Tag Archives: music

Falling one cloud at a time

One more Hip memory I’d like to share, and then I’ll stop.

My friend Brendan (who hails from Belfast) and I were sat in Geckos pub in Itaewon (Seoul, Korea) with a couple I was friends with. Brooke and Chad were from Ontario, and I had been working with them at a school in Suji. This was back in about 2006.

Geckos wasn’t our usual spot, we usually hung out in the Rocky Mountain Tavern (the Canadian pub), and I don’t at all recall why we were at the one and not the other. We practically lived in the RMT on the weekends.

We were talking about music, and Brendan piped up and asked, “What’s that song y’all sing to and cry every time it comes on in the RMT? I think it might be the Canadian anthem or something.”

As one, Brook, Chad and I replied, “Bobcaygeon?”

We were right, it was the exact song he was thinking about. And we did sing along to it at the top of our lungs and get all weepy and hugged everyone each time it played. It always reminds me of my first time around in Korea and all the amazing people I met there and inevitably sang this song with.

Bobcaygeon

I left your house this morning
About a quarter after nine
Could have been the Willie Nelson
Could have been the wine
When I left your house this morning
It was a little after nine
It was in Bobcaygeon, I saw the constellations
Reveal themselves one star at a time

Drove back to town this morning
With working on my mind
I thought of maybe quitting
I thought of leaving it behind
I went back to bed this morning
And as I’m pulling down the blind
Yeah, the sky was dull, and hypothetical
And falling one cloud at a time

That night in Toronto
With its checkerboard floors
Riding on horseback
And keeping order restored
Till the men they couldn’t hang
Stepped to the mic and sang
And their voices rang
With that Aryan twang

I got to your house this morning
Just a little after nine
In the middle of that riot
Couldn’t get you off my mind
So I’m at your house this morning
Just a little after nine
‘Cause it was in Bobcaygeon, where I saw the constellations
Reveal themselves one star at a time

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No Dress Rehearsal

With the passing of The Tragically Hip front-man and Canadian fucking legend Gord Downie, I wanted to share a memory from uni that I have that is completely wrapped around a Hip song.

A small disclaimer about this story: I graduated from university 17 years ago. There’s been a lot of memories and a lot of recklessly damaged brain cells in that time. But this is how I remember it.

So, when I was in university about a million years ago, I did theatre. Both onstage and behind the curtains, but for this particular show, I had a small part with a large and amazing cast.

Around the time we were rehearsing for this show, my friend Tim and I thought it would be fun to take some swing dancing classes. For reasons unknown, we had a lot of ska bands play our campus pub (Heroes) and learning some sweet swing dancing moves seemed like a good idea. It was not a good idea. What we didn’t think through is that the lessons were on Sunday mornings. Saturday night was Buck-a-Beer night. We missed a lot of lessons. But not that day.

I struggled my hung-over body into my beater and drove over to pick up Tim. We went down to the boat club on the river (which we referred to as the “Yacht Club”, because it was funnier) for our lesson.

We weren’t very good. Even when we were at lessons, which probably averaged out to less than half the time, we were often hung over. And being friends, we acted like kindergarten children about holding hands. Progress was not being made. To this day I still can’t do more than that fucking box step thing you learn in the first lesson.

This particular Sunday, after the lesson Tim asked if I would go with him to pick out his costume for the play. I believe he was the front desk man for the Hot L Baltimore. I was some old lady. We needed some thrift store duds to make up our shabby costumes to go with the setting.

Tim was ecstatic about his costume. He found a fabulous old-man sweater with honest-to-God patches on the bloody elbows. He was so happy he insisted on wearing it for the next part of our adventure, which was to check out the exhibition at the Kamloops Art Gallery.

The exhibition tied together the Hip song “Fifty-Mission Cap” (about the disappearance of Leaf’s player Bill Barilko) and the work of Tom Thomson, a famous Canadian artist who also disappeared. Or at least, that’s how I remember it. There was definitely Canadian art and there was definitely Hip involved.

See, the thing is, Tim (being possibly the world’s biggest Hip fan) had gone to this exhibition about 1000 times before he and I went that Sunday. He was hugely disappointed they weren’t playing the song (something wrong with the CD player… this was the 90’s) so he insisted upon singing the song (on repeat) to me while we checked out the art, stopping only to intersperse information about the meaning of the song and how it tied to the art we were looking at. Also worth noting that time to time, Tim would strike an “art appreciation pose” (one foot back, hand on chin) whilst wearing that damned sweater. Idiot.

After looking at loads of Group of Seven art and listening to Tim sing and lecture about Barilko for a goodish amount of time while I pretended I was sick of his shit but was secretly trying to not pee myself laughing, we went for lunch.

Over lunch, Tim says to me, “Hey. You can tell all your friends you went dancing at the yacht club and then to an art gallery before lunching with a guy in a sweater with patches on the elbows.”

