Gorgeous Morning

I feel a little weird writing about Tanya Davis, though this blog entry is something that has been rolling around in my brain for years now, in bits and pieces. I feel weird because I know her – not at all well, only very peripherally – and I find her writing so emotionally and personally affecting that I actually feel sort of strange and bare when I run into her in Halifax. I don’t know of another songwriter who is so vulnerable in her writing, and I don’t know of another songwriter who speaks to me in quite the same way.

I was introduced to Tanya Davis’ music when I worked at Sam the Record Man. She brought in a copy of the recently released cd, “Make a List,” to be sold on consignment there. My friend and co-worker Jonathan suggested I listen to it; he thought I’d like her. “She calls these song-poems,” he said, rolling his eyes, and then he quickly added, “But it’s really good!”

And I couldn’t get enough. On days when I was confined to the third floor I would sit there and replay that cd for hours. I’d never heard anyone speak about loneliness that way. There was hope, too, and constant lists, so many lists, of reasons to do what you do, things you should be doing, ways that people can be known, ways in which they aren’t enough, all of the dark and light little corners of human experience seemed to there, spoken and sung in this fragile, honest little voice. It was truly revolutionary for me. It used to make me think about the excitement with which Jon Landau had famously declared, “I saw rock and roll’s future and its name is Bruce Springsteen.” There was that same experience for me and I remembered why I loved music so much, why I felt such a connection to certain artists and songs. Sure, there’s nothing new about what Tanya Davis has to say. What’s new is that she says it with such earnestness, with such a lack of pretension or self-censorship that it feels so remarkably different from anything that anyone else is saying.

Tanya Davis has been getting a lot of attention lately, and this makes me very happy. The Andrea Dorfman-directed video for her poem, “How to be Alone” has been everywhere on the internet, and viewed/heard and enjoyed by bigshots like Roger freakin’ Ebert, even! This is not a sad poem and it is not about being lonely, despite what some critics have seen in it. But a lot of what she writes is about about being lonely, and about being sad, and I believe she does an excellent service for humankind by articulating these experiences so unself-consciously.

It is hard to pick, but I picked gorgeous morning, for “It wasn’t worth those happy breakfasts that I missed.” Truth.



Gorgeous Morning - Tanya Davis

some of the people thought that I was crazy
for leaving all that
but they didn't see me at seven in the morning
in the months before i left

within a few minutes of opening my eyes
there was the dread of the day
sitting by my bed waiting for me to rise
and pretend like everything was okay

and it makes for bad digestion when you are crying onto your toast
and if that's how breakfast goes you know you're in for it
but i had no intentions then, go to work and come back home
my feet heavy and slow every minute of it

i could be a person climbing up the ladder
and checking the right boxes
moving through the brackets higher and higher
with more gains than losses

and i could have a cottage in a pretty spot
and make it there twice a year
all the other months in the city with my job
and my money and my tears

the glory of the morning did fade and dim
where once it was my best love and i was so grateful for it
but those days working with no passion did change all of this
and it wasn't worth the happy breakfasts that i missed

so on one gorgeous morning i told them i was leaving
and it was so relieving to say it out
and i worked hard all afternoon and the weeks before the leaving
until finally one evening was my last walk out

Claire

"Who the hell are the Howl Brothers?" I stared at the round piece of vinyl, knowing there was some kind of joke I wasn't in on. It was one of the first Rheostatics shows I ever went to, maybe my third or fourth, and as we made our way into the Bathurst Street Theatre we were all handed a recording of the Howl Brothers' song "Torque Torque." I don't remember how I learned the identity of the Howl Brothers - whether it was during the band's performance or shortly thereafter - but I soon learned that they were a fictional band created by the author of the novel Whale Music, and that The Howl Brothers actually were Rheostatics, and that this song was to be included in the upcoming film, Whale Music.

I did know about the book in a vague way. I knew that its author was a Canadian by the name of Paul Quarrington, and that the novel had been the inspiration for the Rheostatics album of the same name. I was very familiar with the album. It was, and remains, a favourite, and even by then I had listened to it so many times that I had committed each lyric to memory, sat in anticipation of the beginning of each consecutive song, was all set to switch to side "b" at exactly the right moment.

I went to that Bathurst Street Theatre show with a friend of mine from SEE School, a friend who was a million times cooler than I was. The drummer for Barenaked Ladies, Tyler Stewart, was sitting a few rows away from us, and I wanted to say something to him, to acknowledge his significance, here, because it was Tyler Stewart who brought me to Rheostatics.

I was a big Barenaked Ladies fan for a short little while. In grade eleven, when Derek worked at the Rogers Video at Dundas and Royal York, Adam and Jill and Maryan and Nicole and myself and/or whomever else was available would visit him there on slow nights, and we'd bop around the video store to that infamous yellow cassette. Everyone had a copy of that Barenaked Ladies tape. It was everywhere, along with the baseball caps. I wore my bright red barenaked cap with frequency and pride. They were also on tv a lot, and I swear, every single time I saw Barenaked Ladies on television, I saw Tyler Stewart wearing a Melville t-shirt. After a little investigation I learned this was the name of a Rheostatics album. And it's because of Tyler Stewart that I found myself at Sam's on Yonge street purchasing a copy of their brand new album, Whale Music. I had no idea what Rheostatics sounded like.

