Life is A Sideroad

In which James recalls memorable gigs and road adventures...

PIKANGICUM ONTARIO January 06

From where I live, you can't actually GET to Pikangicum.

If you're looking for it on a map, you'll find it in the extreme North-West corner of Ontario. To get there by air from the east, you have to fly PAST your destination all the way to Winnipeg, then head a fair bit NORTH-EAST to Sandy Lake Ontario, then SOUTH into the little First Nations reserve of Pikangicum.

Getting BACK is another story. Well, O.K., it's the last part of THIS story. To get there by road, you have to wait till the lakes freeze over enough to take the ice road north from Red Lake. Thanks to global warming, this wait can be very long. This year it hasn't happened yet. Snowmobiles and light pickups are starting to make the trek, but there's not enough ice for the supply trucks. Patience is running as thin as the ice.

I was travelling with three other members of Artscan Circle, a volunteer organization that brings musical and visual arts opportunities into troubled northern communities. Our WestJet flight from Toronto arrived in Winnipeg early on a sleepy Sunday morning. Our tickets claimed that we had to transfer here to a flight on North American Charters, (NAC). After collecting our luggage we roamed the airport looking for the NAC check-in desk, and after failing in our search we were told that it was a short taxi ride away.

Piling into two cabs, we arrived at a small and decrepit building at the far end of the farthest runway, the headquarters of the somewhat ostentatiously titled North American Charters. ( My guess is that their 'fleet' consisted of two ten-seater prop planes like the one that was waiting behind their building ). Inside, the "terminal" looked like the waiting room of a Speedy Muffler shop. When we saw the plane, we realized why our excess baggage charges were a bit, well, excessive. There was no 'cargo' area on the plane, just a bit of room behind the last seat.

A small group of hardy travellers arrived for the flight to Norway House, including a young man with a fiddle case. We got to talking fiddle talk, a special language that I learned to speak in my years accompanying fiddle legend Graham Townsend. I got out my guitar and the two of us put on a short concert for the waiting room. He turned out to be a brilliant Metis fiddler, just 15 years old, named Ryan D'aoust. Watch out for him. Here's this kid from a couple of hundred miles north of nowhere, and when I asked him if he had a card, his mother passed me his complete 'electronic media kit' with a demo CD, DVD, promo material and his website link. The planet shrunk as we spoke.

We stuffed ourselves into the little plane. The pilot mentioned that we'd be a couple of hours without a restroom, which made me a bit nervous, and the co-pilot crouched in the front of the cabin , ( no room to stand up)- and gave a quick speech about safety features that made me MORE nervous. He casually mentioned where the 'black box' was, and recommended that if any of us survived a crash in the bush, we might consider carrying the box through the frozen woods with us!

After a short stop in Sandy Lake, we made it into Pikangicum without incident.

Here's the plane... Pictured are my friends Tracy and Randy who squashed onto the flight with me.

Having survived a week there, ( another story, dear readers) I was eager to prepare for the return flight. I was travelling lighter this time since I had been forced to bring most of my own food for the expedition. I inquired as to when I should be at the airport for the 8:55 flight out. "8:55" I was told, in a reply which suggested that this was the stupidest question ever asked. When we got to the so-called Pikangicum airport, I could see why advance arrival was un-necessary and in fact discouraged, a policy which I am going to suggest to Air Canada. No security. No waiting area. No baggage check. No ticket taking, just a clipboard in the cold hands of the one airport employee. The "airport" looked a lot like an ice-fishing hut and had the same attention to architectural detail and the same inside temperature. The shack had been decorated by the local school kids, who had scrawled their names and little bits of literate wisdom on the bare plywood walls. "So they CAN write!" I thought, recognizing the names of a number of the students that I had worked with during my stay; students who had been pretty reluctant to write down song-writing ideas. Next time I'll bring fresh plywood for them.

Here's a picture of Pikangicum International Airport.

There WAS a phone on the premises, which came in handy when they realized that a crucial passenger was missing.

Elvis.

Yes, a real-live Elvis impersonator was sharing the flight out. He'd arrived the day before and given a sold-out performance at the school gym, and certainly had made a greater impression on the locals than I had. He was travelling with his sound man and follow-spot operator. (Due to space restrictions I had left mine at home). Turns out the Elvis crew was still at the restaurant in the so-called Hotel, a very suitable place for them. Out of personal experience I can tell you that this largely vacant building was just IMPERSONATING a hotel, and that the restaurant didn't even TRY to give a credible 'restaurant impression'.

( Slight digression. When I arrived at that hotel, which was called, somewhat eloquently -"Hotel"- we found that there was just one room for the four of us in our group. Two Beds. Luckily two of our party were a couple, and I was able to employ my secret Tamarack 'bed-trick' for situations such as this. Push all the furniture to a corner. Separate one mattress from it's box spring, put it on the floor, fight over the thin hotel blanket, flip a coin for the worst choice, and voila, three beds. I lost the coin toss and can still feel the springs in my back.)

Oh. Back to the airport. Elvis was still at the restaurant trying to get an impersonation of fried eggs. When he got the phone call from the airport I actually heard the airline employee say "Has Elvis Left The Building?" into the phone. Worth the trip, that was. They threw his eggs into a paper bag, then hustled the Elvis party into a pickup truck for a quick ride over the snow to the waiting plane.

Ten of us piled in, a full flight. The same co-pilot gave us the same black-box speech. Four times on this journey, since this time we stopped in Dear Lake, Sandy Lake, Sioux Lookout and Thunder Bay before getting a flight back to Toronto. Elvis wanted to know why we were stopping in all those places since the plane was full and we were all going to Thunder Bay. Good question Elvis! Turns out we had to deliver the mail. In Deer Lake, we delivered a bundle to their airport/hut, which made a little more leg room for us on the hop to Sandy Lake. At our next stop, however, two more passengers got on the plane! The pilot crawled back to the storage area, surveyed the equipment, and started to distribute it onto our laps to make room for the extra guests. After years of begging to take my precious guitar on board with me to prevent damage in the hold, I finally got my wish. My enormous blue road case was plopped on my lap for the rest of the trip. If I had to walk away from a crash with the black box, this impenetrable case would make a good toboggan.

