Trying to stay positive and compassionate. Put your hands up if you’ve ever lost a loved one to a drunk driver. Anyone? For all those of you who don’t live where I live here were the headlines of a couple of weeks ago. Our provincial leader is caught with twice the legal limit of booze in his system and weaving at 70 mph down a dark Hawaiian road. His speech is slurred and he needs to prop himself up against the car so as not to faceplant. I’ll go on record as saying I never supported his party in the first place -- save for a fundraiser (for one of his more environmentally aware MLA’s) I took part in for the sake of Sharkskin ... that I have regretted before, during and ever since. In the case of Gordon Campbell’s current situation I will say my agenda is not, “hey he fucked up and this is our chance to get rid of him”. That has always been Gordon Campbell’s agenda when it comes to his political adversaries. He did all he could to railroad Glenn Clark out of office for supposed wrong doings for which he was later vindicated. Glen Clarke was a guy almost my age who came from working class east Vancouver and who talked, walked and looked like just about anyone you might see at the grocery store. People like that just don’t get elected in North America...ever. It was so rare. Any mistakes he made in office were in the interests of evening the playing field for those who didn’t buy into the idea of corporate America. I really liked that guy. It was inevitable that he would be submarined somehow. Gordon Campbell might stand for all the opposite values and his political victories seem to be an end in themselves. This is only partially Gordon Campbell’s fault. When he stood up and pointed fingers it was transparently in the interest of getting elected and not with any other purpose. One goal at a time.
I believe in forgiveness at almost any cost but that doesn’t mean I will let that person back in my life in exactly the same way. Do you know what I mean? Maybe that is not forgiveness in the normal sense of the word. I forgive Gordon Campbell for what he’s done and I don’t judge him as any lesser a person but he has now forced himself onto a different path. His life should change. Its up to him to face that fact. Its not enough to say sorry and get right back into the driver’s seat promising it will never happen again. The crime he committed was one that shouldn’t allow for this. Atonement includes accepting consequences. Its time to change it up and give himself a fresh start. Take some time off and put together a plan for making the rest of your life into something else. I see people resist this phase in all fields...even music. The hardest thing to do is change one’s life direction in a major way. His identity as a politician is what is at stake here. People fool themselves as to how much the maintenance of their career identity has to do with their sanity. If his goal is truly, as he states, “public service” then he should choose public service in another form. Those who support his policies are rationalizing beyond the scope of logic. It seems demographically it is the older set that find this behaviour acceptable. Drinking and driving was not looked at in the same way by previous generations. No one wore seat belts. People did ballistic exercises, drank raw eggs, juggled uranium, spanked their kids and smoked a shit load of cigarettes. Cocaine was not addictive and women stayed home. I jest but at the same time I’m proving a point. It doesn’t fly today. He will find support with those in his graduating class and those who put their version of “economic discipline” before integrity and morals. I’m trying to stay positive and compassionate. I hope Gordon Campbell can save himself from the idea that he must remain the person he was. There are plenty of people who can do your job. Go on and go free.
posted by Craig Northey at 12:14 PM

This completes the circle for me. The end of the trail meets the beginning of the trail and you have to decide if the scenery was beautiful enough for you to run it again. I set unique goals for my own music. It would make life a lot easier if I centred on the goal of selling a lot of records. Sometimes I try. My version of what that means can be different than what it means to the people who actually complete this task. I have learned this. Music is a higher power and it can be used to help and heal. The compliments one receives about song craft or performance shrink to bread crumbs in comparison to the compliments about the emotional or spiritual impact of anything you’ve done. You send out a piece of your life and it goes out in a little pod, plastic box, cardboard sleeve or series of binary code and it grows somewhere else. It introduces itself to someone new and then plants itself into a moment in their day. If you’re lucky it stays for longer. If you’re really lucky it becomes part of their sense memory and fires up a creative thought for them. Sometimes the sounds and words can heal wounds and motivate action. When someone tells you how this has happened to them in any way it completes the trail. That scenery makes you want to keep running. I get to hear from individual voices in stray places all over the globe and when their gratitude ranges into these areas I feel like I sent out thousands of messages in bottles with some flexible curative formula on them and one or two were found, tried and actually worked. When the message comes back I have completed such a long shot that I just want to try again. Do lottery winners stop buying tickets right after they win? I start down that loop trail with fresh legs.

