ETA: It's 4 am and I just finished packing. As zipped my bag closed, there it was again - that same familiar feeling of eager anticipation that always comes right about now. After all these years, after so many shows, no matter what else is also going on...that feeling is still as powerful and as exciting as it has always been. As it it will apparently always be. I can't wait. And I am running ust about as late as always too. Some things forever remain the same.
As with so many of the sweetest aspects of this beautiful life, Doing and Doing Again is the chief pleasure of continuing to learn how best to use my photoediting program. Similar pleasure to be enjoyed in Sharing and Sharing Again.
What can I say? Well, probably quite a lot, as per usual...but at the end of the day, all I really need to say is that I am very fond of that sweet face. Have been, am, and always will be. All the rest that goes with the sweet face is quite dear too, in the fullness of that word's meaning.
Now back to the "plenty more" (another version of Do and Do Again, as it were)...
Several years ago - it was either 2006 or 2007, as best I can recall - one of my intermittent "Save money on travel" resolutions led to my winding up in what can only be - even somewhat charitably be - described as a dive hotel near Montreal's Station Centrale d'Autobus (aka the bus terminal, for all my fellow monolinguists). It was walkable from the terminal, thus no taxi fares; it was walkable to and from the venue (more or less...actually, more) that Great Big Sea was playing that night, even more savings on taxi fares. The weather was quite warm - it was late spring or full summer - so no worries about ice or snow or bitter cold while doing all that walking to and fro and saving money on taxi fares. It seemed like the perfect plan, even after lugging my bags up three flights of stairs and making my way into the tiny, airless room, and even after realising the sole miniscule window in that tiny airless room was apparently more decorative that functional since it would not open a single inch.
What odds, I shrugged - it was only for one night. I was off to the show in a few minutes after getting in, and I'd be out the next morning on an early bus; how much room did I need for such a short time? I knew I had to come directly back after the show to finish a writing project whose deadline was that same day; I was already past deadline, but I couldn't send the work off till I got back to the bus terminal in the morning anyway, which gave me the entire post-show evening to finish the writing work. The room had an outlet to plug the laptop into, a chair to sit in, light to write by, functional plumbing, and an ice machine right outside my door to help keep cool. What more does a person really need?
I'd walked the neighbourhoods nearby this bus terminal often enough before to know that my hotel was in a mildly sketchy area, but nothing I haven't been around before, and often much worse. I've no objections to being around people in search of whatever gives then the greatest pleasure, quite the contrary; so long as providers and procurers of such pleasures are all of like mind in the transactions, it's all good to me. The show that night was also good, and after a brief linger afterwards, I set a lesiurely, ambling pace back to my little dive hotel, revelling all the way in the sensual warmth of a balmy Montreal night, more than a bit reluctant to come inside out of it. But I knew I had to get back to wrap up that already-late writing job.
When I opened the door to my room, the evening's warmth felt appreciably less revelatory, a bit of a shock since it hadn't felt nearly so sweltering when I came up the stairs onto the landing. But the landing had a window that was clearly for more than decoration, I had noticed, since it had been left wide open, allowing the sweetly scented breeze to waft lazily in. I briefly considered leaving the door of my room equally wide open so that sweet breeze could waft my way too, but that didn't seem particularly safe or sensible at the time; instead I fetched the ice bucket and filled it to the brim with ice from the machine then went back into my little room to write. Between multiple glasses of ice water and liberal direct applications of ice - this done after a fairly thorough dispensing of clothing - the heat wasn't too terribly distracting.
The heat inside my room wasn't too terribly distracting, that is. The heat in the room next door, the room only one paper-thin wall away from where I was sitting...that was a different story altogether. Quite a lovely story as well, as best I could tell.
As soon as I'd returned to my little room, I could clearly hear that the pursuit of greatest pleasure had been a successful one that evening for someone in the adjoining room; what had at first begun as soft delighted cries progressed slowly but surely to deep, rumbling groans; the creaking of the bedsprings increased in answering tempo. I head a sharp intake of breath, followed by a shuddering gasp and a long, low moan that sent shivers up and down my own spine. At that point, I stopped even pretending that I was still writing; the temperature in my little room felt as if it had just soared to a sizzle.
