July 31, 2008
Home sweet home at last. I’ve been on the road for nearly a month! My songbirds are missing, after two weeks without seed. Josef’s birthday. I think he’s 48. Bought him some Daniel’s chocolates but they had no marzipan, which he relishes, being a good German.
In the news, a young man is stabbed and beheaded on a bus from Edmonton to Winnipeg! This progressive country is often host to some of the most gothic and bizarre incidents of violence. I don’t understand how the perpetrator can be charged with second-degree murder. Doesn’t one have to be insane in order to do such a horrific thing? I find myself trying to read between the lines in the news coverage, which never delves beyond the facts, understandably, but how to make sense of such madness? What possessed him to appoint himself executioner? Why did he pick this particular person as his victim?
Good news. I am thrilled and honoured to be selected for Rocksalt: An Anthology of Contemporary BC Poetry, the first in over thirty years. Editors Harold Rhenisch and Mona Fertig requested a poetic statement. Why do I write poetry. What does it mean to me. I was unable to provide one right away, as I was on the road but upon my return found myself procrastinating. I don’t like being pinned down, would rather hide out in the poems. This is what I came up with:
One thing I am is a poet. I will write poetry though I’m not particularly concerned with form or media, and I will write poetry whether others deem it relevant or not. I cannot abide didactism. Neither do I pull any punches. I believe that in this world, being an artist is a political statement. Whore In The Eddy makes the political personal. My narrator imagines stumbling upon a slain woman’s body. There but for the grace of God go I. The woman happens to be a prostitute. She lies down next to her so they may gaze at the stars together. When I was a girl on a New York city sojourn, the only job I could find was in vice, tending bar at the Baby Doll, a topless joint near Wall Street. Thus the place was frequented largely by bankers and CEOs. In possession of an unconscious dread of men, I was disgusted watching the suits ogle heroin-addled dancers on the tiny stage. I too was bribed, pressured to take my clothes off, and tempted, for I too was desperate and in need of cash. I know abuse. I know the hooker, the stripper, the drug addict. The people I depict are not carnival freaks that I stare at fixedly in shock and amazement; they are part of my experience and surely represent aspects of myself
If I sound adamant about this it’s probably because I have been criticized for “eschewing the quotidian.” It’s not true, I portray domestic situations, but what an odd thing to criticize. Subject matter. Isn’t subject matter organic? Why would I write about situations that I had no experience with, feelings I haven’t felt? How could I?
I spoke about this the week before in an interview with writer Vince Tinguely, part of which appeared in the Montreal Mirror:
You’re currently touring your new disc, Princess Nut. Can you tell me a bit about the ‘spoken word songs’ on the new release?
Most are adaptations of poems from my book Window Seat, largely written while in residence at Banff’s Wired Writing Studio in 2006, working with Karen Solie under the directorship of Greg Hollingshead and Fred Stenson. Window Seat is about loss and transcendence. Continually moving, it features place and travel poems alluding to post 9/11 angst and guilt here in the *safe* zone and spoems, constructed primarily from spam.
Karen Solie comments: “What I see as one of your big strengths, your originality, has to do with the content you choose but perhaps more so your tone with it. As in the poem about the boy that has the speaker describing how gentle he is and then wondering if he’s tough enough for this world. My Mountain’s tenderness, anger, humour, sadness all at once. Your work resists any simplistic approach toward it as settled in a particular emotion. You tend to write a lot about domestic situations-families, home lives and relationships of one variety or another, familiar natural environments-but the work isn’t domesticated. It reflects the nature of language as both a domestic product and as wild-impossible to fully manage or control. You take a lot of risks in your poems and have a good instinct for the weirdness of language, its sound and rhythm.”
Probably because I sing, have always sung. There is a close relationship between song and verse and I suspect song evolved from storytelling, as a way to pass down legend, rhyme and melody both powerful mnemonic devices.
How did you and Roderick Shoolbraid collaborate in the composition and recording process?
I selected poems for adaptation, Roderick recorded my voice reciting them, then worked with those tracks to compose the music. He developed a written strategy and devised a distinct sonic aesthetic for each spoken word song, theme and setting often dictating their sonic treatment. I wanted to take a fresh approach, quite different from our first CD “Suring Season” with which we took a more ambient and post-production/ sound design approach (Roderick works in film too) and said, “I want it to rock!” Shortly after I played Captain Beefheart’s Clear Spot.
