A FAN’S NOTES

Springsteen and Me

I remember an aimless drive through the twilit streets of Montreal, a warm Sunday in 1987. The subdued Tunnel of Love was Springsteen’s latest release. My friend Robert was at the wheel of his Mazda. My job as rider was to work the cassette deck in dash. He worked in printing as a film stripper and constantly worried about his vision because in that specialized trade the eyes have it. He played rugby at a high level but was irked he wasn’t quite good enough to be selected for the provincial side. I managed the night shift in a grocery store, a job I hated; I tried to write every day, either freelance assignments or fiction. We were both pushing 30 and incredibly frustrated with our stations to date in life. You can’t help but bring stuff like that home at the end of a shift. Do it often enough and it taints everything; it spoils the view of what’s great in and about your life. We must’ve had “One Step Up” on repeat five or six times: I’m the same old story, same old act, one step up and two steps back.

I don’t believe a lovelier song about self-loathing has ever been written. I don’t like to hear it now; I’ve come a long way. Another Springsteen song I can’t bear is “Streets of Philadelphia.” My brother’s death from cancer was an agonizing process for me to helplessly observe. There were peaks and valleys, hope and despair. And my clothes don’t fit me no more. The lines about physical decline broke my heart. And too the chilly rationalization of a lapsed Catholic intellect: Ain’t no angel going to greet me, it’s just you (death) and I, my friend. I sat up nights alone in the dark with a bottle of Irish whisky with that song on repeat. Headphones. But, you know, we saw Springsteen together 20 years before that. And the Rolling Stones too.

The most endearing of Springsteen’s brilliant guises to me is that of the wildly romantic and insanely verbose greaser street poet. That phase was consolidated in 1975 with Born to Run. That album was my gateway Springsteen drug. I had a hero who hadn’t come from my big brother’s or big sister’s record collections; Springsteen was mine even though he was closer to my siblings’ ages than mine. And strangely, from Darkness on the Edge of Town through to Human Touch/Lucky Town, he was always writing and singing about where I seemed to be in my life. Springsteen and me, we were like this. This connection strikes me as maybe something of a sad projection: I somehow feel like Robert DeNiro as Rupert Pupkin in The King of Comedy. And yet, fandom manifested is like two sides of an album: There is trying desperately to emulate Keith Richards at age 17 and then there is a thoughtful dissection of a doomed relationship through the prism of Blood on the Tracks; they are very different but they are the same.

As the world continues to transform amphetamine-apace, the Stones haven’t changed. Some of their albums are moonlight miles ahead of others, but you always know what you’re going to get. Springsteen, while no Bowie chameleon, is as variable as Dylan: There are E Street albums, solo albums, hybrids, really, really stark solo albums, and discs of folk and soul covers. Tracks and the expanded reissues of Darkness and The River provide a glimpse into an alternative career in a parallel universe. I will always buy a Springsteen album, but honestly, the nine records released between The Rising and Western Stars haven’t stuck. I don’t know them backward and forward like The Wild, the Innocent and the E Street Shuffle.

A one-sided relationship of nearly fifty years isn’t always automatically simpatico, same page chapter and verse every time. Unless it’s live. The Stones and Springsteen are consistent: they don’t come around often and they’re the most preposterously astonishing live acts I’ve ever seen. A ticket was a guaranteed great night out. God bless artists like Little Richard, James Brown and Tina Turner for showing Jagger and Springsteen the critical importance of actually entertaining their audiences. (I’m reminded of a Rolling Stone review from the seventies accusing the Eagles of loitering on stage – some things never change as the brand plays on.) Springsteen’s “prisoner of rock ‘n’ roll” shtick isn’t as impromptu as it seems. The joy is in his wink, he knows you know that. Showmanship. Springsteen has fun at work; I’ve spent my entire adult life wondering how that must feel.

When a mid-autumn date for Edmonton was announced, my mind went into Kathleen Turner Overdrive, a sort of distempered Pavlovian response: This’ll be great! Haven’t seen him for 20 years! About the same lag for the Stones, come to think of it. Let’s face it, they’re done. But Springsteen’s only 73 and hale not frail. I’m no kid anymore, either. Maybe he can still “drive” the mic stand? Stage slides and piano jumps are probably out. Still. The last three albums have ranged from great to good. But only one with E Street. The band’s like a hockey team; the nickname’s stayed but the roster’s rotated. Still, it’ll be a great show! No doubt! No risk! An expensive blast. What’s my ticket price ceiling? They don’t cost two hours of work at the A&P these days. What’s this Ticketmaster “verified fan” and dynamic pricing bullshit? Not that I’d be sleeping out in February, at my age. Fuckit, it’s not life and death, just a concert; I’ve seen him three times. Christ, my bladder really wanted that ’81 show at the Montreal Forum to end about half an hour sooner. If I get a ticket this time, I’ll really have to monitor beer consumption; the old scrotum was much more elastic then. No way he’ll go over three hours, then again, you just never know. That's the magic! And if he does, I bet you he won’t play Incident on 57th Street. Bastard! Fucker should let me write the set list. What does he know?

