tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74952703880632690862024-03-05T21:07:01.674-05:00National Steel Big X Blues TourClimb back into the Lincoln and ride shotgun with Doc MacLean on North America's biggest, little blues tour. Good mojo on this 10th annual road trip visiting 10 provinces and 20 states...Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7495270388063269086.post-786636966847907272016-03-13T17:01:00.000-04:002016-03-13T17:01:03.070-04:00And One Last Thing...<br />
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As I've not yet launched or named the 2016 Tour, I'm checking in here at Big X one last time. While it is unusual for me not to have packaged and launched the Tour by this time of year, there is method behind the madness. The sheer number of dates and complex logistics has dictated that the future tours- read, 2017 and beyond- will be booked and planned out much farther in advance. I'm aiming for 12- 18 months. Of course, I'll still book short and shorter notice to fill holes, but it is getting harder and harder to do that as the whole business is evolving to longer planning. So, a little more down time this year. And hopefully a bigger, better Tour in the years ahead. After ten years and 1000 shows under the National Steel Blues Tour banner, it's not just a Tour– it's a way of life.<br />
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Meanwhile: what's up?<br />
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I'm booking to South Africa, so Tour packaging for the current year will reflect that theme.<br />
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Kickstart– crowd funder– to launch in a couple of weeks time. Presuming I meet my target, there should be a new, Colin Linden produced CD done by summer. Above, there's a nice picture of us taken by Dawg-FM blues radio at the Maple Blues Awards in Toronto. Recording is planned for Nashville, TN.<br />
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Mostly smaller (20- 30 show) tours coming up:<br />
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Central western Canada in May and June<br />
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Ontario and Quebec in July and August<br />
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Atlantic Canada in September<br />
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Alberta and British Columbia in October<br />
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South Africa in November and December (NOT a small Tour!)<br />
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Yukon territory, Canada, January, 2017<br />
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USA Gulf Coast and Mid-West in February and March, 2017Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7495270388063269086.post-64210268550747583012016-01-19T13:05:00.000-05:002016-03-11T20:04:54.111-05:00Tour Wrap 2015: Over 1000 National Steel Shows<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Usually, I wrap these Tours with some hard facts like: eight months, thirty-five thousand kilometres, $6000 in gasoline, how many gallons of red wine, how many tires replaced, how many provinces (all of 'em), how many territories, how many states. Pictures of tour jacket winners, roadside diners, storms, wrecks, venues, and thanks to the many friends and promoters without whom this adventure could not be possible. People. Places. Things. Then I say something about the Art and the Business.<br />
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This year, as the daily blog posts became Facebook entries, this old school, Tour Blog (remember when Blogging was the Next Big Thing?) devolved to be firstly, a link and material source for media and promoters, and secondly, a more personal journal than ever before. Each year tends to have it's own theme.<br />
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As the Tour moved beyond 10 years and 1000 shows, I had moments of great fatigue, moments of exhilaration, times of despair, and times of optimism. I'm not feeling any younger this year. Knowing that I'll be attempting to assemble the past decade of Tour Blog into a book also encouraged me to be more introspective. Yes, the Blues Highway. If you want to know how I see it from the front of the Big Lincoln, read and ride along. If that's not what you're here for, I invite you to scroll through and look at the pictures, the shorter posts, the sidebar. The other Tours are linked here- some with a sharper musical focus. This is a long, long, closing post for the 2015, Big X Blues Tour- a coast to coast scroll that might be best enjoyed with a glass of wine, or two...<br />
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The irony of "finishing" a Tour. Or even thinking that one had reached the end of a "Tour." The long hours of driving, turning to long days, long months, and then long years alone at the wheel. More than ever it is clear that the journey is everything. This road is still mysterious, still beckoning, still seductive, still promising. Still less than clear with me. This road: has it been less than honest with me– or entirely devoid of intention? Life lived like a river, tossed along, tossed along to the final surprise, the great and terrible solitude of the sea. A place where one disappears into the world. Or out of it. Emotions breaking like the tide. We struggle at first, and then give way to the arms of the water. We let go. Sometimes heartbreaking. Sometimes redemptive. Not a moment to be wasted, for as it begins to anticipate it's end- the River rages ever closer beneath us.<br />
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Gassed up, polished, and out with the melting snow. The first gigs on this year's first Tour poster. The first Blogs and postings. One or two last storms somewhere. The wet and dusty distances. The hum of the tires on the blacktop. The crunch on the gravel. These wheels will take you anywhere. Almost anywhere. Anywhere you've got the courage to go. Anywhere you point that wheel. And you better go. Touch it. Drink it in, or you may be hungry later. Sorry you missed it. On this, National Steel "Big X" Blues Tour, I'm now counting ten years of more or less unbroken travel. Over 1000 shows under the National Steel banner, and maybe twice as many around the edges. I've travelled for most of the last forty years, but riding the National Steel I've noticed that it is becoming more difficult to stop. I thought about that when I had a bad wreck a few years ago. One day you're riding high in a nice Lincoln. A couple of days later you're riding a Greyhound Bus with a guitar and a duffle bag. As that bus lurched eastward across the Canadian prairie I wrote three or four songs with the same title: "Only Death Can Stop This Train."<br />
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If I can figure out how to play one of those, bus written songs, maybe it will be on my next album. Yeah, my next CD, my next recording. I'm old enough to like the phrase "album," and to use it. The previous, "Narrow House" recording was actually the trigger for the last ten years of hard touring. As I failed to secure a label deal or distribution for Narrow House I was left with what was- for me- a massive debt. It was a well calculated gamble that simply did not play out as was hoped. The Tour evolved as a means of selling, distributing, and paying for that project. For a long time, I vowed I would never make another recording until Narrow House was paid for. Due to the miracle of compound interest that still hasn't happened- in spite of selling thousands of units! But I am going to make another recording. Or two. I hope.</div>
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I'm Beyond the Giant, on the shores of Lake Superior. A great, inland, fresh water sea. Off-grid, I curl up next to a woodstove, drink red wine, read Dante's Inferno. I don't remember if I am tired. I like sleeping, too. It's just that I'm no longer very good at it. Olivia Laing recently said that being alone was an Art. I don't know if that's true, either. Not that I don't remember, it's just that I can't decide. It's true we aren't really born into it. Alone. But somewhere along the line our minds develop a capacity for it. When you are not a cog that fits well to the grinding of the wheel, perhaps it is easy to succumb to the guilty pleasures of solitude. No longer guilty, I can put another log on the fire, touch the cold steel of the guitar. The Giant sleeps alone behind the roar of the waves.<br />
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It's the sheer size of the place: Canada, and the North American continent. Between the towns and cities with names that show up in big print: big spaces, forgotten places, small print names that sometimes don't make the map. Roads like this one. I don't mean to be vulgar, but you can stop and piss where you please. There's a little chill down your spine when you switch off the motor. It's dead quiet, but sometimes there's a taste of smoke in the air, a chainsaw perhaps, in the distance. On this continent you can drive for days and hardly see a soul, unless you want to.<br />
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Thunder Bay. A big festival for a little city. Plenty of blues radio. Active blues and folk societies. Plenty of local music. The arts seem to thrive in these smaller centres where there is less greed, a bigger sense of community, and often- more bums in seats. Thunder Bay, like other towns this size has been very good to me over the last decade.<br />
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The rocks and trees vanish suddenly as you head west on the TransCanada Highway.<br />
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Winnipeg, MB. The middle of Canada. The East of the West. A thriving music scene, dominated by the Winnipeg Folk Festival. It tends to overshadow the rest of the things that go on here. I played WFF frequently in the 1970s, when I was a young hot shot. Colin Linden and I- the BBQ Boys- backed up Blind John Davis, Roosevelt Sykes and many others on those stages. Mitch Podolak- the AD and founder of the whole thing- once squared us up against another young duo, Big Dave McLean and Gord Kidder. In a land populated by great harmonica players, Kidder was a giant. Regrettably, he had little time for the music business and rarely left town. Music was always much more important than the business. One of the highlights of my many visits to Winnipeg over the last decade was to have had Gord sit in with me a couple of times. Big Dave has, of course, accompanied me on a few hundred National Steel shows. Dave remains a close friend- we've had a lot of fun. Even if they cut me out of his movie to save money! What was the name of that film, anyway?<br />
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When I woke up in the Saskatoon, SK truckstop, winter had caught up to me.<br />
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A cold day near North Battleford, SK<br />
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Breaking sky as the Lincoln finds dry roads into Alberta.<br />
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Edmonton, AB. Blues on Whyte. The Commercial Hotel. You haven't played Canada until you've played here. One of the very last of the big old blues bars. Seven nights, plus a matinee show and a jam. Touring acts. Live upstairs. When I come to town I stay here even if my gigs are elsewhere. Hot in the summer. Cold in the winter. Loud on the street. Battered. But you can't beat the price. At three in the morning there was pounding on my door. "I know you're in there," said Slurred Voice. "I'm going to kill you when I get in. Kill you, man..." Just another case of mistaken identity. If Big Dave had been on the gig, I would of sent the guy over to his room. As it was, Voice lost interest and wandered away.<br />
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Lloydminster, AB. Oil country. They like me here. I do well. Now, there are five things in the picture... which one is different?<br />
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House concert in Red Deer, AB. For my solo, indy show, these continue to be a blessing.<br />
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Making a run for the mountains. 100 Mile House. Jasper. These roads are all mine today, and I make some time in rural Alberta. Back on the TransCanada, actually, I guess it's the Yellowhead up here, Sweet Hwy 16, not yet the Highway of Tears- but it will become that as it twists through the mountains of British Columbia. I've played the Club Zero at Mile Zero on Haida Gwaii. This time I'm playing Jasper, then dodging south into the High Desert region. Usually it's a chain of stops out to Prince Rupert, and then the BC ferry to Vancouver Island. I'd lose a prime night on the boat this season, so I've elected to take my chances through cowboy country instead. Six of One, as some would say. Late to the plate with fewer towns on the inland route.<br />
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I've got a down day in Jasper, AB, so I get out the maps and suit up to run some trail. The maps aren't good. My GPS dies. My 10 km run turns into 20 odd. No, it's not well marked. The weather switches up as it will do in the mountains in spring. I'm glad I've got gloves, matches, and plenty of layers. I know running alone isn't really smart. Well, it's not that it's not smart, it's just not safe- and I know that. So I chose the risk, freely. I had a feather with me that day. I was going to do something else with it, but somehow we both made it back to the trailhead. Luck and determination. It didn't feel like I was running alone. Fitness is my pension plan. I'm not fast anymore, but it feels good to work the body. Vain bastard that I am, I was hurtin' the next day! I wasn't ready for that kind of distance on mountain trails, but life is a great incentive. It drives this Tour, too. No shortcuts on the Blues Highway, and the map is far from clear.<br />
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Sound check in Quesnel, BC. Yeah, that's my view from the stage in the afternoon. Later, when they turn on those big lights– the room will shrink to arm's length. What I do between the rest of the stuff I talk about here! No, no DIs. Two boom stands, SM58 on top. SM57 on the bottom. Turn the monitors off. Mains first. Lots of gain, I want these mics hot. More, more, Hey! EQ 'em about the same. Give me 10% more gain on the 57. OK, let's bring in the monitors. Easy! I just want to imagine that they are probably on. Are they on? Ok, a hair more. Alright. Thanks, Pete, I'm good to go if you are.<br />
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Williams Lake, BC. Most of the neon is gone, so I sit out back and watch the eagles watching the river below.<br />
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The Railway Club, Vancouver, BC. The only girl in the place that night had a wooden heart.<br />
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Up- Island. Vancouver Island. I sleep on the stage here after my show. In spite of coming to play all the little places for 10 years, none of the festivals here have ever hired me. I'm not really bitter about it, just a little disappointed that life hasn't got much easier. I could play to more people in 45 minutes than I'd reach in a month of small shows. I do love playing the small venues, but I'm not thrilled about sleeping in parking lots and getting shaken down by the cops. But plenty of friends out here, too. Every day is different. Certainly I've got some special friends in parts of the Island- and the Gulf Islands- that always go the extra mile to see that I am comfortable, rested, well fed, and well taken care of. I really could not do what I do without friends all up and down the line.<br />
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My pal Dr. Dave and I go bombing around Genoa Bay, near Duncan, BC. We'll lay in some crab traps, and later we'll feast by an open fire.<br />
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I've now got a little band on Canada's west coast, McKinleyWolf. Bassist and band leader Ian Walls has also been doing some duo shows with me around the Victoria, BC area. We both drink the same, almost cheap red wine, and it was Ian that helped me build the special Lincoln for the Bad Boy Blues Tour several years ago. Here, we've come to visit Big Charlie and play some songs for him in his new, elder living facility. Charlie supported Victoria blues musicians for many years, and now they come to him. A blues purist like few others, I was always surprised- and flattered- that he not only came to many of my shows, but stayed!<br />
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I don't get much downtime on the Tour, but springtime on the coast is always fine. Where distances between shows are short, I try to get in a run or two on some world class trails. I say this because the Tour will be different in 2016. I'm hoping to do some more running- bigger distances than I can manage when I'm playing shows every night. I've been running half marathon distances sometimes in recent years, but the full marathon is on my bucket list and requires different training- plus recovery time. I'm tired after 10 km sometimes! Especially during the Tour!<br />
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My view from the seawall trail of Vancouver's Stanley Park. It's the only reason I play Vancouver. Well, one of the only reasons. I do it as a 10 km run.<br />
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I slept in the car behind the club in Abbotsford, BC, but the Salvation Army woke me up in the pre-dawn hours. I'll be moving on today for shows in the high desert region.<br />
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High desert, near Spence's Bridge, BC.<br />
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This part of the Tour is unusually riddled with downtime, so I stop in to stay with friends in the Nicola Valley. While they get ready to plant 10,000 tomatoes, I do my taxes on the farmhouse table. It's a great place for guitar playing, too. I run a fabulous trail. Drink red wine. Work on some songs. I could disappear into a place like this. People have. I've met them. I could work the harvest, live in a little trailer by the water, play the local open stage from time to time. There's just so much pretending in the music business. And I'm really not part of the music business anyway. In the Six- there's an accountant opening for a university professor. Born to sing the blues. Stories cut out from the newspaper, and pasted onto the music like a thin veneer. Folk music, too. Now, it's an Alliance. I remember seeing Pete Seeger chopping wood at a festival one time. Chopping and singing. Woody might of laughed, or he might of moaned. I guess there's nothing wrong with that. But I don't have to buy a ticket either. In today's world it's all too easy to live life vicariously through social media, the internet. Stories, I think, like life itself, are richer for being lived. Maybe I just prefer a different kind of story.<br />
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Over the Crowsnest Pass, I'm into the badlands of southern Alberta. The folk club is in the back room of a motorcycle shop. It's a sold out show, but I'm short on cash so I sleep in the Lincoln anyway.<br />
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My view in the early morning hours. Lethbridge, AB, parked in the alley.<br />
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I set the cruise and drive careful. Left to it's own devices, the Big Lincoln would gladly settle into 140 kmh! I make a lot of stops out here anyway. At least when I find a town. Thrift stores and pawn shops. Coffees I don't want from places I want to sit in. And the venues: big old bars, austere little community halls, house concerts, cafes. Springtime in Saskatchewan. A whole different colour pallet than the autumn months. Already dusty in spite of the floods.<br />
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Down into the border areas of south-eastern Saskatchewan. Zigging and zagging to fill dates.<br />
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I run on the backroads as much as I can. The road less travelled can keep it interesting... Guys out here have figured out how to drain their sloughs- prairie ponds and marshes, really. They can get a few more acres into production, run straighter rows. The combines navigate by GPS on these wide spaces. Trouble is all that water runs down onto somebody else's land. And they suddenly have fewer acres, or their homes are flooded.<br />
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Into Regina, SK, where a young band from the coast opens for me. I don't know why you'd want to have a band open for a solo artist, but it happens fairly often now. I enjoy the unspoiled enthusiasm of these young acts- and most of them are pretty good musicians, too. Where will they all be in four years? Or forty years? How we compose music, deliver it, and consume it continues to evolve rapidly. As does the music itself. What will it be? And where is it all going? I feel the loss of some of the iconic figures of my own generation. Now there will be- and are- new icons, new idols of the tribe.<br />
