NW. Apartment

I'm heading down to Seattle again this morning for the rescheduled John Roderick show.

I'll be back soon.

Canceled: John Roderick.

The Long Winters. Taken By Tyson Elder @ Sasquatch Music Festival.I've promoted a few concerts in my day and if there is one thing you learn quickly is the tell tale signs of things starting to go wrong. Some signs can be as simple as hushed whispers of the staff gathered together in clusters around the venue, someone running with a Shop Vac, the musicians trying to figure out how to solve the problems with management and the promoters or something completely out of the blue it can lead to a concert being canceled.  

We wandered up to the Triple Door early to escape the summer heat of downtown Seattle. We were more than welcome to bask in their near arctic feeling air conditioning of the Musicquarium (lounge) with delicious cocktails while Metric and The Bloc Party played quietly. It seemed like we had the entire staff of the lounge to ourselves while we waited for the doors to open for the John Roderick of The Long Winters solo show that evening. Soon it became apparent why we had the entire helpful staff of the Triple Door at our beck and call.

Our server wandered over towards us to deliver the bad news. She must have felt like a police officer showing up at your parents house at 3 AM to tell them you were in a car accident. The concert was canceled.  A water pipe had burst in the ceiling above the seating area of the Mainstage and now they were worried the ceiling might actually collapse. With a bit of liquid courage in me and having travelled to Seattle specifically for this show I said I'd face the uncertain terror of a falling ceiling just to see John Roderick perform. Unfortunately for liability reasons we weren't allowed in the mainstage area.

So what do we do now? We order a few more drinks hoping they find a solution to the problem. The staff and bar apologize of the inconvenience by paying for a round of expensive cocktails, switching our tickets to the September 30th show, and giving us vouchers for any up coming show at the Triple Door. All of which we thought was pretty generous for something they had no control over.

Shortly after I finish my "last" ginger old fashioned John Roderick wanders up to have a chat with a few of us and explain what exactly happened down at the Mainstage. He went on to tell us during his sound check with Kathleen Edwards and Dave Bazan a pipe exploded and a waterfall came pouring down out of the ceiling. They thought nothing of it and jammed out two more songs before they had to shut it all down.

Before leaving us John was asked "if he thought it was a sign from God." John Roderick paused for a second and  answered honestly "God, I hope not" before disappearing with his friends and fellow band members.

With all said and done we were glad just to have made the trip down to Seattle from Victoria for the story alone. I know one thing for sure we can't wait to see John Roderick September 30th come hell or burst water pipe.

(Written August 14th, 2010)

The Confusion.

In two hours we will be getting the fuck out of Dodge and heading north to the border. Frankly I can’t wait, but I don’t want to go home. Things I don’t want to deal with are sitting at the border waiting for me and those devils will always find you.

What’s the last thing you decide to do before you walk 4km with a backpack on your back? Decide to go to your local Starbucks. We jay walk across the street from the hostel to the Starbucks throw our bags on the floor and table.

First things first I order my Americano (I am in the land of the free after all) then it’s on to flirt with the cute barista who is asking where we are from. There is no one behind us in the line so we have a bit of time to chat as I move down the bar to wait for my warm beverage (caution contents are hot) and the other barista joins in the conversation. We talk Canada something I could do all day, and what patriot couldn’t.

Finally I get my drink and I head to the island where I can get cream and a lid for my drink to be greeted by an older Mexican man with a wild smile on his face. He gives me a wink, and I’m pretty sure my face went to the perplexed “what the fuck face” pretty quick.

He throws up both hands as if to surrender and goes in a thick Spanish accent “No No, No…That was for the Senorita.”
I respond with relief “Oh! No worries.” It was a good thing because I needed to take a piss and I didn’t need him trying to rape me in the bathroom.

I head to sit down at the table with Darryl moving my bag of beer and cds from my chair onto the table plop down to enjoy my last coffee in America. Just then this tanned arm reaches around me and grabs my bag on the table. In quick response I grab it and pull it down to the table and say “This is mine.”

