B l u e P a r a d e - A S a r a h S l e a n F a n s i t e
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By Sarah Slean
January 12, 2006
I can't leave 2005 behind without one last toast to this remarkable, unusual year. Bless you, Maclean's.
I like to end every tour with a show in Toronto and at least two days to spare. Then I can cook up a little something special. In a surprisingly smart pre-emptive move I book a hotel room in the city -- two nights, one hundred metres from the theatre. A little end-of-tour present to myself and to the kind hosts who always offer a place to stay (and in some cases, a set of keys). No friend of mine deserves an uptight bird like me frantically finishing string scores in their kitchen for three days. I may be a danger to small children. And the coffee supply.
The rehearsal on the 14th goes wonderfully. When the doors to the conservatory open, a wave of elation sets in. Sounds come from all directions. Instrument cases of every size and shape lie contentedly on the backs of their keepers. I clutch my scores and try not to combust. Toes, my toes are curling. Grimey (Karen Graves) and her Blue Spruce cohorts greet me in the lobby. I could kiss them all, these translators, these direct lines to beauty.
Alex and I head to the office to make a pile of photocopies. An enormous portrait of Glenn Gould rests placidly, like a king, above reception. My jaw drops, a loud gasp emerges, and the busy hive of activity grinds to a silent halt. "How much?" I whimper. They laugh and turn back to their office-y musical tasks. I wasn't kidding. My eyes well up.
After four hours of their impressive sight reading, we've managed to play through 12 scores. Some are seven pages long. I'm drunk with happiness. I'm bolting around in sock feet cracking jokes and eating almond cookies. Days like these I could float down the eternal stream and be okay thinking, "Remember when that quartet played your music and it was glorious?"
The wild winter weather begins slowly in the afternoon. Grimey and I arrive at the loading dock under a gentle, magical snowfall. Tod is grinning at the door with a cigarette in his mouth. By evening it's a tempestuous blizzard.
The stage is just as I remember. Five years ago, I saw a play here titled Glenn about... you guessed it. Back then it was the Du Maurier Theatre and I distinctly recall saying to Tara, "What a place for a concert!" The play was magnificent. (I may be biased.) At the end of the night, who should come to my back stage door but a man by the name of David Young who introduced himself as the author of said play! Oh, the circles in life. Circles are so much stronger and more resonant than right angles. The coolest thing a square's ever done is the Rubik�s Cube -- fun for about 15 minutes, then hell.
Andrea, the make-up magician, paints the stress and coffee consumption off of my face. No sign of the Baroness yet. I'm certain she'll come. Just be patient.
The string players are tense backstage. This strikes me as so terrifically ironic that I have to laugh. At the University of Toronto, I tried to keep my pop career quiet because "legitimate" classical musicianship intimidated the crap out of me. To me, they were disciplined and stoic. I was the monk who had fallen off the wagon, hawking my inferior wares to the public, having succumbed to desire. Shame on you, Slean. Fool! The lies we tell ourselves, you'd think some people get up faithfully each morning to polish their chains.
The blue dress gets one last airing before retirement (the dress that is...). When we step out on stage, I remember that my favourite Canadian author and two of my favourite musicians are in the audience -- and my entire family. My stomach starts doing back flips.
When I stand to sing Lucky Me, it's too much and I turn my body towards the strings to go back inside the music. Just seeing them play sprays adrenaline joy to the end of every limb. In the middle of Pilgrim I'm steadier. Then I close my eyes and when I open them again, there she is.
Though I have dubbed the show "Slean and friends," it's been so hectic I've barely had time to even attempt organization. Thank Hamilton for Tommi Swick who proved to be the only guest I needed that night. We played Cohen's Hallelujah, not a novel choice, but such a beautiful song that it didn't matter.
After nightcaps and laughs in the lobby bar (whose piano man played selections from The Phantom of the Opera, I kid you not) I simply take the elevator to a room of my very own. Tomorrow, I must do some Black Widow press and then, O Harbourfront, another kick at the can.
David Mortin, who wrote and directed Black Widow, chuckles as I skip towards him in the hotel. After the first interviews we have lunch and head off to the CBC.
As the television critic relates his encyclopedic knowledge of the real Evelyn Dick story I find my focus going fuzzy and my body starting to tremble. If you've ever had one of those tubes stuck up your nose and down into your esophagus you know the feeling I'm about to describe. Slowly and steadily the colour drains from my face and little gray spots dance before my eyes. Moisture gathers at my temples. Nausea thickens and heaves in my middle. "Would you excuse me?" I chirp, interrupting.
I can't even appreciate David's worried, paternal brow, I'm crouched in a ball trying not to vomit in his car. The bellman makes way for me and I get to the bathroom just in time. Goodbye lunch. Perhaps you should have been in the fridge longer. Get thee to bed, young thing. Tonight must be a farewell Valentine to 2005.
I forgot to alert my special guests that the theatre wouldn't be open until 6, so I arrive at the venue to find Ron and Tod there, looking tired and a bit puzzled. I slowly remember that I told them between 4 and 5. Mortified.
Being sweet and kind men they mention nothing, which makes me feel even worse. I'm wincing right now. Sorry guys.
Tod is in good spirits. The string players have renewed confidence, and I do believe Andrea is straightening everyone's hair. The theatre staff is as friendly as ever, and I have every last poison lentil out of my system. Not to mention a purple dress on loan from Arthur Mendon�a. Ron Sexsmith and I sing a sad Joni song. Todd Clarke plays Vertigo with me like he wrote it. I'm in love with everything! And I'm starving.
Thank you to the brave, the faithful, the curious,
S
December 28, 2005
The last time I played in this venue my hair had a few amber stripes, and I still owned my favourite pink blazer purchased from a children's store. It has since become a casualty of the road along with many other miscellaneous objects. I often see pictures of myself and wonder, �Where did that go?' The Void, Grasshopper, the Void. Travelling has taught me that the only thing you can love so much that it would really hurt to lose should be a person. Every thing else is a trinket, just atoms in slightly different arrangements.