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The Canadian prairie used to look like this. Still does- but the big, grain elevators are disappearing from the horizon. There is always a train somewhere in the distance- sometimes miles long, I'd guess. I stop by the old cars, rusting on the sidings. Tags on trains. Who drew these? And where? If I was fourteen and living in Milestone, SK, maybe I'd leave my mark on these trains. Send myself out, beyond the edge of the sky, out to the World. Part of me going all day and all night across provinces, state lines, stopping short of the Rio. Maybe I'd jump that train. Or go away to college and never come back. I wouldn't be the first one to take the old farm truck to Vancouver. As the bright ones get away, the towns get smaller. A couple of teens drink between the containers on Friday night. I'd smash the bottles on the tracks, too. And I'd piss on the side of the boxcar before staggering away, up the abandoned Main St., to the Seven Eleven. Tags on trains. Maybe they roll in from the big cities- Chicago, New York, Toronto- mysterious spray paint codes that say "come, join us- you don't need to be alone and different." There's a way of life swirling away as the family farms dwindle. Change is dancing in the wind, always moving, not always pretty. The life of a town. The lives of men and women.<br />
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Connie took this picture- which is why we all look so good. Here we are with Paul Reddick at the Orangeville, ON Blues and Jazz Festival. I played the old Opera House Theatre, and did not have to sleep in the Lincoln!<br />
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My Mom dropped by to play a couple of sets in my Toronto, ON kitchen. As the Tour continues it's eastward journey, I'm very grateful for her encouragement. I think I'm living the life she would of wanted- and had- for herself, in another place and time.</div>
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Crossing the Quebec border, fall colours have already arrived. The air, crisp and clean.<br />
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Working girl. She's played a lot of shows with me. Now her frets are nearly gone, but I love her anyway, and we will carry on together until the end.<br />
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Quebec City. I speak some french, but I don't write it- so I won't tell you what I said. I've played Quebec for over 40 years now, and it is still mysterious, different, romantic, unique. They love the blues, yet over the last twenty years the scene has become more and more insular. Fewer touring acts, and more Quebec based artists playing the same places over and over again.<br />
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South shore, riding along the widening St. Lawrence River. Sometimes there are pods of whales off shore...<br />
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Alberton, Prince Edward Island. My friend Matchstick Mike joined the Tour for a couple of weeks of shows across New Brunswick and PEI. We shoot guns. Eat moose. Drink beer. Play house parties, pool halls, tattoo joints. The Big Lincoln does a slow dance on these small town roads. I bring the Blues to Your Town.<br />
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We joined Catherine MacLellan at the VIP lounge of the Dunk, near Breadalbane, PEI. The Canadian Folk Music Awards were going on that night- and she took two! In Canada, that's called a Hat Trick. I'll be playing South Africa next year at this time, and thinking of my dear friend, the late Hal Mills. He built this place, hosted the shows, brought the music orphans into his cabin, fed us, inspired us, followed us, cheered us on. He would have been very proud of Catherine's awards! I used to set up a week of shows in this little corner of the world as an excuse to hang out with Hal. On our last evening together, last year, he put South Africa in my ear. He would have been thrilled to know that I'm actually going. I even learned "Sugarman" for him, for the two of us to enjoy over pie in his kitchen, a date that managed to escape us in life. I doubt that I'll ever play Sugarman in public, but I may play it some dark night up on the Dixon Road, in the red dirt hills of Prince Edward Island.<br />
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Off- Island. There are strange things to be found in the dark woods of New Brunswick. I take Mike to visit this little voodoo shrine. There are also strange things done in the midnight sun, by the men who moil for Gold. Yet here, with the wind murmuring in the scruffy pines, there's enough to raise a chill, to make your blood run cold.<br />
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Windsor, Nova Scotia. My pal Lindsay and I bomb around the province for a couple of days in his 1939 Ford. I do some cafes, bars and house concerts in the fruit belt before heading out to the coast for the Big Attraction. Meanwhile, another of my pals gives me 50 lbs of local apples...</div>
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My gig in the Halifax area was close to the old Africville townsite, in a boxing club, out on the old, Bedford Highway. It turned out to be a wonderful night. The only show I've ever played where people could buy ringside seats. And backstage, in my little dressing room, this poster. And I thought, yes, this is like music, like art, making this stuff, telling these stories, playing these shows, what I've been trying to say. Ali. This could of been his dressing room. We could of been talking. I could of said this about my show, about my life. About the Blues. What it is. Ali said it. Truth. Dancing under the lights.</div>
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I thought I might need a personal bodyguard for a show in a boxing club, so my pal Andy volunteered. Great job, Andy. He got me and my gear in and out without so much as a scratch.<br />
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East. East. How far east can you go? The Big Lincoln rocks in the high winds as we wait for the night boat to Newfoundland.</div>
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St. John's, Newfoundland. A city full of pubs and clubs and theatres and music. I thought the cover charge to some of my shows was a little on the low side, but then I noticed that tickets to Alanis were only $10. Of course, she sells a whole lotta, whole lotta jagged little tickets.<br />
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It's a thin strip of blacktop to tie a nation together. Life blood. Like the veins on my hand. Or the back of your leg. It's possible that I've been in every coffee joint from Victoria or Haida Gwaii to St. John's. More than once, too. I dream this map, the thousands of km, the smell of gas and diesel, the moaning of the wheels in the distance. Over time, my life has been stretched from one end of it to the other. I've played to every kind of Canadian there is. I'm pretty sure. And this symbol, the TransCanada Highway, maybe I'll have it carved on my stone someday.</div>
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Winter catches up to the Tour. Snow was melting when this Big Lincoln rolled out. Part of a gradual effort to evolve the Tour routes so as to avoid the dangerous winter conditions. A skiff of snow, here in the high ground. That's all. That's fine. Winter is coming, but me– and this Big Lincoln– will be gone before she really sets in.<br />
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Kenny Rogers doesn't fly. So he got caught here in the storm, too. Port aux Basque. I lost a couple of shows on the mainland, and ended up making nothing on Newfoundland. Nine shows, 2000 kms. At least I didn't lose any money! On a small venue tour, you're often close to the line on the margins, and sometimes it rains at the wrong time. And it did. So bless those theatres down the road that ended up carrying the freight! As always, I was well fed and cared for across the Rock. It's a nation of storytellers, and although my crowds are small here– I feel that they really bond with me and understand what I do. Now, if that big, summer festival would hire me, I'd be much happier...</div>
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North Sydney, Nova Scotia.<br />
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And the Tour winds it's way west, through Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, Quebec... to park at Toronto, Ontario.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpZZ9T-Nbt2iuzu5NzQC-lTMj_Q2DJR0PxBCI6t6f9mKgKTCPE25QV6k_IQLmZoO0nsRLBCYhHtYght4sdjuB8y-kS1X7OSW5oB4389zshe7dj8bXFZSxDDRhUEGH5g9zToyXUQY7VFzU/s1600/IMG_0951.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpZZ9T-Nbt2iuzu5NzQC-lTMj_Q2DJR0PxBCI6t6f9mKgKTCPE25QV6k_IQLmZoO0nsRLBCYhHtYght4sdjuB8y-kS1X7OSW5oB4389zshe7dj8bXFZSxDDRhUEGH5g9zToyXUQY7VFzU/s320/IMG_0951.JPG" width="320" /></a>There's nothing like rolling into The Six. Within forty-eight hours I'm on the street, busking. I'm a working musician, and soon the Salvation Army will be catering my shows at Osgoode Station. Tea and socks. Guys who piss next to you while you're playing. Three, four, five, six hour sets. It depends on the bill that needs to be paid. The Lincoln wants tires. It wants oil. In a city where authenticity floods in from all corners, I'm lucky to book a couple of indoor shows each year. As the big venues have vanished, there is no longer much focus beyond some festivals, concerts, and awards events. It's a problem common to the larger centres in changing times.<br />
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One of the few Toronto venues I've played recently is this small, west end club. Fat City Blues. I've scheduled the closing show of the National Steel Big X Blues Tour here. Not only does this show wrap the Tour, but it also represents the 1000th show under my National Steel banner. On a rainy, Wednesday night– with no cover charge– there is some walk-in traffic. Five fans I can identify on a personal basis. I move from table to table on break to say hello. The gig didn't make many of the key listings, either. So there it is, the 2015 Tour ending pretty much as it started, pretty much as expected. I've got upcoming, return gigs in some of the best venues in Chicago, St. Louis, Nashville, Clarksdale, Jackson, Mobile. Meanwhile, I need to to busk up enough money to buy my ticket into the Maple Blues Awards, at Toronto in just a couple of weeks time. My disconnect with this town may not be resolved without moving elsewhere– but I am going to spend more time here, and make more of an effort to reach out in the coming year.<br />
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The Maples. Not really part of the Tour, but I thought I'd leave you here. Life is good. Most of the nominees and winners this year are personal friends. Some are not, but you can't know everybody- and don't want to. Big Dave won Acoustic Performer of the Year. When Dave gets nominated, or wins, it always feels like a personal victory for me. Colin Linden, whom I have worked with since we were teenagers, took two trophies home to Nashville. He'll be producing my next album there later this spring. Like I said to one young player, paying dues is investing in yourself. If you don't pay in, you can't expect the lack of effort to grow into anything. And if you do pay in, you get to play the stock market of life. And not every investor will strike it rich. That's not the way it works, so don't beat yourself up about what you lost at the Crossroads. In the blues, the real rewards are most often in the paying of the dues, in the living of life. Everything that has value will be won or lost without witnesses, behind your eyes, between the lines, and out there on the road, long before you try and dance beneath the lights.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7495270388063269086.post-29984678128750628912015-12-30T18:53:00.000-05:002016-03-13T15:07:52.210-04:00Off the Ship and Into the Blackness<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Off the ship and into the blackness. Cape Breton, Nova Scotia at night. Kenny Rogers and the boys roar past in a cloud of diesel: a convoy of sleek busses, they're bound to make Cleveland, Ohio. Flying in fresh drivers like fresh horses, tonight they own this dark road. I'm three days behind from the storm, and since there's not a hope in hell I'll make the Gaspe, I pull the big Lincoln off the highway to wait for morning light.<br />
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It's cold now, and I climb into the passenger s<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">eat where the heat seems to work better. I can't find any radio, so I sleep in shifts- waking to run the heater. Dawn creeps in shyly to reveal my situation. Maybe I lost a few years, waking up someplace outside Reno, NV. Bad booze? A stroke? Shit happens. I'm not getting any younger. I woke up one time in a burning car in the middle of the desert. At least my car's not on fire today. My GPS says I'm in North Sydney, Nova Scotia.</span><br />
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Fresh coffee and a full tank of gas. I'm headed west for New Brunswick, Quebec and Ontario. Atlantic Canada has been the last major leg of this year's National Steel "Big X" Blues Tour. From here on I'm counting down to the designated 1000th show under the National Steel banner. The tenth consecutive year of ten provinces, two territories.<br />
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Detour to Musquodoboit, NS. I can spell it. And I can pronounce it. I've played Middle Musquodoboit a few times. Somewhere, in the deep dressing rooms of the Bicentennial Theatre, my name is written on the wall. Today, I'm meeting a fan from Halifax who wanted to buy more CDs. I need the cash, so I've taken this crazy detour. A beautiful, calming drive through near abandoned rural lands. The tax base to pay for these roads seems to have left with the rising of the water, the rise of the scrub, the fall of family farms on sticky, soft clay soil. I have friends here who use horses to work their farm- tractors are too heavy, and get bogged. Today is an opportunity to drop in and say hello. A few coffees later, I'm back on the Big Road and bound for Moncton, New Brunswick.<br />
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Jean's, in Moncton. You want breakfast? Jean's. It's half the reason I stop in this town. The other half is Plan B. This time, I've missed the gig for the storm, but the venue still treats me like gold. Tracy and Meadow really get it. They understand that I live in a car most of the time. A Big Car, but still- a car. They've seen it all roll up and down the big highway. I wish I could get a Plan B welcome in my own, home town. But I guess this is just part of my bigger home: this map, this Tour. If home is where you hang your hat, than this it it. Where the heart is. This car. This tour. This place and That.<br />
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Toronto. The Six. Big Smoke. T-dot. Whatever. It's as good a place as any to get an oil change and a set of new tires.<br />
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Osgoode, Toronto. Trying to scrape silver off this hard ass town. Somebody took ten shots yesterday, just upstairs and around the corner. This is a place where the stories crawl past me. Or walk past me, done up in perfume to punch. My imagination would have me elsewhere: a younger man with fewer stories. More disposable income. Walking past. Spare change for a busker.<br />
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Some days there are people who jump in front of trains. And some days there are people who don't. Walking pa<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">st. I don't see you, I don't hear you. "I heard your music, and I changed my mind." Driving down the highway is like that, too. When you cut beneath the grime and hit the clear sky you can be anybody. Or somebody. You can find yourself, or chase after your own soul. Win or lose on your own terms. Osgoode.</span><br />
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Fat City Blues, Toronto, Canada. I wrap this year's National Steel "Big X" Blues Tour here. Ten consecutive years of playing almost everywhere in North America. It's easier to list the places I haven't played under the Tour banner. And, beyond that- over forty years of shows now. Back in The Day shows were often four, five, six nighters. We travelled a lot. Stayed places for weeks, months. But "touring" was something that was done by acts with Agents, Managers, record Deals. I would never of dreamed of the Internet. A digital world. Science fiction. Me, and my Dick Tracy phone, playing the world. Talking to you. Songs and stories.<br />
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The life and death of a Tour. The National Steel "Big X" Blues Tour. Theatres, festivals, drive shows, bars, cafes, gas stations, house concerts, boxing clubs. Now wrapped with a couple of dozen people in a small, Toronto club. It's had me on the road most of the year. Ten provinces, and as many states. My Lincoln says it wants oil. My arms are getting acupuncture for pain, and Osgoode is waiting. I won't jump in front of the train, but I will imagine it: warm with soft seats. My personal train, headed for the distance. February and March will be shows in Chicago, Mississippi, Louisiana, and Alabama. Get on board!<br />
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A couple weeks of downtime before the Maple Blues Awards. An unusual, outdoor Christmas in Canada. Mom played carols on the porch, and you could hear the sweetness of the fiddle right down the block.<br />
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This Blog is all about the Tour. Music, places, people, guitars, blues. Life. Art. Ideas. The journey. So when something messes around with that, it messes around with me. It breaks my stride. It breaks the conversation in ways that I don't want it broken. Our conversation. This will, I hope, be my last word here about censorship. Because I'm not going to allow the subject to eat the page.<br />
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To think and speak freely. My art derives from that act, depends on that ability, as a first premise. Donald Trump can say negative things about members of the world's largest religion, and these things are reported in detail, on every media platform in the world.<br />
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So I'd like to know who is censoring my Facebook pages. Who decides which ideas and language are Bad for the World? Obviously- in some quarters- my ideas are not seen to be as safe as Mr. Trump's. As I am fairly sure that I have Friends and Followers from all of the world's major religions, it's hard to point fingers. Some crazy, right wing Christian cult? Living in a compound somewhere near 29 Palms? A Republican plot? Tories, sore that they lost the election in Canada? Nah, they don't care. They don't mind the words "hard ass." Or if they do, they didn't read the phrase on my Artist page, and didn't complain about it if they did. No, it's not real people: it's a computer subroutine. An algorithm carelessly released into the world by people who likely haven't experienced much of the world. Artificial Intelligence. It's not smart. Nor is it clever. It cheapens the platform, restrains the dialogue, and demeans the intelligence of not only the readers- but also the broader culture in which they participate.<br />
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I like to think I express myself fairly responsibly. Context and placement of the right words. Like surgery. Cut here. Now. And sometimes the blood runs off the table. And sometimes it's not real blood, but ideas escaping. Little expressions picked up in the schoolyard. An adventure. A revolution. Or a bottle of red wine shared over conversation. Here's the latest (and last to be reported upon) piece surpressed on my Face Book artist page...<br />
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Osgoode, Toronto. Trying to scrape silver off this hard ass town. Somebody took ten shots yesterday, just upstairs and around the corner. This is a place where the stories crawl past me. Or walk past me, done up in perfume to punch. My imagination would have me elsewhere: a younger man with fewer stories. More disposable income. Walking past. Spare change for a busker.<br />
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Some days there are people who jump in front of trains. And some days there are people who don't. Walking pa<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">st. I don't see you, I don't hear you. "I heard your music, and I changed my mind." Driving down the highway is like that, too. When you cut beneath the grime and hit the clear sky you can be anybody. Or somebody. You can find yourself, or chase after your own soul. Win or lose on your own terms. Osgoode.</span><br />
