Monday, September 30, 2013
Split Singles are Done!
Sunday, September 29, 2013
Gong Bath!
Last night I went to a very weird "show" with Amber, called a "gong bath." It was presented by an Australian couple. They stood on a stage in front of about 75 adults sitting or lying on yoga mats and spouted a lot of new age kookiness about water having memory, objects in the universe each possessing their own unique vibration, and cell membranes opening to let toxins out and good vibrations in. The presentation was meant to be some kind of healing ceremony, although most of the people in the audience looked perfectly healthy already.
The first half of the presentation consisted of "toning," where everyone was asked to close their eyes, imagine blue light, and send healing intentions toward people they love as they allowed vocal tones to escape them on their relaxed out-breath. A kind of unguided chanting, in other words. Some of that was starting to sound pretty cool before a few women began singing actual melodies with foreign words they had learned. I'm not sure why they did that — the Australians had told us beforehand that the idea was definitely not to sing — but it really ruined the chaotic power of the drone, at least to my ears.
However, that power was brought back tenfold in the second half of the evening's performance. This was the gong bath proper. The Australians faced six different-sized gongs out toward the audience. We were told that the gongs were "tuned to the planets." I don't know what that meant. This time we were all instructed to lie down and close our eyes, imagining a purple light bathing us and everything else in its glow. At least, I think that's what they said. I was having a hard time hearing them from the back of the auditorium, which was probably a good thing.
After some more mumbo jumbo in which they quoted Albert Einstein to bolster their spurious understanding of quantum physics (even though Einstein notoriously rejected quantum theory right up to his death), they started to play the gongs. And they were really good at it. The different sizes were hit at different times with different intensities, their semichaotic sound waves allowed to interact with each other in surprising and often overpowering ways. Sometimes the gongs were rubbed for an extra eerie effect. The whole thing sounded something like this.
I don't mind telling you, I saw that purple light and had a lot of strange visions besides. I also became very aware of my entire body, then my mind, then dissociated from either of them, then aware of everyone in the room, then identical to everyone in the room, and finally identical to the sound itself. It was incredibly psychedelic and mystical. Plus, it was just an intensely enjoyable experience on a musical level. Well worth the ticket price and the baloney-tolerating.
The first half of the presentation consisted of "toning," where everyone was asked to close their eyes, imagine blue light, and send healing intentions toward people they love as they allowed vocal tones to escape them on their relaxed out-breath. A kind of unguided chanting, in other words. Some of that was starting to sound pretty cool before a few women began singing actual melodies with foreign words they had learned. I'm not sure why they did that — the Australians had told us beforehand that the idea was definitely not to sing — but it really ruined the chaotic power of the drone, at least to my ears.
However, that power was brought back tenfold in the second half of the evening's performance. This was the gong bath proper. The Australians faced six different-sized gongs out toward the audience. We were told that the gongs were "tuned to the planets." I don't know what that meant. This time we were all instructed to lie down and close our eyes, imagining a purple light bathing us and everything else in its glow. At least, I think that's what they said. I was having a hard time hearing them from the back of the auditorium, which was probably a good thing.
After some more mumbo jumbo in which they quoted Albert Einstein to bolster their spurious understanding of quantum physics (even though Einstein notoriously rejected quantum theory right up to his death), they started to play the gongs. And they were really good at it. The different sizes were hit at different times with different intensities, their semichaotic sound waves allowed to interact with each other in surprising and often overpowering ways. Sometimes the gongs were rubbed for an extra eerie effect. The whole thing sounded something like this.
I don't mind telling you, I saw that purple light and had a lot of strange visions besides. I also became very aware of my entire body, then my mind, then dissociated from either of them, then aware of everyone in the room, then identical to everyone in the room, and finally identical to the sound itself. It was incredibly psychedelic and mystical. Plus, it was just an intensely enjoyable experience on a musical level. Well worth the ticket price and the baloney-tolerating.
Saturday, September 28, 2013
OK, One More Story...
... and maybe this can count as Saturday's post, as it's well after midnight now. I was just turning out the light and getting into bed after finishing the previous post, when I heard someone outside calling my name. But they sounded kind of far away, so I decided it must be a coincidence and ignored it.