John Dinsmore and his upright bass came with me then -- our first performance of Poor Wayfaring Stranger and a power outage are all that I really remember. I wore a polka-dotted gown, which juxtaposed nicely with a digital keyboard and the venue's 'piece of garbage' upright. I've played St. John's six times now...and properly, starting with local institution The Ship Inn and ending with a mad, noisy extravaganza at the Delta ballroom. This time, it's just Tod and me in the cab sipping the damp salty air, laughing at our driver's pleasant comedy. The Newfoundland accent charms and fascinates me. It is so hard to imitate: somewhat lilting, full of slang, and almost impenetrable to a newcomer. The locals bulldoze through consonants like the Quebecois swallow their vowels, but that lovely Irish exhale after "t" makes me want to marry a fisherman and hang clothes in the Atlantic breeze. I could do it. In a heartbeat.
Any takers? I don't cook...
It is unseasonably mild. Now that the cabbie has passed on all his local landmark knowledge, all three of us stare out the windows peacefully. I watch the hills and tiny multicoloured houses go by. What a place. I can't decide whether it's a fiercely guarded secret or a town that's been left behind. But you won't find happier people on earth. One day, I want a little clapboard shack on this coast, just thick enough to keep the cold out, just thin enough to let my mind out at night.
Brodie, the promoter, informs me that the venue's dressing room has been taken over by actors from a play running the same week. Its cramped quarters are filled with costumes, bobby pins and bottles of Jameson. I decide to prepare for battle at the hotel instead. Tod and I order real Newfoundland fare and set up the furniture in my room like a dining set. We sneer at the video channel and talk about nothing. With two whole days in one city, one can successfully manufacture home. Have I mentioned that Tod is the guy you want speaking at your funeral...for reasons I can't seem to describe...
The show. The finicky new upright resists my flirtation. Wonky and unsubtle, it is hardly raw material for any kind of alchemy. "A tool!" I say, scolding myself. "As good as its player!" Well sometimes that's just not the case. The Newfies cheer but I'm itchy. Something didn't show itself. I am too critical, it's true, but I want their hearts, not their applause. Tomorrow they will surrender. Even though my hair will be a dirty mess.
I emerge from bed at about 2 o'clock. Jet lag's vice grip turns my blood to sludge. Molasses on the brain. Where am I? These moments before waking are surreal. You come to earth, under eyelids, out of sleep and emptiness and into...what? You keep them closed because at that moment you are in true nothingness -- you forget where you are, what the room looks like, what you're doing, who they want you to be, what you've done and said, who you've hurt or loved... All that is known is the nameless, familiar substance of your soul. You smile. Then -- "human voices wake us and we drown." Look that one up if it's unfamiliar...it won't disappoint.
The window is full of grey light and blowing snow. I go down to the gym to wake up my physical self. Me and my body are sometimes not on speaking terms. I move it around when it feels stale. I savour the feeling of stretching my lungs, of my heart thumping, but it remains a tender, volatile vessel. Certain things send it into a tailspin. Occasionally I become hyperaware of it and realize that I'm unevenly clenched, braced for combat, crouched in terror, or folded inward. These are not symptoms of environmental threat, these are -- as the quantum physicists would tell you -- the result of thought -- habitual, subconscious thought. A body reads the whole story of self, whereas the mind operates on the surface, what with so much information to process for the senses. When we are all mind, the body is just a reactionary membrane. When we are all body, we lose holiness, height, magic. I long to one day be synchronized with the body I've got, to answer its requests with ease and without panic. Alas we are so good at screaming and not good at listening. Health is all listening, no screaming. No screaming. On the way back to my room I pick up a Globe and Mail, the God of all weekend publications. Add an ice cold orange juice and there you have true luxury. I fall asleep again. Good Lord this iron deficiency...I dream the circus scenes from Wings of Desire.
Sipping wine from the bottle, I answer the pile of neglected email. My old circus friend sends me witty quips. I miss him so. Words are our only link to the inside of anyone and what feeble instruments they can be. I kill the crossword and leave its carcass by the bed. Get dressed missy. You have some love to win...
And somehow, the blue dress does it again. The sound is just right and I wail away into the theatre's darkness. They cheer and stand and laugh and sing. They are with me, inside me, beside me on the path. I blow kisses, bow, hold my heart...
A fan wants a picture of us arm wrestling. I challenge him. He lets me win, little bugger. I am charmed. I scribble my name a few times and talk a while. At 2 a.m., my art curator friend takes me to a party in his trusty Volvo station wagon. Tod comes later and we smile amusedly at the drunken housewives. I usurp D.J. position and dance recklessly to The Police and Missy Elliot. All is well on the Rock. I hereby kiss its heart good night.
Victory!
I am recalling all of this in a Parisian hotel, listening to the two-note holler of a European ambulance and wrecking the mini-bar with my loneliness. I bow to subtraction. After everything, to choose something -- and something small -- that is strength. I want to walk with the strong. Now I think I know who they really are. It would be surprising to all the magazines.
I have hereby decided that the Slean website journal will now not be exclusively reserved for poems, but as an avenue for these ongoing life chronicles, this 21st century phenomenon known as the blog. I will be under "PEN". Thanks for listening, thanks to Maclean's. Burn children, burn! With all your light and mastery!
s
December 21, 2005
Tavern? You're kidding. Please say you're kidding.
"Intimate and Solo?" Tod reminds me gently.
Right.
I remember playing at Sudbury's Townehouse Tavern years ago in smoke so thick I couldn't see my own hand in front of my face. After the show, Oh Susanna and I took our filthy lungs to the basement to sleep on "band beds" provided by the venue. I slept with all my clothes and my winter jacket on shivering and dreaming of giant insects. Suffice it to say I've developed a true appreciation for hot showers and clean sheets.