for Liz
posted by Craig Northey at 2:10 PM

Forbidden Pez part 3, continued from Jan.6 & Jan.10


He was beginning to grow afraid of his euphoria. Foreign feelings eventually arouse suspicion. His general sense of levitation began to sink by centimetres each day. One day you notice that the low parts of St. Mark’s square are underwater and it reminds you that Venice is sinking. All this beauty taken by entropy and left to further dissolve under the depths. It will be harder to dig out when its forty fathoms down. Gradual movement is a prime element of deception. Back away slowly from the bear and maybe the dumb beast won’t notice?
He hadn’t left the apartment in three days and no matter how high you are this can bring on reflection. His endorphin levels would need to be recharged by some actual physical movement. His place was small enough that any rambunctious activity could produce a funk within minutes. This was also a byproduct of any basement suite. He had only two tiny “half windows” installed on the same side of the house above the bearing edge of the foundation. His vista was limited to the feet of the letter carrier seen shuffling down the overgrown paving stones of the side path that led to his front door in the back. First past one window and then seconds later past the other. The landlord’s cat stared in at him the odd time as if turning the tables at the zoo. He flashed to the time he had watched a robin cock its head listening for worms and then strike. Maybe ten times it pierced the lawn with its beak bringing up the dark purplish glistening prizes. The detail was incredible as it was only a foot or two from his window. It was raining heavily and the bird seemed to pause and puff out its breast feathers after every kill. Hammond thought that was so the water could wash away some of the muddy soil and make the squirming morsel a cleaner meal.
That was his name. Hammond. Hammond Brown. Not the birds name ... the character in this story. His father had one of those standard issue senses of humour that skirts bad taste and delivers a pun when you least want to hear one. Hammond loved hockey but cringed each time he heard the cyclical chords and rising modulations of the rink organist’s standard rallying piece. After a long day at the mill his dad would plunk down on the organ’s bench in his cedar and grease scented teal work clothes and the unwashed hands would come down on those chords. He claimed it marked the end of a work day and the charge into the home game. He’d often play just the one piece, just once and on his way to the shower point back at the organ and say to Hammond, “I named you after that thing because it brings a smile to my face everyday”. As Hammond entered his teens the post work concert continued but that comment became less frequent. By fifteen he stopped saying it altogether. He stared at the organ now dominating the opposite wall of his tiny space and thought that it should be the one thing he valued from the past. Instead he loathed it and had focused all his energies on something more tiny, fragile, and hard to come by.
posted by Craig Northey at 9:33 AM

My head is inside a whole bunch of new songs. I don’t want to pull it out. Every moment I can spend in that womb is precious. I’ll try to meet you on the air tomorrow.
posted by Craig Northey at 10:41 PM

Note form...OK?

Firstly the thanks: Thanks to Andrew White for doing so much work on prep for the tour. Unfortunately Drew couldn’t actually come and I know he really wanted to be there. I hope all the cellphone calls made it feel like you were there.

Secondly: Doug Elliott & Pat Steward for sharing the notes, the beverages and the smells. Rob Howick for stepping in to mix when I needed him most. My pals in Treble Charger leant me their monitor rig for this tour and I’d like to say a big thanks to Rosie, Bill, Greig and Trevor. Thanks to Blair Packham for the guitar amp and the storage space. Thanks to Flavio Monopoli, Kari Wilcox and Craig Collett at Coll Audio for big help in that department. Thanks to David Himelfarb for putting together the Mike Bullard stuff and treating us to good food. Thanks to Matt Smallwood for the PR and to Karen Pace for her groundwork. Thanks to my extended Kingston family for the happy hosting and the deluxe crash pad. Thanks to Jesse Mackowycz at the 360, Paul Symes at le Mouton Noir, Stu Hill, James and Virginia Clarke at the Queens Grad Club for having me to the party. Thanks to Chris Blake, Mary Boutette, Laurie, Phillip, and Jeff Craib for your legwork. Alistair Calder did the emergency internet updates and continues to be my knight in virtual armour.

finally ...all you loyal Craigies who showed up despite the cold. Jenn even flew from Calgary.