We both had been listening to Emily Lou Harris’s Wrecking Ball, have long been admirers of Daniel Lanois’s production values. Roderick worked closely with and recorded his equally talented brother Malcolm on drums to create bed tracks. Then he worked on guitar and bass parts, vocal parts and ambient sounds, having previously recorded wind, rain, chimes and bird sounds at my house. Nina Simone and Tom Waits also invaded our psyches and work. I realized after our first CD, that I am approaching the arrangement of the spoken word parts like theatre, utilizing Kate and Roderick’s voices for dramatic effect. I am aware that the album as a whole will be more dynamic as well with more than one voice, mine. It is a mix, not all rock. Many pieces are more reflective, atmospheric.
I live on Bowen Island and Roderick on Salt Spring Island so our logistics have been daunting to say the least! And the winter record setting windstorms of December 07 really screwed up our schedule. Many times Roderick would make the long trek to my place, only to have a tree fall on the power lines, but we have persevered and Princess Nut was completed and launched May 29, 2008. I am very proud of, and excited by this new work.
What is the difference between fronting a band like the Zellots, and ‘fronting’ a spoken word / music ensemble?
It’s hairy, delivering my words, sometimes at breakneck speed, in time to the music. It’s a lot harder than singing. An actor friend of mine commented that he admires my diction and I am aware that I must be precise performing this work. Our audience is listening closely to the poem and many think in terms of text. They love poetry and if they can’t hear it, they let me know. So when we rock, we can’t rock so loudly that the guitar overpowers the poetry. As you can imagine, that is quite the challenge for Roderick and a delicate balancing act for both of us. Monitors are crucial! I cue off Kate Newman’s vocals and spoken word parts in the backing tracks.
What subjects or themes galvanize you to write a spoken word text?
As I said earlier, these spoken word songs are adaptations of my written work. I have been criticized in the past for for writing about people on the margins of society. I write about what hits home, that which I feel in my gut. That is what I am compelled to portray. I don’t like to preach or be preached at, neither do I pull any punches. I address disturbing issues like addiction and domestic violence and I am so weary of people telling me my “work is dark.” It’s rather akin to pointing out to me that my hair is red!
Is it largely the personal, the political, the cosmic, or none of the above?
Personal. To me, being an artist is a political statement.
Does it start out with an urge to shout it to the rafters, or is it a quieter sort of process?
Both or either or. Depends on my mood and circumstances. Often I am up to my eyeballs in dirty laundry and dishes when inspiration strikes!
What can Montreal audiences expect on July 20? Are you performing with Roderick and / or other musicians?
Yes, Roderick and I, a Mac laptop, some effects pedals, a Telecaster and a guitar amp. Roderick also employs a couple of other recently purchased gadgets. You would have to ask him if you need further details. We will be performing spoken word songs from Princess Nut and a couple of new, more traditional songs, wherein I sing throughout verses and choruses but they too are adaptations of my poetry.
July 29, 2008
Heartbreak Hotel and Elvis on our last leg of our journey to Montreal, spent yesterday driving the first. We pulled into Riviere du Loup around 7 pm and a tiny room at a Quality Inn, irritated by one of those rooms without any space for your luggage. I was hungry, couldn’t find any place to eat so went to the IGA and bought some sushi, a veggie salad and some watermelon. Josef and I went for a walk in an ocean side park, got caught in a downpour on the way back.
Apparently Bejing is too polluted for the athletes, Coldplay reinvent themselves, flight attendants rally and Canadian soldiers shoot suspected suicide bombers who happen to be under the age of five.
We just drove from sunshine into a wild and hairy rainstorm, could hardly see, it’s hitting the windshield so hard it’s like going through a car wash according to Lucas. Overwhelmed Harley riders pulling over to the shoulder. Now a few kilometers later, it’s clear and dry again, like going through a car wash.
We’ve voted Tim Horton’s Least Worst Road Food. In a few hours we will get out of the car, onto the plane, into a cab, onto a water taxi, into our Ford Explorer and then home.
July 28th, 2008
On the road again, the 132 Quest to Montreal, listening to the Cure and music I came up with on Sirius 1st Wave station, fun but they play too much British, not enough North American bands. We are sad to leave Perce for just as we are feeling at home and discovering our favourite spots, it’s time to leave. We’ve been going to the local boulangiere for big bowls of divine cafe au lait and pastries. The French are serious about their coffee I told Lucas, and their baking. The best coffee I’ve ever had was at a little cafe in Paris. Last night, though a bustling Sunday in the village, we managed to find a restaurant, Mathilde’s, and had lobster dinner, a big item on our itinerary.
