work-out, then relax when I get over to the islands.
I took the path through Woodbine park, just south of me, a short jaunt to the beach, where I hooked up with the Martin Goodman trail, a paved pathway that runs along the city's lakefront. It was a good ride. Felt good to get on the bike and really push it. The path follows Lakeshore Drive, then dips south down toward the filtration plant, runs through some heavily vegetated park land, past Cherry Beach, then up through some dockyards, over a bridge and on toward downtown and Harbourfront. I arrived at the ferry docks around five o'clock.
I had been over to the islands a couple of times before, but only to Centre Island and Ward's Island. This was the first chance I had to explore the entire area by bike. I spent a little time in the children's amusement park in Centreville. Great place for kids. Lots of rides, including an antique carousel and ferris wheel, a little farm with animals to look at. Wonderful little place. Then I continued on to explore the other islands. The homes and neighbourhoods on Algonquin and Ward's islands are so beautiful and quaint. It's like a little cottage community five minutes from downtown.
However, the view of downtown (normally something like this) was completely obscured when this very strange mist descended to envelope the entire Islands (and, I later learned, the entire downtown of the city. I was told it was more or less like a cloud came down to earth). I couldn't see a hint of downtown at all. You couldn't see more than maybe 100 feet off shore. It made for some very interesting sights. I cycled across a little wooden bridge to Shark's Island, ostensibly unpopulated, and stopped at a little beachy alcove and peered out into the cloud vapour. I wasn't even sure which direction I was facing, with no horizon, but I assumed I was facing north, toward the city. Then, emerging from the mist, almost indiscernable at first, then slowly taking shape -- a huge, white swan. It floats by, regally, then disappears back into the mist. After that, I half-expected to see King Arthur's funeral barge go drifting by.
No such luck. So I continued on in my quest, passed back over the little wooden bridge (didn't have to submit to any questions), and cycled around Ward's Island, then along the south side, down the Centre Island boardwalk west toward Hanlon's Point. I didn't visit the clothing-optional beach. Too damn cold in that mist. I ended up at the Hanlon's Point ferry dock and waited there about 15 minutes for the ferry back to the city. It was about 7:15, the mist had driven out the warmth of the day, and there I was sitting in my little lycra cycling shorts and yellow cycling jersey, freezing my ass off. It was a bit warmer downtown, thankfully, so I was able to warm up on the ride home.
All in all, a very good day. A bit of exercise, a bit of sight-seeing, going places I'd never been before, and even some weirdness.
Note to self: spend more of the summer on the Toronto Islands!
(I think the descending cloud must have been part of the weather system that brought some pretty intense lightening later that night, and saw a tornado touch down near London.)
Today I went shopping for a flatbed scanner, and began to narrow down my choices. I think I may go for this one. But I found it at another store for a cheaper price.
I've also been shopping around for a solution to my CD storage problem. I have about 800 CDs, some VHS tapes and some DVDs. The problem is, I have nothing to store them in. But this might do nicely. Lots of capacity for a constantly growing collection, and it would look very nice along the now-blank wall where I need it to go, completing the room. Attractive and functional!
I was tempted to go back east and visit friends and family, but for that I'd really need two weeks, and I want to reserve two weeks for later in the summer when I may get a chance to visit friends in England.
So I'm just chillin'. I have a mental list of things I want to do while I'm off, but when I started stressing over the fact that I might not get to everything on the list, I revised it. Now the first item is, "Don't be a slave to The List."
But I've been pretty good in as far as balancing the three main elements--chillin', activity and accomplishing tasks. Last weekend started things off with the Celebrate Toronto street fest. Caught a very enjoyable set from the Silver Hearts and later an outstanding performance at Yonge & Eglinton from Hawksley Workman.
Next on the evening's agenda was my friend Chris's annual "Chillin' 'n' Grillin' " party in Kensington Market, which was a low-key but enjoyable gathering. I stayed there till about 3:30 or 4 a.m. or so. Hopped on the Queen streetcar for the ride home, and by the time it got to The Beaches, the sun was coming up. So I strolled down to the boardwalk, took my socks and shoes off and walked along the lake's edge in the sand. It was so quiet and peaceful. Only a few other people around. A girl sitting on a group of rocks jutting out into the lake, writing something. The lake was so calm, you could barely tell where the horizon separated water from sky. The sun was up, barely, but it was still around the bend, so everything was painted in a light golden hue, as if shot through a filter; a purer, clearer place.
