pbs.old

Remember when PBS was the TV station for kindergartners and grandparents? I preferred The Electric Company to Sesame Street (I still love the Muppets, but Big Bird annoyed me right out of the gate) and the documentaries taught me more about the world than my elementary school teachers. As a teenager, I watched Saturday afternoon cooking shows with Mum, and Masterpiece Theatre was a Sunday night staple where I learned about history and literature through British dramas like I Claudius, Elizabeth R and The Six Wives of Henry VIII.

I suppose I’ve always viewed public TV as an educational tool more than entertainment (though, as in the case of MT, combining the two makes superior competition to the offerings of commercial networks). But the musical programming is either highbrow or old hat, certainly not aimed at the original MTV generation of which I am a member.

Ter and I—perhaps snobbishly—have a running joke that we’ll know we’re past our prime when Def Leppard show up on one of those oldies revues we recall from our youth. You know what I mean: the 50s and 60s singers/bands playing to a full-yet-middle-aged crowd in a nostalgic nod to better days, usually broadcast during pledge drives so you know who provides the bulk of their funding.

Music became important to me in the 70s. In the 80s, it was vital. And while our 80s icons continue touring into the 21^st century, there’s a pervading sense that, at some point, they’ll show up on public TV with—let’s just say it—the other has-beens.

One evening Ter asked me if I’ve heard of Duran Duran’s A Diamond in the Mind.

“Yeah, it’s the concert film from the tour for All You Need Is Now,” I replied.

“Have we seen it?”

“We have it.”

Surprised, she looked up. “We do?”

“We do. Why?”

She brandished the program guide she was perusing. “It’s on channel 9 at ten o’clock.”

*THUD*

Ter continued as if I hadn’t blacked out while staying upright. “You say we have it?”

“Yeah,” I said. I went to the DVD library and produced our copy. “It’s on PBS?” I asked, just to be sure.

“Yup,” she said. Then she laughed, feigning (?) horror. “Oh, my God, Duran Duran beat the Leps onto PBS! Who saw that coming?”

We fell about with hysterical laughter, but it’s seemingly official. We have become the PBS generation.

Mercury in Retrograde

Though I am a Queen fan, I don’t consider myself to be a Queen fan. Not truly; not like someone who has followed the band from the beginning and has every album they ever made. Nope, I’m what’s known as a casual fan. Queen is featured on my life’s soundtrack, but not the way Duran Duran or Def Leppard are. Queen were red hot when I was a pre-teen, so of course I knew of them. I just didn’t know about them.

My older sister introduced me to them simply by asking one night in 1973 if I’d heard the song with the opera chops on our Top 40 radio station. I hadn’t, but since I shared a room with both sisters and my elder tended to switch on the radio when she came to bed after the wee ʼun and me, it was inevitable that I would hear “Bohemian Rhapsody”.

It took me years to figure out that the band responsible for those opera chops was the same band who’d done “Killer Queen” (which I actually liked better), and whose name was—huh?—Queen. They were strange and wonderful and Elton John was my favourite artist at the time, so while I couldn’t help but be aware of Queen, I owned none of their albums and bought none of their singles. I just liked it when I heard them on the radio.

“Somebody to Love”

“You’re My Best Friend”

“Bicycle Race”

Freddie Mercury’s voice was captivating in that one-in-a-million manner; you knew it when you heard it, and the things he did with it were remarkable. I had no idea what he or his colleagues looked like because rock videos as we know them didn’t exist in the 1970s. I only knew their sound. Since I was a kid who collected Elton and America albums, over-overdubbed Queen was apparently not going to win space in my record collection.

Which was okay. I had to mature before I could fully appreciate the intricacies and nuances of both the music and the vocals. Maybe they had to strip their sound, too, because the first Queen album I bought was The Game, featuring lots of bass and Freddie’s off the cuff delivery of “Another One Bites the Dust”. Then, the 80s happened. I became a young adult as Queen’s star began its descent, due in part (so legend has it) to the video for “I Want to Break Free” but probably more because they were an older band and the new wave was happening.

That’s why I didn’t take particular notice of their iconic Live Aid performance on July 13, 1985: I was waiting to see Duran Duran. When I heard a few years later that Freddie was ill, I was saddened by the prospect of the world losing such a charismatic talent. Freddie was more than a rock singer. He was a rock star.

When he died in 1991, I fell in line with industry marketing and bought up the collections. Classic Queen I, Classic Queen II, Queen’s Greatest Hits – and the utterly fabulous, my hands-down favourite, Innuendo. I guess when he learned his time was limited, Fred threw himself into recording as many tracks as he could, and he didn’t hold back. His work on that album is wrenching. Powerful. Tender. Funny. Courageous. Wistful.

Magical.

It seems timely to say all this now, after the much-hyped movie’s success and the Academy Award going to the actor who portrayed him in it. I may not have been present in Queen’s heyday, but I’m grateful for the technological marvels that enable me to catch up on what I missed the first, and even the second, time around. Thanks to Bohemian Rhapsody and Rami Malek’s stunning performance, Queen and Freddie Mercury have come around again.

