Somewhere south of Calgary

I’ll be the first to admit, it may have been a mistake to leave Fernie after the show Friday night and start into Calgary to avoid leaving at 7am and fighting to stay on time the next day. I didn’t manage to get a hold of the aunt that I could stay with, but figured she would call by the time I reached the city three hours later. The drive wasn’t as bad as I thought. I realized that it’s been awhile since I did any night driving on the highway, and I was again reminded of Dave Soroka who says he prefers the night. He cites Bruce Springsteen’s Nebraska as one of the perfect albums for such a night. For me, it was Ani DiFranco, Macy Gray, and a coffee at the 7-11 that kept me remarkably alert.

But the closer I came to Calgary, the more I began to realize that I wouldn’t get a hold of my aunt and it was now far too late to call on any of my other alternatives. Then, I realized that the Calgary Stampede—the single largest tourist trap to takeover the city of Calgary during the summer—is in full swing. Perhaps that’s where my aunt is, like the rest of the city, tourists and locals alike. This epiphany alerts me to the fact that available hotel rooms, if it comes to that, may not be exactly abundant and will certainly come at a premium.

About 80km outside Calgary, I get inventive. I think I’m in Black Diamond. I could be in Black Diamond. I stop at a motel, figuring that outside Calgary the rooms will be cheap and I’ll just head in in the morning. I stop at the Twin Cities Motel (where am I again?) and enter the bar to see if there are still a few rooms available upstairs. I walk past a couple large tables of men in cowboy hats and women in tight jeans. A couple grinds slowly on the dance floor in front of the one-man band singing some Randy Travis and playing electric guitar over a karaoke track.

The bartender tells me there’s one room left; it’s cheap, and it has a shared bathroom. I take it. I walk out to bring in my bags just as the singer, who is impressively loud for a one-man band, finishes his song. A long-haired blonde places a request by throwing her head back and singing loudly, “I’ve been cheated, been mistreated, when will I be loved.”

After a quick reorganization of some things in the car, I grab my bags and march in, just in time to hear the singer finish his next song. The blonde starts in again, a little more slur to her lyrics this time: “I’ve been cheated.” No go. The singer launches into a little Garth Brooks, predictably “Friends in Low Places.” This reminds me of a karaoke bar I used to frequent in Saskatoon before I was the legal age to be in the bar. We hung at this local dive, the only place we were brave enough to use our fake ID. Practically every night we showed up, we encountered Freddie, an old Asian line cook who would present his version of Garth, always changing up the lyric. “I’ve got friend in lonely places,” Freddie would recite in a thick accent to an enthusiastic crowd of regulars.

I think I lost my cell phone charger. Back to the car for a long and fruitless search, where I turn up my glasses but no charger. Eventually, I venture back to my room above the bar, wondering when the one-man band will finish his last set. The persistent blonde has now gathered support among her drinking buddies. As the singer finished his song, a whole chorus of men and women pipe up: “I’ve been cheated, been mistreated. . .” I welcome the shift to a little Roy Orbison. Between the one-man band and the coffee for the road, I’m incredibly thankful for a good book to see me through the rest of the night.

Tour reaches the Edge

Another shortcut. This time Dave Soroka assures me that he's familiar with the road from Grand Forks to Edgewood and that, indeed, we'll save some good time. We hit the path with Dusty riding shot gun; he's playing electric with Dave tonight at our show at Carol's Cafe. Dusty and I chat animatedly for most of the drive, admiring the views of this backwoods BC country.

Been hanging around Dave for a few days now, and learning how different our approaches to music are and trying to learn from that. Dave is an intense person, and that intensity is certainly taken onto the stage with him. He invites (maybe sometimes even expects?) his audience to participate in that intensity. I've seen other performers like this: they hold expectations of their audience. It's a difficult position to take, because the audience won't always live up to those expectations. But sometimes it means the performer works harder to deliver a really intense experience that audiences latch into, cooperate with, participate in. These performers are not simply up there to entertain.

On this short backwoods BC tour with Dave, I start to connect his intensity to a book I read on the psychedlic era, the music of the 60s. Enormous happenings and concerts took place where the audience was intensely connected to the music, to each other, and participated in making a scene what it was. These thoughts are lingering as we arrive at Carol's and set up on her enormous, vine-covered patio on a hot summer's day.

