CNE

An interesting week

Montreal, Ottawa, and Toronto. The three most significant cities of my life and career. I could do a lengthy post on any one of them. We played all three of them in four days last week.
The one in Toronto was at the Canadian National Exhibition, or the EX, as it’s commonly known, a sort of super state fair that began long ago when there were still giant lizards and Joe Biden was in the eighth grade.
From the age of about seven, all of us kids would go once or twice every year. It ran during the last two weeks of August, ending on Labour Day, the last day of a school kid’s freedom. As adults, the Ex is variously remembered as either the swan song of summer or the place where you barfed after riding the Tilt-A-Whirl.

There’s a band shell in the southeastern part of the grounds. It’s a mammoth structure with permanent bench seating for about a thousand people if you don’t mind competing for ass and elbow room with every weary plus-sized and very territorial EX-goer who is doing the only thing all day that’s free. To the sides and back of the benches is a large grassy area which isn’t recommended for sitting unless it’s not essential to see who’s on stage and you aren’t wearing Haz-Mat pants. Reference the Tilt-A-Whirl.
I’m estimating that this area can accommodate ten thousand people. And it sounded like it when they roared approval for our opening act, The Good Brothers. But that was nothing. Earlier that day an F-35 fighter jet in the air show caused a sonic boom that damn near knocked me off my piano bench. But that still wasn’t as loud as the roar of the crowd when Kiefer Sutherland took to the stage and introduced Gord.
The frenetic audience sang along with most of the tunes in remarkable unison. There was a real buzz without even one lull for the sixty-five minutes we were up there. They screamed and chanted Gord-dee, Gord-dee during a ten minute, banana republic style insurrection, rioting for a second encore. Most of you know that we only do one encore; this was no exception.

Jack Bauer

I met Kiefer Sutherland in 1983. I was playing keyboards for Jane Child and he came out to one of our gigs. We talked for fifteen or twenty minutes, and I mentioned I was between tours with Gordon Lightfoot. He said he was a fan and seemed impressed.
Thirty years later, I spoke to him briefly after a show we did in Anaheim. It was chaotic as we both were being asked to sign things and pose for pictures. I certainly don’t mean to portray myself as equal in celebrity, but I do get requests frequently for that sort of thing. I’m not comfortable with it and although I’ve been admonished by my peers who consider it part of the job, I try to avoid it if I can.
So it was in that frame of mind that I quietly gathered my stuff together and planned an inconspicuous way out to my truck.
Kiefer walked by the open door just as I closed the last zipper on my backpack. He glanced in with a smile just like his father’s and said, “Thank you. That was a great show.”
That was cool.

The Fuzz

The specialness, if that’s even a word, of the evening was not over. My vehicle was parked right beside our large behemoth of a tractor-trailer which earlier had seemed like an easy spot to escape from later. But everything looks different in the dark and the parking area was packed solid. There was room to back out, but it required some finesse and a brain that isn’t spatially challenged. So, because whining and snivelling has worked for me in the past, I summoned “little Mikey” who enjoys complaining.
Let me set up the scenario. There was about three inches between me and our truckasaurus on the right side. On the left side was Gord’s driver in an SUV who, to be fair, was trying to co-operate by crab-walking his vehicle sideways. I’m not a great backer-upper. I’ve severely wounded more than one tree and bumper in my day. Nevertheless, I gave it a shot but only managed to get even closer to the big truck, so I got out, slammed the door and said a bad word. Then a bad phrase. I was working on a bad essay when a cop approached me.
More on the scenario. There was a gaggle of cops, five or six, off to the side, which, I suppose, was our security. I have some friends that are cops. I’ve met and talked with quite a few over the years, and for the most part, they seem like regular people. But I’m sorry, when they’re dimly lit and in their uniforms, they’re all Buford Pusser wanting to haul me off to the station so they can kick my ass.
So as I was saying, one of those police officers strolled over and I assumed it was to tell me to settle down. Instead he offered to back my vehicle out for me! I accepted and after a few cautious attempts he weasled it out to the road. Then he stuck his head out the window and yelled “I like this thing. I’m keeping it” and began driving away. I turned to the other officers and said, “How ironic is that? A cop steals my truck.” Maybe it was the timing. I mean, it wasn’t a very good joke, but it cracked them up. The first cop moved my truck back, jumped out and shook my hand