Bibliography 15

 “Diary of a Bookseller” – Shaun Bythell

It seems I’ve read a ton of autobiographies this summer: Elton John’s Me, Tina Turner’s My Love Story, Stewart Copeland’s Strange Things Happen. I also read a bio of Freddie Mercury and Chris Heath’s fly-on-the-wall account of life with Robbie Williams. If you see a theme here, you’re right on the mark—the rock stars who have provided the soundtrack to my life are telling their stories and I’m devouring them. Each of the aforementioned is a worthy read. As laugh out loud funny as Copeland’s brash American POV is, Dame Elton’s voice is particularly enjoyable for its honesty and humour; the British tendency toward self-deprecation is as hilarious as it is harrowing ... which leads me to the subject of this post.

Shaun Bythell is a fellow from Scotland who returned to his hometown in 2001 and somehow ended up buying a used bookshop. At one point, given the daily dramas encountered with quirky staff and regular customers, not to mention the antics of rogue patrons as observed from behind the counter, he decided to keep a diary, the end result of which was first published in 2017 as Diary of a Bookseller.

It may be a keeper. The copy I read was loaned to me by a friend and I’m unsure if I will purchase my own, though after reading Shaun’s experience with online selling and the insatiable monster that is Amazon, I feel somewhat compelled to support the bookselling industry by amassing as many hard copies as possible, even if I don’t have room for more than a hundred volumes in my reduced living space. That’s one reason why I have a Kindle—I’ve been seduced into the space-saving advantage of e-books even though the original hype of “books at lower cost” is no longer true. These days a new release download costs the same as the paperback edition; the primary bonus to the buyer is the convenience of an entire library contained on a device the size of a drugstore pocket book. Only thinner.

I digress.

This is a great book for those moments “in between”: when waiting for tea to steep, my hair to dry, or Ter to get her shoes on. If I had a half-hour to spare, I’d pick it up and read a few entries. Some are longer than others, as is the way of diaries. Some days are busier than others. If nothing else, the overall glimpse into the world of used bookselling, particularly in a small town, gave me a greater appreciation for the stalwart souls determined to endure in a world of on demand print, cutthroat competition and online conglomerates. Or impossible customers, come to that. I try to be pleasant with store clerks, recognizing that dealing with random members of the public is hard work. Not everyone shares my perspective. The beauty of this book is that the author, who could easily swing from objective to objectionable, simply notes the customer’s tone and general mien during any exchange. Rarely does he descend to disparaging criticism of any individual, no matter how appalling the individual’s attitude. The echo of his inside voice is tempered by diplomacy for the PG-13 audience while being, in my opinion, completely justified. Oh, some incidents are hysterical.

The funniest observations, however, are of his staff, particularly his regular (opposed to seasonal) employee, who gives as good as she gets both to her boss and to the customers. It’s a slice-of-life-in-a-small-town story as much as a view from behind the counter. My overall impression is that bookselling is not to be undertaken lightly. It takes a special breed to take up the profession ... but if you’re not worried about making ends meet and have the people skills to manage characters too colourful to be invented, then selling used books might be the job for you.

Bibliography XIII

“Strange Things Happen – A Life with The Police, Polo and Pygmies” – Stewart Copeland

An excerpt from my rock n’ roll journal, dated May 31, 2007:

“Strangely, perhaps because Sting has remained a pop icon and produced commercial hits since 1984, and perhaps because I’ve seen him 3 or 4 times already, I found myself more enthralled with Stewart Copeland’s masterful touch on drums and percussion. He was mesmerizing on all counts. Impossible to ignore, really. A phenomenal drummer, maybe the best I’ve seen. It was a privilege to hear him play live; if I’m glad of anything on this trip, that is it—getting to see him work his magic in sublime testament to Sting’s hilarious descriptions of him in Broken Music. The man is, as Terri said, a mad genius. Completely manic and wild, he ran laps around the stage a couple of times, like a lanky kid hyped on sugar. He actually out-did Sting himself ...”

* * *

Looking back, what I wrote about him that night pretty well describes Stewart Copeland, period, as indicated in his most excellent autobiography. Alas, though it was a Christmas present in 2009, I took almost a dozen years to read it. I say “alas” because it is easily one of the most entertaining books, and maybe the best of the autobiographies, I have ever read. 

It’s not so much the story of his life as it is a bunch of stories from his life, everything from scaling crumbled castle walls as a kid in Lebanon to playing polo against the Prince of Wales to touring with a posse of musicians during Notta della Taranta festivals in Italy to composing operas and writing film scores to judging singers on a BBC reality show to facing off against a pride of lions in Africa ... and I’m not finished reading the book! I have yet to embark on the final section, chronicling Copeland’s 2007 experience touring with Sting and Andy Summers, aka The Police.

These tales are written with such articulate hilarity that he has propelled me into areas (like opera and Africa) that hold no interest for me at all. If I felt lukewarm at the start of any such segment, I quickly learned to pay attention because the story is so brilliantly told I would regret missing it. His acuity is so outrageous that I must put the book down for spontaneous bouts of laughter—Terri asked me yesterday if I was okay because I was quaking on the couch with my hand over my eyes, and given the current health climate, she feared something was amiss. I responded by releasing the laughter I was hopelessly trying to suppress.