Ginger's is downright palatial in comparison. Its welcoming stairwell leads up to a large dimly lit room crammed with tables and chairs. Years of wear have polished all edges and armrests to a dull sheen. Cozy banquettes line the walls. I look around for the stage. A beaten apartment-sized upright sits sheepishly on a riser in the corner. I can almost hear it apologizing. There, there I say, winking. We will make some magic later.
My good friend Andrea has come along to keep me company, with her sister Stephanie in tow. We all pile into a room at the Prince George that a kind Haligonian named Natasha has found for us. Bless her, for every hotel in the city is full. (Tod and I underestimated the hallowed status of curling in Canada. Is it really a sport or just an excuse to hang out at a hockey rink drinking double doubles from Timmy Ho's?) The suitcases explode and my room morphs into the Kingdom of Girl. Andrea has brought her wondrous tools of makeup artistry. Lucky me. Colourful palettes and potions adorn the bathroom counter like piles of candy. Tonight should be a fine piece of theatre.
After the requisite used bookstore visit, we return to the room to find a tray full of goodies from our fairy godmother Natasha. Champagne, roses, chocolates, and fruits...heavens! I enjoy a brief moment of pretending I'm Maria Callas in Milan. The wind howls outside and I remember my toque-wearing self. My guests are impressed. The grapes are delicious. Cool, perfectly taut globes that burst sweetness at first bite. My mind drifts into thoughts of nature's dazzling perfection.
Ring, ring
Wendy, the Warner rep, strolls the lobby leisurely in that relaxed Atlantic way. If I was this late in Toronto, cell phones would be chirping and someone in a leather jacket would be pacing the lobby (sweating) or fumbling for a cigarette. Perhaps I'm exaggerating.
Wendy has that sparkling East Coast humour and the kind of smoker's laugh that sounds like she's gargling sand. She's a waifish little sprite, full of pep and vigor but make no mistake, she swears like trucker and raised a teenage son so she could probably kick your ass. Blindfolded.
She drives me through tree-lined neighbourhoods to various interviews. Along the way we chat about the evils of pharmaceutical companies and our mutual fear of medicine. It is strange how most of us run frantically from any mild discomfort, just like the Buddhists say we do. Sometimes it's good to be with the unrelenting headache of a hangover, the nagging soreness in my thumbs, the cold cloud of loneliness or the heaviness of grief. Ken Saro-Wiwa said so simply, "There is really nothing to fear." It is true. To fear pain is to fear the inevitable, which is madness. To fear death is even crazier. And up lifts my heart on a breeze of contentment... Is there anything prettier than a street of small houses?
Andrea and I crack the champagne to celebrate... um... Halifax! And we're giggling like teenagers at 7 o'clock.
Despite the sound being sketchy, the first night goes off swimmingly. I unbutton my coat on stage sitting atop the piano bench smiling, not realizing my strapless black dress has drifted to about my navel. A quick hike minimized the damage, but I've still fully flashed a good portion of the audience. Ugh. Sing and make them forget. People sit so close I can feel the currents of their exhales. The room is packed and the energy flits around the room like Puck in the forest. I want to fulfill their every musical desire. I love them, these perfect strangers.
Unknowingly, I play for over two hours. It's the blue dress, I think it I can fly in it. When I finally finish I am so tired I could cry. I am so joyous too. Giddy and spent. With my little love and courage, I will make more love and courage. It is so bright, the Halifax mind. They say beautiful things to me. It is no surprise that the first monks to arrive her said it was a holy place. Tomorrow night, the mission continues.
December 5, 2005
The wide mouth at the end of a crescendo has arrived! Cymbal crash, brazen horn blasts...
Today's mission is two-fold. First, I am scheduled to host a workshop for about 20 high school kids on music, touring, the creative life, etc. Yikes. I've never done this before. High schools give me the willies.
Second, I perform the last show on the western leg of the tour -- must make it memorable, must sing more clearly, play more fiercely, speak more truth...wring the last drops out, open my rib cage to them without hesitation.
Returning to schools -- the buildings themselves -- is a strange experience. It feels like an 'Alice in Wonderland' illusion -- everything looks so much smaller than the way it was remembered: the lockers, the fountains, the doors and chairs...
Sherri, the teacher, escorts me into the gymnasium. There is a small keyboard set up on stage surrounded by a bunch of multicoloured plastic seats. Gyms all smell the same. Salty, dusty. I sip a coffee and await my interlocutors. They filter in slowly, eyeing me with a mix of suspicion and apathy. I'm on their turf. Tod finds my tension amusing.
Upon spying a few yawns and Slipknot T-shirts, I figure this will be about as enjoyable as dentistry.
How wrong I am. To my shock and delight, after singing 'Lucky Me' -- no mics, no nuthin' -- someone says, "Hmm, those lyrics are pretty dark." Angels in my head explode into joyous hymns -- you mean you listen to the words?
O Slean, ye of little faith. How dare I judge a generation based on the shit that is marketed to them. MuchMusic is not the measure of a teen. No, no. Nor are the video games they supposedly love.
My experience has been that most of them are concerned, witty, intelligent, and creative. I think the only reason some go astray is because they are underestimated, mistreated or not sufficiently challenged. We have to expect the best from each other. Alright I'm done my speech.
"She's a grand ol' lady isn't she?"
Terry the veteran theatre tech catches me gazing open-mouthed at the wondrous hall. Lovingly restored after near demolition in the '90s, Regina's Darke Hall is a sight to behold. Newly painted walls soar up to vaulted ceilings, oak and mahogany details line the lobby and stairwells. The stage itself is wide and lined with brick at the back, flanked on either side by huge golden pipes for its once-functional organ. What a sound that must have made. Apparently during the renovation they had to extract the bellows to make the backstage wings more accessible. Kind of like the removal of a trachea: the patient wakes up, suddenly silent. I wonder what enormous old pipe organ bellows look like? Probably a thing Tim Burton and I would dissect with equal fervour.