Then it continued, much closer now. It was either a woman or a man with a high-pitched voice. They kept calling, "Andrew! Andrew!" over and over. I turned on the light again. The shouting continued. It was kind of creeping me out, because I didn't recognize the woman's (or possibly man's) frantic voice. But I was also starting to think they really must be calling up to me from the street, so I forced myself to go to the window.
When I opened the curtain, at first I couldn't see anything because it was dark outside. But then I noticed some movement on the sidewalk under my window. It looked like someone crouching or maybe crawling around. The voice continued to call my name. Now I was really getting seriously creeped out.
Suddenly, I realized that what I was looking at was a large dog. The disembodied voice said, "Andrew! Get over here right now!" And the dog trotted obediently up the sidewalk and out of sight.
Good night.
Then it continued, much closer now. It was either a woman or a man with a high-pitched voice. They kept calling, "Andrew! Andrew!" over and over. I turned on the light again. The shouting continued. It was kind of creeping me out, because I didn't recognize the woman's (or possibly man's) frantic voice. But I was also starting to think they really must be calling up to me from the street, so I forced myself to go to the window.
When I opened the curtain, at first I couldn't see anything because it was dark outside. But then I noticed some movement on the sidewalk under my window. It looked like someone crouching or maybe crawling around. The voice continued to call my name. Now I was really getting seriously creeped out.
Suddenly, I realized that what I was looking at was a large dog. The disembodied voice said, "Andrew! Get over here right now!" And the dog trotted obediently up the sidewalk and out of sight.
Good night.
Making Language Strange
Alison and I went to see a really great dance performance tonight by a group called Liquid Loft. The piece was titled "Running Sushi," and was "about" manga and the Superflat movement in Japanese art. A lot of the short scenes that made it up relied on the two dancers syncing their movements incredibly precisely with recorded sound effects and spoken word bits. Very impressive and hilarious and evocative. Go and see it, if you have a chance. Here's what some of it was like:
But anyway, so then we watched the latest episodes of Project Runway and New Girl, and now it's too late for any kind of substantial wordiness. My fallback position when I don't have much to say is to post some kind of Smiths video, and luckily Amber just sent me this perfect one, so enjoy.
But anyway, so then we watched the latest episodes of Project Runway and New Girl, and now it's too late for any kind of substantial wordiness. My fallback position when I don't have much to say is to post some kind of Smiths video, and luckily Amber just sent me this perfect one, so enjoy.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
The Wheel Giveth...
I got some bad news at work today. It looks like my dream job may not be such a dream anymore, as it's about to have half of another person's job added onto it indefinitely. I'm quite bummed about it. The new role is really not the kind of work I like doing, it's going to significantly eat into the amount of time I can spend on the work I was hired for, the relaxed mental space I've been enjoying will become overtaxed, and the way the whole handoff went down seems surprisingly opaque and deceptive. Maybe it's some kind of Buddhist lesson in karma. I get that everything is impermanent and that pain and pleasure come and go in cycles. I guess I just expected the pleasure to last a little longer than this.
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Same Time Tomorrow
I have full dental coverage at work now, so I finally went to get my teeth cleaned today for the first time in about six years. Ironically, dental coverage is the reason why it needed to be done in the first place. Ha. But seriously...
I have a new dentist, and she seems really sensible and sensitive. She filled a cavity at the top of my left front tooth on Monday, and the only painful part of the entire procedure was at the beginning, when she poked around, asking, "Does this hurt?"
The hygienist who did the cleaning today was a little more on the rough, scoldy side, but she was generally nice too. There was a bit of passive aggressive reiteration early on that my mouth's condition could be a lot worse, given how long I had let things go. And I got a lesson in flossing that was slightly humbling. But two thirds of my teeth are now spotless, the other third being finished tomorrow. I guess they don't like to have you in the chair for more than an hour at a time. I know I certainly wouldn't want to scrape away at someone else's disgusting fangs for longer than that.
There was a local CBC radio show on the whole time I was in there. I was trying not to listen to it, but the subject matter was just too inflammatory to ignore. It was one of those call-in shows where people are encouraged to indulge their knee-jerk reactions to ethical matters that are usually complex enough to be ill-served by such treatment, and, moreover, already settled.
Today's topic was the recent firing of three Toronto firefighters over some incredibly violent expressions of sexism they posted on social media sites. The posts were in response to Toronto Fire Services' attempts to recruit more women. There was a lawyer sitting in with the host, explaining how these were perfectly reasonable and legal dismissals, given the public nature of both the firemen's service role and their chosen forum for flouting their employers' socially responsible policy.