Aside from the Calvin and Hobbes treasuries, books that capable of assaulting my funny bone are so few as to be counted on one hand. Comedy is really hard to convey in writing, though the humour here is not in the least contrived. Copeland is genuinely funny.

I have also been disappointed by autobiographies over the years. One actress managed to make a potentially fascinating life into an appalling snoozefest, and some of my rock icons have relied on ghost writers to get their stories told—for which I’m grateful, else I’d not know the stories at all, but still. You want a sense of the artist’s self in any book about him/her. Well, Stewart Copeland’s voice is all his own: a brash, shoot from the hip, sharply witty voice that prevails alongside nuts and bolts detail about subjects too varied to name, including music itself, that few ghost writers could or would affect, and many artists, though outstanding in their fields, will not achieve no matter how expert their command of English.

In short, it’s a cracking good read that even eclipsed Sting’s!

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.

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!

No Quitter

There are shows you miss and think nothing of it. Then there are shows you might have missed but are glad you didn’t because missing them would be a crying shame despite not knowing what you missed. Does that make sense?

I might still be a little punchy after last night’s “might have missed but am glad I didn’t”.

I have yet to get my head around Victoria being more than a stopover for artists whose stars are on the ascent, on their way down, or on their way out. Even after seeing the Sarahs Brightman and McLachlan, after Sting and Sheryl Crow and a handful of Leppard shows, I am still surprised when a big name performer comes to town. So when word got out that Shania Twain was bringing her show here, getting tickets was, as Ter once put it, a no-brainer.

Bear in mind that country music and I don’t like each other very much. I must remind myself that country music today is not the country music of yore—thanks in good part to Shania herself. When she met producer “Mutt” Lange, she changed the course of country tuneage and made it palatable for rock/pop snobs like me. She’s bright, she’s upbeat, she’s funny—and she rocks.

She is inspiring, though, for more than her stellar status in the music biz. In short, small town Canadian girl loses both parents to tragedy, keeps her siblings together and alive through smarts and sheer strength of will, somehow meets world famous record producer, falls in love, marries him, and proceeds to make history. The Cinderella story should end there, but after she becomes a global phenomenon, she learns that the love of her life is cheating with her best friend. Talk about your world shattering. She lost her voice, her marriage, became a single mom, quit performing, quit singing, and seemed, for all intents and purposes, to be down for the count.

But she came back. She fell in love again, she found her voice again, she rebuilt her confidence and took it to Vegas. It took her ten years, but she did it, and from there, she embarked on a world tour and man, oh man, she is back with a vengeance. It’s like she was never gone.

So. Last night. There are no really bad seats at the Leppard Dome (aka the Save On Foods Memorial Arena); the people surrounding you are more often the challenge. Fortunately, Shania doesn’t attract the same hardcore individuals that are drawn to the Leps or Bon Jovi. Her crowd consists of cowboys and angels: guys in jeans and plaid shirts, women in jeans, bling and boots, and their daughters dressed in sweet summer dresses and cowboy boots. Far less frightening than the mother/daughter pairs we saw at the Leppard gig in April, where the mothers were dressed like the daughters and there was nothing sweet about any of them.

We hang out on the concourse while the opening act is on, watching people and gradually losing our hearing to the increasing hubbub in the lineups for beer and popcorn. There are so many pretty young girls in the cute outfit started by Taylor Swift that they all run together, but there’s the odd pop! of a red lamé jacket or a rhinestone collar that can only be worn to a rock concert.

Ter and I have aisle seats, me next to a burly dude who proves to be as mild-mannered as most giants so I’m able to focus on the show rather than spend it dodging the flailing limbs of an inebriated neighbour. Just before the lights go down, I lean over to Ter and whisper, “I hope she plays ‘I Ain’t No Quitter’.” A long shot, I admit, because that track was written for her greatest hits album and wasn’t a big single. Joan Jett’s “I Love Rock and Roll” starts up, the lights dip, and the crowd sings along. Full dark for a few heartbeats—then the stage explodes with light and sound worthy of, well, hey, a Las Vegas show, and rising up from the fog through a hole in the floor is a tiny power-packed figure with big blond hair and the warbling pipes of a chipmunk.

Yup, my hearing went early.

Her voice, like the rest of her, is really quite strong, and as pure as that mandatory country twang will allow; however, I rarely go to see someone whose catalogue I don’t know, so I was familiar enough with the music to know every song as it was played. She tipped Nashville on its ear with her sassy female take on the conventional country lyric—check out “Honey I’m Home” if you want an example—and while she kicks butt with empowering attitude, she is clearly a romantic who’s in love with being in love. “From This Moment” is as sappy as it gets, yet when she sings it, you feel the commitment that true love deserves (and which, for her, was ultimately betrayed). I was resigned to hearing it because it was such a huge hit for her, but the lighting that accompanied it onstage set her in the center of a laser diamond, so multi-faceted and flawless that I was awestruck for the duration.

