24 February-Victoria

Hey lover,

I remember the first time we walked into the Lucky bar. Newly relocated to Victoria, we were tripping on alot of tourist culture--that glittery artifice that leaves one removed from the real vibe of the city. So walking into a bar or cafe or restaurant that was obviously a locals' joint was a real find. That was Lucky at first glance. Over beer and great live music, we agreed we could really get used to things around this town.



So it was nostalgic playing the room with Peter on Thursday. Of course, a healthy crowd of Saskatoon expatriats were littered among the crowd (including the sound guy, Rory!) Being in Vancouver and Victoria has been a series of reunions with musicians, friends, and family that have been reminding me why I love music and what I'm doing. Just in time--I needed a little affirmation.

After the show at Lucky, Peter and I had a great rant, loose and brave with beer. Unfortunately, Peter has revealed that his favorite shooter is. . .Jack Daniels?? What is the boy thinking? Only fair. We had Jagermeister in Winnipeg--not sure if Jagermeister is my favorite, but the very idea that it has roots in the herbal world seduces me.



Forgive me if I don't call tonight. I'm caught up in reunions and ocean vistas. Peter and I are enthralled with the sight of green lawn and budding trees; the novelty of driving around with our windows open has that intoxicating effect of spring. We'll have to get our fill and prepare for winter again by the end of the week.

Miss ya tonnes. Postcards abound in the mail.

C

21 February 2006

Hush. Quiet now. Be still and then move about furiously. I'm resting. I'm writing. It is simultaneously a moment of recuperation and preparation. We're in Abbotsford. Wrote two songs and purged myself of poetry.

This is the border, and we're on the verge of entering Vancouver and Victoria, the cities where I have staged my most splendid successes and fantastic failures. I celebrate both as if there is no distinction. I am a firm believer in the motto, make mistakes faster. But what will those events and people and lessons and past lives look like when they are littered on the streets of the cities that I have missed so much? Now, there are no Rockies and prairies and badlands separating me from those successes and failures. Now, they threaten to trip me, tangle up my feet in words twisted together like rope, while I am staring up at the buildings and signs that seduced me the first time I saw these cities.

Will I still love these cities? Will they still love me?

Bring it on. I can't wait to find out.

20 February 2006-Kimberley

Hey lover,

Kimberley is new to me—a funny little tribute to German culture. Peter and I arrive in town, almost late to set up for our afternoon show at the Bean Tree café. Peter and I navigate the quaint town, wondering what the hell a “Platzl” is and ready for the warmth of a good café.

After the set, I wander down the street to find a hotel and happen to stumble upon a main attraction of Kimberley—the world’s largest cuckoo clock, chiming in full action and revealing the little German clockmaker, tragically trapped within for the majority of his tiny mechanical life. Indeed, it’s the perfect postcard moment that some unsuspecting fan will benefit from!




The hotel of choice is Chef Bernard’s Schnitzel House, a cluttered hotel and restaurant, packed with remnants of German culture: pictures of famous Germans on the walls, sauerkraut and prepared red cabbage on sale in the lobby, and the Chef himself!



The show at the Bean Tree that night was one of those moments that musicians live for. With a packed house of attentive listeners, warm hosts (thanks Esther and Liana!), and good food, I’m surprised we ever left. The audience was enraptured and we made many friends. During my set, I so admired the chocolate cake being consumed right in front of me that a kind listener bought me a piece after the show—it was the best chocolate cake I’ve ever consumed, which is no small compliment coming from a chocolate connoisseur. The night was a blessing.

The next day is an eight-hour drive west. It’s blissfully empty. Driving most of the way, I let song lyrics and ideas bounce around my head, uninterrupted, and admire the mountain views. Peter introduces me to some great new music—my favorite new find is Ray Lamontagne. Can’t wait to introduce you to him when I get home.

I’ll have a day off tomorrow and finally time to catch up. Let’s have a phone date.

Love C

P.S. We did an afternoon show at the Bean Tree as well, and I realized what's so great about afternoon shows: the fans are way cuter. The picture she's holding is one drawn of me, now safely guarded in my guitar case. . .

Pics from the road

GET A POSTCARD FROM THE ROAD

If you forward an email to a friend about one of my upcoming shows with Peter, I'll send you a postcard! Just forward the email to carrie@carriecatherine.com with your address!

19 February 2006-Fernie

Hey lover,

I keep forgetting that, although the venues are new and I might not know friends in every city we descend upon, the routes and roads are familiar. I’ve driven through these cities enough to know them intimately and they predictably rise along highways like good friends, waving as you pass. It’s comforting! Makes me miss home less.

In Fernie, I played at the Blue Toque Diner on my previous tour. Really connected with Geoff, the owner and an inspired chef. So when I let him know I’d be back in town, he invited Peter and I to dinner. It was a brilliant meal, topped with the total satisfaction of getting exactly what you want when you want it. Doesn’t always work that way out here.

Peter doesn’t have the same benefit of knowing these roads and letting them soothe his heart. When we get out east our positions will be much reversed! Then again, it’s his first romance with the Rockies—so instead of the intimacy I’ve acquired from knowing this body, Peter is wrapped in the thralls of first love. His heart is racing and mine is slow and deep. We’re the perfect pair.

The show at the Northern was . . . unpredictable. The crowd was thin while Peter worked through his set. There were some attentive listeners and the sound was so very delicious that Peter was really getting into it. During his last song, a huge group of totally drunk English travelers burst in on the scene, cheering madly for Peter and totally waking up the joint, slamming about the dance floor, hooting and hollering. Peter handled them expertly. He agreed that he would play one more song on the condition that the kind English drunkards would sing along. They were thrilled.



