Maybe not the "mighty," but they've definitely fallen

On my walk home from the subway after work, I took note of the marquee at Hugh's Room: Hothouse Flowers. My first thought: Geez, I haven't heard of those guys in a long time. My second: No wonder, if they're playing a small-ish venue like Hugh's Room. (In fairness to them: better at Hugh's Room than a Holiday Inn in Sarnia.) I mention this because it relates to yesterday's post about the big rock concert experience - since I saw Hothouse Flowers at such a show! It must have been ... hmm, mid-1990s maybe, at Molson Park in Barrie for one of those Another Roadside Attraction concerts that the Tragically Hip promoted and headlined. My friend (and ex-girlfriend) T. bought tickets and asked if I'd go. Strange, since: a) we were no longer dating, and b) she knew I didn't much like the Hip. Not to mention what a bloody drag it would be to get to Barrie on the bus.

But I went, endured tremendous heat and sun, and a lot of rabid (and drunk) Hip fans. The highlight was Daniel Lanois playing a typically wonderful (and low key) set that didn't seem to fit in with the the rest of concert. The other bands that I remember: Pursuit of Happiness (yet-another connection to yesterday's post: PoH's frontman Moe Berg was at the Gabriel SkyDome show - with seats behind me, I might add...), Hothouse Flowers, Midnight Oil, and I think Crash Vegas. It was probably at that show that I thought I might be outgrowing the big concert experience.

Or maybe it was because I just don't like Hip.

Bits and Bobs

Just settling in for a couple of hours to write a freelance piece - my main source of income is no longer journalism, but I like to keep up my writing "chops," not to mention make a bit of extra money on the side (which is going into my Argentina travel fund) - but thought I'd warm up the hands and the brain with a quick post. Nothing in particular I want to rant on, just a general clearing of the mind. (Sadly, it takes me much longer than in the past to write these freelance stories. I just don't do enough of them to keep me nimble. But I do my best, at a slower pace, and my editor is usually pleased with the result.)

(For those curious, I'm still making my way through Humboldt's Gift, and it's still great fun. Should be finished by mid-week. And then ... well, haven't yet decided. I'd like to continue the Bellow canon and read The Adventures of Augie March, considering by many to be Bellow's true masterpiece. I've become terribly picky about the editions of the books I read: I tend toward trade paperbacks, one that isn't heavily thumbed. There's a Penguin re-issue of Augie March with an introduction by Christopher Hitchens I'm in search of. I suppose I can just order it from Amazon.)

I've been listening and re-listening (re-listening again; in fact, I'm going to listen to it while I'm writing this paragraph) to Peter Gabriel's incredible tune San Jacinto, specifically the live version from his wonderful Plays Live! CD. It's been a long-time favourite, a song I usually re-discover about once a year and play continuously for a few days. (It was actually one of the first ringtones I used when I bought my first cell phone about a year ago, but then realized it wasn't loud enough and kept missing calls.) While I truly dig the original track from Gabriel's eponymous fourth album (sometimes dubbed Security), I absolutely love this particular live version, recorded during Gabriel's 1982 tour. Many have cited this tour, in support of the fourth album, as his very best. I was a mite too young to catch it, but I did see him on the next tour: in 1986 when he came through Toronto to support the album So.

I've been thinking of this concert, and concerts in general, after I read this New Yorker magazine article (my apologies that only the abstract is available online; here's a link to an interview with the author that gives the basics of his article) about the current state of the big-ticket concert industry. It prompted a discussion on Slate's Culture Gabfest the following week (you have to scroll down to the Aug. 12 edition) where the cultural "experts" (for what they're worth) were basically derisive of the big concert experience. One of them couldn't remember a single big concert they had enjoyed.

Now I'm not going to defend Ticketmaster, Live Nation or the big rock show experience. After all, I rarely go to big, popular concerts anymore. Expense is one reason, lack of interest in most major rock bands that can fill a stadium is another. Still, if I had plenty of disposable income, I wouldn't think twice about dropping some big bucks to see certain bands: U2 for sure (I spoke to a friend of mine at a patio party last night that went to see them in Dublin, which is something she's always wanted to do), possibly others like Pearl Jam... hmm, I'm struggling to think of currently active bands that I like and still do arena/stadium shows. In fact, I have dropped major ducats to see a rock concert: The Police a couple of years ago (which was a great show), and The Who back in 2002 (this was the infamous tour where the bassist John Entwistle died in Las Vegas a day before the tour began, after which they recruited the bassist Pino Paladino to fill in). There shouldn't be much of a surprise for these two shows: both are two of my favourite bands. And while I'd seen The Who back in 1988, it wasn't really The Who. (Pete Townshend played acoustic guitar for most of the concert, and they had added horns and a back-up singers. It wasn't terrible - for one, they played quite a few songs from Townshend's solo albums, which I was very much into back then - but it was hardly close to a typical Who experience.) And the Police ... well, I love them, and had long wanted to see them perform live.

