Sunday, December 21, 2008

Merry Christmas (I Love You)



The best Christmas album to come out in this millennium is, I think, Hawksley Workman's "Almost A Full Moon." In this, he celebrates family and friends and the holiday season. This song in particular speaks to the warmth and love that exists despite the unexpected and tragic events that happen in the world.

I'm not going home for Christmas this year. "Home" in this instance meaning where my mom lives. I won't be waiting up with my brothers until midnight or one in the morning to sneak downstairs to open stockings that "Santa" has just recently filled for us with Archie comics, clementines and Kinder surprise eggs. I won't be going to Burlington to see Grandma and Grandpa and Aunt Barb and Uncle Peter and Sam and Alex, and to not eat turkey and cranberry sauce but scarf down mashed potatoes and stovetop stuffing. I won't be hearing Grandpa's recitation of "Twas the Night Before Christmas" or singing carols with my mom and whomever else can be convinced, around the piano.

My brother Geoff will likely not be there to wait up for stockings either. He's just moved into a new apartment with his new wife Patricia. And my brother Ted won't arrive in Toronto until 11:30 am Christmas Day. There was no Chester family dinner at the Old Mill restaurant this year. And Sean lives in PEI this season, so my Christmas mix making was even independent of him.

But on Christmas Eve I will be seeing my brother Ted and his fiance Hayley at my Dad's house in Porter's Lake, where he lives with his wife Susan. Christmas always manages to feel Christmasey, wherever I am. I feel blessed.

I meant to write all kinds of blog entries about Christmas songs this month, but shopping and work and house cleaning has left me with little free time, and, I suppose, I just haven't felt the exactly right kind of inspiration for writing as much as I'd like.

Friends and family near and far: I wish you all Happy Holidays. I wish we could all be together. You're dear to me and in my thoughts and my heart.



Merry Christmas (I Love You) - Hawksley Workman

If god takes you he leaves
a huge footprint of love
and kindness behind
which is where you once stood

And I know you're afraid
to get on the plane
after what happened that day
and selfishly I want you here in my way

But animals come
and animals go
and love is just a laundry line
we hang on until

we're dried out by the sun
and when you think your turn is done
you end up getting dirty
and it's all again begun

Now words i think are just
a noisy dirty wind
makes the trouble we get in
so why do we speak

Now we made another war,
that's what men are good for
men with stupid insecurities
and not a lot more

And satisfied they try
its written about again
but who the hell reads history?
apparently not men

'Cause nothing's guaranteed
except the politics of need
did the Romans see the ship go down
or were they asleep?

I shouldn't expect to live
and I shouldn't expect to die
but I wouldnt mind being beside you, dear
on that laundry line to dry

And for my grandma and my brother
my father and my mother
and you my sweetest lover
to you all I will say

Merry Christmas I love you
and god is above you
Merry Christmas I love you
and god is above you

Merry Christmas I love you

Sunday, December 7, 2008

Fairytale of New York


Fairytale of New York is my A#1 absolute favourite Christmas song in the history of ever. No two ways about it. This is a very informed claim, having enthusiastically sifted through thousands of versions of hundreds of Christmas songs, because I am weird like that. And because, thankfully, Sean is weird like that, and introduced me to the whole Christmas music phenomenon.

He did not, however, introduce me to this song.

I get kind of pissed off by people who make the claim that this hardly counts as a Christmas song because said people feel they can listen to it all year round. It's a very derogatory comment to make about Christmas music. But truth be told, my formative and best memories of "Fairytale of New York" are of Toronto summer nights spent dancing sloppily, drunkenly, and with Justin, to this song at the James Joyce Pub, strummed by that guy who would play all of our requests. For us, he played The Beatles, David Bowie, Stan Rogers, and the Pogues. Now, I mind the Toronto summer heat, but then I never did, and for reveling in it there was no better companion than my dear friend and very first drinking buddy.

Justin and I had a very easy relationship that was sometimes made complicated by our youth, our sensitivities, our genders, and our unabashed enthusiasms that occasionally got tricky with our tendencies to go hard rather than going home. I remember a particularly sobering and difficult conversation at Hob Nob Donuts following one such evening. I remember it like I was approaching the end of something that I needed to have in my life. I remember feeling like I knew that we could never go back to the way things were; the way things were when our friendship was uncomplicated by things that should have been left out of him and I. It was okay, though. We were okay. We repeated some of the same mistakes I suppose; but no, they weren't really mistakes - just growing pains I guess. And I think we learned through one another a lot of what we really wanted.

I also think about Justin when I think about Christmas, though the soundtrack to our Christmases together would have been far less inspiring than the soundtracks to our summers. We began a few consecutive Christmases at Country Style Donuts at Dundas and Islington, it being the only place open so late on Christmas Eve night, and I'm sure that whatever godawful music they were playing there was entirely appropriate to a suburban donut store franchise. These evenings would follow our tradition of tobogganing at Centennial Hill with our brothers.

Justin's mom sold her house on Saskatoon rd. several years ago. He has no family left in Etobicoke. My mom lives on Kipling Avenue, now, in an area that's fairly close to the home I grew up in on Edgevalley Drive, but in a house that is not quite my home.

I don't get to see Justin much anymore. It's been a couple of years since his last visit to Halifax, and now when I go "home" he's not one of the people I get to see. He has his own house with his wife and a dog (!) in the Ottawa Valley. I've never even seen it. We hardly ever talk on the phone, and the rare emails we send are fairly concise. Justin has always been sparing with his words. He is, through and through, a man of action.

The closest friends I had in high school were Justin, Katherine, and Tim, and they remain, despite distance and generally pretty shoddy upkeep, three of my closest friends in the world, to my mind at least. They are all very good with words, but Justin has never ever needed to reassure me. Not even that one time I thought he did. He is one of the few people in the world, like family, whom I know will always love me; and he does love me, in his understated and very loyal Justin way, just for being me.


Fairytale of New York - The Pogues

It was Christmas Eve babe
In the drunk tank
An old man said to me, won't see another one
And then he sang a song
The Rare Old Mountain Dew
I turned my face away
And dreamed about you

Got on a lucky one
Came in eighteen to one
I've got a feeling
This year's for me and you
So happy Christmas
I love you baby
I can see a better time
When all our dreams come true

They've got cars big as bars
They've got rivers of gold
But the wind goes right through you
It's no place for the old
When you first took my hand
On a cold Christmas Eve
You promised me
Broadway was waiting for me

You were handsome
You were pretty
Queen of New York City
When the band finished playing
They howled out for more
Sinatra was swinging,
All the drunks they were singing
We kissed on a corner
Then danced through the night

The boys of the NYPD choir
Were singing "Galway Bay"
And the bells were ringing out
For Christmas day

You're a bum
You're a punk
You're an old slut on junk
Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed
You scumbag, you maggot
You cheap lousy faggot
Happy Christmas your arse
I pray God it's our last

I could have been someone
Well so could anyone
You took my dreams from me
When I first found you
I kept them with me babe
I put them with my own
Can't make it all alone
I've built my dreams around you


Sunday, November 30, 2008

Heart of Gold

I assume that anyone who ever reads this blog is also a friend of mine and therefore probably knows that I'm no Neil Young fan. I recognize this as being kind of quirky. I sometimes go so far as to identify my indifference towards Neil Young as a character flaw. Because, like, everyone whose musical taste I respect is into Neil Young. It's not just his voice that irked me, though his voice was definitely a part of it. No, it was his actual songs. I thought they were boring; that they didn't - to steal Sean's preferred description - "swing." Admittedly, I never delved too deep, but I've also been exposed to more than just the hits. I'd listened to "On the Beach" and "Tonight's the Night" and "Harvest" in their entirety, in someones vain attempt to convert me. And I didn't hate Neil Young's music. I wouldn't get up and leave like I would with The Doors or Soundgarden or Joan frickin' Baez. I just felt pretty meh about the guy. I did like the songs "The Needle and the Damage Done" and "Thrasher," though. That's as much as I would give.