I sat on some rocks on the edge of the lake and communed with a group of Canada geese floating just a few feet away. The leader eyed me warily, but soon determined I was neither a threat nor a bringer of food, so they went about their business. I sat there for some time, drinking in the peacefulness.
Enjoying the still of the dawn is a fine thing to do. Going to bed past dawn usually means the following day (well, the present day, actually) is more or less a write-off. Such was my Sunday. But it was pleasantly relaxing.
Monday brought more chillin', but I did do a few things around the apartment. I thought about what to do for the remainder of the week, and seeing that the weather forecast was calling for rain from Wednesday onward, I decided that Tuesday would be the day I spend time over on the Toronto Islands. On Tuesday, I dilly-dallied most of the day, then finally got my ass in gear and out the door by 4 p.m. It was also the first day this summer that I took my bike out, so it was good to finally do that. The day was a beautiful, sunny 28 degrees. My goal was to start off with some heavy pedaling and really get a good work-out, then relax when I get over to the islands.
I took the path through Woodbine park, just south of me, a short jaunt to the beach, where I hooked up with the Martin Goodman trail, a paved pathway that runs along the city's lakefront. It was a good ride. Felt good to get on the bike and really push it. The path follows Lakeshore Drive, then dips south down toward the filtration plant, runs through some heavily vegetated park land, past Cherry Beach, then up through some dockyards, over a bridge and on toward downtown and Harbourfront. I arrived at the ferry docks around five o'clock.
I had been over to the islands a couple of times before, but only to Centre Island and Ward's Island. This was the first chance I had to explore the entire area by bike. I spent a little time in the children's amusement park in Centreville. Great place for kids. Lots of rides, including an antique carousel and ferris wheel, a little farm with animals to look at. Wonderful little place. Then I continued on to explore the other islands. The homes and neighbourhoods on Algonquin and Ward's islands are so beautiful and quaint. It's like a little cottage community five minutes from downtown.
However, the view of downtown (normally something like this) was completely obscured when this very strange mist descended to envelope the entire Islands (and, I later learned, the entire downtown of the city. I was told it was more or less like a cloud came down to earth). I couldn't see a hint of downtown at all. You couldn't see more than maybe 100 feet off shore. It made for some very interesting sights. I cycled across a little wooden bridge to Shark's Island, ostensibly unpopulated, and stopped at a little beachy alcove and peered out into the cloud vapour. I wasn't even sure which direction I was facing, with no horizon, but I assumed I was facing north, toward the city. Then, emerging from the mist, almost indiscernable at first, then slowly taking shape -- a huge, white swan. It floats by, regally, then disappears back into the mist. After that, I half-expected to see King Arthur's funeral barge go drifting by.
No such luck. So I continued on in my quest, passed back over the little wooden bridge (didn't have to submit to any questions), and cycled around Ward's Island, then along the south side, down the Centre Island boardwalk west toward Hanlon's Point. I didn't visit the clothing-optional beach. Too damn cold in that mist. I ended up at the Hanlon's Point ferry dock and waited there about 15 minutes for the ferry back to the city. It was about 7:15, the mist had driven out the warmth of the day, and there I was sitting in my little lycra cycling shorts and yellow cycling jersey, freezing my ass off. It was a bit warmer downtown, thankfully, so I was able to warm up on the ride home.
All in all, a very good day. A bit of exercise, a bit of sight-seeing, going places I'd never been before, and even some weirdness.
Note to self: spend more of the summer on the Toronto Islands!
(I think the descending cloud must have been part of the weather system that brought some pretty intense lightening later that night, and saw a tornado touch down near London.)
Today I went shopping for a flatbed scanner, and began to narrow down my choices. I think I may go for this one. But I found it at another store for a cheaper price.
I've also been shopping around for a solution to my CD storage problem. I have about 800 CDs, some VHS tapes and some DVDs. The problem is, I have nothing to store them in. But this might do nicely. Lots of capacity for a constantly growing collection, and it would look very nice along the now-blank wall where I need it to go, completing the room. Attractive and functional!