The show goes swimmingly. Someone even supplies the drum solo in 'Day One'.
Later in the lobby I meet some of Saskatchewan's finest. Two funky women are selling my merchandise for me. I take pictures and sign some things. Sandra, the promoter and a real arts patron, seems very happy. The beat-up merch suitcase is considerably lighter.
Sandra, Tod and I set out in search of a celebration spot. Bare-legged in the frigid Regina night I skip into La Bodega for some delicious midnight tapas. Two fascinating additions to our party join our large round table, where we are already debating the blurry meanings of God, destiny, art, and love. Though we all were brimming with opinions the turn-taking is surprisingly courteous. Especially considering the wine is flowing. Someone named Chris runs to find his Tom Robbins book and reads a stirring passage. After much spirited arguing, high-fiving and glass clinking, it's time to go home. Home. This word warps and moves around, but it always feels so good. Thank God for Tod, the sensible big brother, for I could've stayed there all night.
That is almost it for Canada this year... six more dates and then I am going to have to brush up on my French over the Christmas holidays.
Thinking about how close it is terrifies and ignites me. Lean into the scary times.... that's when learning is close at hand. Thank you Sandra! Thank you Tod! Thank you Passioneers and kind, faithful audiences. Thank you Yamaha and Steinway and the people who put flowers in my dressing rooms. Thanks, Canada. I'll miss you, but I'll be back.
xo
December 2, 2005
The drive from Edmonton to Calgary is, well, flat. Tod and I split it. We stop at a small town and buy little yogurts. The sun is out and winter is in the air. Everybody in this province has a big truck, I've decided. The Quality Inn we arrive at is a little short on quality, but no matter, I have an exciting, enlightening excursion planned!
A few years ago, I was invited to attend IdeaCity -- a three-day mecca-of-minds conference with speakers from all areas of intrigue and expertise. One of the most interesting speakers was Dr. Christoph Sensen, an enthusiastic German from the University of Calgary knee-deep in his love affair with science. He presented his latest ground-breaking project called The Cave. It is a cube of giant screens that the observer physically enters and -- with the help of special glasses -- can experience detailed three-dimensional images of human biological structures created by real medical data. In Calgary, three years later, I have the honour of a guided tour. I walk inside a heart, a bone, a string of ribosomal RNA (I think). The images respond to your movements as well, adjusting to your perspective as if it were in real space. Unbelievable! Think of the applications for teaching medical students alone, never mind its potential in research, in space training. It could even eliminate the need for cadavers in med school. I was fascinated! Dr. Sensen giggled at my awe. Now I've seen a brilliant scientist giggle. Cross that one off the list.
For one last impressive sight he took me to see where the computers that power his invention are housed. I was led down several flights through several security-sealed doors and into the basement -- the last door opened and a great roar escaped.. walls of whirring machines and blinking lights...you could almost feel sheer, muscular, electricity, throbbing in the air. We had to shout over the noise. I half expected to turn a corner and see Vincent Price typing coordinates into some mother ship Frankenstein computer. Petabytes. Terabytes. My little laptop is chewing gum for this beast.
The doctor drops me off on campus, and I stroll through the crisp evening towards tonight's venue, the Rosza centre. My university days rush back to me. I remember walking home after a late class, brain and backpack full, under benevolent stars, peaceful with the hard work ahead, feeling newly free from the land of cars and box stores and television, and really believing that anything was possible. It's good to always be a bud, a flower in training. Such a good line of work.
On the massive, honey-coloured stage a Steinway waits for me, seat slightly askew, like an invitation. Twinkle, twinkle. Music clings to the walls in here, all kinds, dripping down the aisles in happy streams...the room murmurs and smiles. Calgary! Baby!
I creep out on stage in my new blue dress and curtsy, barefooted. They clap and throw bright darts of love at me, happily hitting the bull�s eye and piercing my skin. I bleed it all back to them through the giant piano. They laugh at my silliness, they hang with me in the cold parts when my eyes have to close and I feel the sad words all over again. They clap and sing and dance during Sweet Ones. They listen, they time travel. I am brimming over.
Two encores later (yay!) I am mopping my brow in the dressing room, smiling with smudged red lips. I greet some Passioneers in the hall, one of whom gives me a little "Passioneer Ninja" toy as my Christmas present. It is hand sewn, complete with a red "P" badge, two little beady eyes and a svelte black felt outfit with a tag (yes, tag) that explains a Passioneer's mandate. I need to make a shelf for the bizarre brilliant things people have given me over the years. The Passioneer Ninja takes the prize for originality, hands down.
Some friends from my early touring days come back to the dressing room to talk and finish up baby carrots, wine, almonds, crackers, and other miscellaneous remaining rider items.
One of these girls came to my first show in Banff years ago at a place called Wild Bill's. Yup. It's as bad as it sounds. I was so glad to see her and her friends at those tough shows, otherwise that kind of touring can chew you up and spit you out. The frustration can make you miserable. A familiar face is perspective, in its finest form. It is a miracle that, on this planet with its billions of people, there is even such a thing.
Off to bed now. Long sleep. Airplane tomorrow. Deep curtsy Calgary...milles fois merci.
December 2, 2005
So tired, so deliriously tired...I suddenly realize I've forgotten to take my iron pills for the past two days! Certain death for a wee vegetarian! I'm being eaten by deep-tissue fogginess, as if my cells are all stuck mid-yawn...and at this elevation you need all the hemoglobin you can get to transport oxygen to and fro... Eek! I need a jump-start. It might be green dress time, this being the closest thing to a superhero leotard I own. I try to nap and flip mindlessly between channels. So, so sleeeppy...
Yikes!
The phone chirps merrily on the night table.
"I'll be right down," I mumble, full of gravel and sleep dust.