Yet for years and years, particularly when I was a teen and even into my early 20s, I loved the big rock concert experience, and have fond memories of some memorable shows. My first: Rush at Maple Leaf Gardens - sort-of a rite of passage for boys of a certain age and musical bent. I went with my friend Dave (RIP), and I remember the rush of us getting off at College subway, these two 13-year olds from the suburbs, alone in the city for the first time. (Talk about trusting parents!) Our seats were pretty lousy, but we didn't care. It was loud and somewhat intimidating, but we had a total blast. There were other wonderful arena/stadium shows in the next decade: Sting, Pink Floyd, Roger Waters, Genesis, U2 (Joshua Tree tour). (Some memorable Massey Hall shows too, including Tears for Fears in support of Songs from the Big Chair, when through connections via my mother I ended up with sixth row seats.)

Which, of course, brings me back to Peter Gabriel. I've seen him a number of times in concert, including twice on that So tour: a winter show in 1986, followed by a summer visit at the CNE. I actually don't remember much of the latter, but the former, at Maple Leaf Gardens, where my friend D. and I had floor seats (a total fluke: I skipped a class and used the school pay phone to call Ticketmaster), was by far the more memorable. The lights turn off (always one of the great events at a big concert), a song from his Birdy soundtrack is blasting from the PA, it starts to fade, replaced by the familiar, wonderful strains of San Jacinto. He comes out, wearing nearly all white, and proceeds to dazzle with his voice and minimalist stage settings and movements, utilizing a small crane holding three lights that stalk him (almost like a beast), that he stares into, eventually both playing and "lifting" the lights with his hands. Amazing to think, even after 20 years, it's stuck with me. (I found a YouTube clip of a similar performance from Philadelphia.) A few years later, I saw Gabriel at the SkyDome during his Secret World tour. And while not nearly as memorable as the Gardens show, it did contain the unbelievable opening, using some original Robert LePage theatre direction, of Come Talk to Me. (Here's a YouTube clip, containing a very young Paula Cole. The performance I saw had the equally wonderful Joy Askew singing the female bits.)

My point? Not sure I really have one. Except nice memories.

the heat, the books

Ah, so this is what we've been missing all summer: hot, sticky, uncomfortable evenings because of the humidity. Let's just say, that crazy rain aside, I can live without this summer weather. Give me cool, fresh summer nights anytime. Humidity blows.

Since I couldn't sleep this morning, I thought I'd cobble together a quick post. I've been going through a variety of moods of late. Some of it is because of job-related stress and continued frustrations in my workplace. I've also been dwelling (too much, I think, and probably irrationally) on aging, feeling life is starting to proverbially "pass me by." It's always dangerous and foolish to compare one's life to others, but sometimes I can't help observe the activities of the friends and acquaintances around me and wonder if they're doing it "right." They're buying houses, getting married, having children. There's a sense of progress there, while it seems my life has been somewhat stagnant.

Anyway I don't mean this to be a lament. But I figure it was on my mind this morning (and of late), so I thought I would share it. (For those of you that might be worried, don't! As per usual, this will pass.)

In other news... I've decided, after reading 123 pages of TC Boyle's The Women, that I'm going to return it to the library without reading the last 200 pages. It's not that I wasn't enjoying the book per se - Boyle is a great craftsman, and the narrative is engaging - but I realized when I was about 100 pages in that I didn't really care all that much about these characters. Nor did the book seem to have any relevancy and insight to the particular moods and thoughts I'm currently experiencing. It made me realize how important that type of relevancy and immediacy is to me when I read. I don't read to escape; I read to understand, to involve, to make some sense out of my own life. That doesn't mean I require a narrative that's comparable to my life and circumstances, but I need something I can relate to. Perhaps offering some wisdom into solitude, or relationships, friendships, family. The Boyle just didn't have that going for me (as entertaining as the story was), so I'm giving up on it. Life is too short to spend with a book that just isn't working for me.