Tuesday, July 06, 2004
See The Sites
"Nickelback, you lazy, talentless bunch of wankers. What, did you think nobody would notice that you're recycling your hideous dirge and selling it all over again to your deluded fan base? You bastards, you're taking advantage of those tone deaf MTV brainwashed twats who are too thick to notice you're releasing songs that are EXACTLY THE SAME as ones you recorded earlier. And here's the proof, people. Listen to their first godawful hit, played through the left speaker. At the same time, an equally shite single (released two years later) will be played through the right speaker. Can you spot the difference?"
Nickelback To Back is pure genius. Wish I'd thought of/noticed/done that.
This and a whole bunch of other cool and fun things in the latest installment of WFMU's Sites For Sore Eyes.
I especially liked this, which provided some much-needed stress release.
And the ASCII Rock...well, rocks!
Sunday, July 04, 2004
New Arrival
I'm happy to announce the arrival of a new member of the family. (More detailed info here.)
She joins her much older (23) acoustic 6-string brother, and 2-year-old sibling "Dot"--all from the same Epiphone family.
I call her Stella, because I got her on the day Marlon Brando died ("Hey STELLA!"), and also because the musician her kind is most associated with--Paul McCartney--has a fashion-designer daughter by that name.
Macca's famous "Beatle bass" was actually a Hofner, but it's the same idea. Besides, Hofners sell for about $2000, and the Epiphone comes a lot cheaper.
Why are all my guitars Epiphones? Well, for someone who grew up listening to The Beatles, Epi's were the guitars the Fab Four had a big hand in making famous. Vintage Epi's go for thousands of dollars, of course, but the Korean-made reissues from the late '90s onward are very good quality instruments at affordable prices. For someone like me who's not a full-time recording/touring musician, they're a very cost-effective alternative, which still play and sound great.
I actually wasn't necessarily looking for another Epiphone, to "keep it in the family", as it were. I saw some Fender Precision and Jazz basses which were very nice, of course (hard to go wrong with a Fender bass), but the ones I liked were $900 and up, and seeing as the bass isn't even my main instrument, that's a bit of a steep price tag for my budget.
I picked up the Viola bass in the store, and just loved the way it felt. It's hollow, so it's incredibly light, and that also gives it a very cool tone; very "bloompy", although it's also quite versatile. It has a short-scale neck, with the frets closer together and the neck narrower than most basses, which makes it very playable, and very comfortable for guitar players.
I played bass very briefly and very, uh, unintensively, when I was about 15, before switching over to the guitar, so it's interesting getting back into the groove. I may actually go out and get one of those "Bass For Dummies" books so I can restart on the right foot.
So welcome Stella!
She joins her much older (23) acoustic 6-string brother, and 2-year-old sibling "Dot"--all from the same Epiphone family.
I call her Stella, because I got her on the day Marlon Brando died ("Hey STELLA!"), and also because the musician her kind is most associated with--Paul McCartney--has a fashion-designer daughter by that name.
Macca's famous "Beatle bass" was actually a Hofner, but it's the same idea. Besides, Hofners sell for about $2000, and the Epiphone comes a lot cheaper.
Why are all my guitars Epiphones? Well, for someone who grew up listening to The Beatles, Epi's were the guitars the Fab Four had a big hand in making famous. Vintage Epi's go for thousands of dollars, of course, but the Korean-made reissues from the late '90s onward are very good quality instruments at affordable prices. For someone like me who's not a full-time recording/touring musician, they're a very cost-effective alternative, which still play and sound great.
I actually wasn't necessarily looking for another Epiphone, to "keep it in the family", as it were. I saw some Fender Precision and Jazz basses which were very nice, of course (hard to go wrong with a Fender bass), but the ones I liked were $900 and up, and seeing as the bass isn't even my main instrument, that's a bit of a steep price tag for my budget.
I picked up the Viola bass in the store, and just loved the way it felt. It's hollow, so it's incredibly light, and that also gives it a very cool tone; very "bloompy", although it's also quite versatile. It has a short-scale neck, with the frets closer together and the neck narrower than most basses, which makes it very playable, and very comfortable for guitar players.