We all crowded a little closer together and proceeded with our adventure. Elvis was complaining about a new glitch in his impersonating career. Graceland had now registered the name "Elvis" as a trademark, and impersonators were not allowed to use the word "Elvis" in their advertising. This Elvis, whose real name was Eric, admitted that a poster proclaiming "Eric, King of Rock" would not have quite the same draw, although most imitators managed with a picture of themselves in Elvis Regalia under a sign that said 'A tribute to the King' or "The King Lives"! I pointed out to him that the word "Lives" is an anagram for the word 'Elvis' and he got excited about the promotional possibilities of this. Eric eschewed the "Vegas Elvis" act, and stuck to the 'young rock and roll' Elvis in his routine. Eric was, however, about the same age as Elvis was when he died, and even with a convincing hairpiece he acknowledged that it was getting harder to pull off that look. Eric longed to be able to appear as "himself" onstage, though I was able to document for him with considerable evidence that being ones self onstage could be a very tough act to succeed with. I wish someone would consider impersonating ME on road trips. My legs were getting sore from bearing the weight of the road case on my lap.

We landed safely in Sioux Lookout. When last I had performed here, it had felt like the end of the earth, WAY too far north. Flying south TO this place, it felt like Florida. It was warmer, a balmy ten below, and the airport where we waited for half an hour had genuine over-priced and authentically inedible airport food! Cellphones started ringing everywhere (including mine)-- we were close enough to civilization to pick up a signal. There was even a newspaper to read, though it bore news of our recent Canadian election. Another very sad story.

We were herded back on to the plane for the last leg to Thunder Bay. Safely at our destination, the pilot struggled with our luggage and Elvis, who lives in Thunder Bay, ( I know, you always wondered, ) said "thankyou. Thankyouverymuch" to me before being met by his father. At least I think it was his father. It could have been an Elvis Impersonator Father Impersonator. It's hard to tell these days.

Richmond Virginia... Oct. 05

Here's my monthly story and I'm sticking to it:

I have to admit that during the long drive towards Richmond Virginia and a benefit concert for the Richmond Peace Education Center, I was skeptical about the gig's potential.

For one thing my last visit to Richmond had left me with a not-so-peaceful feeling. Minutes after arriving from the airport, my trusty bass player by my side, we entered a restaurant just at closing time and asked the waitress if we could still order food. She called back to the cook, who came out from the kitchen with a menacing look on his face and a large gun protruding from his pocket. " Long as it's somethin' real easy, I'll fix it for y'all " he drawled. Who were we to disagree with this excellent suggestion?

I've also mentioned to you before, gentle readers, that I've often received a surprisingly hostile response in the United States to even MENTIONING peace in a song, let alone doing an entire concert for a cause that I never would have guessed would be so controversial.

Nevertheless, I was pleased to be given the opportunity to perform some of these neglected works, and I was trying to be optimistic as I approached Richmond again, this time with my fine fiddling friend Marion Linton.

The show was in Poe's Pub, named after Richmond's own Edgar Allan Poe. It was right beside a park dominated by an enormous statue commemorating the civil war. A nice juxtaposition for a peace concert I thought.

The first thing we noticed as we pulled up to the pub in the lovely Miss Sue Baru was that there was no poster or sign on the building that advertised a concert for that night. Humbled by the realities of the show business, I have given up expecting a banner across the main street announcing my arrival (though it's happened!), but I usually like to see some indication that an audience might show up to see me!

Inside, the place was deserted except for a sleepy bartender and an enormous bouncer the size of Prince Edward Island. This was not a good omen. As a general rule of thumb I've learned that any bar that feels that its clientele requires the services of a bouncer is also the kind of establishment where folk music is not going to be the genre of choice.

As I craned my neck up to meet the gaze of this giant he sensed my trepidation. He grinned, directed us towards the stage and said "Just here to keep the peace".

As we set up our equipment the organizer from the Peace Center came in, welcomed us, looked around at the empty bar and said- "I sure hope we get some people out, but you know, it's really hard to get anyone interested in this kind of thing around here." Perhaps concerned that we would take the expected low turnout personally, he said " don't worry, we've been going for 25 years and we hardly ever get anyone out to anything!"

I felt much better.

The organizer then retreated to the door, where he stationed himself in the shadow of the bouncer to take an admission charge from the audience he wasn't expecting. He had one young assistant with him, who was assigned the task of keeping watch over our lonely CD display.

Since this display was near the stage, this lucky student also ended up filling another important role. For most of the evening he was the audience. There WERE a few people gathered around the bar, though this was quite removed from the area where the performance was to take place. When showtime arrived there were actually 3 or 4 people seated in a manner that indicated to us that they intended to listen to our performance. (At the bar they were gazing into their beer mugs or at the game on the TV ).

My rule about playing to an small crowd is that if there are more people in the audience than on the stage, then the show must go on. At showtime, the audience outnumbered us by one, if you counted the CD guy. This was good enough for me, and looking at our list of anti-war songs never before sung in the United States we decided to go for broke. ( This was easily accomplished after driving for two days, paying more the 3 dollars per gallon for gas, and receiving fifty percent of the proceeds from ticket sales!) We launched into the U.S. debut performance of "Casey Sheehan Didn't Die For Nothing". There was a brief eerie silence at the end. No bottles were thrown. No booing. The bouncer didn't rush the stage. There was a hesitant smattering of applause, which is all a musician can hope for in these troubled times. We were safe.

We played our little Canadian hearts out for two sets, using the occasion to practice for the rest of the tour ( which thankfully featured full houses and enthusiastic response), and occasionally during the evening when we diverted the attention of those sitting at the bar our crowd's ranks threatened to break into double digits.

The concert had lived up to its billing. It was very peaceful. I rewarded the CD helper for his labours with a copy of my latest release, though not a single soul had ventured over to the merchandise table.

We accepted the promoter's kind offer of a fine meal and comfortable lodging for the night, and early next morning headed for greener pastures inNorth Carolina.

Would I return to Poe's Pub?

Quoth Edgar Allan himself: Never More.

