Starting off again, after way too long of a pause, with what truly does matter to me.
Spring is in the air. Somewhere. - Alan Doyle, March 27 journal entry
The Sweetest Face of all.
Tonight, Alan Doyle/Great Big Sea, Shamrockfest, Wash. DC, March 2008 215 MB (warning for those prone to motion sickness - I got kicked in the head right at the start and it takes a bit to recover and re-adjust the camera's aim)
Bohemian Rhapsody Singalong, Alan Doyle/Great Big Sea, Shamrockfest, Wash. DC, March 2008 50 MB
A few close views of the ever-fascinating man in the midst of what was a compelling (and unruly-crowd-captivating) performance at Shamrockfest.
I love Spring here. I went for a walk the other day on a Spring afternoon in Western Washington: When I walked out of my door, the sun was shining brightly, the breeze blowing gently; a bit more than a mile down the road, the looming clouds had busily begun to gather. It did not take long at all for a stiff wind to kick up, and soon after came the sudden burst of hail. I had taken shelter at a covered bus stop, watching and waiting for this storm to pass through. The rain swept in, huge splatting drops putting an exclamation mark at the end this episode. Then the same stiff wind that blew the brief but fierce tempest in blew it straight back out again, and in the space of perhaps 45 minutes, the sun was once again shining with a brilliance that refracted and prismed off the lingering raindrops still clinging to the flowers in full bloom, sparkling with a brilliance that dazzled my eyes. The soft breeze touched my cheek gently, and I continued along my path. It was a perfectly glorious Spring afternoon.
I see that same perfectly glorious Spring afternoon in Alan's face.
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More black-and-white views of Alan eventually, but first some lingering over Alan in his own black-and-white words.
I’ve managed to have a healthy apathy about the weather for most of my
life. With the exception of the occasions when GBS is slated to play
outdoor concerts, I barely check the forecast. Most days I could care
less if it rains, shines or freezes. I generally go about my day,
indoors or out, regardless of the conditions. I’m convinced this
Weather Zen is key to being a happy Newfoundlander, especially in the
weeks that follow Paddy’s Day and lead to Summer. (Known most commonly
as ‘Spring’, a season that skips the Rock annually)
Right
now the sideways drifts of the third snowstorm in as many days are
whipping up my street. Through the squalls, I cannot see my parked Grey
Toyota Sienna, a rather large Mini Van, parked less than ten feet from
my office as I type. I can feel my Zen resolve slipping; I can sense
my apathy breaking. This winter is bringing me down a wee bit, I
confess.
I must cast my gaze backward and forward on days and nights past and future as the present is cold and frozen.
Those who grow up in Southern California tend more toward the arrogance of a Weather anti-Zen; there, the weather is confidently expected to cooperate with the inhabitants' wills and whims ("I don't feel like mowing the lawn today...I'll do it tomorrow or the next day instead"). Winding up in a place where choosing not to mow the lawn on one particular non-rainy Saturday could mean the grass grows unchecked for the next sixstraight soggy weeks required quite the attitude adjustment when it comes to Alan's Weather Zen notion. Spending long stretches of time in Newfoundland during the Winter and non-Spring months (I have been saying that there is no Spring in Newfoundland since the very first non-Spring I spent there) has required further adjusting of, perhaps better to call it "banishing of," the last, lingering vestiges of that anti-Zen arrogance, My own weather apathy grows healthier each year.
Then again, I appear to have skipped out on some of the worst of it. Considering how persistently shitty the weather has been in St. John's since about an hour before I left, I've been wondering if perhaps I got out right before the onset of Fimbulwinter. And barely before the onset at that: Not only did my still-shower-damp hair freeze almost solid in the short amount of time it took me to unload my bag from the car and scurry into the terminal, nearly swept off my feet by the howling wind and effectively blinded by the horizontal snow/ice fall, I then spent my time in the check-in line listening apprehensively as subsequent flights for the day - including the one scheduled a mere 45 minutes after my own - were cancelled right and left.