But most of the calls were from people saying things like, "It's none of my employer's business what I do in my spare time. That's my private life." The lawyer would point out that the hateful statements in question were not in fact private, but public, and therefore a legitimate concern to the Fire Services with respect to their estimation in the eyes of a public that needs to feel protected by them. Then, the next caller would say, "For my employer to go out of his way to look at what I'm doing in my own private time and then fire me for it is going too far. It's an abuse of technology and power."
Some people also made a case that Facebook sucks.
Because I had sharp poky things wedged into the crevices of my mouth, I mostly had to satisfy myself with a lot of eye rolling. But I couldn't help letting out a "Guh!" or a "B'cark!" every once in awhile. At first, the hygienist was alarmed and wondered how she had hurt me. But we quickly worked out a code where I would point to the radio with my thumb. Then she would nod and say, "These same people say the same dumb things every day." Then I would say, "Ee ull," and we'd roll our eyes together. It was kind of a nice way to spend my lunch hour.
I have a new dentist, and she seems really sensible and sensitive. She filled a cavity at the top of my left front tooth on Monday, and the only painful part of the entire procedure was at the beginning, when she poked around, asking, "Does this hurt?"
The hygienist who did the cleaning today was a little more on the rough, scoldy side, but she was generally nice too. There was a bit of passive aggressive reiteration early on that my mouth's condition could be a lot worse, given how long I had let things go. And I got a lesson in flossing that was slightly humbling. But two thirds of my teeth are now spotless, the other third being finished tomorrow. I guess they don't like to have you in the chair for more than an hour at a time. I know I certainly wouldn't want to scrape away at someone else's disgusting fangs for longer than that.
There was a local CBC radio show on the whole time I was in there. I was trying not to listen to it, but the subject matter was just too inflammatory to ignore. It was one of those call-in shows where people are encouraged to indulge their knee-jerk reactions to ethical matters that are usually complex enough to be ill-served by such treatment, and, moreover, already settled.
Today's topic was the recent firing of three Toronto firefighters over some incredibly violent expressions of sexism they posted on social media sites. The posts were in response to Toronto Fire Services' attempts to recruit more women. There was a lawyer sitting in with the host, explaining how these were perfectly reasonable and legal dismissals, given the public nature of both the firemen's service role and their chosen forum for flouting their employers' socially responsible policy.
But most of the calls were from people saying things like, "It's none of my employer's business what I do in my spare time. That's my private life." The lawyer would point out that the hateful statements in question were not in fact private, but public, and therefore a legitimate concern to the Fire Services with respect to their estimation in the eyes of a public that needs to feel protected by them. Then, the next caller would say, "For my employer to go out of his way to look at what I'm doing in my own private time and then fire me for it is going too far. It's an abuse of technology and power."
Some people also made a case that Facebook sucks.
Because I had sharp poky things wedged into the crevices of my mouth, I mostly had to satisfy myself with a lot of eye rolling. But I couldn't help letting out a "Guh!" or a "B'cark!" every once in awhile. At first, the hygienist was alarmed and wondered how she had hurt me. But we quickly worked out a code where I would point to the radio with my thumb. Then she would nod and say, "These same people say the same dumb things every day." Then I would say, "Ee ull," and we'd roll our eyes together. It was kind of a nice way to spend my lunch hour.
The Sound of One Fan Clapping
Psychic Fair have started having weekly jam sessions on Tuesday nights. I just got home from one, and it's super late, so no trip to Wordland for you tonight. But here's an iPhone recording of one of the proto-songs we worked on.
Monday, September 23, 2013
Signs of a Healthier Culture to Come
We have a new advice columnist at what passes for a newspaper in this city, The Chronicle Herald. She's surprisingly readable. I've been noticing her sensible wit for a few weeks now, impressed with the way she eschews popular etiquette for a more thoughtful ethics. Then, this weekend, she won me over completely with her response to a woman looking for confirmation that it was about time her boyfriend asked her to marry him. Check it out — and see if you can refrain from cheering as Angela Mombourquette puts Put a Ring on It in her place.