Driving through Matapedia on the way to Riviere du Loup, our stopover point on the way back to Montreal, wish we could stop and visit again. Other parts of Quebec are more dramatically beautiful but it’s pleasant and mellow here, would be a great place for a writing retreat. Stopped for a bite to eat at a roadside cantine, had my first poutine, been managing to hold out, and it was delicious as was Josef’s chicken. We lucked out. Stopped at the Woodpile and bought souvenirs—a harmonica (don’t ask me why) and a little fishing boat ornament for the Christmas tree. Driving through lightening! It was sunny twenty minutes ago.
July 27, 2008
Ah, a little solitude. Josef took Lucas golfing up the coast at a resort at Fort Preval. Help! I confess, to compulsive eating. I was doing so well, during the tour but because I was in work mode, was fairly disciplined, but since vacation started, I’ve been indulging. I try to stave off the effects by walking but that is not always possible.
Like the west coast, the weather changes from hour to hour, can sit here on the verandah and watch it transpire. Can’t help but hear the slappy lovemaking of the young couple who just checked in next door. “I love you Sebastian!” Watching the groundskeeper on his ride’em mower. I should be blogging more but I’m tired, can’t focus. Hell, I’m supposed to be on holiday, going to walk down to the village, buy a tee-shirt or two, go to the museum.
July 26, 2008
Perce has changed, like every other place in the world I suppose. It’s much more touristy but it has managed to retain its charm, culture. Josef and I were discussing predators and pickpockets, having gone from Times Square to Perce in a week, how I wasn’t too worried when I forgot my purse in La Maison du Percher restaurant last night. Still, I ran back, pushed my way through a throng at the door to find it where I had left it.
Language barrier. Lucas ordered pancakes for breakfast and was served crepes which he described as rubbery. I think the French refer to our pancakes as flapjacks. Well it was bound to happen eventually. I resorted to using sack for bag and carton for box.
People hang their bathing suits off the back of their Adirondack chairs to dry. Church spires often command the horizon, not surprising since they usually own the prime real estate of a town though in Perce, Frederick James, an American painter, built a huge white house with a red roof that dominates Cap Cason. Andre Breton lived here for a time, in 1944, in the months after D-Day, wrote Arcanum 17. Houses painted whimsical colours—lilac, sea green, pumpkin orange, sunflower yellow—or swathed in murals. At the top of the hill, someone has created a striking effect by painting fallen tree branches a stark white and placed them among the living trees.
Hungry again! Lucas refused to come with us so we had a pleasant time dining out together. I ordered the grilled ocean catfish which wasn’t that great. Josef had smoked salmon and shrimp in some kind of sauce, which was much better than my dish. Many Francophones are bilingual. After, we went for a walk down to the wharf and back, lots of people fishing in the windy dark.
Parrots of the sea—puffins—enchant, gulls cry, ravens navigate the wild wind as it blows the Atlantic up into great, roiling mists. No playing cards, why didn’t we bring any? Junior particularly nasty, calling Josef an asshole, bitching about how in summer there should be no schedule, and he is bored, naturally. Being a bully really, but he’s getting worn out, playing Sudoko now on his DES.
I hope the rain lets up overnight, clouds are on the move. It gets dark early out here, around 8:30 pm and the moon is elusive, an orange slice when it finally makes an appearance. No animals, have seen few dogs and cats—pets—since Montreal. The air smells good, invigorating. We lucked out with our accommodations, the Le Mirage, best digs in town, far as I can tell. Swimming pool, tennis courts, great view of the rock.
Dragged Junior along on a boat cruise around Rocher Perce and Bonaventure Island. Being a vanilla lover, the soft ice cream cones have been placating him. It was a perfect day to be out on the water in the Gulf of St. Lawrence. We could see thousands of raucous gannets nesting on the ocean side of the island, forming white lines along the red rock face. It is a beautiful bird-pastel yellow head, bright turquoise blue eye outlined with black and a six foot wing span. Boatload of tourists whooped when they spotted seals bobbing in the waves. Junior complained about the wooden seats being hard on his butt but did pretty well though I couldn’t convince him to get off and have lunch on the island. He thought he was doing well, compared himself to his cousin Lisa who gets panicky on airplanes and the Bowen Island ferry. We couldn’t convince him to drive up to Florillon National Park either so we let him stay at Le Mirage while we explored as much as we could despite the lack of time as we don’t feel comfortable leaving him alone for too long. Lots of vintage cars and collectors, dedicated lawn mowers, wind worn treelines. Car seat by the side of the road like a bench, desolate stumpy trees by the ocean, white house on a truck bed, waiting to be moved. It really is a fantastic place, this part of the country. Mountains aren’t as high as British Columbia’s but parts remind me of home. Gaspe, the town, or city rather, was bigger than I thought, the map is not the territory, as they say. We couldn’t find the magnificent cliffs depicted on all the brochures but did take pictures at the huge lighthouse at Cap de Rosiers before beating it back to Perce and lobster dinner with Junior. Josef and I share interests, enjoy doing many of the same things, should take more trips together. Well, I think we will be doing more of that in the future. Why not? Just have to find a house/dog/Junior sitter. Yikes!