But my plane had come in the night before and Air Canada was bound and determined to get that plane back to the Centre Of The Universe that morning. Lucky me. That has to be the first time I have ever had to time my step from the loading ramp onto the plane because of how much the plane was rocking in the wind; it felt like climbing aboard a storm-tossed boat about to tear loose from its mooring. That tossing became even more noticeable once in the seat; we were rocking and swaying noticeably while stll on the ground. This was going to be an interesting flight, if our two de-icings were going to be enough to get us off - and keep us off - the ground.
And so it was, interesting indeed. I was told later we were the last flight to take off out of St. John's until that evening, and there would have been a very sensible argument that could have been made for our waiting too. But we made it, even if a bit green around the gills for some, perhaps. My silly - but cheap - flight plan kept me travelling all day, from St. John's to Ottawa, then from Ottawa to Toronto, and from Toronto to Philadelphia, where I waited some four hours for my friend to pick me up for the drive to Atlantic City. After that initial wild ride out of St. John's, all of the rest was comparative smooth sailing, to be sure. By the time we got out of the Philly airport and on the road to AC, Winter, even Incipient-Fimbulwinter, had turned to Spring.
And since it is indeed Spring instead of non-Spring, it is raining here tonight. At least for the next ten minutes it is.
Grand Paddy’s weekend a little while ago. Great fun to have Russell
join us in DC for a song or two. Hard to beat his performances. I’ve
learned a lot from his presence on stage and his conviction to the
moment. I can think of few so eager to give themselves so completely
to a performance when the curtain rises, the lights go down, or someone
yells, “Action”.
Like many in the GBS camp, he also prides
himself on hosting the best parties. The after show sing-along at the
Hotel was one for the ages, with The Shantyman shining at his best, and
Rachel M leading a lovely version of “Time After Time”. Grand, Grand
Night.
What Alan says here about Russell Crowe - how he is one of few so eager to give himself so completely to a performance - is as apt and as truthful a description of Alan himself as it is of Russell. The two of them together, each filled with conviction and each giving himself completely to the performance, were nothing short of awesome each and every time they took the stage during The Ordinary Fear Of God 2005/06 Australian tour. Impassioned, intense, vulnerable, and most of all, possessing the courage to take themselves and what they had created seriously: As wonderful as it was to discover Russell's prodigious musical performance abilities while seeing him for the first time on stage, how much more wonderful it was to see Alan - the man whose performances had awed and moved me so many times before - in a completely different light...a stronger, clearer, brighter light that revealed previously unknown depths and talents and capabilities.
As good as Alan has always looked to me, as well as he has always done in my eyes, he looked even better and achieved even more in the clarity of that light. Those shows permanently shaped the way I see Russell Crowe, and they forever changed the way I see Alan Doyle. It was so good, such a rekindler of precious memories and stubborn hopes, to see the two of them together again at Shamrockfest. I hope it happens again soon.
There's just no downside at all to Alan's getting this kind of Grand, Grand Night. He spends time and sings songs with a friend he doesn't get to see very often, and if there is one host who can be trusted to make sure that every partygoer present truly is an invited (and wanted) guest, that host is Russell Crowe. One of those times when it really is all good.
The visit to Atlantic City proved to me that places can’t be as bad as
people say. I thought the boardwalk was cool. I enjoyed the kooky old
games areas. Reminded me of Tom Hanks and “BIG”, one of my favourite
films.
Our NYC taxi went past FAO Schwartz on the way to our hotel this past January, and when I saw the store sign, my first thought was of Tom Hanks and Robert Loggia dancing the notes to Heart And Soul on the giant keyboard in Big. I think of that scene every time I see an FAO Schwartz sign. That this sweet film about a boy who longs to become a man and a man who yearns to return to his boyhood would be one of Alan's favourites is no surprise whatsoever. It fits, perfectly, like one more puzzle piece sliding quietly and satisfyingly into place, making the larger picture a bit more clear. Puzzle pieces and bread-crumb trails, knowledge of the heart and discovery of the soul.