Instead I picked up another Saul Bellow: Humboldt's Gift. I was hooked from the first few paragraphs! It's not nearly as complex as Herzog, but it contains all the elements I love about Bellow, namely the richness and wonder of both his language and the characters. It's going to be an engaging read. And the thing that resonates (which is why it has relevancy for me) is the theme of literature (and its so-called purity) vs. crass commercialism. More on this in another post, after I finish the book.

Is it a fact of life that CBC's Metro Morning has to play the same crappy music almost daily?

15 Toronto Books in 15 Minutes

In the spirit of participation, but mostly because my postings on here have been both sporadic and anemic, I'm taking up the 15 Toronto Books in 15 Minutes meme, which I first read about on Rose-coloured; her list is here (make sure you read the comments because there are some excellent suggestions for further reading), and which she read about on Kate's Book Blog, with her list here. My first thought to this was, There's no way I'm going to be able to come up with 15 books that are set in Toronto, never mind 15 books that I like. Yet, within about five minutes I was able to rattle off about 10. (My rules weren't too strict: if I thought some of it was set in Toronto, it could be listed.) In the end I was able to conjure around 20 titles, which I've whittled down to these 15 (in no particular order):

Cat's Eye/The Robber Bride/Alias Grace – Margaret Atwood
I'm lumping these three together under the banner of "Atwood Corporation." (I suppose one could also include The Blind Assassin, but I'm not a big fan of that work.) Interestingly, perhaps, Cat's Eye was the first book I remember reading that used Toronto extensively as a backdrop, just as the city itself was entering my consciousness. I was still a teenager at the time and living in the suburbs, but would go downtown often to shop at Sam The Record Man (R.I.P.). About two years later, I became a full-flown Toronto resident when I started my undergrad studies. If memory serves, the main character in Cat's Eye worked for a time at Swiss Chalet, most likely the one that used to be across the street from the Royal Conservatory (which was, I believe, the first one in the city; I heard Robertson Davies used to eat there). It's since been demolished to make room for a condominium. Blah. Of these three books, Alias Grace, with its mid-1800s Toronto setting, is the one I enjoyed the most (although Robber Bride comes a close second).

Unless – Carol Shields
My personal favourite of Shields' work. The Toronto scenes involving her daughter take place in the neighbourhood I was living at the time (Bathurst/Bloor), making things that much more immediate.

The Rebel Angels – Robertson Davies
While the university setting is fictional, it's supposedly based on the University of Toronto's Trinity College (with a further nod to Massey College, where Davies was the Master for many years). This book is great fun, and contains the best character Davies created, Parlabane.

King Leary – Paul Quarrington
I read this and Quarrington's other great comic novel, Whale Music, back to back. I was playing a lot of shinny hockey on a makeshift, primitive rink on Brunswick Ave. when I read this, which added to the fun of reading a book about the sport.

The Romantic – Barbara Gowdy
Truthfully, I don't remember much about this novel, except how much I enjoyed it when I read it. I was also single at the time and most likely believed in an idealistic, romantic love, so I was probably an easy target for this kind of book. Oddly, and this is something I should correct, it's the only Gowdy book I've read.

The City Man – Howard Akler
Yes, the author is one of my oldest, closest and dearest friends. (I think he might have bought me King Leary, actually. And the rink on Brunswick where we played hockey was across the street from his dive-y basement apartment.) Yes, the author was passing me bourbons bought for him at the launch of this book (he had an open tab for his own bourbon). Despite all that, this book is flat-out wonderful. Beautiful, spare, hard-boiled language, and a fun story to boot. Who knew there was so much to know about pick pocketing?

Fugitive Pieces – Anne Michaels
After struggling through the first 50 or so pages with Michaels' poetic prose, it finally "clicked." And even though about half (I think) of the book takes place in Toronto, the scenes in Greece are the most beautiful and memorable.

Typing in 26 Keys – Matt Cohen
I read two memoirs back to back dealing with similar time frames: George (formally Doug) Fetherling's Travels By Night: A Memoir of the Sixties, and Cohen's book, and much preferred Cohen's. (And any book that pisses off Robert Fulford must be doing something right.) It made me wish I was around in the late 1960s and hanging out with the Rochdale College crowd. (It also made me wonder: when is Dennis Lee, who is perhaps the most influential person from that whole period, going to pen a memoir?) Even though I enjoyed this book, I've still yet to finish one of Cohen's novels. And I probably never will.