I played bass very briefly and very, uh, unintensively, when I was about 15, before switching over to the guitar, so it's interesting getting back into the groove. I may actually go out and get one of those "Bass For Dummies" books so I can restart on the right foot.
So welcome Stella!
Saturday, July 03, 2004
Wandering Acres
Just a brief note to say that I spent a lovely, warm and sunny Canada day Thursday with Dean and Debra, as they made a Toronto stop on the Slipping Acres East Coast Tour 2004. They took the new ferry over from Rochester, NY (which, they told me, for some reason hugs the shore of the lake for the entire journey. Someone should explain to the captain that cutting straight across the lake would make for a speedier journey. Are they not teaching physics in high school any more?).
We took a stroll down Queen Street West, saw a movie being filmed at the old Bay building where they had turned one side of it into Madison Square Garden circa the 1920s/30s, complete with replica marquee advertising a boxing match. Then we got high...did the CN Tower trip. They didn't enjoy the glass floor as much as I did. Then we went down to harbourfront where we chilled and enjoyed some refreshments, and later caught some reggae and a set from the Rheostatics. Saw a glimpse of some fireworks. Even got to sing O Canada!
A very enjoyable day with some fine folks. Next time guys, come for a few days and we'll do the town up right!
We took a stroll down Queen Street West, saw a movie being filmed at the old Bay building where they had turned one side of it into Madison Square Garden circa the 1920s/30s, complete with replica marquee advertising a boxing match. Then we got high...did the CN Tower trip. They didn't enjoy the glass floor as much as I did. Then we went down to harbourfront where we chilled and enjoyed some refreshments, and later caught some reggae and a set from the Rheostatics. Saw a glimpse of some fireworks. Even got to sing O Canada!
A very enjoyable day with some fine folks. Next time guys, come for a few days and we'll do the town up right!
Thursday, June 24, 2004
Thank Dog
A very bizarre local news story that took place in my hood.
All I can say is, thank god for friendly dogs. Amazing how the fates of so many people were decided by a good ol' gregarious pooch.
And whaddya make of Mr. travelling gun club? He gets a hankerin' to off some people, but folks in New Brunswick are too nice (see? it does pay to be nice!), so he loads up the car with rifles, knives and over 6,000 rounds of ammo, and heads down the road to Toronto, 'cos, y'know, they're all cold-hearted meanies in The Big Smoke. The bubble burst on that stereotype just in time!
Yes, lots of lessons to be learned here. Not the least of which is...
Guns don't kill people... because friendly dogs won't let them!
All I can say is, thank god for friendly dogs. Amazing how the fates of so many people were decided by a good ol' gregarious pooch.
And whaddya make of Mr. travelling gun club? He gets a hankerin' to off some people, but folks in New Brunswick are too nice (see? it does pay to be nice!), so he loads up the car with rifles, knives and over 6,000 rounds of ammo, and heads down the road to Toronto, 'cos, y'know, they're all cold-hearted meanies in The Big Smoke. The bubble burst on that stereotype just in time!
Yes, lots of lessons to be learned here. Not the least of which is...
Guns don't kill people... because friendly dogs won't let them!
Sunday, June 20, 2004
Come Together
... And speaking of father's day, the offspring of two famous rock fathers appear to be stepping out.
I dunno. Sean's looking a little too much like his dad there. The glasses. The beard. Boy, you're gonna carry that weight.
So, Mick was after Yoko? What was that all about?
I dunno. Sean's looking a little too much like his dad there. The glasses. The beard. Boy, you're gonna carry that weight.
So, Mick was after Yoko? What was that all about?
Grasping The Obvious
Each morning on the way to work, part of my transit takes me from Kennedy subway station on the RT into Scarborough Town Centre, where around the terminal, two or three large buildings are under construction, condos probably. On one site, I always take note of the signs halfway up the towers on the two large construction cranes.
On one crane, the sign says: Crane 1.
On the other, the sign says: Crane 2.
Now, I can well understand the need to label the cranes. If, say, you're given the task of taking something up to one of the crane operators, the foreman can say, "take this to Crane 1". And since both cranes look fairly similar, and it can get a bit disorienting on a construction site, it's useful to have that distinction, that label. And it makes more sense than calling them by non-numerical names, like Betty or Dave. Names can be easily forgotten.