We had fun on the AC boardwalk too, cataloguing as many of the Monopoly streets as we could find. I wish the amusement park had been open; we missed it by a day, I think. A strange place, Atlantic City, maybe just a bit too haunted by the conflicting ghosts of gaudy tourists, desperate gamblers, petty thugs, and cocky wiseguys. Too many stories to sort out one from the other. We did manage to find a decent pub, though. I'm betting we did much better with our pints of Guinness there than what was being offered up in the HOB FR.
And the Under The Boardwalk singalong during the show was priceless.
A long flight from DC to Edmonton (for a fun gig) and back to Toronto
overnight, followed by a snow delay, another snow delay, a detour to
Montreal for three hours and a near crash landing 24 hours later in a
windy St. John’s was not a fun way to end a fun weekend.
But
things are looking up. Way up. Labels, management, and band are
gearing up for the launch of the new CD. “Fortunes Favour” will be out
on Tuesday June 24th in Canada and the US. Much work going on behind
the scenes for touring throughout the Summer and Fall.
Given the chaos of the Edmonton airport the morning after St. Pat's Day - chaos for all those attempting to fly east that is, we westward-bounders had no troubles once we got past the two-hour check-in line - I was sure enough that it was a rough road home for GBS cast and crew. Alan's description of his St. John's landing sounds queasily similar to my St. John's takeoff at the start of that weekend. Why am I absolutely convinced that next winter will find them touring the frigid expanse of Canada, with myself cautiously ice-walking along after them?
The excitement of a brand new CD has to be a thrill for all of them, no matter that they've been around this dance floor a few times already. And this CD is, by several accounts, truly something different from Great Big Sea, words that have sure got me excited. I love what they have done so far, and I love even more the promise of their reaching out and realising yet more of their own potential. Growth and change are necessary parts of life, and there is still so much they are capable of accomplishing. I like it best of all when Alan is looking up, way up.
It will be an impatient wait until June 24th. I'm going to try my best to keep an open mind about that Fortune's Favour title until then, since Sean did say the title would "make sense" once the CD was out. But the writer in me is going to have to point out that the best titles make sense from the first moment you hear them. Then again, Something Beautiful as a CD title would have had much less meaning if title had been heard before song, though the titles Sea Of No Cares and Turn and even The Hard And The Easy would have impressed on their own merits. Hard to tell.
All I know at the moment is that the expression "fortune's favour" has a "looking back to the past" connotation to it, perhaps because it was used fairly often in Victorian writing, for that matter in Elizabethan writing as well. A quick Google of the expression turned up a Burns' poem I long ago consigned to memory's recycle bin. It's hard not to wonder how such a title fits in with a CD that contains the likes of which has not been heard before from GBS...but an open mind it is going to remain. Times like these, it is good to remember all the past good cause for trust in such matters. Sometimes, it is quite nice to be pleasantly surprised by hope beyond expectation.
We are scheduled have photos taken and do a video for the first single,
yet to be determined, in Toronto between April 12th and 15th. And by a
wonderful coincidence, that puts us in town for the Oysterband Show on
the 13th at Hugh’s Room.
For those of you who don’t know, the
Oysterband have been heroes to GBS long before me, Sean and Bob ever
got together. They are the quintessential British Folk Rock group that
ran down the same corridors as the Pogues and Billy Bragg in England
and Europe. They still have a huge following in Britain, Germany and
Scandinavia, as their concerts are legendary and their songs are even
better.
Ever heard of a song called “When I’m Up I Can’t Get
Down”? GBS did pretty well with that track, thanks to the Oyster Gents
who wrote and recorded many years before us. When we were compiling
material for the ‘Play’ CD, we considered a couple of dozen Oysterband
tunes to cover. We picked a good one, but there are literally several
albums worth of songs as good or better in the Oyster catalogue.
We
are not the only Canadian folkies to love their songwriting. John and
Geoffrey from SOTW count the Oysters as early influences. Check out
the Bara McNeils cover of “Northern Lights”, or Shanneygannock’s “This
Town”.
Their song catalogue is Blue Rodeo Deep. Trust me. Check them out at Oysterband.co.uk
Check
out the tour dates and see if there’s a date near you. Like I said,
they play Hugh’s Room in Toronto on the 13th, and unless wild horses
drag us away, so will the whole GBS Cast.
