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 22^nd 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.’

 

Thirty-five years ago I bought albums unheard on the strength of reviews in CREEM or Trouser Press. I was open to anything provided it didn’t suck. Van Morrison sang, ‘And didn’t I come to bring you a sense of wonder.’ May mother Mary grace Rockpile and the Boomtown Rats. Interstellar Rodeo reignited that gorgeous, lost, vibe of exploration. Ann and I agree to buy the complete package again next year knowing that real life may well intrude upon the groove. Low profile beach chairs are on our spring shopping list. We’re all in and there’s just enough space to date for 2998 more fans.

NONSENSE VERSE

 

Territorial Pissings

 

Country sister said on the phone

There’s just one way to protect your home

It sounds odd, but don’t hesitate

Her message was, just urinate!

 

Walking around the property

With my dick out, improperly

This in a respectable part of town

Indecent exposure, they will frown

 

I’m pissing around the perimeter

Alerting coyotes and other critter

Stay off, stay out, stay away!

Or this alpha boy will have his way

 

And I am full of excellent cheer

As pissing requires a lot of beer

I’ve done the fence posts and the fir

And met a dog, the sniffing cur

 

I watered the neighbour’s flowerbed

Come midnight, they’ll be dead

I’ve done the sidewalk and the road

Beyond the realm of our happy abode

 

Yet now I stagger in a stinking funk

As I forgot about the fucking skunk

I thought everything was well in hand

Until I encountered its ass gland!

SAINTS PRESERVE US

 

Allegedly, the First Taste Is Free

 

All of us have encountered free product samples. Envelopes of perfume or dish detergent routinely turn up in magazines or pieces of direct mail. T-shirt matched gangs of cheery young people hand out single serve portions of snacks or beverages at public events. There are enough in store demos at Costco to comprise a nice if rather varied full meal. I’ve discreetly eaten my weight in spicy sausage samples whilst shopping at the Italian Centre. Providing free samples to consumers is a reliable tactic for launching a new brand, a brand extension or reinvigorating awareness of an established one. Ideally the activity creates a little buzz.

 

And buzz brings us to a trio of alleged would-be cocaine dealers here in Edmonton. Apparently entrepreneurial new kids on the underworld block armed with a marketing plan which must’ve seemed brilliant when it was conceived late one night. Why not give away half gram samples of the product? Better idea! Let’s ensure each free toot comes complete with our contact info for the ease of potential repeat paying customers! And let’s distribute the samples in Old Strathcona where all the hipsters, bikers, students and the walking dead of the addicted fringe hangout! It’s the perfect demographic, the ideal target market.

 

Allegedly this is exactly what our three budding marketing gurus, none of whom is older than 25, did. Two blocks from a police station. This morning’s Edmonton Journal quotes a police spokesman describing the suspects’ very traditional marketing scheme as ‘very out there.’ The arrestees have been charged with trafficking and possession for the purpose and living off the proceeds of crime. The article does not indicate whether the officer was able to keep a straight face for the duration of the press conference.

 

Alas, there is no provision in the Criminal Code of Canada for harsher penalties for really dumb convicted bad guys; oh, say five additional years in the pen atop the maximum sentence currently allotted. So they will have dodged that fantastical Darwin Awards bullet. It’s possible they may have avoided a hail of real ones too. Criminal start-ups are obviously risky ventures and organized crime adheres to an enviable if lethal model of self-regulation. Best not to undercut established black market prices; not even for a glitzy, alleged product launch from the cab of a pickup truck near happening Whyte Avenue. Our heroes may be very fortunate indeed even as they enjoy the unfailing hospitality of the Edmonton Police Service.

EAT ME

 

KD Re-injects the 'Fun!' into Hard Times

 

Bob Dylan once said, ‘Nostalgia is death.’ It’s also a tired if dependable purchase trigger tool when advertising and marketing a long established or heritage brand. Manipulating memory for profit can be a tricky wicket.

 

In the current business climate even positive and reliable results religiously under-whelm the insanely high pie-in-the-sky expectations of industry analysts on Bay and Wall Streets. The madness trickles down to head offices. Retailers rapidly over-expand. Burger joints hawk granola on their backlit menus. Entrenched brands launch illogical extensions to briefly exploit short-lived consumer manias. It’s as if business has embraced our celebrity-obsessed culture’s fixation with aspirational entitlement. Success, steady, staid, tried-and-true just doesn’t cut it anymore. The sleek hare has won the proverbial race.

 

Kraft Canada is shocked, shocked that not everyone in this great country eats Kraft Dinner regularly. The brand was introduced to North Americans in 1937 and has long been a reflex purchase for families with youngsters and students everywhere. The new campaign targets a universal demographic, adults everywhere. The hook is that KD was fun to eat as a kid and wasn’t childhood a blast? ‘The biggest reason why consumers haven’t eaten us in a while is because they haven’t thought about us in a while,’ KD brand director Kristen Eyre last week told The Globe and Mail using an unfortunate choice of words.

 

My mother couldn’t make KD without her gag reflex kicking in. The moment she tore open the envelope of orange powdered cheese, Ack! During those low budget days in university KD was a necessary evil. Some students used to smother their mounds of it in ketchup and throw in a sliced, boiled wiener. Ack! Like the poetry of Jim Morrison and tinned spaghetti, KD is a childish thing and best left back there with the fading crinkle cut family snapshots. There are good reasons why adults won’t eat KD and we all hope economic circumstances beyond our control don’t force this bogus staple back into our diets.

 

According to Ms. Eyre ‘It is simply not enough any more to tell consumers what you think they should do.’ Thus the campaign also contains an unintentional element of comedic irony. Experiential advertising is the new black. It is the industry’s attempt to cut through its own self-perpetuated clutter. So consumers can interact with the KD brand on a human scale rather than through social media inside of pop-up kiosks. Think of a slightly dodgy carnival game with KD branded prizes – Funderpants! No, really. (Insert your own noodle or God forbid, cheese themed adult content here.) She continues, ‘It is all about creating experiences.’

 

Ack!

 

As New York Yankee legend Yogi Berra once reputedly said, ‘Nostalgia ain’t what it used to be.’