Actually, there were enough lasers to have corrected the vision in every member of the audience—one of the best light shows I’ve ever seen. Mostly red and white, punctuated with bursts of flame so hot I felt them on my face (“I’m Gonna Getcha Good” was pyrotechnically brilliant!), and backed by video clips that filled the gaps during a costume change. She may be little and fiery, but she is also an elegant example of beauty blending with inner resolve. She proves that a woman can change the world without compromising her femininity. Now, that is inspiring.

The fifth song into her set? One she said she has never played live, but wanted to sing for us now:

“I Ain’t No Quitter”.

She certainly ain’t.

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.

Watchin’ the World Go By

Sipping chai tea and listening to Tears for Fears at the local coffee house, I watch the Douglas Street buses performing their cumbersome ballet. The “walk” sign at the intersection flashes to the beat of Everybody Wants to Rule the World. People come and go—skirts and suits from the office tower across the courtyard, stopping for coffee to get them through another afternoon of meetings; students on spring break, dropping in for iced hot chocolate with extra whipped cream; a busker juggling his trumpet case with a cup of dark roast. It’s supposed to be raining but the sun has broken through to spill across the page as I scribble the imagery in bright green ink. Upstairs, a pile of year-end panic awaits my return, but now it’s Woman in Chains and Roland Orzabal’s voice is as deep and rich as the house coffee and I cannot tear myself away. Even the guys behind the counter are humming along with the melody.

It’s quiet in here but steady outside. No tourists yet (well, maybe one or two), so the city belongs to the locals for a few more weeks.

I want to ask why they’re playing one of my favourite 80’s bands on a day when I need no incentive to dawdle. Instead, I’ll stay to hear what song is next, then I’ll go back to work.

Maybe.

Zeppelin Heart

The Sisters Wilson

Some people don’t know when to quit.

That sentence could apply to the continuing carousel of classic rock bands churning out the same set list of archaic hits night after night on tour after tour year after year (are you listening, Def Leppard?) It could also apply to the hordes of silver-mullet males whose female counterparts can’t quite accept that their black spandex pants and stiletto heels aren’t as sleek on now as they were a quarter-century ago. It could also apply to Ter and me—who always dressed to be comfortable and paid attention to the stage.

Yep, we did it again. We bought tickets to see a bass-thumping, guitar-crunching rock band who were hot back when we were hot … and I would not have missed it for the world.

The Wilson sisters—Ann and Nancy, collectively known as Heart—ended their “Rockin Heaven Canada” tour in Victoria last weekend and we were there. So were a few next-generation brats whose parents must have been fans because, idiotic as they were, the pair behind us knew the words to most of the songs and neither of them had been alive when the Dreamboat Annie LP was released in the 1970s. Crabbing is now complete on that score, except to add that they were still alive at the end of the show only because it was illegal to kill them.

Though Heart albums were played while I was growing up, none of them were mine. I wasn’t a fan at all, though my older sister played the debut album thin and my wee sister sang a beautiful “Dog and Butterfly” when she thought no one was listening. Ter, while unbeknownst to me, was also a fan; after we teamed up, she would occasionally play their greatest hits in our apartment at the bug palace in 1986. (The band is old enough, and successful enough, to have had a greatest hits compilation in the mid-80s.) I knew the songs and I acknowledged Ann’s rich smoke-and-whiskey voice, but I never, repeat never, listened to their stuff myself.

Until Julian. I was working on a modern-day story with him in which he frankly stated that he hunts to Heart. Um, er, ah … okaaaaaaaay … My vampire is in love with Ann Wilson. Didn’t see that coming, but what’s a scribe to do? In my case, I started listening. I had to get a feel for what Jules was saying so I could do right by him in the narrative and, through him, I discovered a genuine appreciation for her gift. I mean, that voice is a gift.

She proved it last Sunday, first by belting out a trove from her own band’s catalogue, then by ripping through a handful of Led Zeppelin songs that ended with a spine-chilling rendition of “Stairway to Heaven”. Oh—my—God! Overall the band was tight and loud and did their job easily given the treasure they support. Nancy is still a wicked guitarist. She’s also the vocal on one of my favourite tracks, “These Dreams”, the lyric of which was written by Bernie Taupin. Alas, her voice isn’t exactly what it was back when, but the star of the show—her older sister’s—is as limber and powerful as it was 40 years ago. She hit everything she aimed at and held on until the audience was gasping for breath. Because the band was so loud, some distortion interfered, but in softer moments, she was pristine. Absolutely, garment-rendingly, pristine.

I’m not a big Zep fan, either, but again, I know their songs and I know that the Wilsons idolized them, so it makes sense for Heart to drop a few Zep gems into their set. Devoting half of the whole show to them, however, and featuring Jason Bonham on big drums, made me a believer. It was so good, I’m hoping they release an album version of the Zeppelin set … though Julian just winced.

Hm. Guess he’s no Led Zep fan.