Two interviews have been scheduled before the show. I drag my groggy self past the cameras to put on some war paint, er, my game face. The first is a lovely woman named Stephanie with earnest eyes and intelligent questions. I can't seem to answer anything without feeling like it must be an epistle to all humankind. Oh well, 'tis my job to wax poetic. I'm feeding off the thunderbolts of ideas... my brain is getting a good stir...this is exactly what I need!
The second is with Jeff, a thoughtful, sneaker-wearing guy who hosts a show about careers. I reminisce about all the crappy jobs I've had putting myself through school and saving for my first apartment.
Shopper's Drug Mart cashier, golf course laundry girl/lawn cutter/flower planter, house painter, Shakespeare Cafe waitress, Swiss Chalet bartender, babysitter, Hectar's Nectars counter girl, grocery store bagger...the list goes on.
I think I wrote a couple of songs while I was ringing in canned goods at the Loeb store in Pickering. Then I'd go home and see endless strings of produce codes on the backs of my eyelids as I tried to fall asleep. Those were the days. Playing piano every night sure beats any and all of those.
There are pretty flowers backstage. I inhale deeply and have a little moment of blinding gratitude. Life is such a tricky, intricate, fascinating mess speckled with points of light and black holes. So glad I was invited.
Chad Van Gaalen opens the show with his one-man band apparatus. Very interesting. At times his voice can flutter up high like Antony from Antony and the Johnstons.
The Edmontonians take me in their gentle ears. I am swirling and swirling but not landing again. Hmm. Bank Accounts will do the trick. I give them three chances to toot the trumpet solo with conviction. I can't sing the rest really because I'm laughing.
Something is strange in the room. When my band and I played here in June it positively sizzled with joy. But I can almost smell some kind of sorrow tonight. My tendons are like sympathetic strings -- they buzz when those nearby are buzzing at a particular pitch. There's a cloud, something grey...I ask the crowd, the upward slanting darkness, but no one owns up. Maybe they think I'm crazy.
At the end of the night I sing Abide With Me for whoever it is. I think it was half for me too. The purity of the lyric chokes me up every time. (Mahalia Jackson's version of this is unparalleled. I think she could be my favourite female voice of all time. She just smokes everyone, Aretha, Ella, all of them.)
The next night I receive an email from the anonymous cloud-bearer who mentioned how astonished he was that I could feel it. I have to admit it was a tad eerie. See what happens when you spend so much time with pianos?. Weird powers. Weird, weird powers...
December 1, 2005
One of my favourite Canadian touring experiences is taking the ferry from Victoria to Vancouver. I've been on many different ferries in my travels. Maude (my French tour manager) and I crossed the St. Lawrence at its widest part on my mini-Quebec tour with Jorane. The Ron Sexsmith camp and I sailed from mainland Europe to Scandinavia on a vessel filled with Dutch fishermen, Norwegian truckers and other such novelties. That trip was an overnight affair, complete with little bunks and airport-esque bathrooms. I remember thinking they were probably like the rooms for astronauts. The only window was a circle. I shared with Sam, our driver, who snored all night. Ha. Those were strange days.
The ferry to Vancouver is full of hockey teams, seniors' clubs, busloads of tourist, laptop-toting business folk, rambunctious teens and other forms of Canadian life. They park their cars in an orderly fashion then scramble up to the top deck to line up for White Spot breakfast or an order of steaming poutine. On some of the ships there are massage chairs that will pummel your back for a loonie. In mild weather, standing outside on the upper decks, one can watch the misty shorelines go by with their sweet-smelling, pine-jagged silhouettes...the island houses, the lights, the boats...and the air so cool and clean in your throat.
Tod came in as I was dozing in my window seat and reported he'd just seen dolphins leaping.
No show just yet -- the next day will be for interviews, a photo shoot, a good long look at my friend Stephen and his little boy with the deep brown eyes.
Exercise at the Georgian Court Hotel makes me feel brand new. I hop into my clothes and set off up Robson to meet with Jim Tobler from Nuvo magazine. I arrive early and order what will be the finest coffee I've ever tasted. Everything is gorgeous today: the counter staff, the tables and chairs, the grumpy business men waiting impatiently for cappuccinos. Something is afoot. Good invisible rain is falling...
After our intriguing chat I'm off to see the one, the only Shelagh Rogers of Sounds Like Canada. Let me just say that I dearly, dearly love the CBC and her voice, to me, is synonymous with everything they are -- unpretentious, intelligent, compassionate, interested in the world and ideas, and perhaps more importantly, able to laugh at itself. Maybe I have a definition of "Canadian" started here...
Shelagh also has that Buddha face, a phenomenon I've only seen a few times in the real world, a face that literally shines a light. I tried to convince her to come back to Toronto, "to a hero's welcome!" I added. We compared cities and out came the old New York/L.A. analogy. Though, admittedly, I like Vancouver far more than L.A. I realized that Toronto is home. It's like a magnet. This time, that thought makes me smile.
Next stop is the Nuvo shoot. A single black Chanel dress hangs on in the photographer's studio. Sigh. An elegant French woman teases my hair to Dangerous Liaisons proportions. And suddenly, I am the Baroness... Methinks I could fly planes in this getup, that's how good I feel.
That evening, my old friend Stephen takes me to his new apartment for a home-cooked meal. Corey, his girlfriend, an arresting Tim Burton-y beauty, is preparing a Thai feast. Little Cohen wakes from his nap and eyes me suspiciously. He is the mathematically exact composite of his parents. But when he smiles, it's all Stephen. After the delicious meal, capped nicely with peppermint tea and gingerbread, we drive again through the fog back to my hotel. He talks me in to a margarita and some more catching up. I feel so glad to know him and see his life unfold.
After a good, long sleep and a run, I am ready for the show. Off we go.
Let me describe the Cultural Centre. I can't believe I've never seen this place before. Fully equipped for theatrical productions and dance, it has all the great trimmings -- lighting, good sightlines, a balcony, a great stage, curtains (oh, curtains!) a quaint lobby and cozy green room. The seats are old cinema-style plush red, and the back walls are covered in tiny white lights...on the navy drapery they truly look like stars. Downstairs, the walls are lined with vanity lights -- a sight that always makes my heart leap. I imagine the flurry of activity before a big performance -- faces being transformed, ballerinas walking like ducks and pinning their hair, the frantic revisiting of a mangled script, laughing, stomachs fluttering...
