The ECMA nominations are out, and special congratulations are due to the Irish Descendants, whose Southern Shore CD was produced by Alan Doyle, and Shanneyganock, whose Fling Out The Flag CD was produced by Bob Hallett: each band has been nominated for a Best Roots/Traditional Group Recording East Coast Music Award. There's some very tough competition in the category this year: the Cormiers, Vishten, and the Rankin Family (whose Reunion CD is probably going to be unbeatable) join the Irish Descendants and Shanneyganock with nominations, as do The Punters for their Beautiful Star CD. Last year, The Punters were nominated in this same ECMA category for their Songs For A Sunday Morning, a CD which was also produced by Alan.
In some ways, I'm not at all objective here: I want to see Newfoundland bands win awards, and I want even more to see the work both Alan and Bob have done be recognised for how skillfull and accomplished it truly is. Yes, I admit I want to see Alan's work acknowledged and respected most of all. I did say I am not objective. Lucky for me then that I genuinely believe that of the three CDs - the ones by the Irish Descendants, Shanneyganock, and The Punters - Southern Shore is the best of the lot. Though I can also say with all objective honesty that I believe both Southern Shore and Fling Out The Flag to be the best work either band has done thus far. I can't say the same for The Punters' Beautiful Star; that honour goes, in my own opinion, to Songs For A Sunday Morning.
I've still got doubts that any of these three will play David to the Rankin Family's Goliath, especially at a 20th-Anniversary ECMAs in the Maritimes. But I'll keep hoping that all the nominees decide to come to the party to play and promote their music. They might not go home with an ECMA, but I'm willing to wager that they will bring back some good memories of fun times on the Music NL Stage at Dolan's.
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On to the Grey Cup festivities, this time from the beginning. I've gone around and around with myself trying to decide how to straighten out the muddle I've made by writing about and putting up photos from the middle before doing the beginning. I'm still not sure. But while I am deciding whether to do the middle again for the sake of continuity, I can at least go back and do the beginning. There are plenty of photos from the start to keep me busy uploading in the meantime,
There are plenty of photos of this entire show, as I discovered when I started editing, with several reasons for the abundance: it really was a great show, played to the hilt with expert and dazzling showmanship; the lights were outstandingly well done (more on that in a bit), which means a higher ratio of "keeper" shots; and - most important of all, in my own estimation - there was that gorgeous man with his sexy beard. I was 95% sure that the sexy beard was probably not going to be seen on stage or off again for much longer past this weekend; I doubted - correctly, as it turns out - its survival on the gorgeous man's face for much more than a few days after his return home. The more I saw of how good Alan looked with his beard - the more clear it was that this was something that suited him surprisingly and delightfully well - the greater my own desire to preserve the memory, as well as to share the delight.
So lots of pictures, and a few videos - one of Penelope in sound check, two of Penelope during the show (mine and Lisa's), a Walk On The Moon (Lisa's), and a When I Am King (mine). I'll thank Lisa in advance for her WIAK photos too; since my hands were full with videoing the King, if not for her, there would be no photos to go along.
But that's a few entries away. For now, it's the start of the Grey Cup weekend/beginning of the show, and then the first three GBS songs: Donkey Riding, Captain Kidd, and Jack Hinks. Yes, only the first three songs this entry - I did say that I have an abundance of photos - but along with a bit about the opening bands, there's also a few views of Alan's scantily clad Sex Kittens (minus their poles, though that did not to be seem all that much of a hindrance to their undulating opportunism) to be seen, and I feel quite safe in saying that I am absolutely and unequivocally convinced that Alan and his Boy Pack wound up enjoying the Silicon Shtick considerably more than did the pack of hilariously hostile not-bloody-likely-to-be-fond-of-beauty-contestant females who made up the lion's share of the first thousand or so people pressed up against the stage, avidly awaiting their GBS Happy Fix only to find themselves being served up a heaping, jiggling portion of surgically altered Sex Kittens instead. The reaction was as predictable as it was side-splitting. Yet another in a endlessly fascinating series of Classic GBS Fan Moments; no way I am going to be able to write that moment as good as it deserves, but I will do my best.