Jackson Michigan... summer 2005

I knew that something was going to be a little odd about playing at the"Hot Air Jamboree" in Jackson Michigan as we approached the airport where the event was being held. ( Some of you will remember last year's adventure n Jackson, where we played at the foot of a giant man-made waterfall!) My cellphone rang. ( Mine actually rings. It doesn't know any songs. It's an antique, like me. Also like me, it's analog and a bit heftier than current models). It was the promoter of the show, offering directions to the stage where Sandy and I were to perform. "Just drive along the runway past the main gate. You'll be in the 'Clogger's Tent' between the giant Bud Light Bottle and an elephant", she said, as if she said this sort of thing all the time.

As I hung up, ( OK, I guess you can't 'hang up' a cell phone- what DO you call it?)- we saw the 'Hot Air Jamboree' sign shimmering in the July haze. The Hot Air part was accurate. It was really really hot. How hot was it? Well, while we were performing I left the faxed contract on thedashboard of the Lovely Miss Subaru. It was burned to a crisp (the contract, not Miss Sue, silly!), by the time we returned to the car, though somehow nothing else caught fire.) The "Jamboree" part of the wingding was debatable. It was a really an old-fashioned cheesy midway with ancient carnival rides, games of hardly-a-chance, a petting zoo, and booths offering velvet Elvis paintings, motorcycle paraphernalia, confederate flags and lots of questionable food that had been sitting in the sun too long. We thought we had died and gone to "Trailer Park Heaven".

One thing we DIDN'T see anywhere was any evidence of Hot Air Balloons. Later on in the proceedings a Jamboree Official explained that it was too hot for balloons, and that rain had been threatening, and besides, the title of the event didn't TECHNICALLY say "balloons" in it. Fair enough.There certainly was enough hot air for everyone,-- and since the proceedings all took place on the shimmering concrete runway of the airport, things were at a pretty good broil when we cleared security and started to look for our stage.We got off to a false start when we headed past a cotton candy stand and a skateboarding demonstration towards a giant inflated CAN of Budweiser; ( who knew there would be a giant Bottle AND Can of beer? Besides, we should have known, the CAN was beside a large child-swallowing dragon, not an elephant. ) Eventually we found the 'Clogger's Stage', and

I'll be derned if it wasn't parked between that giant bottle and a REAL elephant named Laura, whose unfortunate fate was to give rides to any kids who had yet to succumb to heat prostration or food poisoning. Laura looked up briefly as Miss Sue Baru pulled up beside her, and returned to her endless toil. The cloggers, despite the heat, were going all out. A group of six wholesome Jackson ladies in their polyester finery were hoofing to the hits. Not the hits you'd expect though. No sirree.These gals were stomping to the Bee Gees "Staying Alive", Glenn Miller's "In The Mood", and a medley of other incongruous favourites, cranked at full volume. The crowd showed as much enthusiasm as they were able to muster while sitting on plastic chairs in a frying pan under a tent which succeeded in trapping in the heat while keeping out the breeze. It was tiring work, watching cloggers clog, so most of the crowd dispersed when it came to be our turn on the oven, er, stage.

We pressed on though. There were a lot of distractions, so I didn't blame the audience for not sticking around, though some appeared stuck to their chairs in the heat. Laura and her handler were quite interested though. They would pause when their circular path came closest to the stage, and would listen for a bit before continuing. Turns out that folksingers have to work in the heat for longer than elephants. Laura retreated to her motor home and headed to her next gig while we were still playing our second set, leaving a large pungent review of our show behind. We played as long as we thought we ought to, though we weren't sure exactly how long that was since our contract had fried.

As I played the last note and started to wring the sweat out of my guitar, a lady who actually had been listening came up and asked me if I knew about Jesus Christ. She introduced herself as "the Queen of Philadelphia" and gave me a printed sheet that contained some of her favourite biblical quotes and a dandy recipe for spaghetti salad.

It was time to leave.

We packed up Miss Sue, collected our box of melted CDs ( without selling a single one ) and headed down the runway towards our next gig in Bad Axe, which, despite the name, somehow promised to be better.

And by way of showing that I never learn a lesson.,,,, here's a tale from my previous visit to Jackson:

Jackson Michigan, summer 2004

Sandy and I travelled to Jackson, Michigan to give an afternoon concert at the "Cascades Park" Jackson, birthplace of the Republican Party, seemed like a fairly typical Mid-American town. Typical, it turns out, except for "The Cascades"..

Before making the trek, the promoter of the event had faxed an unusual inquiry. Apparently the stage for the performance was at the base of a waterfall. Did I want the waterfall turned on or off?

I'm not often given this choice. In making my decision in this matter, I imagined that since this waterfall could be 'turned on or off'- it must be of the variety found sometimes on miniature golf courses or in front of office buildings. My guess was that the water feature in question would be adistraction from the center of attention- ME- so I requested that the 'cascade' be turned off.

Arriving at the park, we discovered that the waterfall, in fact, WAS the park. A huge art deco monstrosity from the 1930's, it tumbled down a hundred-foot tall hill through extensive spillways and ponds, surrounded by European-style fountains.

It was a big deal.

Built by a millionaire philanthropist and car horn mogul as a gift to his hometown, a plaque at the entrance gates proclaimed:

"More than any other structure in Jackson, the Cascades is the monument of beauty and distinction that has been a source of enjoyment and fond memories to the millions of people who have visited it for over sixty years."

Through the gates, facing the falls, was a 2000-seat amphitheatre where happy patrons could sit, eat popcorn, and watch the falls, particularly at night when a spectacular light display, cued to music, enhanced the experience.

At the base of the falls, where under normal circumstances the falling waters would turn into a rushing stream, there was a stage set up for us, just at the point where the water disappears underground, to be pumped back to the top of the falls for perpetual encore performances.

Though it was still 90 minutes till show-time, groups of tourists were gathered at the gates, each looking forlorn when told that the falls were turned off for the day.

Our host for the concert was having a tough time convincing visitors that a folksinger was going to be as interesting as the Cascades. "People come from all over the country to see this", she said as we started to set up in the scowling glare of disappointed waterfall aficionados.

A large man in a park uniform approached. His name tag indicated that he was the "Chief Falls Operator". His eyes narrowed from beneath his baseball cap and he drawled-

"You the guy that asked for the waterfall to be turned off?" I turned around, hoping he was blaming someone else, but I had to confess that I was the culprit. "People come from all over the country to see this"- he said, a line that would be repeated often by anyone within earshot over the next while.

