Kristen and Mitch Take On California: Part II

On day two of our vacation, we took the train from Davis to San Jose. What a fine way to travel! Smooth, inexpensive and energy efficient. Too bad Canada hasn’t caught the wave. While I’m on the topic, the public transit in California was cleaner and cheaper than Edmonton’s, and the light rail ran directly on the street. This suggests that the transit-riding population is sharper than that in Edmonton as well… maybe just because their brains aren’t addled with cold.

Anyway, we got to San Jose, walked to our hotel, had a look around, took Mitch out for some birthday pub food and beer, marveled at the comprehensive Happy Hour (ALL drinks on special, not just whatever the bar overstocked!), and took off for HP Pavilion and the Boss!

BROOOOOOOCE!

Everyone we talked to in San Jose, including a kindly vagrant, asked if we were there to see Bruce, and that’s one reason I was excited to see him in the States. He’s a much bigger deal there. And this is the same reason I was stoked to hear him play “Born in the USA,” which he didn’t (spoiler).

Bruce was fashionably late—nearly an hour—taking the stage, but he made up for it with a THREE HOUR SET. I must say, I was impressed. When I’m his age I hope to be breathing on my own, never mind crowd surfing and doing wicked back bends.

He really puts the "sex" in "sexegenarian." 

During my pre-Mitch party years, I knew very little about the Boss. I knew he had a song called “Glory Days”—it’s the only Springsteen song my hometown radio station seemed to have in their catalogue. And that’s about all I knew. Growing up in small-town Saskatchewan pre-MySpace could really limit your musical knowledge.

Oh man these guys are my fave! 

I’ve tried not to let Mitch have too much influence on my musical taste, and he hasn’t. Mitch loves music in a broad sense, a quality that leads him to listen to a lot of crap.

Including but certainly not limited to this. AGGGGHHHHH.

But Bruce is his all-time favourite, and fortunately this is something I can really get behind. Springsteen is like the personification of the Olympics or September 11: he has the power to speak to a zeitgeist (assuming I used the word “zeitgeist” correctly) and unite a culture through the good and the bad.

There are times when I really don’t like people—they can be such messes, with all their insecurities and conceits. But Bruce’s music can really make me happy to be one of them, stumbling along from point A to point B, with all the joy and misery that may fall in between. It's easy to forget our differences to a soundtrack of Boss tunes.

For example, in the merch line I really bonded with a gentleman with a heavy tan and a sleeveless t-shirt from Reno. We got along swimmingly, at least until he found out I was Canadian. Then he looked at me like he suspected I was trying to sneak gay married people and free healthcare into his country. The humanity!

But back to the show.

At the show. As you can tell by my face, the wine and the Red Bull are really fighting it out in my system.

The sustained energy! The sheer entertainment value! Bruce was accompanied by most of the E Street Band, with the notable omission of Clarence Clemons—the legendary Big Man behind the similarly legendary E Street sax, who died last year. Filling his size 98 (or so) shoes was the Little Big Man, his nephew Jake Clemons, who led a horn section with a sax sound almost as big as that of his predecessor.

Big sax sound. 

But there is a definite reason for Springsteen’s sustained popularity, and the live show he consistently puts on, even after 40 years in the biz, is only one reason. As world-weary as his tunes have always been, Bruce clearly loves performing.

The set consisted of plenty of material from Wrecking Ball and other works from the past decade, particularly the similarly dark The Rising. He skipped over the E-Street-less misstep that was the 1990s, opting instead for a hearty helping of classics including a few deep tracks, a soul medley and fully half of Born to Run.    

The Boss worked all kinds of crowd participation into the show. He seems to genuinely love his fans, and God knows the crowd loves him. At several points, he left the stage and walked through the crowd—not on a catwalk, but actually through the fans on the floor, at their level. And then he crowd surfed back to the stage. Way more humility, trust and respect than I would expect from a star of his caliber.

It was really a family show too—he worked ballads into his high-energy set, giving the boomers a chance to sit down and take a load off. You could almost hear a sigh of relief as the band struck up the melancholy “Jack Of All Trades.”

And things were fine at the other end of the age spectrum too—a little E-Streeter joined the Boss onstage for “Waiting on a Sunny Day.” He knew all the words too, which just warms my heart. And a girl of about 12 took Courtney Cox’s place onstage for “Dancing in the Dark”—although I think her dad was more thrilled about her moment in the limelight than she was.

The high point for me came with “Thunder Road,” my favourite Boss tune and the main set closer. Thanks to the magic of YouTube, you too can enjoy it:

We left the arena aching and stimulated from head to toe, just as Bruce said we would. And that was the night it was. But just like a photo can’t compare to an amazing view, a blog post sure won’t do the Boss justice. Some things are just meant to be experienced. 

Kristen and Mitch Take On California: Part I

We began our journey at the bracing hour of 4 a.m., when we set off for the scenic Edmonton International Airport. We started the day by knocking back a few buffalo wings, just like we do every morning. 

Breakfast of champions.

Two layovers, three flights and a bus ride later we were in sunny Davis, California, a Lethbridge-sized college town just outside of Sacramento. One of my favourite things about traveling is the first few breaths you take in a new place: the feel and smell of the air lets you know you’re far from home, better than scenery or language barriers can.

Compared to Edmonton’s dry continental air, Davis was humid. I had been checking the Weather Network obsessively in the days leading up to our departure, and I was not thrilled about what I saw: a high of 23 degrees on Monday was the highest the temperature would get while we were in California. But I was thinking an Edmonton 23, when you still need long pants, a jacket and closed-toed shoes since the gust of a north wind or a moment of cloud cover bring recurring shivers. But no—this was a California 23, sunny and humid.