Long—live—Queen.

Make It Count

Finally! Def Leppard is nominated for induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame! At last! How many anniversary editions of Hysteria did they have to release to make the list?

“We have to get online and vote,” Ter said, and I agree. But wait. We can vote as often as we like—daily, if we choose. What the ...?

The same thing is happening on PBS with The Great American Read. People are encouraged to go online and vote for their favourite novel—or novels (yes, more than one can be a favourite)—from a shortlist of 100, as many times as they want before the deadline. The most votes wins, so vote now and vote often.

Huh?? Imagine if the same rule applied to political elections. And why doesn’t it? If I can tip the scales in the Leppard King’s favour by clicking OK a dozen times a day, why do I only get one crack at the House of Parliament?

Give me a mittful of ballots. The most votes would still win, right? And I can say I participated in the democratic process. Never mind if I vote for three separate candidates eight times apiece. Okay, maybe one will get nine votes and the other two will get, say, three and six, respectively. Do the math and my first choice will clearly be the one who got nine votes. Meanwhile, my crazy neighbour votes twenty times for one candidate and guess what? Nutbar’s guy gets in by two votes. How is that fair?

I doubt fairness to the candidate/nominee (or at all) is the point. It seems these online polls are geared toward empowering the voter, specifically the chronically indecisive voter with a nervous tic in his index finger. I understand the challenge of naming a favourite anything—my favourite Leppard song depends on the day—but come on. If you want the Leps in the RnR Hall of Fame, by all means, say so; however ...

Once is enough!

Ongoing “Hysteria”

“That’s Def Leppard? What happened???”

I’ll tell you what happened. Somewhere between 1984 and 1987, the scrawny lads with bad perms and fake leather trousers morphed into bona fide rock idols. Nowadays it’s hard to recall on demand what I felt about Rick Savage then, but the better part of three decades hasn’t dimmed the spark that jumps when I revisit the video for “Animal”. I’d also bet Ter can say the same about Joe Elliott, who went through a similar maturation phase in the same time. I’m unsure which of us experienced the thud and which of us felt the ripple when the Leppard returned from the grave more sinewy and sensuous than the half-grown cubs they had been in 1983. All I know for sure is that, two days after Joe’s twenty-eighth birthday in 1987, “Hysteria” was released (in more ways than one).

I’m reminiscing because the album turned twenty-nine a couple of weeks ago—alarmingly but not surprisingly, two days after Joe’s fifty-seventh birthday—and the anniversary got me thinking about what the album meant at the time, and what it still means today.

Professionally, it was a game-changer. They had no idea what they were unleashing; this record broke records all over the place, but in our house, it also started a love affair that inspired me to write a legend. Nobody saw that happening, but I’m grateful that it did. That connection makes this band more precious than almost anyone else in my music library—three guesses on the one that trumps them and the first two don’t count!

Hormones and creativity aside, “Hysteria” is still a kick-butt and glossy rock album. It spawned something like half a dozen singles and sent the lads on a two year world tour, throwing them into the spin cycle that regrettably cost one of them his life … though I suspect he was doomed anyway. This album is a testament to Steve Clark’s rock n’ roll prowess. He lived to play guitar, and the guitar on “Hysteria” is unlike the guitar on any other record by any other band. It’s a stand alone, a work that has kept him so vividly alive within the group’s legend that the fellow who took his place twentysome years ago is still considered “the new guy”.

It is not, however, my favourite Leppard album. That said, when the band played it live in its entirety for its twenty-fifth anniversary, they brought down the house. Ter and I watched the DVD in honour of the King’s birthday on August 1. It coincided with the Victoria’s annual “Symphony Splash”, and just as the Leppard concert ended in our living room, so did the orchestra’s in the harbour, and the fireworks exploded to finish both in appropriately grand style.

The band has been through a lot since that album was released. So have Ter and I. Our paths have crossed on occasion. Gone are the days when we’d leave the island to see them, but when they come to us, we’re there. I continually lament that the set list remains stuck in the 80s, and Joe continually insists that’s what the fans want to hear. When I read in the “Viva Hysteria” liner notes that they’d wondered how to play the same songs for ten nights in a row without losing their minds, I almost lost mine. Guys, I thought, you play the first side of “Hysteria” in every single frikkin’ gig you play!

But that’s nitpicking. Sort of. What matters is the legacy to Steve; the bar that was set for every rock album that followed; and the passion that burst in the hearts of two Canadian girls on that day in 1987, when Much Music premiered the new single and one of us blurted:

“That’s Def Leppard? What happened???”

I Got the Music in Me

They say that the printing press was the most important invention in history. If this is so, then the advent of recorded music must be a close second.

Ter and I met in 1982. Our mutual musical history began then, with Duran Duran, Def Leppard, Tears For Fears, Michael Jackson, and a host of others. When we tune into the 80s music channel, almost every song conjures a memory that starts with one of us saying, “Do you remember …?” We laugh and reminisce and wonder whatever became of So-and-So when it seemed at the time that we would always be in touch with our friends. Good times, bad times, hard times, doesn’t matter which. Pick a song and we are transported instantly into our shared past.