I nevertheless spent $75 to see Neil Young play at the Halifax Metro Centre last night. I went for the opening band, Wilco, really, but I did indeed stay for Neil Young, and a lot of his set was pretty boring, but a lot of it was pretty magical, too. I don't really want to write a concert review here; I just want to talk about my reception of "Heart of Gold."

I bet I've heard "Heart of Gold" like five hundred times. On car stereos, in shopping malls, at friend's houses, in pubs, at open mic. nights. It's one of the first songs I ever learned how to play on the guitar. But last night, watching Neil Young play this song on stage, it was like I had never heard it before. I was blown away. I was reminded of hearing Johnny Cash's version, on the last of the American Recordings, of Ian and Sylvia Tyson's "Four Strong Winds." I couldn't shut up about what an amazing song that was. Like it was something new. For some reason, "Heart of Gold" finally hit me last night, in its simple message and phrasing, in the way Neil Young sang over the chords he played on his acoustic guitar. I even got his voice. What an earnest, simple, beautiful song. I love it.


Heart of Gold - Neil Young
I want to live,I want to give
I've been a miner for a heart of gold.
It's these expressions I never give
That keep me searching for a heart of gold
And I'm getting old.
Keeps me searching for a heart of gold
And I'm getting old.
I've been to Hollywood, I've been to Redwood,
I crossed the ocean for a heart of gold
I've been in my mind, its such a fine line
That keeps me searching for a heart of gold
And I'm getting old.
Keeps me searching for a heart of gold
And Im getting old.
Keep me searching for a heart of gold
You keep me searching for a heart of gold
And Im getting old.
I've been a miner for a heart of gold.

Friday, November 28, 2008

The Emperor's New Clothes

Sinead O'Connor's incredibly moving, enduringly affecting album I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got was released in 1990, during my first year of high school. Most of the songs on this album are about relationships, and while I had no real idea about relationships then, I was certainly obsessed with having one, and with the boys I dreamed about having ones with. Crushes in high school seemed to hit harder than any that I've experienced since. I guess because even friendships were shallower then - or more innocent, to be kinder. I didn't have any experience with real intimacy, and I didn't have the weight of a large and confusing and multifaceted history or world view that I needed empathetic ears and honest dialogue for. I was just fourteen. By the time I started to recognize the difference between actual friendships and people I had fun hanging out with I'd learned to make these distinctions because I'd been let down, misled, or just plain wrong about the people I imagined I knew. So crushes these days, while fun and I think necessary, are also comparatively very fleeting. They never carry that kind of investment, because that kind of investment just doesn't make any sense. First crushes, first hurts; there was no barometer.

I honestly didn't understand the song "The Emperor's New Clothes." It was the line "How could I possibly know what I want when I was only 21?" that I ran into like a brick wall. I didn't understand what she meant, because 21 seemed so impossibly old, and I figured that I already knew what I wanted, at fourteen.

In my canvas World Famous backpack, along with my NoteTote and my Beaver Canoe pencil case, I carried years and years of ridicule into Martingrove Collegiate. In middle school, my classmates would spread my germs and cross their fingers as I walked down the hall. On most afternoons as I walked home from school, the houses on Anglesey boulevard looked blurry through tears that I could never hold back, no matter how hard I tried. I went to Martingrove because nobody I knew from middle school was going there, and I started going by my full name, Amelia, shedding the shortened "Amy" I had been called up until that point. I bought bright purple Converse sneakers and I joined the drama club and the choir and I went to dances and I talked loudly, and people thought that I was fun and open.

It strikes me now that I was incredibly lucky to have been received as I was. I could have been devastated. It seems insane that I tried so hard to be known, to meet people, when all of the people I used to know just called me cruel names and left me to eat lunch alone. I took everyone at face value. I didn't even recognize that people lied about stuff. I was so blissfully innocent in grade nine.

I guess high school is probably like that for a lot of people, if not most people - a training ground for dealing with other human beings. I thought I had a best friend. I thought I was in love. I thought I knew what I wanted.

It makes all kinds of sense that I was moved, along with my peers, by Sinead O'Connor's cover of Prince's "Nothing Compares 2 U," sitting on the bleachers in the gymnasium at 8 o'clock on a Friday night, watching the boy I wanted to be dancing with as he danced with someone else.

It took a few more years before I connected to "Emperor's New Clothes." I eventually required more reasons for wanting things and people in my life, and for wanting things and people out of it. Of course this song is explicitly about the speaker's experience of enduring other people's reactions to her pregnancy. It's also one of the most empowering songs I can think of. It's so bold and bare and honest and despite the assertive declarations there is, too, the "I would return to nothing without you." Everything is there, and no, at fourteen, despite my purple sneakers and my brand new school I couldn't for the life of me understand how someone so old just couldn't have it together. And when I hear this song, I can remember that confused reception. I know exactly how that felt. Two decades ago.


The Emperor's New Clothes - Sinead O'Connor

It seems like years since you held the baby
While I wrecked the bedroom
You said it was dangerous after Sunday
And I knew you loved me
He thinks I just became famous
And that's what messed me up
But he's wrong
How could I possibly know what I want
When I was only twenty-one?
And there's millions of people
To offer advice and say how I should be
But they're twisted
And they will never be any influence on me
But you will always be
You will always be
If I treated you mean
I really didn't mean to
But you know how it is
And how a pregnancy can change you
I see plenty of clothes that I like
But I won't go anywhere nice for a while
All I want to do is just sit here
And write it all down and rest for a while
I can't bear to be in another city
One where you are not
I would return to nothing without you
If I'm your girlfriend or not
Maybe I was mean
But I really don't think so
You asked if I'm scared
And I said so
Everyone can see what's going on
They laugh `cause they know they're untouchable
Not because what I said was wrong
Whatever it may bring
I will live by my own policies
I will sleep with a clear conscience
I will sleep in peace
Maybe it sounds mean
But I really don't think so
You asked for the truth and I told you
Through their own words
They will be exposed
They've got a severe case of
The emperor's new clothes
The emperor's new clothes
The emperor's new clothes

Saturday, November 22, 2008

Get in the Car


The first time I went to Whitehorse I went on a whim. It's probably the coolest thing I've ever done.

I'd been living in Toronto for over a year and I'd ended up there accidentally in the first place. I had taken a plane from Halifax to Toronto with a friend of mine, and we were planning to hang out there for a couple of weeks before hitchhiking across North America, but stuff happened, and that trip never did.

There's a thing I notice that happens to me when I spend too much time in Toronto. I start to think about myself like I did when I was a Torontonian, and I receive the things that my family and friends say to me in a different way than I do through telephone wires. I start to think that things like hitchhiking through the United States just to see it and with no real destination in mind, or much money to speak of, are kind of crazy. So I did an equally but oppositely stupid thing: I stayed in Toronto and I got a well-paying job at a call centre.