That piece tied in really nicely with this book I've been reading lately, Rewriting the Rules: An Integrative Guide to Love, Sex and Relationships, by Meg Barker. It's a general appeal to anyone who's ever had a meaningful other to try and see what's best for ourselves and our relationships in any given situation, rather than falling back on the clichéd and often terrible scripts our culture would have us stick to. Split into chapters on attraction, love, sex, gender, monogamy, conflict, break-up, commitment, and oneself, it manages to question a large pile of received wisdom without either preaching new rules or leaving the reader adrift.
I was thinking a lot about these issues last night when Alison and I watched a fairly new rom-com called Celeste and Jessie Forever. It's about a married couple who separate but maintain an intimate friendship, and the challenges that precarious position presents. Often the challenges have to do with the perceptions of well-meaning friends or coworkers who can't understand the relationship, because it doesn't fit into any of their prefab boxes.
One couple of friends goes so far as to "break up" with the eponymous pair, because they can't stand watching them delude themselves and each other by not moving on with their lives. We paused the movie at that point to talk about what jerks those "friends" were, and compare the situation to experiences we'd had where acquaintances seemed to feel the need to choose between us after we started seeing other people and stopped living together. And there were even some cases where we were pretty sure folks just started avoiding both of us, because the whole situation just seemed too weird or maybe potentially volatile for their comfort.
Then this morning, as I waited at the dentist's office to get a cavity filled, I read this passage in the chapter on break-ups. Funny how these things can suddenly align themselves:
"[W]hen there is only one way of seeing things available to us then, however much we want to do things otherwise, we can feel forced into a corner. For example, when things become difficult in a relationship, we might try to think and talk about how we could shift it into a form which would work better. However, if all that surrounds us are the mainstream rules, we will feel pressure to read such conversations as break-ups. Other people in our lives will assume that, for example, moving out of shared accommodation, spending less time together, or deciding not to be sexual any more, equates to having broken up, even if other aspects of the relationship (such as emotional closeness or shared goals) have remained the same. Despite our best intentions, others may then feel that they have to take sides, deciding which of us to support and which of us to blame, and that puts further pressure on us to feel that we are breaking up."
That piece tied in really nicely with this book I've been reading lately, Rewriting the Rules: An Integrative Guide to Love, Sex and Relationships, by Meg Barker. It's a general appeal to anyone who's ever had a meaningful other to try and see what's best for ourselves and our relationships in any given situation, rather than falling back on the clichéd and often terrible scripts our culture would have us stick to. Split into chapters on attraction, love, sex, gender, monogamy, conflict, break-up, commitment, and oneself, it manages to question a large pile of received wisdom without either preaching new rules or leaving the reader adrift.
I was thinking a lot about these issues last night when Alison and I watched a fairly new rom-com called Celeste and Jessie Forever. It's about a married couple who separate but maintain an intimate friendship, and the challenges that precarious position presents. Often the challenges have to do with the perceptions of well-meaning friends or coworkers who can't understand the relationship, because it doesn't fit into any of their prefab boxes.
One couple of friends goes so far as to "break up" with the eponymous pair, because they can't stand watching them delude themselves and each other by not moving on with their lives. We paused the movie at that point to talk about what jerks those "friends" were, and compare the situation to experiences we'd had where acquaintances seemed to feel the need to choose between us after we started seeing other people and stopped living together. And there were even some cases where we were pretty sure folks just started avoiding both of us, because the whole situation just seemed too weird or maybe potentially volatile for their comfort.
Then this morning, as I waited at the dentist's office to get a cavity filled, I read this passage in the chapter on break-ups. Funny how these things can suddenly align themselves:
"[W]hen there is only one way of seeing things available to us then, however much we want to do things otherwise, we can feel forced into a corner. For example, when things become difficult in a relationship, we might try to think and talk about how we could shift it into a form which would work better. However, if all that surrounds us are the mainstream rules, we will feel pressure to read such conversations as break-ups. Other people in our lives will assume that, for example, moving out of shared accommodation, spending less time together, or deciding not to be sexual any more, equates to having broken up, even if other aspects of the relationship (such as emotional closeness or shared goals) have remained the same. Despite our best intentions, others may then feel that they have to take sides, deciding which of us to support and which of us to blame, and that puts further pressure on us to feel that we are breaking up."
Sunday, September 22, 2013
Well, That Was a Nice One
As well as being the first day of fall, today was also the last day of softball. Very symbolic. Here's Dave "Snowy" striking out and Matt "McMuscle" getting ready to pound one. Our team's position looked good this morning going into the playoffs, as we only had to beat two teams we had beaten earlier in the season to make it into the final game.
