Fortunately, most of the people at The Old Nick on Saturday night were doing just that.
A few people needed to leave, but that was probably because there were so many artists singing at the same time. You could easily bar-hop between the six venues at Broadview and Danforth and catch several artists in one hour.
That’s why it was especially pleasing when people stayed put for my whole set.
My Friday night performance had gone well, but had also been somewhat challenging because of a loud crowd at the back of the restaurant—a peril at that particular venue.
I saw Bob Bennett from California deal with an equally noisy crowd in the same place. (Bob’s songs tackle the "big questions" of life in a way I really respect; plus, his guitar playing is inspiring and he has a voice that makes me weak in the knees.) I thought he handled the noisy venue with more confidence than I had--probably because he has about twenty years’ more performance experience--and yet I could tell he was noticing it, too.
But when I performed at a different venue on Saturday night, everyone was listening. Plus, taking a cue from my subway life, I did something I rarely do in "official" performances.
I played without a set list.
This enabled me to be more responsive to my own impulses and the changing mood of the audience. It also kept me away from pre-rehearsed patter, which tends to sound stiff. I allowed myself to be open to the moment and willing to approach the performance more as an improvisation…and it worked beautifully.
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(If you’re interested in reading more about improvisation in life and in art, I highly recommend the work of Stephen Nachmanovitch and his book "Free Play".)
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I played a brand new song called "Pennies" on Saturday night. I’d wondered if I’d have the nerve to play it—it’s only a few days old—but not only did I find I wanted to, I needed to.
I guess it’s often like that with songs; we’re writing the ones we think we need at the time. And sometimes, the songs we’ve written rescue us unexpectedly.
In addition to Bob Bennett, I had seen Vicki Genfan earlier in the evening. She’s a virtuoso finger-style guitar player who has been playing since the age of five. (How is that even physically possible, I wondered?) Her dazzling musicianship was a privilege to watch. It also caused the noisy crowd at the venue to (finally) shut up in utter amazement.
Although I enjoyed her performance immensely, and I bought her excellent live CD, it did make me pause to consider whether, with guitar players like her around, the world needs all the rest of us.
As I started to introduce "Pennies"—which affirms the value of even the smallest gifts— I realized I myself needed that song right now. And hey, maybe some other "good-but-not-THAT-good" guitarists in the room could relate too? I took a chance, told the story and sang.
"Good song!", somebody yelled.
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Toronto's Winterfolk roots music festival is now in its third year, having survived beyond many people’s expectations.
The offbeat dream of non-conformist songwriter and guitarist Brian Gladstone , who started it after being turned down for similar events, Winterfolk is now an official member event of the Ontario Council of Folk Festivals. Hundreds of local, national and international artists—representing a wide range of musical styles and "levels" of "professional experience" (both of which are subject to a variety of interpretations)—have found appreciative audiences at the three Winterfolk festivals.
This year in particular, the enthusiastic cross-pollination of inspiration between musicians and volunteers, and the palpable feeling of excitement that such an event could actually fly, made Winterfolk feel truly magical.
My favourite moment, though, came when I noticed a chalkboard sign outside one of the local British-style pubs where the festival was being held for the first time.
Instead of "Winterfolk Festival", the sign read "Winter Folk Festival"—a subtle change, but an important one.
It was a small, inadvertent acknowledgement of the oxymoronic character of the event, a hopeful little contradiction in terms. It reminded me that although something may be improbable, it is not impossible--that no matter how harsh the climate, new music will always arise.
On that chalkboard sign, at that ordinary neighbourhood pub, it seemed the most natural thing in the world.
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