Before the show, I meet some contest winners backstage. After chatting with this group, I am on fire with hope for our generation and the one after it. They are smart, funny and curious. They ask informed questions and tell clever jokes. Take the reins my friends! Refuse to let this glorious place fall to the dogs!
All these events have filled the tank. To top it up, J.P, the opening act, plays an inspired, passionate set. I put on the dress and take off my shoes...put me in coach, put me in!
The sound was the last star to align. Perfect and malleable, I can stop thinking and sing without hesitation. The piano is so glorious my fingers are giddy. What a place to play. What a place to hear applause. I felt myself in a room with everybody. Hearts glowed.
This is the kind of show I long for. Thanks Van-city. I bow deeply.
Victoria
West Coast air greets my dry city lungs. The sun is blazing. I have a date with a used bookstore.
Russell's on Fort Street is heaven on Earth. It's only equal in Canada is Old Strathcona Books in Edmonton where many a spare hour has vanished into the vortex.
Russell's is more conducive to browsing however, with its mixture of old and new titles and, impressively, multiple copies of popular classics. Two full floors of words on paper including an up-to-date philosophy section. Humans are such industrious little animals.
Keeping my strained suitcase in mind, I opt for three small paperbacks: "Iron In The Soul" (the final instalment of Sartre's gloomy trilogy) and two Jean Rhys, "Quartet" and "Voyage in the Dark." You can never have too many stories about bitter women in Paris. All that for $11 -- about the price of a fancy coffee these days.
My next mission is a pair of boots. Nothing fancy. I just fear that my purple sneakers are no match for Regina's merciless temperature. But instead, I end up trying on a blue dress in a store called Breeze. Maybe the name is what got me because I am allergic to shopping for clothes and, even more so, to trying things on. Common sense demands I comb the rest of the store since I'm already there. I take a pile to the change room and start feeling anxious. After de-clothing, de-sneakering and enduring the lack of an in-room mirror (WHY OH WHY?), I am about to abandon ship -- irritable and annoyed with myself. Oh just try the blue dress. Remember "Blue Dress" by Depeche Mode? Violator was a great album.
It fits perfectly. And in terms of Visa damage, more Dunkin' Donuts than Starbucks. Yahoo. Boots or no boots, Regina is cold, and I have Canadian blood. Time for a new dress indeed, it seems.
Central Bar emanates sports and beer. I have to wince and beam all my powers through gritted teeth to picture the magic here. I arm-wrestle with it. It's winning. Come on, Slean.
There is a piano on its small triangular stage. The chef comes out dressed in black and offers us his signature dish. He makes jokes about being a ninja. I read the final pages of "Coming Through Slaughter" and suffer the sweet "Ondaatje after-shock" effect -- the end of such consistently beautiful sentences. I drink beer to shake it and this creepy Victoria mood. I hate beer.
That night the sound on stage is rough. I am wearing inappropriate shoes.
After probably the worst set of the tour I slink backstage and tend to my wine, foolishly. I make phone calls I would not make when happy and sober. Room service, computer letters, a brief look at my uncle and an old neighbourhood friend...sleep it off sailor. There's always Vancouver.
November 23, 2005
What? What is it?
Body, can you not just hold onto some reasonable chemical balance?
Why this plunge into a grey that nothing can cut -- no pretty Bach prelude, no thick Chilean red, no unsolicited smile, no sunny wind? Maybe the wildly incongruency of a grand piano on stage at the campus bar known as Louis' Pub will fix my serotonin levels.
No...that's good for about five minutes of mild amusement, then the blues kick in again. Nagging, sticky blues. It is cold here.
This is how I came...
We officially hate our rental car. No personality. Too many blind spots. Sleek, electric blue, brand new Bulkiness. Awkward lines, a mess of ill-placed controls. We amuse ourselves by overzealously insulting it.
The Delta Bessborough is a marvel of 1930's architecture. The mail chute by the elevator reminds me of a simpler era I know I have lived in before. The heat is not working in my little room. The tiles in the bathroom are tiny and remind me of New York city... was every fragment back then beautiful? Was everything to look at so fine and delicate? Taps, lights, mirrors? I sink into a cloud of thought and tap away at the computer with my coat and hat on. With 10 minutes to spare, I call housekeeping and tell them my nose and fingers are cold. They give me a new room key. Hmm. Displacement is becoming a theme. Never unpack too enthusiastically.
Tod and I drive over one of the many bridges in this, Joni Mitchell's hometown. The moon is so huge and low it looks like it might plop into the river... ate too many orange rays from the sinking sun and now it is bulging -- yellow -- overfull. The lights on the river's rim glimmer on the water. Our dark hotel looms over the city in silhouette, pointed and menacing, like the castle of a mad queen.
I snicker to myself. Indeed. She's in Room 545.
I need to get back on the good boat.. the one I was on yesterday... that fierce and crackling desire to get at truth. To see the world bubbling over. To put words in sparkling rows. To be sick with hope. Tonight I am just a dolorous reptile oozing toward the floor.
Up kid! Sword out! Curses... curses.
I can't decide what silly garments to wear. The Baroness and all my other feisty incarnations must be stuck in an airport somewhere. As I paint up my white white face, I feel like I'm putting on a costume instead of getting born. Yech. Rescue me Saskatooners. Oh, that sentence is awful.
This is the same backstage hall where, on an equally cold evening, I crossed paths with two of the strangest men I know. Flashes of their faces come to mind. I realize suddenly that their faces are perfect opposites. One sun-worn white, one chocolate black. One angular, one rounded. Icy green eyes, warm brown eyes. Old and cautious, young and reckless. Opposites, opposition. Two hands clapping, the sound of conflict. How could the space between them not be filled with electrical storms? I too am full of fiery weather. I, too, am seduced by lightning and trouble... and we three seem to specialize...