But we narrowly lost our 11:30 game, which put us straight into the consolation round for fifth place at 4:30. At least that second game was a lot of fun, since we got to play our favourite team, and neither of us cared at all who won. In fact, I showed up to find that about 90% of my team had just finished ingesting some special cookies that Gerry "Medical Marijuana" had brought. Good times.
After ball, I went to the Atlantic Superstore for some groceries, and something very unnerving was going on in there. Over the ceiling speakers that usually broadcast terrible dance pop hits or eighties' power ballads, this weird triptych of my youth's touchstones played, in order. Did Gerry get there before me and hand out some of his treats to the staff?
Saturday, September 21, 2013
Unconscious Fun
I just found out today about this kind of awesome record from 1964. It's a spoken-word recording of a guy talking in his sleep. It reminded me that my sister Dana — who shared a room with my other sister, Erika, when we were kids — used to force Erika to talk to her as she was drifting off to sleep, with sometimes weird and hilarious results. A normal conversation would suddenly veer into surreal or nonsensical territory, while Erika's tone always remained perfectly reasonable (if a little irritated at being kept partially awake).
You can hear one of the shorter tracks from this album here. Sort of sounds like a lost Captain Beefheart track.
And here's a description of the album's origin, taken from the blog where I downloaded it:
"Dion McGregor was a homeless gay bohemian from NY. He wanted to be a songwriter for Broadway musicals, and while waiting for his big break in show business, he couch-surfed with his friends, lovers, and acquaintances. One of his hosts was fascinated with Dion's habit of talking in his sleep and attempted to document it. This LP compiles several recordings of Dion McGregor narrating his dreams. This isn't just mumblemumble, though — these are clearly articulated stories with dialog and all. A few of them border on nightmares and often end with the speaker waking up with a muffled scream. You can hear New York street noises in the background, as he slept by an open window.
"This record came out in 1964, and was accompanied by a book of transcriptions with illustrations by Edward Gorey (who also did the cover art for the record). Two more recordings came out recently, containing the stories which were deemed inappropriate for publication in 1960s."
Friday, September 20, 2013
Backpat
Hey, the November issue of the Shambhala Sun is available online now. You can check it out here, although it costs money to actually download the whole thing. But I think it turned out really great. The cover's metallic gold, I got some beautiful and shocking feminist art in there, and I got to design one of the long features — on modern comedy and its similarities to Buddhist principles.
That article discusses the work of a lot of contemporary comedians, including Louis C.K. Coincidentally, I just saw this clip of him on Conan, in which he says some pretty explicitly Buddhist stuff about cellphones and his kids. Thanks for the cross-promotion, Louis! On newsstands October 1.
That article discusses the work of a lot of contemporary comedians, including Louis C.K. Coincidentally, I just saw this clip of him on Conan, in which he says some pretty explicitly Buddhist stuff about cellphones and his kids. Thanks for the cross-promotion, Louis! On newsstands October 1.
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Post-a-Day Starts Here
OK, I'm figuring out that I'm just not going to keep this blog going at all unless I make some kind of commitment to it I can actually keep. So, I'm just going to write something every day for awhile and see how that goes. Seems potentially easier than saving stories up and then trying to find the time to express them properly.
Here's today's news, then.
I left for work early this morning so I could put air in the back tire of my bike. Earlier in the week, I'd taken it over to Amber's new place in the city (hooray!), and when I rode it home in the morning, the tire was really soft (boo!). Like, there was basically no air in it at all. That meant I had to take the number 80 bus with the super cranky driver — who never returns my greetings and has the most unkempt beard I've ever seen on an employed person and smells like a sponge — every morning this week till I finally had a chance to refill the tire, which chance happened to be today.
The thing is, I expected the air to just leak out again pretty quickly, as it obviously had a puncture somewhere. I figured I might at least get downtown on it OK and then have to refill it at the end of the day. But weirdly, when I rode the bike home eight hours later, the tire was still as solid as when I'd filled it up.
Did one of Amber's neighbours let the air out of my tire? And, if so, why? It was locked in her garage, so it's really just the three other people living in her building who would have access to it. Amber thinks I'm being paranoid, but how else could this have happened? I'll see how the tire feels tomorrow morning, and if it's rideably firm, I'm going to be checking out her new housemates very carefully.
