Between The Rock And A Hard Place: Newfoundland, Great Big Sea, Alan Doyle, And Even Russell Crowe

"This Is Where You Want To Be" - DVDs, FTRs, And A Film-Score Composer

Note: There are quite a few photos at the end of this entry, so it might take a bit of time for it all to load for some people.

It's taken me a few days to finish editing the pictures from the first show of the Belleville DVD shoot, partly because there were quite a few photos over which to linger, partly because I've been enjoying some unaccustomed lovely weather here in St. John's, and mostly because I kept hoping that Alan would first have his own say about the Belleville shows and the DVD shoot in one of his From The Road entries that so many of us have been less-than-patiently waiting to read.

There are times when lingering, procrastination, and stubborn hope pay off handsomely. Though it's still not at all clear what's up with his older (pre-TH&TE tour) FTRs, Alan did indeed make a new journal entry into a newly located journal, which can now be found in the "The Band" pulldown on the official GBS site home page (as well as being linked here), right beneath his own bio...a very interesting re-positioning for the FTRs in that it makes it much clearer than this is Alan's personal journal, a record of his own thoughts while on the road, thoughts expressed in his own voice, rather than being a "Great Big Sea Tour Journal," even to the point of it now being named "Alan: From The Road". Sounds good to me, and what a way to start off that new journal of his - Telling all about not only when this DVD will be coming, but also announcing something else even more impressive to be looking forward to come this fall:

Since the tour ended a few weeks back, I’ve been working like crazy, scoring a full length feature film. "Young Triffie’s been Made away With" is a black comedy about a murder mystery in the late 1940’s in Rural Newfoundland. It stars Fred Ewanuick, from ’Corner Gas’, as a young Newfoundland Ranger (NL’s police force from 1935-1950) and he carries the movie as the loveable unlikely hero. There are great performances by Mary Walsh (CODCO, 22 Minutes, Hatching, Matching, and Dispatching), who also makes her first effort as a film director. It won’t be her last. YTBMAW also stars Andrea Martin (SCTV), Colin Mochrie (22 Minutes, Who’s Line), Andy Jones (CODCO), and Quebecois film legend Remy Girard (Barbarian Invasions).

The musical score has everything from 1940’s big band stuff like Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy, to NL/Bluegrass versions of hymns like "Blood of the Lamb" and traditional jigs and reels. There is a new GBS tune on there, a couple of offerings from little Sis Michelle, and an amazing orchestral score I did with Keith Power, and superstar film composer in the making who just happens to be from my neck of the woods. He graduated St. Kevin’s High School as did Michelle and I and has been working in Toronto and LA for the past few years. I spent a week in Santa Monica learning the trade while looking over his shoulder. It was a great crash course.

In any case, I would not be surprised if you heard a lot about the film in the late summer, early Fall of this year. Check it out if you get a chance. - Alan: From The Road

So when Mary Walsh got her very first opportunity to direct a full-length feature film, she asked Alan Doyle to write the score for that film. I'm not just impressed by him, I'm not just proud of him (though I certainly am both impressed by and proud of him) - I'm also feeling downright smug these days; it is very satisfying to be so right in your estimation of a person, especially when that estimation says that this person is someone very special. But I do hope that the exercise of all of this prodigious musical talent doesn't preclude that special person from finding time for his equally prodigious talent with words. I have missed reading him, as well as missed hearing new songs from him.

Now that he's had his say about Belleville, it's time for me to wrap up my own thoughts too. He did cut that one close though, since I had decided to write this up tonight either way because for the next four or so days, I will be far removed from being connected, at least in the cyber-sense of that word. I am finally headed off the Avalon Peninsula; as of about 6 am tomorrow morning I will be on my way to the west coast of Newfoundland for the very first time, off to see for myself the places Alan has been so eloquently describing at shows across North America. I have heard the tone of awe in his voice as he speaks of the deep woods of the Humber Valley; I have seen the light in his eyes when he talks about the tall mountains of Gros Morne. If what I wind up seeing with my own eyes approaches the beauty I've seen reflected on his face and the grandeur I've heard echoes of in his voice, then the next four days are going to be spectacular. When I found out that we're also going to be seeing most of the French Shore, that made it even better; not only am I going to hear Alan's descriptions of these places as I see them, I am also going to be hearing him singing the French Shore and River Driver everywhere I go for the next few days

But before disappearing for those few days, there's time for a few more thoughts about the Belleville shows before getting to the photos. My lingering, procrastinating, and hoping have given me some time to think about those two shows, and to wonder just how they might be, as Alan put it, "cut between last night’s and tonight’s performances in the Theatre here in Belleville" to wind up as a single show on the DVD, especially given how each show was filmed differently. Nearly all of the handheld camera work during the first show focused on crowd response, with the opposite being true for the second show. There was also a boom camera aimed at the stage for the second show, though I'm not sure if there were any fixed cameras postioned with the stage-lens-view during the first show. I'm hoping they really do have the chance to choose freely which footage to use from either show for all aspects of that final DVD "show," since the live shows themselves were different in some important respects - with the first show being very much about charming the crowd into the delighted response (for some of us, the bedazzled response) the cameras were so efficiently capturing, and the second show being more about playing the show with intense focus and controlled direction, again, also caught by those efficient cameras - and if all of each show is accessible for potential inclusion, that is going to make for very powerful single "concert" in the hands of a skilled director.

Because my seat was right on the end of the front left aisle, I was able to watch quite a bit of the camera work being done by the fellow on the Murray-Alan camera on the second night, much of it from up close since he wound up standing right next to me or right in front of me for parts of the show. Fascinating stuff, watching the view in his monitor as he filmed. It eventually got funny too, once it got to the point of trying to make sure the camera guy got his view of choice.

They had put together a pre-fab audience for the first two centre rows at the second show by picking people out during the first show and giving them free tickets to those spots. The people doing the choosing made some excellent choices - two absolutely beautiful and sweet little teenage girls who'd been next to us at  the first show wound up right in front of Alan for the second show - and they absolutely fucked up with other picks. There was a pair of idiots at the first show, a woman who specialised in the Notice Me dance who was accompanied by a twit wearing the stereotypical Sou'wester, and someone was stunned enough to put the two of them up front and centre for the second show, where they spent most of the show acting pretty much as expected. But they were among the exceptions; for the most part, the choices were good and what the camera fellow was doing was shooting up toward the stage from an angle that put those chosen ones in the frame too, from behind and to the side, so what you see is, for the most part, these sweet adoring little girls jumping up and down and singing and clapping.

But since there was no security to speak of, of course, people from behind kept trying to push forward and get up front too, more so than usual since there were those eager to wind up on the DVD. There was still an open space in front of me and to my left that they were trying to get to, but it was the open space the camera fellow was using to move around and set up his filming angle of the stage and those people already up front. If the people trying to come up front had been truly pushy about it, no way to have stopped them, but since they were apparently still at least a little intimidated by the whole filming thing, all it took was some strategic positioning when the camera fellow was on the other edge of the open space to keep most of them out of his way, then re-positioning to give him space to shoot, and back again when he moved too. For a while there, it felt like a bit of a dance with him and with his "cord-handler," but all in a good cause. They may or may not use his footage, but from what I could see over his shoulder, he was getting some good stuff. When we got near the end, people got more determined and there was no stopping them, but at least it worked up to that point.