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The life and death of a Tour. The National Steel "Big X" Blues Tour. Wrapped earlier this week in a small, Toronto club. It's had me on the road most of the year. Ten provinces, and as many states. My Lincoln says it wants oil. My arms are getting acupuncture for pain, and Osgoode is waiting. I won't jump in front of the train, but I will imagine it: warm with soft seats. My personal train, headed for the distance. February and March will be shows in Chicago, Mississippi, Louisiana, and Alabama. Get on board! Like this Page to follow me on the Blues Highway.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7495270388063269086.post-33576918057546079472015-11-30T18:37:00.000-05:002015-12-15T21:17:01.396-05:00Censored by Facebook: the Reader's Digest of CultureYeah, so I'm not pleased today. There was a time when hundreds of folks followed the Tour on my Blog. Now a few thousand Follow along on Facebook. Sometimes over ten thousand people read a given post. But those are quick posts, for a quick read- and I always end up back here, to tell you what I really think and to put up pictures and stories. These days only about a dozen people follow the Blog.<br />
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This morning Facebook informed me that it would not allow me to promote my daily entry because it failed to meet their "guidelines for language that is profane, vulgar, threatening or generates high negative feedback. Ads can't use language that insults, harasses or demeans people, or addresses their age, gender, name, race, physical condition or sexual preference." This is negative feedback that threatens me. I think it's vulgar, demeaning to me and to my loyal readers, and implies that we may harbour negative (perhaps un-American?), perhaps secret opinions about age, gender, race, or physical condition. Some of us may apparently have... sexual preferences, too. God forbid that!<br />
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At the time of the Facebook intervention, over 5000 people had read my post, 22 had shared it, 125 had Liked it, and there were perhaps a dozen encouraging comments. The surprise refusal to distribute my post was a harsh reminder that our social media are not public forums, but privately owned and operated corporations who now control much of the public dialog. I've filed an appeal, but I bet it's lost in the Big Machine. I am very surprised at Facebook's allegations, so I've simply reproduced my post below. Eventually, it will join a more complete entry about the Maritime adventures. Here's what Facebook readers were denied-<br />
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Off the ship and into the blackness. Cape Breton, Nova Scotia at night. Kenny Rogers and the boys roar past in a cloud of diesel: a convoy of sleek busses, they're bound to make Cleveland, Ohio. Flying in fresh drivers like fresh horses, tonight they own this dark road. I'm three days behind from the storm, and since there's not a hope in hell I'll make the Gaspe, I pull the big Lincoln off the highway to wait for morning light.<br />
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It's cold now, and I climb into the passenger s<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">eat where the heat seems to work better. I can't find any radio, so I sleep in shifts- waking to run the heater. Dawn creeps in shyly to reveal my situation. Maybe I lost a few years, waking up someplace outside Reno, NV. Bad booze? A stroke? Shit happens. I'm not getting any younger. I woke up one time in a burning car in the middle of the desert. At least my car's not on fire today. My GPS says I'm in North Sydney, Nova Scotia.</span><br />
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">Fresh coffee and a full tank of gas. I'm headed west for New Brunswick, Quebec and Ontario. Atlantic Canada has been the last major leg of this year's National Steel "Big X" Blues Tour. From here on I'm counting down to the designated 1000th show under the National Steel banner. The tenth consecutive year of ten provinces, two territories. Spring will see me in Chicago, St. Louis, Mississippi, and Alabama. Like this Page to Follow along my adventures. Thanks for the company.<br />
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</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7495270388063269086.post-91171144808487436052015-11-24T21:46:00.000-05:002015-11-29T13:26:31.288-05:00The Rock: Sonny's Dream<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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You forget, sometimes, how far away some things are from other things. Newfoundland. Like a memory: close when you are there. Smell it, taste it. Pictures of oneself in unknown places. It doesn't seem so long ago that I had drinks with Joey Smallwood and he invited me to visit this Rock. You know this place is special because it's in it's own time zone. Even if it wasn't, it would be.</div>
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In the morning, I'll wake to a raw Atlantic coastline and 2000 km of blues highway. If I'm really lucky, I'll have a mess for breakfast, 'bye. What it is 'bye. Cod tongues and late nights with cherry bourbon. Fireball. I'm bringing the blues to the most easterly parts of North America, to a place that only joined Canada in 1949, to a place with one of the most interesting and colourful English dialects in the world. As I drive I'll be watching carefully for moose. What it is, 'bye, what it is! Meanwhile the wind snaps at the flags as I wait for the midnight boat out of North Sydney, Nova Scotia. An omen, perhaps, of weather to come.</div>
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Rain, not snow. But even the highway signs are brooding in the late November chill. Eight hundred and ninety kilometres to St. John's. Port aux Basques is a Tim's crowded with ferry passengers. The voyage wasn't bad. I'm not a good sailor, but I've discovered I can sleep in rough seas. I've had a solid six hours. Now I've got coffee, lost cell service, and wifi is a mystery to all my devices. Highway time. The wet and empty roads hump the low mountains at this side of the island. Cruise is good. Soon Corner Brook will loom up, puffing and spewing.</div>
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Seeing some posters around town is always a good thing. God knows what a Monday night will be here in a small theatre. I go around to Mudder's, have a mess for my lunch, and then sleep in the Lincoln for the rest of the afternoon. In the distance, the omnipresent mill honks and clatters. </div>
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It's a small crowd for the first show of this Island tour. Both the morning and evening drive show featured some country artist who- it was breathlessly announced- would be coming to play the civic centre in about four months time. Kenny Rogers will be playing in a couple of days time. He didn't get mentioned either, so I guess I don't need to feel slighted. The local CBC offices have been reduced to a storefront in a strip mall- next door to a payday loans place. If I blow a tire in the morning, I could go there in a vain effort to get out of town. As it is, I sleep in my car behind the theatre, and put my money in the gas tank.<br />
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The day looks brighter. I'm glad to be drinking coffee and heading east to Lewisporte. I've played here before. I don't know what kind of numbers I'll have- but I know I'll be well taken care of- and a warm, wood stove awaits me.<br />
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The ferry to Labrador used to run from here. Now it sits, abandoned and rusting in the harbour. A massive hulk. My view from the front window.<br />
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St. John's. My friends Rick and Sue live in a rambling old house close to my venue. Our time together is always too short. Rick cooks cod. I drink beer. We all talk politics. The closer you get to St. John's, the snappier the conversation becomes. Finally, here in the downtown, it fairly pops!<br />
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Canada has a new Prime Minister, and a new government- and over this St. John's kitchen table there is plenty of optimism. Bitter sweet optimism for some. I took three weeks off the Tour to help defeat the previous government, but my candidate- and my party lost. Still, the nation feels good again. Or better. Canadians haven't been as united in a long time.<br />
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And then this: the passing of Ron Hynes. Maybe not a household name beyond Newfoundland- but he was it's "man of 1000 songs." He wrote tunes such as Sonny's Dream- a song which has become a folk anthem in Ireland and elsewhere. When I reached St. John's I saw posters for my show stapled next to his posters. I knew he was ill, so I thought that he must of been feeling better if he had a show booked. He died the next night and suddenly there were people weeping in the streets. A difficult man who will be greatly missed. Tough. He intended to play that show. The outpouring of grief across the province reminded me of what I had witnessed following the death of John Lennon. Later in the week I would listen to his service broadcast live on the radio.<br />
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When I visited CBC Radio St. John's to play the morning drive show, I was amazed to hear the host, Anthony Germain- former head of the China bureau- lead with a story about a dead moose on the Circle Highway. I could have made that up, if I was making up the news, but I didn't need to! Canada's public broadcaster has traditionally connected the sprawling country: a national voice, a presence in kitchens and cars that touches all points. It has long been the glue of Canada's national character so, I for one, hope that the new Canadian government will restore operational funding and rebuild the institution. </div>
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One of the many interesting place names along the way. Newfoundland is gifted with some strange and unique names. If a poet and a pornographer put the map together- oh, my jesus, 'bye- what it is. Red Head Cove, Dildo, Conception Bay, Come By Chance, Cupids Crossing, Happy Adventure, Heart's Content, Heart's Desire, Heart's Delight, Bareneed, Blow Me Down, Bread and Cheese, Devil's Kitchen, Exploits, Goobies, Great Barasway, Ireland's Eye, Jack Ladder, L'Anse-Amour, Leading Tickles, Little Heart's Ease, Mistaken Cove, Muddy Hole, Nameless Cove, Pushthrough, Rabbit Town, Salvation, Seldom Come By, Spread Eagle, St. Jones Within, St. Jones Without, Three Arms, Virgin Arm, Wild Bight, Witless Bay, Woody Island... One place just leads to another, and the cartographer flushes as he prints the maps...<br />
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Moose were introduced to the Island many years ago. After they totally over ran the place, some industrious souls brought in coyotes in hopes that these would diminish the moose population. Today, there are plenty of moose and plenty of coyotes... I know an old lady who swallowed a fly...<br />
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At dusk I stood outside my cabin in the village of Glovertown. Dinner hour, and the warm, hospitable smell of woodsmoke hung over the valley. Woodsmoke. It pulls at ones fondest memories, conjures up visions of comfy kitchens, the smell of good food, the chatter of conversation among friends. At once I felt both comforted and alone. For some reason I thought of my old friend, the Mole, finding his way Home to his own fireside as Winter arrived. The Wind in the Willows. The blues can come to you in many forms and places. The important part is the heart. It certainly came to me as I looked out over the twinkle of the little lights below. The hungry heart: it's beats echoing quietly in my chest. Consolation is a glass of red wine, a hot shower, and a warm crowd arriving to my show.</div>
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You never know who's going to show up at a gig. On this Thursday night, in Glovertown, NFD, Buddy Wasisname (Kevin Blackmore) attended. I've seen his tour posters all over the Maritimes for as long as I've been travelling. Neat! </div>
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It's been a fast paced week- nine shows in six days, covering the entire length of the island. All the presenters were great. Dedicated. I played theatres, house concerts, galleries, pubs, schools, and radio. I thought the shows went well. Off-season again, the crowds were small and local, opinionated and enthusiastic. Many drove considerable distances to hear me- taking their chances on the dangerous, dark roads. I appreciate the effort spent. Large numbers of moose roam the province- and hitting one can be fatal. It's a huge mass which can come right through the windshield of a car, or jam a semi off into the ditch. A deer will wreck your car. A moose can kill you.<br />
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Between such pleasant thoughts I play Gander, NFD, and learn that Fidel Castro once went snow sledding there. I figure if Fidel can have fun there, so can I. My breakfast is a traditional, Newfoundland tauton. Not a biscuit, not a pancake, not a roll, not a pastry. It's a thick, doughy thing cooked in a pan and then served with bacon and molasses.<br />
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This kid will be winning the East Coast Music Awards someday. Right now he's the King of the music program at Queen Elizabeth High School in South Conception Bay. My "blues in the schools" presentations in Newfoundland are aimed at helping these kids with the business end of music. They already play well! If Rodney doesn't sit in with me next year, I'll probably be his opening act...<br />
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On Friday night in Seal Cove, piano man and children's entertainer Terry Reilly came out and played some very adult keyboards at my SS Meigle show. That was big fun, and we intend to do it again sometime. Who knew? Blues DJ, music historian and promoter Terry Parsons did! He and his extended group of family and friends have done much to make me welcome on the Rock.<br />
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And driving. Way over two thousand kilometres of mostly empty highway. Sometimes I bask in the silence, alone with myself, my thoughts. Maybe I think too much. Or not enough. Sometimes I let my friends sing to me, mile after mile. Sometimes when a friend sings to you it can really help. Well, it keeps the heartstrings in tune anyway.<br />
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And now that it's raining in big sheets of water, wind howling over the crashing waves, all ships are held to port. I've driven slick roads all day to get to Port aux Basques: over 500 km of naked blacktop. Now the tangled houses of St. John's are long behind me, their colours still clinging to the rock hills, their stories still half secret, still half made up, half smiling, still leaning on one and other like old sisters embracing. Newfoundland. Now I'm stuck on her wild shores in a storm.<br />
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I've had to cancel a couple of New Brunswick dates. Moncton and Saint John- Monday and Tuesday. I'm sorry, but I'm sitting in Port aux Basques drinking Iceberg beer out of a blue bottle, waiting for the boat, 'bye. We'll see how the wind blows in the morning. Thankfully, they've got plenty of beer- because I could be here for a while. Worse things could happen!<br />
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Almost alone at the terminal as the winds gust up to 140 kph, the Lincoln shakes and the rain comes down and down. There are a few stranded semi trucks, and... three posh looking busses. I'm not the only musician to get stuck here. That other guy who didn't get on the radio in Corner Brook doesn't fly- he travels with his crew and his gear. He's on one of those nice looking rides. Kenny Rogers pulls some strings, and we all get to board the ship early. It's not going anywhere- but at least we have our cabins, a bar and a penthouse view of the crashing storm. Nice folks. Nice conversation. Football on the big screen, Ron Hynes on the stereo. Sonny's Dream.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7495270388063269086.post-65088913298889070922015-11-15T22:47:00.000-05:002016-03-13T15:46:43.035-04:00Twelve Rounds Bare Knuckle in Nova Scotia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Ok, I'm short on time. I'll be back to fill in the story here as soon as I get a little down time. Meanwhile, here's a taste of the Nova Scotia adventures...</div>
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There's got to be a story behind this old trunk. Found in a Halifax, NS, Canada junk store.<br />
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Melissa Ellsworth took the above warm, golden photos at the boxing club.<br />
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Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. Making a slow run to catch the night boat from North Sydney. Billed out, I'm bound for Port aux Basque, Newfoundland.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7495270388063269086.post-48865378168096701492015-11-08T23:08:00.000-05:002016-03-13T16:05:42.241-04:00Maritime Adventure with Matchstick Mike<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My annual Maritime Canada visit is always very important to me. This year, my pal Matchstick Mike joined me for shows in New Brunswick and Prince Edward Island. I've put a few pics in below, as a teaser. I'll be back to tell the stories, I promise. So keep following. This is one of TWO "Big X" posts lacking text content, so I'll definitely be back to finish these. Spring, 2016.</div>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7495270388063269086.post-56703720901635346012015-10-30T12:10:00.000-04:002015-11-01T14:46:09.716-05:00Eastbound: Quebec, and into the Maritimes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My own kitchen party: my mom fiddling a few sets to launch the next leg of the Tour. She's still pretty quick, and she knows way more tunes than I do! It's been ten years since I've been in Toronto in the autumn. A nice visit, but now the geese are in the sky, and the time has come to point the Lincoln east. Maybe I'll ask mom to play the closing show with me in December...<br />
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Meanwhile, it's a clean road. I pick up a $190 ticket for having an out of province plate in an unposted construction zone. Welcome to Quebec...<br />
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My first stop is Morin Heights, Quebec. North of Montreal. Up the AutoRoute. Fast Quebec road. A place where the fast lane is European fast through the humpy, worn down mountains of the Laurentians. I last played here in the early 1980s- a big show with my big band. This time I'm solo to a house concert. Do I miss the trucks of gear, the wardrobe, the road manager, the big sound on the big stage? Well, yes, a little- but I'm focused on tonight's adventure. Shows like this one are much more relaxed. My host used to operate a Cantina on the main street where- back in the 1970s- I was a frequent visitor and performer. It was a busy place. Poets, playwrites, film makers, draft dodgers... musicians. I met Jessie Winchester there, I'm pretty sure. Le Studio was just down the highway, and there was always a little buzz on about who might be recording.<br />
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On the wall: pictures of the cafe scene. Pictures of my friends. People I haven't seen since. I can't remember the names. But the faces- frozen forever young. I remember those girls. The young men with long hair and wild clothes. I can't remember the names. Well, maybe a few. And where are they today? Where did they go? What did they do? Then there's the other face. How could I forget the joy and sorrow of having my heart truly broken here, all those years ago?<br />
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House concert. My pal Andrew Cowen, from the Stephen Barry Band comes to visit. Plenty of familiar faces. A fun show. In the last set- Tour jacket raffle winner! Genuine satin, white stripe Tour jacket!<br />
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Soon, Quebec City looms large...<br />
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Little blues bar in the Limoilou district. Here: my view from the Lincoln Hotel outside. I won the blues challenge again today- stayed alive, played a show, got paid. That's the real blues challenge: cut this thing with life, soak in the neon, chase it down. The blues fantasy tour: parallel in the other part of your mind. Crowds. Girls. Laughter in the dressing room. A cab to the Marriott. A tip for the doorman. "Did you have a good show tonight, Sir?" Meanwhile, it's getting cold here. I'll be running the motor on and off until dawn. And then I'll be gone. Eastbound for Atlantic Canada. Big road blues: always good when the wheels are rolling, white lines unfolding behind, opening ahead to the horizon, to the crack in the road where it all disappears, to the edge of the sky where it all starts again. Then stop.</div>
