Star of Wonder

This literally was in the shed out back. My grandfather made this star, probably 40 or 50 years ago in Sault Ste. Marie, where my mom grew up. After he died, it was a seasonal feature on the porch roof of my childhood home in Parry Sound, and later on my parents' place in Barrie. They moved to the West Coast this past spring, and since then the star has been waiting peacefully behind my Toronto home with the scrap wood and lengths of old eavestrough and cinder blocks, anticipating, no doubt, the moment it would shine again. That moment was today at about 5PM.

A little later, I found my recording of We Three Kings from the Carpenter's Gothic recording, somewhere in the mess on my computer. Just right-click on the title, save target to the desktop, and enjoy with my compliments.

Wrapping it all up

Well, I wrapped up my fifth live recording in a year and a half yesterday. Grey November Day has now joined The Wine and the Song, Mighty Grace, and Carpenter's Gothic in post-production, and together they will be released as a four album set, Sky Above and Earth Below- the follow-up to last year's Evergreen. In the process I will have met my goal: to put as many of my songs as possible onto CDs in live settings so that both my catalogue and my credibility are established. Hooray..

As for last night: to be honest, I really thought that my first set was a little sketchy, and I felt like I was down 3-0 after the first period of a critical game. But that being said, I always feel poor about my performances on a recording night. I get nervous in ways I never do for an ordinary gig. In reflection, I may have to drop a couple of songs, but that always happens. On the other hand, an extremely warm audience responded with great enthusiasm to some of the tunes, so what the hell do I know, anyway?

I came out of the first set feeling peeved at myself, but determined not to lose the whole game. Thankfully, I had a great bunch of musicians to help me put it over the top: Sarah Ternoway on bass, Gregg Lawless on lead guitar, Scott Vernon on drums and Aengus Finnan even joined us on backup vocals for one tune. With their talent and energy and my dogged insistence on pulling the damned thing off in the end, we managed to really fire it up for the second set.

We closed with a barn-burner version of one of my goofiest tunes, "The Old Man's Workshop," complete with mixed-up lyrics, audience interaction, train-wreck ending and all the great emotion that makes live performances so much fun.

I was reminded a couple of times that I should do more goofy stuff. I was reminded about 30 times that people really listen to lyrics. And I was reminded continually, all night long, that music matters immensely to people, and that it's best heard in small rooms with a crowd that cares and musicians who can make it feel real. I reminded myself that it had all been worth it, and that this manic year and a half of effort and ego and fire and frustration had payed off in the end, on the last night, in a good place, with great people.

Just remind me not to do any more of these. Studio, here I come...

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.