Tune into the 70s channel, however, and we have discovered buried treasure. Music was less homogenized back then. Folk rubbed with rock, disco dropped in, and pop was often schlock, but everything got airtime because radio had yet to become “formatted.” It was fun, even though I was battling my bones and Ter was in her turbulent teens during most of the decade. We didn’t know each other then. One had no idea that the other existed, in fact, or that the scene was being set for the destiny point when our paths would cross and the adventure would begin.

We hit the 70s channel one night, just because. Oh, we laughed. We laughed … and then the memories surfaced. Not mutual ones, of course, but the fossilized ones unearthed by songs we heard while growing up in our separate worlds. “These Eyes” is her favourite Guess Who tune. “No Time” is mine—but she and I both remember the pink and orange label on the old 45, even if neither of us could name the company that owned it. The 70s channel inspired a different question from the 80s. Instead of “Do you remember?”, one of us asked, “Where were you?” and wow, we had a blast bringing each other up to speed.

I generally stream my silly jazz station at work. With thirty channels to choose from, there’s always something to fit my mood. My membership, however, also covers jazzradio.com’s sister station, radiotunes.com, which features a gazillion channels spanning pretty much every genre in existence. Last Friday, for the heck of it, I picked the Oldies, and O-M-G, everything they played dated from my elementary school years or earlier! It was the perfect playlist to file by!

So, whether at work, at home, or somewhere in between, music has proven critical to my existence. It fires up my imagination and grounds me at the same time. Of course I appreciate the value of the printing press—what writer wouldn’t?—but if I had to choose between TV and my stereo …

Def Leppard

Cool graphics, too!

Their thirteenth studio album is self-titled. Fitting, from a band who needs no introduction. Every track on the disc is undeniably Leppard—the quintessential 80’s rock band. Not metal and not pop, but a perfect blend of the two that no one else managed to achieve despite the multitude of those who tried. Listen to any other hair bands from the era and you’ll hear a plethora of Joe Elliott wannabes, wailing away at fever pitch yet never quite duplicating, and certainly not surpassing, the wildcat yowl that made him famous.

And that sounds better now than it did then.

Slang remains my favourite Leppard album. I like its darkness, and its maturity. By that point in their career, the boys had become men and were unafraid to show it. There is pain in that album. There is loss. There is anger and betrayal and bitterness and desire, all so powerfully portrayed that you almost don’t recognize the work as theirs.

Maybe that’s why it didn’t sell.

The band spent the years after Slang trying to recapture what some fans feared they had lost: their signature sound. Euphoria kinda worked because it was obvious. X was a semi-departure into pop that also kinda worked (and inspired me to write the first volumes of Fixed Fire). Yeah! was a 70s cover album that totally worked because they made every track their own (their version of Thin Lizzy’s “Don’t Believe Me” blew me away). Songs from the Sparkle Lounge veered a little further off the beaten path, but you know what? Every successful band has a signature sound no matter what they produce—anything the Leps record will sound like the Leps because that’s who they are. No one else can sound like them, hence no one else will sound like them, and now that we’ve reached this inevitable conclusion, let me introduce you to what might be the best Leppard album since Hysteria.

I’ve played it from end to end a couple of times and I can’t find a throwaway track. It’s all gold. Maybe “Dangerous” is a little cheesy, but the guitars still kick butt, and as mentioned at the beginning of the post, His Royal Leppardness has maintained a powerful set of pipes. Really. I heard him perform live in April. Screaming in tune in his twenties was one thing. He’s still doing it in his fifties. I’d pit him against any of the present day howlers and dare any of them to keep pace with him.

This is a fun album. Sure, some of the lyrics are mildly embarrassing when sung by a middle-aged man, but there are serious sentiments, too. The guitars are bright and sharp. The bass is bold and occasionally funky (Sav is clearly a Queen fan). The drums boom and Joe’s voice is magnificent. I don’t say any this through my hormones, either. Def Leppard is a genuine, rock solid performance that deserves two things:

Play it loud; and

Guys, play it live! PLEASE!

The Leppard Long Weekend

It started with Viva Hysteria! on Friday. Ter got the DVD for her birthday and waited a whole week for the viewing—the Leppards live in Las Vegas, playing their classic album in track order from Women to Love and Affection. Cool show. Had no idea it had been filmed.

One of the bonus features is the opening set they played as Ded Flatbirds—“the best Def Leppard cover band in the world”—and in that set was a song called Undefeated, one of three original tracks recorded for the live album, Mirrorball, in 2011.

I swear, if ever a song was written for Lucius, Undefeated is it.

So, next day, Mirrorball goes onto the car stereo for our sojourn to lunch with my folks. We switch to Yeah! for the drive home, and somewhere on the road, Ter observes that it’s been a Leppard long weekend.