The wild smiling Mexican man shakes his head and in his thick accent says “No!”
“I’m serious this is mine not yours,” and he releases looking around the store and the smile fades.

This is it. I’m going to die in 2hrs before heading home. Shanked prison style in a fucking Starbucks. A fucking coffee house. I’ve wasted my life.

He realizes his bag is on the table next to us and apologizes. That’s it I think it is done. He will leave us alone I can go on with my coffee,  the goose bumps can recede, and I won’t die in America this trip.

The wild smile is back and he comes to introduce himself as Salvador Sanchez but won’t leave us alone. I’m trying to quicken our conversation to an end so we can get out of there or he will leave us alone. He regales his life story in an accent I can’t quite break and our faces probably show panic. Eventually a Spanish speaking employee comes and helps get rid of Salvador for us, and after he leaves all the baristas let out a “what the fuck?” Under their breath but within ear shot of Darryl and I.

We chat about it for a few more minutes then rush off to catch our bus back to Canada. I think I'm done with this country for a while.

 

The Tourist.

Weaving between fish mongers and fruit merchants I’m flagged down by two locals. Clearly I’ve been spotted for what I am another tourist in another tourist trap. I am caught off guard and pulled from my thoughts to answer a question.

“You like hip-hop?”
“Ah yeah? I guess…” I bumble out. To confused by why I got asked this strange question in a foreign land.
“I could by your t-shirt. It’s pretty neat.”
“Um... sure I guess so. Why else would I buy a shirt?”

My shirt isn’t a hip-hop shirt. It isn’t advertising Run DMC, K-OS, or NWA. It’s a plain blue shirt with some kind of funky jazzed up Aztec drawing some designer at Old Navy thought would be hip.

“Can I free style for you?” says one of the guys in some kind of traditional Peruvian knit hat.
“And if you like what you hear you can buy his album” chimes in the bigger and more intimidating of the two.
“Sure…shoot,” I’m not going to lie I’m nervous. This shit is a little to weird and a little to shady to be going down in a farmers market.

With a clear of his throat this guy starts spitting rhymes right there amongst crappy tourist novelties, papaya, and fish that didn’t smell all that ripe.

I am floored. This guy is spectacular. After he finishes He introduces himself as Rajnii Eddins and his bigger more intimidating friend Greg. We get to chit chatting about the piece he had performed and about some of the turmoil of being an independent artist. I end up picking up his disc of his Greg who is a genuinely appreciative of me for giving my time and money to hear his friend Rajnii. Apparently it doesn’t happen often.

There is something to be said about getting your music heard this way. If you are passionate about your craft I’m sure you will do anything to share it and eventually you will be rewarded with a captive audience.

 

Seattle: Food For Thought.

It’s not often you can walk down a road in a major city and be lured by scents and aromas wafting out of every shop. That was clearly the case at Seattle’s Pike Place Market this week during my short vacation.

Despite being the furthest from hungry when Darryl and I wandered through the market I felt myself salivating at the smells alone. Fresh fruit, artisanal cheese, cinnamon confections, fresh borsht, and of course Piroshky to name a few of literally hundreds of scents that over power you but still seem to compliment each other.

Remember in cartoons where you see the characters floating in the air following a smell that is how we felt the dozens of times we walked down Pike. Our favourite being a Russian family run business called Piroshky Piroshky. These Russian pastries filled with delicious innards such as ‘smoked mozzarella, broccoli, and mushrooms’ or ‘spinach, egg, and cheese’ would become staples of our Seattle based diet. If you are ever in Seattle this is the place I recommend the most to grab a quick and cheap bite to eat.

We also ate at a Japanese-Polynesian Fusion Tiki bar, a breakfast joint in the market, spent too much time in the coffee shop next door and ate the best vegetarian pizza I’ve ever had at Zeeks.

The Pacific Northwest seems to be a cultural centre for artisanal cooking, baking, and chance to experiment with the food we eat. After spending four days in Seattle this fact was clear and apparent. And why not?  There is an audience for it and I’m proud to be part of it. I may not eat meat but I’m always willing to try something new.