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Blues on the river. It's not the Mississippi- it's the St. Lawrence. It's not muddy, or shallow- but it is big and cold. Like all rivers, it is filled with stories. Here they ripple on the surface. Wink. Hide. Part of the impenetrable mystery which is Quebec. More than a different language. A deep culture with deep secrets. Crosses in the distance. The smell of wood smoke, cigarettes. The sound of bells. The silver tin roof. Churches and strip joints. High art and cheap beer served in quart bottles. Crosses in the distance. I love this place. It is welcoming, yet insular, exclusive. I explore it- and sometimes it wraps it's arms around me, whispering over red wine.<br />
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Along the Twenty, on the south shore. Then, New Brunswick...<br />
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I suit up and run about 10 km from Fredericton to Marysville and back. There's a nice trail system along the Nashwaak which includes this old railway bridge across the St. John river.<br />
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Lord Beaverbrook looks down on me in Officer's Square, Fredericton. Not a blues fan, I guess...<br />
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Blood mist rising from the early morning river. A fire in the air behind City Hall. Glad to be here, but today I'm taking the back roads north to Miramichi, NB. I'll be back on Saturday for a Halloween show with Matchstick Mike. The Maritimes is busy this month with Watermelon Slim, Big Dave McLean, Joe Murphy, Monkey Junk, and the 24th St. Wailers all doing dates as well. Whole lotta shows for a little area like this! Those are all friends of mine, but it does explain why bookings to the region have been as difficult as they have been this year. The population base is pretty small, and there are only a limited number of venues and entertainment dollars.</div>
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Breakfast at Joe's Diner, and then I follow the river north...<br />
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The Maritimes in fall. Crisp air. Guns, moose, deer, salmon. I'm not sure who's got tags for what- but they got 'em. Before I know it, I'm up in Red Bank, New Brunswick with my pal Matchstick Mike. When he lived in the big city he was a wild man, guitar hero rocker. Up here, he's a guide and a hunter. For our first rehearsal we go out and shoot guns. I can still hit a target at 100 yards... I get "scoped" a little bit on the first round, but after that I get it together. We go back to the house and play guitar the rest of the night. Dark out here. Cars coming in out of the blackness. Dogs barking. James Ready beer in flimsy cans. I don't ask Mike about the bullet holes in the front window, but I don't sit in front of it either! Mike will be doing some shows with me for the next couple of weeks across New Brunswick and Prince Edward Island. I'm looking forward to having him along. I'm a lucky man that the Blues Highway brings me to so many fine people and places. Real music for real people in real time.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7495270388063269086.post-67683980265787550992015-10-13T21:44:00.000-04:002015-10-15T14:53:36.329-04:00End of Summer: Old Questions, New Adventures<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Toronto. I've had a long affair with this place, but it's been fleeting, and not always loving. When you are on the road over 200 days a year for over 10 years, it's not easy to call it- or anyplace- a "home town." Toronto has never tried to claim me for it's own, either. I don't belong to it, and somehow the town knows that. Deep in it's bones. Suspicious. It's a place where authenticity tends to flood in from the suburbs: weekend warriors with the right hats, the right gear, sensible pensions, practical daytime professions. Of course I'm jealous. And not.<br />
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No, you don't have to suffer in some specific way to appreciate the blues- one only needs to be human. That's complicated enough. This healing music, these healing stories, the placement of the spirit on the edge of the string, on the edge of the chair, the edge of the world, the edge of my pocket knife. Would you jump off, and not come back? Fall off? Would you risk your life? Not on purpose, but by accident? Some strange twist of fate. Down on your knees like the Wolf. Out of your body like Son. Sometimes that's probably what might save your life. Or my life. Or not. Sometimes it's just being near to it. Like dreaming. The sounds you hear before dawn. Pan slinking by on cloven feet. Waking up in the back seat of your car. Waking up in Mavis Staples' hotel room, watching the mist rising off the water, the early sun full of itself and flushed with opportunity.<br />
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But that's not Toronto, a town progress has left without strongly identified blues places. The empty lot where the Colonial Tavern used to be: where Buddy Guy and Junior Wells used to come in and play 5 nights, where I saw Wolf on his hands and knees, where Colin Linden and I opened shows for Muddy Waters... The ghosts of Grossman's Tavern, The Silver Dollar Room, The Victory, the El Mo, the Paramount: the memory of neon and smoke, draft beer and laughter spread down Spadina Ave. The Market: Chickens running around. Old, Jewish businesses not yet pushed out by ChinaTown, not yet retired, not yet willing to leave. Sammy, selling me my hats, steaming the brims. Have you heard of a "hat trick?" Uptown: Coming in the back door of the Riverboat. Two shows a night with Sonny and Brownie. Walking and wheeling my Super Reverb through the Market at 3 AM, showtime at Tiger's. Paper Door. Elephant Walk. All the speaks we'd play until dawn. Jane and Donnie. Ben banging the drums too loud. Wilcox puts his strat on the gaming table. Bo Diddley coming in for a little jam. But it's all gone. Gone. It's all different now. Like everywhere else, the small shows are getting smaller, while the big shows have more production gear and crew than musicians and instruments. It's all different. And it's always different. Not better, not worse. Different. Live music, the way we used to consume it and make it, has changed.<br />
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The scene: always changing. Graffiti: a new generation paints new things on the walls. And that's how it should be. The focal points are more properly some of the players themselves. And even these are shifting, moving about from month to month. This cafe, that bar, which second Tuesday, in this band and that. There was a time when there were great blues rooms here in Toronto. And good blues rooms. There still are some cool rooms- but most are smallish, local affairs. Tip jar rooms with long residencies. Nothing wrong with that. In Canada it is mostly about bass and drums. Toronto, long lost in the red glow of my tail lights. You never know. You might get lucky. You might hear a story you haven't heard before. Or not.<br />
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Big times in Hollandale, Mississippi. A new stone for Sam Chatmon, unveiled before the Sam Chatmon Blues Festival. Butch, Libby Rae, Roy... and a whole bunch of other good folks helped make this happen. Sam was a great friend and mentor to so many of us! And look at us over 30 years beyond his passing! It was kind of cool to see the words "Stop and Listen" on the new bench next to the stone. I had suggested that, and I guess everybody ran with it. Back in the day, Sam used to tell me "getting old is good for business." That would of been my number two pick. For the bench, that is. But I sure hope he was right!<br />
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Meanwhile I've got the Lincoln pointed towards Atlantic Canada. Quick stop in Ontario where I had hoped to do a Toronto Blues Society showcase event for the Ontario Council of Folk Festivals. Not folked up enough, I guess... No, plenty of good acts- I'm just disappointed that I failed to make the TBS cut for a showcase. I didn't get to play the Blues Summit showcases, either. Simply put, there is now an abundance of authentic blues artists in the region and across the country. Quite a few own high end guitars, cigar boxes, custom made microphones. Some have even been to Chicago. Or Memphis. Or both. Of course, I'm jealous. Or not. I need a fret job, and I could put some of that money into new tires- but I do get to play all the magic places lost in the folds of the maps. Yeah, magic places. </div>
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After ten solid years of the Tour I really need, more than ever, to connect face to face with more of the Canadian folk festival scene movers and shakers. And that's difficult when they don't often come out to independent live shows over ten provinces and two territories. Without access to the Canadian folk and blues festivals it's getting to be pretty difficult to continue working as I have been in Canada. So, next year it may be a little different. Maybe a lot fewer Canadian shows. I won't blow off the European festivals anymore, that's for sure. (Call me, Franz, I no longer need to room with Willie Nelson.) I probably mentioned in an earlier blog that I am working on a book based on my adventures along the National Steel Blues Tour. It's not about the South. It covers 1000 shows in Canada, mostly by road- but also by boat, dogsled and small aircraft. Critics will eventually tell you what they think it's about. Time will tell more stories.</div>
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The business may be getting old, but today, in Canada, the National Steel Big X Blues Tour continues. No agents, managers, tour busses, or fancy new guitars. Apparently no showcases, either. Damn! Come to think of it, that's not so bad. At my age, summer is clearly over. Fall is underway. Winter is in the distance. Snow in the color of my hair. Vulgar vagabond! After 42 years of travel and shows, I still stop for coffee, and piss where I please.</div>
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On the Atlantic Tour I've got some really fun shows lined up- including a gig at the East Coast Amateur Boxing Club in Halifax.</div>
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Rockford, Nova Scotia. Six rounds, pre-show bare knuckle. A place that doesn't Google well. Near Bedford, Nova Scotia. Yeah, just behind the pounders in the picture there is a boxing ring. When the Tour reaches Maritime Canada in a few weeks time- I'll be there. The East Coast Amateur Boxing Club. Hands down, one of the coolest gigs on the Big X Blues Tour. It's the first show in my career where fans can actually get ringside seats. I may tape up before the gig, I don't know. But I will be in the Ring, with my guitars to back me up. Saturday, November 14, 225 Bedford Highway, near the ghost of Africville.</div>
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Africville. Do you know about that? They say that used to be one tough town. Now: all sucked into the big city of Halifax. Africville- exotic colours and smells. Gone. All but forgotten now, it's memory like a mirage in the shadow of the big bridge. I've stood there and looked at it. Squinting in the small hours. The tuneless hum of traffic nearby. There was Blues here. Jazz. A black town in Canada. It wasn't rich, and it wasn't pretty- but it was home to perhaps 500 souls. During the American Revolution, the War of 1812, and beyond- waves of escaped slaves and free black Loyalists settled at Africville. Then, between 1964 and 1970, the City of Halifax moved the residents out and levelled the community. House by house. As a sign of respect, garbage trucks were used to help residents move their possessions. Today, the Bedford Highway creeps down the basin, providing suburban commuters with a toll free run around the bridges.</div>
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It's my tenth consecutive year of bringing the Tour to the Halifax region, the Maritimes, Atlantic Canada. I'm pleased to be booked solid across Newfoundland again this year. Prince Edward Island. New Brunswick, Nova Scotia. When I turn off the Lincoln in December, that will mark over 1000 shows for the Tour. And only one boxing ring.<br />
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The majority of my shows in New Brunswick and Prince Edward Island will be played with local guitar hero, Matchstick Mike. We've done some shows together before, so I know it's going to be pretty neat. Yes, he is the heavily tattooed blues rocker guy! But he's also pretty handy on the dobro, mandolin, acoustic guitar. Sings harmony. Writes. We'll have some big fun.<br />
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Some of the shows I'm looking forward to with Mike include BarNone, up in the red dirt hills of PEI, and The Factory, in Charlottetown, where we'll guest with a full band. And we've got some house concerts, some pub shows, and possibly a gig in a tattoo joint... Schedule and posters are now in the Links sidebar. We've still got a couple of open dates, so there's no telling where we might end up.</div>
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Then, I'll be on the boat to Newfoundland... Life is always good when the wheels are turning.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7495270388063269086.post-85747069834104465712015-07-14T12:59:00.000-04:002015-07-14T13:50:34.725-04:00Busking the PanAm: Hustler's Games in Toronto<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxTNQ8Ne9hfg-9kRTLnqkLgVtfVrd1lENPRvIWn4izPceKZHzkhcOWMwNfdAILvelk1i1JR904H-OBOAFBw1AhRdesvOwzNHeyx-UGattKOu-rITg2eHgqluz1lk8cY3Dk6T6YBwz2gkk/s1600/IMG_0697_2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxTNQ8Ne9hfg-9kRTLnqkLgVtfVrd1lENPRvIWn4izPceKZHzkhcOWMwNfdAILvelk1i1JR904H-OBOAFBw1AhRdesvOwzNHeyx-UGattKOu-rITg2eHgqluz1lk8cY3Dk6T6YBwz2gkk/s640/IMG_0697_2.JPG" width="538" /></a><br />
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In Toronto, Canada, to busk the PanAm games. By day my virtual office hums, or curses, as I continue to fill dates and detail the upcoming US Midwest and South leg of the Tour. By night, it's me and the hustlers, the dope dealers, pick pockets, ticket re-sellers, addicts, insane street people, tourists, fire eaters and accordian players. Loose change. Blues. Smokestack Lightnin' echoing in the underground tunnels. I could join any of those other groups. I've shared this space with them for years. I know their work well. They make more than I do. The guy with the sign that says "I Lost My Job," makes a few hundred bucks a day. His girlfriend, who works around the corner has a sign that says "Pregnant and Homeless." People are always stopping and handing them $20 bills. There's a sucker born every minute, PT Barnum used to say. And here we are. Me and the other hustlers. Together on these mean, but polite streets. The guy who pretends to live on the hot air grate above me stops by and gives me a couple of beer at the end of his shift. "I had a good day," he says, before jumping the gate and disappearing into the roar and grind of the trains below.<br />
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I'm way too smart to die down here. And it's actually been a number of years since I've been robbed, or had a gun pointed at me by some street punk trying to impress his drunken girlfriend. So it's like weightlifting. The playing, that is. Between Tours I put in time, and it helps keep the whole thing running. Strong hands, good tone. But also bone spurs on my wrists and elbows, arthritis in my feet, and God knows my bladder is not what it was when I started doing these three, four, five, six hour sets. This summer, I'm averaging $12 an hour. If you're not playing, you're not making money. That's a whole lotta hours. So I play. I write. I watch and witness. Upstairs, in Nathan Phillips Square, there's a festival going on. I can hear strains of "Caledonia" echoing down the tube. On a hot day, apparently that's a very interesting story. The same band will repeat that same story all summer at festival after festival. Barnum's ghost floats above it all.<br />
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Early into the games, the streets of Toronto are much quieter than expected, and there is no sign of any economic trickle down. With festivals and free music all over town, buskers are at a bit of a disadvantage. Last night I went to hear Rikki Lee Jones on a comp ticket. Really, I should of busked the show, I guess. Sometimes I'm simply not as ambitious as I once was. I ran into Rob Bowman there, and figured that his presence was probably more ambitious than my own. Soon enough, I'll be busking Memphis again, negotiating my spot with the guys from the Moss St. Mission. The blind ambition of filling a couple of nights between St. Louis, MO and Clarksdale, MS...<br />
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Plenty of Mississippi and Alabama dates still open. Maritimes starting to fill. Newfoundland nearly booked up...<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7495270388063269086.post-56471951727782519182015-06-21T23:47:00.002-04:002015-06-25T10:34:10.768-04:00Changing of a String<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I've had a couple of people post me recently to ask about my string and guitar set ups, so I thought I'd put something up for guitar players. If you are NOT a guitar player, please enjoy the sidebar, and/or skip down to pick up the previous posts of the road adventure which is the National Steel Blues Tour!<br />
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I play a variety of electric and acoustic stringed instruments, but mainly I'm known for my finger picking on resophonic guitars. Nationals. With biscuits. That's what I'm going to discuss here. My playing set-up, on my resonators. All about me.<br />
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I grew up playing without thumb picks- and therefore without fingerpicks- partially because there were no left handed thumb picks, and partially because most of my early influences mainly played bare thumb, bare finger. I love the voice of resophonic instruments, coaxed out with the bare fingers. I think you get a bigger range of tone possibilities. LOL, yes, even me on my long declared "dead" strings. All that said, the longer I play, the more I believe that each guitar-player combination is unique. And there are times where I would LIKE to be using a thumb pick. I'm not opposed to it in the least, and I wouldn't be surprised to find myself using one of those fancy, left thumb picks sometime in the future. Do I love Morgan Davis' groove? Fred McDowell? Darn straight I do! But that's not how I play.<br />
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It's hard to believe that a player like me is as fussy about strings as I am! Bare fingers on dead strings. I have a reputation for rarely changing strings, but I get the sounds I want out of these guitars, and my fans seem to like the sound of them. That's the only important part. Do you like the way your guitar sounds? There's no right and wrong about it. Unless, of course, you are trying really hard to sound like somebody else. Or more like somebody else. All my guitars are strung in a similar way. For my style of playing I prefer slightly lighter bass strings, and slightly heavier treble strings. I like the bass to thump- often dampened- and the treble to carry most of the melodic weight. Also, I hate it when strings squeak- hence my preference for older or seasoned strings. I don't like bright, new strings on my guitars. New wound strings will also grab at the flesh of your fingers- raise blisters, damage callus. I'm not above taking a file, or a little sandpaper to the region of any new strings that will contact my thumb and fingers- my picking hand. I work almost every night, so I don't want to raise a blister- on, or under, even my big, fat callus! And I don't want the slide to be scratchy either- so I may give the whole string a bit of a polish. Flat or semi-flat wound strings may be a good option for some, but I really don't modify to that extent, and I need to use combinations of string gauges not offered in sets. A heavy slide will smooth the strings out nicely over time, too. I use an 11/16 deep socket most of the time on most of my guitars. It's dense and heavy- I like that. I also use some glass, bottlenecks that I've taken off wine bottles. I've got a shotgun barrel slide I've been playing with recently. It's a little light on it's own, but I've jammed a big bolt in the end of it to give it a bit more grab. If your friends are cutting these sorts of weapons down, there's no point wasting the barrels...<br />
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The action on my guitars tends to be fairly low. Not really, really, low- I like to whack these strings pretty hard. But you don't need a crazy, high action to play slide- and you probably want to fret the instrument in a conventional way, too. A slightly heavier treble string at a lower action works well for me, and does not result in fret noise.<br />