The rest of the audience watched, laughing uncontrollably, as Peter launched into a sweet, slow version of Cyndi Lauper’s “Time after time.” The drunks were not shaken. Lighters blazing, arm and arm, they swayed and sang with passion and zeal, finally ending the song alongside Peter on stage. Peter looked at me knowingly. “Carrie you’re going to have a great set!” Peter joked from the stage. “Fuck you, Peter” I said from the audience.

But the English blokes were terribly accommodating—disturbingly so. I walked up to the stage, feather boa trailing behind, grabbed the electric guitar and launched into “Weather” with all the attitude I could muster. The burly English blokes were hushed, seating themselves in a semi-circle in front of the stage. Although they chatted animatedly between songs, they maintained a respectful silence during the songs unless invited to sing, clap, whatever interaction was permitted. And of course, we had to extend a few invitations. By the end of the night, our English friends were departing, all donning a Peter Katz T-shirt and arms loaded with CDs.




Wish you could have seen it. It was a scene your playful heart would have much appreciated! It was great hearing your voice last night. Only temporarily felt sorry for myself for missing the curry feast you whipped up and great night out with friends. Say hi to the people that know me (sound familiar?).

Love C

18 February 2006

Hey lover,

We were playful and busy in the car as we headed out of Alberta and watched the first peaks of the Rockies approach in the distance. Inside the car, everything is packed so tight that any simple request from the driver (can you get the CDs? the camera? my minidisk? an apple?) involves an acrobatic feat on the part of the passenger who carefully sifts and shifts the contents. Inevitably, it ends with whining: “Peter we need a better system!” But we remain at a loss as to how to keep things handy; just fitting everything in is impressive enough. It’s far from the luxury of space I usually enjoy in the wagon!

Entering the mountains subdued me. I was mesmerized and sedate as Peter clicked snapshots, madly aiming the camera out the car window as he drove.

Tonight we play at the Northern Hotel in Fernie, and I’m really jazzed for the show. I was totally seduced by this town the minute I saw it. First impressions for the highly impressionable (such as myself) are significant events. Makes me think of the countless other cities we drive through with no identity, just long streets of familiar franchises predictably stretched along the highway. Anything with a little character is immediately inviting.

Gotta run. Fill ya in on Fernie details later! Love ya,

C

PICTURES FROM THE BLUE CHAIR IN EDMONTON

Peter woos them all. . .

Sharla, Alison, and Kate get voted sexiest fans ever . . .

It helps if you play with beer in your hand. . .

14 February - Postcards for lovers

Shall we succumb to the calendar and celebrate dear old St. Valentine? I’ve made many an oath to actually look up the origins of holidays like these to decipher their true meaning, but have yet to live up to the intention. Shall we proceed anyway, uninformed, to mark the day as we’ve been told to?

I miss you. I love you. I have no intention on letting this holiday pass without telling you so, without taking any excuse I can to celebrate love and its repercussions. But screw Hallmark and flowers, roses and cinnamon hearts, and all the uninventive, formulaic methods of celebration. I’ve got my own rules for this holiday.

The world is full of lovers. Don’t be afraid of the word. A lover is simply a place or person where one finds love. You need not delve much further. And sometimes, one needs a reminder of the places where love lives.

So be the reminder. Be the kind words that change his/her day. Be the poetry that invites creativity. Be the whispered compliment that makes her/him blush. Be the dress that makes him/her feel as beautiful as she is. Be the idea that inspires him/her to be bold. For your lover, mother, father, friend, sister, brother, acquaintance, partner . . . be the reminder.

And I’ll do the same. Send me a line and I’ll send you a postcard, a love letter, from the road.

13 February

Peter and I are fast friends, getting our road legs and drinking in the colorful people, questionable weather, and groovy venues. In Winnipeg, we stayed with Keri and Devin from the band Nathan and endured the snow. Didn’t get a chance to explore much, but I do love the city (from what I’ve seen) and will take the chance on the way back to suss out the scene.

The drive from Winnipeg to Regina was a nightmare, totally expected on this stretch, of ice and blowing wind that would edge our car over into the next lane on a whim. Counted five semis in the ditch. Peter and I let our life stories seep out in the cramped quarters of his car, ignoring the ominous weather.




We arrived in Regina and made our way to the Gaslight Saloon. I had been choosing to ignore the rumors I heard that this was a biker bar, whatever that means. But true enough, Peter and I turned up and saw our names beneath a sign of red flames and choppers. We'll just miss the tattoo convention next week, but I make a mental note that tonight might be a good night to show off the ink anyway.



As I went up to the bar to check out the details, Peter made a quick decision about self-preservation and changed from his cords into grey pants (the only option before he could get into the suitcase for ripped jeans). It was hard to tell in the afternoon light what to expect from the show. The bartender was warm—swearing I’m familiar and asking if we’ve slept together. The sign in the bathroom explained the stripper pole in front of the stage; amateurs can give it their best swing on Thursday nights for a grand prize sum of $50. I contemplate what is more offensive--the contest or the pittance of a prize.



The show was a blast and we actually had a warm reception—hardly the biker bar we’d hoped for. Barely life-threatening. Maybe we’ll have better luck in Lethbridge. Was back in Saskatoon for the weekend and played the Freehouse, perched high above the crowd on a chair duct-taped to the bar. What some girls will do for a little attention . . .