One of the best moment of this second show for me was at the very end, during the encore chant for the second and final encore, which most of the crowd apparently did not know was going to be Old Brown's Daughter. As the band left the stage after the first encore, a chant started, but it was that damnable "Old Black Rum" chant instead of a "Great Big Sea" chant. Being thoroughly weary of that chant, a few of us started a competing "Great Big Sea" chant and refused to relent in the face of disapproval. It took a bit, but persistence paid off, and by the time they returned to the stage, their crowd was chanting for them, not telling them what song they should be singing next.

As one would expect, they dressed exactly the same both nights, making it possible to interchange film footage from both nights, and the set list was exactly the same, with one exception, and that one exception was a signficant and, as far as I could tell, an unplanned difference. When it came time for the pre-Run, Runaway singalongs, Alan suddenly ceded the spotlight to Sean, so suddenly it looked as if Sean were trying to decide what to do with that spotlight as he used the delaying tactic of slipping his whistle in his back pocket with a dramatic flourish. By the time the whistle was tucked away, you could see by the look on his face that he knew where he was heading: He sang a heartfelt Danny Boy, tender and powerful all at once, truly a show-stopping moment. I think he may very well have had every pair of eyes rivetted to him, all except for one pair of blue eyes which were watching Alan as he went back and sat down on the drum riser. As Sean continued to sing into the hushed awe of the crowd, there was a world to be discovered on the face of the man watching his friend make the most of this moment in the spotlight, a complicated world of pride and desire, eagerness and nervousness, delight and determination, all these things having their own restlessly brief moments in the spotlight on the stage of that beautifully expressive face.  And all the while, Sean's voice was singing Danny Boy as the score of that show-within-a-show.

There are some people we come across in this life who give the impression of embodying more than one single moment in time, children in whom glimpses of the adult they will become can be seen, adults in whom the youth they have been still comes out to play.  Watching Alan over the course of the first Belleville show, looking up into his eyes as he broke out into smile after smile of absolute and utter delight, it was not difficult to see a fourteen-year-old boy playing air guitar in front of his bedroom mirror, practising the rock-star moves over and over again until he got them just right. Watching him again during this second show, seeing the wheels constantly turning in his mind as he consciously directed events along each step of the way, still turning even while he was sitting there smiling with pride in how well his friend was singing, it was not difficult to see the young man with a rebellious stomach on that ferry to the first Mainland shows at the Lower Deck more than a dozen years ago. Then Sean came to the end of Danny Boy, and the crowd screamed its approval; I watched the man in his prime stand up with resolve and purpose and saw him smile with assurance. He strode forward confidently to his mic and proceeded to lead them, and us, onward, as the cameras rolled and the crowd cheered.

If the cameras captured even a part of that, it is going to be an amazing DVD.

No photography was permitted at the second show, so all of my shots are from the first one; at that show, no one ever said that flash wasn't permitted (though they should have, I thought - actually, I was rather surprised they allowed any photography at all in the first place) but it seemed sensible to turn off the flash anyway. So some of the shots, especially the ones where any of them were out of their spots up at the edge of the stage, wound up very dark and hard to edit as clearly as I'd have liked to, but I've included some anyway when they at least give an idea of what that moment was like to see live. I am really hoping that what Alan said about cutting the shows together is true when it comes to the singalongs, which were spectacular at the first show. If there is some way to have both the first show singalongs and the second-show Danny Boy (and perhaps a lingering camera shot of that watching face-of-infinite-variety as well), they'll be well on their way to the Juno for Best DVD.

All of the photos for the first Belleville show can be found here

Belleville Show/DVD Shoot Photo Album

Before anyone goes to check it out, one thing I should make clear: When I say I was bedazzled by Alan during this show, I mean that quite literally. Sean put on a wonderful performance, this show and the second show as well, and Murray played them both so well that I am now wondering if he's been holding back by his own choice or at the request of others; whichever the case may be, it has been a mistake - it is a much stronger show when he plays it this way. Bob's performance was focused and disciplined and careful at both shows (and if anyone thinks that the fact there are no photos of Bob here is anything other than my doing what he prefers...well, we will have to agree to disagree). Kris was solid, hovering on the edge of stolid; as with Murray, I wonder sometimes how much is by whose choice. As for Alan, where in the second show he played the role of the directing general, command and direction to the fore, the first show was all about burning with a fierce intensity, so bright and dazzling that I could not look away for more than a few seconds at a time for the entire show.  And the photos reflect that gaze - nearly all of the rest of the photos in the album that I don't put here are of Alan, some of the best shots I've ever taken of him - no particular skill on my part, simply the result of his looking fantastic and performing as good as he looks - so if you go to check it out, know what it is you will be seeing: A gorgeous man and an unmatched performer, looking his best and playing his best. I'll try to take a wider variety of photos at Bluesfest or Molson or Vancouver, but for this show, there was never much doubt about the outcome.

One last note, since it's apparently quite a topic of discussion, about Alan's hair. I think it looks wonderful, that he looks wonderful, and since he had it cut this way for what is going to be a very long-lasting image on the DVD, I'm hoping that when he looks into the mirror he sees how good he's going to be looking on that DVD. And while he's looking into that mirror, he might want to give that air guitar a thorough pounding too.

The River Driver:

A very long way from the days of air guitar:

In the mood to sing along:

A magnificent General Taylor. The first photo was so dark the quality is ragged, but it's included here to show the cameraman filming down into the crowd to catch the response:

 

The face of infinite variety, as well as of limitless charm:

Side by side for Come And I Will Sing You:

Looking and sounding splendid on Excursion:

Burning down the house with Fortune:

Ending it all with OBD instead of OBR. My one and only flash shot of the night since all the rest were coming out so dark:

With both this DVD and Alan's film score to look forward to, it's going to be an excellent autumn this year, though I am going to find it very difficult to wait patiently to hear that score. Not at all a bad way to celebrate five years since the day I turned on my television to check out some music show on a Canadian channel. If it's true that we each have a set portion of good fortune as our allottment throughout our life, then I used up the lion's share of mine that day. Lucky, lucky me.

Off to drive the river, and to see the deep woods and the big mountains. He composed the score for this venture too.

"There's No Brighter Light"

I had intended to wait until tomorrow to write about Belleville, since both shows are being filmed as one concert - and though I can't verify it, I've been told this filming is indeed for a new DVD - partly to be able to comment about the entire process and partly to catch my breath and let the bedazzlement subside a bit.

But then I realised that the chances of that bedazzlement subsiding are slim to none, since it has abided unabated for some five years now; my own version of that "permanent smile on your face". And the more I think about that topic of conversation last night in regard to Alan's going for days on the bus without wearing any pants...no, that is most certainly not the way for me to catch my breath or become a bit less bedazzled. I still say there should be legislation prohibiting Alan's being permitted to wear pants at all, some sort of international accord. And if I keep thinking along these lines, there is no way I will get anything written at all - at least not anything I'm about to be posting here - but that permament smile is growing apace with the lovely distraction. Definitely an international accord needed; just the sort of cause I could get behind. For starters.

Back on topic, at least momentariy - although Alan's pants, and the (desirable) lack thereof were indeed a topic of conversation, as well as of imagination and speculation, during the show last night - if it is the case that what is being filmed is a new DVD, and if they play their show tonight the way they played it last night (last night was mostly filming with handheld cameras, and the lion's share of that was filming audience shots, while tonight is the fixed-camera setup that will be mostly about filming the stage, or so I've been told), then they will have kicked the arse of the Great Big DVD, as well as the show filmed at the KoolHaus a few years back. They put on an exceptional show last night, each and every one of them, as good as the best of the shows I saw on the main tour, with the extra added bonus of some of the best sound work I've heard at any of their shows; even after all the shows I just saw, last night I heard some instrumental parts clearly for the first time (this theatre also has a new state of the art sound sytem, and you can hear the difference).