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Alan's not the only one who'd been hatching plans and enlisting accomplices months in advance of the Grey Cup weekend. This was going to be the first time since December of 2004 (St. John's, cancelled GBS show at Mile One) that the three members of my away squad were together in one place again; I see each of the other two accomplices - one lives in Seattle, the other in St. John's - regularly, but they had not seen each other since that weekend (and we did wind up making quite a weekend out of it, despite the show cancellation) three years ago. We each bought the ticket that covered all three MTCC shows, two of us were going to the game as well, and I was still waffling about the Middle Groundedness of the Gilda show, though that one was going to be solo if I decided to do it since the other two would have headed back to their respective homes to lead their respective grownup lives by then.
The original plan had been to all come in on the Thursday and spend the whole time together, but the slings and arrows of outrageous reality - along with Air Canada's pissy flight schedules - bollixed up that plan. One of us wound up coming in on Thursday, another late Friday night. I flew in to Toronto from St. John's painfully early Friday morning...there is a damn good reason why the 5 am flight is the cheapest option. It sucks to be flying out while the airport Tim's counter is still dark and deserted.
When I got to the hotel, the two of us pretty much just pissed around, having a good time spending time together, wandering around the PATH system, checking out the cavernous venue, watching the teeming hordes dressed from head to toe in Riders Green. Somehow, we eventually wound up at my favourite TO pub. Sausages and Guinness appeared before us, as if by magic. Despite our best intentions, we never made it to the show that night. The third accomplice finally arrived later that evening, and somehow we all wound up back at the pub again. As is to be expected of a serious weekend, I suppose.
The next day two of us went a-roving once again (the third went to a play), taking in the sights and the sounds of celebration in the midst of the Big Smoke. Down at the MTCC, that celebration grew more chaotic. Riderville was packed, the line to get in snaking down the length of the huge entryway. The Atlantic Schooners East Coast Kitchen Party was predictably cheesy and could have been subtitled Stereotypes R Us. The impromptu tumbling competition put on by the cheer teams was wonderful; unlike the scantily clad, amply endowed cheerleaders (for the most part, only one baby step removed from the pole dancers) who strutted around demanding to be seen and of course hopelessly longed for (You'll never be able to fuck me, buddy, so dream on), the tumblers were off in a corner of the big hall making some very impressive moves....to each other. I thought that was cool and I was really happy to see them get their few moments out on the field during the commercial breaks in the Grey Cup game. They made some impressive moves there too, and they were getting cheered enthusiastically by a pair of ladies way up in the nosebleed seats, just as we cheered them and clapped for them down at the end of the hall in the MTCC.
The "venue" itself was a bit odd. It was God-only-knows-how-many levels down in the bowels of the MTCC (which apparently descends halfway to the nearest edge of Dante's outermost Circle) and was (is) a gigantic cavern of an exhibition hall, actually two exhibition halls joined together. Just a big open cave of a room - my very first thought was, "Oh man, the sound is going to suck muchly" - with a stage down at one end, two big screens on either side, and a raised "VIP area" to the audience's left (this is where the floor would get its arse kicked during GBS's set).
The rest of the huge room (huge as in big enough to accommodate a standing crowd upwards of ten thousand) was lined around the edges with moderately shlocky displays advertising vqrious and sundry products. There was a Tums Roulette Wheel I never quite figured out, and some sort of tie-in between Lays chips and pool tables I didn't need to figure out...I just collected my free bags of chips and moved along. Some of the products were promoting an occasionally tenuous connection to the Grey Cup, others seemed utterly random. There were several beer areas, of course, and even a whiskey kiosk (I wondered why they didn't just call it a Whiskiosk). There was an adorable blow-up Argo (big, big boy) who I wish I'd gotten a picture of - a money shot sort of picture - since the charming curve of his arse looked quite pleasurably famliar to me. Memories will have to suffice, to quote Bob, and I am sure he would love being so quoted in this particular context.