"It looks like it would be really noisy" I offered.

"Real pretty, though" he countered. "Real pretty".

I hesitated.

"I'll tell you what", he said. "It's half an hour till showtime. It akes 15 minutes to get this thing cranked up, and 15 minutes to shut 'er down. If you don't like it, I'll shut it off for ya".

I looked at the assemblage, who now had glimmers of hope on their ncreasingly sun-burned faces.

"O.K.", I responded, to a smattering of applause.

With this good news, people started to take their seats as Sandy and I urned to watch the approaching deluge. As the fountains started to spray and a tidal wave moved closer, the first thing we noticed was that waterfalls create a fair bit of wind. Anything onstage that wasn't attached firmly started to blow away. We had to lean into the gale to keep from being hurled towards the audience. Then we noticed the sound.

Waterfalls are loud. This one, I'll wager, was louder than most, since it tumbled down a dozen concrete-covered levels, ending just twenty feet from us. I shouted to Sandy, who had trouble hearing me over the noise-"What are we going to do?"

She pointed to the gathering crowd. They were all smiling happily. There's a theory about waterfalls that they release extra oxygen into the air, so that anyone near gets a bit giddy with the sensation. This crowd was blissing out on us already. Though the falls hadn't yet reached theirmaximum effect, the 'chief' looked at me expectantly.

Above the growing din, he shouted one more "People come from all over the country to see this" before I gave a sigh, flashed him the thumbs up sign, and basked briefly in the most enthusiastic applause I would get for the rest of the day.

The Chief thanked me, and added- "There's music that goes with it you know!" I told him he was pushing his luck, and we began to make our own music, which wasn't synchronized to the dancing fountains at all.

Having done our sound -check 'pre-waterfall'-- the sound guy turned everything up a few notches and we began. Sandy and I couldn't really hear each other, so I'd have to say that we've played better, but those sittin in the sun in front of us seemed to be enjoying themselves in spite of us.

Two songs in, we were getting accustomed to the challenging environment, when we looked out and saw that the gaze of the crowd had shifted away from the falls and into the sky. Turns out there was even more competition. Not only was the park playinghost to the annual hot-air balloon festival, but the Jackson airport was holding an airshow featuring vintage fighter planes. As balloons floated by, soon the sound of dive-bombing bi-planes could actually be heard above the roar of the falls.

I felt that we were really interrupting the entertainment by insisting on playing, but we pressed on. In between dogfights in the air people occasionally appeared to be listening to us. After a while, the mood of the happy crowd seemed to shift. The problem was that it was really hot out, there was no shade over the amphiteatre, and no one in Jackson Michigan owned a hat. Some held their programmes over their heads, but I could tell they weren't going to last long. To the relief of all, I announced an early break and they all ran for cover.

We chatted to fans for a bit, and watched the airshow. One man asked me how long my wife had been playing the bass. When I answered "my wife can't play the bass", he took this as a rather harsh criticism of Sandy's abilities.

After a respite where the falls were able to assume their proper preeminence, we started the second half of our show to a much-reduced crowd, though the sun was now covered with dark clouds. Two songs into the second half, we could see that these clouds were looking quite serious. They were accompanied by a wind even stronger than that produced by the falls.

Because I'm getting old and forgetful, and I've written too many songs, I keep a binder on a music stand with maybe 200 songs in it. Mid-way through a song that actually mentioned waterfalls, a gust of wind picked up the binder and plopped it on the concrete in front of me, bursting it open and sending a different kind of cascade flowing towards the crowd. It was a waterfall of songs, my life's work swirling in the air, competing quite admirably with the falls, the fountains, the balloons and the planes. As they settled on the ground, ( and fortunately, not in the water)- the sound and stage crew performed a kind of clumsy ballet, fetching pages and returning them to the stage. My new rule is "the show doesn't necessarily have to go on" so I stopped to join them while Sandy fended for herself onstage.

By the time most of the paper was retrieved, the audience, ( which was down to a brave dozen-or-so by now)- was looking really nervous. Finally admitting defeat, I thanked the assemblage, announced one more song and started gamely in to it as a deafening crack of thunder and a blinding display of lightning provided a perfect climax to the program.

The die-hard few still in their seats bolted for the gates. Sandy and I, covered by a small canopy, hurried to pack away our instruments as the skies opened up. We hurled out gear into the patiently waiting Miss Sue Baru, hopped in and looked behind us as the canopy strained under the weight of the downpour. The rain came down with such speed and force that the edges of the canopy were soon engulfed in a dramatic flow that looked just like a...... waterfall!

At the North Dakota Border Crossing,,, March 04

Sandy and I arrived in Winnipeg in a torrential downpour in late March, just hours after the end of our CD release concert in Toronto.

The car rental place had messed up our reservation, and we ended up with a big honkin' gas guzzlin' SUV, a perfect vehicle for transporting your average environmentalist activist folksinger.

We headed south, past the Louis Riel Industrial Park and a lot of spring flooding, towards the North Dakota border.

For the first time in, like, forEver, they hauled us in and gave us a complete search. Maybe it was because our vehicle had the unfortunate name "Escape" or because it kept flashing a light on the dashboard that said "THEFT" when the border boys looked in, but they kept us for Annie Ternity in a holding room, looking all the while like they were ready to have us for lunch.

I had a suitcase full of CDs that really bugged them. Dear readers, please don't think the worse of me for this... but I ALWAYS smuggle my own CDs across the border to sell, and this is the first time that I've been caught. They reminded me that I was supposed to pay duty on these. I confessed to having overlooked this matter.. and offered to pay. They seemed to prefer that I just abandon the recordings there instead... but eventually let me take the suitcase to an adjoining customs building to make amends.

The customs agents were pretty bored. We looked like fun. They spread a bunch of the CDs out on a table and started to examine them.

They took turns reading song titles aloud to each other, causing great hilarity for all. One guy took a shine to "We're Canadians and We're Sorry". "You betcha you'll be sorry!" threatened the biggest one with the biggest gun.