There were also some good adjustments made to the usual lighting patterns, especially the disappearance of the Lights That Blind, though I sure hope that all of those times Alan steps out of his fixed spotlight to come to the unlghted edge of the stage and amaze his crowd will show up on the filmed version better than those moments are coming out in way-too-dark photos. The small crowd (the Empire seats around 700) was enthusiastic, partly from being aware of the cameras aimed toward them, but as the show progressed, it looked like as if all but the most attention-needy were getting so wrapped up in the show itself, they were forgetting about the cameras - truly an amazing feat, especially since the entire night was spent with crowd lit brightly for the benefit of those cameras - and that has to make for some wonderful footage. As far as I can tell, the main point last night was to play it so that the crowd would fall head over heels in love with them, and that is exactly what they did, a total and unqualified success on their parts.

If it does turn out that little or none of last night's show makes it onto the DVD, that does seem a shame, since it was so darn sweet and funny, with so much of this element coming from Sean - his hilarious "kiss your grandmother all over, it's PG-88 kind of show" description, his maturation difficulties surrendering his bodhran to Kris for River Driver ("They're giving me timeouts..I don't like it; I'm trying to use my 'inside voice' too...I don't like that either...I think I'm teething) and his endearing audience questionnaire: "How many here like girls?...How many here like fish?...How many here like ME?" The answering roar to that last question was just what he deserved.

It was also a show that was passionate and breathtaking, all of them playing their parts in this, but none so much as Alan, who took that notion of "make them love you" most to heart, and the sheer delight over simply being back on stage that was so clear to see on his face made him irresistibly compelling. In a world where varieties of taste and preference are perfectly normal and to be expected when it comes to choosing who is the greatest of all performers, who plays the most devastating guitar parts, and who is the most beautiful of all and the most deserving of that love, to each their own taste and preference in the choices they make; as for myself, I have not of bit of doubt where I stand on those choices.

They looked as good as they sounded, though who would have ever thought the day would come when, of the "Original Three," Alan's hair would be the shortest? Bob's highlights really look nice, and, yes, I just did compliment Bob's hair - anyone catch today's weather forecast for Hell?  Murray looked so spiffy in that suit jacket he wore during the first set; actually, they all looked spiffy, nice shirts for Bob and Kris. Sean looks more and more like a hippie every day, and it is a look that suits him so well; I keep waiting for him to perfect his very own McCann Hair Flip maneuver.  Alan was, in a word, gorgeous, those new jeans he'd bought that very afternoon - tight enough, as he explained, that there was a chance of a pressure-point rivet on his hip suddenly shooting off and causing serious injury to Sean - looking so good on him that it was almost acceptable that they stay on him. Almost. Or maybe I should say "barely". From the new haircut at the top to those excellently-too-tight new jeans at the bottom, and most definitely all points in-between, he looked as good as he performed, and there's not really a higher compliment than that.

But then, you don't have to take my word for it. It may take God knows how long for that DVD to see the light of day, but here's the first part of a glimpse of how it will look when it does. More photos to come, but since I've already spent the morning working on these, the rest will come in a few days.

One down and one to go in Belleville. After what they accomplished last night, they have to know that the sky's the limit tonight. Not like they haven't already reached that high - about the only thing that could make for a better show tonight than last night would be that matter of Alan's pants. As in losing them. Talk about your multi-platinum sellers. Talk about being bedazzled.

"All The Patterns Rearranged"

It's clear enough I won't have the Seattle photos ready for today; I didn't realise how many I wound up taking at that show. I did not have a very good seat, but the angle made for it being a very good view of the whole stage, with a predictable result. So a bit longer on those, but I do have the very few shots I took at the end of the Victoria show ready to go, plus some truly adorable video images from the short sequence of Alan's pre-Old Black Rum impromptu song about Victoria. Going through that image sequence and being delighted by all that takes place on the most expressive of faces is why I don't have the Seattle pictures done yet. He is indeed a distraction at times.

Not at all inconsistent being distracted by the Victoria photos since I was equally distracted during the Victoria show. I remember it mostly as being sweet and funny - near the very start of the show, Alan said, "I'm feeling a bit giddy tonight. We didn't almost get killed once today," and that summed up my own feelings of the evening quite well. With the memory of that overturned tour bus still far too fresh and clear, I spent most of that show simply enjoying the continuing reassurance that at the end of this day, as well as the day before, things really were alright. When Sean came over at one point and gave Alan a big sloppy kiss - and when Alan admitted that he had enjoyed it, especially the feel of Sean's stubble - that seemed absolutely right too, like it was the perfect time and the perfect place for just such a kissable moment, perfect recipient as well.

I had started out taking a few pictures at the beginning of the show, but after a few songs and a few smiles, all I wanted was to see and hear more. I pretty much forgot about the camera, not at all a usual occurrence. It wasn't until they got all the way to the end and began that blissful a capella Old Brown's Daughter that it occurred to me that I might think a bit more about sharing all that warmth and giddiness with others. Warmth and giddiness are quite distracting, and so are relief and thankfulness.

There is much in the so-called world of Great Big Sea - some of the people encountered and some of what's a part of attending shows and such related elements - that sucks, not at all in the good way. There have been times that it has been hard to see past those parts that suck, times it has been easy to be tempted into believing that the bad is all there is. Then something like an overturned tour bus appears by the side of your road and overturns your perspective right along with it, and suddenly the sounds and the smiles and the sweetness shine bright in the midst of those parts that suck, and the pattern changes, not in terms of what is there, but more in terms of where you choose to focus.

Use the word "focus" and I think of both writing and photography, and about the different kinds of stories that can be told in either medium. In the days before airbrushing and photoshopping and digital manipulation, there used to be an argument that photography was not a "true" art form because it was representational instead of narrative, documentary instead of interpretation. Though I'm sure some still cling to that notion - it's the rare notion that doesn't still have someone clinging to it - it's not an argument that's heard often these days, but I've never thought it had much validity even in the Olden Days Of Photographic Yore.

There have always been ways to tell a story with photographs, in terms of what subject matter you include (or exclude), how you frame and light and filter your subject, and maybe most interesting of all in how you edit your photo, especially how you choose to crop a photo, and how those choices alter not only the photo's composition, but also at least potentially alter the reaction of the observer to each version of that same photo. It's a little like taking one set of characters and one setting and then spinning several different tales from that beginning, each tale creating its own reaction and response. 

Of course, narrative and intepretation are always in the eyes of the beholder. The following three photos from the Victoria show are actually one photo that's been cropped three different ways. For me, each version of that one photo elicits a response that is clearly distinct from how I respond to the other two versions. For me, three separate and unique stories are being told. I won't predispose anyone else by telling my own responses to those three different stories; I'll leave it up to those who look at the photos to find their own narrative and interpretation, or perhaps their own documentation and representation, as the case may be, when it comes to what they think each version of this one picture is "about".

 

Sometimes I think "It's all your point of view" may be one of the better lyric lines I've ever been fortunate enough to stumble across.