We hung around most of the afternoon, eating soggy pizza and free chips, and watched. There was entertainment (of sorts) going on nonstop - cheerleaders bouncing, amateur rock stars living the dream for a few minutes, and a very good turn taken by the Argo Notes marching band (doubly cool to see a woman kicking arse on the tuba). There were boisterous Riders fans and much lower-key Bombers fans (I suspect a lot of those subdued Bomber fans are now TO transplants all full of their immigrant coolness) all over the place, and what looked to be a fair number of wandering GBS fans too. The folks promoting the 2008 Montreal Grey Cup were working the crowd diligently. It was loud and noisy and pulsing with energy and a thousand interesting sights...and I loved it. I believe there are some people in this world whose heart's desire is to be watched with admiring and fascinated eyes - Alan is one of those people, for sure - and others who dearly love to do the watching. I'll put myself in that latter group without hesitation.
We'd already chatted with the security folks manning the two sets of doors, getting different stories from each group, as is almost always how it goes. As best we could tell, piecing the differing versions together, the big room would stay open until 5 pm, then it would be cleared and locked down for sound check. That's when they expected the lineup to form in front of the set of doors designated for entry. All well and good as a plan, but when 5 pm came, there were still a shitload of folks drinking in the beer area, and it didn't seem all that likely that paying customers would be so rudely shown the doors, not while they still had money in their pockets with which to purchase that warm Molson in plastic cups. There still no lineup in front of the not-closed-yet entry doors, though you could see a few lingering people keeping a close eye on the situation. Inside, up near the stage, there was another batch hovering and hoping they'd be able to stay inside and sidle up into prime position without bothering with any lineup at all.
It's all a familiar part of the dance - so predictable that any other steps would cause me to stumble in sheer surprise.
Lisa (who had rejoined us after her play ended) and Christina went out to get in line, and I stayed inside, no doubt in my mind that they'd have to clear the place eventually (otherwise, collecting tickets was going to be quite a challenge), but hoping against hope that they'd leave the doors open long enough for sound check. I love sound check. There have been some GBS shows where I have enjoyed sound check as much as, if not more than, the show itself. Most of all, I love how Alan is at sound check, the times he isn't stressed or exhausted or pressured and he feels free to let all of his eager anticipation for what lies just ahead of him come out to play. Those are the times I love sound check with all of my heart.
But I also know that it's much easier to be an intrusion and distraction at sound check than not to be. And I know about all of those times when stress, exhaustion, and pressure take precedence over eager anticipation. So on those occasions where I am fortunate enough to see and hear sound check, I try very hard to keep repeating the admonishing words "Low profile, you silly twit" in my mind. Sometimes, I even listen.
There were high tables and bar stools set up maybe 30-40 or so feet from the stage, with a few dozen lingerers at them, about half being people there for the purposes of socialisation, the other half getting themselves into what they hoped would be prime launching position for the show. I sat at an empty table and waited for what I like best. It was clear from the way Brit was hustling about and working his arse off setting up that there was a time deadline at work; I expected to see a familiar sweet face come bounding out onto the stage any second.
Yes and no. The sweet face came bounding out, right on cue, but there was something off about the familiarity. I have shitty eyesight, even with my glasses on, and I was a distance from the stage. Even so, there seemed to be some sort of shadow below Alan's chin, on his lower face too...and then he turned his head and the stage light fully illuminated the side of his face. From that moment on, I don't think I stopped smiling for the rest of the evening.
They ran through Shines Right Through, with me grinning like a fool the whole time. Absolutely gorgeous, sight and sound. Then they started to get ready to do Penelope and Alan said something about Pat coming out now. Could it be, I wondered...and sure enough, out strolls Patrick Boyle, trumpet in hand. Pat Boyle is one of the most versatile, talented musicians I've ever come across; I've seen him play gypsy jazz with Duane Andrews, alt rock with Mark Bragg, and indulge in pure unadulterated jazz geekhood with buddy Jeff Hurley (I so hope that name is right, since I am having to dredge it out of the dim recesses of a 7-month-old memory). Pat Boyle is to the consummate sideman what Alan Doyle is to the consummate frontman. Anyone who is familiar with how highly I think of Alan knows what kind of praise that is coming from me.