There's a curious molecular cohesion to words. They slide out in a connected chain, before you can close your mouth, and pretty soon, your secrets are lying in a messy pool on a plate in front of you for all to see. Secrets and bile. That's a pretty picture. I should investigate why I am so drawn to vomit analogies. Ah, another project for a rainy day and a shelf full of Freud's works.
I can't feel the crowd, though they sing and sway and clap at all the right times. It is me. The doors are stuck. Every time I touch a another piano now, I pine for my own, somewhere in my tuner's suburban basement, resting on the instrument version of an operating table, being dismantled, re-glued, its old keys aching and thirsty for music.
Encore over, I lie on the couch backstage. I think I would give someone five hundred bucks to take my shoes off for me right now. Emptied out. None of the helpers I called from my subconscious came. Not a light went on. That night I did it by myself. It was lonely.
The crowd has filed out. Mics are down. Worms of wire are back in their hiding places. Now's my chance! ... the sheet music tucked in my suitcase...
Poor Tod waits and sips his drink as I roar through the conservatory repertoire, bashing the Brahms rhapsody, moaning and swooning over slow, religious Bach... the Yamaha sings as nice university boys put up the chairs and sweep. Sleepy, patient Tod.
At 1:30, I can go. Me and the glorious machine have chased away the demon.
Back to my castle, sated.
Good night Prairie fires. Thought you could catch me, didya?
S
November 17, 2005
We leave Ottawa at a reasonable hour and roll into downtown Toronto in the middle of rush hour.
Bloor Street is moody, sulking and brooding as the last bits of daylight sink into autumn's heavy blue. My favourite Toronto air -- cool and sort of burnt-smelling -- moves just enough to gently pull the last dry leaves from the trees. People scurry out of office buildings and down into the holes of urban transport underground. The lights of shop signs and street lamps begin to glow. Shadows linger in-between towers and play on the passing cars. Deepening and descending, Thursday is gracefully bowing out. But I have a few more spectacular hours to spend in the presence of Ken Saro-Wiwa's kin and admirers. I've brought my green dress.
The Isabel Bader theatre on the Univerity of Toronto downtown campus is one of the best venues in the city. (I want my musical to premiere there one day.) Its characterisitcs facilitate, fully, that heightened state one so rarely achieves where the world outside doesn't exist, and you are completely immersed in what's happening and how it is changing you. Time sort of stands still or is witnessed simultaneously by a roomful of people who are still and quiet... it's magical. A few years ago, I spent the most intellectually stimulating four days of my life there at IdeaCity -- a conference of creativity where speakers from all disciplines mingled and lectured. Politicians, marine biologists, photographers, child prodigies... but tonight's event was for one man... and still filled the theatre.
Ken Saro-Wiwa was a Nigerian writer and human rights activist. But those words don't even come close to describing the hero that he was. The benefit honoured the 10th year anniversary of his death, or rather it was a celebration of his life by friends, relatives, colleagues and those he continues to inspire. Rohinton Mistry performed a very touching, and rather funny, story written by Wiwa. The actress/dancer/poet d'bi.young gave an impassioned reading of one of her own poems. The last piece -- a performance called "In the Words of Ken Saro-Wiwa" included filmed footage of Wiw. He had that Buddha-like glow of a Gandhi or a Dalai Lama; his heart is fearless and peaceful because his mission is clear and he's accepted it fully. Just looking at pictures of him chokes me. Look this man up, read his work, you will be forever changed.
I sang "Ogoni Star", a song I wrote after seeing a documentary about him when I was 19. It was during a first year anthropology class at York University. I remember when the film ended, as the credits rolled, the lights in the room came up and everyone in the crowded auditorium sat there stunned, only sniffles broke the silence. I think we were all in shock.
I walked back to my dorm in a daze. It was as though my sheltered, North American innocence had been broken, and I had learned what our society required to keep itself running: mass amnesia (to quote Jane Jacobs), looking away from that which is too troubling to internalize. How else could executives at Shell sleep at night? How could one exist in our world without bloody hands? What we buy? How we consume? The word ignorance has its roots in 'not seeing.' But that day, I saw and was totally devastated. All I knew how to do was write a song about it. Not much, but something I guess.
In the words of Radiohead's Thom Yorke, "You can try the best you can, the best you can is good enough."
* * * * *
Now that the secret service is calling, I'll tell you that the Kingston show was great; the church and piano were exquisite; the crowd, all except for one rather disagreeable woman who had a bit of a tantrum before I played -- in a church no less, cursing and everything -- was warm and receptive and even included some beautiful kids. Still a nagging cough that night, but the gracious gifts of Halls and vitamin C tablets seem to have done the trick. Power of the mind... the mind. I really think I may go to a monastery in the forest when I turn 60 years old and devote myself to trying to fly or something similarly outrageous... the mind...
* * * * *
On Tuesday, after a masterful packing job and sitting on top of the merch suitcase to get it closed, we tucked neatly into our assigned Airbus seats only to turn around once airborne and come back to Toronto. Winnipeg... covered in blowing snow... go figure, that never happens.
Drat.
I was looking forward to that dry, unpredictable town. The workshop I was going to give at the conservatory? Also cancelled. This makes me especially blue. More and more, I want to scream from a mountaintop that music is needed in the world... it can perform feats of magic in lives... I mean MUSIC, not "advertisements" like the latest terrible chart toppers. I think it's high time for a pseudo-culture boycott. (NO MORE REALITY TV!) before the ranks of critical thinkers dwindle and become extinct. Rise up friends!
I'll be in Saskatoon though, weather permitting, and we're attempting to reschedule fair Winnipeg.