By now, the cries of unabashed pleasure were loud and fervent and intense...and they were also now a duet, two male voices singing the oldest song in human existence, shouting out the final chorus together. Giddy laughter and then muffled voices followed thereafter, then all grew peacefully quiet. In the sudden hush, I felt as breathless as the still air surrounding me. I needed more ice, badly needed more ice, and threw on enough clothes to be able to go about getting it decently. I grabbed the bucket again, opened my door and stepped out onto the landing.
There were only four rooms on this floor, so chances were excellent that the shirtless, shorts-clad fellow standing in front of the open window was one of my two next-door neighbours, smoking a post-coital cigarette. I looked up at him and smiled, a silly smile most likely; as I said before, I like people who seek out and and enjoy pleasure to its fullest and I suspect that approval showed quite clearly in my silly smile. He smiled back at me in response, a slow and easy smile, a knowing smile that was as generous and kind as it was self-assured and confident.
We stood there by the window on the landing, that sweet, warm breeze flowing between us and around us, and made harmless small talk - the weather, the Habs, where I was from, what he did for a living. All the customary introductory topics. I said something that made him laugh, long and hard and with conviction. And when his laughter had run its course, that was when he asked me if I would like to join him and his lover.
It was my turn to smile back at him, a smile I am sure was nowhere near as self-assured and confident as his, but one I hope matched his in kindness and generosity. I thanked him for such a tempting invitation, then said even though I knew from past experience how pleasurable such interactions could be, I no longer indulged in... And here I hesitated, searching for a proper description of what had just been offered; "one night stands' seemed totally inadequate to the occasion, and it would have never even occurred to me to try to stretch the boundaries of "harmless flirtation" quite that far. The charming fellow came to my rescue with articulate alacrity; with a wicked smile and a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, he suggested the perfect description: Liasions of opportunity.
We both laughed at that, congenial and conspiratorial laughter. I looked up into those mischievous eyes again and told him directly that I make love only with those I care about deeply. His smile depeened and he nodded; in agreement; he reached out and patted me on the shoulder with a large, gentle hand. To make love, he said, was the beauty of life. Fucking was good and fucking hard was better, but making love was the best of all. Still nodding his approval, he said that making love could solve most of the problems of all the unhappy souls in this world and that whenever he encountered sad or angry people, he always wondered one thing about them: Who's making love to you? He said he firmly believed that everyone should have someone making love to them, that if you have someone making love to you, no way you could ever again be so miserable.
Maybe it was all a line. If so, it was very nearly a damned effective one. But not quite, though my knees were a bit weak and my heart was skipping beats as we smiled at each other one last time, said our Good Evenings, and returned to our separate rooms. I shut the door behind me, leaned against it a few moments to steady those wobbly knees. Then I sat back down in my chair and stared blankly at the laptop screen, listening as the telltale sounds of lovemaking began again on the other side of the paper wall. Roused, aroused and deeply thoughtful, the part of my brain that still had enough blood flow to think was pondering his theory of human happiness, and the lack thereof.
The lovemaking next door continued on and off, off and on, for the rest of the night. The writing job got finished and was sent off to the client from the bus terminal at daybreak. The bus was caught and the travels continued and the next show was seen, miles and shows and faces one after another. And now and again, on what has gradually become a regular basis, when I have encountered sadness or anger in some of those faces - quiet, resigned unhappiness or barbed, embittered misery - I recall standing on a dimly lit landing while a soft, sweet breeze blew gentle caresses across my arms and legs and face, and the words spoken there come insistently to thoughtful mind and compassionate heart: Who's making love to you?
That charming Montreal fellow gave me the gift of a new way of seeing and understanding others, some of whom I want most dearly to see and understand. Not that I had this all figured out on the spot, of course. It takes time, sometimes an embarrassingly long time, to figure out these things, to get it all thought through to the point where it finally begins to make sense, longest of all when wounded desires - "hushed and humbled longings" - get in the way of understanding. Not too long ago, someone said something in response that caught me completely off guard and then crushed me with a single totally unexpected word, in large part because self-doubt caused me to take that word in the worst possible way. After weeks spent aching over not being able to understand why that word was used, I finally came to the conclusion that since I was going to keep right on caring even if I never understood, there wasn't much sense in continuing to torment myself for that failure to understand. Even if it really was as bad as first interpretation and all the self-doubt in the world might make it out to be, nothing was worse than being so damaged by it that the hurt overwhelmed the love - that was the most miserable of all and it was past time for it to end.