As much as I love Oysterband, and even though Christina and I have had tickets for the Hugh's Room show for a month now and David and I have had tickets for the Oysters' Vancouver show since the day that show went on sale, still, first things first here: The first single/video from the new CD.
The take-no-prisoners marketing guerilla in me still wishes that the first single from Fortune's Favour could be Oh Yeah, accompanied by a video of Air-Force-recruitment-style footage of fighter pilots commanding sleek, soaring, suggestively-shaped, love-bomb-dropping jets mixed together with edgy footage of screaming lead-guitar solos played by Alan Doyle The Rock Star Guitar God. If nothing else, such an approach by GBS would never be forgotten. Or forgiven, mostl likely.
Therefore I will keep a hope-fire burning for a truly incendiary Straight To Hell single release and video (How about performing on some iconic TO stage while 'The Big Smoke' burns to the ground around them?...probably not a big enough budget for such pyrotechnics, but wouldn't it be fun for a pack of Newfoundlanders to burn the Centre Of The Universe to the ground?). How about Walk On The Moon with space-shuttle/astronaut footage? I love Walk On The Moon with an abiding passion, but I don't know if the label would allow a ballad, even this beautiful of a balland, to be the first single release.
Actually, my best guess is that the first single from Fortune's Favour will be Tonight, and a very good call that would be. Tonight made for an excellent opener at their Atlantic City show, it's a mid-tempo tune with a persuasive drum part, a singalong bridge, an unforgettable melody line, and best of all, it plays with sincerity and honesty. Tonight comes across as genuine and true, and that gives the song a sense of power and purpose. In clumsy hands (and, to be honest, some of GBS's videos have been the product of just such hands) a Tonight video could wind up unfortunately insincere in the kind of way that steals power and purpose back away from the song.
If some perky little missus winds up dancing around in her skimpy PJs in the video or if the camera winds up lingering on an inexpertly inserted shot of a clearly fake audience member, that is going to do a serious disservice to what this song deserves. The song is genuine, so too should the video at least aspire to be. Maybe something as simple as pre-show routines, ruts, and anxieties, intermixed with the repetition of stage entrances, the lights going up and trickling down, the crowd roaring, again and again. Or anything else that rings equally as true as does the song. I still think their Clearest Indication video is the most genuine and real video they've come up with so far, one of their best as well.
And now, Oysterband.
When I first stumbled across Alan's Songwriters' Circle performance in 2001 and then went on to find out about Great Big Sea, I had all of these high hopes that I had come across an entire previously-unknown-to-me genre of music. I had scant interest in the Irish/Celtic music I'd heard, but GBS didn't sound at all Irish/Celtic to me anyway, not then any more than they sound that way to me now. They sounded completely unlike anything I had ever heard before, and I was eager to find all of the other bands who would also sound this new and fresh and wonderful.
I started following all of those "If you like this band, you will be sure to like _____" recommendations from GBS fans and critics. I followed and followed and followed, hunted and searched high and low, but wound up finding precious little that appealed to me, and most of what I finally did find that I liked actually sounded very little like GBS, at least on the surface. Ron Hynes, Carbon Leaf, Duane Andrews, Bruce Guthro, Art Stoyles, Joel Plaskett (non-Emergency), Lennie Gallant, Gearbox, Timber, Crush, the Young Dubs - newly discovered treasures all...but about the closest to GBS was my fondness for the sweetly poignant timbre of Con O'Brien's voice; I wished I could hear Alan's and Con's voices together long before I had any clue at all just where either Petty Harbour or Bay Bulls were situated on the face of this planet.
As more and more of the "If you likes" led to frustrating dead ends of musical non-appreciation, my brilliant husband noticed in the liner notes (which I almost never read) that When I'm Up was written by someone other than GBS. We'd both been intrigued by that song's lyrics from the start - puzzled by how those lyrics did or did not mesh with the manner in which GBS performed the song live, as well as how the GBS crowds we had seen responded to the song - and when we saw those completely unfamiliar names (Telfer/Prosser/Jones) it was Google Time.