The rest is history. It's amazing, all of the things I could and will and have said about this band and their significance to me. It's frankly astonishing that this is the first blog entry I've devoted to them. Although I have written a song, an academic paper, and a facebook "note" that reads like a blog entry, back before I started this thing.

I did speak to Tyler Stewart that night, and I said "Thank you for introducing me to Rheostatics." That probably wasn't very cool, I certainly should have said something about his own band, even though I was totally over them by then. It would have been polite. He was nevertheless very kind to me, and told me I was welcome. I think he seemed really glad to have introduced a new fan.

***

Several years ago Rheostatics played a show at Reflections. It was very poorly attended, but I was there, of course, and with me was my friend Claire, who had never heard the band before.

Claire played cello with me. We used to be a folk duo called nate and marcel, and this Rheostatics show took place not long after Claire and I returned from a brief and whimsical tour we had gone on in southern Ontario. What was initially just a trip home I was to have taken with my father and his partner (now wife!) Susan, became a hastily-planned tour, with Claire and her enormous stringed instrument joining our party of three.

One of the funnest things about that trip was listening to music in the car. I had made many mixed tapes in anticipation, and collected all of my old, tried and true favourite mixes as well. The car stereo didn't work, but we brought along a tiny battery-operated cassette player that we managed to position atop of the cello in a way that ensured that it only ever fell over when we had to exit the highway.

Claire didn't know a thing about popular music. I was astonished when she had to ask me who was singing "Like a Rolling Stone." Though I suppose it all evened out when she laughed at my mispronunciation of Haydn. But she was the best to play new songs for! She really listened, and she loved hearing all of these new musicians. I got to play her all of my favourites.

Claire brought that same enthusiasm with her to that Rheostatics show. I don't know if she ever followed up with them, ever purchased any of their albums and listened to them at home, but she sure had a great time at that concert. Being an "Amelia," perhaps it is especially exciting to hear my name referenced, but I know it was also pretty cool for "Claire." I wish I had as cool a song with my name. It was so much fun showing this band to her, because a Rheostatics show is like driving through my old neighbourhood, for me. And where I live, with all of these great people I'd sometimes like to explain myself better to, we are so far away from my childhood homes. It sounds silly to say it, I guess, but there are things about my relationship with this band that are defining.

I read Whale Music. I read it in a basement apartment on Woodbine avenue in the year 2000. I liked it a lot. I thought it was well-written and funny, and I devoured it pretty quickly. It certainly didn't affect me in a significant way, though, not the book itself. But it goes like this: Paul Quarrington wrote a book about a fictional band called the Howl Brothers, loosely based on The Beach Boys. Rheostatics, inspired by this novel, named an album after it. When the movie Whale Music came out, Rheostatics were asked to do the soundtrack. Among other compositions was the song "Claire." The lyrics had already been partly written by Paul Quarrington. I took my friend Claire to see them play and she thought it was so cool that such a great band had a song called "Claire."

Paul Quarrington passed away this morning, and I am especially sorry for all of the people whose lives were directly touched by him, but I am also sorry for all of the people who didn't even know he was here. He really, really made a difference. Rest in Peace.

Claire - Rheostatics and Paul Quarrington

Purify me.
Purify me Claire.
Let me see you save a mind that isn't there.
Purify me.
Clarify me, Claire.

Liquify me.
Liquify these walls.
Let me see them gushin like Niagara Falls.
Liquify me.
Vapourize me, Claire.

Purify me.
Purify me Claire.
Let me see you save a soul that is impaired.
Purify me.
Clarify me, Claire.

Claire confide in me.

Happy Christmas (War Is Over)

I just learned that Shaved Fish was released a month before I was born. So I guess it's no wonder that John Lennon's "Happy Christmas (War Is Over)" feels like it's been with me all my life.

There was a time before it felt like Christmas music was an enormous part of my life; before I could spend hours debating the best version of "Jingle Bells." (I still don't have a definitive answer to this, although Crash Test Dummies and Barenaked Ladies are both surprisingly good contenders.) But there was never a time that Christmas music was not a part of my life. It just used to be less like a favourite t-shirt and more like a dependably warm but unremarkable afghan.

There are a few exceptional songs, though, that stood out, for whatever reason, and that don't have to do with my life After Christmas Music but that resonate with me so much because of my exposure to them as a kid, surrounded by my family. 'Cause family is ultimately what Christmas is about.

I used to play this song every year, pulling out the cassette and placing it in the big black dual cassette player/record player/radio that was our stereo for as long as I can remember. Every Christmas morning, it was the song that I wanted to hear. I know I used to do this, because I remember remembering this. But when I think about this song, I'm not transported back to my home on Edgevalley drive, where I spent 11 Christmases, but to the house on Stoneham, where I only spent one.

Mom said to me once, "I was so proud of that house." She was talking about the way that things go, and about how sometimes you can be prepared to embrace what you get because you get what you need, and that's all that you were asking for anyway, and then be so ecstatically, wonderfully surprised by the fantastically rich, double chocolate cream cheese icing on the cake. She told me she didn't think she'd ever meet anyone, that it wasn't in her plan. She just wanted to be able to afford a modest home for herself and her kids and to have her independence. And she got it. The icing is a whole other story. A really great one.