It’s supposed to be a Thanksgiving long weekend.

But hey, I’m thankful for the Leps. Without them, and the King in particular, there would be no Lucius. My legendary hero would not exist, or if he did, it would be in someone else’s world.

I’m so glad that he chose to exist in mine. He takes up a lot of room and burns a lot of energy, but I’m glad of that too, because I’ve been reminded yet again that “it’s about Lucius”. Fixed Fire is the story of a family, and volume seven is Reijo’s romance, but no matter where in the series or who the protagonist, there he is, commandeering the spotlight, the great Golden Savage, Mr. Undefeated himself.

I have lots for which I am grateful. On a daily basis, I have a rotating Top Five, but if where you focus becomes your reality, then right now a rock singer from Sheffield figures high on the list.

Happy Thanksgiving.

With love,

Serenity Now

Yesterday was the Leppard King’s birthday. Ter and I set out to celebrate accordingly, but despite our good intentions, everything seemed to go against the grain. By 8 p.m., we were forced to admit, “Well, that was a bust.” We then spent a half-hour listening to The Lost Fingers online—a gypsy jazz band out of Quebec; their version of Sunglasses at Night has made me a fan—after which Ter suggested we go ahead with our plan and finish up the day with a few Leppard videos.

Perhaps, appropriately, that turned out to be the best part of the day.

I woke this morning wondering what had gone wrong. We had looked forward to a pub lunch in His Royal Leppardness’ honour, followed by a stroll through Oak Bay village, shopping and maybe stopping for sorbetto, then preparing a carnivorous dinner at home. We went through the motions, yet nothing worked.

I think it’s because we’re exhausted.

I know I am.

You can attribute some energy malfunctions to a full moon—I’ve lived and worked among people long enough to defy the naysayers who pooh-pooh scheduled lunacy as New Age nonsense—but there are times when the spirit simply cannot overcome the flesh. Nor should it. Sometimes rest is the best medicine, and my compostable container is going through the mill with intense treatments on its bum ankle. Mental rest is as important, given the continuous strain of functioning as an introvert in an extroverted world. Ter and I are both fried at the end of a workweek; the last thing we needed yesterday was a trip through Tourism Central during a heat wave, even on the august occasion of Joe Elliott’s birthday. Consequently, our energy was misaligned and things did not work out until the day was practically done. Only when we were sequestered in our lovely peaceful home, curled in place before the Leps’ greatest hits, did we actually relax.

Today, we have retired to our respective happy places. I’m in my room and Ter is puttering in the kitchen. It’s a long weekend, for which I am immensely grateful. It’s also a mere three weeks from our summer vacation, for which I am deliriously grateful. I work from January to September with one measly week off in between, then I wonder why I’m knackered by mid-summer. I’m not saying that yesterday bombed with spectacular gusto. It just didn’t run as smoothly as it might have had we taken time to recover from the previous week. On the other hand, had we stayed home, we would have missed a photo op that suited the occasion to a tee:

Happy birthday, Joe.

As the Crow Sings

My music collection has been pared back a few times over the years, but staples remain firmly in place. Duran and Def Leppard, Alan Parsons and David Usher, Sarah McLachlan and Sting figure prominently in that I’ll buy anything and everything they put on the market—sometimes more than once. While de-cluttering for our first residential move in seventeen years, Ter and I discovered no fewer than four cassette tapes of Seven and the Ragged Tiger; a true puzzlement considering that we owned no more than two cassette players in 1987. I’ve grown up a little since then. When the re-mastered special edition was released a few years ago, I sent my original CD of the same album to the used disc shop because, pfft, who needs two?

I recall an interview wherein the father of my unborn children discussed his album collection. Of course he doesn’t listen to everything every day; with any extensive collection, who has the time? But once in a while, he pulls out vintage Bowie or Roxy, gives the LP a spin, then puts it back in the cellar to be enjoyed, like a fine wine, a few more years down the road.

I went on an Alan Parsons bender last year. I just lay on the couch and remembered why I love the Project’s work so much. More recently, the Leppards were trotted out to prep for their tour and, boy, was it fun rocking out to X and Yeah! With Paper Gods due for release in September, Duran is resurfacing on my playlist to reacquaint me with their more recent work (Astronaut is truly brilliant, and not just because it features the Original Five). And, for some reason, last week I began looping my favourite track of Sheryl Crow’s extensive catalogue, so I pulled her CDs on Sunday to remind myself why I liked her so much back in the day.

Actually, it’s a bit of a mystery because she borders on country with her syrupy drawl and penchant for steel guitar, but I bought her first album in 1993 and didn’t stop until Detours in 2008. She played Victoria on that tour; by then she had enough ammo to play a greatest hits set, so of course I went to see her. Great show, lame crowd. I couldn’t tell if I was in an audience or an oil painting. Oddly, I can’t remember if she played The Difficult Kind; I think she did, but nothing beats the album version off The Globe Sessions … currently in heavy rotation on my turntable. This live version got good reviews, though, so please ...

Enjoy.