That Googling led to some (ahem) unpaid-for downloading, which led to a trip to the local "good" music store where they would order anything you wanted. After a wait of some weeks, we had Granite Years, Volume 1. It still didn't sound much like GBS, but it sure sounded good. I was most impressed by the connections with the likes of Billy Bragg (discreetly letting the Pogues matter quietly slip off the edge of the table); I'm not sure why it is I had never so much as heard of Oysterband, but I've admired and respected Billy Bragg for years. Discovering yet another group of artists with the same integrity of both professional and personal lives, the same courage of convictions, was a delight.
I wonder sometimes about the friendship/admiration that the men of GBS have for these politically aware, fiercely intelligent, ethically uncompromsing fellow artists, wonder what might happen should these men begin to express more of their own awareness, intelligence, and ethics in their own artistic arena. What would happen if they chose to write more songs after the fashion of Demasduit's Dream or Feel It Turn or Young Triffie, or even to speak more in the voice of Alan's journal lambasting of the anti-sealing movement and his lament over the Virginia Tech shootings, or Sean's poem in the Independent, or even Bob's snarkily shrewd back-and-forths with the local arts board in regard to the allocation of government funding? How much of worth and value could be heard from them, and how satisfying and fulfilling might it be for them to be able to write and perform some of the same types of songs written and performed by these fellow artists whom they so admire and respect?
Then I remember that I won't even let David wear one of his favourite Oysterband merch t-shirts around a GBS-fan crowd because I do not want to deal with the shit that would likely come from it, even though I agree with the sentiment expressed on that shirt (GOD PROTECT US /From Your Followers on the front and More Truth Is What I Need on the back) as much as he does. But I know how relentlessly negative the reaction to something as simple as that t-shirt would likely be among many GBS fans; the mere thought of GBS trying to sell anything at all controversial or provocative in any way to their own fan-customer base elicits an immediate snort of derision.
And that derisive thought leads inexorably to the question of whether any Newfoundland band that struck an openly political (or even a particularly intellectual) stance would have gotten the initial Lower Deck gig that opened the door to so many other gigs for them back in the early '90s. I wonder just how many gigs of what kind a politically aware, intellectually challenging, ethically uncompromising Newfoundland band might or might not get today. What might much of Mainland Canada make of their very own favourite Newfie Party Band should those aware, intelligent, creative men begin to act as if they expected to be taken as seriously as they deserve to be taken? More important, what kind of wonderful music might be the result of such an insistence?
Then once again, that trend of thought leads me straight back to a very familiar place: Whatever music they do or do not want to do, whatever people they do or do not want to be...I hope they find a way to do and to be all that they want, at the very least to do and be as much as they need to make them feel happy and creatively satisfied, within GBS or without GBS.
The next thought that follows hard on the heels of that one is how promising a collaborative songwriting effort between a member or members of GBS and the Oysterband fellows could very well be.
But while I tend to focus on the affections and issues and the politics and the meaning of the songs and the creative satisfaction of the artists, for David it has been from the start first and foremost a pure and simple joy in Oysterband's music. A lifelong music-lover whose wide-ranging tastes go all the way back to dinosaur prog-rock, his second-favourite band these days is Oysterband; I think at last count, GBS perhaps came in somewhere around fifth.
Alright, this is as good a place as any for his Oysterband/GBS story. After a few years of devoted Oysterband fandom-from-afar, the fellow who most prefers his music live began to get frustrated by reading about Oysterband shows on the other side of the Pond; he wanted to see the band live too. By now he knew that the Oysters simply did not tour the States at all, and that it had been nearly a decade since they'd even toured Canada. So he decided to go across the Pond to see a band whose music he'd come to love. Since I'm always in favour of shameless promotion of the band whose music I love best, I encouraged him to pack an extensive selection of GBS tour-merch shirts, the "walking billboard" approach to tourist travel, and off he went to see Oysterband.