And so it did end, much to glad relief and affection's sweet and unimpeded return. Still no understanding, still a pile of self-doubt and disappointed desires, but that was now more a matter of shrugging and accepting, caring and carrying on. And then out of the blue the one night a child makes a chance comment about a completely unrelated matter, about how a friend gave him a ticket to an expensive event he'd had a wonderful time at, which in turn makes me think how thoughtful a gift that was since the child's financially struggling family surely couldn't afford to pay for that high-priced ticket and how kind it was that the friend had provided the ticket instead of just blithely and heedlessly inviting the child to come along to something he would not have been able to do - a growing-up-poor frustration I can still remember quite well from my own childhood days.
And along with those memories, at long last comes the first few glimmers of possible understanding, something that makes sense beyond blatant hypocrisy and willful cruelty, something far more consistent with a person as known and loved - leaving me wishing for the umpteenth time that it wouldn't always take me so frigging long to (maybe) understand. Yes, better late than never, but sooner is best of all. Then again, I still might not understand a bit of it; maybe it really is as bad as nagging self-doubt and humbled hope want to make it out to be; I am not yet sure about that. But what I am sure as can be about is that no matter which is true, at the end of the day it changes nothing that matters the most. Understood or not, it really sucks when something interferes with caring, and if it isn't going to suck in the good way, then it needs to be sent packing.
I've got one more batch of edited photos from the Westhampton Beach Great Big Sea show to put up here. I didn't come close to finishing them - only got through the first three songs of the second set - and now have no clue when that will be; the next month or so is going to be hectic. Not as hectic as tomorrow is going to be though, since I have a daunting pile of things that must get done before an early flight out Tuesday morning. Early and weird - St. John's to Ottawa to Washington DC to San Diego has to be one of the stranger routes I've ever wound up on; as always, there's good reason why some flights are cheap. But if I make all my connections, I'll be basking in the forever-familiar California sunshine by Tuesday afternoon, a full day ahead of Christina, who has to play the grownup and work all day before heading out on her own odd itinerary Tuesday evening. Right now, with so so many things still undone, I am envying her slightly the extra time. But only slightly. I am looking forward to that sunshine. I'm looking forward even more to the next evening. And I know I'm not the only one who feels that way.
Westhampton then, and then off to bed.
GBS opened the second set the same way they opened all of the two-set "Evening With Great Big Sea" shows this past tour - with the trad (mostly) instrumental numbers played while sitting on the drum riser, starting out with just Alan and Bob, then joined by Sean, after that by Kris and Murray. Whoever came up with this idea deserves a pat on the back for it; it's one of the most creative, fresh, and daring moves I've ever seen GBS make in their live performance. The pace change was fascinating. To first get the crowd roused to a fever pitch with (most nights) the Singalongs and then Run, Runaway, then to send them off on a long break filled with noisy socialising and liberal imbibing, following that with such an initially understated second-set opener - Alan and Bob walking out unobtrusively onto a still-dark stage, sitting down casually back on the drum riser and starting in with simple and straightforward playing...was quite possibly their bravest stage move ever.
It worked better some nights than others, dependent partly on the receptivity - at times, the sobriety - of the audience, partly on the passions of the players, partly on such pure pragmatics as how far back from the audience the stage dimensions required the drum riser to be, partly on the effectiveness (sometimes the lack thereof) of the lighting. When all elements conspired together to bring it off at its best, it was an awesome performance moment; even when they did not, it was always a bold attempt, one that matched up especially well with the equal boldness of the encores that so clearly demonstrated the breadth of their performance prowess - from the sheer force of Straight To Hell or Gallows Pole to the tender beauty of Old Brown's Daughter. The second sets of those Evening With... shows were some of the best I've ever seen from GBS, and each and every one of them began with Tunes. On most of those nights, most definitely including Westhampton Beach, Tunes told a story all its own.
