Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Lonely Ranger
Here's a video of The Magnetic North performing the song "Lonely Ranger" at the 2012 Calgary Folk Music Festival.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
2012 Calgary Folk Festival
I had the incredible opportunity to perform at the Calgary Folk Festival this last weekend, and it was truly one of the most amazing experiences of my life. Leading up to the festival, I half-joked that the festival would end up being the pinnacle of my musical career, and I might be right. That's not necessarily a bad thing, though - most people don't even get the chance to partake in something so incredible.
I'm hoping some photographs and other content pop up over the next few days, and I imagine I'll be likely to share some of them here. I'd also like to write something for this space that really encapsulates the magic that was last weekend.
For now, I'll just post this video of a workshop we were lucky enough to take part in with Sam Baker, Serena Ryder, and 3 Meter Day. I don't really play anything incredible, but it felt like a special moment.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Design Decoder
As I didn't create this video, or act in any other way as more than an extra, this post isn't entirely relevant to this blog. But I don't care.
This video was shot and released last year as a supplement to a piece published about my friend, and club mate, Daaren Boreham. We rode scooters around town and a cool little video came of it. Enjoy!
This video was shot and released last year as a supplement to a piece published about my friend, and club mate, Daaren Boreham. We rode scooters around town and a cool little video came of it. Enjoy!
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
The Crescent Heights Live at Local 510 - August 2011
I played my first show with The Crescent Heights in a while this weekend at Local 510 in Calgary. The show was remarkable for me mostly due to the fact I was able to perform for the first time with my new Rickenbacker 4003 bass guitar.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
My Morning Eyes
I had been able to find a seat on the bus, an event I sometimes considered a small victory. Other times I preferred to stand and feel the dull ache in my bad leg. I guess it all depended on how acutely I wanted to feel the perceived pain of another day. On this particular morning, I was relatively happy to be able to sit and gaze around wishing my eyes were still closed.
My unfortunately open eyes fell casually upon a man standing a few feet in front of me. There wasn’t anything particular unique about him, but there was something in or about him that sparked my interest. My girlfriend had been volunteering at the homeless shelter recently and I had been subjected to countless of her stories about the people who relied upon the institution and their individual sufferings. Something had changed recently within me and this change had revealed a receding callousness within myself that I thought I was greater than. The very fact that this man on the bus initiated the thought process that brought me to thinking of homelessness was itself an indication of my deficiencies.
The man on the bus was dressed in what appeared to be working clothes. His appearance, and the way he carried himself, seemed rough and slightly beaten down. I thought about the differences between his appearance and my own for a moment. My clothes were likely more expensive and absolutely more immaculate. But I had to wear a tie to work, and he did not. My face had to have looked tired, but I imagine one could only find hints of sadness deep within my eyes, whereas this man’s face had the strong look of leather that betrayed a relentless struggle. The funny thing, I mused, was that he surely made significantly more money working his apparent trade than I did wasting my time filing unimportant paperwork. But men like that, those from the wrong side of town, the wrong religion, the wrong country (or whatever it is that we decide divides us), seem to carry the wounds of this ongoing war against existence on their bodies. If this life is a war against itself, then maybe I occupy some home front office planning the offensive that men like the one on the bus must fight on the front lines. I carry the scars of the war on the inside; my mind is disfigured but my body is untouched.
The bus rumbled inevitably downtown and as I was thinking about this man and his relation to myself I became aware that my mode of thinking was still trapped within the hopeless dichotomy of us and them, of myself and the other. I knew nothing of this man travelling downtown with me except for what I could see through the haze of my morning eyes. I had assumed he was unhappy and fighting against existence and I had assumed that he was a tradesperson and I had assumed that he was from a different (see: inferior) socio-economic background than myself. I had seen him as something different than myself. Even if he did, in fact, make more money than I did I still saw him as a member of a different class than myself. This was troubling, because, depending on the day, I considered myself likely a card carrying Marxist, or black mask wearing anarchist or something. This world can get inside of you even when you think you’ve blocked every entrance.
My stop arrived and, as if to prove some sort of point of the unity of all, it was also his stop. We left the bus and walked further into the heart of our city’s corporate body. We waited to cross the road at the corner, both of us staring forward to the little box that would eventually light up informing us that it was safe to proceed. A crowd of other commuters began to gather awaiting permission to continue forward. The light finally illuminated the shape of a white man walking and we stepped into the street and began our procession to our jobs. We moved forward like soldiers marching to the front; I wasn’t sure if we were travelling to our places of work, to our deaths, or both.