To which I replied, “A guy with patches who can’t dance, hasn’t showered, and made me buy lunch. Everyone will fucking know it’s just you, Tim.”

It was a wonderful day, and whenever I hear “Fifty-Missions Cap”, I remember my uni days, my theatre days, and my friend Tim.

For that memory, and many others that are all tied up in the music of the Hip, thank you, Gord. Fully, completely. Thank you. You were a good ‘un.

Fifty-Missions Cap

Bill Barilko disappeared that summer,
He was on a fishing trip.
The last goal he ever scored
Won the Leafs the cup
They didn’t win another until 1962,
The year he was discovered.
I stole this from a hockey card,
I keep tucked up under
My fifty mission cap, I worked it in
To look like that
Bill Barilko disappeared that summer, (in 1950)
He was on a fishing trip.(in a plane)
The last goal he ever scored (in overtime)
Won the Leafs the cup
They didn’t win another until 1962,
The year he was discovered.
I stole this from a hockey card,
I keep tucked up under
My fifty mission cap, I worked it in
To look like that

My Last.fm Artist Cloud

 

Music The Captain Loves

My growing agoraphobia and other stories

I’ve never been all that fond of groups of humans. I love individuals. That’s why although herds of people give me the willies, I’m happy to observe them. Just as long as I’m not thrown in the throng of the quivering masses, all is well. But as soon as I have to subject myself to being surrounded by them… not so good.

Which is why there was so much donkey-ball-sucking about this weekend.

First, Friday. 

Bonfire Night, also known as Guy Fawkes Day. Where the British celebrate thwarting the Gunpowder Treason by blowing shit up. How appropriate.

Tyran had the grand idea that we go watch the best display of fireworks from what was supposed to be the best vantage point in the city – Battersea Park. Idiotically, I agreed, never thinking that a bajillion other people in the city were planning the same thing.

The first part of the trip being balls was partially my fault. I assumed we were meeting at Clapham Junction. So I hop a busy train at London Bridge and cruise to Waterloo East. Bust through to Waterloo and… what a clusterfuck. So many trains are delayed, the station’s packed, and everyone is looking at the departure boards instead of where they are walking.

Fortunately there was one (already severely delayed) train going to Clapham Junction waiting at a platform. I haul ass to get myself on it as there was no way of knowing when it would depart. Well, it sat there for another 10 minutes while more and more people shoved their way on.  Finally, when the train was busting at the seams, it left.

As soon as it started moving, a light bulb went off: There are a handful of stations that begin with “Clapham”. Was I sure, positively and 100% SURE, that I needed to go to Clapham Junction?

Turns out I’m retarded. We were meeting at Clapham Common, which isn’t the same thing as Clapham Junction at all. So I get off the sweaty, packed train at Vauxhall, and take the Victoria Line to Stockwell where I could catch the Northern Line going south just two sweaty stops to Clapham Common. Not as easy as getting on that same damned line directly at London Bridge, but doable.

Until I tried to get on the Northern Line.

The platform was so packed that people were backed up all the to the escalators. Instead of joining the queue I left the station and caught me a bus. So far, so good –  the right bus came right away and I even got a seat. It was fabulous and I was feeling pretty smug about my decision.  Until the bus started rolling.

Turns out I’m retarded. There was so much traffic – vehicles and people – that the bus crawled. Crrraaaaawwwwllled. It was painful. And because I wasn’t familiar with the burough I was in, I was reluctant to get out of the bus and walk. So I stuck with it.

To cut a long, whiny story short: By the time I got off the bus at Clapham Common I was beginning to daydream about an apocalyptic future where I was the only survivor. People were swarming about and getting in my way. There was no mobile signal as every twat in London was on their phone in a two square mile radius, so I couldn’t even contact my people to try and find them.

And while I was standing at the station, the fireworks started. I could see the odd little spark above the tree line, and that was about it. So with an audible “fuck this shit” I turned from the station and, upstream from the human turds all floating down towards the river to watch the fireworks, I headed as far from the crowds as I could get, angry and miserable.

But all is well that ends well, and Friday ended well. It ended in a quiet pub with lovely ales on tap and a great dinner with two of my friends. I swore I would never toss myself into a crowd like that again. Sadly, that was an oath I couldn’t keep.

On Saturday…

I went with Tyran to Camden. The busiest tube line and station (or at least, it felt that way) to walk along the busiest street and into the busiest market. And it is full of tourists, which is even worse. But despite the crowds, we had a lot of fun (and I got a lampshade with pirates! WIN.)

Because I apparently can’t get enough of people (yarg) or the TFL (fuuuuu….) we headed back home for a brief reprise and then back out to go to a house party. This meant hauling ass across the entire city from southwest to northeast. Most of it was okay… except the bus. I never, ever want to ride a bus in northeast bloody London again. I swear I overheard the bus driver call another bus driver a “cunt”. Loudly. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find out that he was armed. Never again.

The party was fun though and got to have some nice chats. We may have missed our bus stop on the way home but the trip – relatively sans people – was quiet and nice even though we got home late.