Only a pair of photos from Lukey, each of a charming fellow I really do need to pay a whole lot more attention to at shows. Maximum Murray on all frequencies.
Night after night, show after show, Alan put on spectacular performances of The Chemical Worker's Song (Process Man), yet another frequent highlight of that deadly second set. And each time he put on his spectacular performance, he looked absolutely gorgeous doing it.
I am always going to love the sight of him with his head back and his arms held high in the air; that position suits him so well. It makes for an excellent place to stop and hold the thought with pleasure until next time. From somewhere in California, assuming I get this pile of stuff done on Monday. Later today, that is. And I am for sure not going to forget to bring that one illuminating and revealing question along with me to the California sunshine...
Who's making love to you?
Because somebody should be.
If you tangled with somebody over money matters you're best letting it go if you can and not trying to understand. Money and religion make the most sensible people go nuts. I'll take sex and politics over money and religion every day. You might never understand why what happened and the same could be true for the other party. If they matter to you it's better to get past it.
I saw the guys do tunes twice. I liked it both times but way more the first because it was well lit and everybody there paid attention from start to finish. The second time they did it in a puddle of darkness and the people in the back rows realized it was going on till halfway through. They yakked and yakked the whole first part all the way till Kris and Murray came out and the lights finally came on. They got trouble with their lights. At the first show Alan was talking before the song and he was totally dark. There was no light on him at all and once when Sean sang the light didn't come on until a couple of lines in. GBS is a big band here, you'd think they'd have this running smooth by now.
Beautiful pics as always, Lynda. Alan's beard has grown on me. I hope he keeps it, I think it'll be a shock when he shaves it off. I'm looking forward to pics & videos from the next shows. I hope you keep using your camera. It sounds like its gonna be a long time from the November shows until more shows next year.
I know who's making love to me and I'm glad about it. :-) I'd be an unhappy sad person w/o it too. It's a smart way to see who acts how and maybe why. Food for thought.
Happy belated birthday wishes and safe travel wishes to you. Be careful in Cali, lots of crazy stuff happens there. Happy American Thanksgiving to you too. :-)
Mari
Posted by: Mari | 09 November 2009 at 07:56 AM
"Only a pair of photos from Lukey, each of a charming fellow I really do need to pay a whole lot more attention to at shows. Maximum Murray on all frequencies."
Yeah, yeah... you keep saying that. Let's make a deal - ONE good Mur picture per show.
Hope things are better.
Posted by: Anon (but you can quote me!) | 09 November 2009 at 02:47 PM
Lynda, this was a wonderful read. You took my breath away too. So did the pictures. :)
Have fun in Cali.
Posted by: Annie | 09 November 2009 at 04:28 PM
This is a male viewpoint FWIW, it means more to me when a friend goes ahead and accepts me even if they don't understand why I did it in the first place. Big deal if you say it's okay when you understand it, bigger deal if you stay my friend when you don't know why I did whatever it was I did. Sometimes I don't know why I did it myself and I can't explain to you what I don't undersatand myself. What I really want is to be accepted anyway, without having to explain what I don't even know. For all the sense that makes.
I did say this was a male viewpoint didn't I? ;P
Have some fun in the sun. It's weird going back home isn't it?
Posted by: Roger | 10 November 2009 at 05:31 PM
Well Done with the pics, each one stopped me dead in my tracks. You are wicked with a camera Lynda! Keep'em coming!
Very interesting read too, I'm in love with the phrase "liaisons of opportunity". *steal* Wonderfully written as always, it just sends a tingle up my spine. ;)
Also glad that you enabled the comments again, I'm glad you're healing from whatever hurt you.
Enjoy the Cali sun while you can, the rain in WA is dismal this time of year.
Posted by: Lou | 10 November 2009 at 11:36 PM
I'm not sure what happened to my other response; I put it up right after I posted the first three comments but now it seems to have vanished in thin air. Well, maybe not-so-thin air - this is California after all.
I've got a bit of sitting-still time while waiting for Christina's call saying her flight's landed and she's got the rental car now how the frig does she get to the hotel (bad enough to be forced to rely on me for directions...little does she know that she is also going to have to navigate around the Veteran's Day parade that I just came back from), so let's try the comment response thing one more time.