Alright, enough being distracted by all those rearranging patterns. Time instead to simply take pleasure in them. Here are a few more photos taken during the last moments on that sweetly warm and wonderfully giddy night, followed by just a few of the video images. The best way to see that delightfully expressive face in action is to follow the link to the photo album, then view the images on the slide show's quickest setting. His is a face capable of rearranging patterns.

A Giddy Night In Victoria

Two shots from early in the first set, before getting swept up in all of that giddy warmth:

Then all the way to the end, Old Brown's Daughter:

And then the video images of that face of infinite variety, all of that variety rising from just a few minutes of an impromptu song about Victoria, a very good place to go out to the pub, and maybe have a drink or two...so long as you beware the old black rum:

Now it's off to catch a plane and do some smiling at the sky. And staying focused on that warm and giddy pattern.

"My Heart Betrays Me"

This entry is about Vancouver, as well as being about the bumpy road that led into Vancouver and then back out and onward. Totally out of sequence, here is the moment from that Vancouver show that was sweet enough to pierce an already-bruised heart. These two photos (actually they're both video frames, and apologies for the reduced quality) are from the very end of Old Brown's Daughter, when Sean - who had not been a part of that day's most challenging moments during the bus accident since he flew into Vancouver from Calgary - gave Alan a small measure of what it had looked all show long like Alan needed the most at the end of a very trying day:

 

There are times that Alan is not the only man on stage who I wish I could hug.

Now the backstory, for those who care to read it. Otherwise, feel free to scroll straight down to the photos.

People talk all the time about travel being the path to discovery of both the world without and the world within. They're quite right about that, but what often is not said is that all who would take the journey should carefully read the fine print on their travel brochures, where they will find no guarantees whatsoever that all things those travellers discover along the sides of their roads, or inside their own hearts, will necessarily be limited to what's listed on their official itineraries.

From Saskatoon, I'd gone to the Edmonton show - which had been a little restrained, probably because of that stately venue (too stately for any photos from me), but what glorious acoustics were to be heard there, as well as gorgeous views, plenty of both during the a capella Old Brown's Daughter, which was even more enjoyable for being able to see the looks of spellbound awe on the faces of those standing directly below the singers. I was also able to spend a little time with two of my favourite GBS-show-attenders, a pair of teens I only get to see at Edmonton shows, since they're both still too young to travel.

I left Edmonton late in the afternoon of the day after that show. I had it all quite neatly planned: Since I was skipping the Calgary show, I would ride the bus through the night (Hotel Greyhound, once again) and arrive in Vancouver in the afternoon before the show there that day. I still had to layover in Calgary, but my time there would be limited to a few hours, and I hoped that just once I'd get in and out of that town with no misfortune landing on my head or kicking me in the gut. I'm not a particularly superstitious person, but the past few times in Calgary have been brutal, and tempting fate seems a fool's pasttime. I wanted to pass through quietly and quickly this time, on tiptoes and with fingers crossed.

My neat little plan worked like a charm, or so I thought at the time. The bus rolled into Calgary, the bus rolled out of Calgary a few hours later, and as we wound our way ever upward into the moonlight, I congratulated myself for having avoided being Crushed In Calgary yet again and smugly considered myself safe from being blindsided. Pride goeth before a fall.

The next day, coming into the Vancouver metro area, we hit a bitch of a traffic jam. As our bus crawled along, most of us were saying that it had to be an accident causing such a mess, and some of the folks up front were peering ahead, trying to see what might be beyond the long line of bumper-to-bumper traffic on the highway. I was mostly feeling irritated that my time for a pre-show walk in downtown Vancouver was rapidly disappearing with each passing minute stuck in traffic. Then a man up in the front seat yelled out, "It is an accident - there's a bus on its side up ahead!"

When you're riding on a bus, those are words that get your attention. Everyone turned their heads the direction the fellow was pointing, some standing and craning their necks to see better. A woman asked, "Is it another Greyhound bus?" in that hushed "there but for the grace of God go I" tone of voice, and another man said no, it didn't look like a Greyhound bus since this bus was green and blue and  had big letters on the side of it, something about Newfoundland...

As he said those words, I felt like a large hand had just come out of nowhere and slapped me upside the head. I shot out of my seat and moved to the front of our almost-stationary bus. And there it was, the GBS tour bus, on its side off the edge of the road, the painted-on icebergs glistening in the direct rays of the sun as my own bus crept inexorably past, no way to stop, no way to help, no way even to know what had happened or who was or was not alright.

Not that it took all  that long to find out. I got upset enough to motivate a kind driver into calling whomever bus drivers call to find out about such things, and I still had my wits about me enough to use my cell phone to get a resourceful friend looking for answers. Then a woman at the rear of the bus came up and told me she had seen a group of "men acting like little boys" on a hill by the side of the road above where the bus lay, "pushing and shoving each other and acting foolish". By the time I heard that, I had a good idea that they were indeed alright, and this idea was further verified by what the bus driver told me he'd found out, as well as when my intrepid friend called back to tell me that not only were they alright, they were saying they'd still play the show that night.

I had only a few minutes of the terror of the unknown before knowing all was well, not at all the sort of experience that would shake a person down to the core...more the kind of experience where you laugh with relief and move right along. But that's not how it was for me. I was shaken badly by what I'd seen, and it stayed that way, for a long time, to the point of being shaken by how shaken I still was, if that makes sense to anyone else. Not that still being shaken was something that could be talked about. Most everyone else wanted to move on and forget about it - especially once they found out it wasn't going to impact the tour schedule - and even Alan got dissed by one poisonous toadstool on her message board, with him being termed a "drama queen" for continuing to talk about the accident in terms of the fear it had caused him.

So I stopped talking about it, though I kept thinking about it, and I continued to see the image of that bus on its side as my bus relentlessly passed by and left it behind. I kept re-living the feelings that I had at that moment. I knew part of why it was hitting me so hard was because about a year ago, I was in my own rollover accident, same results with the vehicle winding up on its side, and I am never going to forget the single, simple thought I had as the driver's-side wheels lost contact with the the icy road and the car began to roll: This could be it. The fact that no one was hurt in that accident, that it wound up turning into nothing more than an amusing story, does not negate that one moment and that one thought. And both of us in the car that day were wearing our seat belts, something that I knew could never be the case on a tour bus. I've ridden in many a motor home on the highway, and I know how dangerous a simple emergency stop can be to those not belted in the driver's or passengers' seats. The potential damage done to human bodies in a tipover bus accident was a thought that had the power to haunt.

That was part of why it had rattled me so badly (and still does - this is difficult to write even now, some 4 months later), but only a part. The rest of it was less about what had happened, or even about what could have happened, and more about my own reaction to what I had seen. Maybe others have more sense than I do, but there are times that, for all my talk about caring about someone or something, I never realise just how deeply the caring goes until confronted with the possiblity of loss, forced to face how great an impact such a loss could have. The most sure way to be safe from ever having your heart broken is never to let that heart wind up in the hands of another; to discover that your heart might one day wind up in a muddy ditch on the side of some road is not the most reassuring of realisations to reach.

Now I am thinking of that fellow I met in Florida way back during the Uprooted tour, the economic refugee who stood up unsteadily, put a hand on his heart, and in a voice thick with passion uttered the words that I did not realise were going to become the working title for the next four years: I am a Newfoundlander; there is no limit to the number of times my heart can be broken. I knew beyond a doubt he was speaking the truth, though I had no clue yet why that was, exactly the same as how I knew Alan's songs were the truth the first time I heard them, with even less clue why that might be so; it has taken a very long time - a long journey filled with those not-on-the-official-itinerary discoveries - to begin to see how wide-reaching a truth can be found in both the statement and the songs.

