A LONG WAY FROM MANY PLACES

Talkin’ Camrose Blues

The Turquoise Bridesmaid complained about her 34-year-old bones as she shooed her son inside the Days Inn by Wyndham to be halfway useful in transforming the lone conference room into a wedding venue. Part those accordion walls! The frames of her glasses and her hair matched her gown. She was a striking figure on an asphalt stage, the ass-end of a Circle K as a backdrop, a dumpster and a near-distant Kal Tire sign standing in for the sun. She was smoking; we both held burning cigarettes in the baking humidity. I reminded her not to upstage the bride. “Oh, it's just my sister,” she replied. “And it’s her second one.” I said, “If that’s the case, go for it.” 

Ann and I had returned to “The Rose City” or “Cambrosia,” the setting of her high school years and first year of college. Those formative years, the big important ones. In literature and film Camrose is that small town which forces the hero to choose between growth or petrification – should I stay or should I go? I’ve come to know Camrose slightly, what with funerals or reunions short a few attendees. And a couple of Ann’s old gang even remember my name when prompted. I’m no different: “Yes, of course! Nice to see you again …”

This particular weekend sojourn was goosed by curiosity; the 2026 Camrose Blues Festival, evidently the second annual. We’d heard of three of the nine acts and had heard their music on CKUA. The ticket prices dated from Y2K. Maybe the machines really did stall in rural Alberta? (My first bar bill stupefied me: $8 for a bottle of water AND a proper swilling cup of locally brewed draft beer.) The real festival hook for Ann and I was the venue, the refurbished princess of Camrose’s “historic” Main Street.

The gilded and grandiose interior of the Bailey Theatre still suggests the smell of vaudeville greasepaint clinging to the ageless dusty mustiness embedded in the draped red velvet curtains. There are echoes of Social Credit bible-thumping political stumping. Errol Flynn dashing around in synthetic Lulu Lemon leggings and felt Glerups elf booties. There’s an Elvis movie on the marquee sign. The old doll’s crumbling Edwardian exterior was given a slick black and white Art Deco makeover in 1940. The façade reminds me of the theatre on the cover of The Song Remains the Same – the packaging the highlight of the movie’s soundtrack (and the film, frankly). And Led Zeppelin is relevant here because around the time of the band’s debut the blues in all of its iterations sank into the now standard tedium of elongated, painfully extended displays of six-string virtuosity.

The Days Inn on Highway 13 – Ann and I still call it the Norsemen, a name which reflected the Scandinavian roots of the region’s white settlers – was a festival “silver” sponsor. Billeted musicians were easy to clock at breakfast time in Hagar’s Café. Tattoos, black t-shirts and pork pie hats really pop in contrast to the practical sartorial preferences of wizened local folk and Camrose Police Service constables in their smart uniforms.

Our hotel presides over acres of paved-over farmland. Its closest neighbour is Duggan Mall, a contentious 70s development that strangled Main Street. Judging from the existing signage, the space now houses what must be a massive medical clinic. Duggan was once on the outskirts, separated from downtown by Mirror Lake, Camrose’s signature topographical feature. Newer big box retailers plunked on both sides of the highway subsequently choked out the mall. Ann and I were amused that the local Canadian Tire store, a mere unwalkable Las Vegas Strip block way, was more convenient to us than any of the chain’s Edmonton locations. We just happened to be in town.

We both enjoy poking around the Peavey Mart when we stay at the Norsemen. “The rural lifestyle store!” It’s across four lanes of highway, sort of close by because there’s a traffic light. I’ve never seen catch-and-release coyote traps on sale before. A bargain at $129.  Immense sacks of chickenfeed were on special too. The “-cide” aisle also intrigued me, “insecti-,” “pesti-” and “herbi-”: serious Silent Spring stuff, none of that woke Scott’s Weed-B-Gon like I use on our urban lawn.

Our next stop was Harley’s Liquor Store, one of the festival’s designated “friends.” I bought an eight-pack of low-cal, low-carb, low-alcohol beer strung together by a recyclable cardboard collar. The young clerk said the cardboard tended to disintegrate in a hurry. Would I like a bag? And I was eligible for the senior discount – Ann spoke up on my behalf. The clerk was intent on passing the time of day in a friendly way. I was intent on a discreet chilled tin outside in the parking lot beneath the big hard sun. No dice. A major portion of the parking lot was being resurfaced because Harley’s new neighbour, a boutique medical device store, obviously required a wheelchair ramp before its grand opening.

I said to Ann, “Christ, we’re not in bad shape for our age.” Ann said, “We didn’t spend our lives on a working farm.” I said, “Ah.”

Outside the Bailey on a smalltown Saturday night, killing time and smoking cigarettes between sets, we encountered a man whom Ann knew in high school. He’d been a grade or two ahead of her. His knees seemed to be reliable in 2026, no bow-legged semi-crouch. He introduced Ann to his wife as “former Camrose royalty.” Ann’s father was a prominent lawyer and later an Alberta circuit court judge. I’d met this Mr Snark once previously. Funeral or reunion? Pick ‘em. That time he said Ann used to “swan around town like she was Joni Mitchell.” Which means Ann, coerced to play her violin for Glee Club performances and later a member of the Lutheran College Choir (We have the live album from their Scandinavian tour – honest to God) used to lean into open muscle car windows to chat with every other boy except him on summer Saturday nights. Nothing like a blues festival to remind one those little town blues don’t go away by themselves. 

These days there’s a NO U-TURN sign at the foot of Main Street. The key to the highway lays in another direction. But the Turquoise Bridesmaid, though a bit put out, frazzled even, seemed happy enough there.

Dispatches from the Crooked 9 is your most unreliable, unbalanced and inaccurate alternative source of everything meaningless. No AI and little intelligence of any sort since 2013! Visit my companion site www.megeoff.com to buy my last couple of books. You can also listen to songs I’ve co-written with The Muster Point Project before scooting over to its YouTube channel.