July 25, 2008
At the Matapdia parish cemetery next to the white clapboard church with the red roof and trim. We see Babcocks, Arsenaults, Firths, Gagons, and Haleys of course, practically the family plot. Took Lucas to see the graveyard where is ancestors are buried, went down to the old house to find it down, etc, visited my second cousin Barb and her husband Al. If she is the daughter of my grandfather’s brother, that makes her my second cousin right? Sent over for dinner. Barb made salmon, enjoyed a home cooked meal; it was lovely being with family. She always makes me feel welcome, cherished even. Gave her a CD though I don’t think it’s her cup of tea. Who knows, they like to have it to show to others I think. They’re proud of me. Talked about my mom a bit, showed her the few pictures I had. Talked of how she was depressed, self-destructive, lonely and I wish she’ been diagnosed and gotten the help she needed. She was only 58 when she died.
Josef helped Al fix a cable on his Nintendo, which Barb likes to play before bed every night. Lucas played Super Mario or watched Click, the movie we rented for him though he liked them and we had a nice dinner together. We’ll be back soon we said.
Friday, July 24, 2008 Drive to Matapedia
Referring to the map often, houses are stone or river rock, listening to Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On, driving the 132 Est to Perce/Land’s End, through rain, salmon iconography. Quebecois in a cowboy hat, “don’t punish me with brutality,” purple flowers and lemon fields of canola. Maybe Junior should sit in the back since he insists not to care about the scenery. (As happy as I am to be reunited with my loved ones, I can feel oppressed, hemmed in.) I am harbouring fantasies about buying the old Haley homestead where the Restigouche and Matapdia Rivers meet, building a little modern-style cottage and spending summers out here to work on my French, hang out with relatives, do some genealogical research and write. The house is on the ground now. A few years ago when I visited, the place was still standing, sort of. Barb and Al said the snows were heavy this year and the house collapsed under the weight. We found an old Singer sewing machine in the ruins, a sink and an old cigar tin. I was worried about all the nails sticking out of the boards as Lucas was compelled to explore. We could go swimming, canoeing, fishing, get to know the outfitters, the salmon fishery a major contributor to the local economy.
National Bank, Desjardins, folk art, Shoolbred Cafe, Au Revoir sign as we exit each small town, Josef ordering his coffee in French in Tim Horton’s, about the only place to eat in Campbellton. In fact, it’s big enough to warrant two of them. Saw my second cousin Howard this morning for breakfast. No relation to my (alleged) father Danny but he reminds me of him—the work clothes, pack of cigs in the front shirt pocket. Just saw a house with a mural of eagles painted on the side and a stuffed chicken in the front picture window like a store display. Driving through Saint Omer, Big Audio Dynamite blasting. Mary shrines by the side of the road, like in Mexico, poissonerres, got to get some lobster. Sun keeps popping in and out, teasing us, but mostly raining. Got to love it, cruising down the highway, tunes at maximum volume, the Cult’s Sanctuary now.
Howard said the curling clubs are merging with golf and country clubs in order to survive, curling having enjoying so much more prestige than out west. He pronounced Perce as “Percy,” which confused me at first. He spoke of his sons, his girlfriend Sonya, and the mellow people of New Brunswick, that you can always tell the Quebecois without even seeing their license plates because they are the ones tailgating, anxious to get by. Gite is a B& B, driftwood art, tents in the back yard, feel bad my French is so bad, embarrassed, have to work on it. Gespegaig, Mic Mac souvenirs, a huge, wooden white cross pops out from he side of the road. XTC, Dear God. Take turns driving? Josef says it’s easier on his back, driving. Okay, to veg out sometimes, relax, right, isn’t that the goal?