"Road Kill Hat" greatly amused another. One asked me what instrument I played. When I said guitar, he said "Ah Ha!- so why is there a picture of you at the piano on the back of this CD?" I was caught again. "Pianos aren't folk music", he said, menacingly. He was holding my "Pipe Street Dreams" CD. I saw my ticket outa there. I took it from his hands, looked at the picture, and admitted that he was right, and that several critics had made the same complaint when the album had been reviewed... then I pointed to the bottom of that particular CD, where it said "Wind River Records. Made in the U.S.A.".. He had seized the only CD amongst about 100 in the suitcase that was not made in Canada.

"These CD's are made in the U.S of A.?" he asked. Already adapting to the North Dakota dialect, I answered "You Betcha"...

"Well then, what the hell did those guys send you over here for?" . He sent us on our way towards the wonders of Fargo without paying any duty.

New Year's Eve Diary: ( Port Huron Revisited!) 2003

New Year's Eve Diary 2003

11 a.m.

I drive to Burlington Ontario to the Royal Botanical Gardens to complete a three-day engagement for kids... y'all must visit there if you haven't already.. it's lovely at any time of year.. for the holidays the greenhouses are filled with exotic plants that will quickly warm a winter's chill.

I've been asked to play each day for one hour to amuse the youngsters, and they've requested that I perform 'interactive songs about the environmentand nature' to fit in with the surroundings. Easy. A sign near the stage bills me as "the Lively James Gordon". By the third day, this is not exactly true.

12:45 p.m.- I start my show, introducing myself as "Botanical Gordon". Ha Ha. One problem. With just a few exceptions, most of the children that gather for the show amongst the ferns and fronds are still mastering their walking skills. The word "environment" means little to them, and it's three syllables longer than the other words in their vocabularies. Even though it's just me and my guitar, they all decide that I am a dance band. It doesn't matter what I play, they are all dancing or crawling in front of me with joyous abandon. My oh-so-clever songs concocted for the occasion that involve soliciting environmental tips from the crowd and incorporating them into instant verses end in mass confusion and indifference. They just wanna dance. I experiment by trying a slow mournful ballad about endangered species. The dancing continues, oblivious to the change in tempo. I resign myself to the strange task and play on till they grow tired and wobbly-legged. They are mostly snoozing or gone by the time my hour is up.

2 p.m. -- I quickly pack up and race north to meet Sandy at Highway 401, where we head off towards Port Huron for our second annual appearance at the "First Night" celebrations there.

3 p.m. - Sandy drives like the wind, (which is a pretty good driver)-towards the border, while I nap. Those kids left me plum tuckered.

3:30 p.m.- after our hasty rendezvous at the "Park 'n Ride" parking lot, Sandy is convinced that she has left her car unlocked in hostile territory. We realize that there is no time to turn back, so she calls her boyfriend from the cellphone and begs him to make the one-hour trip to lock the car for her. He agrees, and later calls back to report that her car was locked when he arrived. I make a mental note to not be around when they next meet.

4:30 p.m. - We make the border at Port Huron in record time. We have been warned to get there early because of the Orange Alert imposed by the Bush Administration as a special 'cheer and fear' treat for the holidays. The line-ups were rumoured to be three hours long because of the extra security and extra questioning by the border 'trolls'.

Crossing that bridge into the U.S. always reminds me of a story:

Once upon a time there were two billy goat musicians called Sandy and James. In the winter they lived in the cold north of Canada, but they longed to travel to the warmer southern lands to eat the lush sweet grass. On their way to the green grass the two Billy Goats had to cross a rushing river. But there was only one bridge across it, made of wooden planks. And at the end of the bridge there lived a terrible, ugly, one-eyed border troll.

Nobody was allowed to cross the bridge without the troll's permission - and nobody ever got permission. He always ate them up.

Trippity-trop, trippity-trop went the little miss Sue Baru as she crossed the bridge carrying the two little billy goats. Ting-tang, ting-tang went miss Sue's engine, since she was in need of a tune-up.

"Who's that trotting over my bridge?" growled the border troll from inside his little booth.

"Just two little musician billy goats," squeaked the smallest goat in her little voice. "We're only going across to eat the sweet green grass."

"Oh no, you're not!" said the troll. "I'm going to eat you for breakfast unless you can show me massive amounts of expensive paperwork and answer many tricky questions that prove you are not terrorists!"

"Oh no, please Mr. Troll," pleaded the goats. "We're only the smallest Billy Goats. We're much too tiny for you to eat, and we wouldn't taste very good, and we're in a hurry. Why don't you wait for that big SUV behind us that is probably filled with many terrorists? It's much bigger than us and it would be much more tasty."

The troll did not want to waste his time on little goats if there was a bigger and better one to eat, so he only asked them two ricky questions.

"Are you terrorists"? he snarled..

"Oh no" said the little musician goats. "Look, one of us is blond and one of us has blue eyes. We don't fit the profile at all! Look at those guys behind us, they have beards and appear to be ETHNIC !"

"Have you ever Bin Laden?" snapped the troll, trying to trick us again.

"Oh No!" said the little goats, sweetly.

"All right, you can cross my bridge," he grunted. "Go and get fatter in the green pastures and the all-you-can-eat buffets and I'll eat you on your way back!"

So the little Billy Goat Musicians skipped across to the other side and they found that it was only 5 o'clock, and they actually had time to eat dinner and check into the hotel before going to their gig!

5:15 p.m.- we locate the hotel, and notice the BLANDEST RESTAURANT IN AMERICA, called "Bob Evans" right across the street. We go there first, though we have often vowed to never visit Mr. Evans again. It was open and almost empty... rare for New Year's Eve, so I said "Let's just order something they can't screw up, like a grilled Cheese sandwich."

Here's how they managed. They took forty-five minutes to bring it out, though there were only a handful of pasty-looking patrons in there.

6:15 p.m.- we check into the hotel, but now have only 15 minutes till we have to head to the gig to set up.

6:45 p.m. -- ( OK, so we were running a little late. My fault.)- we drive downtown.

7 p.m. - We arrive at our venue, which is upstairs in a building called "The Council on Aging"- ( I may be a goat, but I'm not kidding.)- Downstairs the entertainment has already started in a nice room with a grand piano. A young woman is massacring Celine Dion songs, although Celine is perfectly capable of massacring them herself. At the piano her accompanist, who does not play a note, presses a tape recorder with cheesy backing tracks for each song. We find our way upstairs and discover that we are in a small room called "the Body Recall Room". Again, I wouldn't make this up. It is a bare room with mirrors down one wall and harsh fluorescent lighting. Turns outthis is where seniors gather to fondly recall what their bodies once looked like while they do exercises.