At this point I wasn't sure if they were just farting around with a good friend who's moved to TO for grad school and maybe Pat wouldn't be back out onstage to play his trumpet for Penelope during the actual show. Hell, at this point I wasn't even sure if the pressure on Alan to forever remain the neverchanging Great Big Sea Guy might mean that maybe the sexy beard wasn't going to make it back out onstage for the actual show either. If either one of those unhappy alternatives occurred, that would mean the two accomplices waiting so generously outside the now-closed doors would have missed it all. A whole lot of other people too. Maybe.
When in doubt, video. Not exactly low-profile, and probably just as predictable as are all of the other dance steps, but no regrets when it comes to saving and sharing something beautiful.
Penelope, Great Big Sea & Pat Boyle, Sound Check, Grey Cup Festival Show, Nov. 2007 (145 MB)
Even though it did wind up that both Pat and the sexy beard made it to the Main Event - and there are two closer, better videos coming of Penelope as performed during the show - I'm still rather partial to this video myself. When I watch it, I find myself grinning from ear to ear all over again, filled with that same feeling of eager anticipation for what lies just ahead.
Not long after GBS got through their Penelope run-through, the event security people finally made their room-clearing announcement, perhaps because the number of paying customers in the beer areas had sufficiently dwindled by then, pockets likely emptied out by now. Fair enough, since I'd already seen what I most wanted to see. I came out to what was still a fairly negligible lineup (maybe 50 or so at a bit after 6 pm, though the numbers would increase substantially between then and doors-open time at 7 pm) and joined my two friends, who were right behind the people first in line, a group of college students who'd driven down from Sudbury just to see GBS and who had been hanging around by the doors for hours. Excellent people for the band to have up front and centre, is what I thought at the time, though I had my doubts that they'd be able to hold their ground if the crowd turned assholish and began to push forward. More all-too-predictable dance steps.
Waiting less than an hour in line - indoors yet, and with bathrooms a mere few feet away - for a GBS show that's drawing close to eight thousand people is about as civilised as it gets, certainly a world away from what we'd experienced at Loch Ness, as well as in so many other places. We chatted with the university students, and I let each friend in turn watch my sound-check video on the camera display, not needing to say a word to a pair of clear-eyed ladies not at all impaired with my own shitty vision. Oh my God, said the first one, the sight of a sexy furry face making her grin the exact same grin I was already wearing. What? What? queried the second. I turned the camera toward her, and there was the grin again, third time the charm, a triumvirate of admiring approval given to an already-good-looking man who was looking exceptionally good this night. That threesome of happy little Cheshire Cats would keep right on beaming their admiring approval from Donkey Riding all the way through Rant & Roar.
But before that were the opening acts, as well as the predictable crowd nonsense. Some of each wound up being better and worse, respectively, than I had anticipated. I hadn't been particularly looking forward to Spirit Of The West's show-opening set; I've seen them twice before and neither time was memorable for any of the right reasons. This third time was much better, maybe at least partly because they did a shorter set and focused more on their "rockier"-sounding songs. And the drummer did not come out front to waste God knows how much time on that foolish singalong routine I saw him do the other two times. I'm still not overly impressed with the front man's "Michael Stipe On Seizure's Edge" performance approach, but they kept the crowd with them and didn't play badly at all. The story about the photograph of the little boy clinging to the statue's phallic handhold was very well done, as was the song it was introducing, If Venice Is Sinking. Of course they had to wind things up with Home For A Rest; it appears to be their Old Black Rum. Enough said.
I would have been glad to take few pictures of SoTW, but I had an asshole directly behind me who kept pretending to be swept up in the enthusiasm, a transparent ploy to keep crashing into me and the young lady to my right (one of the group of university students who were at the front of the line and who had made it front and centre along the barrier). The sorry excuse for a grownup behind me had pushed her way up through the rest of the crowd soon after SoTW began playing, along with several of her very bestest friends, and she spent the rest of the SoTW set crashing and crashing and crashing against us, which made photography out of the question. Still, in spite of the fool behind me, the band in front of me was much better than I'd hoped they might be; the short, tight set - one not played in front of their own fans - did well to showcase their genuine strengths. The sound wasn't anywhere near as bad as I thought it was going to be, and the lights looked very promising.