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I don't like strings to break. It's rare that I break a string, and it's even more uncommon for me to break one on stage. It's an event when that happens! Each guitar in the family has it's own similar, but personalized string set. As has been suggested, you can certainly play with fairly light strings on a National. The resonator is going to be pretty loud regardless. And you can mic it up if you want. But you do want enough string underneath your fingers to control, and to ride a slide. As a rule, I really wouldn't change the high E down to .12 on a resonator- if you play very much at all you may well be breaking these, and you probably won't get as much conversation out of the string. A .13, just a tad heavier, might be a better bet. B might be .16-17. For the G you can mix it up: I use plain, unwound Gs on all but one of my guitars. Try a .24. It will never wear out (unlike the wound, .26 strings that last only a few hours before the windings tear), you can still bend it, and it will sound great with a slide. I sometimes use a .26 plain- but that's like bailing wire to most people. I play a lot... My own, typical set ups for the bass side are pretty light- .36-39, .44-48, 48-52. You can run heavier if you want, but unless you are in a bluegrass band, playing with picks, holding a steel, I don't know why you'd need to. I don't need to, anyway. My sixth string is usually not much heavier than the fifth. Works for me.<br />
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So read here: I'd suggest buying and changing your strings individually. Keep the string packs- the wrappers- in your guitar case with the date of change written on them. If you break a particular guage more than once, more often than the others, move that string up by one gauge on that guitar. Did it break at the nut or the bridge? Is it mechanical, or does it have more to do with the way you play? After a few months you will have adjusted the guitar-string combination to your playing style and to the personality of the guitar- and, probably, you will rarely break strings. I also apply a little graphite- from a simple pencil- into the nut and bridge slots when I'm changing a string. I think a little more "slip" in these spots can help avoid, or postpone the breaking of strings.<br />
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The same advice goes if you like the sound of brand new strings- nothing wrong with that, and they are easier to tune. They do stretch, though. And why go up on stage to tune a package of spanking new strings over and over again? New, but not brand new. The best time to change out a set of strings is probably AFTER a show! Strings will help make, or break, your show and your sound- but you and your hands are still the most important part of your gear. No rules. Go with what works for you. If you've got the sound in your head, with a little work you can probably get it to come out of your hands using almost any guitar-string combination. If you don't have sounds in your head, it's not going to matter how cool your guitars, or strings are. Through my limited contact with Hubert Sumlin, I observed that he always sounded the same, no matter what guitar he was playing. Hubert was cool. The guitars didn't matter. I've told you what works for me.<br />
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I'm changing out the 5th string today because I've had some tuning concerns with it, and because the string seems to have gone beyond the dead thump I like. Who would of thought that the string would last for eight years! That's a lot of shows on my number one guitar. And thousands of hours of busking in all weather. Finally wore through and wore down the windings over the length of it. Changing it out, I'm seeing that the frets, fretboard, and neck also have substantial wear. The frets are cut down to the wood in a couple of places, and form deep ruts everywhere else. The fretboard has some deep hollows, and is quite scalloped in places along the treble side. The neck has now got a little twist which is a little bigger and a little more twisted than it once was. Like me. If this had happened overnight, the instrument would not be playable. As it is, the guitar is played hours every day, and is usually on stage doing shows. To a point, our playing and tuning adapt to the slow changes of an instrument. After that... guitar hospital.<br />
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My 1929 National, Type O has not had any work done to it in about 35 years. Well, I fix a machine head every once in a while, but that's it. Soon, she'll take a break and visit a luthier while her sister- the Dark Angel- my 1935 Duolian, gets the centre stage. Meanwhile, the Type O will finish this 10th annual, National Steel Blues Tour with me. And probably make the next album. Neither of us have retirement plans. She probably has at least another 86 years left in her career.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7495270388063269086.post-18495167207924495282015-06-12T23:45:00.000-04:002015-06-25T10:41:24.267-04:00Riding Over the Hump: Northern Ontario<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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How quickly the prairie is lost to the shield. Eastbound from Winnipeg, where I spent the morning with my frequent tour pal, Big Dave McLean. He told me that the producer/director of his recently released bio-pic had cut me out to save money. That's the second time this year I've been able to help this way with a bio-pic, so it gives me a strong, move ahead kind of feeling. Right now I'm moving ahead through the scrub lands north and east of Winnipeg. The roads are good for a while, but they grow rougher as the farmland fades to abandoned properties, as the rocks and trees become more prominent.<br />
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How quickly do I reach the edge of Manitoba. The eastern edge- where the flatlands die off. Abandoned fields. Forty years of scrub and brush to blow off a hundred years of labour. Medonites. Magazines with stories about Medonite sex. Big, blonde women who wear dresses and braided hair. Men who buy rye in plastic bottles at 4:30 on a Monday afternoon. Ice. Coffee cups. We sit outside a Ukrainian cemetery and drink. The groaning trains on the main line, just behind the trees, the almost forgotten graves. Clever candle holders cut into some of the stones. When was the last candle lit and burnt here? Never to be Forgotten. Mother. Father. Sister. Burn a candle for me when I'm gone. On my birthday. Until I, too, am forgotten, and the stone, lichen covered, tilts dangerously. Soon this stone will fall to join the other forgotten stones, forgotten souls, smashed and run over by the challenged one who drives the lawn tractor. But now it is the black flies that drive us away: the truck in a storm of dust. My car, into the little church parking lot where I shall sleep tonight.</div>
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It's a nice ride out of here in the early morning light. A couple of black bears saunder across the road. My camera is buggered up, so by the time I've stopped the car and got it ready, I'm alone on Hwy 44. From here, it's a pretty quick ride out to Ontario. It has a low speed limit, and a low tolerance, so I set the cruise on "slow," turn up the stereo, and roll towards my gig in Kenora, ON. I'm back on the TransCanada, and desperately seeking coffee.<br />
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In Kenora, I hit the coffee joint, work the internet, and then go out to check on the Thrift stores. Nothing today. I'm looking for those china, Queen Elizabeth, Canadian bourbon glasses. Nothing like having the old girl scowl at you while you have a drink. These are pretty popular with my pals on the southern route, so I try to stock up when I can.</div>
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Although Kenora, ON has come a long way in the past decade, it still has a tough underbelly of lost and damaged First Nations people. Change is underway. Changing economy. Changing opportunities. Changing mind set of a new, younger population with new dreams and ideas. The mercury poisoned residents of Grassy Narrows no longer stagger up and down these hard slopes. Or not as often. Still, I make sure my car is locked up tight when I'm away from it. Syringes litter the sidewalk of this downtown street. Blue skies overhead, I can smell spring flowers in the air.<br />
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Tonight I'll be playing a nice club where most of Canada's touring shows stop. Good stage, good lights, good sound. Folks in this old mill town know a lot about music. Some have come here from other places. It's pretty. It's on a big lake. Everybody agrees it has a future. Change is in the wind.<br />
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Soon the rocks and trees will be behind me. The rough Northern Sheild just a memory again. The black and white Ontario Provincial Police cruisers- sleek, souped-up SUVs- behind me and no longer following. They were waiting outside my show in Kenora, ON. I didn't get in or start the motor until he hit the traffic circle. Then my pal Dave and I took off in the opposite direction. We circled around to the top of the hill and looked down to watch them looking for the Lincoln. I was good to drive, I just didn't want to go through another Kenora shakedown. I've been here, and had that happen before. But it's a thin line of blacktop across this land. Every escaping criminal running east of west has got to blow through on this little band of road. There's no telling who you might meet. You might get scared. You might suspend constitutional rights for ordinary citizens. Particularly guys in nice looking Lincolns. I could be a doctor, coming in to operate in the morning. The engineer, to assess your bridge. A musician, to bring the Blues to Your Town. Healing music, to a place that still needs healing.</div>
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When we got back to the house we played with this 1940s amp that Dave is preparing for me. A very heavy 30 watts! Life is good! Why is the blues so fine? And why do cops love beautiful Lincolns so much? Now, the Tour takes a right hand turn east, and south. The beginnings of a plunge down the map.</div>
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Dryden, the smell of money in the air. The mill doesn't employ as many as it once did, and the young folks are drifting away to Winnipeg, Thunder Bay, Toronto. No stop this year- but I've played a few shows in the shadow of these stacks. Last winter my car froze solid in this town. Battery shattered, air suspension locked in the down position. Damn cold ride outta here on black ice, semi trucks pushing on my tail, white knuckles on the wheel. Nice to see this place in spring, but I've got six hours of driving- and a time change- before my show tonight. A quick coffee stop, but no time to check in with any of my people.<br />
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A quiet night in Thunder Bay. I leave a tour jacket at the Apollo. Did anyone get a picture? My little camera didn't. There's a core of people in Thunder Bay that come out to all my shows, year after year. The Apollo is a great room anyway, but my friends here make every room a great room. I've yet to play the Thunder Bay Blues Festival. But I think I get the picture there. The big picture. Meanwhile, my pals, the band Carmanah, were playing across the street at another venue. We chat between shows, between loading in and loading out. Their first tour. I wish them well, and safe travels.<br />
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With construction, it's a ten hour drive to The Sault, ON for tonight's show. My picture is on the door, which is a good sign. But I have not played a show here in 9 years, so I have no idea what to expect on a Thursday night. They have a nice stage and PA, but I end up sitting at the bar- playing a few tunes to the few people that have wandered in for a drink. I'm in here on a door deal, but thankfully the owner gives me enough to cover a tank of gas, plus a bit more. On this Ride Over the Hump back of the Great Lakes, I continue to be thankful for the smallest kindness. We're all on the edge. We're all trying to figure it out. We've all got to ride the wave, or drown.<br />
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Hard rock town. Sudbury, ON. Riding the blacktop. Trains outside. Northern Ontario where I used to play six nights at the Colson Hotel. I think that was here. I think that's how you spell it. These places all torn down now. Boarded over in the boarded over mill towns. Faded "cold beer" signs still up on the walls. Places where there used to be a salt shaker on every table. For the beer.<br />
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None of the bikers at my gig tonight wore leather. No disputes with the hard rock miners, now mostly retired. Or the railway crews, in from the bush, drinking elsewhere. No FBIs in for a punch up. That's a joke to some, an insult to others. It depends on who's saying it to who, and when. It's not nice. It's historical. It's the way it was. You might laugh. Or you might be mad about it. Part of the almost worn away fabric that covered the seats of this train side town. A place where some things need to be forgotten, and other things need to be remembered. Tonight, it's a mixed crowd of mostly arty professionals and students. Wine and cheese plates. Designer beer. I start early, end early, meet some facebook friends, an old pal from the rough and tumble days. At the end of the night I'm paid $65 by the bar, and make another $50 in tips. Gas money to the next town. I knew this gig was fuzzy around the edges. Not finding it listed on the web, I wasn't going to stop if my picture wasn't in the window. It was. I did. Now I'm going to sleep in the Lincoln Hotel, parked next to the tracks again. These trains will wake me up once in a while. Just to see if I'm still alive. Maybe it is a dream, and I'll wake up in the old Colson to the sound of my drummer screwing a hooker in the next bed. Or maybe I'll wake up to room service at the Best Western in Mobile, AL, wondering, how the hell did I get to this place? Is this the breakfast I thought it would be? Did I order this? Has there been a mistake?<br />
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Something is always for sale in Sudbury...<br />
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Down the road to Lavigne, a charming and wonderful gig on the shores of Lake Nipissing. My people. They treat me right. I've been here a few times before. A little, francophone community, so I try out my rough, french language skills. I could stay up all night and swap stories with the owners, but I need to be on the road in just a few hours. Meanwhile, the cops have got a road check set up just over the hill. It's the only bar left in the county, so they have nowhere else left to go. Maybe they can close this place down, too. They'll be long gone by morning, and I'll make some time on these empty, secondary highways.</div>
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A soft seater at the Orangeville, ON Opera House this afternoon. Here I am with Orangeville Blues and Jazz Festival AD Larry Kurtz. As well as being a harmonica player, wood worker, festival director- he's also a painter! Who knew?! Pre-show we stopped in at a Main St. art gallery to check out this painting. I'm honoured.<br />
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Post-show, at the Mississippi Tourism booth with my friends Connie "Mississippi Queen" Rouble, and Paul Reddick. This is my only Canadian festival this year. Of course, this is also a country where Burton Cummings and Randy Bachman headline "blues" and "folk" festivals, and money looks funny. Remember the Guess Who? How about BTO's "Takin' Care of Business?" I could get used to the funny money- if I saw more of it. Canadian money, that is. Randy must be a blues guy at heart- he made a blues album this year, I think. Just like Steve Earle. Peg Leg Sam used to say "funny things happen in this world!" And he was right! I sure do miss those days when we used to drink moonshine and play all night outside his little cabin: the young girls and the old girls dancing, calling out "hey, Doc-Tah, hey..." Never did play Mojo. And the only business we took care of was hogs, late at night.<br />
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Back in the "Big Smoke," Toronto, ON. Not a moment too soon, either. Power steering pretty much done. Air not working. Tires looking a little smoother. Engine trouble light flashing. Ignition coils acting up... Back in my own kitchen for a few weeks. A stranger in my own house. All the drawers look strange, nothing is in the right place. Everything is just as I had left it nearly three months ago. Even the stuff in the fridge. I pace around. Thankfully I've got some shows to go and play. A car to fix. A garden to weed. Gigs to book. I've come to realize that I'm now more comfortable on the road than off. Maybe it's the city itself. I don't know. I do know the maps on the table. It's not a town that's ever had it's arms around me. Well, rolling through with my big band, hanging out at the Elephant Walk, The Paper Door, The Paramount, Tiger's... After hour joints crammed full of musicians: Donnie and Jane, Wilcox, show bands out of Detroit, out of work boxers, bouncers, jazz guys I should of known. Albert's Hall, The Horseshoe, The Elmo, The Holiday, The Jarvis House, The Algonquin, The Blackhawk, Grossman's Tavern, The Colonial, The Riverboat, The Silver Dollar, Sneaky Dee's, The Black Bull, Spadina House, The Victory, The Bev, The Rivoli, The Purple Onion, The Cameron House, Edgerton's, The Chimney, King of Hearts, The Isabella... There were other rooms, too. But I can't remember them now. Crazy. Crazy energy. Crazy neon nights. Playing hard, soaked in sweat, playing the blues. I blew harp in those days. The upstairs joint where Ben lost his drums, and Wilcox lost his strat in an all night poker game. I wonder who has that guitar now? I never gambled with money. Just with life. And it's all different now.<br />
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Working girl. Blues girl. This guitar will never be bought or sold. It will change players again sometime: gripping somebody else, edging out strange sounds from the dark side, telling new stories, old secrets. Sweat. Sex. Booze. Conversations overheard. Hard rooms. Cash. Late nights in 49 states, 10 provinces, two territories. Oh, if this girl had a tongue instead of a fretboard...<br />
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Big Chuck played her twenty-five years ago. Some day she'll leave me for another, younger man. Or woman. As long as you touch her right she doesn't care. Delta songster. Cold, nickel plated steel. National Type O. Built in 1929. I string her pretty heavy on the treble side, a bit lighter on the bass. Bare fingers. Dead strings. 250 shows a year across North America. Thanks for riding with me on this western leg of the adventure. Soon we'll go south for a couple of months- Chicago, St. Louis, Mississippi, Alabama... then up the eastern seaboard into Atlantic Canada, Newfoundland... The National Steel "Big X" Blues Tour. North America's biggest little blues tour. Watch for some very special guests down the line.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7495270388063269086.post-76440678543968077722015-06-01T11:40:00.000-04:002015-06-25T10:47:38.227-04:00Prairie Blues<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Alberta! The Tour picked up a little more steam with another sold out show in Lethbridge last night. I parked the Lincoln in the loading dock and this was my view early this morning. Rolling toward Saskatchewan now. It's a great map out here: places with names like Seven Persons, Medicine Hat, Manyberries, Wild Horse, Bow Island, Purple Springs... Upcoming in Saskatchewan over the next few days: Kyle, Saskatoon, Wadena, Weyburn, Regina...<br />
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The changing prairie. Not changing. Not changing fast enough. The slow pace of the freight trains beating their way across the sky. The slow pace of paint fading, board leaning one direction or another, opening spaces for winter's quiet fingers. Big land, some of it owned by companies with glass offices far away. The family farm. Rocks picked off in spring. The old Case tractor. Just a cluster of trees, some rusted humps where those dreams were made, cheques written. Where war brides shed their tears and men worked themselves to death in the summer sun.<br />
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Oil brought strangers here, progress sucking the marrow from the bones of these towns. That church is for sale: you can't fix the roof, and you can't rent a preacher to talk about it. Just thank God that Saskatoon and Regina are only a few hours away. Escaping youth, escaping the emptiness. Escaping the high price of diesel, escaping to the glitter of lights, the smell of mould in a double wide. Indian mufflers. Bud's on Broadway on a Saturday night. Almost too drunk to climb up the old fire escape and squeeze through the back door. Almost too drunk to remember this tattoo, that girl.<br />