Lucius

The Leppard King, circa 1992 - the template for my hero

“Lucius!” I cried. “It’s about Lucius!”

It’s Reijo’s story, but it’s about Lucius. It’s always about Lucius. Always has been, always will be. Fixed Fire is his world, created for him, and while others occasionally take a lead role in the ongoing saga, he is the sun at the center of their galaxy and everyone—everything—revolves around him.

He needn’t even be present to own a scene. Be it a short story,  a novella, or a volumes in the series proper, my great Golden Savage figures prominently in the plot. I got confused with Reijo’s romance because Lucius isn’t a POV character, but I’ve lately been reminded that it doesn’t matter if he’s not the one telling the story. It’s still about him.

He’s a typical Leo male. “Pure-faced and roaring,” as Nicole once described him, putting her impression into a poem that said it all in that one powerful phrase. Love him, loathe him, fear or revere him, he is the driving force in his world.

I must admit, seeing the Leppard King again was a sharp reminder of where it all began. It took the universe eight years to engineer a royal return to Victoria, and in the course of one evening, it all came back. The birth of our hero in 2002, the writing of four fat novels in the following five years, the crazy coincidence of Leppard’s proximity to my creative consciousness. The King eventually fell off my radar but the story continued—albeit with less enthusiasm on my part, and even less understanding of why it was so. Seeing him in April compelled me to pull out the albums that had fuelled my passion for his fictional child, to revisit Treason and remind myself of who the General was when I first met him.

And then, the inner voice stating with crystal clarity that this part of the story, that Reijo’s romance, is also about Lucius. The hopelessly tangled knot suddenly unraveled and has run straight and smooth ever since. I’m rewriting scenes, adding new ones and reorganizing others, and haven’t want to write anything else for weeks.

Not even blog posts.

This is what happens when I am truly obsessed with a project. It becomes my sole focus, to the exclusion of all else—except maybe F***Book and my office gig. My thoughts are all with the story, reworking bits of dialogue, envisioning new scenes, typing so fast from the heart that my head can’t stop my momentum. It’s blazing and brilliant and precisely the point of my existence, to feel this alive in the creation of something wonderful.

So I haven’t been writing, but I have been writing—and it’s looking good.

How can it not, when it’s all about him?

Blackout in Effect

A chilly spring morning, the mercury sitting at nine degrees with clouds and showers expected later today. Right now, it’s sunny … and I’m dawdling.

Ter dropped me in the village and I treated myself to a “real” Asian Mist—all milk despite my recent dairy-free status, a risk I’m willing to take with three days of vacation left. I can afford a flare if that’s my fate.

Re-work on the novel has been slow, due in part to my dawdling but mostly because I’m rewriting more than I’d imagined I would. And it’s daunting. So I let myself be distracted by F***book and Youtube (lots of Lep stuff there!) to the detriment of the project, and every day I become increasingly anxious that I’ll get nothing accomplished before heading back to the mill.

Well, not nothing. I’ve laundered the bedding and taken long walks. I’ve learned (happily) that Rick Savage is partial to Maseratis—my kind of man—and Joe Elliott likes a 4x4 because there’s loads of room in one. I’m brewing more kombucha and will have another batch of pfefferneuse in the freezer before Friday. Most importantly, I’ve learned how to answer my phone. But where actual writing is concerned, there’s not much to show for my working holiday.

So I’m going dark for a couple of days, to focus on the re-write and get some momentum going. I want to wake up thinking about the story instead of what witty remark I can post on F***book. I get than an author should be interactive with her audience, but she’s only an author if she’s writing offline and I’ll kick myself if this week passes without some significant progress on the novel. Part of me thinks I should blow it up and start from scratch, but three hundred pages in and I’m reluctant to dump any of it. Much of it is good. I’ve loaded the files into a separate folder and am rebuilding one chapter at a time, but the deeper I go, the more detours are taken from the original draft, so who knows? Maybe a complete bust up is the best thing!

Won’t know unless I quit dawdling and get down to it. Apricot tea and Sarah Brightman are in place and ready to go. Time for Ru to get disciplined.

*sigh*

The Concert Experience

Ru, wee sis, Boy Sis, and the matching purses
(the pic is as fuzzy as our hearing)

I suppose it may be gleaned from yesterday’s review that I didn’t enjoy myself at Def Leppard. That the gig was too loud, too garish, and too predictable.

Actually, that was the audience.

The flipside of a rock concert is the crowd. It matters not who is on stage; the same players are always in the stands. The flailing dancer in the seat next to you. The staggering drunk in perilous heels trying to navigate the stairs. The bombed macho buddies who throw their arms around each other while bellowing, “I love you, man!” in the row ahead of you. The parade of trailer trash fashion on the concourse. The cigarette lighters that spark in the arena when yours was confiscated at the door. The beer balancing act as the alcohol max is purchased on the first concession stop. The inevitable cloud of pot smoke wafting from the seat behind you. The giggling groupies. Their biker boyfriends. The twentysomethings who don’t care who’s playing, let’s get tickets and go embarrass ourselves while annoying the real fans during the show.

