A Night at the Opera

I'll begin by sharing the number one thing I've learned about doing live recordings, especially doing four of them in just over a year: they make you completely insane. I mean it.

By the time I was done doing Evergreen live, last summer, I was a bundle of nerves. After Carpenter's Gothic, in December, I was a bit squirrely. After Mighty Grace, in June, I thought I could never do another. And by the time I got on stage with the guys to record The Wine and the Song, I was halfway in the nuthouse.

Which means that I still don't know how it went, really. I know we had a pretty full house, especially considering it was the Monday evening after tremendous festival. I know we all sold a lot of CDs. I know the crowd was appreciative. And I know Scott was in the pocket on drums, and that Trevor shouldered his big load easily on bass, and that Darren was sharp and cool on guitar. I even know that Scott thought I sounded my very best. But all that is only intellectual knowing. My gut knows nothing.

On the other hand, I've learned that my gut doesn't know what's going on after a recording. I was already living on Tim Horton's and happy hopes at that point, having forgone sleep days before. We did a couple of takes of a few tunes, which I've never done in a concert recording before. Of course that made me feel rotten on stage (most of the mistakes were mine); on the other hand, that might make the final product better. As for the ones we just laid down once... I can't remember how they felt, or sounded, and I just don't have a feeling about them at all. See, my gut doesn't know.

What I do know is it felt great to play with a band. Even if we sounded like a country-rock bar-band, which I half-suspect, it was a great way to make music onstage. I can imagine the joy of doing it like that all the time- you'd have the added bonus that everyone would know each other, and there wouldn't be a record on the line! Plus - and I apologize to my die-hard folk friends - it just feels good to ROCK OUT.

In any case, until I hear the CDS, I won't know what's what. I left Lunenburg feeling hollow, tired, a little bit thin. I actually felt like I had aged a year - to the point where, when asked, I now have to think about it to give my real age.

I took a lonesome drive around the Parrsboro shore of Nova Scotia, looking for solace and space. I found the remains of Spencer's Island, a once-thriving sawmill town that the Bay of Fundy had long ago washed away. I walked into the one restaurant in town, and I was asked to play my guitar for a salmon supper. A few semi-interested tourists called out requests for Gordon Lightfoot and kindly put 14 bucks in a jar for me.

I played until my voice was raw, and then I drove off into the night.