What I Did The Last Summer Weekend (to Friday, around tennish)
Drew Flaherty's on-line portfolio.
Impossible, this last weekend, mythology in my bed, history approaching me blind, yet wonderful. L'shana tova! Ketiva v'chatima tova.
These are my Days of Awe:
The original Friday plan was a very loosely defined, "Go To Concert", that began with stepping out from my apartment in time for a bus that would get me to the Railway Club at nine. Easy enough. Half way to the venue, however, a man was stabbed stepping off the bus. Right in the ribs. Welcome to the poorest postal code in Canada. The assailant ran off. No way to see who it was, no way to ever find out.
This being an insulated part of the world, no one else knew what to do with violence, and so sat uselessly back, looking too shocked to move, but Crackton is my old neighborhood. This sort of thing happens practically bi-weekly. Abandoning my things to the back of the bus, I began giving orders. "Who has a cell-phone? Did anyone see what happened? Call this in." I got a pair of sterile plastic gloves from the driver and set in staunching the blood with a bunched strip of shirt torn from the wounded man and tried to keep him awake. Paramedics arrived twenty minutes later, (slower than pizza delivery), tell me he'll be fine, and drop me off, late and shaky, outside the Railway Club.
Not the most auspicious beginning to a night out.
Shane's was the first table I found in the crowd. I saved a seat with them, tried to explain what I'd been doing, found myself suddenly in the middle of a conversation about trying to look professional in a miniskirt, gave up, and went looking to see who else had showed up. (Not that it isn't possible, they seemed very sure). There was a row by the bar, another table in the very back, and a group out on the smoking deck. It was comforting, I'd only given people a day's warning, and - yet here they were, a little bit of everywhere. One darling friend told me she hadn't even checked what was playing, but merely came on my invitation. After my stressful transit adventure, her comment was a cliche ray of light in the murky pub darkness.
The concert, thankfully, was phenomenal. I parked myself up right against the stage and watched rapt for the entire show. That 1 Guy plays with an exuberant precision, like a holy embodiment of joyful, theatrical grace. It washed the entire medical emergency right out of my system. I've never seen anything like it. I don't think there is anything like it. His instrument is an intrepid midi-wired double-necked upright bass made out of pipe and studded with triggers, but not really. And while he sings and enthusiastically plays this poetic contraption, building intense, complex sample loops, he's mucking elegantly about with three kick pedals, a snare drum, and a saw. It's almost overwhelming, like watching a sound-cultivating conjurer with as much energy as a coke-high David Byrne. {check if he's playing near you}
END OF PART ONE.