Open Mike with Mike Bullard: I think it went as well as live music on TV can go. I didn’t hear any clinkers and there was no parsley in my teeth. I wanted to do something visually interesting so I brought along an extra drummer. Paul Brennan (Odds, Mae Moore, Big Sugar, Chantal Kreviazuk, Sarah Slean) had to be the man. I was unprepared for how much I would enjoy the sound of two drummers behind me. The material on the record is really rhythm heavy so the fit was snug. Loved it. Hope to do it more often. People keep referred to me as the former Odds “front man” in interviews and reviews. Let me go on record as saying we had 4 frontmen at all times. We initially got much more mileage out of Steven’s hair than anything else. His hair was our “frontman”.

Toronto, the 360 Club: The room was a bit cavernous for the “respectable crowd”. There was a british bulldog line of people up front and then a yawning casm and then all the rest of the people stood at a safe distance. The band & I had a great time and I felt more relaxed on an opening night than I think I ever have. A couple of years ago the Colin james Band started using “in-ear” monitors to protect singing voices and get rid of the inconsistencies suffered in stage sound when flitting from place to place. They also come in handy when you’re playing with loops, click tracks and effects. I’ve really enjoyed them and try to use them whenever I do stuff with my own band ...but...when some of your best friends are comedy writers and they show up to the gig you really want to hear all the heckling. Sometimes the monitors block some of that out. If it seemed like I was stunned by their salvos its not true. I couldn’t hear them. Mo Berg & Blair Packham joined us for the background vocals on Warren Zevon’s “Excitable Boy”. I felt like it would be fun to try a couple of my favourites from our (Odds) time with Warren. In this time of tributes to him I guess it looks like bandwagon jumping but I feel like its a more than worthy bandwagon and one that we helped drive at one time in the past.

Wakefield, the Black Sheep: I’d heard about this place for a couple of years. Full moon and a beautiful little town in the Gatineau Hills at -30 degrees. Our host Paul Symes knew how to make any musician feel welcome and respected. The intimacy of the show was a product of the warm atmosphere and the friggin’ extreme cold outside. Shout outs to Kim, Mary, Kath and Marty for always being there for the downbeat. We managed to swallow a few ales and hang out into the wee hours...again. Don’t worry we learned years ago that your pee doesn’t freeze on the way down to the snow.

Kingston, Queens Grad Club: While we knew we would have a good time with our chums we didn’t know how the gig would go. The gig came in late so there wasn’t much time to let people know we were coming. The band was loosey goosey in the way that it should be and the crowd was attentive and overflowing ...as they should be. I was amazed at the turnout and we kept the good vibrations of the show undulating (once again) into the small hours of the night. Its always bittersweet to end on a high note because you mourn the fact that you finally have the whole machine up and purring and then you have to stop. If you never got into the groove then it wouldn’t matter that you couldn’t do it the next night.

basic song list for the shows:

Giddy Up
Slow Motion
Take A Hit Off This
Satisfied
What Lack of Love Has Done - Nick Lowe
Write It In Lightning
Old Mistakes
Always Breaking Heart
Famous Grave
Make You Mad
After Walking In Space
SomeOne Who’s Cool
Sons & Daughters

encore 1

Mohammed’s Radio - Warren Zevon
Excitable Boy - Warren Zevon
Out Come Stars

encore 2 Kingston

Beautiful Pain
Mercy to Go

posted by Craig Northey at 9:04 PM

Fried like a potato. Too much to do upon my arrival home. I didn't take a computer on the road and I really loved that fact. I think I must have needed a break from that radiant glow. My summary will have to wait until tomorrow night. Quickly I will say that everything went swimmingly and I thank all those who attended, watched or listened.
posted by Craig Northey at 11:42 PM