What was to be the evening's Comedy Factor started immediately after SoTW left the stage. While the crew was doing their teardown/setup behind the closed curtains, the crowd was being entertained by an out-of-sync chorus line of leggy lasses clad in leather short-shorts, each and every one of them undulating to the sound of her very own drummer. Best of all was the one down on the far left, who really didn't need a pole to get the idea across. I am not sure if these are the same scantily clad Sex Kittens who inspired Alan to empty his pockets at the next day's BNL show; I'm not even sure if they are the same scantily clad Sex Kittens who would come out after the next set to compete for the hotly contested and deeply respected title of "Miss CFL". For all I know, there was an endless supply of scantily clad Sex Kittens (most of them looking a bit on the high-mileage end of the useage spectrum) in the MTCC that weekend. Or maybe it was all one single solitary group of Sex Kitten women surgically altered so as to be fundamentally indistinguishable one from the other. I'm still not sure.
But what I am sure of is the precipitous drop in ambient temperature that occurred when the leggy sort-of dancers began to strut their stuff on that stage. And such sour faces to be seen in the crowd, to the left of me and to the right of me, behind as well. When buddy finally came out to introduce the next band, he started out asking the crowd to give a hand to the ladies as they bounced their way offstage. I heard a few scattered hoots and hollers from way back in the crowd - maybe as far back as the interminable line for beer tickets - and figured some of the fellows were eyeballing the goods up on the stage-adjacent big screens. But up at the front...damn, there was a frosty chill in the air, enough ice for a hockey game. Things would be heating up a bit later, though.
Before I read what Alan wrote in his journal about the Lowest Of The Low, they were just a name I had heard here and there; based on that name, I'd assumed they were a spoof-type band. After learning from Alan - who pointed out how critically acclaimed this band has been - just how incorrect that assumption had been, I was looking forward to seeing what these guys were like. Despite the murky sound being a bit less kind to their music than it had been to SoTW's (or would be to GBS's), I liked a lot of what I could hear. They have their own sound, distinctive, and I would have liked the chance to see them again, though that seems unlikely now, given the "hanging it up" notice over on their website. Whatever they choose to do, I wish them well, and I am grateful I got at least the one chance to see them play live.
I did manage to get a few halfway decent photos, quite the accomplishment since the idiot behind me, who had fallen into a quiescent sulk during the Undulating Pulchritude Interlude, was back at it again with redoubled force and renewed vigour. She had been focusing mostly on smashing into the little girl (well, "little" in age, at least) to my right, who looked about ready to give up holding onto her place, so I shifted over to my left and let the pushy idiot in next to me. Where she promptly began trying to push me farther over, trying to make room for the rest of her friends still pressing up behind us. Predictable, as ever. When I told her I was not moving over any more so she could very well stop the frigging pushing, her dimwitted response was "This is a GA show". Yes, of course, that excuses any and all shit-headedly selfish behaviour. Predictably so.
There are times I wonder if such jerks realise that the band members whose attention they are working so hard to capture have a perfect vantage point for seeing chronologically adult women pushing kids aside so they can hang their own saggy tits over the barrier. Do they think such actions particularly impress the objects of their pursuit, I wonder, especially considering how many thousands of times those objects of pursuit have seen exactly the same boorish actions commited by people facelessly interchangeable with themselves? As well as seeing the identically same saggy tits countless times.
Lowest Of The Low
When SoTW had left the stage, I was relieved about not feeling at all like they had outstayed their welcome. I wouldn't have minded hearing a bit more of LoTL. But that would have cut into Part Two of the Comedy Portion of the program.
Once again, the curtains closed and scurrying teardown/setup noises could be heard. But this time, we got more than merely a leather-clad rhythm-challenged chorus line with multiple-soloist delusions. This time, we got a full Beauty Contest, complete with "celebrity judges" (and I think one bold opportunist who slipped into a vacant seat uninvited...talk about your Cheshire Cat grin). The girls pranced out, shook their wares a bit, and then each of them was "interviewed" by buddy.
As the "contest" progressed, the audience chill rapidly reversed itself into a blaze of hostility. It got more than a little ugly. The two sourpusses to the left of Lisa were so visibly unhappy about the proceedings that the pro photographer inside the barrier looked a bit startled by their expressions and asked them if they were alright. I saw similarly sour faces behind me and to my right. Even the boys who were part of the university group had the look on their faces that men get when they know better than to ogle openly in the presence of their pissed-off women.
