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.

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.

Extraordinary Miracles III

“The Concert”

Gee, maybe I am a fan!

Ter and I missed my niece’s wedding reception because we had tickets with our good buddy Treena to see Sarah McLachlan the same night. I have never seen Sarah live, though I have every album except her greatest hits—which, if you want to be literal about it, means that I have her greatest hits, just not on a single disc. I didn’t even realize that I have all her discs. 

How can someone be a fan and not know it until the night before the show? Maybe because I had not been driven to see her live? Not until last spring, anyway, when Shine On was released and I got word of a tour starting in Victoria on October 18. The email notification came and I debated getting tickets. It’s no fun going alone, and Ter isn’t enough of a fan to make me make her go with me. Treena has some of her albums, though, so I thought I’d ask if she wanted to go. Then Ter said she’d come with us just for the joy in watching us see an icon perform live in our hometown. So I got the tickets and put them away until October.

In a day piled high with extraordinary miracles, the concert was the cherry on top. First, the seats turned out to be most excellent – the only three seats in the second row up in the bowl, just shy of right angles to the stage. The set was modeled after a living room, with cozy chairs, carpets, a couch, and hanging lamps reminiscent of Christmas ornaments. At 8:00, a woman who could have been my sister walked on stage and welcomed everyone to the show. She explained the format, the band came on behind her, and this normal, chatty individual instantly morphed into Sarah McLachlan performing Flesh and Blood off the new album. Even then, it didn’t really register that I was watching her play live until the second song, Buildinga Mystery, which is one of my favourite Sarah songs and numbers among her biggest hits. I think it won a Grammy; the album, Surfacing, certainly did. Her voice is so distinct, so unique, that it stands alone among the voices of her generation, but when she’s talking, she sounds like any other Canadian girl and you’d be hard-pressed to believe your eyes when they try to tell your brain that yep, she’s the real deal.

She doesn’t need a band. Her songs are poems set to music; she can sit at a piano and mesmerize you with a range of emotion that defies description. Treena put it best after the show: with almost every song, I thought, oh, my favourite! Until the next song started and I thought, No, this is my favourite! And so on, for almost two hours straight. She broke to invite a few fans on stage and answer questions submitted pre-show from the audience; I swear, it was like spending an evening with my sister. She was warm, funny, generous, honest, powerful and absolutely perfect.

Well, except that she sang one song in the wrong half of the show. She finished The Answer and launched straight into I  Will remember You, which confused her band though they let her go unsupported and joined when they were meant to. We only knew she’d goofed because she apologized to them.

Yep, every song was a gem. Every lyric a poem, every moment a precious reminder that this woman, this singer/songwriter with the angel’s voice, is actually more to me than a mere nice-to-have in my CD collection. She started to sing Fallen and I realized with a jolt that the Afterglow album was the soundtrack for Reijo’s failed first romance, one of the most powerfully painful stories I’ve ever written. The album Fumbling Toward Ecstasy fuelled the relationship between Lucius and his half-sister Fae, particularly the songs Possession, Fear, and the title track. And yes, she performed those songs on Saturday night. I couldn’t believe my luck. She cranked that voice up to an octave undocumented on Fear—the recording of it is unearthly and haunting beyond chills, yet live (and twenty years later), she nailed it. Effing nailed it! I wanted to scream with her, but burst into tears instead.

So embarrassing.

During the intermission, Treena and I decided we had to hit the swag table. This occasion could not pass without acquiring some memento to mark it. She was as blown away as I was and, in a day of mounting miracles, so was Ter. It’s relatively easy to satisfy a fan. To elevate your status in the eyes of a casual awareness takes some talent.

Will I see her again? Dunno. Am I playing her music as I write this? You bet. She is and always will be one of the strongest musical inspirations for my writing. If I had to see her live to realize this, then her work is done. I am a fan, but in this instance I’m a fan for different reasons. I listen to her for pleasure, but mostly, I listen to her music, her lyrics, and her voice, to write my tales of the human heart in all its conflict.

I am in awe. I am inspired. I am grateful.