Early in the evening of the first of four Oysterband shows he was going to be seeing, he went into a Chinese restaurant next to the venue to get some supper; he was wearing one of his GBS shirts, at least partly because he did not have very many alternative choices in his suitcase. While he was eating, two fellows walked into the restaurant, and when one of them glanced over at him, the fellow said, "Hey, Great Big Sea! Those guys are really good!" David is a sociable fellow; it took no time at all for the three of them to be chatting away about just how great GBS's music really is. And he is also a proselytising fellow; when he believes in a band, the whole world is going to hear about that band. He figured these fellows already like GBS, so maybe they would like Oysterband too. Probably a good time to note that, in fairly typical male fashion, David had never bothered to pay much attention to band photos or personal info; his interest was always the music.
So he launches into a PR spiel for this other great band, a great band who will be playing a show right next door to this restaurant on that very night. On and on he goes, lauding and praising and persuading, apparently oblivious to any signs of amusement across the table from him. Either that, or there are two fellows who could be deadly poker players. Eventually, they can't take it anymore. They burst out laughing, slap him on the back, and tell him he has been persuading the Oysterband drummer and equipment tech about how grand a band the Oysters are. That night was the beginning of a very good time for him at those four Oysterband shows. He hasn't seen them since then, and he can't wait for Vancouver. He is trying very hard not to envy me for Toronto.
I can't wait for both TO and Vancouver. I've never seen Oysterband live, although I did see John Jones on stage with GBS for When I'm Up in Tonder (the video of that can be found in the righthand column here, in the GBS in Europe section). I really hope Alan accomplishes what he clearly wanted to achieve by putting the Oysterband information up in his journal; I hope he helps sell tickets and fill seats for a band that deserves to be playing to sold-out-to-the-doors houses all across the continent.
In an ideal world, each and every one of those houses would be filled with people who had come solely for the purpose of seeing and hearing and delighting in Oysterband, and for the umpteenth time I will futilely wish this were indeed that ideal world. I know Alan has to be aware of the inevitable result of announcing the presence of GBS in the close confines of Hugh's Room, and if he chose to go ahead and make that announcement anyway, then I hope everything that could possibly make doing this worth it to him will work out the way he wants it to. I hope the Oysters wind up with the attentive, appreciative crowd they deserve at Hugh's. I hope Alan gets to spend another one of those Grand, Grand Nights with his friends, though I will be honest and also admit that I hope a minute or two can be spared from that Grand, Grand Night in the answering of a somewhat simple question.
Spring is in the air. Somewhere.
Look in the mirror, dear. You will be sure to find Spring fretting/scowling/puzzling/pondering/smiling/laughing/fretting/scowling... right back at you.
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Some full-size views of that same compelling performance, that same ever-fascinating man. I've got more of the rest of the show, some of all of the bands that played that stage at Shamrockfest, both colour and black-and-white, although, intriguingly enough, the ones of Alan are their most powerful in black and white, while most of the rest of the photos come across better in colour (due in part to Sean's wearing that vibrant Rabbitohs shirt, I think).
It was a very dark show - GBS's post-sunset part of it, that is - not only dark up on stage but also extremely dark out in the crowd...we were out on huge stadium parking lot after all, with not much for "venue lighting" to make things a bit brighter. I suppose we were far enough away from the stage edge to make using flash only moderately rude, rather than totally assholish, but I still chose against that option. In addition to not wanting to do "rude" to the band, there was the matter of the poor security guards standing right in front of us, the same security guards who had been working their arses off most of that long day hauling flailing moron crowd-surfers over the barrier (and over our heads); I had no heart at all to begin blinding these weary fellows with my own flash, and enlightened self-interest also reminded me that the chances of my own head not getting kicked over and over, again and again, by flailing moron feet would be distinctly increased if the security fellow directly in front of me were permitted to keep his eyesight intact.
Because it was so dark, the quality of the pictures varies. A few had to be edited fairly extensively so that their content would show, which makes for a great deal of "noise" in the photo, but sometimes noise is so worth it, as is the case with the second photo here, which shows Alan fully aloft during Captain Kidd. Alan looks almost as right with both feet off the ground as he does with both fists pumped high in the air; each is a position that eminently suits him.