It is possible to be fed up before the band takes the stage. In some cases, it may even be probable.

Most of the concerts I’ve attended in the past couple of years have had no opening act. The artist starts on time, takes a brief intermission halfway through, then finishes the show. Alas, Def Leppard adheres to the template of hiring an opening act that no one wants to see, then coming onstage at bedtime and blasting through the standard hour-plus set that includes a two-song encore. This makes for a true test of endurance, so it’s better to have a friend along for the ride.

Ter and I lucked out on Friday. My wee sister and Boy Sister met us for dinner early, then headed to the arena well in advance of the show to ensure that we got parking (a quick getaway is impossible, but a smooth exit isn’t, if you get there in time to nab the best space). That left us with a couple—nay, a few—hours to kill, as we had no interest in the opening act and were unwilling to risk our hearing for anything less than the headliner.

Regrettably, Victoria shuts down at six on a Friday night, hence no shops of interest were open. So we trekked to the arena and hung around outside, enjoying the mild spring evening and watching the streaming humanity form a line at the door. People-watching with my sister is a riot. BS is even funnier with his observations, but nothing was more entertaining than the people we were watching. Lots of leopard spots in evidence, in tights, shoes, jackets, shirts, scarves and purses. Ridiculous heels trip-trapped across the pavement. Big blonde hair was snaring bugs everywhere. Dark glasses were firmly in place despite the twilight. Tall boots, short boots, and why in the world would a girl wear kitten-heeled mules in a milling crowd of inebriated headbangers? She wasn’t going anywhere fast, not when she had to clench her toes to keep her shoes on. Mundane jeans and sneakers were peppered with sequins, studs and chains. BS asked Ter and me if we hadn’t dressed that way in the 80s? To which I replied, “We were Miami Vice cool, not Madonna tramp trash.” Heck, we weren’t even Lep fans until Hysteria came out, and by then Vice was done and Madonna had brushed her hair.

The four of us sat on the fringe of this crowd because we did not belong in this crowd. The notion occurred to me that this was the modern day equivalent of going to the opera, when the aristos of old dressed up to attend the theatre. Too scary a thought to maintain, however. This was more like the Roman mob filing into the Coliseum to watch grown men beat each other to a bloody death.

And we were here, why?

Oh, yeah. The Leppard King. Well, he wasn’t due for a couple of hours yet. With roughly half an hour until the opener, we joined the lineup and got through security with the merest pat-down and bag search. Checked out our seats in the stands. Four in a row of eight, second row up in the bowl, with one of us on the aisle. Sweet. Wee sis and I sat together for a while, comparing the length of our femurs (hers is longer) and me showing her how to shorten the strap on her purse—which, we had discovered at dinner, is the exact twin of mine. She’d been trying the trick she uses on a horse’s halter (her daughter has a horse) and remarked, “Horses are my life, Ruthie.”

“That’s weird,” I replied, “since I was the one who wanted horses.”

“You wanted kids, too,” she reminded me.

“So how did you end up living my life?”

“I dunno, but now I’ve even got the arthritis!”

At which we both fell about laughing.

To avoid the opening act—which we would hear well enough from the concourse—we retraced our steps to check out the merchandise. Once again, the Leps have no program, which is the only thing we would have bought. I was wearing the hoodie I got at the Edmonton gig in 2007 (75 bucks at the show, 35 online, to which wee sis observed, “Yeah, but you got a free concert.”) and if we bought a t-shirt at every Lep concert we’ve been to, that’s all we’d be wearing.

Time for water and popcorn. Ter and BS vanished into the concession swarm; wee sis and I hung out by a pillar to keep clear of the current and continue to people-watch. She says she can’t do it with her daughter because my niece gets embarrassed. “Are you two in the lineup?” somebody asked.

“No,” sis said, waving them on by, “we’re just holding up the pillar.”

We hadn’t noticed it was the pillar behind the line for alcohol service. We’d just thought everyone wanted pizza.

Finally, our elves emerged with the goods and we took up position just inside the main entrance, where security continued to pat down newcomers though the opening act was by now well into their set. More big hair. More leopard print. More leather jackets. Gads, even a pair of fishnets in red hotpants. Stiletto pumps, stiletto boots, stiletto sandals. Canuck jerseys in abundance. Canuck jerseys? Well, the playoffs are on, and one of those jerseys gave me the best laugh of the night: an old Luongo sweater with the name taped over, inscribed with LACK (for Eddie Lack, the now-goalie) and the numeral 1 preceded by a handmade 3.

At last, the first act ends, the lights come up, what audience was present for them returns to fuel up with more booze, and we make our way to our most excellent seats. Some dickering with our phone cameras so we can get them to work during the concert. Then, the show, complete with the surrounding distractions as mentioned at the top of this post. I had a blast anyway, situated between Ter on the aisle and BS on my right (wee sis took the flailing neighbour for the team), and by the end of it, we were done. Not a perfect evening, as BS said later, but how can it be bad when it’s spent with people you love?