We reached another street and we were all forced to stop and wait again. The man from the bus was close to me still and had seen a friend of his waiting across the street at the train station. Behind his friend there was a homeless man sitting on the ground slouched against the wall. He was asleep, unconscious, or dead. Nobody seemed to notice. I assume he was just asleep. The man from the bus jolted out of the crowd and moved quickly across the street. He arrived safely on the opposite corner while we all just waited for official permission to do the same. His friend smiled quickly at him, and handed him a coffee in a paper cup. Without exchanging any words they turned to the right and walked towards the train station’s platform.
With the crowd I stepped out into the street and resumed my walk to work. I thought of what I had just seen between the man from the bus and his friend. I thought of their silent camaraderie and the gentle kindness of his friend. I thought of all the people who were silently waiting for a loved one somewhere holding on to a hot cup of coffee.
For a moment I closed my eyes and hoped it was enough.
My unfortunately open eyes fell casually upon a man standing a few feet in front of me. There wasn’t anything particular unique about him, but there was something in or about him that sparked my interest. My girlfriend had been volunteering at the homeless shelter recently and I had been subjected to countless of her stories about the people who relied upon the institution and their individual sufferings. Something had changed recently within me and this change had revealed a receding callousness within myself that I thought I was greater than. The very fact that this man on the bus initiated the thought process that brought me to thinking of homelessness was itself an indication of my deficiencies.
The man on the bus was dressed in what appeared to be working clothes. His appearance, and the way he carried himself, seemed rough and slightly beaten down. I thought about the differences between his appearance and my own for a moment. My clothes were likely more expensive and absolutely more immaculate. But I had to wear a tie to work, and he did not. My face had to have looked tired, but I imagine one could only find hints of sadness deep within my eyes, whereas this man’s face had the strong look of leather that betrayed a relentless struggle. The funny thing, I mused, was that he surely made significantly more money working his apparent trade than I did wasting my time filing unimportant paperwork. But men like that, those from the wrong side of town, the wrong religion, the wrong country (or whatever it is that we decide divides us), seem to carry the wounds of this ongoing war against existence on their bodies. If this life is a war against itself, then maybe I occupy some home front office planning the offensive that men like the one on the bus must fight on the front lines. I carry the scars of the war on the inside; my mind is disfigured but my body is untouched.
The bus rumbled inevitably downtown and as I was thinking about this man and his relation to myself I became aware that my mode of thinking was still trapped within the hopeless dichotomy of us and them, of myself and the other. I knew nothing of this man travelling downtown with me except for what I could see through the haze of my morning eyes. I had assumed he was unhappy and fighting against existence and I had assumed that he was a tradesperson and I had assumed that he was from a different (see: inferior) socio-economic background than myself. I had seen him as something different than myself. Even if he did, in fact, make more money than I did I still saw him as a member of a different class than myself. This was troubling, because, depending on the day, I considered myself likely a card carrying Marxist, or black mask wearing anarchist or something. This world can get inside of you even when you think you’ve blocked every entrance.
My stop arrived and, as if to prove some sort of point of the unity of all, it was also his stop. We left the bus and walked further into the heart of our city’s corporate body. We waited to cross the road at the corner, both of us staring forward to the little box that would eventually light up informing us that it was safe to proceed. A crowd of other commuters began to gather awaiting permission to continue forward. The light finally illuminated the shape of a white man walking and we stepped into the street and began our procession to our jobs. We moved forward like soldiers marching to the front; I wasn’t sure if we were travelling to our places of work, to our deaths, or both.
We reached another street and we were all forced to stop and wait again. The man from the bus was close to me still and had seen a friend of his waiting across the street at the train station. Behind his friend there was a homeless man sitting on the ground slouched against the wall. He was asleep, unconscious, or dead. Nobody seemed to notice. I assume he was just asleep. The man from the bus jolted out of the crowd and moved quickly across the street. He arrived safely on the opposite corner while we all just waited for official permission to do the same. His friend smiled quickly at him, and handed him a coffee in a paper cup. Without exchanging any words they turned to the right and walked towards the train station’s platform.
With the crowd I stepped out into the street and resumed my walk to work. I thought of what I had just seen between the man from the bus and his friend. I thought of their silent camaraderie and the gentle kindness of his friend. I thought of all the people who were silently waiting for a loved one somewhere holding on to a hot cup of coffee.
For a moment I closed my eyes and hoped it was enough.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Savk at the Calgary Folk Fest Songwriting Competition
A couple weeks ago I had the honour of performing with a handful of incredibly talented musicians in a group called Savk. The band is essentially Stephen Van Kampen's (of previous Beija Flor notoriety) current musical venture, and it is truly great. He had submitted his work to the Calgary Folk Fest for their annual song writing competition and made it into the finals; which is in itself a pretty remarkable achievement. For this performance, and possibly future ones, he wanted to arrange the song for a full band. This is where I came into the picture. We didn't win, but that's not really the most important thing. I was immensely proud and honoured to have been a part of some music that I genuinely think is incredible.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