But I wonder about the necessity of labelling them *CRANE* 1 and *CRANE* 2. Is there perhaps a danger some worker will confuse them with, say, BROOM 1 and 2, or SHOVEL 1 and 2?
I think perhaps labelling these monster cranes with signs that say simply "1" and "2" would suffice; the word "crane" on the sign being somewhat superfluous, methinks.
Yes, these are the kinds of things I think about when I'm half awake in the morning and the coffee hasn't kicked in yet.
On one crane, the sign says: Crane 1.
On the other, the sign says: Crane 2.
Now, I can well understand the need to label the cranes. If, say, you're given the task of taking something up to one of the crane operators, the foreman can say, "take this to Crane 1". And since both cranes look fairly similar, and it can get a bit disorienting on a construction site, it's useful to have that distinction, that label. And it makes more sense than calling them by non-numerical names, like Betty or Dave. Names can be easily forgotten.
But I wonder about the necessity of labelling them *CRANE* 1 and *CRANE* 2. Is there perhaps a danger some worker will confuse them with, say, BROOM 1 and 2, or SHOVEL 1 and 2?
I think perhaps labelling these monster cranes with signs that say simply "1" and "2" would suffice; the word "crane" on the sign being somewhat superfluous, methinks.
Yes, these are the kinds of things I think about when I'm half awake in the morning and the coffee hasn't kicked in yet.
Thursday, June 17, 2004
Mary
A photo of a family. I think this would be somewhere around 1924 or 1925. These are the Grants, sitting in front of the farmhouse "down home" in Millview, P.E.I.
Eleven kids. Now there remains only one: Doreen. The baby. My mother.
She phoned me Tuesday night, and right from the greeting I knew, betrayed by the slight rasp in her voice (from being tired and from talking to too many people), that Aunt Mary had died. Mary was Mom's last remaining sibling; her last sister.
I can't say it came as a surprise. Mary was 90, and she had been going downhill rather steadily over the past couple of years. Pretty frail already, she had been hit by a malfunctioning automatic door at a supermarket, and had broken her hip. Then some time later, in her room at the senior's residence just up the street from my parents' house, she had taken a fall. She wasn't using her walker, as she was supposed to do, and she took a dizzy spell and fell to the floor, putting her in the hospital.
I visited her there when I was home last summer, and she barely made an impression under the bedcovers, just skin over bones. When I said goodbye, I glanced back from the doorway, and I remember thinking it might be the last time I see her. Turns out it was. But she held out for quite a while. She would take bad spells, and they would fear the worst, then she would bounce back. She said she wanted to make it to 100! But a few weeks ago, she suffered a mild heart attack, and that was the beginning of the end.
My sister Anne, a nurse, happened to be home visiting from LA, and she was with her when she died. My mom had been doing yeoman's duty over the last 10 years or so, looking after Mary and taking her around town, running errands for her. Mom is almost 80 (hard to believe!), and I know it's taken its toll on her. I could hear the weariness in her voice, but maybe now she'll be able to relax a little more. No more worries for Mary.
Mary MacInnis. She and Uncle John (deceased 15 years ago) had no children of their own, so they took special interest in their many nieces and nephews. They lived in the States for many years, in the Boston area where her brother Frank and sister Ethel had also relocated, and then for their latter years they wintered in Florida and came home to P.E.I. in the summers. They lived in a little cottage in Bedeque, just past Summerside, my hometown. We spent quite a bit of time out there in the summers when I was growing up. Their cottage had a large patch of lawn that ran up to a cliffside, not many trees to speak of, pretty open, and then there was a set of creaky wooden stairs that led down to the shore. They were on the Dunk river (The Dunk!), and there was a fairly decent beach for swimming. A bit stony, but the water was usually nice. The water is always warmer on the south side of the Island.
Yep, many summers spent out at Mary and John's cottage. And it was a cottage, not a house. A little, quaint, cosy, cottage. Screen door, porch, kettle, mac-tac-ed cupboards, moths. At nights we'd play cards at the kitchen table--Kings in the Corner, Crazy Eights--while Uncle John constantly patrolled for mosquitoes, fly-swatter in hand. "Cheesus Mary, they're bigger this year than effer." To look at him, Uncle John was the gruffest man ever created, but once he laughed, there was no one jollier. I loved going outside there at night. The darkness would envelope you, feeling dangerous (how far is that cliff?) but strangely safe. The warm wind blowing the tall grass, the salt in the air, the sound of the waves on the shore, sounds from across the way seeming so near. The stars.