Dave opens the show, which starts with restrained passion and builds all night. The fine folks of Cherryville show up to carry on the vibe from the show a few nights before, and the growing crowd nearly succeeds in drinking Carol's place completely dry. The crowd is hyped: dancing, singing, enthralled and the energy continues to build through four, five, six sets of music. The Cherry-villians bring instruments, until we have a great jam band: drums, guitars, percussion, and I join to backup Dave.

The whole jumpin' scene evolves on Carol's deck, out in the warm summer air, and both audience and musicians are really connected in this experience, a moment, where the music and the meaning and the lyrics are absorbed and respected and honored, as the songs swerve from serious to playful to intense to gentle to rockin'. Everything on that deck revolves around the music, even when the audience is talking, laughing, playing.

We wake early the next morning, and Carol makes us coffee before we push off. I'm tired and thoughtful in the backseat as he head home, and Dave is absolutely glowing from the last couple of gigs. As I think about the last few gigs we've played together, I wonder what it is I expect from my audience. And Dave has certainly tamed my own arrogance that my way (so very different from his onstage and off) is the right way. So good to be thrust outside one's comfort zone every now and then.

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."

13 July 2005

Lorenzo and I . . . EARLY in the evening


This tour has been bizarre and unpredictable indeed. Life at Lorenzo's was laid back. On the morning after that groovy gig, I chilled with Lorne on his helipad atop the roof. Lorenzo's Cafe is a wild, bright yellow schoolhouse turned restaurant set back from the road in Ashton Creek. The house is organic, with rooms and decks and add-ons that extend like wild, flowing limbs from the body. To get to the helipad, we crossed the deck (above the outdoor bowling alley), jumped down onto the roof and scaled our way upwards, climbed the ladder and tip-toed across the roof peak. The pay off is a place of serenity and peace overlooking the road and nearby school yard. Life atop the helipad couldn't get much more chill.

Tragically, a washed out road in Penticton meant my houseboat show that night was cancelled. The luck on this tour (if you read about my lipstick vandal and u-turn ticket) is a bit aschew. But each curse is a blessing, and I get to visit some generous family members in Kelowna who feed me (literally and with great hospitality) until I leave the next morning refreshed and ready for the next show. Thanks Chuck and Lynda!

Lipstick Shades of Parking

Damn the big city, man. I've never bragged about being a good driver, but have prided myself on parking technique. The first day of my tour began in Vancouver with a few days of recording before hitting the road. The park job at my producer's apartment was questionable, I admit. But John assured me that it would be just fine. After a full day of laying down overdubs, I went out to my car around midnight to find a fellow tenant who did not, apparently, aggree that my park job was harmless. And she let me know by scribbling, in bright red lipstick, DICKHEAD across my back window. Perhaps she liked the feel of gloss on window, because she continued on, lipsticking my door handle and scribbling "Nice Parking Ass" on the passenger window. Hmmm.

By the time I got back to the pad, I was too tired to get out the scrub brush. And the next morning, I was in a hurry to get back to the studio. So I didn't get around to removing the friendly message immediately.

Among friends and family, it's pretty common knowledge that my tours are referred to as U-turn tours. Blame my poor navigational instincts and disregard for city bylaws. Alas, the fine law keepers of Vancouver were not to be toyed with on the second morning of my tour. One harmless U-turn introduced me to two very kind officers on motorbikes. One informed me that he would be kind, give me a break and charge me with a lesser offense that would not show up on my record. Bless his soul. He quickly grilled me on my past driving record before issuing the ticket. I wonder if he questioned how flawless my record in fact was, as he stood behind my car, jotting down my license plate and reading the bright red DICKHEAD still glaring from the previous night.

Ah, but a few more blessed days in the studio color unfortunate events as laughable episodes when the record shapes up, better than expected and always a thrill. Gotten love the sweet touch of John Ellis, not to mention the fine health-driven cooking of his sexy wife Leslie Alexander (check her out at www.lesliealexander.com) who delivers us lunch in between working on the release of her own album. I miss them already.