* * * * *
Well. Aren't I scrappy today. It's the season. Fall makes me think anything can happen, and must happen. It's as though I can smell the coming hibernation and am scrambling for one last neighbourhood soccer game before the ground is frozen.... come on... believe...
x
Ottawa First Baptist Church
Oh heavens I am ill. Ill Ill ILL. My lungs are rattling. Had to cancel press and a recording session with the dear Bill Stunt, the shiniest gem in the CBC crown... no talking today.. must... sing... later...
The church is beautiful, full of that soft, welcoming silence that only churches have... an opened Yamaha beckons... the acoustics are ideal.... soaring tones skip over pews and up into the heights of stained glass... Tommi Swick, my opener, a great singer songwriter, is sick too.. what a pair....
Downstairs in the church basement there are two uprights... I play a little Waits on the jangly one...
In my dressing room there are cupboards full of Sunday school supplies... photos of old ladies with birthday cakes smiling for the camera. I am reminded of the woman in my Ravens poem, the one who looks after St. Peter's on Church Street in Toronto. I love these ladies. Orphan keepers, choir directors, lovers of the weak and sick.
Ottawa opens it's arms to me, even though I'm sick. Last song - Universe - for the room, the old ladies, the young family I met in the sushi restaurant with my newest smallest listener, an adorable bundle in pink, and for the virus I will kill with sheer love and determination.
Tomorrow, the Ken Saro-Wiwa benefit in Toronto... speaking of love....
The Giller Prize Awards
Literati glitterati... the marvelous mouthful. Writers in suits and gowns, journalists, columnists, CBC legends... Harmer and I at a table with the rock star misfits of the publishing world... in our finery no less. Bedecked in red I walk amongst the word hounds, twinkling. Writers were my heroes before songwriters... writers and composers.... oh the crush I had on Brahms.
Mr. Hollett and I speak at length of filmmaker Rob Mann, beat poets, Canadian magazines and other such magic. Am I actually at the Giller Prize? Moment of astonishment....
At the end of the night, my voice failing, I pull the rip cord and fall into a Four Seasons bed. The view of Toronto is glorious... murmuring and sparkling like a dark moonlit sea... home sweet home - and I'm in a hotel... bizarre.
Hamilton/ Convocation Hall
It seems we brought the tempest with us.... high winds whip around the old beautiful building... yellow leaves are blowing like snow....
What a hall... small high stage... sweet milky Steinway... lighting technicians with an eye for detail...
Practiced my Bach during sound check - mental note - bring conservatory books on the road for the spare hours I will get with new Yamahas! It's been so long, Rachmaninov,... I forget the middle passage...
The Hamiltonians are so kind... on the second encore I can't resist.... Edelweiss!... their voices fill the vast warm room... bless my homeland for---e---verrrrrr
It's a long way from the Free Times Cafe where I used to pass the hat around after singing and then drive my mother's car home, keyboard in trunk, jacked up on caffeine, back to Pickering to wake up for basketball practice.
I am glad, inside and out, though a little hoarse....
SS
Peterborough/Market Hall
Led astray by a Mapquest error, Tod and I drove all over the city in driving rain and ferocious wind ...luckily Hamilton is wee and we came upon Market Hall somewhat by accident... The room was wide with an open theatre-style stage and sloping rows of seats all the way to the back... cabaret seating in the front... An older nine-foot Kawaii stood wearily on stage, opened and invaded by curious microphones. I had to be kind, you could tell she'd been through weather. It's action was surprisingly tough... had to stretch every muscle from finger to shoulder in order to really play a scale. Resistance... some pianos fight you, I have to be respectful or I go home with a screaming case of tendonitis..... there's a moment when I feel like I've found the touch that is most suited to a particular piano, when it's tone is strongest and sweetest... all night I try to keep inside that.....
Then Danny Michel strolled in with his stickered suitcase and guitar. I think I've know this guy for ten years and I still like him. Even when he's insisting I look at pictures of his cat. We chat backstage as the people start to filter in... I can hear the bustling of chairs and conversation from behind the black curtain. We talk about direction in life, strangely enough, and I feel rather unhinged....
During my set I asked the audience what they'd like to hear... the usual shouts ensue, except for one 11 year old girl, sitting front row centre with her friends, who thrusts her hand into the air.
I think my heart broke a little. "your wish is my command" I say to her. She politely asks for Sweet Ones. When did we as adults lose this? --- what a magnificent gesture, putting up your hand.
I played a long set of old and new.... a couple encores... then straight to the medicinal teas... don't get sick, don't get sick!!
Out in the lobby I signed some prints (new lithographs of my paintings) ... I was serenaded by a group of musical girls who harmonized a lovely version of "I Feel Pretty" from West Side Story. (Ah Bernstein. So much genius in one body.) That was a highlight for me. I was struck by how good music is for the soul. It is a truer, simpler, sweeter language than any I know. A piano student told me she was going to perform Sweet Ones in a talent show. Her teacher told me he plays my records for his students all the time. *sigh* There are still piano students and piano teachers!! Big smile in my heart. Big big smile.
November 9, 2005
Driving driving driving.... there is an art to travel... one must find a way to sit in a van for 6 hours without becoming homicidal... I jog around the Tim Horton's when we stop for gas. I do pushups. I ask myself terrifically large questions... I plan the next installment of The Baroness (a short film) while the autumn leaves hypnotize me...... Fortunately, Tod my new tour manager seems to enjoy the ever-unravelling highway. I, however, am a Gemini...
When I think about the glorious new Yamaha waiting for me at Montreal's La Tulipe my stomach does backflips... We open the van doors to a typical Montreal-ian chill -- crisp, a little dangerous....
The piano sits heroically on stage, back lit by smoky beams of pink light... gasp.... ting ting, the piano tuner lovingly twists away... I nestle into my dressing room, let the bulging suitcase explode and the merlot breath... it's going to be a lovely night.
How I love this city. It's spirit is so vibrant and open and alive... always ready to dance recklessly...
After hugs and goodbyes I fall into my hotel bed exhausted....
xo
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