When I think of Aunt Mary, I think of iced tea in the summer. She introduced me to iced tea. I'd always have a glass when we visited them. When I was a teenager, I developed a weird liking for it. I'd have to have a can of powdered Nestea mix in the house, and when I came in at night, I'd fix my traditional triple-decker peanut-butter and strawberry jam sandwich and mix a tall glass of iced tea. No ice. Then go downstairs and watch SNL or Friday Night Videos.
Mary was always a very generous soul, and very kind to me over the years. She'd send me a card and slip in a $20 or $10 bill, sometimes more. What a dear. And she'd be so pleased when she received my thank-you card. She was always telling people about her nephews and nieces.
Sad that she's gone. Sad for my mom, that of all those 11 kids, she's the only one left. I'm the youngest of her eight kids, and I guess maybe there'll come a day when I'm the last of our brood--if things unfold as they should. If I'm lucky. Lucky! heh.
It would be nice if I could fly down for Mary's funeral, but I just can't swing it. I know she would understand. "Oh, don't be crazy! God, no," she'd say. I think, in a way, we kind of said our goodbyes when I saw her in the hospital last summer.
But that's not how I'll remember her. I'll remember the cottage, the warm breeze, the kitchen table at night, the iced tea, the kindness.
Summer's here. I think I'll go have a glass of iced tea.
From left to right: Art, Vic, Anne, Ethel, Reta, Mary, Ruth, Doreen (the baby), Walter, Rose, "Pop" (Vince), "Mom" (Winnie, nee Brown), Frank.
Eleven kids. Now there remains only one: Doreen. The baby. My mother.
She phoned me Tuesday night, and right from the greeting I knew, betrayed by the slight rasp in her voice (from being tired and from talking to too many people), that Aunt Mary had died. Mary was Mom's last remaining sibling; her last sister.
I can't say it came as a surprise. Mary was 90, and she had been going downhill rather steadily over the past couple of years. Pretty frail already, she had been hit by a malfunctioning automatic door at a supermarket, and had broken her hip. Then some time later, in her room at the senior's residence just up the street from my parents' house, she had taken a fall. She wasn't using her walker, as she was supposed to do, and she took a dizzy spell and fell to the floor, putting her in the hospital.
I visited her there when I was home last summer, and she barely made an impression under the bedcovers, just skin over bones. When I said goodbye, I glanced back from the doorway, and I remember thinking it might be the last time I see her. Turns out it was. But she held out for quite a while. She would take bad spells, and they would fear the worst, then she would bounce back. She said she wanted to make it to 100! But a few weeks ago, she suffered a mild heart attack, and that was the beginning of the end.
My sister Anne, a nurse, happened to be home visiting from LA, and she was with her when she died. My mom had been doing yeoman's duty over the last 10 years or so, looking after Mary and taking her around town, running errands for her. Mom is almost 80 (hard to believe!), and I know it's taken its toll on her. I could hear the weariness in her voice, but maybe now she'll be able to relax a little more. No more worries for Mary.
Mary MacInnis. She and Uncle John (deceased 15 years ago) had no children of their own, so they took special interest in their many nieces and nephews. They lived in the States for many years, in the Boston area where her brother Frank and sister Ethel had also relocated, and then for their latter years they wintered in Florida and came home to P.E.I. in the summers. They lived in a little cottage in Bedeque, just past Summerside, my hometown. We spent quite a bit of time out there in the summers when I was growing up. Their cottage had a large patch of lawn that ran up to a cliffside, not many trees to speak of, pretty open, and then there was a set of creaky wooden stairs that led down to the shore. They were on the Dunk river (The Dunk!), and there was a fairly decent beach for swimming. A bit stony, but the water was usually nice. The water is always warmer on the south side of the Island.