8 p.m. We've set up, and learn that the 'old folks home' that we played in last time ( you'll remember from last January's newsletter)- has decided to not host the event again; hence our banishment to this room. We hope it wasn't our fault. The bleakness of the room soon vanishes as a nice crowd gathers, and we have a nice, uneventful time with them until 11:30 when we're all asked to gather at the riverbank to watch fire-works and welcome in the new year.

11:30 - We pack up as quickly as we can and head to the waterfront. We makeit by 12:15. The fireworks and fun are already over.

12:15 -We head back to the hotel and have a replay of the previous year. No food to be had except the shrink-wrapped artifacts at the gas station near the hotel. I choose a turkey sandwich, which seemed very festive, a bag of pretzels, and a can of orange juice because it was a special occasion.

12:45 Back at the hotel, the sandwich proves to be from a very bad year, so we fight over the pretzels. Even Dick Clark is finished on TV, so we retire o our SEPARATE rooms ( a bonus this year )- after an O.J. toast, to dream about greener pastures.

Country Stars and Stripes -- Sept. 2003

On Sept. 10th, 2003, along with our fiddling friend Marion Linton,Sandy and I travelled to Woodstock Ontario to be the warm-up act for country star Michele Wright.. It was the ultimate Canadian experience.. we played in a hockey arena for an audience almost entirely made up of farmers! (in town for Canada's Outdoor Farm Show)--- When we arrived we pulled up beside Miss Wright's Nashville Tour Bus. The lovely Miss Sue Baru felt very inadequate. Entering the arena we were immediately thrown into sensory overload. The boys had been working overtime down at the olfactory. We were overwhelmed by a toxic combination of diesel fumes, contact cement, dry ice and 'hockey player odour'. We were surprised to find Miss Wright beginning a two-hour sound check. Ladies and gents, rock 'n roll never died. It's disguised itself as "new country". The arena was vibrating to the loudest ear-bleeding P.A. system I've heard in years. This was a big-time rock show with lights, dry ice, big-screen videos, synthesizers and a drum kit from the steaming pits of hell. Somewhere in there Miss Wright herself was singing, but in the glare of the lights and the echo of the empty arena, we couldn't hear her or see her. We never did meet her.

When it finally came to our turn for a sound-check, we felt as inadequate as Miss Sue. Just three lonely folk musicians on a huge stage. The crew looked after us well though, and the hall quickly filled with two thousand enthusiastic Michele Wright fans. We looked at them as they entered... they LOOKED more like folk fans.. about our age and older. We wondered if they would be frightened out of their seats when the monster sound machine cranked up, but we didn't get to find out. We did our half-hour set, which seemed to be appreciated though few had come to hear us. Then, before the MAIN ACT, we had to quickly gather our things and head for the border, where we were due in Traverse City the next day.

From an All-Canadian event, we soon found ourselves in a unique All-American situation. It was Sept. 11th, and we accidentally ended up performing at a service to mark the anniversary of the Twin Towers tragedy. After playing a noon-hour show (hence the over-night drive from Woodstock)- were were asked to participate in a nearby flag-raising ceremony. Since us Canadians have been gaining a reputation for saying "no" to American political initiatives lately, I thought it best for our neighbourly relations if we said yes and showed our support for their remembrance.

We gathered in front of the flag pole along with a veritable Village People of Americana. An army officer, a sailor, a fireman, two boy scouts, a business man, assorted dignitaries, a biker dude for some reason, and the two Canadian musicians. As we rallied round the flag, the biker guy started to hassle me about Canadian foreign policy. It irked him that we still let foreigners enter our country, most of whom must surely be terrorists. He claimed that America wasn't letting ANYBODY in anymore. I mentioned that HIS country had just let a peacenik folksinger enter his borders just a few hours before. His reply was interrupted by a local official who beckoned Sandy and I and my guitar closer to the flag for a photo op for the local paper. ("this will ruin my 'activist' reputation" I thought. ) Then they whispered to me that it was time for me to play "the Star-Spangled Banner".

Gulp. In the first place, I don't know the song. Secondly, it's almost impossible to sing. Thirdly, it's the most violent anthem on the planet, filled with bombs bursting etc., (catchy melody though)- and fourthly, I'm a Canadian, for heaven's sake. I explained that I didn't know the song on the guitar, but would help the gang assembled by singing along. An awkward silence ensued. The biker leered at me. Then a brave woman nearby started to warble and we all made it through a rather sweet and heart-felt rendition of the ditty. Next was the pledge of allegiance. Gulp again. We survived. Next Sandy and I performed "Sing With Me" which has a theme that has often been associated with the Sept. 11th tragedy. The flag was raised and the whole thing was over. No speeches, no windy politicians. Very tasteful really, and the crowd was very sincere and genuinely moved. The soldier and the biker even thanked us for the song, and many seemed to appreciate our gesture. We made a hasty retreat to the Holiday Inn, where, comforted by the bland generic decor, I was soon asleep and dreaming of country stars and stripes by the dawn's early farmers hockey rink light.

California There We Went Oct. 2003

I had never been to California before.. I was saving it for a rainy day...

Sandy and I flew into Seattle where we picked up sound equipment and a car... then headed south towards San Francisco..(the tour ENDED in Seattle, so it worked out best to make it a round trip from there)--

The first surprise was at the car rental place where they presented me with a shiny new red upscale version of my lovely miss Sue Baru. My Sue is a country girl, a little rough around the edges, and definitely a "woman of a certain age" now that she's past the quarter-million km mark. The new replacement was a real hip urban cousin, very flashy .. It turns out every third auto on the west coast is a Subaru Outback too. My lonely miss Sue, jealous at how much fun I was having driving through the mountains without her, punished me by having a dead battery upon my return.

We cruised through gold-mining country and discovered that it was 95 degrees fahrenheit when we reach San Francisco, a thrill for northerners in October. California was caught in the grips of 'Ahhhnold' mania. We were there during the election. No one could think of anything else, so attendance at our shows was a little lower than expected.

