The holiday gift giving tradition goes waaay back … back, back, no, even further back. Before the kid in the stable, even.
Exchanging gifts at a midwinter feast seems to have started as both a magical AND practical way to share the bounties of the year with family and friends. The people that gave the best gifts to others were respected for their generosity.
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We all need touch…..human touch. A handshake, a hug, the brushing of legs, a gentle pat on the arm in conversation, holding hands, arms around shoulders, brushing hair from a face, the playful tug on your ear from a baby….it’s all about touch. It’s what we crave. It’s what we desire. It’s reassuring. It’s caring. It’s affection. It’s love. It’s unspoken words. Touch is how the blind “see” us. Touch is what connects us to ourselves and each other and we’re losing that connection.
I know exactly how long I’ve been in lockdown, but what I don’t know is how long I’m gonna have to remain cooped up.
Openers…….
Today is a bright but chilly October day. (great opening line huh?) Then there’s Snoopy’s book opening….“It was a dark and stormy night.” Okay, how about “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” (Tales of Two Cities – Charles Dickens) Or, “It’s a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.” (Pride and Prejudice – Jane Austen) THAT was a different time….most definitely. Then there’s, “It was the afternoon of my eighty-first birthday and I was in bed with my catamite when Ali announced that the archbishop had come to see me.” (Earthly Powers – Anthony Burgess). I can’t even begin to imagine explaining that one. How about, “I write this sitting at the kitchen sink”. (Capture the Castle – Dodie Smith). That’s sure to grab attention…..and apparently it did. “It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs and I don’t know what I was doing in New York.” (The Bell Jar – Sylvia Plath). Confused, frustrated, a chronic depressive, Plath committed suicide by sticking her head in a gas oven at the very young age of 30, leaving behind two young children. “You’ve no choice, look back.” (The Story of Hansel and Gretel – Louise Murphy) We must learn from the past. “It was a bright cold day in April and the clocks were striking thirteen.” (1984 – George Orwell) Canada’s pants would do well to pay attention. Apparently they’re not paying attention to Hansel or Gretel.
I’m going to sneak one in this week. I miss writing and Tuesday’s column by fellow writer Frank Gutch Jr. has motivated me. “War stories” of a different type….addiction…”the fact or condition of being addicted to a particular substance or activity.” (Oxford Dictionary) In this case, I’m referring specifically to “a particular substance”.
Remember the heyday of The Old Spaghetti Factory? Massive as the place was, there were always lineups, and you’d eagerly await that call of your name … “Smith, party of 4!” “John, party of 3!”
There was a scourge of new releases flooding my mailbox the last two weeks from busy rockers who had spent their summer vacation in steaming hot recording studios making the sweaty into sonic saltwater taffy. It’s encouraging to know that despite the bottom falling out of the bottom of the music economy, artists are still optimistically churning out art with the hope that some ear will be turned, some feet will tap and some groins will mobilize all in the name of soothing the soul.
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Unlike the many industries that burp and seize up in anticipation of Christmas – and ultimately stop dead in its tracks – Rock ‘n Roll never takes a break. It doesn’t go on holiday. It lives on an endless perpetual calendar of sex, stimulants and adrenalin. It bounds and plods and steamrolls and even hemorrhages creativity despite the sleepy respite that is observed by the denizens of the normal world.
After five days of independent music and film showcases, along with three days of industry seminars, Indie Week wrapped last night. The event just keeps getting better every year. The bands and fans have a wonderful time, careening from venue to venue, sampling new and new to them music, while rubbing shoulders with like-minded people eager to see and be seen.
I’m getting a lot of requests to carry on dredging old musical memories out of my addled brain. Despite my protests, I’ll bow to that pressure, but I’m moving on now from the terrific bars and clubs of Toronto’s late 70’s and early 80’s, and on to an attempt to deconstruct the very fabric of the groups who filled those venues.
But first … an apology to our fearless leader, Bob Segarini. In an effort not to seem like an apple polisher, I failed to note his presence on the Toronto music scene in last week’s memoirs. Bob played at every venue I mentioned – he was everywhere. And where he was playing, I’d show up sooner or later. You see, I’ve known Bob for longer than just about anybody who is still in my life.
Bullseye Records of Canada
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 