My parents separated during the summer after my second year of university, that first time around, that time I dropped out, not really knowing why I was there in the first place except that it - university - seemed to be the thing to do. Their separation was hard on my dad. Really, really hard. It was hard on all of us in different ways, but for Mom it was also incredibly freeing.

I loved my Dad a lot, but he sure did stress me out. He was angry, incredibly self-involved, unpredictable. I suffered from the worst tension headaches as a teenager, and I'm convinced their virtual abandonment was not so incidentally related to my father's absence. [Let me say here, for the record: My Dad's changed a whole lot. And my Dad is a million times happier now than he was then. And although he had a rough go of it for a number of years I doubt that he regrets much of it because of how he can appreciate what he has now, largely because of it.]

The year I lived on Stoneham I worked at Chapters. It was great. Sometimes I think it was the best year of my life. I've never read so many books. I was surrounded by family, and friends from high school, and new friends I made at the bookstore. I felt like I belonged there, with my new bookstore friends; I've never felt so secure within an extended social group. Nearly every night we'd gather at Hemingway's, the bar across the street, after work to talk about ourselves and books and where we were going. I felt well-liked, and confident, for the most part. I had all this disposable income. And I felt hopeful. I don't know why, with all of that awesome stuff around me, I got it into my head that I should be somewhere else, but maybe it is exactly for that reason: It is very difficult to make a major life change when you don't feel supported or good about yourself. I decided to move to Halifax, a city I'd never even seen.

My favourite thing about that year, though, was getting to spend it with my mom. I got to see her happy and herself. It was like an enormous weight had been lifted off of her shoulders, and she knew that she was going to be okay. We had a lot of fun, spending time together as adults; having coffee together in the morning, watching and laughing about "Days of Our Lives" on occasional, lucky free afternoons. And we really talked. She helped my fragile, twenty-year-old heart when it got bruised. She picked my up from Katherine's house all the way in Rexdale! And she always kept the porch light on for me.

Shaved Fish is my Dad's cassette, but it got left behind, like lots of his stuff. My mom probably still has it in the same drawer in that enourmous black cassette holder that's always been there, except somewhere else.

On Christmas, on Stoneham, I remember running downstairs in the morning, fast-forwarding side b to the very last song and hitting "play." I felt like a kid and I still feel like a kid to hear it. It is mine and dad's and mom's and home no matter, wherever, I go. And that year, it felt especially joyful. Happy Christmas. War is Over.

Happy Christmas (War Is Over) - John Lennon

So this is Christmas
And what have you done
Another year over
A new one just begun
And so this is Christmas
I hope you have fun
The near and the dear ones
The old and the young

A very merry Christmas
And a happy New Year
Let's hope it's a good one
Without any fear

And so this is Christmas
(War is Over, if you want it, war is over now)
For weak and for strong
The rich and the poor ones
The road is so long
So happy Christmas
For black and for white
For yellow and red ones
Let's stop all the fight

A very merry Christmas
And a happy New Year
Let's hope it's a good one
Without any fear

And so this is Christmas
(War is over, if you want it, war is over now)
And what have we done
Another year over
And a new one just begun
And so this is Christmas
And we hope you have fun
The near and the dear ones
The old and the young

A very merry Christmas
And a happy New Year
Let's hope it's a good one
Without any fear
War is over, if you want it
War is over now

Merry Christmas

Ballad of the Devil's Backbone Tavern

Several years ago I came to the sad conclusion that I probably wasn't really a writer. I mean, it's something I'll always do. I'll always write little songs and stories, but I don't actually have what it really, really takes. Confidence, nerve, and above all: Commitment. I won't quit my day job, and there aren't enough hours to do it any other way. I won't be miserable. I mean, I still work in a bookstore; not a government office. And I would be miserable and not quite myself if I wasn't compelled to embrace the bursts of inspiration that arrive happily and unbidden. Nothing is more satisfying than saying it how I mean to.

But there are brave souls in this world who have the confidence, nerve and commitment that I lack. And I would be far worse off if I didn't have them to read and to listen to. I can't even imagine the person I would be.

I have a lot of friends who make music in Halifax, and most of them do this in their spare time. Like a hobby, I guess I mean. Songwriting seems of a different order than most "hobbies" but maybe I only think this because I don't feel compelled to play hockey or knit sweaters the way I feel compelled to write songs. Maybe it's actually all the same. For those of us who don't abandon our day jobs.

But there are those few people who make it their livelihoods, and I can't give them enough respect for that. Like the two fantastic people who rolled into town last night to play a show at the Seahorse Tavern Not nearly enough people were there. Or, at least, there to see them.

The first time I saw Paul MacLeod and Lucas Stagg perform, I was working the door at Ginger's Tavern. I knew nothing about them, but judging a show by its poster, I already suspected it would be good.

Ginger's did not have a regular or walk-in crowd, and being one of many venues in a city that supports so many locally revered band and their fan bases, crowds were always hard to come by for a couple of unknowns from Ontario. But Paul MacLeod shouldn't have been an unknown. His impressive resume includes collaborations with members of Rheostatics, an album produced by Hawksley Workman, and a long stint as a member of The Skydiggers. It still amazes me that I had no idea who he was.