P.S.: My friend Robert bought his employer out and then sold the firm when he decided to retire. 

meGeoff has been your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of insight into glory days since 2013. The novella Of Course You Did is my latest book. Visit www.megeoff.com for links to purchase it in your preferred format from various retailers. 

SAINTS PRESERVE US

Just Little Respect

The Globe and Mail last week launched an exclusive series detailing Beijing’s meddling in Canadian internal affairs and its attempt to influence the outcome of the 2021 federal election. The stories are based on top secret documents assembled by the Canadian Security Intelligence Service (CSIS). That the classified materials having been circulated amongst Canada’s allies were subsequently leaked to the newspaper may be either problematic or intentional, but kudos to the Globe for doing what decent and proper newspapers do.

China’s preferred result once the ballots were counted was a Liberal minority government. Unlike authoritarian regimes, minority parliamentary governments can have a tough time getting things done. Beijing also worked actively to defeat particular Conservative candidates, those it deemed China policy hawks. The game plan included social media misinformation campaigns and discreetly leveraging the influence of cultural organizations and student associations. Other “friends” of Comrade Xi were motivated by ideology, bribery or blackmail. Standard stuff.

The Houston Astros won the World Series in 2017. As the final out was being recorded in the scorecard the sign stealing scandal broke. The Astros had been cheating all season long. There was shock, surprise, outrage. A few patsy heads rolled. The result stood. At the time I thought: You know, if the Montreal Expos were still around and if that’s what it would take for them to win it all, I’d be okay with that.

Suffice to say I would’ve been pretty much onboard with China’s 2021 Canadian electoral strategy. There’s not a whole lot of difference between the Liberals and the Tories, but go Red! Besides, any Canadian who pays attention to national politics could’ve predicted the outcome, gratis. Reading the Globe’s national security scoop, I wondered why Beijing even bothered to get involved. 

And I mean, why would Comrade Xi even wish to keep Prime Minister Justin Trudeau around? Trudeau is a divisive figure in this country. Western Canada perceives him to be an ineffectual elitist. He practices wedge politics. His ethical judgment is less than zero - about where he registers in the public opinion polls which drive his party’s reactive domestic platform. Canada’s foreign policy has been something of a fluid mystery on his watch. Standard stuff.

Oh. 

meGeoff has been your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of insight into the wilderness of mirrors since 2013. The novella Of Course You Did is my latest book. Visit www.megeoff.com for links to purchase it in your preferred format from various retailers.

EAT ME

Cajun Seasoning

A few weeks ago I heard a song called “Yella Alligator” on one of Alberta public radio’s two weekend blues shows. The slide guitar intro reminded me of Mick Jagger’s 1970 “Memo from Turner” before taking off with the singer celebrating rural life, getting high on the bayou and playing blues and soul music for the gators swimming in the gumbo. Sounded like a fine way to live to someone not born on Blue Bayou and without a shred of musical ability. I was hooked and I loved the artist’s handle: Eddie 9V.

I started thinking about food. I knew there was a ring of andouille sausage in the freezer. Ann and I buy it at a place called Old Country Meat and Deli. The small, utilitarian shop is in a nearby neighbourhood called Pleasantview which is notable mainly for its large cemetery whose occupants cannot testify to the community’s presumptive moniker from their holes in the cold, cold ground. When Ann is in a particularly fine mood she moves around The Crooked 9 in rhythm, singing a song. Son of a gun, one of her favourites is Hank Williams’s “Jambalaya,” one of my favourites – that goes both ways. Beer Revolution, a joint downtown, is in the Tuesday Night Beer Club’s regular rotation because Stats Guy knows I’m fond of its gumbo.

Whyte Avenue is Edmonton’s most famous street. Its cash registers tend to ring after business hours now. Like any nightlife strip it looks a little tired and shabby in the sunlight. Post-pandemic FOR LEASE signs suggest it’s down on its luck. Down on its luck in the way Warren Zevon grunts the phrase in “Lawyers, Guns and Money.” Not much on the trendy strip appeals to my wallet these days; the book stores and the newsstand are gone. Blackbyrd Myzoozik, whose spelling makes me half crazy, and Dadeo, a licensed Cajun diner, are two of three notable exceptions (the other being the Commercial Hotel, home of Blues on Whyte, although Ann and I don’t hang around much anymore).

I telephoned Blackbyrd about ten days ago asking the shop to order a copy of Eddie 9V’s Capricorn album for me: “Like the battery.” 

“I know. Should take a week or so.”

I also requested Blackbyrd to hold a copy of Fragments, the latest instalment in Dylan’s Bootleg Series, for me too. Fragments revisits the Time Out of Mind sessions, the album that heralded the onset of Dylan’s late career renaissance. The new set is sort of Soviet, history remixed, erasing the contributions of original producer Daniel Lanois. Twenty-five years on, I can think of no better song to sum up ageing in these most peculiar times than “Not Dark Yet” and so, yes, I need two more versions because it’s getting there. The twilight’s evident on Whyte Avenue.