A woman behind me started to heckle the Pulchritudinous Ones, screaming "Skank! Skank! Skank!" as loudly as she could. This became unintentionally hilarious during Miss British Columbia's "interview," which was comprised of the request that she inform the crowd about all the many things that make living in Vancouver so special. Miss BC was dithering on about two of the wonderful things she could think of to do in Vancouver, flailling about while trying come up with a number three wonderful thing, all while the shrieks of "Skank! Skank! Skank! were being hurled up at her from behind my right shoulder. Miss Bright Bulb looked down into the face of the screamer, struggling to make out what was being bellowed at her, Suddenly, everything made sense in her little world. "Oh yes!" she chirped, her frozen smile amping up another few hundred megawatts. "And we have skiing in Vancouver too." Giggle. She then beamed a vacuously grateful smile down toward her "helpful" screamer, who kept right on hurling insults at her.
"Give the ladies a big hand," buddy implored the crowd yet again. The scattered cheers began somewhere midway back in the crowd. Up front, you could cut the hostilty with a double-edged knife.
Up to this point, I'll confess that I'd been laughing myself silly, albeit with what I hope was a modicum of discretion. As soon as they started setting up the "beauty contest," I was thinking to myself, Buddy, this is a diehard Great Big Sea crowd pressed up here against the barrier and breathing down your neck, a lot of them waiting anxiously for their happy fantasy to take the stage. And you're bringing out slinky, sexy women instead? Are you trying to get yourself drawn and quartered? Are you really so keen on losing those family jewels? And standing there next to a doctor, watching her peer disdainfully at mismatched implants and shake her head disgustedly at bungled nose jobs - as well as hear her sigh disapprovingly at the sight of several painfully protruding rib cages - was not exactly helping to decrease the pervasive ludicrousness of the moment.
During the debacle, I was wondering what kind of a fucking moron tries to mix a moderately sleazy high-mileage-commodity oglefest inexpertly disguised as a beauty pageant with an avid, impatient, needy, increasingly lubricated GBS crowd? Then it hit me: Whoever had this bright idea is still stuck somewhere back in 1999, thinking that GBS's core audience - the ones most likely to be there this night - was still largely made up of shitfaced hell-raising boys (chronologically and otherwise), the kind of fellows who would all empty their pockets for rounds of warm Molson in plastic cups while enjoying every single second of that oglefest. Football, warm Molson, gravity-defying tits, and the Quintessential Party Band...what more could a pack of shitfaced hell-raising boys possibly want? But even though those boys were indeed present (most of them back in the interminable beer line), someone had neglected to take into consideration the emotionally demanding, hostile-to-fantasy-disruption (all the borders of GBSunshineland have wishful-thinking No Bimboz Allowed signs prominently displayed), chronologically mature female demographic. That demographic was decidely unhappy in the present moment.
It got considerably less funny when I thought of it that way. Pissing off people in the front rows of the crowd right before a band takes the stage isn't doing that band any favours. I don't think it had any lasting negative effect over on our side of the crowd - which did seem to get fairly pushy a few rows back (most of the people behind me kept changing, a fairly reliable sign of crowd turbulence) but which was simply peachy up front once I switched spots and handed the pushy bitch on my right over to Christina - but I do wonder if it played any role at all in what sounds like a pretty shitty time for some over on the right side of that crowd.
I wondered several times during the show if something ugly might be happening over there, based on the change in Bob's demeanour during the course of the show. Bob came out like a house afire - they all did - but partway in, he was starting to look what my Mom would have called "a bit peaked". My first assumption was that perhaps he was feeling under the weather (after the Vanier Cup show and his performing with meningitis, that is probably always going to be my first assumption), but now that I've heard stories of some really bad behaviour taking place on his side of the crowd, I'm not at all sure what to think. Though it seems safe enough to say that getting a crowd pissed off sure isn't likely to help calm anyone down or encourage good behaviour. As selfish as it sounds, I was glad to be where I was; some of those nearby might have been sourpusses, but at least for the most part they were well-behaved sourpusses.