Yep, many summers spent out at Mary and John's cottage. And it was a cottage, not a house. A little, quaint, cosy, cottage. Screen door, porch, kettle, mac-tac-ed cupboards, moths. At nights we'd play cards at the kitchen table--Kings in the Corner, Crazy Eights--while Uncle John constantly patrolled for mosquitoes, fly-swatter in hand. "Cheesus Mary, they're bigger this year than effer." To look at him, Uncle John was the gruffest man ever created, but once he laughed, there was no one jollier. I loved going outside there at night. The darkness would envelope you, feeling dangerous (how far is that cliff?) but strangely safe. The warm wind blowing the tall grass, the salt in the air, the sound of the waves on the shore, sounds from across the way seeming so near. The stars.
When I think of Aunt Mary, I think of iced tea in the summer. She introduced me to iced tea. I'd always have a glass when we visited them. When I was a teenager, I developed a weird liking for it. I'd have to have a can of powdered Nestea mix in the house, and when I came in at night, I'd fix my traditional triple-decker peanut-butter and strawberry jam sandwich and mix a tall glass of iced tea. No ice. Then go downstairs and watch SNL or Friday Night Videos.
Mary was always a very generous soul, and very kind to me over the years. She'd send me a card and slip in a $20 or $10 bill, sometimes more. What a dear. And she'd be so pleased when she received my thank-you card. She was always telling people about her nephews and nieces.
Sad that she's gone. Sad for my mom, that of all those 11 kids, she's the only one left. I'm the youngest of her eight kids, and I guess maybe there'll come a day when I'm the last of our brood--if things unfold as they should. If I'm lucky. Lucky! heh.
It would be nice if I could fly down for Mary's funeral, but I just can't swing it. I know she would understand. "Oh, don't be crazy! God, no," she'd say. I think, in a way, we kind of said our goodbyes when I saw her in the hospital last summer.
But that's not how I'll remember her. I'll remember the cottage, the warm breeze, the kitchen table at night, the iced tea, the kindness.
Summer's here. I think I'll go have a glass of iced tea.
Monday, June 14, 2004
About The Last Night
Gotta be off to bed soon, but some quick notes about the final night of NxNE before I turn in.
The last night of the festival started off great. Caught a wonderful set at The Rivoli by Vancouver Island troubadour/cyclist Jeremy Fisher. He had come highly recommended by my friend Howard, who had written Jeremy up in his online column a while back. I worked my way to the very front of the standing, capacity crowd to find Howard and wife Beverly boogying on down to this young man's music, at least as far as one can boogie down to folk music with an acoustic guitar and harmonica -- but you can, and they weren't the only ones.
It was a great performance. This young guy really does have an old soul. The hair and the voice and the music certainly do bring to mind a young Dylan, or John Prine, but I also detected a bit of Paul Simon's touch in some of his phrasing and singing. He's playing tomorrow night at Holy Joe's, an even smaller room with vintage couches for pews. If I don't walk out of there with a copy of his CD, it'll be only because they've sold out. You can hear some clips of his songs here.
Then we zipped up to the Tranzac Club to see someone I had written up: Joe Fournier. Joe performed up on the 17-foot high stage (at least it seems that high) of the old Legion-like Aussie-Kiwi club, accompanied only by a young guy on bass. Wasn't sure what to expect, since I didn't know what kind of a live performer he was, but he was great. Such a clever songwriter, sometimes outright humourous. But each song is grounded in a solid kernel of an idea, and I really respect that kind of songwriting. Like, you're driving along the road into town, and you see someome has spray-painted a marriage proposal on the overpass, and you wonder what happened, when was it written, did she say yes, where are they now? And then you have a song called "Susan Will You Marry Me Love Jake". You can hear some clips of Joe's song's here.
It was nice to be able to get a chance to chat with Joe afterwards. He's been doing pretty well over in Europe, spending several months a year playing there. They love rootsy music and country music in Europe. I think it's a cyclicle backlash to all of that Euro-pop and electro machine music that they've been pumping out over the past 20 years or so. Anyway, seems that my write-up of Joe has been getting lots of mileage over there, with people pulling quotes for posters and other kinds of promotional devices, so that makes me feel good that I was able to help further the cause of some music that I think is worthy.