I guess if this story were to be mapped onto the lyrics of a Smiths song (and, really, why shouldn't it be?), we'd have to cast the hirsute number 80 bus driver as This Charming Man. Is it possible that his crankiness and general lack of charm are just a cover for the fact that he's in love with me and can't figure out, when I wish him a good morning, how to say something smooth like, "It's gruesome that someone so handsome should care" without stammering? Could he actually be one of the tenants in Amber's building, and did he get so frustrated by his lovesick speech impediment and angered by my continuing relationship with her that he vandalized my only means of transport in order to get me into/onto his charming car/turf/bus, where we could finally have a proper chat about rings and smooth leather? And, if all that is the case, why did he angrily pull away from the curb yesterday when I tried to get on, disappearing into morning traffic while I continued to hold out my unused ticket?
The whole thing is a real mystery...
Here's today's news, then.
I left for work early this morning so I could put air in the back tire of my bike. Earlier in the week, I'd taken it over to Amber's new place in the city (hooray!), and when I rode it home in the morning, the tire was really soft (boo!). Like, there was basically no air in it at all. That meant I had to take the number 80 bus with the super cranky driver — who never returns my greetings and has the most unkempt beard I've ever seen on an employed person and smells like a sponge — every morning this week till I finally had a chance to refill the tire, which chance happened to be today.
The thing is, I expected the air to just leak out again pretty quickly, as it obviously had a puncture somewhere. I figured I might at least get downtown on it OK and then have to refill it at the end of the day. But weirdly, when I rode the bike home eight hours later, the tire was still as solid as when I'd filled it up.
Did one of Amber's neighbours let the air out of my tire? And, if so, why? It was locked in her garage, so it's really just the three other people living in her building who would have access to it. Amber thinks I'm being paranoid, but how else could this have happened? I'll see how the tire feels tomorrow morning, and if it's rideably firm, I'm going to be checking out her new housemates very carefully.
I guess if this story were to be mapped onto the lyrics of a Smiths song (and, really, why shouldn't it be?), we'd have to cast the hirsute number 80 bus driver as This Charming Man. Is it possible that his crankiness and general lack of charm are just a cover for the fact that he's in love with me and can't figure out, when I wish him a good morning, how to say something smooth like, "It's gruesome that someone so handsome should care" without stammering? Could he actually be one of the tenants in Amber's building, and did he get so frustrated by his lovesick speech impediment and angered by my continuing relationship with her that he vandalized my only means of transport in order to get me into/onto his charming car/turf/bus, where we could finally have a proper chat about rings and smooth leather? And, if all that is the case, why did he angrily pull away from the curb yesterday when I tried to get on, disappearing into morning traffic while I continued to hold out my unused ticket?
The whole thing is a real mystery...
Thursday, September 05, 2013
Summer Dreams
As usual, so much to fill you in on and so few drugs to keep me awake long enough. There was a week-long trip to Maine with Alison, meeting up with my parents and sisters, nieces and nephews, brothers-in-law, family friends, and even a coworker who happened to be vacationing with his family a few miles down the road. It was a well-documented blast. Here are some telling snapshots, courtesy of Instagram:
Then the other big deal was that I got to play a show last weekend with my songwriting idol, Robyn Hitchcock. No kidding. He brought his Carrollian English eccentricity to town as part of the Halifax Urban Folk Festival, and my friend Charles had been asked to put together a band to back him up for one of his two sets. Charles knows I'm pretty much as big a fan as he is, so he'd invited me to play keyboards and do some backup vocals.
The band practised extensively for a week to learn the list of songs Hitchcock had requested, and on Sunday we met him for a two-hour sound check in the afternoon before presenting the fruits of our labours to a full house that night. If you don't believe me, here's proof that this rock 'n roll dream come true really happened.
Robyn was an incredibly charming guy and super easy musician to work with. He enjoyed playing with us, and added five more songs to the set list than we'd planned, mostly covers. The gig went over really well, ending with a solo rendition of the first RH song I'd ever heard: "Ted, Woody, and Junior."
Sometime back in 1986, when I was attending high school in Markham, Brent Bambury played this song on CBC Two's excellent late night show, Brave New Waves. I was as usual listening in bed with headphones, taping any songs that seemed interesting, and trying not to fall asleep. At first I thought it was a John Lennon song I'd never heard. Then I was sure it must be Syd Barrett.