Hello, Lou. Glad you enjoyed the photos, though I always cringe guiltily when someone says I do well with a camera - if only you saw all the shots that so very much did not turn out the way I wanted them too.
I loved "liasions of opportunity" too, and promptly purloined it myself. Feel free to follow suit. I might not come up with such lovely turns of speech, but I sure do have a good ear for recognising them when others do. And for sharing them as well.
Yes, thank you, I am healing. It's taking longer than I thought or hoped it would, but at least it is getting better.
Oh, I know what I will be coming back home - current home, not growing-up-home - to when I head back to WA next Monday. November in Western Washington will be what it always is...gray and wet. And then grayer and wetter. But this November we will have quite a delightful series of shows to cheer us up, won't we?
Roger, I an intrigued by your male viewpoint. Thought-provoking. I always want to understand, try my hardest and pound my head against brick walls striving to understand. The only time I ever let go of wanting to understand is when there just doesn't seem to be any way of believing that it's ever going to happen and if that's so then there's not any point in letting it get in the way of caring.
Which might be what you're saying about just being accepted without having to explain - only it sounds way easier and with a whole lot less hurt the way you describe it. Perhaps it's a difference between the male and female viewpoint. Or perhaps I just do things the hard way. It sure does sound easier the way you explain it.
San Diego isn't quite "home" but we came here often enough when I lived in LA for it to nearly feel so. Yes, it is weird. I was walking around some familiar places this morning and it was a little like being accompanied by who I used to be then walking alongside who I am now. Some of the changes are really good ones, but others I am not as sure about. It gives me way too much to think about, which means it's time to go for another walk in the sunshine, just as soon as Christina gets in.
Annie, I am glad you enjoyed both words and photos.
A(BYCQM), I am full of lame excuses and broken promises, aren't I? It isn't as if I don't watch Murray at shows, and I always like what I see. I just seldom take pictures, same for Kris too. I know why I don't take many pictures of Bob - there is no way anyone is going to convince me that Bob does not believe that 5 hurried, blurry fan souvenier shots are ample photographic indulgence from any single audience member - and Sean's moods blow so hot and cold, sometimes changing back and forth repeatedly during each show, that erring on the side of caution always seems the wiser bet. We all know I can't resist Alan. But there's really no excuse or reason for not taking more pictures of both Murray and Kris. One of these days, I will actually do it. I think I can do the "One Good Mur Picture" right now, though. A reasonable goal.
Things are better. Thank you.
Mari, I grew up here, so I know the potential for crazy; it's part of the charm. Part of why we left too - two sides of the same coin.
I agree there are some problems with how they do their lights, in both the design and the execution areas. I've seen how the ligths work, how they are supposed to work and how they at times do not work, over the course of a whole lot of shows. Some of it is really good and effective, other parts could use adjustment or sometimes just a bit more attention.
They tend to think rather carefully about the components of their live shows, which makes me believe that they've done just this kind of thinking about how the lights they use can best work to achieve the results they're after getting. Since the live shows are GBS's bread and butter, and since the unique power of GBS's shows is how they forge a bond with their audience and persuade individual audience members to step outside of that individuality and participate in an interactive communal experience, then the lights should be doing their share toward helping that to happen. A lot of the time they do, every now and then they do not.
I think they've done some really cool lighting stuff, especially when it comes to setting the mood and getting the crowd to settle a bit with some of the mid-tempo tunes. And I love that "lightning flash" during Process Man. The light panels they've got now have a lot of potential - they're a bit underutilised right now, and I'm looking forward to what they decide to do with them as they get more accustomed to them.
I have seen what you noticed with comments and banter starting out in darkness and then the individual spot belatedly coming on, same with a few songs. And whenever the audience members are squinting and covering their eyes because they're being blinded by lights, that's not helping forge a bond with the performers, same for all the backlighting they're doing now that leaves the audience seeing only silhouettes of them. Those are problems that do need work, granted. But as long as they keep working on things and continue to try to make it better, I'm sure willing to cut them all the slack they need.
I will always love Beautiful Bearded Alan. But he's going to look wonderful with or without.
Got the call and Christina has arrived. Time to get out and about again.
Posted by: Lynda | 11 November 2009 at 02:19 PM