After I hung up, I said to Ann: “After we pick them up I’ll buy you lunch at Dadeo, gumbo and a po’boy.”

Last Thursday sometime between breakfast and lunch Ann was rummaging through our kitchen, evaluating the inventories in our pantry, fridge and freezer against the digital grocery flyer specials displayed on her iPhone. A household’s like a retailer, stock must be rotated and replenished. Ann asked me what I thought I might like for dinner that night. I hadn’t forgotten about the andouille sausage.

“Jambalaya?” My voice, like, upturned a Frank Zappa “Valley Girl” octave.

Ann agreed. Ann assembled the ingredients and began the pre-prep for our supper. The phone rang. I answered it. Blackbyrd on the line. I said, “Wonderful! Brilliant! See you tomorrow." Ann wanted to know who’d just called. I said, “Do you suppose Cajuns get tired of Cajun food?” 

meGeoff has been your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of moodie food since 2013. The novella Of Course You Did is my latest book. Visit www.megeoff.com for links to purchase it in your preferred format from various retailers. 

SAINTS PRESERVE US

That Moon Is a Balloon

The recent spate of news stories regarding the errant Chinese “weather” balloon has intrigued me. It wasn’t a genuine foo fighter – a term used by Allied pilots during the Second World War to describe the inexplicable, tricks of light maybe – because an American fighter jet eventually shot it out of the sky and out of harm’s way over the Atlantic Ocean. Still, above the clouds and just a little off course the balloon was able to hover over an undisclosed number of US military installations including a major Air Force Base (read: missile) in Montana.

The Pentagon was swift in assuring Americans that the Chinese spy balloon was comically redundant in that any superficial intelligence it gathered was more easily collected by satellite. Still, relatively speaking, balloons fly a lot closer to the ground. This incident is riding the draft of recent articles in reputable publications such as The Economist and The Globe and Mail that Pentagon brass is anticipating armed conflict with China sooner than later; a whole new China syndrome, comrade. What’s two years at the outside in seconds on the Doomsday Clock?

On August 25, 2017, The New York Times published a fascinating conversation between British authors John le Carre (espionage fiction) and Ben Macintyre (espionage nonfiction). The story was called “Spies Like Us.” In it they speculated about unsavoury allegations of then-US President der Trumpenfuhrer’s behaviour in a Moscow hotel room while he was still a brash celebrity businessman shilling rights to his self-promotion. The Russians apparently possessed some kompromat that took the piss out of a KGB “honey trap” in an Ian Fleming James Bond novel. The spy writers surmised that because the allegations were so absurd as to be easily deniable, the Kremlin’s real message to der Trumperfuhrer was the existence of a less salacious though equally damning file of compromising material. Macintyre likened the knowledge to a stone in the presidential Gucci loafer.

His analogy of an irritant, cunning and conniving, certainly describes the Chinese provocation. The US is a sharply divided country. Its body politic is a rabid, feral beast. Any decision a Democratic commander-in-chief would make in the wake of briefings from his team of advisors would be wrong in Republican eyes. “We should have shot this balloon down over the Aleutians instead of letting it float across middle America on its merry way,” Senator Tom Cotton huffed on the partisan Fox network. Gee, those islands are awfully close to Russia and relations with that country aren’t quite at their best these days. Great idea, Tom! Probably exactly the expedient solution the Chinese were praying for.

The Chinese have subsequently and gleefully played the Claude Raines Casablanca card. Beijing officials professed shock at the decadent capitalist curs’ harebrained hysteria and “obvious overreaction” to a minor meteorological mishap. A Chinese Communist Party-approved commentator wrote on state-sanctioned social media: “China is dealing with an America that gets drunk without drinking, suffering the enmity generated by its internal feuds that spill over into the international arena.” While the delivery is somewhat flowery and as hyperbolic, as is the norm with Chinese propaganda, the comrade’s sentiments are not incorrect.

History always dates the fall of an empire with a “circa” caveat. It doesn’t happen overnight. Perhaps America’s apex began to wane with the country’s full nelson embrace of the Domino Theory which posited that vulnerable countries would submit to the lure of communism in geographic sequence. Those covert and overt adventurous gambles in Vietnam, Latin America and the Caribbean didn’t payout double at the window. Still, it was a consistent and coherent policy that spanned administrations both Democrat and Republican. Everybody else got the message.

Waxing, inscrutable China seems to be eyeballing the top spot in a new world order bracket. The traditional powerhouse, the old school, isn’t recruiting players as it once did. One can’t imagine the stern and grey Chinese iron-fisted ruling apparatus possessed of a sense of mischief and humour, but there’s a real, snickering frat house vibe to this whole overblown balloon incident: “Hold my beer. Watch this!” It's Animal House with the US playing Dean Wormer.

meGeoff has been your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of international intrigue since 2013. The novella Of Course You Did is my latest book. Visit www.megeoff.com for links to purchase it in your preferred format from various retailers.