Growing weary of arguing with Lucas. We are driving past the Bay of Chaleur, New Brunswick on the other side of the water. Hitchhiker, young woman, smiling, probably should have stopped but I like our privacy. Its work, having a third soul around and I’m on vacation. Black Cape Cemetery, fresh fish, Lucas getting antsy, banging my seat, being a pest. Houses block my view of the ocean. Junior cruising for a bruising, already have a sore neck, what else is new? Another cemetery by the sea, always a statue in the middle—Christ on the cross or saints bowing and praying. People attach Canadian Tire gazebos to their porches, where they spend a lot of time eating, drinking, chatting. No fancy sailboats, yachts. Stars on the front of houses instead of numbers, homes modest, nothing ostentatious. Lucas is not feeling well, angry with me for waking him this morning but as I tried to explain, some days when we have to get up early. Fairhaven Bible Camp, run down or vacant storefronts. As in Montreal, people sit on their stoops, play checkers or cards. I just saw a marmot in a field, or a giant gopher. We are eating cousin Barb’s baked goods. Eating too much! Giant woodpiles, dairy cattle, gross gas station restroom floors, whining teen. How much is real estate around here? I’m curious. Real dearth of health food stores, cell phones, drive-through coffee, traffic lights. Maybe AURAL Heather should cover that Wire song Fragile like my first band did back in the day. 96 Tears was another. We perform raucous spoken word. “She is well spoken”, Costello’s This Year’s Girl. What is going to inspire Josef to quit smoking if “Smoking can cause impotence” on the cover doesn’t? Lobster club sandwich for lunch. Yard full of lobster traps, trailer home on the ocean, big white crosses on two off shore islands, more Quebecois on the porch watching the world go by. Spinning wheel in the window. Lighthouse hotel. No dearth of lawn ornaments, crosses, saints, lobster kitsch, gazebos, churches, cathedrals, Dixie Lee drive-ins, hanging baskets of flowers, vine covered brick houses. Earth becoming red.
Bucolic Matapedia Valley—family garments drying on clothes lines, cantines selling poutine, soft ice cream. OUVERT. Bonsoir. A Coop store, haven’t seen one of those in a long time. Large, black, wooden crosses by the road. Silver cathedrals rise up off the horizon every 20 miles or so, along with an attendant cemetery. Guernsey cows, the smell of manure, fields rolling with deep green. We are headed to Causapascal, which I thought was Matapedia the town but now realize is in the Matapedia Valley. Oh well, we’ll stay there tonight as we are tired, get up early and go to Matapedia tomorrow, find a place to stay there. Lucas likes to chatter, and complain and has been picking on me again. He has all the time in the world to do so. Been fighting him too for time on my new computer ever since he came out to meet me. Twin cones-grain silos like a pair of breasts, a Tale of Two Titties. Mary altars, canoeists, Popeye and Bluto painted on a barn. RCA Victor dog statue, odd lawn ornaments, car graveyards, Chrissie Hynde on the radio. The forest here is a mix of evergreen and deciduous, many white-trunked trees-birch or white pine? Rusted trestles, dormant rail line, anglers at every bend in the river.
Just fled the room we had booked at Auberge Coulee Douce in Carscapscal. Tiny, depressing, two little metal framed beds above a restaurant with a slanted porch. Glad we got out of there. Driving along the Matapedia makes me think of the McGarrigle sisters and that song, “racing the Matapedia, “ so melancholy it always chokes me up.
July 22, 2008
Took Lucas golfing at Boule Rock at Metis sur Mer, after a long search. He liked the course, described one hole par 3, high staircase got to shoot from high up on a hill, folk art at Saint Flavie, phallic folks, cared from stone, it’s so beautiful along the water, looking out across the Gut of Saint Lawrence, ferries coming across.
Driving to Riviere Du Loup, our first stop on our way to the Gaspesie. We will spend two nights in Matapedia, to visit family, possibly take Lucas golfing, we will definitely be taking him goofing. He didn’t drag his big, old bag of clubs along for nothing. Hertz didn’t have any cars so gave us the manager’s red Ford Edge for the same price to make up for having to wait. Hope the weather improves. Been raining, getting foggy. Lots of St. Hubert chicken places and RV parks along the 20 Est. Farmland, rolling hills, large rock formations with evergreens all over them. Listening to Sirius radio, not too impressed with their play lists, not half as good as SOMA FM, but enjoying listening to the 80s. Called Roddy to make sure he got home safely and he sounded good.