The Vancouver show did go on, though just barely, largely because of some heroic efforts from the crew getting it all set up in time. Last night, I went back through some of the "reviews" that were written about this show, all of them glowing and full of the usual and expected image of the players, all of them focusing on the light and seeing no contrasting shadows, where if I were an artist painting the Vancouver show instead of writing it - or, for that matter, if I were painting GBS and Newfoundland herself - my technique of choice would be chiaroscuro.

Different perspectives, and my own is hardly objective, even less so on this night when my hands were still shaking, my heart still skipping beats, and my eyes dangerously quick to fill with tears of relief. To me, several of them - notably Bob and Alan - still seemed a bit in shock (one look at Bob and I wondered if they'd be getting him back on that bus once it was repaired), with Alan especially switching back and forth between giddy relief when in the direct spotlight, but looking thoughtful and at least as shaken as I was still feeling when that spotlight and the eyes of (most of) the audience were elsewhere.

I see a lot of shows, I take a lot of pictures, and more often than not, my eyes are on Alan. I've taken a great deal of shit for all these things, with all sorts of sordid motives being ascribed, but reality's reason is simple enough: Alan tells the best story, always...in or out of the spotlight, front man or support man, singing or playing or talking, there is always a tale being told, some high fiction, some keenly satrical, some rousingly stirring, some touchingly tender. Sometimes a glimpse of that tale shows up in a picture, sometimes not; other times, the glimpse is held gratefully in memory's embrace. This night, despite the billows of fog that sometimes made it a tale that was hard to see for the reading, the story that I saw was the tale of a man with two perspectives of his own: one gleefully relieved in the present, the other keenly aware of the uncertainties of the future. At least that was this "reader's" admittedly subjective interpretation.

As I said, it was a very foggy show, and in trying to get the shots to show in spite of the haze, the quality and colour suffer. I finally gave up on flash altogether from Seattle onward, so then the issue becomes blur, but for now, it is still fog. Since so much of the colour gets stripped out in the editing, I'm including some frames from several videos I recorded that night. The frames themselves are nowhere near the quality of the photos in terms of pixel count, but they do show the colours well, and some of them have content that transcends pixel count.

The complete photo album can be found here: Vancouver TH&TE show photo album 

Oh, yes - there are no pictures of Bob from this show. Bob looked seriously unhappy to me at this show, understandable enough given the day's circumstances. No way was I going to increase that unhappiness any more than was beyond avoiding.

King of both the electric and acoustic guitars, every-day-yay-yay-yay-yay-yeah:

Beating the drum, and brandishing the guitar:

Singalongs - First the Rock Star plays till his fingers bleed:

Then, as he listens to his crowd sing at his command, his expression changes, and it looks as if the day's events might be on his mind, another story to be read on his face:

Sean begins to sing Jesse's Girl:

Sean sings and Alan pounds as the faux fog swirls:

Sweet dreams: 

And the sweetest story on the sweetest face for Ordinary Day on an extraordinary day:

Bodhran on Come And I Will Sing:

And on Excursion:

Fortune for the fortunate:

And some more video frames.

These two of Sean making Alan laugh during Excursion:

Alan's impromptu Vancouver song ("It's really good to be here...no, I mean it's REALLY good to be here")

 

Segueing into Old Black Rum:

This shot I love. This a video frame that is 1 of 29 per second. And his strum hand is still significantly blurred. Fast hands...strong wrists. 

A few more frames from the Old Brown's Daughter video:

Too bad no companies offer travel insurance for the heart. 

Next up will be both Victoria and Seattle together, since I only took a handful of photos (mostly OBD) in Victoria, along with a short video of Alan's impromptu song for that town. I may do some video images from that one too, and I'm hoping to get that done before I leave town on Friday.

"That Was The Time When We Were Proud Men"

The following article deals with a subject I was hoping Alan might choose to write about himself, in that Off The Road journal that's still waiting to be graced with some new words of his. Though now that I have taken a good look at what has been done to his From The Road journal, I'm not so sure what to expect with the new one. If and when Alan does write in the from-home journal, someone might feel the need to map out those writings as well, forcing those of us who want to read what he has to say to follow a dotted line up Water or down Duckworth, both up and down Signal Hill, around Quidi Vidi, through Tim's and Leo's, in and out of Canadian Tire or India Gate, down the stairs to the Duke and back up again, maybe even along for a drive up the Southern Shore or around the Bay, clicking on foolish little "*" symbols each and every step of the way, all in the persistent hopes of actually accessing some well-written thoughts.

Of course, such a format would inevitably change the focus of the journal away from Alan's writing and put it more on the travels themselves. It would also make it quite unlikely that anyone brand new to such a journal would stumble across it and spend time reading all of it at once, scrolling down through each entry with wonder and delight over what an excellent writer they had just had the good fortune to discover, even less likely they would read those journals and react to them as any kind of cohesive creative expression, instead of as fragmented and isolated snippets. No, the emphasis would then be shifted over to being far more about the journey itself than about what the writer has to say about that journey.

If that is not the goal of the change that's been made to his FTR Journal, then that change is a foolish and pointless one. Somehow, I doubt that the change that's been made is all that foolish and pointless. But for those who have not yet read what Alan's written there, he and his words are well worth the present effort required, as is always the case with a truly accomplished writer.

No matter what the format or how hard it might wind up being to get to those words of his, I would still like to hear what he has to say about this matter, especially given the media massage that took place on his home wharf. I'd even click on yet another frigging "*" for that wharf, if his thoughts could be found on the other side of that click.

This article is from the online edition of The Newfoundland & Labrador Independent, which is highly recommended reading to anyone interested in what I at least see as a clear-eyed perspective on many matters. Online subscriptions to the full edition are also available.

(No matter how many times I link, I am sure Chip will inform me that I have committed some sort of Blogdom Offence Of The First Level, but I will try my best to get this right.) 

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Loaves and fishes 

By Ryan Cleary (St. John's)
The Independent
Sunday, June 11, 2006

This week’s announced cod fishery is yet another example of how Newfoundlanders can be bought and paid for. And we come cheap as dirt, or for five fish a day. What did we get last week? Oh right, five weeks more EI. Sure we’re good to go now, a bit of fish and extra pogey, praise Joey for Confederation and its many treasures. The outports may be sunk and the families scattered with the wind but there’s fish at the bottom of the freezer.

My Mother, a born Newfoundlander (pre-’49 delivery) may be a Townie but she was on the ball enough to marry a Bayman. Mother always said we can never be happy as part of Canada because we didn’t vote with our hearts. “We voted with our wallets,” says me Mudder (that’s the Bayman in me talking).

The lovely Mrs. Cleary, a devoted but critical reader, has a point. The first thing that comes to mind with Confederation is … Baby Bonus, which adds up when there’s a baker’s dozen asleep on a cot in the second room. Thousands of Newfoundlanders were also put to work three months before the big wedding day so they’d qualify en mass for Employment Insurance immediately after the ceremony. How sweet was that? We didn’t so much love our Canadian bride back then as the gifts she came with.

Our feelings grew from there.

Danny’s at it again, I see. Why are the feds always at us? We only just got the new Accord and they’re out to repossess it. Danny warned this week of “dire circumstances” if Ottawa attempts to take back what he got for us, and what do you think he meant by that? Step one: haul down the flag. Step two? Don’t expect an answer from the premier — he may think separation in his head but he’s not ready to bawl it out.