I did, however, meet a pretty great guy while I was in Toronto, and though he promised to move back to Halifax with me, I got impatient with the waiting and with the crappy customer service job, and so I spent a couple of months traveling across Canada on a Greyhound bus. In stupid Vancouver I made the decision to travel further north before heading back east. I didn't know anyone in the Yukon or have any idea what it was like out there, but I figured I had nothing to lose, and all kinds of time, and so I went. I took the Alaska highway north to Whitehorse.

Being on a Greyhound bus in Canada was not so whimsical; it was something I'd been planning for several months. I had friends in Sudbury and Regina and Vancouver and Victoria and Kamloops and Montreal and Sydney, and I wanted to see them all and the places they had come from or come to before I settled back down in Halifax.

I have never been able to sleep well on buses, but I love them anyway. I love four o'clock in the morning at the side of the highway outside of an Irving or an Esso. Stars and the moon and the sting and smell of winter. My fellow, non-smoking, less anxiety-ridden passengers sleeping soundly in their uncomfortable seats. I move in slow motion, half asleep, exhausted, but invigorated by the cold and empowered like a secret by the blanket of night and the nothing else in sight. What an enormous country I live in. It's twenty hours from Whitehorse to Edmonton.

"Get In the Car" is a song that Kim Barlow wrote for her album Luckyburden, a concept album in which she tells stories about the fictionalized residents of Keno City, Yukon, a town just outside of Whitehorse that boomed briefly and his since become a virtual ghost town.

I don't seem to have much in common with the girl who is the subject of the song. I especially don't know what it's like to live in a town as small or as rough as Keno City, and to spend my teenage years desperately wanting to see something bigger. But I sure do know what it's like to want to get the hell out of a place where I feel stuck and uninspired. And I sure do know what it's like to be young and hopeful and excited by adventure. And I sure do know what it's like to miss Mom.

I promise to actually write about Whitehorse here one of these days.


Get in the Car - Kim Barlow

"Get in the car," Chrissi said, "Let's get the hell out of Dodge."
Steve jumped in fast with a few things stuffed in his backpack.
And they fish tailed down the dusty road, eight o'clock on Saturday morning,
Fresh out of high school and leaving.

"Where are we going?" Steve said, "Are we going to Whitehorse?"
Chrissi laughed, "Hell no, Whitehorse is the biggest town I've ever seen."
Warm sand, rock stars and bookstores, food that doesn't come in a can.
We're going to LA, follow our stupid dreams.

Nothing left to stay for everyone we know is crazy,
They just drink and work and fight,
Let's change our names it's time we're moving on.

When they got to Liard he asked her, "Where'd you get the car?"
And he studied the fading bruise on her cheek and she said,
"My dad won it at poker last week."
And they floated with the hippies and the tourists who had
Flower vans and RV's, romantic notions pointing north.

In the wee hours, and the stars were shining, they nearly hit a young moose,
Running down the middle of the highway.
But they passed it in the passing lane, neither of them said a word.
Both of them were thinking of their mothers.

Nothing left to stay for every one we know is crazy,
They just drink and work and fight,
Let's change our names it's time we're moving on.

Alaska Highway, mile zero, the end and the beginning.
They stopped for a pee and nailed their graduation photos to a sign.
Chrissi leaned out the window and screamed, dust swirled in her hair,
And Steve knew he would follow her anywhere she asked him

Get in the car,
Get in the car,
Let's get the hell out of Dodge.

Saturday, November 1, 2008

Clown & Bard



You couldn't avoid looking at the train tracks from This Ain't the Only Cafe, the establishment beside the Townehouse Tavern, where, with their fancy imported beers and homemade salsa, it was much easier than it was at the Townehouse for me to pretend like I didn't have a problem. I never took the train home for holidays, I never even considered the option, despite watching the trains come and go. When I went home to Toronto I would take the bus that departed from a terminal outside of down-town, an area of town I only ever went to because I was getting on or off of a bus.

I don't remember the first time I thought it, but I remember the first time I wondered aloud about having a drinking problem. I was twenty years old. I said it to Sandra as we left the Townehouse Tavern in the direction of her home, beneath the railway tracks. I can't remember her exact words, but they carried the weight of both an acknowledgment and a dismissal at once. In the spirit of Well, what can you do.

During my second year at Laurentian University in Sudbury, Ontario, I spent a lot of time at the Townehouse. It was my first experience of a bar that felt like home; a place as comfortable as a living room, with faces that I knew and could rely on to be there; a place I could go by myself. In the midst of a city I felt no connection to - a city I even kind of hated - and attending university for no reason other than that being my idea of the thing to do once high school was completed, I was initially drawn to the Townehouse because of its atmosphere, the bands that played there, and the interesting people who congregated there. I kept going back because I liked the people and I liked the beer. Or, rather, I liked that the beer was very cheap. It is hard to give Northern a sincere recommendation. I always drank to excess whenever I had occasion to drink during high school, and first year while living in residence was both excessive and frequent, but in an everyone's-doing-it / it's-my-first-year-away-from-home kind of way. It was at the Townehouse that beer really became a part of my life, and it was not only the drink itself. It would take me years and years and years to recognize this experience as being very much a part of the way I look at the world; the things I romanticize; the aesthetics I'm drawn to; the people I like "intuitively."

My favourite people look awesome sitting on a bar stool. They usually smoke cigarettes, wear sloppy clothes, don't draw attention to themselves, are quietly cynical, quietly judgmental, good talkers, good listeners, not very concerned with status in a conventional way, creatures of habit, empathetic, sincere, and drunk.

My favourite barrooms are dark places that are rarely too crowded, equipped with tables in hiding places for secret sharing. Both amiable and grouchy bartenders are acceptable, but personality is a must.

The Granite Brewery in Halifax has these things in spades. Amazing people, atmosphere, and way better draft than Northern. The Granite Brewery is my really favourite bar ever, and it became so much a part of my life in Halifax that it almost was my experience of Halifax. It was the first thing I wanted to show any visitors from out of town.

Geoff Berner's "Clown & Bard" is the best song I have ever heard about having a really fun, really horrible substance abuse problem and an awesome place in which to indulge. I wanted so badly to visit the actual Clown & Bard in Prague. Prague's awfully beautiful, I hear and see in photographs. I bet it's the kind of city that feels the way to many people that Halifax feels to me. I am stunned sometimes, just stopped in my tracks by these beautiful buildings that surround me. I am hopelessly in love with my city, but I have taken it for granted, spending my nights - my time, energy, money - in this building on Barrington street that somehow became the centre of my universe.

It's hard to separate the good stuff like friendships and honest conversations and listening to good music from the alcohol that's been its constant companion. They've been so entwined for as long as I've been a serious drinker.

This isn't about how I quit drinking three months ago and how weird that is and how my life and perspectives are changing and being challenged while I still feel in this state of limbo, like I'm between a place of comfortable reassurance and some unknown future because I think hope would be a good thing to let into my life. This isn't about how I feel even more lonely than I did a few months ago even though I'm supposedly making all these positive changes. This isn't about how I know, know, know with everything in my being that I cannot drink in moderation and that that's something that makes me kind of bitter. But I guess, of course, it is.

I miss my friends, tonight. Not that I don't believe in the lot of them, because in many, I do. But I miss being up until last call, playing trivial pursuit, sharing gossip, giving and receiving kind words and support, laughing, telling stupid jokes.

I don't miss hangovers, saying too much, spilling secrets, being mean, getting hurt, fooling around with someone too soon or too wrong, feeling really shitty about my choices. Some of these nights get me down, but these mornings never do.

