On To Halifax

Bad Planning?

The show in Fredericton went well. It was a very appreciative crowd. We were really putting across well this idea that we aren’t a tribute band. Our point is to keep the music going rather than to pay some kind of homage to Mr. Lightfoot.

This by no means indicates a lack of respect on our part. We don’t separate the man from his art. Not at all. But he himself would be disdainful of us carrying a celebration of his life from city to city.

“Just play the music as well as you can,” I’m sure he’d say, “everything else is bull shit.” 

Now, nobody’s fooling anyone here. Good musical intentions notwithstanding, we’re also selling our personal experiences of working and traveling with the man for many years. Hence: the stories we tell as part of each performance.

At different points in the concert, we are introduced to the audience, and each of us talks for five or ten minutes about interesting situations we recall from the many years that we toured and recorded together. 

Right now, I have half a dozen stories in rotation, with at least another six or seven waiting in the wings. They range from falling off the stage in Toledo to my first ride in the private jet to helping Gord tune his guitars to meeting big-name celebrities, etc. If you dig around on YouTube, you can hear and see me tell a few of them. I just thought of a few more while writing this. The other guys have some informative and hilarious stories of their own.

We keep it light, and we get lots of laughs. The audience really enjoys that part of the show. Personally, I’d be going, “Shut the fuck up and play!” 

The next day after Fredericton, we headed southeast to Halifax, Nova Scotia. 

For this trip, we changed things a little. Barry rode with Rick, Andy, and Warren, while Carter traveled with me. 

Warren, or “Wiggy” as he’s known in the business, is our tour manager. He flew to Fredericton, thus avoiding the highway lag or delirium tar tremons we suffered at the beginning of the trip. 

We were looking at a distance of 436 km to Halifax, or for those who don’t speak Canadian, 271 miles. 

It had been a few years since I’d driven in New Brunswick. I’d forgotten how unpopulated and even desolate large stretches of it were. We got a couple of hours or so out of Fredericton, and I had yet to see even one of those rest stops with food and gasoline that are ubiquitous in Ontario and Quebec. There were no exits or signs for towns and villages or, for that matter, any indication at all of civilization. I glanced at my fuel gauge. Oops.

Thirty-five km left until empty.

“Hey, Carter!”

“Huh, what?”

“Do me a favour. Get on your iPhone and find out if we’re near any gas stations.”

A minute or so went by.

“No”

“Whadaya mean, no?”

“Not for thirty-five kilometres”

I figured that there were probably a few more km available than what the gauge said, but I wasn’t sure. Still, though, I am a lover of drama, and I like to have a little fun.

“Oh, that’s no good.”

“What?”

“It’s gonna be close. Are you any good at siphoning gas if I have to flag someone down?”

“We’re running out of gas?”

“We should be okay if the wind is with us.”

“Do you have a CAA (Canadian version of AAA) card?” 

I’m looking around at utter desolation. There isn’t even a farmer’s field. If not for the trees, it could be the face of the moon.

“Okay, Carter, I have two comments. First, yes, I do have a CAA membership, and second, what the fuck good can it do us around here?”

Coming up, there was a very nondescript exit, if you could call it that, with a sign that looked like it had been used for target practice by moose hunters, pointing east with what seemed to be the name of a town on it. As we got closer, we could see that it did indicate a town in that direction and that it was thirty km away. 

So there was a decision to be made. Take a chance on an old bullet-ridden sign promising us an oasis but getting us even further into the weeds, or staying on the highway where at least one of the three cars using it that day might stop and help us.

We took the exit and proceeded to drive 30 minutes through “Deliverance” territory, finally making it to a sleepy little town with one gas station. 

We stopped at a self-serve pump and I did the honours while Carter wandered off to steady his nerves. I have a sixty-litre tank. I was up to fifty-nine point nine-five liters before the nozzle did its little clunk. 

Editor: He’s Lying About The Phone Numbers

This place is nostalgic. The first time I went on the road way back in 1974 was for a two-week booking at a brand new Holiday Inn here in Halifax. 

I arrived on June 16, 1974, as a dumb-ass, naive, 20-year-old and left two weeks later unchanged, although with two new phone numbers of cute girls offering me accommodation should I return someday. In retrospect, I suppose they figured I was full of shit about becoming rich and famous before I was thirty, but what the hell, I was mildly entertaining. 

A Few People Not On My Christmas Card List

The venue this time was Casino Nova Scotia, a sprawling structure on the harbour. I had to drive around for a while before I found out where to drop off my equipment. Warren met me with some of the house crew and when all was unloaded, he indicated where I was to park.

“These doors lock, so someone will wait for you to return,” he said.

Of course, no one was there, and yes, the doors were locked. I had to walk a quarter mile to the main entrance and then make my way past the many sad-looking Haligonians donating to the Nova Scotia Gaming Commission. 

When I finally made it to the entrance to the concert hall and began looking for the way in, a very suspicious security lady wanted to know where I thought I was going. In fact, these were her words: 

“Where do you think you’re going?” 

“You tell me,” I replied, “I know where I’m supposed to be, and that would be on stage setting up my equipment.”

“Do you have a visitors pass?”

“Look, I’m here because I got locked out downstairs. Go into the theatre and ask anybody if I’m legit.”

“No. Go back to the main entrance and get a pass.”

“That’s easily a fifteen-minute round trip!”

“It’s either that or you don’t get in.”

Keep in mind that I’m carrying two heavy bags of cables and pedals. I reluctantly returned to the front doors and approached the main security desk, knowing that everyone in the band was wondering where the hell I was.

“Hello, I’m with the entertainment. Hell, I am the entertainment. Apparently, I need a visitor’s pass.”

“Can I see your driver’s license?”

“Sure, hold on.” 

I showed it to him, and he took it right from my hand.

“You’ll get this back when you return the pass.”

Now I’m ready to read the riot act.

“That’s illegal!”

“Take it or leave it.”

We should absolutely have been given more respect. I’m not too fond of security. They’re primarily bullies and wannabe cops. And here’s how secure the security was. Later, when someone else from the band went to retrieve their driver’s license, they were given mine. 

The show was great. Again, a very appreciative crowd who would have been good for a second encore had the house lights not been turned on. 

Gotta get those people back out to the tables and slots.

Next, back up to New Brunswick. Another Casino but with a little bit more of a relaxed vibe.