July 18, 2008-New York
My boys arrived safe and sound! I had been missing them terribly, was thrilled to go down in the Coast Plaza/Times Square torturously slow elevator to see Lucas standing in the lobby, looking about but casting his eyes downward as he caught sight of me turning the corner. Displays of emotion embarrass him, now that he’s a teenager. In the morning I made the mistake of asking the front desk clerk at the hotel for a recommendation for breakfast. She sent us to the Starlight Diner across the street which was an awful tourist trap replete with a woman serenading diners with show tunes, loudly. Got out of there fast. They didn’t serve breakfast anyway. We found a real diner around the corner. Something bit my legs when we sat down. I walked out with red swollen bug bites trying not to think about their source.
Our NYC performance at Cornelia St. Cafe was one of my favourite shows of the tour. Kathi Georges is an accomplished presenter/facilitator; the PA was excellent and included a set of functioning monitors. Hearing myself well makes all the difference in the world. I am not forced to guess where I am in relation to Roderick and the backing tracks. With that anxiety gone, I can focus on my interpretation of the piece, its inflections and nuances. We found SIR rentals upon arriving in the city and procured a Telly, Fender amp and effects pedal too. I hope we never have to do this again, rent equipment. It’s made everything so much more stressful. My friend Michelle was crying when I came off stage, in response to Princess Nut. I was shocked. I knew it was evocative but no one has responded so strongly. It’s reassuring actually, and restores my faith in humanity too, that someone can allow herself to respond so deeply. I joked of course. “You’re a soft touch.” She nodded. I said, “That’s okay, so am I.” Need to find a back copy along with the Village Voice, apparently there was a write-up in there. Kathi and Michelle both promised to write a review too.
The show was over early so we all went out for dinner, to Cathy’s haunt, Thalia. We were in a celebratory mood and there is probably no better place for cocktails than NYC with names Tiger Lilly, Tijuana Mama, Ginger Fizz, Sage Advice, Ryan’s Whisper, Bee’s Knees, you know you’re in for a good time. An adventurous cocktail is better than dessert. We were all flying out to Montreal early in the morning so decided to stay up all night rather than try to sleep. Turns out it was convenient to be staying in Times Square, everything open all night. It was a long haul and we were exhausted the next day, the four of us arriving safely though Canada Customs searched everyone except me. I was so tired I couldn’t remember my flight number when the stone-faced Customs agent asked. His eyebrow raised noticeably when I told him I didn’t buy anything. “Were you working?” he asked. No, no, just busy with my friends, which is true enough. Christ, not every Canuck is going to the States to shop. I’m surprised they didn’t search me too. To a taxi to the hotel, the Doubletree Plaza, a Hilton, and quickly surmised that it sucked.
Last date of the tour, hiding out in the bathroom while the boys sleep, they’re so tired. I’m relieved, burning out a little on touring but I do love it. I will have to do things differently for the next leg. Unfortunately, Ian is out of town, I won’t be seeing him at the show.
Went to find a cafe on St. Denis, had a spinach omlette, the went for a long walk, only got a little bit lost, cabbed it back to the hotel, antsy, tried to *prepare* as much as possible with no privacy. Rod hasn’t been able to find a store to rent equipment, they only rent to Quebec residents, so he bought a guitar! Another challenge, another set-up entirely new and different than all the other shows we’ve played. Our act is getting tight, that’s for certain. We’ll be able to play on the beach with an acoustic by the time we’re done.
AURAL Heather’s last show, Sunday, July 20 at Casa de Popolu in Montreal facilitated by Wired on Words, Yellow Door and ELAN, the English Language Arts Network. Things seemed unorganized when we arrived for sound check at 7 PM. No emcee. No one seemed to know the order of the performers or how long to play, etc. Much speculation and Jordi Rosen, one of the performers on the bill said, “Well I got an email from Sally from ELAN saying I was on second.” Hudost, the headliners were on stage, so we sat and waited for our turn. At least we didn’t have to sit through in interminable open mike and enjoyed immensely the others on the bill: Simon Honeyman, the aforementioned Jordi Rosen, and Hudost. We ended up playing last, after Hudost and all their friends exited. Oh well, there were people there to see us as well including Cat Kidd and Geoff Agombar. I dedicated Habitat to her as she too harbours a preoccupation with animals. Vince Tinguley liked us, is a good ally. Going to try hard to take a few days off AURAL H biz, but do have several deadlines-the Rocksalt anthology, my website and our tours, dammit!