That nice clean train with comfortable seats is right there, across the street. I don't always have to take the bus, even though it is really fun to talk to other travelers, and it stops for frequent smoke breaks.

I don't know why I find the leaving so hard.

**I hope I don't need to state this so explicitly, but just in case: This entry, and this comparison to "Clown & Bard" is in no way about either The Townehouse Tavern or The Granite Brewery. They're wonderful establishments. This is just about me.



Clown & Bard - Geoff Berner

Her grandfather opened the trust fund in her Baltimore account,
But she was six months in the Paris of the Eastern Bloc by the time it ran out.
Oh, well I met her in that filthy basement where a fat man ran the bar.
She said, "If you're gonna drink that green stuff you've got to light it on fire."

I guess she knew me pretty well, despite the questions that I ducked.
She said, "You'll like it here, Prague's like a Disneyland for the terminally fucked."
But it don't fool me 'cause I can see all this beauty's just a trap set to kill.
And she grabbed my hand tight, said "Let me show you the lights from the top of the castle hill."

I don't know why I find the leaving so hard.
'Cause I'm so down, hangin' around at the Clown & Bard.

Well the water in that river's as dirty as the cops, but it shines so pretty at night.
But when I held her head as she puked absinthe off the Charles bridge it was a tender and a glamorous sight.
We kept up the charade just as long as we could until I had to get back in the van.
She said "I'd like to come with you but I'm saving up for Baltimore as soon as I can."

I don't know why I find the leaving so hard.
'Cause I'm so down, hangin' around at the Clown & Bard.

When I got back into town she wasn't hard to track down though they'd moved her down a couple of floors.
Cold and half dead on the unmade bed trying to squeeze the speed out through her pores.
I offered to buy her a one-way back stateside but I cried, they pleaded in vain.
She said "I don't think that I have got an urge to die, I really just can't explain."
I don't know why I find the leaving so hard.
Well I'm so down, hangin' around at the Clown & Bard.
I'm so down, hangin' around at the Clown & Bard.

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Morning Glory / Alewives




Andy was almost falling on the floor he was laughing so hard as he relayed the story of how his latest song title, "The Greatest Show on Earth" had come to him. He was thinking about the ridiculous claim our employer, Sam the Record Man was making in their use of "The Greatest Store on Earth" as their motto. The. Greatest. Store. On. Earth. It is pretty funny. It's fucking ridiculously, screamingly, fall on the floor funny if you are in the right mood for and are the right kind of person for that kind of funny.

It reminded me of the night Tim and I wandered around Richard's neighbourhood, in the midst of an evening spent drinking Jack Daniel's in the shed behind Kevin and Richard's house - the shed the two of them had built and decorated with empty pop cans, empty cartons of Marlboro's, and an enormous confederate flag poised above a sign in support of the local Reform party candidate, both intended as a joking affront to their liberal-minded friends. By the time I caught up to Tim, he was keeled over on the curb trying to intake oxygen amidst his laughter as he pointed at - unable to speak - the street sign declaring "Gaylord Avenue." It's just fucking stupid how funny that was.

The first time I heard Alewives, I thought: I bet this is what Morning Glory would sound like now if they were still a band. The first time I saw Andy on stage, his guitar hanging loosely over his shoulder, leaning into the amplifier, his back - probably intentionally - to the audience, I was reminded of Tim. They both carry themselves in this casual way that I suppose the term "indie rock" has kind of become synonymous with. They both look so free-spirited and authentic and like they don't care about anything except the rock and roll they're playing. But before there is the practicing, then the nervousness, the serious consideration of song order, and afterwards, "Did everyone notice where I messed up?" "Do you think that new song went over well?" "Do they like me?"

It was super fun being an Alewives fan with my friend and roommate Sydney. We're both music nerds, but our tastes often differ. Not entirely unreasonably, Sydney once said to me, "Not all pop songs have to sound like Brian Wilson could have written them, you know." She's way into Blondie and Tori Amos, and I guess I don't really get those guys. And yeah, she thinks my tastes are a bit too precious and predictable, I think. But we both really, really love The Replacements. And I knew that she would love The Alewives. Not that they're all derivative or anything, but they come from the same place. They have the same sound. And nothing says high school like that sound.

It was, oh so appropriately, Tim who first introduced me to The Replacements, when he put "Bastards of Young" on a mix tape he made for me when we were in grade twelve. He gets credit, too, for Pixies, The Lemonheads, NOFX, and for a bunch of local bands reserved for a future blog entry.

My friends Tim and John were the core of Morning Glory. They wrote the songs, and played guitar and bass. They had a couple of drummers - first Steve and then Dave. They had a band room in Tim's basement, where the drum kit was permanently set up, and I sat against the wall and listened to them rehearse for hours. I knew all the words to "Sadfish" and "Where Am I?" and "Here I'm" and "Spaceship of Life." Once they played a show there. They named the practice room "Potatoland" for the evening and bought a flat of beer that we all guzzled down, across the street at the vacant "White House" (a house used as a real estate office, where we would often go to smoke cigarettes) during intermission, and presumably unnoticed by his parents. Man, Tim's parents must have been pretty cool.

Morning Glory got to play some shows down-town, in all-ages venues like The Silver Shack and Classic Studios. Abby, Jackie, Paul, Brandon, Sean and I were the most hardcore Morning Glory groupies, and we'd take the subway down-town to cheer them on, to be in the midst of this scene that felt incredibly cool. We'd sing along and hoot and jump up and down and then help carry their amps and instruments.

Classic Studios was the venue they played most often, it seems to me. It was a dim, open room with low ceilings, below Ossington Avenue, a stone's throw from the Queen street Mental Institution, and it shared its address (it was something-and-a-half Ossington Ave.) with the fish and chips restaurant upstairs. The place was owned or managed by a conscientious, well-intentioned man who seemed genuinely concerned about the kids - such as myself - who over did it. He knew he wasn't serving us alcohol, but he didn't seem to be aware of the convenience store down the street where under-aged kids could buy bootlegged liquor.

Going into the city, to these shows, taking the subway home in the wee hours of the morning, drunk and exhausted, I always felt so grown up. I felt like I was looking at my future. My cool, hip, rock and roll future.

For my 29th birthday Sydney made me an Alewives t-shirt, and a matching one for herself. We talked about making an Alewives zine, but we got too busy with other stuff, or we got too lazy, and then she moved away to BC. I loved going to those shows with her, like I loved waiting at the bus stop and standing right up at the front of the stage with Abby.

The kind of authentic, energetic rock and roll that Alewives play makes me feel nostalgic, and not in some bullshit I'm-too-old-to-rock way, just as a reminder of how and why music matters. It reminds me of discovery. It reminds me of the way something so simple can be so awesome, so intoxicating, so fun. It's about the moments when I'm not asking, "Do they like me?" "Why does that work?" "What happened?" We pick ourselves up off the floor or the curb and we go back to work or back to our friends, and that old, sinking, other kind of reality sets in again.

Thank God for three-minute rock songs and sloppy boys with electric guitars.

Saturday, October 11, 2008

Lik My Vacuum


Perhaps the best present I've ever been given was the one I received for my eighteenth birthday, from my friend Aidyl. A year ahead of me, I missed her presence at Martingrove during my final year of high school while she was enjoying her first year at Ryerson, where she was studying Radio & Television Arts. Having access to a super cool studio and the equipment it housed, she made me a cassette tape that played like a radio program for my birthday.