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It's way too early in the morning, as it often is when I wake up in the Lincoln. The night was warm enough, but sleep was punctuated by the occasional shuffling of the homeless and intoxicated up and down the alley. I kill a few minutes taking pictures as the sun comes up, then change my clothes, perform my toilet behind the car, pack the bedding, throw out the trash, stretch, and stretch again. Coffee time. I head out onto the silent, golden streets: looking for breakfast, looking for cheap gas.</div>
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I've got about four hours of driving to get to tonight's show- a house concert up in Kyle, Saskatchewan. That's north of Swift Current, a town I've driven through at least twice a year for ten years- and only played once. My show tonight will be hosted by a woman who used to be involved with the Calgary Blues Festival. She's retired to this little place, and intends to give the scene a friendly nudge. Meanwhile, I've got eight or ten hours. Time to explore a bit. Stocked up with an extra large coffee and a full tank of cheap, Alberta gas, I'm off. Eastbound. Coaldale. I circle through the residential area, down what's left of the main street. I could of stayed out here last night, if only I'd called Nancy. Or not.<br />
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The small towns are mostly getting smaller. Not much like towns anymore. Not like the towns I think I remember. Hollow shells of what once was. Mall sites for the slick, multinational corporations that mine these places and drain the money off to far away shareholders. Drain the money. Take the Tim Horton's coffee franchise, which brings in workers from the Phillipines on temporary visas. Take the Home Depot: it's massive footprint, it's sweltering parking lots and overnight architecture. A place with many millions of dollars of imported inventory, a place with many millions of dollars of annual sales. A place where they want you to use an automated checkout so they can eliminate a couple more, minimum wage positions from the town they have occupied. These companies have no real bond with the communities they dominate, while the communities themselves have fewer and fewer reasons to be communities. There's no glue left. Only gasoline fumes behind the vacant buildings, and tense, out of town RCMP cops patrolling the streets. Here, they drive by me once, twice, three times.<br />
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You could say the small towns need to be tough and make better deals, or you could say that times are changing. You could make a good living trying to explain this to college students, or at a boardroom table. These empty town streets: artifacts of a way of life that is gone- evolved into a last stage, end game. What will the new world look like? Who will buy the products sold in the superstores? You can bet that when the life blood is gone, these businesses too, will vanish back into the cities that sent them thirsty and greedy to the prairie. What strange landscape will these little places be in twenty-five, or fifty years?<br />
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Alberta- easily the most conservative region in Canada. Or that was their reputation. Now they've just turfed out the government they've had for a generation. It's all about oil, natural resources. It's all about Big. But after years of big pay packets, the place is broken: pockets picked clean by resource companies and those who made the deals for them. Why would you want to build a pipeline across the continent to refine oil in Texas and Louisiana when you could do it in Medicine Hat? Why wouldn't you just ship finished product, instead of buying it back? My fuel costs on the Tour are nearly twice as much on the Canadian side. Anyway, now we'll see what the new, centre left, New Democratic Party brings to the table. Provincially. Maybe nationally as well...<br />
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The changing prairie. There was a time when the Hutterites might have walked naked through the streets to burn the Parliament. Now they vote, and vote hard. You can't buy back the ruined little towns, abandoned spurs, fallen elevators and broken farms. But you can always dream.<br />
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Over the last 9 years my Canon, Powershot A560 camera has taken nearly 20 thousand pictures of the Tour. Well, I've taken the pictures- and used this camera. Now, it is suffering. I've dropped it off the roof of the car more than a couple of times, it's been through a car wreck, it's been underwater, but it seems to have survived those traumas relatively unscathed. I think it may just be age. Still, when the shutter fails to open, or the flash won't flash, or it just doesn't do what is requested or expected- it can be a little frustrating. I've thrown out more pictures than I've kept on this tour. Pics that just didn't turn out. Beyond salvage. On the up side- I've had to work at the software a little harder to produce images that are at least somewhat presentable. I have friends who take really good pictures (heck, you may be one of them!), so over the last couple of years I've tried a little harder to watch and learn. But, for sure, I've had to work harder to bring images to the Blog this year.<br />
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Not a traffic warning. One of my favourite place names anywhere. I'm guessing that more like 100 people may live at Seven Persons. I've never actually seen anybody- but I've driven past their houses, the little bar, and the store.<br />
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A stop in Medicine Hat, AB, to visit pawn shops and thrift stores. I buy nothing, and find no temptation. Instead, I find a cafe with internet. Here, I open the virtual office and get down to business. Strangely, I am booking shows in St. Louis, Mississippi and Newfoundland from this dot on the prairie map. Facebook also demands frequent updates- part of the reason my blogs are no longer posted daily.<br />
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Here's a mural in downtown Medicine Hat. While it features a quote from R Kipling saying "don't change the name of this place," it also grabs at the fundamentals of the region. Fossil fuels: big oil, big coal, the power of the railways, wheat, the working farmer, and the native American heritage that underpins it all. Fittingly, this is painted on the back of a liquor store. You can see the sign just above the art. Behind the garbage bins, a couple of homeless First Nations people lie sleeping in the shade. There are way too many First Nations people sleeping in the shade across this land. Sleeping in the shade, far from hope, far from salvation. Sleeping in the snow, sometimes forever. Canada's dirty secret is it's 1876 Indian Act, an apartheid-like bill which remains largely in place today. This was Ottawa's attempt to assimilate- or perhaps simply pacify or disable- Canada's native people through the systemic destruction of culture, language, social and political organization. While a reserve system contained- and continues to contain- First Nations people on often remote and always separate lands, well over 150 thousand children were removed from their homes and families and sent away to residential schools. The last of these closed in 1996. This is a dark stain over race relations in Canada, particularly in western Canada. It left a generation damaged and largely dysfunctional. Lost. Canada, like America, is moving on- but in Canada the moving is slow. The after effects linger on the streets and in the prison system like a bad hangover. Ordinary people are going to change this world. The churches and the politicians have had their turn.<br />
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The blues itself. The race card. What's that? Not yet color blind after all these years. It depends on who's asking, or hiring. Or why their asking, or hiring. Still fought over, re-invented, stolen, stolen back, made up, remembered and forgotten. The fact that we're still talking about it means we are not yet where we need to be. Ordinary people are going to change this world.<br />
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Driving today. Out of Alberta. Saskatchewan. Somebody told me it has more miles of roads than any other province. That might be true.<br />
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Small town hotels don't feature many shows anymore- but they sure are good places to connect with local folks. I had a really nice time playing a house concert just a couple of blocks from this old hotel. Good people. Good stories. Good things in small places you might miss in the folds of a map. I'm reminded of how much I enjoy performing in small towns all over Canada and the United States. These are not just shows- they are connections, openings into the mysteries of time and space. Well, the mysterious lives of others, at least. One always returns as a friend of somebody.<br />
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Saskatoon. "Toon Town." A city, not a town, really. But a friendly place with deep blues roots. Bud's is one of the last of the big beer joints. Six, sometimes seven nights of music. It used to be six nights of blues. Touring bands. Live upstairs in a couple of band apartments. Live wild. Live. Just for the joy of it. When beer was king. When love was free. When some of us were young and foolish. When others were old and foolish. Climb the fire escape, drunk. And howl at the moon. Now I've got three nights here. Solo. The band apartment is clean, and quiet. I keep it tidy. I've got my choice of beds. No wifi. There's a television, but I never do turn it on- so I don't know if it works or not.<br />
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The bar managers here are friendly and experienced. They know what's what, and who's who. And they pour me drinks. So, we're a good little team. If it's quiet, I'll quit early, or start late. If it's busy, I'll work the house. The first night is pretty quiet. The second two nights I play four sets. There's red wine. No driving. A whole bunch of friends from the Saskatoon Blues Society drop by over the three nighter. After ten years of shows, I've got a whole lot of friends and fans here, and it's always great to catch up. Not to mention that this is MY blues society. Every blues fan should join a blues society- and this one is mine. They do such a good job! Role models for so many other organizations. Or they ought to be. This organization has really made a difference over the years, and has helped cultivate some great local, regional, national, and international talent while building a large, well informed audience. Here, in this prairie town. Prairie Blues. On Sunday I go down the block after my gig. There's a blues jam running late. I play a short set with local players backing me up. Lynn Victoria on bass, and C. C. "Che" McGhee on drums. One of Brownie's boys, and a fine player in his own right. Go figure. Small world sometimes, for all the miles and hours, all the years, all the gasoline. Brownie taught me a lot about how to live as a traveller. I have fond memories of him teaching me how to solder wires to fix an amp. A long ago afternoon, before a long ago show in Oakland, California. And now, in a dusty, Canadian prairie town, a bit of that same generous smile behind me. Walk on. Walk on.<br />
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The early morning view from my apartment over Bud's on Broadway.<br />
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I've got a down day in the middle of Saskatchewan. A Wednesday I couldn't even give away. Funny how that happens sometimes. Prince Albert has never been a blues town. Two kinds of music: Country and Western. My friends Scott and Cathy have got a farm outside Wadena, and they come to my rescue. I'll roll in a day early for my Wadena show. I kill part of the day on the Yellowhead Highway by stopping at the many wrecking yards along the way. Amigo's, just outside of Saskatoon, is a great yard. My Lincoln needs a couple odds and ends, but Lincoln Row has been picked clean since my last visit. Ford Row is still pretty good- I've got a 63 Galaxie, and I'm always looking for parts for that. Nothing I could pull and carry, so I buy a Coke and hang out in the office for a while. It's a busy yard, and I love the smell of oil and tires. Sometimes they let me walk around yards like this: just looking at the hulks. Who drove this? When? And why? How did it come to be here- with that shoe under the front seat?<br />
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By late afternoon I'm on loose, Saskatchewan gravel, rolling up to the farm. Scott is in from working the fields, and it's hot enough to drink beer- so we do. Because we can. He's worked a lot harder and longer than I have today, but I was in a little Saskatoon speak until 3:30 in the morning! After cooling down we go out to check on the cattle. It's calfing time, and there is one cow past due he wants to check on. I stay in the truck as he slowly approaches her, and sits down nearby. Clearly something is happening. It's a standing birth! Not uncommon, but not something I've witnessed before. As we watch, the calf bursts from the mother and lands on the ground with a distinct thud. Within a few minutes the newborn is on it's feet, and we are on our way.<br />
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Here's the old Anglican church at Wadena, SK. Soon to be closed. Soon, perhaps, to be torn down. And soon this Tour will move east to Ontario, south to St. Louis, Mississippi, Alabama. Other pictures, other stories. I'm not ready to be torn down yet. But I'll miss this little hall.<br />
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Flooding is a growing problem in parts of Saskatchewan. As some people figure out how to drain their lands, others are left with water covered fields. Increased foreign ownership of farm and ranch lands may also be a factor. Investment companies don't have neighbours, but they often have good lawyers.</div>
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Down into south Saskatchewan. I think you'd need TWO hands to hold this. Should be a Two Hand Gun Club... I'm heading down to the border area to play a show in Weyburn. Tommy Douglas came from Weyburn, SK... I've got enough in my pocket that I'm going to check in to a motel tonight instead of sleeping behind the venue! Just across the street there is a likely spot...<br />
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It's a small show- so I'm glad it is sold out. Nice folks in southern Saskatchewan.<br />
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Pointed east now. Just one more true, prairie show on this National Steel Big X Blues Tour. Someday, maybe all these grain elevators will be gone. There was a time when every town had them. And all these well tagged trains. Who are these people? The ones who tag these trains? Are they here, stuck in places like Milestone, SK, watching their tags leave town? Sneaking down to the tracks for a joint, a cigarette, a whiff of the oil soaked ties? Here, under Big Sky, they send their marks away. A surrogate escape, a token freedom, maybe a shout at a bigger world. Maybe they'll write a hit song, or a bad cheque, or hitch hike to Vancouver, looking for the bright lights.<br />
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Regina, SK. The opening band, Carmanah, were so good that I invited them to play the rest of the night with me. We had fun. My pals from the Regina Blues Society came out. Dale, who has put me up many times. Redbeard, who has promoted shows for me, played me on his radio shows, and has been a long time supporter. Others. People who bought the Narrow House cd when it was new. People who came to theatre gigs in towns like Moose Jaw, Estevan and Redvers. It means a lot to me. This show didn't get past the small print listings, and the Regina Folk Festival people didn't show up for the 10th consecutive year, but somehow that didn't matter so much this time around. After we packed out, the band invited me back to their digs- the Walmart parking lot. In the early morning, I pulled out alone. Bound for Winnipeg.<br />
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Train tag photographed at Indian Head, SK.<br />
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Winding up two months of shows across western Canada. The last couple of weeks under big sky- across the badlands and the flatlands of Alberta and Saskatchewan. House concerts in one syllable towns. Community halls. Churches. Classic old blues rooms tracing the ghost roads of the old northern circuit. Back when beer was king, and the bands came up out of Chicago to St. Paul, Winnipeg, Regina, Saskatoon, Edmnton, Calgary, Banff... Two months of six night shows for real money. Thick smoke drifting under hot lights. Bourbon. Pinball and pool. Girls living wild and dangerous. Plenty of blues DNA left across the dusty prairie. Maybe some of mine. And now, there's plenty of time to think about all this as I drive the open spaces. A one man show, living in broken rooms, living in my car, living in the shadows of what was, trying to carry a torch for what is, bringing the Blues from town to town. Thanks for riding along with me on the Blues Highway. Next: over the Hump of the Great Lakes.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7495270388063269086.post-26352804889623026982015-05-22T23:30:00.000-04:002015-06-25T10:55:13.851-04:00High Desert Downtime, HooDoos, Ghosts, Badlands<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I was kind of hoping for just a little more sleep. I had the Lincoln parked behind the gig in what turned out to be the Salvation Army parking lot. Well before dawn, a crew turned up to install new signage. The view from my windshield was startling, to say the least. Not to mention the roar of the crane, crew trucks banging, and operators calling out in godless language for me to move my fucking car. Ah, the word of God. Hope for the new day. Just down the road I find an iconic Tim's sign, and slink into the bathroom of this familiar coffee joint for a shave. Then, a massive coffee and a breakfast biscuit while I watch the sun begin it's work, burning off the haze. I'm down today, so I drive around Chilliwack, BC, looking for pawn shops, thrift stores, looking for signs of life, looking for the heart and soul of the place. I had a good crowd at my show last night, so I know there are real folks living here- good ones, too- but in the early morning this town is tight and quiet. I park and walk around a bit to kill time. No rush hour here, at least not downtown. As the sky is bluing, I've gassed up, got a car wash, bought some groceries, and visited two thrift stores. I've checked the tires, polished the windows, changed my clothes. Behind the bowling alley, a young hooker knocks on my window. She's carrying a suitcase. She wants a cigarette. I don't smoke. She looks like death. She wanders off, toward the bank machine across the parking lot. Other cars. Other cigarettes. At least I had a place to sleep last night. God was watching over me, or at least His signage was.<br />
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Leaving the lush, Fraser valley behind, I'm taking the smaller road up into the mountains. There's not much traffic on this road today as I pass through First Nations lands. Rough lives documented by the rusting steel totems of broken cars and trucks, torn siding, and salvage built homes. A roadside plaque tells me that a village was once here, out in the mud and the bogs. There's no sign of it now as I point the car towards Hope, and beyond.<br />
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Once you hit the tunnels, you've started to climb. These passes are all about tunnels and trains squeezing their way up and down the steep valleys. It doesn't take long to leave the soft lines of the Lower Mainland behind. There are fewer people up here. Fewer towns. It's all about coming and going. Goods moving east and west on giant trains that run through these mountains like massive snakes: miles long: competing lines roaring through this wild territory in all weather, at all times of the day or night. Again, the TransCanada Highway. A thin band of blacktop. How wide? Twenty feet? Wide enough for two trucks. Wide enough for this Lincoln on a sunny day. I climb through places with names like Boston Barr, and Hell's Gap. Soon this road will be crowded with RVs, families on holiday, mad men on bicycles. Bands on Tour, looking for the big time. Itinerant musicians looking for something, anything. Every Canadian band you've ever heard of has driven over this road, stopped and pissed in the same places, taken the same pictures of the river. Quite a few have died here as well. I know some of the spots along the highway. You are seldom closer to heaven or hell than when driving this road. Gotta make Vancouver. Gotta get this gear to Banff. Gotta get home. Gotta get somewhere, anywhere but here. What kind of life pumping coffees by the side of the road? Do you dream of the lights on the coast? Of the Big Top? Dylan's bus stopped here one time. What would it take to get sucked up, into the traffic, and swept away forever? Swept away from this sun stripped diner with it's cracked and dusty windows, swept away, as if waking from a dream.<br />
