Welcome, welcome, all you little Obamababies into the world! I must say, that annoying two year long mantra of 'Hope' and 'Change' I derided as wishy washy and clichéd really hit home Nov. 4. I watched the returns with glee, heard the man speak, I cried, and I muttered to myself, 'Hope…Change.' The fact we are irrevocably fucked anyway and that the Onion had it right when it's headline proclaimed 'Black Man Get World's Worst Job' didn't matter. On that night, Good delivered Evil a solid left jab.

It's been a while, so let me share with you some of my musical highlights of the last many months.

Opening for Michael Franti at Flames Central: We were told at sound check, 'Sorry, no drums or bass- we don't want to give up any of our inputs and we only have three left.' Not letting the bastards get us down, we hustled one input for Diane's bass, and got Peter to stand with us, shake a tambourine and sing, and dance around like he was one of the Monkees. It turned out to be a fabulous show, and because the Calgary booker felt bad we were denied the full band show, he gave us the top tier VIP viewing section from which to watch Franti's fist pumping aerobics. Oh, and Michael, I nabbed a bottle of red wine from your green room, because your road manager was being a prick. I suppose I would have grabbed it anyway- you fit guys never finish your riders.

Opening for Ray Davies at the Jack Singer Concert Hall: Boy, Ray Davies, legend. I was freaked out but had a solid set, and after the show Ray approached me and said "Did you open the night", and I said "Yes". We shook hands and he said, "That's not an easy thing to do."

Opening for Black Francis: Chantal and I rocked the HiFi. Surprise, everybody dug 'Perfect Buzz'. The only times Black Francis spoke between songs was to openly belittle the audience for fawning over him, but his songs were fucking magic. I had no clue- chord changes that you feel in your crotch, and fantastic vocal work. Okay, I did blow a doobie in the parking lot before the show.


Alberta Arts Day, Sept. 6, 2008
Yes, just as Alberta picked one day a year to celebrate 'the family' after former premier Don Getty's son got busted for cocaine, so we picked one day to recognize the existence of 'art'. I was delighted and honoured to play my song 'Chocolate and Lust' with the Calgary Philharmonic Orchestra. When the Crack Band plays it live it gets pretty big by the end, but with the horns and the gong and strings, holy shit they made that song blast off! It was such a hit, we will be collaborating again for a 2011 show at the High Performance Rodeo.
Joni Mitchell was there that night, talking about her collaboration with the Alberta Ballet and accepting an award. Acknowledging the appreciators of art she said 'I guess there's hope for our dumb species after all'. I passed her on the sofa backstage, stopped, stared, said nothing and moved on.

Spoken word tour, Washington: In late September 2008, I did some shows as 'guest poet' at a number of poetry events in Washington State- Bellingham, Everett, Seattle, Port Angeles. There's a strong spoken word scene there, and thoughtful, passionate, astute audiences, where the lead has yet to make it into the water. I set up the shows with the help of a fantastic poet by the name of Jack McCarthy, who I met in Edmonton at a literary conference. We hit it off and he played host to me in Washington. On my one previous visit in April, I played a show in his hometown of Snohomish, and afterwards he wrote the poem below, Wholly. Whenever I think about packing it in and becoming a jug hound, I read it.

The show I did in Bellingham is podcasted here. It was a raucous show.

Be sure to visit Jack McCarthy's site; he has an excellent CD, 'Breaking Down Outside a Gas Station', and you can order it for $10.

WHOLLY
for Kris Demeanor

Somewhere along the line, in some context lost to memory,
the difference between involvement and commitment,
explained in terms of a bacon-and-egg breakfast:
the chicken was involved; the pig was wholly committed.

Maybe that’s what went on with van Gogh,
the difference between cutting off a piece of an earlobe
and giving it to a prostitute to hold—on the one hand—
and shooting himself in the chest on the other.

Our assignment today is to compare and contrast
the page poet (the Artist) and the standup poet (the Entertainer).

Both compete; both submit themselves to the judgment of others.

The page poet mails his stuff off to an unseen editor
in a competition for space in the pages of a magazine,
usually a magazine that will be read by no one the page poet
actually encounters on a day-to-day basis,
if he even leaves the house at all.

This is a little like Vincent dropping off
a little bit of his ear for safekeeping
(the suggestion of editor as prostitute
is gratuitous, and will not be belabored here).

The editor’s verdict is announced by letter,
usually a form letter but almost invariably polite,
often hinting that the page poet’s submission had the bad luck
not to fit certain unspecified and presumably ephemeral
needs of the magazine—surely not merit, or quality;
more likely just a famous name to run on the cover.
The word “alas” is implicit. The nature of the whole transaction
would be unacceptably compromised were the next issue
to include a listing of all the poets rejected since the last issue.

This is not to suggest that on the involvement-commitment scale,
the page poet is a chicken; it takes courage to submit one’s work
to anyone’s judgment, no matter how polite and anonymous the process.
The fear is not simply of rejection but of non-acceptance;
we know that our stuff is as good as we can make it,
and we’re certain we deserve to be embraced by the world.
van Gogh sold, in his lifetime, one painting.
One suspects it would have been better for him
not to have sold even that one, because without that sale
he could have blamed the world.

But that said, in terms of involvement vs. commitment,
the page poem is, inescapably, more egg than bacon.

Now let us consider the poet as Entertainer, yo,
writing a new piece last Wednesday morning and reading it
that same night in the final round of a poetry slam to an audience
before whom it will be very publicly graded by five
randomly selected judges in competition with three other poems
(I don’t usually present a poem the same day, let alone compete with it,
but I actually did so a week before writing the piece instant;
my poem finished third of four.). (And—aside to younger poets—
when I do read something written the same day I never, ever,
tell the audience I’m doing it.)

The haste, the same-dailiness of that particular exercise was
unseemly and ultimately unnecessary: the analogy would hold
even had I—as I often do in slams—performed from memory
a poem written some thirty-odd years before. The essential difference
between page poetry and standup poetry, Artist and Entertainer, resides
not in the durability of the material but in the nature of the risk,
the degree of the nakedness of the vulnerability of the ego.

All this reflection has been triggered by a single—though not singular—
event, a 30-minute show by a Canadian singer/songwriter/poet named
Kris Demeanor at a little venue I run in Snohomish, Washington.

I don’t know why Kris accepted my invitation; he’s used to performing
in front of hundreds and we’re lucky to get two dozen.
When he took the stage this particular night we had about fifteen.

But had that little room been a great arena, and each of those fifteen
a thousand, Kris could not have delivered his set with more conviction,
more polish, more energy than he gave us. He was wholly committed,
wholly.

I said “not singular” because I know the disappointment
that went through his mind when he took the stage and looked out
at all the empty space in even that little room, every performer
knows that disappointment, we call it “paying our dues;”
that same disappointment has gone through my own mind many times,
the “Why-do-I-do-this?/Is-it-really-worth-it?” moment that gives way to
the all-in of “These are the people who have come out to see me;
they deserve the best that I can give them. Let the greatness of
the show that I’m about to do be as my middle finger to all the people
who could have come tonight and didn’t.” And you do give them
your best show, right down to pogoing across the stage with
your guitar on that wild last number (talking more about Kris now,
not so much me). Wholly committed. Wholly.

And in that moment of commitment and dedication—
and righteous anger—something happens that is not unlike
van Gogh saying, “Hang onto this for me—” nay, much more,
Jesus, “This is my body; this is my blood.” Something happens
that is, in the deepest sense, deserving of the word
holy.