Aidyl and I were friends for the duration of my time at Martingrove, first becoming acquainted when I was in the ninth grade, in a tiny room where members of the Auditorium Facilities Crew hung out during lunch hour. Our friendship varied in degrees of intensity. Both of us were social creatures who were comfortable and friendly with a number of diverse groups of people, but where her friendships often included the sportier set, mine eventually leaned towards the smokers who congregated outside of the cafeteria in an area commonly referred to as "the outback"; and particularly those smokers who were especially eccentric and determinedly unaligned with the extra-curricular activities that I (and Aidyl) also enjoyed, such as the Martingrove Stage Company and the aforementioned Auditorium Facilities Crew. Aidyl and I would go for long periods of time, immersed in our own, separate things, and then reconnect for a week or two of near constant companionship.

Aidyl and I both loved to sing, and this was one thing that definitely bound us. It was with her that I started my first "band." In actuality, we were a duo who performed once, on the stage in the auditorium at Martingrove Collegiate, during the annual "Martingrove Jam," a glorified open mic.

We called ourselves 12 Eagle Road, taking the name from the address of the "crazy lady" who lived on a side street near Bloor and Islington. Our friends and ourselves used to delight in driving slowly and repeatedly past the paranoid woman's house, and in watching her increasingly insane reactions to our presence there. She would yell, "Get off the road, you sons and bitches!" which would always put us into hysterics. She was always threatening to call - and actually did call - the police. She took our photographs and even brought out a video camera, for which my friends and I performed Monty Python sketches on one occasion.

For our debut - and final - performance as 12 Eagle Road, Aidyl and I had each written original songs. Here, I will boldly include the chorus from the first song I ever wrote with my guitar. Much of my high school existence having been defined by being painfully and unrequitedly in love with one of my best friends, Tim, it is of course appropriate that my first song would have been about him. The stupid, embarrassing chorus went, "Well it's hard to be your friend / When my feelings aren't correct." Aidyl's song was better, but I'll let her decide for herself whether or not she wants it exposed.

We listened to and sang along to so much music together. Particularly fond are my memories of singing along to the Les Miserables soundtrack. We collectively, particularly, dug then-popular CanCon fare like Blue Rodeo, The Waltons, Barenaked Ladies, and - yeah, really, ugh - Moxy Fruvous.

Lik My Vacuum is the name that Aidyl gave to the cassette she made me - a take-off on The Waltons' Lik My Traktor. It was a record of our high school experience together and a testament to the endurance of memories, if not location or musical taste or even enduring friendship. I don't even have Lik My Vacuum anymore. Along with all of the other cassettes I used to own - and many other valuable possessions of mine - they disappeared from the basement of a house I used to live in, which is another story altogether. I am almost over these things that I lost, but I still don't like to talk about it.

It was Aidyl's birthday yesterday, and I was reminded of all the birthdays that we shared together during high school. I thought about the surprise party Tamie and I hosted in my basement - the one that Charlie showed up to drunk, a short while before I really had friends who drank, or drank myself. I remember one year Aidyl gave me a diary for my birthday, and the good use I made of that over the following year. And most of all, I remembered how impressed and delighted I was to receive Lik My Vacuum. I listened to it all the time. I couldn't believe someone had gone to so much work to show me that I meant something to them. It sucks that it's gone, but I can't imagine I'll ever forget the majority of the songs on Lik My Vacuum. In fact, I bet I could still sing along to every one of them.
*Aidyl and I did not look that old when we were in high school. That picture was taken last December.

Monday, October 6, 2008

Kids' Prayer




Sean and I had only been dating for about four months when we decided to take the bus all the way from Toronto and across the provincial border to Manitoba for the Winnipeg Folk Festival. By the time we were out of Thunder Bay, I don't think either of us could have fathomed that we were to stick it out together for another three and a half years. It is trying to be on a bus for twenty-four hours, especially when all there is to look at is the endless expanse of trees. Northern Ontario is the most boring place on earth. I much prefer the hopeful, straight-forward horizon of the prairies, or the unexpected turns on slim mountain roads, to the succession of evergreens - the imposing forest through which you can never see the trees or the wildlife or any further evidence of the people who presumably utilise the ever-present power lines. Plus we were exhausted, and trying to combat this with the worst bus station coffee. I still maintain that the best cup of coffee I ever had was at the Winnipeg Folk Festival. I may have just uncovered a reason for this.

Whenever we got upset with one another, Sean would refuse to communicate. I think he reasons that he doesn't want to say anything regrettable when he's angry, but THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT I WANT TO DO! I don't mean that I want to say all kinds of horrible things, but that I want to address things immediately, and immediately also means emotionally, and of course I am either crying or yelling. The wall he would put up would just make me more incensed. And then we'd both get all defensive in the very same way and it would be just horrible. It was like that in Thunder Bay. I can't for the life of me remember what we said we were fighting about; I only remember how I felt, and that sensation of being so far from home with all of that time stretched out ahead of us.

But such were the recuperating powers of a grassy field, a lightning storm, and a beer tent, that we were making jokes about how we almost broke up there when our bus pulled into the Thunder Bay bus terminal on our trip home.

There wasn't anyone either of us were dying to see at the Winnipeg Folk Festival, though I was pretty excited about seeing Dan Bern and Dar Williams. Mostly, I wanted to go because I'd heard great things about the event, and because I wanted to sleep outside in a tent and stay up all night listening to or be woken up by music from within my temporary canvas home. I also wanted to hang out in Winnipeg and have a beer at the Royal Albert, because Rheostatics - my very favourite band - have such a connection to the city and that venue in particular. It was a bit of Canada I hadn't explored as a willing and alert participant and I wanted to see what is was like there. (When I was two, I stopped there with my parents on a cross-country train trip, and I used to maintain that my earliest memory was of zooming my batman hotwheels car across the floor at the train station in Winnipeg, but that seems way too specific to be an actual memory of an experience belonging to a two-year-old.)

A series of frustrations ensued after exiting the Greyhound bus. It took us ages to locate the spot where the shuttle bus would meet us to take us to the field the festival was being held at. Then it took us ages to assemble our borrowed tent. And finally, once we were inside our tent, a downpour that would wreak havoc on the grounds began. A lightning storm on the prairies is a terrifying and mesmerising thing. Watching lightning hit the earth like that - and so close by! - is truly one of the most awesome things I have ever seen. I don't know what Sean was thinking, telling me that story about the time he was camping with his family, as a kid, and lightning hit the metal pole supporting their tent. It was another sleepless night.

The sun was out in the morning. The best cups of coffee EVER in hands, Sean and I went to see some workshops. All of our clothes were soaked, and every step we took was into the slimy, unavoidable mud that the ground had become overnight. But we really didn't seem bothered by that.

Knowing we'd have other opportunities to see Dan Bern, we seriously debated checking out Hawksley Workman instead. We didn't know his music, but had been hearing good things. The eventual deterrent was the press photograph that we thought made him look like an asshole, and thank goodness for that photograph.

In a small tent along with maybe fifty other audience members, Sean and I got to be a part of what remains one of the most moving live music experiences of my life. Expecting "Tiger Woods" or even "Wasteland," Dan Bern blew my mind with his take on the Columbine shootings. There's nothing I can say about what he says in this song. It's explicit. It's perfect. Read the lyrics provided here, if you will. After the storm and the bus ride from hell and the sunny reprieve, the song just stunned me with its immediacy and honesty.

