The Grandest of Grand Forkians
I arrive in Grand Forks on Sunday for a gig at the art gallery, where curator Paul Crawford always extends a warm welcome. I'm looking forward to this show--an attentive audience and nice space are just what I need after a few initial shows at Lorenzo's and in White Rock have warmed me up. Still feeling a little lost on the road at this point--being on the road in summer is great fun, but also making me unpredictably nostalgic and homesick for a change!
Grand Forks surprises in many ways: first, my good friend Mike and his parents (currently on Western Canadian mobile home tour) have scheduled their travels to coincide with my Grand Forks gig. Just when I needed a familiar face, Mike appears out of the blue, surprising the hell out of me with a warm smile and that knowing look of one who can keep a secret and launch out in perfect timing!
But beyond this surprise, Grand Forks is where the real adventure begins. Here, I reconnect with Dave Soroka, a singer/songwriter from these parts. Last time I was in Grand Forks, I left behind my coveted steel toe boots and it was Dave Soroka, patron saint of lost footwear, that returned them to me while he was touring through Victoria. So this is my third meeting with this traveled folkie and he doesn't disappoint. He opens the show with some hilarious, charming tunes that suit his well-worn, dishevelled personality.
The next morning, Dave and I are heading to Cherryville together for a show at Route 6 Cafe, owned by Glen and Faye (friends of Dave). Dave has told me that Cherryville is lawless land (does that mean I can do u-turns again?) and that we might be in for a late night and rowdy crowd. "Let Dave take care of ya, gal" he reassured me over the phone when we discussed the gig.
Given my just-left-of-centre luck these days and knowledge of the quirky, laid-back Dave Soroka, I should have known better when that ole boy looked at me sideways with a wink in his eye and said, "I know a short cut." We head up through Rock Creek before embarking into "Christian Valley" onto a road that Dave has never traveled before. As we proceed into the backwoods, the pavement turns to gravel, the road narrows and steepens, and gravel turns into rock. We are climbing up an old logger's road, slamming and sliding along in Dave's jeep. I know that Dave is guided only by intuition, but there isn't any REAL cause for concern until we hit the fork in the road.
Dave is trying his hand at reasoning out which way, right or left, looks like the right path. Which is more well-worn? Which looks as if it might eventually hook back up with the highway? I know that such reasoning is fruitless, so am perfectly content when Dave simply picks left, while quoting an "old Chinese proverb": "when you approach a fork in the road, take it."
We climb higher and higher, clearly and utterly lost at this point.
The views are breathless, as we climb this narrow, rocky road that scale higher and higher. I am beginning to make a mental checklist: the gig tonight is hosted by Dave's friends, so I won't really have to deal with cranky bar owners if all goes wrong. I have some fruit stand cherries and apples still left. Just as I'm taking my mental inventory, Dave interjects from nowhere. "Well, I got matches" adding to my checklist, "and there's wine in the back there too." We smile. The presence of food, wine, and matches suddenly makes all danger seem quite manageable.
We climb in silence for awhile longer, knowing we're close to the summit of this mountain and at some point, at some intersection, the road will . . . nay, MUST begin descending. But it doesn't. It teases us with a bit of downhill slant, and then just jacks straight back up until we eventually happen across a logging operation.
I casually munch one of the apples (which should no longer be necessary for overnight sustenance) as Dave waves down a logger and begins seeking directions. Dave returns with the rules of the road, and we proceed. After doing a U-turn.
Dave descends the hill with more speed and urgency than in the ascent, as Bruce Springsteen blares over the stereo. I'm slightly nervous as the jeep jumps and fishtails down the mountain, occasionally slowing to avert the cows grazing along the highway, who seem only mildly disturbed by "Born in the U.S.A." pumping out into the serene landscape.
We arrive at Route 6 Cafe and I meet Faye and Glen, who immediately begin riddling Dave about being late. I am so relieved to arrive, that when Faye hugs me, I'm quite certain my return embrace is overly enthusiastic. Beyond my happiness to be out of the Jeep though, Faye immediately attracts my admiration. Something about her reassures me that I am welcome here, and makes me want to stay indefinitely.
The gig (or should I just call it a party?) embraces the summer vibe. The BBQ is keeping up with the demand of the patrons crowding the tiny deck of the Route 6. Within moments of arriving, a glass of red wine is thrust into my hands. We set up quickly, and Dave takes the stage.
The mood is high, the sun is setting on the mountains, the air is warm, and the people are primed.
It is in this setting, in this moment, that I come to understand a bit about Dave Soroka. I sip my wine, and watch him launch into his music, totally absorbed in what he is doing and surrounded by friends that have been listening to his songs for years. These people have evolved with his music. This is how Dave Soroka is meant to be listened to: on a summer patio, with wine and smoke in the air, on a hot day in the mountains, surrounded by people who love him.
Dave's songs are other worldly, in that they seem to inhabit a space that is probably most locatable in the past. They evoke lost moments and memories that will never be regained, except for in the space of his performance. And that is what the audience seems to dig most: they return with him to a timeless past, or a mythic youth, or an unforgotten lover. And they stay right there with him. And they say, "yeah man, take me back there." And when he does, they sing along. This is Dave's vibe.