(On the way home on the plane I sat beside an Austrian who was busting out with pride over Swartzenegger's achievement. He claimed that the governorship was just the first step towards world domination, and that you could find all the clues to Arnold's plan in his movies if you watched them in sequence. Anyone who could suffer through this would be easily dominated I think. My plane-mate rattled on and on about his theory. He DID offer more entertainment value than the flight's movie.."Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle", a movie so bad that we were lucky that each seat contained one of those handy little bags.)

Where was I? O yes, we played in Oakland, Santa Rosa, and Sacramento before heading back north to Redding and an event I thought I'd never see: our first casino gig.

The Win-River Casino had donated their concert space (the former bingo hall) to the charitable organization that we were performing a benefit for. The hall was enormous, and when Sandy and I arrived with our modest stage set-up we found preparations already underway for the NEXT night's attraction, 80's icons CHEAP TRICK. Redding's good citizens must have been waiting for this spectacle, since precious few of them decided to come and see us.

It was just like a microcosm of Canada looking out at the audience. A few people scattered across a vast empty space. There were a thousand seats in the hall. Only 25 of them were filled, setting a new career futility record.

As we waited in vain for the hall to fill, we wandered into the casino to grab a bite to eat... the food was cheap, fast and edible, three qualities seldom scene on the road. The main casino room too was nearly empty, except for hundreds of slot machines all flashing and beeping to their own inner rhythm. Each had it's own little tune that it played, a siren song to lure the gamblers in to its trap. The over-all affect was oddly soothing. It reminded me of Indonesian gamelan music. The sound I DIDN't hear was money spilling out of the machines or the joyous sounds of winners raking it in. Apparently in these modern times the winning of ACTUAL money is too much of a security risk. Instead the machines spit out little tickets like the ones you get when you enter a parking garage. I tried one machine with a dollar, and the machine promptly told me that I had won 8 dollars, and presented me with a ticket. I wasn't sure what to do with my winnings. Fortunately the machine had a suggestion. A flashing notice on the screen invited me to re-invest my ticket and win even more money. I obliged, and a few pulls of the one-armed bandit later I was informed that I was penniless. Because this was California, it also asked me to have a nice day.

I was surprised at the type of gambler that patronized the establishment. Somehow I wanted to see flashy-suited gentlemen with blondes gazing admiringly at them as they worked their magic. Instead I found that the casino was mostly filled with women who looked like they wished the bingo hall was still operating. Lonely looking women who were probably spending their grocery money. They all looked miserable, and they were all eerily silent. Almost as silent as the 25 souls who were waiting on us back at the hall.

We pressed on with our show despite the intimidating sea of empty seats. The sound and lighting crew seemed to be using us as guinea pigs for their Cheap Trick show.

Never have we sounded louder. We rocked that joint. Never have we had as fancy a light show to bedazzle the coupla dozen customers.

I sang a song about the ocean, and suddenly the stage was a sea of blue complete with waves. The prairie fields of one of my songs came to life with a flowing wheat field behind me. Sandy told the lighting guys that they could make things brighter and flashier in our "rockier, uptempo numbers" but at the intermission they wondered why we hadn't done any of these. ( We thought we had! )... Occasionally some of the lonely gamblers would wander in to the room. They'd look around and realize that things were less pathetic back with the slot machines, so they'd disappear again.

We gave it our best shot, then retreated to the Redding Holiday Inn where it was early to bed for the casino stars. We had to give a high school presentation the next morning at 7:30 a.m.! What kind of cruel school board starts class at 7:30 in the morning? The weary -looking 12th graders shuffled in right on time, looking a lot like younger versions of the automaton women at the slot machines from the previous night.

I guess it was appropriate that the zombie-like residents of Redding had just helped elect a robot as their leader!

August 2003... Southern USA

What I Did On My Summer Vacation...

When people ask me to describe what it is that I do for a living.., I usually explain that it's mostly driving, with occasional stops for bland over-priced food and substandard lodging. In between these monotonous activities, people often get duped into paying me real money to perform music for them. If you eliminate the music-making part from the above description, I'd call the whole thing pretty pointless. Other people call it "a vacation"... which is what I decided to do this summer with my 17-year -old son Geordie.

Emulating my favourite Chuck Berry song... we spent Six Days On The Road together. Geordie, who is an avid "roots music" fan, ( go figure)-- mapped out his dream trip and we followed it to the letter. The itinerary:

Pennville Georgia, to visit "Paradise Gardens", the imaginative home of folk artist Howard Finster; then on to Nashville for the Country Music Hall of Fame and the legendary Bluebird Cafe; Memphis for a pilgrimage to Graceland, the Sun Studio, Beale Street and the home of W.C. Handy, and on the way home the Rock and Roll Hall of fame in Cleveland. Every pawnshop and thrift store en route was thoroughly investigated as well.

Every lousy meal and cheap hotel was an adventure for my excellent travelling companion, so it became one for his usually -jaded dad as well. Showing off his thrifty Scot's heritage, tour manager Geordie took a shine to the decrepit "Knight's Inn" Motels, "The Hotel Chain That Time Forgot"; particularly the one in Nashville hidden deep in the scenic warehouse district. This 'Shangri-La of Shabby', for 22 dollars a night, was our home for two days, once we found a parking spot that wasn't covered in broken wine bottles, syringes and Macdonald's wrappers. ( The place had some negative features too.)

We had more fun than any 'boy and dad' combo could ever imagine.

We cranked the tunes, kept to the backroads as much as possible, and I was able to add significantly to my collection of quirky signs along the way:

-In a tiny Kentucky mountain town: "Restaurant Wanted".. ( the townsfolk did look a might hungry).

- in the same town, there was a store called "Joan's Shoe and Sock". ( This made perfect sense to me.. why wouldn't you expect to have your sock and shoe needs fulfilled at the same spot, especially in a town that looked fairly new to the whole concept of footwear ?)

- later the same day, in Chattanooga, a store that sold ONLY socks, called, oddly enough, "ONLY SOCKS".

- Near Kentucky's Monroe County Fair, which we declined to visit, a large sign proclaimed "Mudslinging Tonight!" ( yee haw!)

- Near the Georgia border, a large cardboard sign with this request:

"Wanted: Ginseng Etc."....( what could the 'etc.' possibly refer to?)