The rest of the week-end was great. We ran into an old friend of mine from Halifax. We got to hear Dar Williams. We were impressed by Martin Sexton. We got drunk but not too drunk. We took pictures of our mud-caked feet and legs. We laughed at our discomfort. We slept in a tent.

But the best part of the whole week-end was hearing Kids' Prayer - this thoughtful and extraordinarily moving song inspired by this very big and terrible thing that happened to a bunch of ordinary kids at an ordinary high school. It made everyone think and feel be glad they got to be there for that performance. It's kind of what I was hoping a folk festival would be like.


Kids' Prayer - Dan Bern
So sad, so sad, the news come our way this morning
Like a bad dream, a dream you never even talk about
In a school, a school, where they send our precious children
The one place of innocence the world might ever let them know
And barely aware of the odds against existence in the first place
Of love and fertility, of risk of a baby being born
And of food and clothes and fear and maybe relocation
Of sickness, recovery, of music lessons, painting the garage
And lingering over eggs and thoughts and sleepy conversations
And plans for the weekend, and one last pause to pet the dog
And a glance at the clock and the grabbing of the sandwich and the notebook
Confident of nothing but the unbroken days that they've been granted
But comes a child, a child so full of anger and hatred
Barely aware of the genesis coursing through his veins
With a gun, a gun, deaf and blind deliverer of madness
Skilled in its efficiency beyond his own unformulated brain
And with his hand in a fist, and his soul in a knot and his heart racing
And his mind sick with images, his slim shoulders finally feeling tall
And his fellow creatures, school kids in their crushes and their daydreams
Struggling to unwrap the ancient secrets of geometry
And he pulls from his coat the instrument to shatter all forevers
In a random blaze of insides and blood and endless now
And boom and flash and more and not even when it's over
Can any of them so much as summon up the sanity to scream
And on the floor his classmates blown down, and choking
As he lays his weapon on his desk, partly sure he isn't dreaming
And all the world descends, and offers up their condolence
And offers up their theories what went wrong and who and why and when and how
It's all the killing day and night on television
It's all the movies where violence is as natural as breathing
It's guns and bullets as easily obtainable as candy
It's video games where you kill and begin to think it's real
It's people not having God in their lives anymore
Or it's all of it, or none of it, or some of it, in various combinations
Now all these theories, sound pretty logical I guess
Though I ain't no scientist, I ain't no dissector of statistics
I ain't no theologist, I ain’t no psychologist or biologist
All I can do is offer up a prayer of my own
Talk to your kids, play with your kids
Tell them your dreams, and your disappointments
Listen with your kids, and listen to your kids
Watch your kids, let your kids watch you
Tell your kids the truth, best as you can tell it
No use telling lies, your kids can always smell it
Cook for your kids, let your kids cook for you
Sing with your kids, teach your kids the blues
Learn their games, teach them yours
Touch your kids, find out what they know
Be sad with your kids, be stupid with your kids
Embarrass your kids, let them embarrass you
Be strong with your kids, be tough with your kids
Be firm with your kids, say no to your kids,
Say yes to your kids, take it easy on your kids
You were a kid not so long ago
There’s things you know, your kids will never know
There’s places they live where you will never go
So dance with your kids, paint with your kids
Walk with your kids, tell stories to your kids
One day your kids, won’t be kids
And maybe they'll have kids of their own
Let's hope they talk to their kids,
play with their kids
Tell them their dreams, and their disappointments….

Sunday, October 5, 2008

Moondance (the album)




I discovered Van Morrison's "Moondance" while working at Sam the Record Man on Barrington street. So I was pretty late arriving there. My co-workers/bosses/friends Sean and Andy in particular made fun of my enthusiasm with responses like, "Yeah, we know, good record. It came out in 1970." Across from the front desk at Sam's there was always a collection of budget cd's. We referred to this area as the "Wow Wall" for the enormous letters spelling "WOW" that were attached to the flat board above the cd's to indicate the wow-worthy bargains to be had. A perennial Wow wall title was "Moondance" and it was Jonathan Andrews who properly introduced me to this album. The two of us certainly played it to death for those co-workers with less approving ears.

Jonathan's picks were all over the place, and he turned me onto and off of all kinds of artists. Working cash by his side was always a bit of a crap shoot. While his temperament was not as eclectic as his musical taste there were certainly days that I loved working with him and days that I hated it. Of all of the friends I made and relationships that developed while working at Sam's, none feels more honest or more familiar than my relationship with Jonathan (I am excluding Sean from this assessment altogether, for the long and intense and complicated relationship we had before he ever hired me). And when I say "familiar," I really do mean that quite literally. He felt like family, like a brother, and that's the only reason I didn't let his indifference and dark moods get the better of my over-sensitive nature.

When Jonathan was in a good mood, and seemed glad for my company, he was so much fun to work with. He can be remarkably easy-going, and I can see how he might make a pretty crappy tenant or nerve-wracking roommate because of this, but not being in either of those positions, it's something that always amazed and impressed me about his character. He has given me his very last cigarette without having funds for more, when asked for one, on more occasions than I can count, despite my astonishment and attempts at refusing his gesture. He has quit jobs that made him unhappy without having back-up plans. He has a lot of faith in the people in this world; in things always working out.

But back to music.
Jonathan would listen to everything. Artists whose cd's he loved to play included Guided by Voices, Eric Clapton, Bob Dylan, Stephen Malkmus, LCD Soundsystem, and Huey Lewis & the News. Myself and Scotty kept conspiring to hide the Back to the Future soundtrack on Jonathan (he always found it, don't ask me how), which of course he eventually only played to piss us off, but I really believe he actually did like Huey Lewis a lot.

He would play Stan Rogers' Fogarty's Cove all the time. That's a great album, but it's a bold move for anyone working in the coolest record store in town, just minutes away from pubs who make their bread and butter by being host to Celtic rock bands playing endless covers of "Barrett's Privateers" to university students who don't give a shit about music but know all the words to that famous song about the Halifax pier.

While Jonathan's friends and peers played in weird indie rock bands, he was championing and eventually playing music with Halifax legends like Al Tuck and the all-but-forgotten Matthew Grimson. While always staying in touch and engaged with new releases, he was also investigating everything that came before, without any agenda except for hearing something great that he had never heard before and finding some musical mentors. He was always learning. And he was always so enthusiastic about sharing what he had learned. Jonathan's first solo album "Halifax Indie Rock" is a self-conscious and earnest homage to just that mentality. I love the name. And I loved how he stood behind the display of his cd's - the face on the cover clearly identifiable as his own - that stood in front of the counter at which he rang in customers' purchases. There's not a hipster bone in Jonathan's body. I'd say he was wise beyond his years in some respects, but he doesn't carry it like wisdom. He's too playful. Maybe it's just so rare to come across a really genuine person who is so difficult to pigeon-hole.
Every now and then I run into someone who knows about and likes to talk about music in that geeky way we had at Sam's. I never realise how much I miss these conversations until I leave one feeling so refreshed and excited. I miss working at Sam's. I miss poring over release sheets and being excited about new release Tuesday, and I miss hearing classic albums like "Moondance" for the very the very first time, courtesy of people who just have to show me why they're such classics. I miss my friends.