Then it became apparent that although it was neither of those guys, it was possibly the weirdest song I'd ever heard, which was saying a lot, even in those days. Brent back-announced it a few songs later, and the next day I rushed down to Toronto's Records on Wheels to buy whatever Robyn Hitchcock record I could find. Invisible Hitchcock was the latest one out, and I liked its radishy cover, so that's what I ended up with.
It didn't have that song on it, and was in fact a pretty odd place to begin listening, being a collection of outtakes and oddities that didn't fit on previous albums. But I grew to love it, often using it as Walkman accompaniment to the long bicycle rides I would take. My friend Matthew Grimson introduced me to Hitchcock's early band The Soft Boys a couple of years later, and my lifelong fandom was cemented.
But I didn't hear that song again till last Sunday night, so it really was quite a treat and a nice way to end a magical show. I got to hang out with Robyn a bit afterward, sharing a cab home with him and Alison. I asked him about that song, and he explained that he wrote it after finding a collection of old gay pornographic magazines in a New York antique store.
The magazines were from a time when any kind of homoeroticism was unacceptable, so pornographers had to make up ludicrous news stories as excuses for printing pictures of naked men together. The one in question was about three men, actually named as Ted, Woody, and Junior, who were allegedly forced by a water shortage in New York to share a bath. Luckily, a photographer was handy to document this selfless act of conservation. Robyn found the article so fascinating that he immediately wrote this song about it, maintaining its straight-faced tone.
This VH1 Behind the Music story ended just as the cab pulled up to my house at around four in the morning. Alison and I got out, shaking Robyn's hand and wishing him well. He bid us "sweet dreams, darlings" and drove off into the night. I'm still waiting to wake up.
Then the other big deal was that I got to play a show last weekend with my songwriting idol, Robyn Hitchcock. No kidding. He brought his Carrollian English eccentricity to town as part of the Halifax Urban Folk Festival, and my friend Charles had been asked to put together a band to back him up for one of his two sets. Charles knows I'm pretty much as big a fan as he is, so he'd invited me to play keyboards and do some backup vocals.
The band practised extensively for a week to learn the list of songs Hitchcock had requested, and on Sunday we met him for a two-hour sound check in the afternoon before presenting the fruits of our labours to a full house that night. If you don't believe me, here's proof that this rock 'n roll dream come true really happened.
Robyn was an incredibly charming guy and super easy musician to work with. He enjoyed playing with us, and added five more songs to the set list than we'd planned, mostly covers. The gig went over really well, ending with a solo rendition of the first RH song I'd ever heard: "Ted, Woody, and Junior."
Sometime back in 1986, when I was attending high school in Markham, Brent Bambury played this song on CBC Two's excellent late night show, Brave New Waves. I was as usual listening in bed with headphones, taping any songs that seemed interesting, and trying not to fall asleep. At first I thought it was a John Lennon song I'd never heard. Then I was sure it must be Syd Barrett.
It didn't have that song on it, and was in fact a pretty odd place to begin listening, being a collection of outtakes and oddities that didn't fit on previous albums. But I grew to love it, often using it as Walkman accompaniment to the long bicycle rides I would take. My friend Matthew Grimson introduced me to Hitchcock's early band The Soft Boys a couple of years later, and my lifelong fandom was cemented.
But I didn't hear that song again till last Sunday night, so it really was quite a treat and a nice way to end a magical show. I got to hang out with Robyn a bit afterward, sharing a cab home with him and Alison. I asked him about that song, and he explained that he wrote it after finding a collection of old gay pornographic magazines in a New York antique store.
The magazines were from a time when any kind of homoeroticism was unacceptable, so pornographers had to make up ludicrous news stories as excuses for printing pictures of naked men together. The one in question was about three men, actually named as Ted, Woody, and Junior, who were allegedly forced by a water shortage in New York to share a bath. Luckily, a photographer was handy to document this selfless act of conservation. Robyn found the article so fascinating that he immediately wrote this song about it, maintaining its straight-faced tone.
This VH1 Behind the Music story ended just as the cab pulled up to my house at around four in the morning. Alison and I got out, shaking Robyn's hand and wishing him well. He bid us "sweet dreams, darlings" and drove off into the night. I'm still waiting to wake up.
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