I'll put up all of the colour versions, along with the rest of the Shamrockfest photos, when I finally get around to actually writing about that show. For now, this is my strongest and most enduring memory of that show, as well as of that whole weekend of shows, Atlantic City and Edmonton included: Light and shadow, constancy and changeability, power and longing. And a beauty that endures.
Donkey Riding.
Captain Kidd.
Jack Hinks.
When I'm Up.
An absolutely unforgettable Lukey face.
A Walk On The Moon that inspires and haunts, in equal measures.
Paddy Murphy.
A dear and complex King, and frigging sexy to boot.
Consequence Free.
Mari Mac.
Ordinary Day.
Sometimes, you really do have to be there to appreciate the full context of a moment. Here, Alan stands at stage edge during Ordinary Day, gazing out into the massive crowd, gazing out into what has been made his crowd and GBS's crowd, listening as they get it right on the second go-round, hearing his own lyrics come thundering back up to him. And how cool it was to realise that Russell was backstage, listening too.
And after that, Russell came out and joined them for the encores, which can be seen on the videos in the entry before the last (interminable) entry. If anyone was kicking me in the head during that encore, I surely did not notice. That moment went beyond the mutable promise and hope of Spring; that moment was more like being suddenly transported into the blazing warmth of a Summer that had just reached out to grasp its full potential.
Then the show ended, and it began to rain again, for a short while. Still Spring, for now. And I do love the sweet face of Spring.
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This next bit could wait until I finally get to writing about the Paddy's Day Weekend shows, but I've already let myself get distracted for much too long by silly fan stuff as it is. So I'm just going to say it now and be done with it.
Not long before I left St. John's this last time, someone attempted to persuade me, in a very roundabout and maintain-plausible-deniability sort of way, that Sean was the primary motive force in a recent action which I personally thought was petty and cruel, along with being completely unnecessary. At least, I think that was what the person was saying; one huge problem with trying to speak without having to be held accountable for what you have said is that it so often leaves as great a potential for misunderstanding as it does for arse-covering.
I was left quite unsure just what to think about this. Having been on the receiving end of people believing I have done all sorts of shitty things I never did and would never do, the last thing I want to do is commit that same offence of unfair and untrue misbelief against someone else. And what puzzled me the most of all was that this particular cruel and petty unnecessary action seemed so much like something I'd think was beneath Sean's even bothering with.
I headed into this most recent series of shows curious and puzzled and concerned, as well as resolved to watch Sean closely during these shows to see if there might be some glimmer of "True" or "False" to be ascertained. Bob's disdain for "speculation" notwithstanding, my own opinion is that damn few of us are so inscrutable that some part of who we are and where we are at in the present moment does not show on our less-than-poker faces; there is often as much to read in the experiential patterns on a human face as there is in the erosional patterns on a sea cliff, especially when you have some idea of what material each is comprised of and some idea of the nature and magnitude of the forces assailing each. It helps to have observed closely over a period of time as well.
So I went and I watched, certainly I watched Sean more than is my usual tendency. This effort was helped tremendously by the photo prohibitions in both Atlantic City and in Edmonton - yes, you really do see so much more of the whole show sans camera (for the first time, I even noticed idiots bribing security for setlists - $40 bucks for a frigging setlist! I still can't quite get over that)...photography is at times hard work and can require a great deal of concentration, plus I tend to have a persistent point of focus - and helped even more by winding up smack dab in front of Sean in Edmonton. I watched (when he was not holding that revisionist-Guthrie self-mocking guitar, that is...that was too difficult to watch for more than a few seconds at a time) and I listened and I wondered. And by the time the final strains of Old Black Rum had died out in that weird casino-attached tent, I'd come to a conclusion about my opinion of Sean's possible instigation of the petty and cruel and unnecessary action.
That conclusion was twofold: First, for all of my self-vaunted observational acumen, I decided that I could not, and most likely would not, be able to tell for sure (point awarded to Bob on this one). I think not, but I have been mistaken enough about a few people recently to begin to feel some doubt about my own perceptions. Second, I then decided that at the end of the day, it does not matter if he did or did not do this.