I liked them both so much before they even picked up their guitars. Both Lucas and Paul are genuine, interesting, entertaining people and conversationalists, who always maintain their positive outlooks and their curiosity about new people and places. I went downstairs and tried to convince friends and regulars to shell out the measly five dollar cover charge, eventually finding only two recruits. But being the professionals that they are, they nevertheless played their hearts out to the three paying members of their audience, and to myself at the door and Myndi at the bar. It could have been - should have been? - a disheartening experience for them, but they were obviously having a blast. Their tiny audience sure was appreciative.

I came really close to drinking that night. It was one of the two most tempting evenings I spent around alcohol since I quit, and I can remember so clearly my inner struggle. Because it was about - as was the other occasion - the best things about drinking. The way that it can - in early stages at least - foster community and comaraderie, make conversation easier, looser, the way beer can be both relaxing and celebratory. And it was about music and bars and I don't know that that romantising I do will ever quit. But I had a great time anyway, and without the regret that would surely have followed.

They came back a few months later and played three shows in town. I went out to their shows at Gus' and the Seahorse alone, but I convinced a few of my friends to come out to the matinee at the Carleton. Because, I suspect, that show was the free one. And I can't really begrudge people for that. It's hard to get excited about performers you've never heard before. So it's a leap of faith to see someone new, and despite recommendations, money is always an issue, and besides, there are always other, safer, shows going on.

But I kind of worried they'd never come back. A selfish worry, because I like hearing them play so much, and I like hanging out with them, too.

A few days ago their car broke down a couple of hours outside of Montreal, leaving them stranded, with expensive repairs to take care of, and forcing them to miss a couple of their shows. My anxious self would not have done well in this situation. I don't pretend to know Lucas or Paul particularly well, and surely they have moments or days where they consider packing it in for a greater level of security or stability. But it seems to me that more often than not, they consider themselves very fortunate to be able to do what it is they love to do. I would think it would be hard, to come out this way every few months, across such long expanses of highway and trees and sparsely populated communities, to play for only marginally larger audiences each time. But I guess that is how it's done. And I guess it is infinitely better than most things that people do to get by.

I should have probably used a song by Paul MacLeod or Lucas Stagg for this entry, but Todd Snider - he says it all right here, way better than I just did.

Ballad of the Devil's Backbone Tavern - Todd Snider

Old Miss Virgy tended bar at this shack out in the hills
It never made her any money, boys, but paid off all of her bills
Now she must have been 80 years old but her heart was warm
And her beer was cold
She gave away more than she ever sold
Smiling all the time

I used to sing off in the corner every Friday night
To a loud crowd of cowboys, bikers and bar room fights
They were drinking beer, carrying on, not a one of them listening to one of my songs
But old Miss Virgy sang along
She said she knew 'em all by heart

And then one night after closing she poured me another beer
She said "Come on over and sit down you little shit
I got something you need to hear"
She said "Life ain't easy getting through, everybody's gonna make things tough on you
But I can tell you right now if you dig what you do, they will never get you down"

She said life's too short to worry
Life's too long to wait
Too short not to love everybody
Life's too long to hate
I meet a lot of men who haggle and finagle all the time
Trying to save a nickel or make a dime
Not me, no sireee, I ain't got the time

Now I ain't seen Ol' Virgy in must have been about ten years
I've been bumming around this country singing my songs for tips and beers
Now the nights are long
The driving's tough
Hotels stink, and the pay sucks
But I can't dig what I do enough, so it never gets be down

I say life's too short to worry
Life's too long to wait
Too short not to love everybody
Life's too long to hate
I meet a lot of men who haggle and finagle all the time
Trying to save a nickel or make a dime
Not me, no sireee, I ain't got the time

Son of a Rudderless Boat

I just got back from Ontario. I always leave that province with a little bit more inspiration, a heart that's a little fuller, and some more direction than I had when I arrived. After the sun came down somewhere in eastern Quebec, I tried to help keep the drivers - my father, his wife Susan - awake and motivated by talking and asking questions. We talked a lot, Dad and I, about leaving there to live here. We bitched about the cold, materialist certainty of grey, brick-buildinged Toronto, but we also talked about the smaller places in Ontario and in Toronto itself. Home in all of its personal enormity, as well as possibility in the immediate familiarity of towns and cities and neighbourhoods we could live, if we had to, for some crazy reason, leave this coast. The people we miss because they make us miss them so, because they love us and we love them so.

My dad parroted the old cliche, "Blood is thicker than water." But you know, you get older, it's true.

Watching people get old from afar is weird. Missing the years in between exploring the woods, climbing rock piles on sturdy legs, taking the boat out on the bay, and the slow and cautious, precious steps in smaller rooms than ever imagined.

I am so lucky to have had a relationship with all four of my grandparents. Certainly luckier than most. Even my grandmother - my active, playful grandmother - who died of cancer far too young, at 61, when I was 12 or 13, is someone of whom I have countless fond, funny, sweet memories. And maybe it is only because her absence allows me to romanticise our relationship, but that was probably around the time I stopped feeling particularly close with any of my parents' parents. I suspect it's more likely, though, that being a teenager had as much to do with that. And then moving three provinces away when I was in my early twenties.

