Wedding Tips

Rather than get annoyed by people smoking cigars and standing in front of my chairs at the Blues Festival, I went to some weddings this past weekend. Lovely affairs, they were, but I have thoughts on how things could be more efficient:

• The Rockcliffe Park Gazebo is a beautiful place for a wedding ceremony, but if you want the Fourth Dwarf to actually get there and not wander around Rockcliffe for an hour and a half, have your wedding in a facility that is served by a bus route.


• If the 3-year-old son of the bride and groom couldn't manage to keep his clothing on during the rehearsal dinner, it is probably a bad idea to give him a baseball bat and ball to play with during the reception.


• You may not really need a photo of the bride and groom with every possible permutation and combination of the wedding guests. But once you have every possible photo shot at the wedding site, you definitely do not need to go to a public garden to get more photos.


• If you're inviting the Fourth Dwarf and he's going to be wandering Rockcliffe for an hour and a half, do not have an open bar.
  

Blisterin' Blooz

Ottawa loves Buddy Guy, and Buddy Guy loves Ottawa right back. Guy is gettin' up there - he's alleged to have taught Hendrix & Clapton a thing or three - but as the saying goes, "Age and guile beat youth and speed every time". Specially when the old guy can still (selectively) play about six times faster than any of the hot young gunslingers in his band. He pretty much blistered the Tolex right off the amps and stacks. And if his playing hadn't, his patter surely would have. In addition to being the kind of soulful gutbucket blues player you won't hear every month, Guy is a veritable poet laureate of the profane anglosaxon monosyllable. I think his first word onstage was "Shit". I stand in dropjawed awe and admiration.

And speakin' of profanity, I have this to say to that ovine herd of smirking Junior Chamber of Commerce fuckwits who decided to celebrate their coming inheritance of society by firing up large stogies in the midst of a packed and gridlocked crowd, gassing about an acre of 'em just before the music started: You're inconsiderate, foul, (ob)noxious jerks. And your Stepford wives and girlfriends, who giggled at how cute you all looked, suckin' on reeking replacement dicks? Uglier'n bucketsful of smashed assholes. Every last one of 'em. Ummm, I think that pretty much covers it....

Woulda liked to have seen that orgy...

Sunday Bluesfest was joyous noise; musical hipsters and poseurs Dame Aggie, her visiting friend Lady Penelope, the Dishevelled Waiter, and I decided that all four hairdo-matched members of Spiral Beach (vocalist/keyboardist Maddy Wilde, top left; vocalist/guitarist Airick Woodhead, centre) were love-children spawned after a messy orgy attended by Devo, Blondie, Talking Heads and the B-52s sometime in the very late 80s. In other words, the kind of self-referential wankers we totally appreciate. An exercise in total 'tude, backed more than enough muscial skill to make it work. They were a hoot!

Ruthie Foster (top right) sang joyously infectious gospel/reggae-tinged Texas blues -- the Barney Danson theatre's seating section was totally bouncin'. She was my personal favourite for the day...

Halifax songwriter/rocker Joel Plaskett (bottom left) played a rare solo acoustic 12-string version ("This thing's a little off -- but fat chance I'm gonna tune it now") of one of his electric tunes, Fashionable People, in the same theatre, then headed straight out to the Rogers Stage to crank it up with his amplified band, The Emergency. It was all about intelligent wry, sly lyrics, not taken too seriously, with musicianship that is.

And the Independent Observer and the Amazon sent in late reports confirming that the night's headliner, White Stripes, were big crunchy fun. And hey: it didn't rain!

A break from big egos (but not big talent)

Luke Doucet seems to see Bluesfest as a family affair; his wife, Melissa McClelland, a formidable solo performer in her own right, plays rhythm guitar and tips in ethereal Emmylou Harris-style backups; last year, his 10-year-old daughter, Chloe, tore up the stage with a couple of big-voiced barn-burners; this year, his Dad, Roland, came over from his Gatineau hometown with a Telecaster to trade crunching lead licks. And after the first two nights of watching some reeeelly big names in the biz pretty much ignore their audiences and make speedy getaways in blacked-out limos, it was refreshing to see a righteous guy who shows a self-deprecating wit onstage, plays and sings like hell, and happily hits the lobby right after the show to mingle with fans. Great concert, great night...

21st Century Blues

Uh, yeah, makes perfect sense. Why watch kickass blues live, onstage, right in front of you, when you can see the same thing on a really, really tiny screen...?