Amen, brother.

Leapin’ Leppards!

Three of them, anyway - Rick Allen on drums.
Sav on bass, and shirtless (as usual) Phil Collen

What do you get when you take a vintage muscle car, tune up the carburetor, spiff up the paint, and re-chrome the hardware?

Fast, loud and flashy.

This was Friday night’s Def Leppard show in three words.

Fast – they powered through ninety minutes of their heyday radio hits with nary a pause for breath. With their catalogue, I thought they could have gone longer, but Ter pointed out that Viv Campbell is recently out of cancer treatment and they have to be mindful of him. Good point. Though the perennial “new guy” guitarist gave no sign of flagging, he wasn’t racing all over the stage, either. That said, I expected ninety minutes and I got ninety minutes. They play so many festivals and double-bills that they don’t give any more than that. Sucks, but really, my hearing wouldn’t survive a longer set. Which brings me to …

Loud – everyone asks if I bring earplugs and I always say no. I don’t wear them. It’s stupid, but my byline is that if I’m going to lose my hearing, I want it to be by a rock band. The loudest band I have ever heard live is the Leppard. The Police were close, Aerosmith was so long ago that I don’t remember if my ears buzzed afterward though they must have done, and everyone else either has a better sound crew or cares more that every note be heard. With the Leps, I’m fuzzy right out of the gate. They don’t need to crank it up so high, except that they are a rock band, dammit and if the concert can’t be heard pounding halfway across town (which this one apparently was), they’re not the genuine article. This makes it an unlikely bonus that they play no new material, since if I can’t hear the riff through the fuzz, I won’t know what they’re playing and will be entirely lost. The hits are part of my mental muscle; I can sing along – at the top of my lungs, by the way – and know where I am because the beat is a well-worn one.

Flashy – their time in Vegas has served them well. The boys were fans of 70s glam bands as well as the industrial rockers of their youth, so they’ve always been glitzy in a fashionably rough manner. Their light shows have been pretty standard, but this time out was dazzling. Loads of track, spot and whatever lights in every colour of the rainbow. Add the three big video screens and you’ve got visual pandemonium in support of the aural assault. The band themselves are lookers who know how to dress, but you have got to love Rick Savage. Ever the stylish one, he showed up for the encore in a shirt that proclaimed I Am So Fucking Disco and I doubt anyone would challenge him on it. He’s no tough guy, but he’ll stand his ground with conviction. Word is that he’s even gone head to head with the King and won his way.

As for the King himself, thank the gods that Joe will never change. He struts like a conquering hero. He can silence the crowd with one gesture and make it roar with another. He’s a warrior of the finest caliber, the last man standing, the green-eyed god with the Viking stance and big cat charisma. He was hitting those notes, too. Still has the pipes, the moves, and that mystical air of majesty that came with him from—where? No matter. It was good to see him again, to see once more the man who inspired a legend and be assured that nothing was imagined. He truly is that strong, that powerful, and that mesmerizing.

But he’s not my favourite Leppard. Never has been. That honour goes to the dishy disco-loving bass player with the moppy blond mane and sleepy blue eyes. My crappy camera phone snapped more shots of him than of anyone else, including Joe, so while I may be accused of a less than glowing review of Friday night’s show, I was un abashedly delighted to see Sav and his band. Good fun, good show … good night.

The Return of the Leppard King

I thought I’d fallen out of love with them. Last December, I heard that the former producer of the Q Morning Show had died in a car crash on snowy roads and I was looking up further info on the station’s website. I was so intent my mission that notice of the Leps’ concert date on the coming events list gleaned naught but a huh? Then my wee sister IM’d me: “Def Leppard is coming to town. Are you guys going?”

“I dunno,” I wrote back, feeling uncomfortably lukewarm about what had once sent my temperature to thermonuclear heights. Joe and the boys had fallen off my radar. The world he had inspired was in a holding pattern while my passion for vampires raged anew. Neither Ter nor I listened to their albums anymore; we didn’t follow them on F***book and hadn’t visited their website in years. In fact, we were living in fear of the band turning up to play the River Rock Casino or, worse, on PBS as part of the “Rock of 80s” nostalgia pledge drive package that you just know is coming down the road.

My email pinged. The Q Crew newsletter arrived in my inbox, letting me know that the Leps were coming and tix were going on sale that Friday. I flipped it to Ter with a feeble: “What do you think?”

My phone immediately rang. “Of course!” she practically yelled when I picked up. I hadn’t heard her so pumped about anything in a long while.

“Really? I didn’t think you’d want to go.”

“Why not?” she demanded. “He’s coming to me!” Which, roughly translated, means that she’s done with traveling to see the Leppard King, but if Victoria is on their itinerary, us going is a no-brainer.

Of the Joes we know, Elliott is to Ter what Perry is to me—that mysterious memory of a previous life where he played a role so important that the effect has lingered through dimensions. Crazy, yes. Improbable, maybe. Possible, definitely. Why not? No matter what you believe, something about his current incarnation sparked the birth of our mutual hero, Lucius Aurelius, and the world of Fixed Fire. For that, I am eternally grateful to him, to Ter, and to the band who played the soundtrack for Treason.

