'Twas a brilliant Sunday: brunch at La Note and Jason Mraz in the afternoon. The Greek Theatre is beautiful, the perfect venue for an overcast afternoon concert outdoors. Lisa Hannigan opened, and she is still as brilliant as the last time I saw her with Damien Rice.
Ray LaMontagne was so amazing, for lack of a better word. Leona Nass opened and she is really cute and very awesome to boot. Ray LaMontagne is probably my favourite musician I've ever watched perform, strangely because he is not a performer- the lights are always dim, he barely speaks between songs. And this is so lovely, simply because at the end of it all, he brings you back to the music, which is the point of everything really. Right now, playing "Winter birds", "Henry nearly killed me", "Falling through" and "You are the best thing"on repeat. Love!
Take this sinking boat and point it home, We've still got time. I first saw Glen Hansard opening for Damien Rice two years ago, and he is good as I remember him being. But together with Marketa Irglova, they are spectacular.
On another note, here are some things to listen to, just a couple of songs I actually managed to sit down and record over the course of the past year or thereabouts. I'm trying to get down to recording the rest of them sometime soon, perhaps maybe even professionally (when I have enough money to do so). A little warning attached though, there's a little too much 'twang' on the guitar on some of the tracks (it's after all the best I could do with laptop speakers and a plug-in mic), try turning the volume down, it may help. Hopefully, it will be semi-enjoyable:
Just six days ago, I opened for Mike; played a thirty minute set of originals. It's odd how quickly the perspective one takes on life changes, in a matter of minutes, seconds, in every look and every word. The praise still amazes me, so much so that all I could say all night, and all of this week, was a messy tangle of thank yous and blushing cheeks. And I finally see it, making a living making music will never be to me about fame and fortune, image and manufacturing, but it is about what people feel, it's about how a song can shake your core, leave you speechless, breathless even, it's about how music can move us, bring us to our knees.
The boy looks at me after in a way that makes me feel things I still can't quite comprehend. He tells me that there is a seldom seen side of me that surfaces when the spotlight is on, devoid of all the wellknown subtlety and evasiveness, singing of such uninhibited things. I was though, without a doubt, still the shy, nervous girl that always is, but what surprises even me is how quickly I assumed such vulnerability in front of a crowd full of strangers who barely knew my name. Perhaps it is both my blessing and my curse, that I will never quite know how to say the words that need to be said, so I will sing them instead.
My roads are diverging, and one side is becoming more and more tempting. I wish I knew what to do, the choice gets harder every minute I wait. Perhaps I should learn the notion of que sara sara, perhaps the future's not mine to see, perhaps the wait will bring greater things, perhaps choices will get more complicated, perhaps it will become easy; perhaps this, perhaps that - perhaps in between.
This geek in the pink could really be the poster boy for quick, witty, laugh-inducing entertainment; all complete with pantomine, the robot, water-based superheroes, opera voices and a very good and adaptable repertoire of songs to boot (only slightly tearing for the lack of You and I Both). And how else could it be better if not in the company of three very dear girlfriends who make me so very happy -- Oh, this year is already looking so promising.
On another note, I tell myself to trust, trust and hope, hope in the stability and sureness of things, in the notion that the wait will make the meeting so much more satisfying, in my own self-sufficiency. It's been three days, and despite myself, I realize I am in fact still counting; hold on only to the good things.
Two concerts in two days makes Sheralyn a very incredibly happy girl, so much happy that the troubles of the world just sort of float by (I'm sure the bubble will burst sooner or later, but for now let's be content). Wednesday night's Jewel with opening act Joe Firstman (and if you know me well, you know that I've loved Joe Firstman for a pathetically long time) was awesome, awesome, awesome (when lacking a more substantial word, use repetition and bolding to make a point).
Thursday night's Ray LaMontagne was the closest thing to exquisite that I've heard. There's something so strangely drawing about shyness in the spotlight; it's an almost awkward kind of beautiful; the kind of sight that makes your knees weak and sends your heart aflutter, all the while whilst holding your breath.
I got mine signed by a tree by his tour bus! (:
And as it is always so, watching someone sing never fails to make me hope for more. This I know well; my life will forever be tied to song, and everything will undoubtedly take place in lyric and verse. It is a blessing really, even though the dreaming is difficult to keep up. But let's not talk about me today, all that seems quite so unimportant in light of everything else.
Photos are up in the Stills section. Now if only I could find tickets to an already sold out John Mayer trio concert in October. Now that, would be fabulous.
Disclaimer:- A little lyrical exaggeration on my part.
I resent it that sometimes, who's who is all a matter of precision of timing; what happens is decided by the simplest concept of who is where and when; coincidence or chance, whichever you find more suiting, or more comforting. It's like walking away from sleeping polar bears at the zoo, only to find that the next minute or so they're up and about, entertaining the oh-so-fortunate people who arrived after [note: just went to the zoo today, and to sum it up, the most interesting thing was a flock of head-butting flamingo. As can be told, I am sorely disappointed]. It's unfortunate, but there is no such thing as the fashionably late in life. And perhaps it's just as well, the dichotomy makes circumstances so much easier to swallow; nothing to blame and no responsibility to hand out to the already weak.