If Sean had not done this thing, if I had either misunderstood the carefully vague comments made by a Plausibly Deniable One or if there had been an intentional attempt to persuade me of something untrue, then it would be the highest injustice to believe that he had done it, an injustice with which I am far too familiar and therefore have least excuse of all at perpetuating. Well and good on that option. But what if he actually had been the motive force in this action? Why would it still not matter if it were indeed true?
Because the more I watched Sean, especially at the Edmonton show, the more I thought about all of the times I have seen him over the past years. I thought about how it was his eyes - that damaged expression of initial optimism being remorselessly battered by relentless reality - that struck me so forcefully at the first GBS show I ever saw. I thought about all I have seen and heard from Sean and about Sean over the past six years, I thought about the kind of people who speak of him with the most affection (when good and decent people again and again wind up befriending a particular person, that can say much about that person), and most of all I thought about how happy he has appeared to be over the past few years. This petty and cruel and unnecessary action about which I was presently puzzling was not the action of a happy man, not at all.
I decided I do not want to believe it's true Sean did this because I want more to believe it's true that Sean is a happy man. And if against belief it should turn out that he actually did do it, if the truth I do not want were to trump the truth I do want, then all I would really care about is hoping he that might find his way back to being happy; I would not care about the act itself, and that is why it does not matter. There are other things which matter more.
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One final comment here, tangentially related to some of what was discussed in that prior interminable entry. Someone made a comment to me last night about the matter of "ownership of the band" and that comment has been on my mind for a good part of today.
The conclusion I've come to - a conclusion prefaced with the customary "This is only my opinion" boilerplate disclaimer - is that in an ideal world, ownership of the band should rest in the hands of the men who make up that band, and nowhere else. Again, this unfortunately not being that ideal world, the next best option would seem to be sharing some part of that ownership with the people whose own lives are genuinely impacted by decisions made and actions undertaken by the members of the band, as well as a pragmatic acceptance of it being inescapable that market forces will also stake their own claim to some ownership powers, at least if the band intends to remain a viable financial enterprise.
Fans are customers. Some are casual customers and some are ardent customers. While there are and apparently always will be those in every group of fans who strive to be or who insist that they already are "more" than mere fans, they are still customers, nonetheless. Many businesses find themselves having to deal with that subgroup of intensely loyal customers who firmly believe that their loyalty (the money they continue to spend on a business's product) earns them the inalienable right to special treatment and doting consideration. They insist on being treated as if they were special, as if they were "inside" in comparison to some lesser customer's "outside". Some businesses give such customers targeted discounts or special perks, and some call them by euphemistic names (such as "clients" or "guests" - even though a rose by any other name has just as many thorns and aphids)...but customers they remain, albeit demanding customers.
Unless a business is selling off shares of itself to those customers, then no matter how loyal they have been and no matter how much money they have spent, even the most ardent customers still have no claims of ownership of the business. Their pleasure (or displeasure) can certainly have an impact upon that business's bottom line - more so the smaller and less-established a business is - but the business that allows itself to be held hostage by a small percentage of its most rapaciously insistent customers is the business that runs the risk of alienating many more new customers, along with a sizeable number of its current less-ardent customers, many of whom will grow weary of the incessant demands of those endlessly in search of their self-entitled MORE, MORE, MORE! from that business. The business that never forgets that it is owned by the principals who created it and who keep it on the go is the business least likely to wind up in such a hostage situation.
Who owns the band? The band members do. No matter what anyone else might prefer to believe. In my opinion, of course.
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A very last note for Honey: It is always good to hear from you. I was unsure if you did or did not want that last comment posted. Anytime at all you want to talk GBS or anything else with me, I am here. Banff in July sounds like Heaven right now; if it should happen, I would very gladly see you there. Whether it does or does not happen, take care of yourself. Who knows? Maybe everything really will be alright when Summer comes. Though I must confess to being quite partial to the tempestuously sweet mutability of Spring.
Oysterband, left to right: Ian Telfer, fiddle; Dil Davies, drums; Chopper, bass and (glorious) cello; John Jones, lead vocals and occasional accordion; Alan Prosser, guitar.