Sean and I used to do this thing, when we were together, when one of us got back from a trip somewhere, where the returning person would be asked to state his or her favourite moment. And I know I should, you would think I would, say: Ted and Hayley's wedding, of course. Ted and Hayley's wedding was beautiful, perfect, a darn good time in every way imaginable. But I've got to give the Favourite Moment Award to the only time I cried during my trip to Ontario.

I have and always have had a different relationship with my mother's parents than I do with my father's parents. Neither relationship is more or less significant, just different, because of who they are and who I am.

For a lot of years I don't think I felt at all close to Granddad, my father's father. Neither he nor my father are the best at keeping in touch, and I saw far less of him after his wife passed away. And besides, Grandma and Grandpa - my mother's parents - had the cottage. We'd spend week-ends and even weeks at a time there, with them, every summer. But I really don't think it's just circumstance and proximity. It's my Granddad, too, and I think I have finally pinpointed it. Granddad talks to everyone, young and old, without reserve, without censorship, with criticism and intelligence and honesty. And in turn, I feel that I can speak to him that way. That I would not have to be polite if it were at the expense of being genuine.

My mom's parents, on the other hand, are people I sure as shit wouldn't swear or smoke around. Which is not to say they're especially proper or anything. But when Granddad, a few days ago, requested that I play that song with the line about masturbating, I happily obliged, before imagining Grandma and Grandpa's horror-stricken expressions should I perform the same song for them. Never in a million years.

Grandpa took me fishing on Georgian Bay, taught be how to bait a hook years before I became a vegetarian and had the only fight I remember having with him, which is likely why it seems so particularly painful when I conjure the incident up in my head. Fighting with my grandfather about his going fishing, on the front deck that he built. Self-righteous tree-hugging teenager I was then.

Grandma held me up the window at their condominium in Brantford to watch the trains go by, read me books, sang me songs. She was always singing. Her voice has this integral, soothing, sing-song quality even, so that when I imagine her voice it always sounds like a tune, and which my mother has undoubtedly inherited. These two Sellar women, they have always made me feel safe.

No one knows what people will take from them. They just put themselves out there the best they know how. There are incidents I remember so vividly as speaking so clearly of their individual characters, and all the while they are and were carrying their own histories and relatives who began long, long before I did. It is probably in their sons and daughters that I know them best.

In Burlington, Ontario, my mother and I had a brief visit with Grandma and Grandpa at the retirement building they now reside in, until they or someone else determines that they are no longer capable of residing there alone, without assistance. That time is coming soon. Grandpa moves slowly, Grandma can't remember to take her medication. They don't want to let go, and who can blame them? The visit was less personal than it might have been, because my mother and I brought along an old friend of theirs, who had moved his travel plans around so that he might spend the afternoon with Frank and Jean Sellar before leaving for China. Gerry, this friend, lives in England, and hadn't seen them in twenty years. In the meantime, he had lost his mother (who lived to be 97!), his wife, and, tragically, his youngest son. At 70, Gerry is a good fifteen years younger than my grandparents, but must nevertheless be feeling his age in ways that he didn't a decade ago.

"China!" Grandpa exclaimed. "Aren't you tired?"

"Frank," he said, "Of course I'm tired. But I want to keep going, for as long as I can. Because I know all too well that one day I'll have to stop."

Granddad was in the hospital for two months earlier this year. He was fainting all the time, and no one could figure out how to stop this from happening, and no one wanted him to leave the doctor's constant care. Except for Granddad, who figured that if he was going to die, he would much prefer dying in the comfort of his own home, being able to see Dog Lake from his bedroom window. He and his wife Anna live at the end of a series of unpaved roads, a half hour drive from Kingston, Ontario. Granddad is lucky to be able to afford this financially, and to have a healthy, willing, and able wife to assist him.

He is still fainting all the time. It is such a terrifying struggle to help him down the stairs, even on the lifts that have been installed there, as I witnessed on Friday, when the four of us finally did help him downstairs and into the living room for the first time in two weeks.

But he doesn't seem old at all.

A few months ago, I wrote a song about my grandmother's death. More about my grandfather, really. Outside of the condominium they lived in in Mississauga was a small house that was always locked. Granddad and I would take walks around the grounds - the garden, the fish pond, until we would finally come to that house, and peer into the windows, imagining what it was used for, or who lived there. The first and only time I ever went inside was for the reception that followed my grandmother's funeral, and I sure wished it had remained a mystery.

The song came up in conversation with Anna when she, Dad, Susan and I were sitting around the kitchen table on Friday morning. "You should tell your grandfather about it," she said. And I really, really wanted to, but I just didn't know how appropriate it would be. "It's sad," I said.

And so, "It's sad," I said to Granddad, as I took out my guitar, upstairs in his room, just a few hours before I was to leave this province and these people that I am made of.

But some things are sad. Lots of things are sad. I couldn't get through the song without crying, but I couldn't stop either. Granddad was tearing up. And Anna, too. She was Grandma's best friend. And she is Granddad's wife. And no one, no matter how much they are loved, and needed here on this earth, gets to live forever that way.