I've finally decided on putting up songs here; all this despite my fears that people will hate what they hear, or that someone will rip me off; all this because I really do trust most of the people who come visit me here every once in a while. I would really appreciate feedback, negative or postive, however you want to feed it. There is alot of improving to be done (especially on my lack of sound editing and instrument skills), this I will only too readily admit. But please, treat this with care, and I will try not to break over it.
[The line between genius and foolery is drawn by the art of persuasion]
The days are warm and lovely, and whilst walking down bloor yesterday, I realize how much I miss the heat; burning on my shoulders, on my back, on my toes. There is so much to do, so much to do, but summer breeds a lazy inertia that is stronger than any will of mine. I would like to go away, frolic through the nations, embark on an odyssey which I will aptly name [poetic interludes: as inspired by airplanes and runways]. The life of a dreamer I dream to live, for everyone's allowed to indulge that little bit in fantastic thoughts.
[p/s I've added a little shopping section in the links for the shopper in everybody! (:]
Alright, I'm not quite sure why I've been writing so much recently. It's definitely not the lack of something to do [with 2.5 jobs and 3 courses, this is without a doubt not the reason]. But anyhows, the summer's finally here [yippee], and the days are much too beautiful now for speaking of heartache.
I'm thinking of playing sometime downtown, maybe in a nice lounge where the lights are dim, the piano is dreamy and the people don't expect to be entertained. It's funny but I find that I've grown increasingly self-aware and more and more uncertain as to what to do with myself in front of a whole floor full of strangers. It was so easy back home; but here, there's more and more a need to prove myself, as if the approval of a sea of nameless faces will substantiate my worth, tell me that I've created something good. I wish I could hide behind my music; hide behind the chords, the notes, the words; I want to tell my stories and laugh my little laughs; I want to play to my home crowd. But how does this all add up? Music's become more than a auditory art now, it's visual entertainment as well, and unfortunately I'm not quite cut out to be at the center of anybody's focus. Where are the days gone when the music itself was enough?
That aside, little snippets of a little trip the FH308 crew took down to the west side of queen for some good live jazz and what not have been added to the Escapades in Toronto album.
I am leaving my poetic interludes at the mercy of a corporate mogul. And I have sang the notes my heart has scribbled onto a shiny plastic disc. I am closing up my forked road for the time being, because for once, my heart would like to taste the truth without the silver lining. My heart seeks its own kind of validation, and for that, it risks the chance of being crushed underneath its heavy, shiny dreams.
Taking a vacation away from death-inducing exam studying is a luxury i cannot afford. So only for a night of a live-and-very-close Damien Rice, would i gladly take the risk.
And what is after many a mind-blowing rendition of the countless songs i have come to know far too well, i fear that i have become too much of a die-hard for Rice's version of musical poetry, for i know what is written before he sings it.
Due credit must be offered the band as well; for never have i heard a cello to be such a worthy ambassador of melancholy, nor have i ever seen a drummer work his hands so much like magic. All added to the exquisitely haunting voice of lisa hannigan, i can only say that tonight brings a utterly new chapter to my pocketbook of musical love affairs.
Struck down with a case of very potent, very drowsy, and very, very hot Irish fever.
I am hopelessly, and perhaps some might say most pathetically, content.
But this is honestly good, for i haven't been in too long a time.
i miss my piano. it's sitting at home in a dark hall, with no tunes of love to accompany it.
i remember days when i'd just sit and play, for hours and hours, with no particular aim in mind.
i miss the feel of those delicate keys tingling beneath my fingertips.
i miss the sound of that old-fashioned music.
these days, i can't play, because there are no decent pianos in sight.
and even if there were, what would i play?
an oldie for my dad, a hymn for my granddad, a love song for a home i'm not sure i know.
then maybe after all that, i'll allow myself something to feel better.
i have so much work to do, so many things to see to, but all i can think about is the weird rattling noise in the walls of my room, and how nice a tub of lucid, almost-burning water would feel on my icy skin. How odd.
people talk about water running dry, i talk about floods that sweep me off my feet.
did you hear? john edwards withdrew from the race. what do you know, sometimes objects in the mirror are just objects in the mirror. As Freud so eloquently put, "sometimes a cigar is just a cigar".
Funny that this works for me, only requiring the commitment of sounding records from my disc-drive, with the pull of colourful bills from my pocket and their unjealous nature of sharing the same slot in my machine.
I am tired of wanting things i cannot have, but yet the thought still entertains me at certain unnerving points of time.
What did i expect, you must say.
Only just another sick cycle carousel.