And still there’s the fishery, our cross to bear. Loyola descended from Ottawa on Thursday and landed on the end of a Petty Harbour wharf, which would have been dangerous had he not been loaded down with loaves and fishes. “Praise Loyola,” shouted the natives as the minister walked among them. “Our prayers are answered, more days on the Bay and fish for the brewis.” The scene couldn’t have been better choreographed if Brian Tobin roared up on a Jet Ski wearing sealskin Speedos and a hairnet made from a turbot trawl.

George Rose may not think fishing cod is a good idea but who asked him other than CBC? What do cod scientists know anyway? They wanted to declare cod an endangered species, foolish buggers. The distant ocean may be empty but there’s fish for the killing in the bays. And fishermen come before fish, sure it’s there on page 3 in Scrunchins detailing how Romeo LeBlanc put the species in order (and if you read it in Scrunchins …).

And so we’re headed back on the water and all is right with the rock. It’s still up in the air where the 3,000 tonnes per fisherman will be processed, but there are enough plants around yet to spread the work around.

Recovery plan? Industry restructuring? What’s the need of all that when there’s still fish to be had. The feds got it down, how to play us, and we got it down, how to be played with.

The weather couldn’t have been better for the royal visit. The clothes danced on the lines the day Loyola dropped by Petty Harbour, but then they’re always dancing out that way. The boats bobbed and the sound of a chainsaw rippled through the salty air.

“Talk about contrived,” said one of the media types, and they aren’t easily impressed let me tell you. “I’m a bit concerned about where I am,” said Loyola of the end of the wharf behind him. “I only have one way to go.” But that’s what happens when you become Fisheries minister in a government that tows the bureaucratic line. Loyola announced the Gulf cod quota first, to build suspense before getting to Petty Harbour and vicinity.

Throw away your tags and licences, there’s cod enough for all, and if there’s not we’ll go down fishing. One of the local leaders was heard whispering his gratitude at being legally allowed to do this year what he illegally did last year. At least that stress is gone. We can police ourselves, did you hear? Loyola’s the new sheriff in town and he trusts us not to kill more than we need. “For he’s the jolly good fellow,” sang one fishermen of the minister, who earned reelection in Petty Harbour that day.

If the day wasn’t truly special enough, someone mentioned the fact it was Oceans Day, June 8th, a time to remember the life-giving role of oceans worldwide.

A prayer would have been more appropriate.

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I would follow the long and winding road of any dotted line and click however many times I had to in order to read Alan's take on this. Or on anything else, come to think of it.

"Grace And Beauty, Both Combine"

Before heading out to see shows on this tour, I had to make some hard decisions about which shows to see and which shows to skip, mostly because that was something I'd said I would do, but the sheer foolishness of the gruelling tour schedule itself also played a role. It made for a complicated set of decisions that took into account travel time, bus and hotel costs, what kind of venue and crowd might be expected, and which people I'd be seeing along the way (a double-edged knife in its own right). Some cities were a tough call to pick over others, but there were some about which there was never a doubt.

Saskatoon was one of those no-doubt cities, a little because of time (a day off after this show made travel much easier) but certainly not because of money (for reasons too complicated to explain, my bus pass is never honoured there and I always have to pay extra heading out, in addition to the hotels near the venue not being a bit inexpensive), and certainly not because of the venue (that no-centre-aisle layout was not designed by a claustrophobe, nor is it kind to those of us who are that way); the past two times I had seen GBS there, the crowds had been pleasant enough, but it's not like I have any close friends in that city.

No, Saskatoon was a automatic "yes" mostly for one reason: Memories, both wonderful and terrible. The first time I ever saw the Northern Lights, the worst roadtrip argument I've ever had with a fellow traveller, those silly little Gideon Brown props (a battleship for Sean and an "only slightly smaller" bright yellow SeaDoo for Alan) I bought them for the pre-song boat-envy banter, the mocking cruelty of a box office clerk during a last-minute ticket transaction, talk of Def Leppard and songs by Billy Joel at a local pub, the breath-stealing blind terror of claustrophobia in an unfortunate seat, the kindness of a total stranger.

The first time I was in Saskatoon all was wonder and awe and a sky with no boundaries. The second time I was in Saskatoon it was the anniversary of a loved one's death, I had been battered by someone I trust, and the walls felt as if they were closing in.  Each time in Saskatoon, GBS had put on an excellent show; both times in Saskatoon, I left that town the next day glad for having been able to be there. No way was I skipping Saskatoon.

After all the joy of the first visit and the pain of the second, this time was calmer and quieter, familiar,a little tranquil and even grounded, maybe most appropriate in these Days of Middle Ground.  No claustrophobia for me this time since I had managed to outwit the Accursed Demon of Claustrophobia and had a seat in the far lefthand seat of the front row, though the memory of how bad it had been the previous time there kept threatening to rise up and conquer common sense. Phobias are called "irrational fears" for good reason.

But once the music started, the battle was won. It was another very good show - though Bob seemed most definitely off his game, not feeling well at all - albeit just a touch restrained. There was something going on - more aptly put, something not going on - with the muted lights and the non-belching fog machine, which made for a rather dark (dark in the audience area too, at least up front) and somewhat stark show visually. It wound up being a show that was a little calmer and quieter, familiar, a little tranquil and even grounded.

It also wound up being a show that was visually breath-taking. Stark lighting is famous (or infamous, as the case may be) for its uncompromising power to expose and reveal, since there is no artifice behind which to hide or obscure. This was true in Saskatoon, and I spent much of this show admiring that which could be seen with such laudable clarity.

I didn't take any photos during the first set, mostly because this venue has not been the photographer's friend in the past. Also, the light was so low most of the show that nothing was going to be at all clear without using flash, and maybe not even then. But as that first set went by and I saw people all over the theatre flashing away - especially the fellow right beside me - I decided to take some shots in the second half, not many, and I tried  as hard as I could to stay clear of Bob, given his apparent under-the-weatherness.

This show, it was almost all about watching Sean and Alan - the respective "Grace" and "Beauty" referred to in this entry's title - in the clarity of that stark and revealing light.

For all the Saksatoon photos, you can go here:

TH&TE Saskatoon show photo album

They call him The King, and quite rightly:

Killing Paddy with a smile:

The lead guitarist plays on Penelope:

Turn, with feeling:

Mischief and singalongs before Run, Runaway:

A song Alan first heard on a foggy Wednesday afternoon in Sean's living room, complete with beagles by his side:

 

No notes, so I'm not completely sure about the song (could be Consequence Free, but more likely Mari Mac), but not a bit of doubt about the song's player:

Ordinary Day, extraordinary men:

Probably because Bob was feeling sick this night, instead of Come And I Will Sing You, Alan came and sang to us. Boston & St. John's:

Kris brings up a sign that an enthusiastic group near the front had been waving about for most of the show:

From tippers to drumsticks for Fortune:

There are those times when Alan's face expresses more than most of us will ever be able to say in mere words:

Ending as true Newfoundlanders do:

There is a postscript for this time in Saskatoon. Because there was an off day the next day and because I wanted to stay overnight in the "Greyhound Hotel" on my way to Edmonton, I had hours to kill the next day until my evening bus left Saskatoon. After pushing my late checkout as far as the good folks at the Delta would permit, I dumped my bags into a locker at the bus station and went over to the nearby mall, the same mall I had turned upside down in 2002 when I was finding Sean's battleship and Alan's only-slightly-smaller SeaDoo (the battleship took about 10 minutes...it was Alan's boat that took hours to get just right); and it was the same mall I had spent several pre-show hours at in 2004, huddled in a corner in the food court, still crushed by an unexpected blow and aching over a wrenching loss.