- On a poster in a Tennessee Pawn Shop... "Circus This Weekend, featuring the Youngest Animal Trainer Of All Time"- the photo of this attraction featured a woman who looked at least 40.... perhaps that's as young as they get. Speaking of pawn shops... throughout the south they seem to now outnumber Baptist Churches, which is quite an accomplishment. I guess some are out to save their souls, and some to save their asses. And speaking of churches,

- Outside a church in Pennville, Georgia, the sermon advertised was

" Eternity: Smoking or Non-Smoking"..... surely one of the great philosophical debates of the modern age.

Near Memphis Tennessee, we stopped at a roadside rest stop proudly billed as the "Isaac Hayes, Tina Turner, Booker T. Washington and the M.G's Rest Area", which featured large posters of these lucky legends outside the washrooms.

And the most prophetic sign of all... near Benton, Kentucky... on a clear sunny hot day, driving through flat farm country, a sign on the road stated "High Water Possible". We thought this was a real stretch, considering there was no water anywhere in the area. Fifteen minutes later the sky darkened and we were caught in a monsoon-like storm. We couldn't see the road in front of us, and we edged our way into the town, which was totally underwater. The Lovely Miss Subaru couldn't make it through the deluge, and we found ourselves between two new rivers, formerly the main streets of town, stranded for a "smoking eternity" at a Subway sandwich shop till the much-more-than-possible high water subsided.

I was able to add to my "restaurant lore" collection passing through Ohio on the trip. Perusing the beer and wine list on a typically bleak menu, I asked the waitress about their claimed "selection of non-alcoholic beers", thinking of the miles of driving ahead. "Oh" she drawled,- "we don't have no non-alcoholic beer, on account of we don't got no liquor license anymore". Disarmed by her sincerity and the quadruple negative, I didn't pursue the matter.

A highlight of the trip was SUPPOSED to be our visit to the Bluebird Cafe´ in Nashville. The spiritual center for Christians is, I suppose, Jerusalem. The mecca for the nation of Islam is, well,,, Mecca. For songwriters, who have a religion all their own, it's the Bluebird. Playing there, legend has it, leads invariably to songwriting Nirvana, or even better, a record deal. Name a songwriter. Yup. They played there, and were mighty glad they did, too. Geordie and I arrived on open mic night, Monday.

Now, I should mention that I have been at this business for a quarter of a century and I have never once played at a dreaded "open mic" night. I find them demeaning and pointless, much like the rest of the music business. Because of the sacred reputation of the Bluebird, though, we figured we'd give it a shot, and Geordie and I, like good crusaders, practiced up our three songs at the Knight's Inn and arrived half an hour early for what we guessed would be a line-up to get in. We were wrong. It was a mob scene. Only Canadians really line up for things. It was 95 degrees out, ( though the radio told us not to worry, because the "Heat Index" wasn't above 105 ). The parking lot was jammed with earnest-looking would-be stars, each with a guitar. Boiled Songwriter was the special du jour, and we found out the story of each of them as we all waited and roasted our instruments. Many had come almost as far as we had, and they shared visions of the glory that awaited them once they had their 9 minutes of stage-time. A young man who had driven from Atlanta showed me a special ticket that he had, as did a woman who had flown all the way from New York City for the opportunity. It turned out that only a few lucky ones each Monday were blessed with the chance to appear on the holy stage. If you missed your chance, you were given a ticket, and given a better shot at it NEXT time you showed up.

The door opened and fifty-two, count 'em, fifty-two hopefuls surged through into the hallowed and unbelievably tiny room. There were not that many seats in the place. Like sheep, we followed the crowd towards a table with two baskets on it. The deal was you put your name in Basket #1, along with your magic ticket, if you had tried before and failed. If you were rookies, like us, you plopped your name on a piece of paper into the uncertainty of Basket #2.

The high priestess of the evening, a woman revered by all, greeted us all and boasted that she had once had one of her songs recorded on an album by a has-been country singer named Lori Morgan. We were all impressed and awed to be in her presence.

She held in her hand a list which foretold the fate of the congregation. She announced that there were Twenty-two chosen ones, and she read their names out as if she was a psalm-writer, not a song-writer. Geordie and I didn't make the cut. She toyed with us a bit though, by saying that they'd pull out a few more names if there was time at the end.

She started by cutting back the sets to just two songs each, then asked the initiates to proceed in the order in which their names were called out. The room was packed full of songwriter wannabes. Except for one over-worked and under-tipped waitress, a bartender/cook, and the Song Goddess herself, there was no one else there. Who was supposed to do the discovering? We politely applauded as each nervous artist sang their songs, though you could tell that everyone figured that their OWN songs were WAY better than the ones they were listening to. Since each writer must have laboured for weeks to figure what their VERY BEST songs to sing would be, I was completely amazed at how mediocre every song was. Many of them were actually too nervous to even finish their songs, and a quite a few forgot their very forgettable lyrics. The night was endless, and more painful than discovering that Eternity did not have a Non-Smoking section.

Our new friend from New York, who showed us a mock-up of a CD Cover for the album that she was dreaming of making someday, was the only performer who didn't bring a guitar, ( though one had brought his monstrous electric piano, which took up two of the scarce seats in the place. I offered her mine, and she took it outside to deep-fry in the parking lot. Geordie wondered if we'd ever see her again. She had the coveted #14 spot though, and she returned during a mind-numbing ditty by #12 ( who you must have heard of by now, being granted instant fame by his moment under the spotlight).

I was getting a tad cranky by this point, so when Miss Fourteen asked me my name so that she might publicly thank me for the guitar, I wrote out a short verse on the back of a napkin and asked her to read it during her impending flirtation with immortality. She obliged, and when she hit the stage she read:

Thanks to James Gordon for the loan of his guitar,

Came here from Canada, and that's really far.

Drove all this way; he's here with his kid;

Didn't get to play- just his guitar did.

This perked the somber bunch up a bit, and the Heavenly Hostess looked my way and started sifting through her basket. Our #14 finished her songs to a smattering of applause. She returned the guitar while basking in her own glow. Geordie and I looked at each other and we realized that not even the prospect of a last-minute sympathy vote could make us suffer through eight more songwriters. We bolted for the door, and retreated from our Night Out to the Knight's Inn.

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