Moondance - Van Morrison


(the album)

Sunday, September 21, 2008

Anchorage

I think I probably started included Michelle Shocked's "Anchorage" on every mix tape I made for anybody shortly after I first moved to Halifax. It's a very "Amelia song," as my dear friend and ex-boyfriend Sean would say. He really would say this, rolling his eyes, because by the time I met him, this song's inclusion on the countless mix tapes I made for other people was already a cliche. But aside from that, it is an "Amelia song" because I am sentimental like that about old friends, and I am also in love with faraway, cold places like Alaska. Or at least with the idea of them.

In Sean's basement apartment on Woodbine avenue, we began a tradition of playing DJ for one another, drinking Lakers or cheap red wine, sharing our favourites with one another and eventually compiling them on mixes for our friends, usually yet unknown to one party, and as we, at this beginning stage of our relationship, were fairly unknown to one another too, we learned about each other through the way we related to our friends and how and why we would make the selections that were made.

There are a few old friends that I think about when I listen to "Anchorage," mostly people who have both settled into family life, and who are also far removed from being involved in any kind of artistic or musical community the way that I am. It's a lifestyle difference that is clearly articulated here in the way this song contrasts Anchorage, Alaska with New York City. I feel a real fondness for these old friends, but I also feel the miles in between us and like it's impossible to ever recover what we had in high school or in our first few years of "adulthood."

Last year, my old friends Kim and Anne, with whom I was reunited through facebook (of course) concocted a crazy scheme, wherein Anne and I would, over the Christmas holidays, make the five hour drive from southern Ontario to visit Kim in Sudbury where she now owns a home with her police officer partner and her children, and where the three of us - a lifetime ago it often seems - attended university immediately following high school. I hadn't seen either of them in close to a decade, but our facebook correspondences were excited and optimistic, and I guess I am generally of the opinion that people don't really change that much, and that the often inexplicable reasons we all have for liking who we like are usually enduring.

Kim and I never had any illusions about the unlikeliness of our friendship. We both really hated living in residence, and we hid in our tiny shared dorm room together, but that confined space and the people who surrounded us were all that really seemed to bind us. She dragged me out to Ralph's Sports Bar where I was forced to put up with godawful dance music and the succession of bland, jockey guys who took a shine to her. I dragged her to the Townehouse Tavern where she was forced to listen to punk bands and drink disgusting northern draught in a smokey room full of weirdos. Anne, who lived a few floors below us, was kind of in the middle. Which is not to say that she was easy. On the contrary, Anne is one of the most sensitive people I have ever met, and I bet she sucked up all kinds of things and situations she probably didn't want to be a part of. Looking back, I don't know how I wasn't constantly and openly amazed by how much alike we were in our temperaments.

The last time I saw Anne, prior to our reunion this past December, I was visiting my friend Andrea - also a friend from Sudbury, who I had met my second year there - in their mutual home town of Guelph, Ontario. It was weird, because I was definitely there to see (and I stayed with) Andrea, but I made a point of meeting up with Anne one evening. When I'd visited Guelph in the past it had been to see Anne. This time there was an awkward tension between us. I really felt that we had "grown apart" and it made me feel sad and uncomfortable. If I honestly analyze these kinds of situations I know that it is probably more about me than about the other person. There was an over-riding sense of shame. I could see that Anne was happily back in school, in a serious relationship (with the man she would eventually marry), and was acting, well, like the adult that she was. Me: I still felt and acted like a kid. I was a university drop-out, still getting wasted all the time, living rent-free at my mom's, working at Chapters, and making plans to travel across Canada. I was openly self-righteous, insisting that I was being authentically myself. But I was lazy and selfish and aimless and incredibly worried about how apparent all of that might be to other people.

And because aside from being nearly, finally, finished an undergraduate degree, I didn't actually feel that my life or lifestyle had changed all that much in the interim, I was nervous about our 2007 reunion.

It was good. I think Anne and I approached one another with an appropriate amount of reserve, but we talked about quite a lot of weighty stuff during the ten hours total that we spent in her car together. I won't get into details, because a lot of it was pretty personal. There was reminiscing of course, and at the same time it was like we were taking stock of and comparing the people we were to the people we are. I was really impressed with Anne's self-awareness, and it was absolutely heartening to see how comfortable she eventually became - or, at least, so it seemed - with herself.

Kim was exactly as I'd remembered her and completely easy to be with. But I don't see any of myself in her.

I think one of the best things about "Anchorage" is Leroy. He's exactly the kind of guy you want your dear friend to end up with.

I think Anne and I were really glad to see one another, and glad to get back to our own lives, and that we will be glad to see one another again.


Anchorage - Michelle Shocked
I took time out to write to my old friend
I walked across that burning bridge
Mailed my letter off to Dallas
But her reply came from Anchorage, Alaska
She said:"Hey girl, it's about time you wrote
It's been over two years you know, my old friend
Take me back to the days of the foreign telegrams
And the all-night rock and rollin'...
We was wild then
Hey Shell, you know it's kind of funny
Texas always seemed so big
But you know you're in the largest state in the union
When you're anchored down in Anchorage
Hey Girl, I think the last time I saw you
Was on me and Leroy's wedding day
What was the name of that love song they played?
I forgot how it goes
I don't recall how it goes
Anchorage
Anchored down in Anchorage
Leroy got a better job so we moved
Kevin lost a tooth now he's started school
I got a brand new eight month old baby girl
I sound like a housewife
I think I'm a housewife
Hey Girl, what's it like to be in New York?
New York City - imagine that!
Tell me, what's it like to be a skateboard punk rocker?
Leroy says "Send a picture"
Leroy says "Hello"
Leroy says "Oh, keep on rocking, girl"
"yeah, keep on rocking"
Hey Shell, you know it's kind of funny
Texas always seemed so big
But you know you're in the largest state in the union
When you're anchored down in Anchorage
Oh, Anchorage
Anchored down in Anchorage
Oh, Anchorage

Friday, September 5, 2008

Icarus

I first came across this song several years ago. It was included on a compilation CD called "British Folk Troubadours" that Sean received as a promo when he was managing Sam the Record Man on Barrington street, and which he thoughtfully passed on to me. This version was recorded by Martin Simpson, but the song was written by a woman called Ann Lister, who I know nothing at all about. (I'd love to know something about her!) I played it for everyone I could, and their responses were always along the lines of, "Yeah, it's nice." I could not for the life of me understand why it wasn't blowing their minds. It is like how I was always stunned to learn that I could still register for classes called things like "Critical Theory" and "Feminism and Composition" at such a late date. Doesn't everyone dig this stuff? I never really think I'm that weird until I find out that I am.

The only other version I've heard was performed by Garnet Rogers when he played at Ginger's probably about a year ago. After the show I enthused about how thrilling it was to have heard him play that song live, explaining how no one I knew seemed to know anything about it, and how it was one of my favourite songs in the world. Then I told him how I also loved it that he played a Greg Brown cover, and I didn't say a word about his own stuff which was, you know, alright, but nothing to write home about. Garnet Rogers has a reputation for being kind of a jerk, but he was absolutely kind and forthcoming when I spoke to him after the show, despite my dis-by-omission.

It's kind of funny that a song about the purest, truest kind of love that one can have for another human being is one that reminds me so much of my own singularity and isolation. A carrier of heavy wings is way more than anyone should ever expect.

Oh, and when I said that thing about love songs a couple of entries ago, I forgot to say that almost all my favourite songs are love songs.