Forbidden Pez - part 2, continued from Jan 6, 2003

It had been a week since the harmonic convergence. He was living in the quiet greasy vacuum created in the wake of the event. It was as if he was now drafting, helmetless and with no hands on the bars, on his old orange Apollo ten-speed behind a gleaming semi trailer with rose flavoured exhaust. Nothing resisted the flow of his days when he had this momentum. Maybe it was the momentum of a complete life. He had known for the past few hard years that a meaningful relationship was increasingly unlikely. Once this was resolved he had reduced his expectations and rationalized his introversion to lofty heights. He honed his expertise at being alone. Now he had “the Butler Pez” he possessed something completely unique. The butler was gloriously alone and so was he.
The apartment would buzz with ions of potential energy until such a time that he decided how to tell people what he had. Relishing this excitement he treated himself to all manner of his favourite private indulgences. It was tough to call in sick to the Photomat when his voice held an uncontrollable undertone of delirious laughter. Fortunately weakness sounds the same as giddy mania if you consciously force yourself to speak slowly and drop off at the end of sentences. He was the manager and had never called in sick before -- so nobody really doubted him anyway.
He was pants down on the couch watching Fashion Television within thirty seconds. Left hand in the fresh bag of corn chips and the right one circling and rising like any cathode ray hypnotized love slave around the pale apex of his nerve endings. Sometimes his face got hot and flushed from watching too much TV. Simultaneously pulling himself off made him feel like too much TV wasn’t the problem. One couldn’t divorce the causes from the symptoms that resulted and he could choose to pin it all on the one that seemed to be more . . .well . . . natural. In truth he did a lot of both. TV and self love were a direct route to that feeling that he had unplugged. Eventually this led to the feeling that he had to do something with himself and brought him back to plugging in again. Just after the seconds of pleasure came the deep breath through the nose and a minutely desperate need to restore order and discipline brought on by the nosedive into thoughts of his student loan*. This time there was no little death. The knowledge that the butler could bring him unimaginable wealth made the euphoria of the gooey finale last tens of minutes longer and dovetail gently back into his general state of bliss. He reminded himself to savour the moment, grabbed the remote with his eating hand and flipped over to the hockey game.

* reference to the student loan inspired by Bruce McCulloch's "Shame Based Man". Buy the record and find the song.
posted by Craig Northey at 10:39 PM

The night sky has been particularly clear for the last few days. I can now confirm that we are not alone. All it takes is to lie on your back and stare hard into the spaces between the twinkling bits. If you don’t blink for a good 40 minutes you will see things. You can get faster results staring at the centre of the midday sun but those results tend to stay with you much longer. I just think most people are afraid to go the distance. How much do people really want to know? If I can see flying blotches and purple strobing orbs with the naked eye then just think what you could achieve by staring into the sun with a high powered telescope. Its about commitment.
posted by Craig Northey at 12:47 AM