Ideally, I would have loved to go see the Trews' 12am, 2-hour set at the Rivoli. But there was no way in hell we were going to get back in there. When I left there after Jeremy Fisher's show, at 10 o'clock, the lineup was already half way down the block. Probably as many people in line as would fit in the room. So instead, the plan was to see the Golden Dogs' 10pm set at the El Mo. But when we got there, they were already at capacity. So the fall-back was to see Raising The Fawn at Healey's. They started the night by receiving a $3,000 cheque as the Galaxy Rising Stars award winners. Not a bad way to start your set. They were quite interesting. Kind of moody, atmospheric rock. The singer/guitarist has a bit of a Jeff Buckley thing. Good pipes.
Then it was off to the Horseshoe for Ian Blurton's latest rock incarnation, C'mon, a power, hard-rock trio with a banshee vixen bass player. They were loud and raucous and they rocked the place. I wasn't sure if I was in the mood for a hard rock set, but they just overpowered me. Good way to end the festival.
Too bad I missed White Cowbell Oklahoma at the El Mo. From what I hear (see the comments from the preceeding post), they gave new meaning to "Free Bird".
G'night!
The last night of the festival started off great. Caught a wonderful set at The Rivoli by Vancouver Island troubadour/cyclist Jeremy Fisher. He had come highly recommended by my friend Howard, who had written Jeremy up in his online column a while back. I worked my way to the very front of the standing, capacity crowd to find Howard and wife Beverly boogying on down to this young man's music, at least as far as one can boogie down to folk music with an acoustic guitar and harmonica -- but you can, and they weren't the only ones.
It was a great performance. This young guy really does have an old soul. The hair and the voice and the music certainly do bring to mind a young Dylan, or John Prine, but I also detected a bit of Paul Simon's touch in some of his phrasing and singing. He's playing tomorrow night at Holy Joe's, an even smaller room with vintage couches for pews. If I don't walk out of there with a copy of his CD, it'll be only because they've sold out. You can hear some clips of his songs here.
Then we zipped up to the Tranzac Club to see someone I had written up: Joe Fournier. Joe performed up on the 17-foot high stage (at least it seems that high) of the old Legion-like Aussie-Kiwi club, accompanied only by a young guy on bass. Wasn't sure what to expect, since I didn't know what kind of a live performer he was, but he was great. Such a clever songwriter, sometimes outright humourous. But each song is grounded in a solid kernel of an idea, and I really respect that kind of songwriting. Like, you're driving along the road into town, and you see someome has spray-painted a marriage proposal on the overpass, and you wonder what happened, when was it written, did she say yes, where are they now? And then you have a song called "Susan Will You Marry Me Love Jake". You can hear some clips of Joe's song's here.
It was nice to be able to get a chance to chat with Joe afterwards. He's been doing pretty well over in Europe, spending several months a year playing there. They love rootsy music and country music in Europe. I think it's a cyclicle backlash to all of that Euro-pop and electro machine music that they've been pumping out over the past 20 years or so. Anyway, seems that my write-up of Joe has been getting lots of mileage over there, with people pulling quotes for posters and other kinds of promotional devices, so that makes me feel good that I was able to help further the cause of some music that I think is worthy.
Ideally, I would have loved to go see the Trews' 12am, 2-hour set at the Rivoli. But there was no way in hell we were going to get back in there. When I left there after Jeremy Fisher's show, at 10 o'clock, the lineup was already half way down the block. Probably as many people in line as would fit in the room. So instead, the plan was to see the Golden Dogs' 10pm set at the El Mo. But when we got there, they were already at capacity. So the fall-back was to see Raising The Fawn at Healey's. They started the night by receiving a $3,000 cheque as the Galaxy Rising Stars award winners. Not a bad way to start your set. They were quite interesting. Kind of moody, atmospheric rock. The singer/guitarist has a bit of a Jeff Buckley thing. Good pipes.
Then it was off to the Horseshoe for Ian Blurton's latest rock incarnation, C'mon, a power, hard-rock trio with a banshee vixen bass player. They were loud and raucous and they rocked the place. I wasn't sure if I was in the mood for a hard rock set, but they just overpowered me. Good way to end the festival.
Too bad I missed White Cowbell Oklahoma at the El Mo. From what I hear (see the comments from the preceeding post), they gave new meaning to "Free Bird".
G'night!
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