News

Last night I hung out in a bathroom for an hour with Andy, Kaine (sp?) and David from We Are The City. This sounds questionable. But we were finishing a song together. Strange thing is, I’ve never heard these guys’ music, and they’ve never heard mine. So the song we’ve written doesn’t sound like either of us. But that makes it cooler. It’s called In A Minute (we all had to write a song based on this idea)- we’ll tape it and make it a hit on youtube. Or whatever tube is going now.

My lips are chapped, the air is dry up here. There are a million fun things to do, but I’ve barely done any of them because there’s song to be written, blogs to be done, tweets to be twat. The balancing act between the creative and the business, always. I wish this were the old days where you could have someone take care of all your business, your fans, your bookings, your paperwork, your publicity, and then just spend your time being flowery and satirical, channeling the gods through your guitar pick or your vegetable garden or whatever. But this is the brave new world of music. D.I.Y. Wear 2 hats. We’ve had the bejesus scared out of us up here as regards record labels, that’s for sure. Big labels were already evil marauding king lions who roared and protected their chunks of meat with bared teeth and jungle ferocity. Now, they are injured evil marauding king lions, bleeding out and desperate, devouring what grisly scraps they still sink their teeth into. And so we’re running scared. And now we humble tunesters must learn to fend for ourselves. And learning we are. But it’s overwhelming. Especially when you’re a solo artist. There’s hardly any time for art anymore. There’s only time to learn to be a lion.

(And may I also mention again the impressive talent up here- last night Adaline was dazzling and ethereal, as always. Young Alexandra Maillot impressed everyone with her
confident bubbliness and songwriting courage. Sweetheart rocked socks off. And the Painted Birds were majestic and larger than life. This shit is magical.)

I stayed up till 2.30 drinking “water” with KG from Tea and perceiving the Milky Way with my peripheral vision and bullshitting. Everyone was on a high seeing the first performances. We all just want to get up there, I think. But watching gets us excited. Talented people up here. It’s strange- most of us are probably used to being the artsy one, the guy at the party who’s brooding over a guitar in the corner. But the corners are all full here! Brooding is par for the course. Everybody’s artsy. It’s wonderful.

My brain is full of tacos and industry information and I think I need a nap. And the soundcheck dining hall cavern is getting to me. And I need to write a song called “In A Minute” or Don McLeod will break my knees.

It’s good to be at band camp. There is polished wood and loons on
lakes and mountain views and heated pools. There are skinny jeans and
plastic glasses, beards and v-necks and smoker’s pits. There are
bedroom guitarists and bathroom singers and everyone is full of
whimsy. But sometimes the rooms feel like ghost towns. Us lay-about
hippies with our ribboned dreams of glory don’t really belong in these
wholesome lodges. The silent ski-boats and empty beaches are negative
space in their silence. These Birkenstocked trails have tales of first
loves and smalltown crushes, close brushes with the counselor law.
Late-night lake adventures and campfire song residue kick up their
echoes in the dust.

We don’t belong here.

But we’re doing what we came here to do. Get our heads on straight.
And meet some like-minded people. Maybe it’s because we’re Canadian.
Maybe it’s because we’re harmless musicians. Maybe both. But no one
here is bloodthirsty to win anything. We’re all artists of one kind or
another, and thus we are art-supporters. Which makes for a good scene.
Camaraderie. But then again, perhaps the nice boys from We Are the
City are planning to smother me in my sleep…