The night goes on like this, as the audience lets Dave and I take them deeper and deeper into this summer party with music that echoes off the mountains as the sky grows absolutely black and lit with stars. The patio becomes an island of light in the dark and time freezes. The audience roars or sits breathless or laughs or sings on cue. This is Cherryville. "Yeah," I tell Glen and Faye, "I'll be back."
Grand Forks surprises in many ways: first, my good friend Mike and his parents (currently on Western Canadian mobile home tour) have scheduled their travels to coincide with my Grand Forks gig. Just when I needed a familiar face, Mike appears out of the blue, surprising the hell out of me with a warm smile and that knowing look of one who can keep a secret and launch out in perfect timing!
But beyond this surprise, Grand Forks is where the real adventure begins. Here, I reconnect with Dave Soroka, a singer/songwriter from these parts. Last time I was in Grand Forks, I left behind my coveted steel toe boots and it was Dave Soroka, patron saint of lost footwear, that returned them to me while he was touring through Victoria. So this is my third meeting with this traveled folkie and he doesn't disappoint. He opens the show with some hilarious, charming tunes that suit his well-worn, dishevelled personality.
The next morning, Dave and I are heading to Cherryville together for a show at Route 6 Cafe, owned by Glen and Faye (friends of Dave). Dave has told me that Cherryville is lawless land (does that mean I can do u-turns again?) and that we might be in for a late night and rowdy crowd. "Let Dave take care of ya, gal" he reassured me over the phone when we discussed the gig.
Given my just-left-of-centre luck these days and knowledge of the quirky, laid-back Dave Soroka, I should have known better when that ole boy looked at me sideways with a wink in his eye and said, "I know a short cut." We head up through Rock Creek before embarking into "Christian Valley" onto a road that Dave has never traveled before. As we proceed into the backwoods, the pavement turns to gravel, the road narrows and steepens, and gravel turns into rock. We are climbing up an old logger's road, slamming and sliding along in Dave's jeep. I know that Dave is guided only by intuition, but there isn't any REAL cause for concern until we hit the fork in the road.
Dave is trying his hand at reasoning out which way, right or left, looks like the right path. Which is more well-worn? Which looks as if it might eventually hook back up with the highway? I know that such reasoning is fruitless, so am perfectly content when Dave simply picks left, while quoting an "old Chinese proverb": "when you approach a fork in the road, take it."
We climb higher and higher, clearly and utterly lost at this point.
The views are breathless, as we climb this narrow, rocky road that scale higher and higher. I am beginning to make a mental checklist: the gig tonight is hosted by Dave's friends, so I won't really have to deal with cranky bar owners if all goes wrong. I have some fruit stand cherries and apples still left. Just as I'm taking my mental inventory, Dave interjects from nowhere. "Well, I got matches" adding to my checklist, "and there's wine in the back there too." We smile. The presence of food, wine, and matches suddenly makes all danger seem quite manageable.We climb in silence for awhile longer, knowing we're close to the summit of this mountain and at some point, at some intersection, the road will . . . nay, MUST begin descending. But it doesn't. It teases us with a bit of downhill slant, and then just jacks straight back up until we eventually happen across a logging operation.
I casually munch one of the apples (which should no longer be necessary for overnight sustenance) as Dave waves down a logger and begins seeking directions. Dave returns with the rules of the road, and we proceed. After doing a U-turn.
Dave descends the hill with more speed and urgency than in the ascent, as Bruce Springsteen blares over the stereo. I'm slightly nervous as the jeep jumps and fishtails down the mountain, occasionally slowing to avert the cows grazing along the highway, who seem only mildly disturbed by "Born in the U.S.A." pumping out into the serene landscape.
We arrive at Route 6 Cafe and I meet Faye and Glen, who immediately begin riddling Dave about being late. I am so relieved to arrive, that when Faye hugs me, I'm quite certain my return embrace is overly enthusiastic. Beyond my happiness to be out of the Jeep though, Faye immediately attracts my admiration. Something about her reassures me that I am welcome here, and makes me want to stay indefinitely.
The gig (or should I just call it a party?) embraces the summer vibe. The BBQ is keeping up with the demand of the patrons crowding the tiny deck of the Route 6. Within moments of arriving, a glass of red wine is thrust into my hands. We set up quickly, and Dave takes the stage.
The mood is high, the sun is setting on the mountains, the air is warm, and the people are primed.It is in this setting, in this moment, that I come to understand a bit about Dave Soroka. I sip my wine, and watch him launch into his music, totally absorbed in what he is doing and surrounded by friends that have been listening to his songs for years. These people have evolved with his music. This is how Dave Soroka is meant to be listened to: on a summer patio, with wine and smoke in the air, on a hot day in the mountains, surrounded by people who love him.
Dave's songs are other worldly, in that they seem to inhabit a space that is probably most locatable in the past. They evoke lost moments and memories that will never be regained, except for in the space of his performance. And that is what the audience seems to dig most: they return with him to a timeless past, or a mythic youth, or an unforgotten lover. And they stay right there with him. And they say, "yeah man, take me back there." And when he does, they sing along. This is Dave's vibe.
The night goes on like this, as the audience lets Dave and I take them deeper and deeper into this summer party with music that echoes off the mountains as the sky grows absolutely black and lit with stars. The patio becomes an island of light in the dark and time freezes. The audience roars or sits breathless or laughs or sings on cue. This is Cherryville. "Yeah," I tell Glen and Faye, "I'll be back."
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