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The road keeps climbing. Once beyond the tougher parts of the pass there is a little, but not much more room for settlement. Today, I'm not due anywhere. I could slip from this cliff, and not be missed for days. Long swallowed by the raging river, or picked by the crows. I guess somebody would find the car, and figure out what might of happened. Or I could just park it and walk away, waking up in that cafe, serving coffee to somebody who might of been in a band one time. You think strange thoughts sometimes, when you live alone in a car for months on end, when you spend a lifetime dancing on this blacktop. I should be writing songs for my next album instead of drinking wine in a cemetery.<br />
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That rusty sign, half covered in brush by the roadside. How did I see it, and the two ruts that served now as a side road? In the heat, just beyond the condoms, the soiled diapers, the empty beer cans: people who lived next to this road: Built the tunnels, serviced the trains, strung the wire. Worked hard, played secret games. They were handsome. And pretty. Once. Missed, once. And now, names worn away by weather, like youth worn away by work and sorrow- now they hide in this little clearing. Did they, too, dream of lights along the coast?<br />
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Along here the Canadian National Railroad runs one side of the valley, and the Canadian Pacific runs the other. At night you can watch them roar in from the blackness, hear them fade away again into the distance. Is it warm in the cab? Does the engineer drink coffee as he peers ahead, watching for something, anything to break the beam, catch the signal? Does he dream of voices, mixed with the squealing and gnashing of the wheels? I do. But I can't always figure out the stories.<br />
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I roll into Spences Bridge, BC, in time to visit one of my favourite cowboy cemeteries. It might seem like a theme, but if you don't look, you don't find. Spences Bridge is high desert country. The best apples in the British Empire used to come out of here. Orchards were irrigated by hand cut, wooden pipes. Apples were shipped to the Royal Family from what is now the Packinghouse Cafe. The first World War changed all that. Young men marched off and didn't come back. Those who did soon found that the old ways were beyond repair. Plenty of dreams broken down, right here.<br />
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My friends Steve and Paulette have invited me to spend my down days at their farmhouse on the Nicola River, just outside of town. Here, I will spread my papers out on their big, farmhouse table and finish my already late taxes. It's as good a place as any, I suppose, to do the math proving that the Tour is no longer sustainable. I go at it for many hours every day. I pour a glass of red wine. Little Penguin, a cheap and cheerful south-east Australian I've taken a fancy to. Because I can. The financial picture may look bleak, but at least I can still have a glass of red while I contemplate the columns. I take my National down to the river- just behind the house- and sit in the sun. What a joy to just hang out and play guitar, and work on some new songs. As the small shows get smaller the survival model- my survival model- will need to change as well. Booze no longer fuels the whole thing. Being legendary to a demographic audience which increasingly does not want to drive at night is not helpful, either. But this is my life- this road, these almost secret spots along the way- and I'm not willing to let it slip away so easily. A good, long run may help generate some new ideas.<br />
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I've wanted to run the old rail bed along the Nicola River for some time now. Today, I'll do just that. I change into my running gear, load my water bottles. As a concession to the heat, I wear a brimmed Tilly hat instead of my usual baseball cap. You can tell I've adapted well to Canada by the silly, white hat. There is some sun going on out there, and it's hot, so I want to be prepared. I've forgotten to pick up the bear bangers I wanted to add to my gear, but I'm going anyway. I'm living a little bit dangerously, yes- and I will also be running alone through a fairly remote area. But- as I remind myself- my chances of being taken by a bear or a cougar are a little bit like getting hit by lightning. After a visit with my friends who run the HooDoo Ranch, near the trailhead- I'm off. I have no fixed plans other than to go for 10 or 15 km along the river.<br />
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From time to time signs of the old railway can be seen. A sun shower sweeps in and soaks me- not a bad thing. All is dry and hot again in a few minutes time.</div>
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It's a wonderful trail. Running is one of the only sports not requiring wealth. It's a poor man's meditation. It's a musician's pension plan. I need to stay healthy enough to keep working. And I like it. I'm not as fast as I used to be, but I'm always glad to be out there. My GPS quits, but I figure I've done about 15 km- about 10 miles, along the river. Not a soul out here except me. As I run I watch for signs of old farms along the way. Artifacts. Eagles fly overhead. Strange birds cry. Once, above the hushing of the water, I hear dogs barking somewhere in the distance.<br />
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Back at the farm, the boys are soaked in sweat, too, and I immediately feel guilty over my own indulgent condition. These guys work hard at a seemingly impossible job- and they've been at it all day. The farm is a small, rock filled depression between the heat reflecting hoodoos. The river that flows next to it provides the elixir of life to the whole thing. Windmills, pumps, PVC pipe, drip lines, plastic covered beds. It's amazing to me that this gravelled soil can grow anything. But some back breaking work, plus water produces remarkable results. The fruit trees are already looking good. Plastic is going down to facilitate the ten thousand tomato plants now waiting in the greenhouse. People have been fighting this land, and dreaming over this land for a long time. Steve and Paulette are the latest, but certainly not the last farmers to settle in this beautiful spot. After thirty years, Steve now has a young partner to help work the land, to help dream the dream: to help fix the pumps, lay the drip line, feed the dogs, and take the odd break under the fruit trees.<br />
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It's not rich farming. It's two hands on the wheel to keep this old tractor and it's old tires straight on down the row.<br />
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After we shut down for the day I play a few tunes for Steve. When he goes into town, I go back to my taxes. Finished! I email my old pal and former partner, Colin Linden. Time to make another album. Can we do at least part of it this fall when the Tour heads south? Nashville is a busy place. I've got to work on the logistics, and work on figuring out how to pay for it. Due to the high cost of financing, I paid for my last album many times over, over many years. It's also quite clear that I can't continue to tour Canada without a greater number of festivals on the schedule... But right now, the National Steel Blues Tour is rolling along as it has for the last ten years. I'm outta here in the morning! Let's hope Alberta is good.<br />
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Eastbound on the smaller roads.<br />
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I love this high desert country and the people who live here. I wonder when I will see it again? Over the last decade I've played 100 Mile House, Kamloops, Ashcroft, Spences Bridge, Cache Creek...<br />
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The dry, desert towns quickly give way to high, ranch country...<br />
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Crowsnest Pass. Good-bye, British Columbia. Hello, again, to Alberta. By afternoon the mountains have once more faded behind me. It's all badlands now. Coal country. Ranch country. The Lethbridge Folk Club will be presenting me in concert in the back of a motorcycle shop. It's a rough area of town, across from the Harley dealer, not far from the tracks...<br />
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It's a very nice little room. With the sell-out crowd there are perhaps fifty souls here for the show. There's a reasonable cover, I sell some CDs, raffle a tour jacket... Thank goodness. I was wondering if I'd have gas money through to the next province.<br />
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A nice show, too. With a standing ovation and a couple of encores. Here's the tour jacket winner! Tonight I'll sleep behind the loading dock, and in the morning I'll make a break for Saskatchewan.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7495270388063269086.post-37333575076865210772015-05-15T15:38:00.000-04:002015-06-25T11:02:02.089-04:00The Rest of the Coast<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Or, in which I play shows by night and enjoy the places by day. It takes a team to put on successful shows, and the presenters are often the unsung heros of this adventure. Presenters, friends, patrons. I couldn't do a tour like this anymore without the helping hands along the way. In fact, the Tour would not be worth doing without all these people in my life. The time spent around the edges is the reward. I notice this on this 10th Annual Tour. I take fewer pictures of the stages. Fewer pictures of the guitars. There's lots and lots of that on the blogs for the previous tours. Every Tour seems to develop it's own theme. This Tour is certainly more reflective than the others. For me. I've got a lot to look back on, and I can tell change is in the wind. This is my life, but how do I sustain it? How do I retain these people, these places?<br />
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Dr. Dave and I bomb up and down the coast. No fishing today. No crab. Just out for the hell of it. Because we can, and it's a beautiful day. At night I drive into nearby Duncan, BC to play The Showroom...<br />
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After the concert the RCMP follow me from town, finally stopping me in a dark little spot far from anything. They think I "might have been going too fast." They want to know where I'm going. They want to know the purpose of my trip. They want to know how long I'm going to be here. They want to know if there is anything in my car that they "might be interested in." This is Canada, similar to America, places where we all pretend that we actually have constitutional rights, and where these rights are routinely torn to bits by those who can get away with it. Here, in the night, there are three people on the side of the road. Two of them are armed, dangerous, and engaged in criminal acts. By morning it is just another bad taste in my mouth, quickly washed away by coffee and the shining sun.<br />
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Outside my window things are looking good. I've got a house concert here tonight. The food is crazy good. The people fun. This time the show ends, we drink red wine, but morning comes too soon. Another magic place. Saying "good-bye" is the toughest thing I have to do on a Tour. Don't under estimate how difficult that is, and can be. I load out and point the big Lincoln down the road again. Alone. I guess I must like that, too. I'm not sure, but that's what I have to do. Over and over.<br />
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I've got a good friend and patron who owns a resort on the Island. I was to play a new cafe he is opening, but as it is behind schedule there will be no shows after all. Instead, I am to stay as a guest of the resort for a couple of days...<br />
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I eat, sleep, read, run, work on some songs. Mainly I just rest. There are no expectations, no stress, no costs, no media. The days go by far too quickly, but I leave feeling like a new person! I'll catch a ferry to the Lower Mainland and get on with the tour schedule.<br />
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Vancouver. The nice parts are pretty nice. Especially in spring. I'm staying down in the south end, so I run along the river. Somebody knows what these blue flowers are, but I don't.<br />
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Here's the view from my show on Grenville Island in downtown Vancouver. It's a nice spot, even if you don't have millions of dollars in the bank.<br />
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Back on the river, logging booms. Tugs are at work hauling these, getting them in order. Moving them in, moving them out. It's a working river. The Fraser. I've followed it's watershed down from the interior, and soon I'll follow it back. Today, I run the water again. Winter is just a memory. Spring has open arms today, pretending to be summer.<br />
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Lush and green along the river. Even these newer condos look well established. I'd need lottery money, but, hey, I've got a ticket!<br />
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One of my Vancouver rituals is to run the sea wall in Stanley Park. It is one of the great, urban runs. Or walks, or bike rides. Roughly 10 km around, with a view that never quits. It is my birthday, so I run this because I can, and because it feels good!<br />
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Vancouver from the sea wall. I've had shows at the Railway Club, the Jericho Bay Folk Club, Granville Island, The Main on Main, a corporate, and a couple of house concerts. Now, it's time to bid this coast good-bye again.<br />
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Jacket winner in Chilliwack, BC. The car is pointed east. The water behind me. The mountains again in the distance...<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7495270388063269086.post-46519000937370208822015-05-01T03:09:00.000-04:002015-06-25T11:11:43.342-04:00The La La Land at the End of the Rainbow<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Coming down through high ranch country. Big spaces. Southbound. This little highway does not disappoint. I'm driving into spring. Any fool would know that. Still, here are the first leaves. A rebirth. A boost. Life. The seasons of man are teased along by all this. We are not old. We are- at least for a moment- young. The smell of the opening leaves, the first warmth of sun, the thin young women sunning in the cafe patio: all this available for a moment, blurred by memories of when we, too, were opening our leaves and all things were possible.<br />
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I've taken a secondary, secondary highway southeast from Williams Lake, BC to kill off the day's drive to Kamloops, where I am to play tonight. I stop in old cemeteries and take pictures of unexceptional graves. Someday, someone may think these people may of had some connection to me. Maybe they did. Or now do. I stopped and drank wine by these gated old graves. I wondered who these were. Born in Oklahoma and died here in 1961. "Forever Loved and Missed by His Wife." Maybe these mountains are the hardest place to be lonely in. Or the easiest place- if that has to be what lonely is. I'm happy with my own company on this day as I drive the empty highway. Sometimes this is the loneliest job in the world. I could stop in Lone Butte and change my name to Bill. I could do odd jobs. Do you remember the guy who used to come through and play at the cafe? Yeah. The guy with the old steel guitar. That could be me. But today I'm driving through to Kamloops, British Columbia. I'm not vanishing here, today. Somewhere, up in the humpy little hills, I've got a house concert tonight.<br />
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It's not all downhill. But after the continental divide it sure feels like it sometimes. Westbound, I usually drive Route 1 through Cache Creek, Ashcroft, Spences Bridge- down through the high dessert country as I head south and west for Canada's "left coast." Today I exit Kamloops and drive the Coquihalla Highway. A terror in the winter, it is still pretty interesting when dry. They didn't hire me in Spences Bridge this year, so I thought I'd do lunch in Merrit, BC, instead. There's always a new act that's pretty, and sings harmony, to fill out the festival bill. After 10 years of playing these dry, tumbleweed towns, it would be nice to leave with more than gas money. At that, I still shift the car into neutral and coast down miles and miles of mountain road. I've come out of Spences Bridge with nothing but fumes in the tank more than once. There's steelhead in the river. Two railways- one on each side of the river. Eagles hover on top of it all. Crippled little farms, rusted trucks and apple pie. Cowboy cemetery with a witch buried in it. Yeah, yeah, I love that place. The Bridge. The Baits Motel. I'll stop on the eastbound swing and have coffee and pie at the Packinghouse Cafe... How can I not? These are my people.<br />
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Now, it's Vancouver. One of the world's beautiful cities. If you have the money. There's a hockey game tonight. This town is in the playoffs, so even the hookers have abandoned the streets. Will they riot in the streets if they lose? The fans, not the hookers. I hope my car is safe outside. But all is quiet. I don't know if the team wins or loses, but I'm pretty much shut down at the trendy, downtown Railway Club. The only woman here is made of wood. A couple of guys come in and watch my hands trace the guitar. My voice is a bit torn tonight, so I don't mind closing the bar early, packing out quickly to the Lincoln, driving, driving. Windows are open, neon on the streets. I lost money after paying for parking on this gig. I'll be off to Vancouver Island in the morning. Hopefully the Tour will begin to produce some actual cash returns over the next two weeks of shows. After ten solid years of playing here, I'd like to be invited to play some of the great festivals presented every summer. As it is, I have enough support that I no longer have to sleep in my car outside the Starbucks in Nanaimo. At least not that often.<br />
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I lost my prescription shades in the car crash a couple of years ago. I don't let that spoil the beautiful ferry ride from Vancouver to Victoria, BC. But it is a little squinty, for sure. I've got a little band in Victoria that I've been doing some of the local, Island gigs with, so I'll have a quick rehearsal with them tonight before the first show.<br />
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McKinley Wolf/ Doc MacLean bassist Ian Walls gives bass lessons on the patio during set up. I've had a blast playing with Ian, Dallas, and Ed. This is a band that has covered some of my tunes- so I'm always pleased to play with them. At tonight's show Rockland sat in on guitar and was great. As he said, we're part of the same tribe. We're both open G tuning guys that play in all keys- so our chords can look pretty strange sometimes! That was really fun in spite of a sparse turnout to this north Victoria venue.<br />
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Up to Char's Landing in Port Alberni. This is a lovely venue, and I always enjoy both visiting and playing here.<br />
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That's the view from the landing in Port Alberni. It's a mill town with a tough underbelly, but it is changing fast...<br />
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Further on down the road, harp player Lazy Mike and his partner, Doreen, host me for a show.<br />
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It's another hockey night. Slow. David Vest is playing just a few miles away. Are we splitting the crowd tonight? Or has he got most of them? Or are we both running on fumes tonight? I don't see anybody from the Nanaimo Blues Society. After a decade of bringing the blues through here, that's a little disappointing for me. I'm not getting any younger, and it's pretty clear that the Tours, the artists, and the venues are not going to be sustainable without bums in seats. Live music in small venues has been slowing down, not just for me, but for many- if not most- of the other, hard core touring acts. It's one thing to take a holiday from work and do a little tour, or retire and fund the thing on pension money, or get a grant to fund your losses but- with due respect- those are different songs and stories, different adventures, different worlds than the ones shared by those who live and die riding the broken white line. Still, we all need bums in seats, and it would seem that the demographic most interested in this music is less and less interested in driving at night. I sleep on the stage after the place closes, but wake up to a beautiful day. Looking good for my drive up Island to Comox. My friends there will treat me well. I'm hoping for a good house concert crowd. I need a cash injection. I'll take the long, coastal road to kill time...<br />