It was a moment. I'm so glad I could let my grandfather know how much I love him, and that I could see how much he loves me. And if I have to say good-bye, I'm glad I could say that too.

And then he asked me to play the masturbating song.

Dad and Susan and I outwitted a tornado in Ontario, beat a hurricane in Nova Scotia, driving all night. We told stories about ourselves. My father's voice is so much like his father's.

We opened windows and played cds to stay awake when we ran out of questions, or one or two of us passengers began to fade.

We listened to Kev Corbett's brand new album, "Son of a Rudderless Boat." We heard "The Driving Song," taking the same route, as though it was written for us. And we listened to "Son of a Rudderless Boat," and with new ears I felt light and lucky, and so happy that it was my father up there in front of me, driving me home, persevering, saving us from the storm. "Row hard, in this rudderless boat," I was thinking, as the sun began to rise somewhere in New Brunswick or Nova Scotia.


**I didn't format the lyrics like I usually do, not because I'm lazy, but because I asked Kev to send then to me so that I didn't have to listen over and over and over again and type them out myself (because I'm lazy), and he was happy to oblige, and I like they way they looked, in paragraph form, so I kept them that way.**

Son of a Rudderless Boat - Kev Corbett

Grampa sailed a dory; he fished upon the sea. And though he knew what he was for, he didn’t know just what to be. He lost his arm at a logging camp. And up ‘til he died, he still chopped his own wood. He told me a story ‘bout going out with a new guy in the boat and when they got out on the water new guy just sat there and choked, so back inshore later on Gramp says, b’y, you can haul that fish yourself. We’re all scared out on that water, but next time you can swim, or you can help. He said, gotta work hard, gotta pray hard and just try to keep it strong and if you want to work with me man, gotta pull that weight along ’cause by the Father and by the Son and by the Holy Ghost, by the angels and the saints and by the heavenly host, by the fields of grass that bore me, and the sea that awaits I know I got no control, but I will fear no earthly fate. From the ocean we did come, and to her we shall return. She puts the fire out in us when our souls cease to burn and so to find true love and tend it is your only hope. Just give up the ghost, man. You’re a son of a rudderless boat.

My father tried his hand out as a fisher of men It was at least one job for a papish boy from the steel plant back then but he jumped that ship, I guess, left his robes upon the ground and I, for one, am glad he did, musta seen this gig comin’ round. He’s a student of his time, a renaissance guy to be sure. He lets me hoist myself, but my ears ring with his words: Son, I pray that you grow to be a very gentle man with Respect for those ‘round you and respect for the land ‘cause life don’t owe you another 10 seconds, you already got today but I believe it comes around if you treat the World that way and everything you need to know you learn from watching others fall but you’ll rejoice in their successes if you really heed the call. You’ll choose the high or the low road when life has you by the throat. It’s a choice we all get to make. We’re all sons and daughters of a rudderless boat.

I’m learning to love the Winter. Spring ain’t too far away.

So my paddle hits the water and I’m off among the trees. And I’m just lucky to be here, living like this in times like these I feel the weight of the whole world in all the choices that I make under the gazes of our mothers, and environmental stakes. By my unborn children, by the lepers in the streets, by the world already drowning in pools around our feet, may we come to patch this leaky boat that we’re all here sinking in and stop making up some right to throw the weaker ones in. By the earth and air and fire and water lapping at the shores all our spirits are the same and all our hands are on the oars. May we come to fix this tired old world before we drown in smoke. I’ll do my part. Row hard, in this rudderless boat.

Love This Town

Joel Plaskett is a pretty flawed songwriter. He's written lyrics that make me blush, cringe, and shake my head. He needs an editor. His friends should have told him about how lame it is to rhyme "extraordinary" with "ordinary," and not to have included this couplet in the chorus of one of his songs. One of his biggest hits, as it would turn out. It's not even a rhyme when it's the same word! And come on, Joel, you don't have to deconstruct the word "extraordinary" for us! Give your fans a little more credit!

But then again, I kind of think this sloppiness is endearing. Cute. Genuine. And I somehow let it go, with him. I don't think I'd let anyone else in the world get away with the stuff I let Joel Plaskett get away with. He's one of my favourites, and I think he's one of the best. In spite of.

I tell a lot of people, when asked, that I moved to Halifax because of Sloan. Which is the short answer. Sloan and most of the other groups who made up the scene that had been touted as the "next Seattle," and which I'd romanticized in high school, had broken up or moved to bigger centres. Bands like Eric's Trip, Leonard Conan, and jale. But Joel Plaskett's band, Thrush Hermit - I got to be here for the end of them.

The very first time I saw Thrush Hermit play was in Toronto, at an early Edgefest being held at Ontario Place. Their whole set consisted of Steve Miller Band covers. It was awfully unexpected and hilarious and fun. The next and only other time I saw them was for one of their last performances, at the earliest incarnation of the Marquee, about a year after I moved here.

Joel, he keeps high school close and, well, I do too. I don't know what it's about. Not having kids? Not having grown-up responsibilities to keep my self-indulgence at bay? Or maybe I'm not that special, and it really is a universal thing he's tapping into. Maybe so many of us are so wistful about our pasts, our "glory days" as New Jersey's Plaskett might say it.

