A FAN’S NOTES
Interstellar Rodeo
‘The sun machine is coming down and we’re
going to have a party.’ Outdoor music festivals are never quite the idylls of
the hippie Eden in David Bowie’s cracked imagination. There’s the hassle of
funneled access to the grounds. The weather’s always a crapshoot. Concession
prices are a rip-off. There’s the fetid misery of portable toilets and the hell
of other people. But when they come off in spite of everything, like Edmonton’s just concluded
third annual Interstellar Rodeo, wow.
The festival is the brainchild of Six
Shooter Records (Motto: Life’s too short to listen to shitty music). The
Heritage Amphitheatre in the river valley’s Hawrelak Park
has 1200 permanent seats beneath a great white canopy which is anchored by steel
cables as thick as a human wrist. The grassy slopes of the upper bowl
accommodate another 1800 or so souls with their blankets and lawn chairs. You
can track down a friend on site with minimal texting. Billed musicians mingle
with the crowd either unrecognized or politely ignored; some are well known
while others are fresh mysteries waiting to be heard and seen. Each performer
is whimsically paired with a suggested wine although there’s a reputable beer
sponsor, thank God. There are food trucks and picnic tables. The scale of
Interstellar Rodeo is incredibly and delightfully human.
As a music fan and a member of the greater
community, I dearly hope that Interstellar Rodeo becomes an established
midsummer ritual here in Edmonton.
Selfishly, I wish it only limited success down the road. This year’s edition
did not get off to a good start. Last Friday’s launch was postponed to the
following Monday due to marching sheets of rain propelled by winds of a high
and scary velocity. The amphitheatre’s canopy did not blow away like an empty
plastic shopping bag, much to the relief of city officials and the insurance
adjuster. However, Blackie and the Rodeo Kings, my current beautiful obsession,
had to pull out of the chute as two thirds of the ad hoc group had solo scheduling
conflicts beyond their Friday night slot.
Saturday was worse although the weather was
decent. Dave Bidini may qualify as the most interesting man in Canadian pop
culture. The author, Saturday National
Post columnist and former Rheostatics (what a great name for a band)
guitarist brought his new Bidiniband combo to town to kick off the brand new
day. Meanwhile Ann and I were attending a memorial service, followed by the
weird family dynamics that manifest with death at a mournful gathering. Earth
Mother and Sky Father both agree there are some peculiar cults around; the
pastor’s heart exploded, staining the stained glass. The triangular white bread
sandwich morsels contained Spam. Maybe Spork. And selfishly I thought it’s good
to be alive and we could and should be having a lot more fun. We missed Lee
Fields and the Expressions too. We finally arrived at the festival in a
funereal funk. Feist in Hydra? Whatever. Eight bucks for a beer!? Oh, they’re
big tins. Still… What a lovely setting. The toilets don’t smell too, too bad.
Sunday belonged to the 22nd
state to join the union south of 49. Two acts from Alabama won the day in back-to-back sets. St. Paul and the Broken Bones write letters not to the
Corinthians but to Stax Records in Memphis.
Front man Paul Janeway in a purple suit and white shoes moves like John Belushi
in full manic Blues Brothers mode. It was almost comical but good God, y’all,
the man’s voice is as big as his band’s sound. If these guys ever come to your
town, pay the cover charge and stay out late on a school night.
Reformed Drive-By Trucker Jason Isbell took
the stage with gremlins. A couple of technical glitches during the set prompted
a wry, ‘I know it might not seem like it, but we have played concerts in the
past.’ No drama. No histrionics. Twenty-thirteen’s Southeastern is now a must purchase. The pre-crash Skynyrd, Stonesy
hurricane of ‘Super 8’ (‘I don’t wanna die in a Super 8 motel’) is mysterious
in that it’s not massive; the song by all rights should be a career-defining
artistic albatross, the war horse that must be played night after night. ‘Super
8’ should be blasting through the open windows of every muscle car prowling the
main streets and back roads of North America.
Monday night was Friday night cobbled
together and re-imagined. Tom Wilson of Blackie and the Rodeo Kings and Lee
Harvey Osmond and formerly of Junkhouse played a fantastic, vibrant solo
acoustic set. Afterward we joined a short line near the merchandise kiosk to
get our new Kings of Love double CD
signed by the sweating and still wired performer.
meGeoff: ‘I hope you have a Sharpie because
I don’t!’ Oh the wit! Oscar Wilde and Noel Coward are giggling with green envy.
Tom Wilson: (Blank stare. Signs CD sleeve.
Proffers hand to shake.)
meGeoff: (Shakes Tom’s hand. It is huge.)
‘Erm, anyway, great set and thanks for sticking around.’
Tom Wilson: (Makes eye contact, but not in
a cheery Oprah or Dr. Phil kind of way.) I am reminded of Canadian literary
icon Mordecai Richler eyeing me with contempt for having said ‘Hello’ to him at
a reading and signing in the Calgary Public Library promoting Barney’s Version. Then I remember
legendary Montreal
rocker Michel Pagliaro yelling ‘Fuck off!’ at me between nightclub sets. He was
drunk, but I think he meant it. I remember my late, big brother telling me I
had the kind of smug face people want to punch. I remember an annual
performance review at an ad agency I once worked at where my facial expressions
in meetings had become a grave internal concern. My three ex-wives nurtured
similar complaints. Naturally I blame my parents. Obviously I’m not an ace
poker player. In my empty little head I am James Garner in the guise of either
Brett Maverick or Jim Rockford.
meGeoff: ‘Ah, right. Um. (To Ann:) ‘I guess
we’ll go to the beer tent now.’
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