This time around, it was an ambling wander in and out of the stores, some remembered and some not, and a leisurely linger in that same food court, a thoughtful time for memories bitter and memories sweet, more than a little bit haunted by the ghosts of who I used to be, still capable of being bedazzled by the wonderful as well as crushed by the terrible, but having finally learned that there will never be the one without the other, and that the only sensible option is to find solid ground on which to stand while waiting out the storms and when basking in the sunshine. And everything else in-between. The ground in Saskatoon was feeling quite solid beneath my feet that day, and the wide-open horizon welcomed hope.

I left that town the next day glad for having been able to be there.

I hope to see you for the ECMAs next year, Saskatoon.

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No photos taken by me at Edmonton, partly because it was such a, as Alan put it, "schmancy" venue that photography seemed uncouth, and partly because I was so close to the stage that it felt like Sean and I were sharing the same shirt. Oh, but what an Old Brown's Daughter to be seen and heard there!

And since I skipped Calgary, the next show with photos from me is going to be Vancouver, the show that happened right after the accident, and right after my own bus rolled heedlessly past their tipped-over bus alongside the highway. Vancouver wound up being a very interesting show, though a good many of my shots wound up blurred. My hands were still shaking. Their hands, as well as their composure, were rock steady. Of all the times they've deserved admiration and respect, how they handled themselves that day is right up there at the top of the list.

"Time It Comes, And Time It Goes"

Some of us take anniversaries seriously, maybe too seriously. I know for me they tend to be times of assessment and re-assessment, of looking back and looking forward, with that perhaps being a bit foolish and sentimental in some respects, since they are really little more than arbitrary dates in time and not genuine watershed events, but there you go. I do foolishly sentimental quite well.

I've got a double whammy of an "anniversary" coming up soon, one that hits the five-year mark for both time and place: the GBS Bumbershoot show this September. Kick that whammy up a notch or two with the Malkin Bowl shows the two preceding days. Back in September 2001, I saw GBS live for the first time at Bumbershoot, then a week or so later I saw them for the second time at Malkin Bowl. The Malkin Bowl show was a few days before 9/11...that I'll never forget because I'd bought GBS's self-titled debut CD in Vancouver while up there for that show, and I had it playing those few days later when I turned on CNN to check the news. Transfixed by the sight of one burning tower, I left the music running, and as Someday Soon was playing, I watched as the plane crashed into the second tower.

Whenever real life takes place in such a way that you know an editor would reject it as credible fiction. it does make you wonder.

I suppose the "real" anniversary has come and gone, sometime this past March, since it was in March of 2001 that I saw Alan on that CBC Songwriters' Circle. I know that in March I was intrigued and entranced, awed and impressed,; I wanted to hear more from this particular songwriter. But by the time I was part way through seeing that first live show, I wanted to write about this particular songwriter, about his performance, about this band, about whatever the hell it was that was going on both in their music and with their fans. Not much doubt that the hook slid in maybe 30 or so seconds into Alan's first SC song; I think maybe what Bumbershoot was for we was the equivalent of being gaffed.

Which would make the Malkin Bowl concert the equivalent of being hauled aboard. I remember walking out of that show full of the future, thinking soberly that it might take two, maybe three years to understand the music, the fan base, and, most important, the culture well enough to write about it. Dear God, what an arrogant assumption, hard to admit to and worthy of shame. It took me those two, maybe three years barely to begin to understand how much there was that I did not understand about all of it - the music, the fan base, and, most important, the culture.

I almost tried to write during the spring of 2003, but it was so clearly a time of transition, and not only for a band. "After the next tour ends," I told myself. "By then, maybe it will be more clear what direction both they and Newfoundland will choose to head in."  I wonder sometimes what a book written right after the Something Beautiful tour would have said. All I knew at the time was that it couldn't say what I wanted to say, not yet at least.

And now here I am, five years into this no matter if you define it in terms of hooking or gaffing or landing, and I know what I want to say. I even know why I want to say it, and don't think for a moment that "why" is not equally as important as "what" to writing. I am still woefully adrift when it comes to the "how" - how to be both honest and kind, how to truthfully depict what I have come to love in such a way that others will see that truth and at least understand the love, even if they cannot share in it - that is the struggle at present.

While wrestling with that one, I've decided it's high time to get organised, hoping that external control over tangibles will help in achieving something similar internally with the intangibles. So I've been sorting through those tangibles, five years' worth of notes, receipts, itineraries, ticket stubs, email addresses and phone numbers, along with all of the words and all of the pictures. Five years of my life spread out across the orange carpet on my office floor.

It's going to take a while to complete since I've only just begun. I tend to keep everything, and my habit has been to dump most of that everything into a box when I'd come home from travelling, repeating that process each time I returned, which has left the equivalent of geological layers to sift back through; right now, I'm at the very early stage of dividing things up by year, one box for each of those past five years. At this early stage, what I am noticing the most is how many people there are who are no longer around, how many names I am running across on lists of who was at shows or whose email addresses I have scribbled on pieces of paper or whose messages and cards I kept who simply are not heard from or seen anymore, not on message boards, not at shows, and not personally, at least not by me.

Five years ago, I knew next to nothing about fandom in general. I'd been around sports fans, and a few Star Trek-type fans, but I'd tried hard to avoid most band fans, mostly because I grew up around musicians who had always told me to stay away from fans at all costs. When watching how fans acted at shows, and especially how they acted before and after shows, I never saw much to convince me that my musician friends were mistaken, so I kept on avoiding fans. Then, when GBS came along and I decided what I wanted to write was going to start with them, I realised that there was no understanding much at all about GBS without understanding GBS's fans.

I stopped avoiding band fans. Just the opposite, in fact. And, as is the case with most stereotypes, it was hard to keep seeing the people I met merely as "fans"; I started seeing them as people instead. I wound up really liking quite a few of them, feeling compassionate toward even more of them, out-and-out detesting some, and being frightened of a few. Because I go to so many shows, it was never a matter of anonymous screen names on a message board to me; those screen names were attached to real people, most of them real people I'd met "F2F in RL" as the cyber-parlance goes.

Like the fool I am, I got attached, too much so to too many people. Because I'd never paid much attention to fans in general, I didn't know how transitory fandom is for some. I  certainly didn't know about Serial Fandom, where someone comes into a fan group all fired up about having "discovered" the band and overnight becomes the World's Most Dedicated Fan of that band, only to wander off a few months later for parts unknown. It took me a long time to realise that these people came in from some past passionate fandom for Whoever and would soon be heading on to their next passionate fandom for Whoever Else.

Then there are the ones who leave in response to changes that start with the band: the ones who "liked their old music better" or who realise they aren't going to be getting the access/attention they either used to have or used to hope for. There are also those who leave because they come to the conclusion that things are different from how they initially thought it would be in the "world" of this band and their fans; sometimes that's the result of unfair expectations not being realised, but other times it has been the result of being treated badly - occasionally, both.

Not all "leaving" is of the literal nature in the world of fandom. I'm still not quite sure what to make of that odd phenomenon of "antifandom": when the disillusioned fan stays around, instead of physically leaving, but no longer as a fan, sometimes actively participating in the established fan group as the ones who piss on the fans' parade and take pleasure in the failures of the former object of their own fandom, other times hovering sullenly about on the edges of that fan group like rats in the attic, both groups apparently equally unable to break the ties that bind them to their former idol.