I thought I would be safe on Sunday. 

Sure, I had a gig to go to… but gig-goers are more my kind of people. I mean: I am a gig-goer myself, and I’m (mostly) okay. So why wouldn’t they be?  Fuck me.

The bus was another shit-show in a weekend of TFL shit-shows. We sat perfectly still in traffic for a good 30 minutes. Fucking awesome, TFL. Do that. Do exactly that. Despite the best efforts of the traffic of Hammersmith trying to fuck us over, we made it to the gig nearly on time – we just missed part of the opening act.

The crowd was the worst I’ve had in a long, long time. So bad. In front of us were two guys: one with eye-wateringly foul body order and the other one with some lower-intestinal gastric issue. Look asshole; just because I can’t hear your farts doesn’t mean I can’t smell them. Idiot.

To my left was the douchiest douche that ever douched. Seriously. While waiting for Rodrigo y Gabriela to take the stage, he was busy sexting. It wasn’t the sexting that put me off so fucking badly. It was that he was sexting three girls simultaneously. Way to go, Romeo. But he wasn’t so bad. Douchey, but at least he wasn’t stinky like Team Offensive Odour in front of us. No, no. What was AWESOME was when a very loud, very obnoxious and very, very drunk girl tried to pick him up. She stood beside him and very loudly expressed her views about how much the music sucked. I feel punchy a lot (anger issues, eh?) but that was the closest I’ve come to actually punching someone in the face at a gig.

Behind me was a mouth breather. Who was breathing on my neck. Sick.

To my right (thank goodness!) was Eva. Who is normal. And smells nice. And is considerate enough to not scream about how shite the music is throughout the concert. And is actually quite lovely, as she is the one who took me to the concert.

Sadly, to HER right were more idiots. A hobbit, an ugly woman in cat-eye frames and their two unbelievably annoying friends pushed in beside Eva and then proceeded to push everyone else into us who tried to push their way past them. Bad karma, dudes.

Good thing the music was fucking awesome.

So that was my weekend of transport woes and hatred of my fellow mankind. By the end, I just wanted to punch everyone in the cock. And I thought commuting all week was bad….

>Phoenix – 30 March 2010

>One thing I *could* be doing is mentioning how much freaking fun I have at gigs on my poor old blog.

I went to Phoenix with Tyran. It was freaking fun.

Hudson Mohawke was the opening act. I dug what he did.


Phoenix were fantastic live. I really like their album Phoenix Amadeus Phoenix. They put on a good enough show that I’m thinking about picking up tickets to Field Day just to see them again (okay, okay… them and Caribou).

So, there are my crummy iPhone photos of the gig. And here is a video (just for you) of them playing my favourite song of theirs for BBC. Much more subdued than both the album and live versions, but a lovely version all the same.

I’ve also been to Midlake this year… but it was long enough ago I’m going to skip it this time. I may get to see them again this year. Anyhoo… Phoenix. Good live show, yo.

>Soundtrack

>On the way home tonight my music was all of a lovely instrumental variety that I wasn’t overly familiar with. I was listening to it and leaning next to the train doors, looking out the window and watching London slide by. And it was lovely. Because there were no words it felt like it was just ambient music for a film… adding just a wee bit of mood to give some colour to the journey home after a long day.

>I don’t want clever conversation…

>Brendan was here last weekend to visit and watch Ricky Gervais with me in Oxford.  Something happened on Sunday that accurately summarises our entire relationship. If you have ever had the dubious pleasure of hanging out with Brendan and I at the same time, you’ll understand this. If you haven’t had the pleasure… well, this is us:

We were walking from The Telegraph to The Green Man (both pubs, for those not in the know). Brendan was sick and sniffling. I was mildly sympathetic. We decided that we’d have just a half pint at The Green Man and then head home to watch a movie or something.

I turned to Brendan at this point and said, “You know, this is what I imagine being married to you would be like.”

He asked what I meant and I said, “Deciding at dinner time to have half a pint of ale at the local and then go home to fall asleep in front of the telly.”

“What would be wrong with that?” he asked and began to sing Billy Joel’s “Just the Way You Are”.

The exchange, taken on it’s own, might seem sort of sweet. But because it is Brendan and I, it dissolved into an argument about who Joel wrote the song for (Brendan thought it was for Christie Brinkley and I said it was for his first wife) and in the end we had to look it up to find out who was right. (It was for his first wife but her name was Elizabeth, not Linda).

Yup. B and I. In a freaking nutshell. From the beer to the thinly veiled insult to the singing to the argument (that I, of course, won). All we needed was Brendan to make a ridiculous pun and for me to tell him off for it.

Don’t imagine you’re too familiar
And I don’t see you anymore
I wouldn’t leave you in times of trouble
We never could have come this far
I took the good times, I’ll take the bad times
I’ll take you just the way you are 

Thanks for coming to London, Brendan. As always, it was the bestest thing ever to see you.