Shadowmaker: The Life of Gwendolyn MacEwen – Rosemary Sullivan
I really should put a Gwen MacEwen poetry collection here instead of this fantastic biography, but MacEwen's work doesn't necessarily seem rooted in Toronto. It doesn't need Toronto, in other words – MacEwen's poetry lives and breathes in some other mystical, magical place. Yet Sullivan's book truly evokes the city, particularly the 1960s when the Bohemian Embassy played such an important role in the development of this city's literary culture. A fascinating study of a poet whose stature will only continue to grow with each passing year. (MacEwen died in her apartment on Robert St., the same street I lived on for about four years.)

In the Skin of a Lion – Michael Ondaatje
Not much to say except that it's perhaps the greatest of all Toronto books, particularly Ondaatje's wondrous descriptions of the construction of the Bloor St. viaduct and the Harris Filtration Plant. A book that's essential to understanding the immigrant experience of early Toronto.

Consolation – Michael Redhill
Enjoyable for a glimpse into early Toronto, as well as early photographic techniques! Redhill nicely weaves the two separate narratives into a cohesive whole. (Yikes, does that sentence sound pretentious?)

1978 – Daniel Jones
I got interested in this novel because of some correspondence I came across in my work from Jones (who was known primarily by that one-name moniker). He's one of the most interesting figures in the Toronto small press literary scene, and his poetry readings, from my understanding, would sometimes feature his penis. He struggled with depression and committed suicide in 1994. This novel captures the punk-fueled Toronto scene in the late 1970s. It's lively, energetic and chaotic, much like the years it depicts. You can read an excerpt here.

Save Me, Joe Louis – MT Kelly
I put this on the list because Kelly captures the tawdry, somewhat depressing world of boxing so evocatively. Also, the author gave me an autographed copy of a book about cats and a nice bottle of red wine about two years ago. I'm easily bought.

Raymond and Hannah – Stephen Marche
A wonderful and unconventional love story. Not to mention it explores the modern romance, where e-mail can play a significant role in the wooing process. Parts of this book are set in my workplace as well, which breeds familiarity. Other parts are set in Israel, which is not as familiar.

Once – Rebecca Rosenblum
No, I'm not including this because her blog gave me the idea for this post... But because it's the most recent book set in the city that I enjoyed. Perhaps oddly, given how I consider myself an urban dweller, my favourite scenes in the stories tend to take place in the outer reaches of the city, such as the buses that reach out to the more distant Toronto and the extended city's strip malls. (That being said, I found myself on the 123 Shorncliffe route last night at 10:00, which was a somewhat surreal experience.) Besides, she gives good blog.

Please note: no Russell Smith.

randomness

A few things rattling in my brain this evening:

- I forgot how different camping is in the US versus Canada. I spent many summers in my youth in a Coleman trailer in the wonderful United States of America - living in Montreal, the folks confined our travels to the eastern seaboard, primarily Maine (which I'd love to visit again) - but have camped almost exclusively in the last 10 years (when I rediscovered the great outdoors) in Ontario. I had an extra-long long weekend this past weekend camping in upstate NY, at Letchworth State Park. It was a spontaneous trip planned on the fly, and was largely quite wonderful. It helps that I have a thing for running water and water falls. Yet, spoiling the experience was some terribly unruly campers from NY who were intent on speaking very loudly at midnight ("quiet time" was supposedly 10 pm), hitting the car with a soccer ball, and walking through our site to visit the loo. I don't remember experiencing the same type of camper in Ontario's Provincial Parks. More important, was I loud and obnoxious when we camped in the Adirondacks when I was a kid?

- It's fun to read a Spenser novel by Robert Parker after so many years. Ideal campsite reading. (For those curious, it was Looking for Rachel Wallace. I have the 1980 Dell paperback if someone wishes to borrow it. A fun read.) I brought Jane Austen's Emma as well, but didn't get around to breaking the spine. (Well, I broke the spine when I was supposed to read it in my Introduction to the Novel class during my first-year undergrad, but never got past page 30 or so. I'm determined to finish all the books in my various syllabuses from years past.) I think it might be next in the queue, particularly since I don't have any books waiting for me at the TPL. I also bought Leonard Michaels' The Collected Stories, which I'll dip into over the next few weeks.

- Hiking really is a great stress reliever for me. File that under "note to self."

- Hooray for Argentina! I booked an Oct. flight to Buenos Aires on Thurs. Nice to have some travel to look forward to.

- You have to love the post-camping shower.