The more I poke my nose into other fan groups, the more I realise most of these things are more or less a "normal" part of fandom (even if I wonder sometimes if there can be a normal part of something that might be fundamentally abnormal), though it looks as if the degree and intensity of some of it is affected by the extent to which the initial fan attraction was based either on realistic or unrealistic expectations. Take the Russell Crowe fan group, for example. From what I can tell, there were a great many new fans that came aboard because of the immense popularity of Gladiator, and the attraction of the larger-and-more-noble-than-life Maximus character created a situation where those who wanted to see the man as being the role were likely to be drawn in and maybe even more likely to be disappointed by the man's indisputable humanity in ways that those fans drawn in by his previous roles (such as in L.A. Confidential) might have been at far less risk for.

Much the same is true of GBS, with their perceived (and, yes, self-cultivated) image of being relentlessly optimistic and persistently cheerful. If one is a fan of a band that regularly gets in pissy moods and tells its fans to fuck off when those fans act like twits, then there isn't much chance that expectations will become so unrealistic that they hover on the edge of insupportable delusion; there is much less room for the inevitable disappointment that comes when one realises that they have believed a flawed human being to be that much-larger-and-more-noble-than-life character of their fondest fantasies.

One of these days I want to do enough poking around to see if fans of artists whose public images are less tied up in wishful thinking maybe stick around longer, or at least stick around longer in a positive, supportive manner. Then the next question would be whether artists with either kind of public image - realistic or illusory - really want their fans to stick around longer. It might turn out to be more financially rewarding and less creatively challenging to keep cycling a rapturously unquestioning, first-flush-of-fandom group of people in and out than to deal with those who are familiar with all that has gone before and who are impudently demanding that the pony learn new tricks, maybe even starting to suspect that the Emperor's arse is uncovered (yes, I did just distract myself with thoughts of the King's uncovered arse). Or those long-time fans might instead begin to see the human being behind the facade and come to care for the person instead of the persona. Then again, they might become antifans instead.

The Fan Turnover Conundrum; call it the Barney Syndrome, perhaps. Or maybe the Wiggles Enigma. Perhaps Russell's Riddle.That could be the next book, but it is going to have to wait for some future five years of my life. For now, as I glance over at at a line of boxes on my office floor, each box with a year scribbled on its side, what I'm mostly feeling today is sadness. It may be a normal part of fandom for people to come and people to go, but it is also a normal part of me to miss the ones I wound up caring about. I even miss a few that I thought were stinkers. Funny, all the way back when, my musician friends would warn me, "If you get involved with fans, you'll just get hurt." And they were right, in a way, maybe not in the way they meant it, but in the end results. Or at least the partial end results, because there is, as always, the other side of the coin. As much as I might miss all of the ones who moved on, there are still those who remain. There are worse things in this life than getting hurt, and sometimes it's a price well worth paying for what you purchase with that pain.

"Relentlessly optimistic" isn't such a bad way to be. But I do draw the line at "persistently cheerful". Call me that, and I promise to give my very best Russell Crowe response.

"You Needn't Doubt"

In spite of all the serious discussion in the prior entry and its subsequent comments, there are a few pertinent facts that remain steadfastly and incontrovertibly true: I love GBS's music, and I love their live shows even more, so much so that I was recently chided by one fellow, "I wouldn't go see the Beatles as many times as you've seen GBS!" He was already so earnestly perturbed that I bit my lip and somehow managed to keep from responding, "Neither would I." And if there is anyone left who does not yet know the depth and breadth and height of my opinion of Alan, points off for inattentiveness. None of these things - especially that latter one - is going to be changing.

Not that any of this in turn renders that serious discussion moot: the concern and the admiration, the disagreement and the respect, the frustration and the affection are all equally true. It makes for a complicated truth, but that's how truth often is in this beautiful life.

All of which means I have no trouble switching gears back to that jewel of a show at the Chicago Vic last February, or with sharing some more moments from yet another show that I very much doubt the Beatles could have topped, especially when it comes to that lead guitarist. The photo album for the second set of this show can be found here:

Chicago Vic show - second set photo album

The whole issue of photography is a strange one in the "world of Great Big Sea," with some puzzling attitudes and reactions to be found, both on stage and off stage. Talk about a good topic for future discussion. For now, I'll simply say what I try to do when I take pictures, all pictures, not only of their shows. For me, pictures are another way, a nonverbal way, of telling a story, or perhaps of allowing yourself discover the story being told.

Speaking of that lead guitarist, and the tales he tells with his entire body:

Sometimes, I like to try to tell the story of how the song was performed in a series of shots. This series is of the pre-RRA singalongs (Jesse's Girl and 500 Miles) and into RRA itself.

 

Another story told in this series from Helmethead:

But then some photos stand alone, telling their own story with perfect succinctness, such as this first one from Mari Mac, the second one from Ordinary Day, and the third shot of a beautiful object in motion taken during Fortune (though this last one is one chapter of a longer story from that song; there is also a good story from Come And I Will Sing You too, but I can't post them all here...follow the album link to see the rest):

Sometimes, it takes a short series to tell the story, as with Excursion:

Finally, a version of a shot I didn't post in the preceding photostory of Alan's touching encore version of Lucky Me, a picture of the face that has so many stories to tell:

Chicago was wonderful.

I will eventually get all these shots into a photo album here on the blog (it really is a pain in the arse, and I keep putting it off). Next up will be Saskatoon, since I skipped St. Paul and I didn't take photos at Winnipeg. In the interim, there might be more serious discussion, or there might not, hard to know for sure. But there's one thing that I do know for sure: Those steadfastly and incontrovertibly true things won't be changing. That part of it isn't a bit complicated.

"You Know It's Not That Easy"

You don't talk the way you used to about GBS. What happened? You've got a lot of nerve still calling yourself a GBS fan. Some of us really are true fans still but not you. - Comment sent in by "True GBS Fan"

As I said in the Comments for the last entry, there's a legitimate question here. Since it's one that's been asked a few times before, it seems like high time to take my shot at an equally legitimate answer. Even though I do hate putting an entry on top of the pictures of that lovely fellow so soon.

Yes, I do talk differently here, for the simple reason that this is not a GBS fan site, particularly because this is not an official GBS fan site. This is my personal blog, upon which it's more appropriate for me to be less constrained in expressing my own personal opinions, the same way we (or most of us) talk differently when we are at work/school/church from how we talk when we're at some casual gathering among acquaintances.

Which is not to say that I think this is a place to be expressing any and all opinions I happen to have. This is still a public forum, and I believe that some opinions do not belong in public forums; those are for private expression, with the analogy continuing on to what you say to those who are closest to you after you have left work/school/church, attended the casual gathering, and then gone home.

I don't know about the word "fan," let alone the loaded expression "true fan". I've never liked the word "fan". It's certainly not a status I've ever heard anyone aspire to - no one ever says "I really, really, really want to be  _____'s fan" - and given what it's short for, it has to have at least started out as a pejorative description, probably quite understandably so. I certainly never had any fannish aspirations, nor did I have much if any prior "experience" at this sort of thing. I think there are probably a great many definitions for the word, at least as many definitions as there are different ways to behave as a fan.

Short answer would then be, "No, I don't really call myself a GBS fan," I suppose, at least not in terms of how that word se