It was only a toy and he was a grown man. His rationalization was that it was the only one left. There was one other...a guy, last name Feligno, in Dayton Ohio had found it five years ago and had dedicated a massive website to his find...it had been in a humidity controlled glass enclosure. Feligno's whole place went up in flames yesterday. Bad wiring. You scrimp on the wrong things and you pay. Now there was only one specimen unaccounted for.
He’d always had one eye peeled. Every garage sale. Hourly on Ebay. The last man in the world to read every item in the “miscellaneous” column of the classifieds -- in all papers, everyday. Embarrassingly it came to him in his dreams. It talked to him. Embarrassing not because it talked or that it was a doll but that it was a quasi racist image. The black butler who handed you your Pez on a platter. It was the prototype Pez. The only Pez where the almost tart rectangular candy loaf didn’t emerge from an open mouth. It slid out on a little silver tray. The butler talked to him in his dream in the voice of Al Jolson. He woke up wishing it didn’t do that. He wanted it to be a voice that didn’t condemn his obsession. This voice poisoned the underground river of his desires by drawing in that shameful tainted morsel of history.
Here he was hoping that the sweat from the palms of his hands would not in any way eat into the plastic that still encased the DNA of his fetish. Pornography that was once real and pure love. He put on the white gloves and lay his hands face up, thumbs out (he carried the gloves in his hipsack in case this moment ever came). The translucent fleshed and carbohydrate fed trekkie placed the still wrapped figure in his hands like a pianist gently but surely places a high C on the last note of the quietest and slowest movement to end the concert. This was it. The only one...and it was...perfect. Not a mark. It had obviously been kept in a dark and dry place because all the colours and materials were vivid and flawless.
His heart beat too hard to hear the radio or the doppler sweeps and flying pink noises of traffic. His blood rushed around like a cyclone and he was driving by homing instinct alone. He stole glances at it sitting on the passenger seat as he divined his way across familiar terrain. In fact, it was always in his peripheral vision. It was a part of him now.
The seller had known it was a collectible. He hadn’t known its true value when he handed it over. The Pez corporation had private detectives looking for the last missing prototype for at least twenty years. Speculators were confident (but they were speculators after all) that it could fetch at least $5,000,000.00. That’s what his mole had told him the Pez Corporation would pay for it. That was for the perfect specimen. A ratty and repairable figure would net a cool $3,000,000.00. He paid the hunched half man at the folding table the perfect decoy. The perfect decoy in “the impossible deal” was always $500. You offered $150 and when they laughed that particular knowing but not really knowing laugh ...you laughed too and said, “OK . . . You got me. Four seventy five”. If they narrowed their gaze and paused you knew you had someone who hadn’t a clue what it was really worth. It was in a flea market booth for chrissakes. Of course he had no idea. $500 is always the perfect amount to just suggest serious money. Its the breaking point before the big leagues and the worry and the mortgages money. Its huge “breaking 30 and still living at home with mom” money. No receipts and only wrinkled plastic bags from the grocery store near the university. This guy was barely out of short pants and lifting children’s Pokemon money. The man was wearing a “Spawn.com” T-shirt.
He wondered if he began to salivate more heavily when he spotted the butler. When he was transfixed he had a tendency to inadvertently drool. This was something that he had noticed happening more frequently. Maybe he stopped swallowing for a few too many cycles. It wasn’t exactly a teething drool in the baby sense but if he turned his head quickly, and the corner of his mouth was relaxed in the slightest, a glistening string would swing out in the way a tetherball does on the opening serve. A wet pendulum would break away and land across the side of his cheek and the top of his shoulder. Noticing this on his own made him feel he knew himself better than others knew him. Nobody had spotted one of these episodes and teased him mercilessly. This was the usual way. He made note of it first and knew how to hide it. Finding the butler was mesmerizing enough that he worried, only slightly, that he had slipped up and let his guard down. Telltale drooling could have given away the poker face required for the deal. None of that mattered now.

part one of a serial piece
posted by Craig Northey at 9:36 AM

A note of explanation. The site is getting stale everywhere but here because we're having some communication "issues" with our server. This should be remedied shortly and we'll be off to phase two of the site. You'll see a whole new cn.com within the first couple months of the year. Until then we'll stick with basic black and try to wrestle this FTP glitch to the ground. If you want news on what's going on its best to go straight to the journal until otherwise advised.

The New Years show in Niagara was a blast save for one incident that spoiled the party for my friends in Treble Charger. They had invited up some people from the audience for a bit of fun and it turned into something, "not suitable for family viewing". In the olden days we called this a rock n' roll moment. In the new world we call it "objectionable". The plugged was pulled on their show so they elected not to return for the later TV portion.
We had fun with the swing stuff as we were joined by the great Greg Piccolo of the original Little Big Band and, most noteably, of "Roomful of Blues". Every note of his really counts. The weather cooperated and the crowd did too. It must have looked pretty loose on the television. In that way the moment was captured.
posted by Craig Northey at 6:45 PM