Finally the stage was cleared and it was time for GBS's set. I've heard that they're the ones who asked to go on third, leaving Emerson Drive to wrap up the show. If that's true, it was a smart move to make with a crowd likely to just get drunker and crankier as time went on. Plus it gave them some post-show time to enjoy themselves too, as detailed by Alan in his journal entry. A great show in front of a huge crowd in the Centre of the Universe, followed by some fun times with friends and family at the pub - that sounds a lot like the best of both worlds.
One last note before actually getting to the photos, which certainly should have all loaded by now, for those who have actually read all of this, that is. The lights at this show were wonderful, quite likely among the best lighting examples I have seen at any GBS shows. I wish I knew enough about the specifics of lighting to be able to explain why that's so in definitive terms, but I don't. All I can say is that I could see the band members - and I think everyone else could too - all of them, no matter where they were on the stage, up at stage edge or back by the drum kit. No canyons of darkness between islands of blindingly bright light, and no murky blackness swallowing up most of the power of any audience interaction that takes place away from their mics.
At this show, when Alan or Sean came to the edge of the stage, they were still in light, and could still be clearly seen. That has not been happening at most of their shows for some time now. For awhile now, their light setup has looked a lot like one designed for a band where the members all stand riveted to the spot directly in front of their mics; the lights themselves move - at times blindingly so - but as soon as the performers themselves move, more often than not they are lost in shadow. Doesn't make a whole lot of sense considering how much Alan moves around on stage (and Sean too during some numbers) and how hard he works to play to as many people as he can in any crowd, but that's how it has been at many recent shows.
Other than there simply being more light everywhere on the stage (and less silly fog too), I'm not sure what else was happening to make it so much better at this show. I don't know if someone was actually actively working a tracking spot while they performed - instead of relying on a preprogrammed lighting sequence - a light that kept them visible as they moved across the stage, or if it was more a matter of not having the dark canyons there in the first place. Maybe a lot of it was those very cool (and probably outrageously expensive) light panels behind them; that may account for the overall difference in the quality of the light too (less of the frigging red, and more of a golden hue). Whatever it was, it looked good, and I am talking about much more than photos. They looked good, as well as classy and professional. Whatever it was that was making that happen, it sure would be nice to see more of it.
Way more than enough blather; on to the show.
Set list for this show. Clearest was not done, and Rant & Roar followed after Fortune.
Five photos from Donkey Riding, a song I do not like, a song I wish they'd move away encouraging their audience to expect as the only possible GBS-show opener...and a song I may have enjoyed this night more than I've ever enjoyed it all the many times I have heard it before. They ditched the self-mocking edge and played the song with a fierce intensity, grabbing that turbulent crowd by its (mostly metaphorical) balls. And the beard was gorgeous.
No let-up in intensity for Captain Kidd. In the third photo, Alan's emphatic performing lifts him into mid-air. In the next shot he can be seen assessing the crowd, with the first of several "What the fuck is going on over there?" looks toward the raised VIP area, where the floor was already nearing its end. And the last shot is the best I could do to catch his whirlwind of an ending flourish.
A long series of shots from Jack Hinks. From the moment Alan asked the crowd to count them in to another commanding flourish at the final chord, this was the song where they really brought the crowd together and made it their own from this point on, all the way to the end of their performance.
Sean dances with his guitar.
A sexy, smouldery Murray and a hardworking cute Kris. 
Putting on quite the show for the big-screen camera. 
Looking really good in profile. 
I am looking forward to the return of that beard. Not expecting...just hoping. 
Now Murray has the pouty sexy look going. 
I really like this face, with or without beard. Of course, I really
like all the rest too; he does the profile position well. I don't think I am ever going to be able to keep
from smiling about how he has so completely persuaded me that a bouzouki
is sexy.
My was-getting-better thumb is starting to raise a little hell now, so that's going to be all for a bit. I'll keep on adding entries as I get the pictures uploaded, probably with somewhat less blather for the rest. There were a lot of pictures, so there will be quite a few entries, as befits such a serious weekend. I'm eventually going to put it all in that semi-mythical photo album I keep putting off doing, but for sure that won't happen till I am back on high speed again. I want to put up some of the best photos in their original high-res size, and that's just not happening here on my dialup.