Icarus - Ann Lister (Martin Simpson, Garnet Rogers)
I never wanted to fly high
I was too fond of walking
And when you said you'd touch the sky
I thought it was your way of talking
And then you said you'd build some wings
And find out how it could be done
But I was doubtful of everything
I never thought you'd reach the sun
You were so clever with your hands
I'd watch you for hours
With the glue and the rubber bands
Feathers and lace and flowers
And the finished wings they glowed so bright
Like some bird of glory
I began to envy you your flight
Like some old hero's story
You tried to get me to go with you
You tried always to dare me
But I looked at the sky so blue
I thought the height would scare me
But I carried your wings for you
Up the path to the cliff face
Kissed you goodbye and watched your eyes
Already bright with sunlight
Oh it was grand at the start
To watch you soaring higher
There was a pain deep in my heart
The wings seemed tipped with fire
Like a seagull or a lark
Rising up forever
Like some ember or some spark
Rising from earth to heaven
Then I believed you'd touch the sun
I believed all you told me
Do a thing no man has ever done
You'd touch the stars to please me
But then I saw the white wings fail
Then I saw the feathers falter
Watched you drop like a bowl of gold
Into the wide green water
Now some are born to fly high
And some are born to follow
Some are born to touch the sky
While some walk in the hollow
And as I watched your body fall
I knew that really you had won
For your grave was not the earth
But the reflection of the sun

Monday, September 1, 2008

The Swimming Song


Yesterday afternoon, as Jonathan returned to the apartment we shared for the last sixteen months, to pick up a couple of remaining items and to drop off his keys, I jokingly remarked, "So I guess we can go back to being friends now that we aren't roommates anymore," after offering him my new phone number. He laughed.

It wasn't really that bad, living with Jonathan. It's been way, way worse with other roommates, but we certainly let sharing space issues interfere with what was once a pretty fun and very honest and close friendship.

The end of summer, three summers ago, "The Swimming Song" was our soundtrack, whether we were driving through the Annapolis Valley or getting merrily stoned and drunk in someones apartment, raising our voices like a choir to hear it. And boy, did we hear it! Jonathan would repeat the song as many as ten times in a row, I am sure, fiddling with the MP3 player attached to his stereo as we sat outside in his beat-up car smoking cigarettes there to avoid the rain. I liked his car, I liked smoking there. I liked the imposed physical intimacy that such a small space offered.

Most of that summer revolved around the Granite Brewery. It is where we met one another, and where we met Jen, who for much of that summer completed our hedonistic trio. We consumed so much alcohol, the three of us, and we stayed up so late. We thought we were the best of friends but we were really just as immediate as Loudon Wainwright's song, which is not to belittle that time. It is something to talk so closely, to be so abandoned and in the moment. And it was nice to feel like we were in a kind of a club, the three of us. I know that I felt free, and I know that it was because of these late nights and this feeling of belonging and this speedy, motorized vehicle that brought us to the beach on sunny days. I would go so far as to say that it was the comfort and confidence that Jonathan and Jen unknowingly afforded me that allowed me to be receptive to other people, too. I belonged in that pub on Barrington street. I could walk into the building by myself and be recognized and welcomed and known. Katie, and Lisa, and Joe, and many other dear friendships came of this. I cried and laughed and danced with these people, and I was every single version of my messy, uninhibited, insecure, honest, sad self that warm and receptive hearts and several pints of Peculiar can unleash.

Time will tell, it always does, what is forever and what was for then, but it was all real, whatever kind of spin I'm inclined to put on it.

I am so glad that Jonathan laughed.



The Swimming Song - Loudon Wainwright III


This summer I went swimming,

This summer I might have drowned

But I held my breath and I kicked my feet

And I moved my arms around,

I moved my arms around.

This summer I swam in the ocean,

And I swam in a swimming pool,

Salt my wounds, chlorine my eyes,

I'm a self-destructive fool,

a self-destructive fool.

This summer I swam in a public place

And a reservoir, to boot,

At the latter I was informal,

At the former I wore my suit,

I wore my swimming suit.

This summer I did the backstroke

And you know that's not all

I did the breast stroke and the butterfly

And the old Australian crawl,

the old Australian crawl.

This summer I did swan dives

And jackknifes for you all

And once when you weren't looking

I did a cannonball,

I did a cannonball.

Sunday, August 31, 2008

Here We Go




This summer I went to two weddings.

The first one occurred in June. My father married Susan Kent, a wonderful woman he had been involved with for the preceding five years. They both, I think, had kind of given up on finding someone so late in life. My father arrived in Nova Scotia with a suitcase and a guitar, having purged himself of all physical reminders of his earlier life, travelling light and, I believe, without a real destination in mind. Susan, alternately, kept everything she had ever owned in boxes that she never opened, and that surrounded her in her impossibly cluttered apartment. Having seen this apartment myself, it amazes me that there was room for my father within it, but he happily found his space. They balanced each other out, matching one another's quirks and personalities in a magical way. They are so obviously into one another, but rather than alienating the people around them by being too insular, their affection for one another manages to infect everyone in their vicinity. They glow, in the healthiest, most inviting way. I think that much of it comes from being so surprised to have found one another.

Most of my favourite love songs aren't really about being in love, and I don't want to extrapolate on that much further lest I ruin potential future entries. I'll just say that most of my favourites are about looking back on a relationship with a certain nostalgic fondness and self-awareness that is very much grounded in and by the speaker's present state of mind. Songs about being in love usually seem kind of sucky, all caught up in sentiment and flowers, with a very few notable exceptions like Fountains of Wayne's innocently joyful "Hey Julie," for example.

I like "Here We Go" so much because it's both hopeful and realistic, and also because it puts so much onus on the speaker himself, rather than being concerned with a love interest who is little more than a one-dimensional ideal, or/and, as in many love-lost songs, the cause of the speaker's downfall and misery. This is a getting-ready-for-love song, and I don't think there are too many of 'em.

"You've gotta hope that there's someone for you, as strange as you are / Who can cope with the things that you do without trying too hard." That's it, isn't it?

My friends Ian and Kate got married last week-end, and my favourite part of everything was watching Kate pronounce her vows with such earnestness and devotion, on the verge of tears the entire time. These are two remarkable people on their own, and people who are optimistic but realistic enough to, I think, know that they don't need one another, and would be okay anyway, and almost pleasantly surprised to have found one another. Amazed, even. Because, of course, love is amazing.

Dad and Susan got married at Susan's sister's house because there was no electricity in their own home, where they had planned to have their very small and modest ceremony, and many of their neighbours were in fact in danger of losing their lives and property to the forest fires that were raging through Porter's Lake. I couldn't believe it when Dad called to tell me that the ceremony was going to happen as planned, just at another venue.

Love is not all I'll-be-there-until-the-end-of-time. It is way more specific than that. It is forest fires and towering boxes that could fall on your head if just one thing is shifted the wrong way. It is amazing that any thinking person ever walks down that aisle. Good for them!
Here We Go - Jon Brion
You've gotta hope that there's someone for you
As strange as you are
Who can cope with the things that you do
Without trying too hard
Because you can bend the truth
Until it's suiting you
These things that you're wrapping all around you
You never know what they will amount to
And your life is just going on without you
It's the end of the things you know
Here we go
You've gotta know that there's more to this world
Than what you have seen
Because we all have a limited view
Of what we can be
As we move along with our blinders on
Each one of us feels a little stranded
And you can't explain or understand it
Each one of us on a different planet
And amidst all the to and fro
Someone can say hello
Here we go
The feeling that someone really gets you
It's something that no one should object to
It could happen today so I suggest you
Skip your habit of laying low
It's the end of the things you know
Here we go