Another thing I love is his consideration of place. It wasn't long after my friend Tim copied his Smeared cd onto a cassette for me that Sloan were high tailing it out of here. It's not just in this one song that Plaskett asserts the importance of remaining in Halifax/Dartmouth despite the city's small size. ("All my friends, where did they go?"/"To Montreal, Toronto.")

When Joel Plaskett played "Love This Town" last night, he changed the last verse. He gave Kelowna a break after Kelowna gave him one. He said he "wasn't afraid to change [his] tune."

It's been more than a decade since Sloan recorded an album that impressed me, even a little. Plaskett, he makes me shake my head sometimes and then two minutes later he makes me want to call an old friend from high school, or else walk these friendly, familiar Halifax streets.

I can't think of a better or more appropriate location at which to watch Canada Day fireworks than in Dartmouth, at Alderney Landing, listening to Joel Plaskett play his songs about this place.

Canada: it's a fine country. I'm glad I live here because it means I don't have to go through customs when I want to see my mom or the mountains or the prairies. But it was a sense of civic pride, not national pride, that I felt on Canada Day, looking up at that stage, and then across the harbour. It's not about why I came, but how I came. And it's about why I stay, most of all.

***

I have several half-finished blog entries. I've got to get something out. So I'm just getting this out there, knowing I hit some sloppy notes but also knowing I got it right in some places, and I think, considering, that this action is fitting.

Joel Plaskett opened up for great big Paul McCartney last week-end, in little old Halifax, and a field full of impassioned music lovers sang along to this tune, nearly drowning him out. I hope Paul was listening.

Love This Town - Joel Plaskett

Listen up kid
It’s not what you think
Staying up too late
Had a little too much to drink
Walked home across the bridge
When the Marquee shut down
There’s a reason that I love this town

Nobody cares how much money you have
If you’ve got enough to get in a cab
There’ll be drinks on the house if your house burns down
There’s a reason that I love this town

I saw your band in the early days
We all understand why you moved away
We’ll hold a grudge anyway

I shot the shit with Miniature Tim
If he needs a tune, then I’ll write one for him
We like the same books and we like the same sounds
There’s a reason that I love this town

I played a show
In Kelowna last year
They said pick it up Joel
We’re dying in here
Picture one hand clapping
And picture half that sound
There’s a reason that I hate that town

If you saw my band in the early days
Then you’ll understand why we moved away
But you’ll hold a grudge anyway
Because it’s fun

Davey and me
Face down in our soup
In some French restaurant
Outside Riviere Du Loup
Last night out on tour
We burned the place to the ground
There’s a reason that I love this town
There’s a reason that I love this town
There’s a reason that I love this town

At The Airport

I used to say that my friend Andrea Lindsay and her boyfriend-turned-husband Guilhem were my favourite couple in the history of ever. There was all kinds of romantic about the way they defied the odds and their geographies and managed to remain together. But it wasn't just that. It was the way they were together; the way they amused one another. The way they matched each others wits and always looked to be having the best time they'd ever had.

Andrea was my roommate during my second year of university. She slept on the couch in our living room because our other, mostly absentee, roommate Kim wanted to maintain some kind of claim to her bedroom. It was clearly a front; a way in which to insist to her mother, who often visited, that she was not in fact living with her horrible boyfriend Josh. I was lonely in September, with Kim mostly away, and with Anne, my only other real friend in Sudbury, still living on campus and not venturing far from it. Andrea's own experience living in a large house populated with girls I'd known from residence was also isolating. Sudbury was a hard place for us and our somewhat snobbish southern Ontario airs. We became fast friends, intuitively, and figuring out, in November, a way for us to live together for the remainder of the school year was, despite typical roommate issues, no small saving grace.

Andrea was at Laurentian University for two reasons: because she could major in vocal music there and, I think even more so, because they had an exchange program with a university in France, where her boyfriend lived. Their meeting was seemingly both fated and brief. Guilhem had been a French exchange student at the high school Andrea went to for her OAC year, although he had attended the school the previous year and before Andrea had transferred into it. In the meantime she had gotten to know Guilhem's old friends, and they were introduced when he came to visit the following year. I think they knew each other for about a week before he returned to France, but they stayed in touch and made a commitment to one another, taking such a brilliant leap of faith. I can't even imagine.

Laurentian University got rid of its exchange program and Andrea left Sudbury to finish her education in her home town of Guelph. For years, Guilhem and Andrea flew back and forth to see one another over holidays and summer vacations. I first met him during the summer following our year in Sudbury, when I spent a week-end with them in Guelph. And I understood immediately how there are things that are worth that amount of trouble. Andrea's an exceptionally clever and funny person. She's engaging and silly and just plain hilarious and it was hard to imagine how she would find an equal; someone who could light up a room and draw your ears and eyes so easily and earnestly. Guilhem is perfect; every bit as quirky and smart and open. It was the absolute opposite of being a struggle to make conversation with him. And every one of the handful of occasions on which I've found myself in his presence - and on his couch - it has felt like he too is an old friend.

Guilhem has since immigrated to Canada. The two of them have been married and living together in Montreal for years now, and I think I will be devastated if they ever break up!

