Nobel Poet

I have no problem with Bob Dylan receiving the Nobel Prize for Poetry. He may not be able to sing for toffee, but few poets can. It’s the poetry that earns the recognition, and someone with a body of work as extensive and influential as Dylan’s deserves all the credit he can get.

Same goes for Leonard Cohen, by the way. It may be my maple leaf showing, but I’d sign a petition to have him awarded the same prize (regrettably posthumously) since I find his poetry/lyrics/sentiments more moving than Dylan’s.

I sort of digress.

I own no Dylan albums. I only know what songs I’ve heard on the radio. I love the impression of him done by Don Ferguson of the Royal Canadian Air Farce, mostly because it highlights the mumbled nasal twang that enables most folks to pick out no more than an occasional word. But Bob Dylan is responsible for one of the few bright sparks in my 2011 “Holiday From Hell”.

Up until 2015, when they stopped producing it, the annual Starbucks Christmas CD was anticipated with all the energy and excitement of a kid for, well, Christmas. I have all but one disc in the collection, my favourite being Let it Snow, released in 2011. Even the cover art is fabulous. It’s still among the first discs to hit rotation at the start of the festive season. Every song on it is a winner—including Dylan’s. In fact, his is one of my favourite tracks.

Not because he wrote it (he didn’t). Not because he recorded it (for a charitable cause). Not for any other reason than the cornball foot stompin’ headbangin’ country-fried tempo had my Ter dancing around the kitchen in a truly rare fit of present-moment glee. To this day, whenever I hear it, I am reminded of a sparkle in the snowstorm that became a whopping dump and nearly destroyed us.

The poet goofed, though. Another Dylan track was featured on the Bucky’s disc the following Christmas, and alas, it’s the one track I consistently skip.

Proof that even a Nobel Prize winner can make mistakes.

Sting, Stang, Stung



Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

Two days later, I still wake up looping “If Ever I Lose my Faith in You” – the first song Sting played live at the Save On Memorial Arena last Friday night. At last, for the first time in his life and in mine, the deity himself stopped in my hometown on his latest tour. And all I can say in one syllable is … Wow.

An 8 p.m. start, no opening act, no flashy lights, no rinky-dink set, no video screens and no more than six people on the stage. He wasn’t kidding when he named the tour “Back to Bass”. That’s what we got. A stripped down, professionally executed set spanning over 25 years of a career that defies labeling. He’s written so many brilliant songs that he couldn’t possibly have played everyone’s favourite, so he dug into the archive and produced a half-Police, half-solo show that was all Sting no matter how crunchy, twangy, jazzy or rock n’ reggae the piece. He’s a musician first, a songwriter second, and a singer third. The order may change on a given day, but it’s a holy trinity of talent no matter how it’s numbered.

That said, I admit to being a bit confused until I figured out that what he was playing was absolutely relevant to the name of the tour. My first thought was, “Man, that’s loud.” Which actually means “that’s loud for Sting”, though in truth it wasn’t. He was an angry young man when he started with the Police and has since mellowed considerably, so methinks I was fooled into expecting a reprise of his later offerings when in fact what I got was, well, loud. His sound crew remains the best in my experience, though – after I accepted what I was being served, my ears ceased to bleed. This was a rock concert, pure and simple. And it was fun!

More recent fans might have been disappointed. I was a Police fan from “Message in a Bottle”, so I knew every single song he played. He didn’t spend a lot of time chatting, but he told a story about attending his first NHL game a few weeks back. He named the New York Rangers and the Boston Bruins, then scolded the audience: “What are you booing them for? Most of them are Canadian, for ***’s sake!” Which got a laugh, but really, not popular teams in Canuck country. Anyway, he used it as a segue into “Demolition Man”, and that’s when I realized where we were headed. A diehard fan has favourites beyond the radio hits, so I had to acquiesce for the most part. “Every Breath You Take” is a great song, but I tune it out when I hear it, and I’m unsure that he’s as in love with it as he may have been a million performances ago. He played it anyway, with a few other must-haves, but sprinkled throughout were gems from gentler times. “Fields of Gold” and “Shape of My Heart” stand out, and I’ll never tire of “Englishman in New York”. “Message in a Bottle” was done so mind-bendingly well that I can’t remember a better version of it over the half a dozen times I’ve seen him. “Wrapped Around Your Finger” was played to this really cool light effect where a dozen white spotlights drew lazy circles over the crowd; we were all hypnotized by the time the song ended. And he ended the show gently, of course, with “Fragile”. *sigh*

Each of his players were highlighted at various times – the most excellent Dominic Miller on guitar, David Sancious on keyboards, Vinnie Colaiuta on drums, Peter Tickell on violin/mandolin and Jo Lawry on backing vocals. Each a superlative performer in his/her own right, perfectly blended to support the master. I adore Dominic Miller; it’s as much fun watching him play as it is to watch Sting. I forget that he can play killer rock riffs as well as classical melodies, he’s a tall skinny guy with loads of charisma and an elegant manner of playing that marks him as a natural musician.

I could rave on about every little thing (he does is magic, ha ha), but overall, I had blissfully sublime moments when I closed my eyes and let the joy pound with the bassline. I sang, I laughed, I stomped and clapped and cheered and dreamed and even wept a little … “King of Pain” is a weird one for me. I care for it as much as “Every Breath …”, but every time I hear it live, I start tearing up about halfway through. It’s the line about the black winged gull with the broken back that gets me; I have to quit singing along at that point else I’ll start bawling. I wonder what past life is tweaked by that image? Maybe I was the gull?

When my Cohen-worshipper at work asks me tomorrow how the Sting gig went, I’ll have to confess that Leonard’s show in March was probably the more religious experience of the two … this time. Sting is definitely a god – Ter reiterated his status after the show – but last Friday, he was less a deity than he was a rock star.

Not bad for an old guy.

Who's Your Deity?

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My dear friend Nicole attended a Leonard Cohen concert in Halifax last weekend and promptly—perhaps appropriately—waxed poetic about her experience in the presence of this legendary poet/singer/songwriter/icon. Not only did her review cause me to reconsider my blithe disregard for the man’s stop in Victoria last month, it reminded me of a conversation I’d had about it.

I was talking with a colleague at the office and my eye fell on the print of Leonard Cohen that hangs on the wall of her workspace. A musician herself, she’s a huge Leonard Cohen fan, yet I stupidly posed the obvious question:

“Are you going to the concert on the 6th?”

“Of course,” she said in her quiet way.

Comprehending her meaning, I nodded. “He’s one of those people you go to see every time they come to town. I feel the same way about Sting.”

“Are you going to see him when he comes in May?” she asked.

I snorted. “You bet. Sting is God.”

She glanced up at me from her computer screen, smiled softly, and shook her head. “No, he’s not. Leonard Cohen is God.”

Well, really. I’m not a fan of religious wars, so I will concede that there is room in the arts for more than one god. Or perhaps art is the one true god, and Sting and Cohen and all the other artists in the world are prophets or disciples or heavenly messengers called upon to spread the word.

That said, I just got back from picking up my Sting tickets, so ... um ... “Leonard who?”