So, yeah, she’s right. Of course we must go to the gig. Of course we must pay homage. Of course he’s come for a particular reason at a particular time, and isn’t it funny that I’ve gone back to Castasia once more? His Royal Leppardness has no idea, but it truly is a homecoming for him.

Four of us are going—Ter, my wee sister, my boy sister, and me. The kids are fans for a different reason; they just like to rock, and if you wanna get rocked, then the Leps are DEFinitely the band for the job.

More to come …

Thunder-struck

I’ve not been writing much of late. It’s typical at this time of year, when fiscal-year-end eclipses life outside the office. I’ve been reading instead, seeking inspiration to keep from freaking out that I’ve lost my gift. Honestly, it happens every spring, and every spring I must remind myself that this ain’t my first rodeo. After Easter, I’ll have time that I presently don’t have to create. In the meantime, read, read, read. I’m almost finished with Lestat and have borrowed Station Eleven from a friend after reading kudos for it from GRRM and Erin Morgenstern.

I’ve also scored a copy of She’s Got Soul—a compilation CD from the Starbucks collection that features Nina Simone, Amy Winehouse, Etta James, and a host of other soul sistahs. It’s squaring off against Diana Krall’s Wallflower for air time on my stereo. I’ve played around with opening scenes and story ideas on Tuesday nights, but have been totally disinclined to boot the writing rig on my days off. I did discover that I can stream whole episodes of X Company from cbc.ca, however, and I’ve baked a lot of muffins in that downtime. Ter and I were also supposed to travel to Vancouver for the Flyers/Canucks game on the 17^th, but the energy required to get there, plus the inconvenience of losing two workdays at this critical juncture, convinced us to stay home and watch the game on TV.

It’s the worst time to wrestle with my muse. I am easily frustrated by alluring fragments for new works and reminders of those that have stalled. I realize that I haven’t finished anything since January, when the speed picked up at work, and have recently (irrationally) wondered if I will ever finish anything that isn’t about vampires. This prompted me to consider, for the nth time, unraveling the novel to the first eight chapters and writing it in another direction though the only thing wrong with what I’ve written so far is me.

Ter and I saw Celtic Thunder perform on March 11. The lads came to Victoria on their “Best Of” tour, and with Damian McGinty returned to the fold, I was taken back in time to the early days of my Fixed Fire series. The first few volumes were driven by Def Leppard and Sarah McLachlan, but a good chunk of the next generation was fuelled by the Celtic boys and “Celtic Woman” before them. Hearing the songs that sparked so vibrantly in my imagining a handful of years ago was a welcome jolt to the system last week. At this point, I’m either winding down at work or completely desperate to escape it, because seeing the show brought back all the passion I felt for my Castasian characters and their wild green mountainous magical world. This past weekend, I dragged out the novel again, reconnected with the story, and have committed to finishing the f***er or die trying.

This is volume 7. I’ve got material for one more after this, and part of my motivation to finish Reijo’s story is so I can get to Aurelia’s. Make no mistake; I adore Reijo. He’s my white knight in dented armour and he deserves a happy ending. I’m just not very good at happy endings, so doing right by him has been a struggle. I need him now, though, to prove to myself that vampires are not my sole strength, to get me through year-end and give me a project for a much-needed writing holiday planned for some time in April.

Caroling, Caroling

part of the collection

“Holiday” is my favourite music genre, and not just because I know all the words. Ter and I have amassed so many Christmas albums that we used to start playing them on November first. We’d load up the CD player after work, break open the Christmas jigsaw puzzle, and thus would begin our festive celebration.

Every fall, I load up my Starbucks card to ensure I have funds for their annual holiday disc, the entire collection of which I have except the third year edition (the year of “Ru snooze, Ru lose”). One of my favourite gifts ever is the retro-Christmas disc Nicole sent some years back; it’s loaded with cheesy 60s Xmas Muzak and is absolutely wonderfully awful. Ter and I loved it so much that it was copied and mailed with our Christmas cards. And, of course, my online jazz station puts up a holiday channel each November—from the third week in the month until I leave on vacation, I stream it at work.

I confess, I’m a Christmas music ho ho ho.

The acquisition of holiday tuneage has slowed over the years. I still haunt Starbucks until I see their kitschy CD cover and I am still waiting for Def Leppard to record a Christmas album, but now I wait until after November 11 before I start plaguing my world with old chestnuts roasted in new ways. My wee sister alerted me to a potential addiction issue by helping us to move in 2012—she was boxing up my CDs and happened on the array of holiday titles. “How many Christmas discs do you have?” she asked in mild horror.

“I dunno,” I answered, absently. “Seventy-five or something.”

She was hilariously pinched between disgust and dismay. “I have three—and you gave me two of them!”

Hey, I thought, I can quit any time I want.

That was my first hint.