I said that I used to say they were my favourite couple ever, and that's because I've decided that I feel ready to pass the torch onto another brilliant couple whose relationship I actually get to observe as more than a very occasional house guest on my way through Quebec.

My brother Ted and his finance Hayley are the new champions. Their relationship, while certainly not filled with the kinds of obstacles confronted by Andrea and Guilhem, is also pretty unique among the many couples I've gotten to know. They are honest to God high school sweethearts whom I'm pretty sure have never even been on a date, never even kissed another person in their whole lives. I used to think it was weird, that surely they both must want to experience other relationships, or even to have some more time to explore their own interests as single people. But that probably just stems from some sub-conscious jealousy about how they managed to get so lucky so young.

I've been fortunate to have Ted and Hayley here in Halifax for the past twenty months, while they both attended school out here. I haven't made the best use of this opportunity, I suppose, and I am a bit regretful about the times we should have spent together. They're both leaving in less than three weeks, to go back to Ontario, where they will surely reside, together, forever. But the times we did have were wonderful. I feel so grateful for the opportunity to have gotten to know Hayley as well as I have. I used to think she was shy but I don't anymore. I love seeing them together. I love that my brother is with the kind of person who would totally be glad to have me sleep on her couch, and with whom I could converse for hours, hardly noticing the time at all. She's smart and curious and easily entertained, and no one amuses her more than my brother. Is that the ticket? Being able to amuse one another for the rest of your lives? If that's marriage it sounds like a whole lot of fun.

Ted and Hayley are getting married this coming August, and they're searching for a first dance song. Why they don't just dance to their song, Queen's "Your My Best Friend" is beyond me, but I suppose that in their otherwise fairly untraditional wedding they would at least like a somewhat traditional - at least slow - song to which to have that dance. So of course I volunteered my time and my music collection and spent last night making a cd of potential first dance songs.

It was way harder than I thought it would be. Of course I couldn't include most of my favourite love songs, which are usually either a little bit dark or else of the nostalgia variety. And even happy love songs that describe situations or characters so far removed from Ted and Hayley's experience had to be eliminated. Which means all of those thanks-for-saving-me-from-all-the-crappy-things-that-happened-before-I-met-you songs were out. And really, that doesn't leave a lot. I did come up with enough to compile a cd for them, and one of the songs I included was Old Man Luedecke's "At The Airport."

I have such a clear and embarrassing memory of seeing Old Man Luedecke play a show at Ginger's just after Sean and I broke up. I mean, the events of that evening aren't all that clear. I don't remember if it was immediately after, or if it was two weeks later, after my return from a much needed week with my Mom, in Ontario. I'm not totally sure that Sean was there too but I believe he was. I know it was while we were still living together on Allan street. I know I had to go back there that night. I remember sitting up close to the stage, and that the venue was fairly empty, and it was like Chris Luedecke was singing directly to me. Which must have been very uncomfortable for him because I was bawling my eyes out and completely wasted. My very clear memory is of how concerned he seemed about me. The room seemed so small and I felt so alone and terrible and lost and his concerned expression was a small but remarkable comfort. I must have stopped crying, but I stayed, and I listened to every song. He is, after all, the kind of authentic folk singer it is difficult to turn away from.

Now, I don't know Chris Luedecke very well, but he has always struck me as being a worrier. In fact, I am pretty sure that at some point during every conversation I have ever had with him he has expressed concern about something he felt he should be doing or had not done properly. I could win medals in Worrying Events were they to be introduced, and I hope they never are, because I obviously don't need another thing to worry about. I'm extremely confident in my ability to freak out about inconsequential things. But I think Chris Luedecke would make for a pretty mean competitor. I think a part of having that kind of constitution involves having a difficult time with acts of faith. Not that faith is impossible, but it is rare and, for me at least, almost always counter-intuitively second-guessed. So it makes me really happy and hopeful that a guy like Chris can write some of the songs that he does.

I like to think that I'm open to the possibility of wonder and whimsy and - yes - true love, even as I get older and more distrustful and more isolated and self-involved. It's refreshing to hear love songs that are just about love; not obstacles or regret or fear or character building. It's a bold kind of honesty that I defensively shrink from with explanations and apologies.

Oh, Ted and Hayley are lucky, and I think they should dance like robots to Queen not even if it might make them laugh during that very special moment, but absolutely positively because it will.

At The Airport - Old Man Luedecke

Oh the static of our phone calls,
Coming down like brick walls.
And you're so beautiful I can barely see you.
It's like we've never touched,
Our kisses long but rushed
And your cheeks have never seemed so serene.

At the airport, at the airport,
There's kisses there that cannot be believed.
At the airport, at the airport,
There's kisses there whose memory never leaves.

And in the baggage line,
I'm in another time,
But mostly all we can really say is "Hey."
But I get to take you home
Where we can be alone,
It's better than any Christmas Day.

At the airport, at the airport,
There's kisses there that cannot be believed.
At the airport, at the airport,
There's kisses there whose memory never leaves.

Oh the static of our phone calls,
Coming down like brick walls.
And you're so beautiful I can barely see you.
It's like we've never touched,
Our kisses long but rushed
And your cheeks have never seemed so serene.

At the airport, at the airport,
There's kisses there that cannot be believed.
At the airport, at the airport,
There's kisses there whose memory never leaves.