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Do you see why they call this La La Land? Well, it is pretty nice. Mississippi got way more snow last winter than this Vancouver Island coast.<br />
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Jacket winner at the house concert! I had a ball hanging out with my friends Ken and Lynda, and left with a prize winning jar of pickles! A good crowd in spite of the fact that the Island Festival was putting on a bash for it's volunteers just a few minutes away. In spite of the low Canadian dollar the Festival has managed to maintain a stellar line-up of international artists including Buddy Guy for this year's event. Similar to the mainstream economy, big events are getting bigger, and small events are getting smaller. Have these large festivals become the Walmarts of live music now? They do present a great value for consumers- who don't have to drive at night. A massive collection of top notch artists, at one daily price. Certainly to be an artist featured on these festival bills is to gain access to an audience measured in thousands, or tens of thousands- as opposed to dozens. In the evolving world of roots music, it would seem that the small venues and small shows are increasingly at a disadvantage. This is not necessarily a bad thing. But it is an observation. And as I say to many of the older players, "you've got to ride the wave." The tide is always turning.<br />
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Nest stop: Denman Island. I'm riding smaller waves, but enough rocking to make it interesting.</div>
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I've driven across Denman Island many times over the years- part of a ferry relay to get to nearby Hornby Island with it's very active blues society. My time on Hornby has always been enjoyed, but I've always been curious about Denman. These Islands all have their own character, their own feel, their own take on the world. Denman does not let me down. My afternoon show at the Island's cafe and guesthouse is full, and the people are all interesting. Plenty of American ex-pats here, as on the other islands in this Gulf. White haired now, they came here back in "the day." Draft dodgers, war resistors, dreamers, hippies, girl chasers, boy chasers, debt evaders, protesters, dope growers, inventors, builders, writers, farmers, teachers, preachers. Folks who craved a better, if self-made world. Kennedy once gave a speech where he talked about "the best and the brightest." I do believe in those troubled years many of the best and the brightest made their way to Canada, where they had a remarkable influence on it's culture and development. That was America's loss, and a wound still not fully healed.<br />
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Among those who showed up for my performance was Hillel Wright, the editor, poet, novelist, commercial fisherman, tree planter, college professor, radio dj, and former Rhino party candidate. As it turns out he now divides his time between Denman and Japan- and we've got mutual friends in the small blues scene over there. We are also, as I discover when reading his latest book, Crad Kilodney fans. A small, small world now- and kindred souls tend to stumble upon one and other! <i>Rotary Sushi</i> is Wright's latest book, and he kindly gifted me a copy for my journey.<br />
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Back to Victoria, BC the next day for some interesting shows. Ian Walls and I played an assisted living residence in honor of our friend Big Charlie, who had recently moved in to the facility.<br />
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We then played one of the world's smallest theatres- a fun show at Merlin's Sun Room- with local singer- songwriter Auto Janez opening the evening.<br />
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One of Victoria's many little harbours... In my downtime I ran about 10 km (6 miles) of the winding coast that shores this city. A fine time, although I later pay a price for the many hills!<br />
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Genoa Bay. My base for a few days of concerts in the Duncan region of British Columbia.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7495270388063269086.post-42607118346513284092015-04-16T15:26:00.002-04:002015-06-25T11:15:12.040-04:00Westbound to Spring<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Texas Lincoln on the side of a long, Canadian road. Out on the Trans Canada Highway- a thin strip of pavement that's somehow supposed to connect the hearts, minds and finances of a great nation. Baking hot in the summer sun. Hot enough to blow tires off a truck. Hot enough that the moose come down to the road to get some relief from the bugs. Winter hides this road with ice, snow, with blue fear. Semi trucks own the whole damn thing. They've got lots of weight and lots of wheels on the ground. Push, push, push. Blind and ditch those little cars. Sometimes they ride this strip at night, like great metal insects, tires moaning, eyes shining strange. In packs, tight like a train until one slides and dumps the bunch in a burning pyre of ditch rubble. Plenty of little crosses on the side of this trail. Plenty of time to think about it. About hitting the rock wall. About the tight ice curve at the bottom of another hill. But this day is early spring. Easter weekend. This is my road. My memories. I stop on the shoulder and there is no other traffic. Quiet. Dead quiet. After five minutes I get back in and drive. I've got a few hundred more miles to Thunder Bay, ON.</div>
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First taste of spring or last gasp of winter. The ice huts are doing their last day. Cold water fish, pulled up by the smell of Canadian Club. There is still ice along Lake Superior, but it feels like spring. It is good to be mobile. I feel best when I'm on my way to somewhere. This journey. Over the Hump. This thin strand of road stretched over the north shore of the Great Lakes.</div>
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The road to Beyond the Giant, outside of Pass Lake, ON, near Thunder Bay. I've played here- off grid- many times now. Always beautiful. The shores of Lake Superior, always wild. A vast, inland sea. Red dirt the car will wear until it reaches the Pacific Ocean in a couple of weeks time. When the evening is over, I curl up in my cabin and fire up the woodstove. Sleep comes quickly in the gentle glow.<br />
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This is supposed to be about a music Tour, remember? Well, on this 10th year of all ten Canadian provinces, it's about many things. Many things that make the music, that make the artist, that color my songs and stories, that drive the whole adventure- and have done so for such a long time. Outside Thunder Bay, ON, I stop at the Terry Fox monument. Terry was a runner who fought cancer for all of us. A true Canadian hero. A Canadian story. He reminds me that we can all do more to change the world.<br />
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Into Thunder Bay to play at the Apollo. Sheila and Alex and Tina are "my people." I love playing this room. This is a stop on the highway a musician needs to make on the Trans Canada run. Places like this bond the culture together, allow it to happen. It would be wrong to say that there would be no Canadian artists without these stops, but certainly there would be fewer artists, fewer stories. Sheila has just fought cancer and come out of the darkness looking great and healthy. A winning story. So I thought of her when I visited with Terry, out on the windy hill. Big Bad Bobby opens for me, playing blues banjo and guitar. A great local scene. Players I always enjoy hearing and spending time with. I room upstairs in a battered band room. In the morning I'm off to Tim's to get a big coffee. Only eight hours drive ahead to Winnipeg, MB<br />
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The rock and trees of the Northern Shield melt away as you roll over the border into Manitoba. The roads get faster, too. A divided highway! Yeah! North western Ontario probably should of been part of Manitoba, or perhaps it's own territory. It is an orphan land, politically speaking, without the oil to inspire interest. Mines, mills, rail corridors... But here I am with the Lincoln cracked back up to a good clip, bound for Winnipeg.<br />
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Rough and ready street scene in Winnipeg, MB. Two pianos, no waiting...<br />
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I've got another eight hours to Saskatoon, SK, but no show on this Easter Monday. I sleep in the Lincoln at a truck stop and wake up to find the car cold, covered in snow... I thought I'd left that behind! I'll be back to pick up Saskatoon in late May. Three nights solo at Bud's on Broadway- a classic old, prairie blues bar.<br />
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Edmonton, AB, and I've driven into spring at last! Bare arms, no winter coats, leaves trying to escape their buds. I play a quiet, Tuesday night show with a great local band, and then take a down day to run the south part of the city, look after tour business, all that stuff.<br />
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The Lincoln outside Blues on Whyte, Edmonton, AB. One of North America's last six night blues gigs. A great, history filled room, with digs upstairs...<br />
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Busting out onto the high prairie, an easterly backtrack for my show in Lloydminster, SK. It's an oil town I've come to like over the past few years of stops. I play a little joint called the Root and always meet nice folks. This visit is no exception, but quieter than I'd like it. First big, hot day here- and people are hanging out on their own porches.<br />
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In Lloydminster, SK, my car was noticed by many...<br />
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Well into spring now, I drift south on the back roads towards Red Deer, AB for my next show. On the way I explore some small, high prairie towns... Viking has an interesting old church.<br />
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Big sky, of course.<br />
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Jacket winner in Red Deer, AB! Genuine satin, white stripe tour jackets!<br />
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A great ride out of Red Deer, AB. I'm bound for Jasper, AB, so I'll be driving from the badlands into the mountains. I take the small highway into Rocky Mountain House, and then branch to take the Icefield Parkway north into Jasper. I give myself plenty of time. It's a world class drive, and at this time of year I've got the road pretty much to myself...<br />
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As a little snow squall sneaks in, I find the road blocked several times by wildlife. At one point, a pair of big horn sheep banged heads beside the road. I could hear the crack and bang inside my car with the windows still up... A great, sold out show in Jasper. Some new friends offer hospitality, and I take my down day in near perfect weather.<br />
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I try and run as many of the places I visit as I can. I like running, and it helps keep me alive as I live out of my car for months on end. Jasper National Park has got a substantial trail system, and I have been planning to run in these mountains for some time. I stop and pick up maps, and I'm on my way to one of the trailheads near town.<br />
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Can't beat the view. My maps were not easy to read, and at about 10 km, six miles, I realize that I'm about that same distance from where I had thought I was! My 10 km loop had become closer to 20 km of mountain trail. I've tripped on a root, and knocked myself silly. I lie on my back for a while. Fingers and arms are fine! Nobody but myself out here. A few squalls of snow passing between bursts of sunshine. It's been a while since I've run so far- so I get down to it. I want to get back to my car before a missing person alert goes in. And I want to get back, period. Thank goodness I've brought water and warm clothes. I'm leaning into the wind, wondering about spring bears, thinking about cougars. Like getting hit by lightning, really. I suppose. And what's to prevent these marginal maps from tricking me again? My GPS has died, too. But I make it back, hurting, to the trailhead I started from. Thankfully, there is no show tonight- but I will drink wine with my friends, eat, talk, and feel glad to be alive.<br />
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Roads through these mountains are often close to the rails. Up here it's Canadian National Rail. A familiar sight. You could race these trains across the flats...<br />
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No photoshop here. Just youth colors. Northern colors. There's not always a good supply of paint in northern British Columbia- or perhaps there just isn't a lot of time spent spreading it around. This building in Prince George sure lights up the view... I have a nice night in a newer venue, Nancy O's. I've played this mill town for nearly a decade now. I'm always surprised by the degree of support I get from the blues and folk communities in this region. In the morning, I'll begin my journey south on Hwy 97.<br />
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My view from the driver's seat during sound check in Quesnel, BC. Nice new room called the Occidental. These folks went out on a limb to book me for a Tuesday night show. It's ranch country in these parts. Several people had to leave at half time to go and help with calfing. I hope I said that properly. In the morning, I run 7 km around the town before catching the road to Williams Lake.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7495270388063269086.post-37176227666354436392015-03-29T21:07:00.000-04:002015-06-25T11:17:26.706-04:001000 Nights of National Steel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Grain. Like what you get in a picture taken on an aging smart phone. Like what you see in the west. Bits in the wind. Little places on the maps. How long does it take for the memories themselves to simply blow away? Some guy that used to come through and play the cafe. The all black baseball team out of Indian Head, Saskatchewan. Who were those guys, standing in front of their bus? Where did they come from? And where did they go? Scattered strands of DNA left like grain along the roadside. Close to the ball parks, the broken stadiums, driving distance from the jukes, the bars. Saturday night on a good year, in the right season. Did they go all the way? Did they win the trophy? Score the girl? Was it quiet on the bus, late at night, just the humming of the wheels, the broken white line, the broken white line, the colour line, a rain of fatigue and sweat, a lefty who could really throw that goddamn ball, who could bean the batter, punch it up, could of been in the Big Time- if anybody ever saw him play. Anybody important, that is. Anybody who knew about baseball. Anybody. Anybody at all. As it is I'm polishing the silver off the broken side mirror on the car. God knows if there's DNA scattered up and down the highway. Does it live in the hearts of the stories, in the mobile homes that smell like wood smoke and memory, or is it lost, lost like the silver on the mirror? A splinter in my finger, a little blood that carries messages from the past.<br />
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Ten years of National Steel Blues Tour. Canada is the second largest country by land mass. That super sizes tours by land. But this is music, not fast food. And the whole thing unfolds slowly. Or it seems to. At the time. Over 1000 shows under the National Steel Blues Tour banner. All the provinces, two territories. That's a whole lot of shows, over a whole lot of miles. A whole lot of blood. Red wine. Life dragged along in spite of itself. Plenty of room to screw up, and fall under a chair, if that was going to happen. And you can't do this without lots and lots of return dates. I did roll a Lincoln pretty nicely. Got Lucky. But looking at this tenth annual tour certain things are becoming clearer. Of 155 Canadian music festivals, only 73 opened email. Only 6 clicked on the suggested EPK link, and only one looked at a file. Grant driven, overly networked, and increasingly corporate- these Canadian festivals might as well be on a different planet from me. It's a planet I need to visit if I'm going to continue doing shows in Canada. It's been 36 years since I last appeared at the Winnipeg Folk Festival, and in Toronto I spend too much time on the street. Old school gets old pretty quick.<br />
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Meanwhile, I'm counting down to one more fling across the provinces. With over a third of my Tour dates now reserved for US destinations, there are many Canadian places I may not see again- or certainly not as often as I have in the past. Distances are big in Canada, gas is still expensive, and the dollars are similar to what they were in the 1970s- when I began this road adventure.<br />
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This Tour will be mobile in just a few days. On this first leg I'm looking forward to visiting across northern Ontario, Manitoba, Saskatchewan, Alberta and British Columbia. I'm struck by the fact that Medicine Hat, Alberta, has managed to avoid booking me for 10 consecutive years now. I'll stop at Seven Persons, Alberta, and then drive straight through to Kyle, Saskatchewan- past the Big Tee Pee, the strip malls and run down motels, the cultural beacons along the highway. I'll keep practising, and I'll be back. Why? Only because it's there, and it would look cool on a tour poster. I've played almost everywhere in the land of the Maple leaf. Almost everywhere.<br />
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Of the first fifty venues on the Tour, very few have yet visited this site to download current paid pictures, tour posters, links and bios for their lists, press releases, and websites. Just saying. You want to move a little DNA around. Put some bums in seats. It's all teamwork out here on the Blues Highway. Brakes and ball joints in the morning. Check the tires and the headlights. Counting down.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7495270388063269086.post-37108932351482995092015-03-12T13:36:00.000-04:002015-06-25T11:21:12.630-04:00Murder of Crows, Half-Life of a Blues Man<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Ten years of the National Steel Blues Tour. So it's the X year for this annual, 100 show adventure around North America. Ten provinces, twenty states. Maybe it's the last annual Tour. I don't know. Sometimes it flies so far under the radar that it scrapes me, bleeding, along the pavement. Stuff along the way. Stuff in the cracks between small town America and the Big Time. The stuff that is the mojo of the blues. Stuff that has very little to do with talent contests, award ceremonies, new guitars. Maybe it's the cold beer we buy at the gas station. The smell of oil at the garage selling used tires. The taste of cheap red wine from a coffee cup beside a plywood stage. Maybe, maybe. Maybe it could be different. But, hey– grab a map and ride the blue highway with me one more time. I found these voodoo dolls in dark woods a thousand miles from Clarksdale. Rusty nails and faded, half smiles. An image captured, fleeting, to illustrate this Tour, and to protect us on this path.<br />
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Now there's crows in the air, shitting on the car roof. And it needs ball joints. On previous Tours, I checked in here daily. Given the labour of it all, I can no longer hope to do that. I will update the schedules, links, and downloads in the sidebar as often as I can. If you haven't done so before, you can reach back and visit the other Tours. Each one had it's own adventures. It's own lessons, triumphs and sorrows. In the Sidebar now, with all the other stuff. Soon some of these stories will be torn out of the blogs for a book. Meanwhile, I'll write here what can't be said on Facebook. Hard core. What it is. Blues. Healing music. Every song a journey. I left an old recording in the sidebar for you people. Where it started: Hollandale, MS, a long time ago. By September I'll be back in the cotton dust, but first we're rolling west across Canada. Come, follow, let's ride. This Tour will be mobile in just a couple of weeks. Thanks for joining me here, on the Blues Highway.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0