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"Music takes us out of the actual
and whispers to us dim secrets
that startle our wonder as to who we are,
and for what, whence, and whereto.”
~Ralph Waldo Emerson~
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Do you remember events in your life where everything was just right? When everything - the people, the event, the food, the drinks, the atmosphere was just plain old good?
I had one of those times last night. It seems like a lifetime ago that I've had a night like that. Somehow, in the past two years I got too caught up, trying too hard to make things perfect that just were never going to fit. So, last night was my big McDish 2011 debut as it were. I was off to see and hear
Robert Plant and his Band of Joy.
After a day of stuff you have to do to keep your household running, and of running errands for a grade school marketing project, I headed out into the unexpected snow storm to the great world of night time city lights. With my child safely tucked in for a "guys" night, which involved Chinese take-out and lots of Wii-ing, I set off for the ATM, and my first concert in let's see... way too long!
Robert Plant that silly old rocker was at it again downtown at the Sony Centre/Hummingbird Centre/O'Keeffe Centre (depending on your vintage). I was quite excited to hear the much anticipated opening act, The North Mississippi Allstars, and see Mr. Plant on stage again.
I love the city at night. I love the lights and the buzz of energy, and wondering where everyone, all dolled up and looking their best, is going. As I drove along the Gardiner, and into the hub of things, silently cursing all of those weenies who still pay to come and see the Maple Leafs humiliate GTA-ers again, who successfully clog the expressway in their eight bazillion mile line to exit at Spadina (because their GPS has no functional brain or imagination), I was so happy to live along the hem of such an eccentrically clad city.
My timing is immaculate. As I was heading to our secret parking spot, there was my pal on the corner of Front and Church. I honked my horn and they hopped in my car. Half running, and half frozen in one spot we tip-toed our way through the slushy sidewalks to a warm little pub and took some comfort in a little out of the way booth. There was buzz about, and a number of other patrons were headed off to the same concert.
We were out for a night of good, honest fun. I was done up in a pair of great boots, and some blue, vintage beads tackily appropriate for such occasions. My friends often compliment me as the only person who can do tacky with style. I looooove tacky, and I wear it well. Tacky art is my forte, tacky concert garb runs a close second. (Note here my leopard AC/DC shirt and black, sequined, Stevie-Nicksesque-flying sleeved Elvis shirt.)
Real music fans warm the soft places in my teeny-tiny tacky-chick heart. Sometimes I feel like I'm a bit on the fringe of the fringe if you know what I mean. I like my girly footwear, great lip gloss, a little funky house beat now and again. I don't take it all straight riffs and rock-a-billy-no-showers-and-three-straight-tour-nights-in-a-row-just-in-case-the-set-list-changes. I do have a taste for the 80's now and then, and need a bit of over-produced groove in my musical diet. So, this is my bow to you my readers; I am not writing this as a music expert, just a woman who was there in the moment and loving every second of it.
After a couple good swigs of wine and a belly full of calamari, I got caught up in a conversation with a man and his son about the concert. The son, who had a tattoo on his left elbow of one of those little discs you had to click into the centre of your vinyl 45's to get them to play was accompanying his long-grey-haired-leather-accessorised-father who, I'm sure graced the audience with a gullet full of magic mushrooms during Plant's Led Zeppelin days. Cool. I was within arms reach of the fringe itself.
There's something inexplicably sexy about anyone who is organically musical (even when I haven't had two glasses of wine). If you can sing, play or pick, you're automatically advanced quite a few notches on the sexy-o-meter. This goes for both men and women, although there are exceptions to the rule; Anne Murray, Rita McNeil, Barry Manilow and the man-pig himself, Gene-the-walking-STD-Simmons.
So, I was all geared up to see Mr. Plant take the stage, and snake and twist his lythe, sexy, senior-citizen, musically gifted body across the Sony Centre stage. Being able to share this enthusiasm with other music fans and best friends just makes the entire experience over-the-rainbow-holy-mackerel-thank-god-I'm-alive-tonight fun.
The
North Mississippi Allstars exceeded my fringe of the fringe expectations. Two guys took to the stage and produced a sound as powerful and awe-inspiring as an entire orchestra. Luther and Cody Dickinson, brothers, and the total of the NMA, kicked up a show that I'm thankful I had the fortune to witness. The sound was amazing. They riffed like
Grossman's Ph.D. candidates.
As they played, satiating the blues-hungry crowd, I spotted the rare, lone psychedelic dancer. You know the one that I mean. It's the dude with rubbery arms flailing around in the air and tiptoeing in circles like one of the three ugly sisters around a cauldron. I looked at my neighbour, and he at me, and we both had an Ah-ha moment. Is it? Could it be?! Goof-ful Dave who makes a spectacle of himself at every concert he can wedge himself into? (Dave is the loose thread hanging from the hem of the local music scene fringe if you know what I mean.)We laughed and laughed as everyone around us was launched into this wonderful experience of communal sound. (Incidentally, Goof-ful Dave also made an appearance at the most subdued Steve Miller concert I've ever attended this summer).
I wish I could say that the first strains of Plant and his Band of Joy's opening tune were completely mesmerizing, but heck! I'm a girl after all, and the first thing I noticed were Patty Griffin's boots! Nearly knee high with at least four inch heels in bright red....! I need those boots! And Robert Plant you sexy old piece of British man-jerky, you wowed me with your shining silvery/patent, pointy-toed foot jewels. Fabulous shoes...I ogled their shoes and then I focused on the music.
Plant and his Band of Joy, which consists of Patty Griffin (joy enough on her own),
Darrell Scott (the god of strings and the most ethereal male voice I've heard since Leonard Cohen), Buddy Miller, and some poor, nameless schmuck (who was never properly introduced) on the giant strings, performed a great set list. Patty Griffin is ticket-worthy in her own right, but missed the mark on Rich Woman, where I idealise Alison Krauss's vocals. Griffin (had she been horizontal, could have been mistaken for a seizing patient, not a dancing musician), sings and plays like nobody's business. She's right up there with Bonnie Raitt.
Darrell Scott. Solo album? Yes please. That's pretty much all I can say. His voice was hauntingly beautiful and I can only hope that one day I have the good fortune of hearing his music again.
They performed a mix of rockabilly, blues, gospel and Appalachian roots. Plant threw in a smattering of old Zeppelin tunes and wowed me with an arrangement of "Tangerine". Patty and Michael, Michigan faithfuls, ( I met Patty as we talked between bathroom stalls after NMA finished and they were setting up for Plant) sat just in front of me during the concert and joined in my woo-hoo's and applause. "Please Read the Letter", is one of my favourites, and I thoroughly and completely enjoyed, "Satan Your Kingdom Must Come Down".
What I found most remarkable, and is the signature of truly great live music is that the sound last night could never be captured on a recording. Like reading a book, and then seeing the movie, the movie just can't capture the subtle nuances of the written word. The sound last night, the energy, the uniqueness and impossibility of recreating the moment made me grateful to be alive there, in that great blustery cold city, if only for those few hours.
The music gently and appropriately came to an end with a stellar and understated performance of, "And We Bid You Goodnight".
It was a perfect night. Every bit of it. The wine, the food, the company, the laughs and the music. But the music would not have been as melodious had it not been for like-minded, joyful people. Thank you Robert Plant and your Band of Joy.
Oh yah. I almost forgot, if anyone knows where to get those boots, call me.