Davis would be a great place to live. It was just my style, and just my pace. It was green, clean, well-treed and well-maintained, and according to Wikipedia, it holds the title of most bicycle-friendly city in the United States. Environmentalism? Garbage-free streets? Pretty flowers? I’m in.

Davis, California: pleasant.

Edmonton, Alberta: unpleasant.

The college students probably accounted for a large number of the bikes. And since they're so educated (if not as educated as the good folks in Arlington, Virginia... see joke set up below), they also know that eating and shopping local is the way to go; hence the abundance of independent businesses that lined the lush green streets. Unless they were just weird American chains that I, sans cable TV, had never heard of.

Unique, small-town character. 

Oddly enough, even though they have the weather to enjoy them for more than three weeks each year, the city was lacking in patios. This made me nervous. As many of you know, I love nothing more than a good patio, and a holiday without one is like Alberta without environmental exploitation: it's just not what you came for. But don’t worry—we found one! 

Doesn't look like rain, does it? Yeah, we didn't think so either. 

Davis is also supposed to be the second most educated city in the country (after Arlington, Virginia; see punchline above), which is surprising considering the number of people we saw biking around without helmets. For a country that's dragging its feet towards universal health care, they're surprisingly laissez-faire about head injuries.

At the centre of the city is the large UC Davis campus on which Mitch and I got lost trying to find our first reason for being in California: The Shins, in the flesh. Gather around, and let me tell you what it was like.

I’m not even going to tell you about the pretentious hipster opening band. Their music was sorta okay, but the lead singer stored his collection of wooden flutes in a buckskin quiver thing slung casually over his shoulder. Enough said.

The Shins opened with “The Rifle’s Spiral” (which I so accurately predicted), and I immediately knew that I was going to like them live. As you may recall from my review of Port of Morrow, the tune was too Broken Bells-y for my taste. Not so in real life. It was more rock and more real without the production. It could have been the Shins from ten years ago.

I probably know the Shins’ catalogue better than that of any other artist, and as such I was probably more excited than I’ve been at any other show, ever. What song would they play next?!? Would it be better or worse than the recorded version, or just different? As the band cruised through its set, it became clear that the answer would never be “worse.”

The band was high energy, James Mercer was far less depressive than I expected, and the crowd was nothing but enthusiastic. Some stood throughout the set, but when the band struck up “Caring is Creepy” mid-way through, nobody sat down again.

The crowd was great, too—just the right combination of enthusiasm and respect, showing the band ample love but not letting their own show overwhelm the one on stage. With the exception of one person: the young gent right in front of me.

He was a real special guy. Even his girlfriend couldn’t stand his hoots and whistles and requests for songs recorded by other bands. But enough about him. This show had so many pros, this single con isn’t even worth mentioning.

The venue wasn’t huge—about the size of Edmonton’s Jubilee Theatre—and it was well-selected, catering to the band’s college-aged fan base. Less convenient for me, being 2500 km from home and in the middle of a labyrinthine campus. Even Google Maps couldn't find this venue.

The highlight of the evening was “New Slang,” my fave Shins song. It was a quiet tune but the whole band was involved, and the vocals of Jessica Dobson (who wasn’t with the band when the song was recorded… just like everyone else in this lineup except Mercer) were just lovely indeed. Also its cool that the lead guitarist of an (otherwise) all-male band is a girl. Estrogen power!

Like this... but with class. And talent. Actually, nothing like this.

The set closed with a great rendition of “Sleeping Lessons,” which, like the rest of their set, was more energetic than its recorded counterpart. The only complaint I have about the show (besides the guy in front of me) is that, at just an hour and a half, it was too short! Granted, they don’t have a huge catalogue to work with, but I was left wanting much much more. Fortunately, the Boss made up for that the very next night. (Spoiler!)

I’ll leave you now the way the Shins left me: with “Sleeping Lessons.” This video pretty much sums up the performance. The energy! The dynamics! The appropriately-timed woos of the crowd!

I really wish the band would come to Canada. I could certainly handle seeing them again.

In Case You Want to Hire Me...

For those of you who don’t know, I spent most of last week in the slightly sunnier climes of California. I’m currently working on a couple of posts about the trip and I hope to post the first tomorrow.

But in the mean time, I’m inviting you guys to check out my online portfolio! It has all kinds of goodies from my illustrious writing career, along with a pretty sad photography section. Conspicuously absent is material from my current place of work; that’s because I haven’t yet figured out how to mention the company I work for without falling victim to Google Alerts. They truly are watching us, people.  

http://www.behance.net/KristenWagner

www.behance.net/KristenWagner

On Wine

There was a time when I chose wine based on two things: price, and the level of hilarity represented by the label.

Sometimes I still regress to that point. I bought this just two weeks ago:

Only $12! 

But as a sophisticated woman of the world, and one who now proudly owns a copy of Wine for Dummies, I’m working on developing a taste and knowledge of wine. Words like “bouquet,” “tannins” and “palate” are working their way into my lexicon. One day I feel I’ll be able to discuss a bottle with equally pretentious people without adopting an affected English accent and donning an imaginary monocle.

Beyond its taste and intoxicating quality, here are three things I love about wine:

-       it’s historical

-       it’s international

-       it allows me to turn drinking into a hobby

I love history, I love travel, and I love spending my days in a nauseous haze. I’ve found my true passion in life.

1. Historical

Wine is one of the world’s oldest beverages. At certain times and places throughout history it has even been more popular than water—such as in the margin of time after we developed the technology to pollute our waterways with sewage, but hadn’t yet developed the means to render that same water palatable.

Like really old buildings or really old people, wine has remained constant while everything around it has changed. Certainly wine production has evolved over time, but the basic operation, particularly in many old-world wineries, has been handed down from generation to generation independent of development outside the vineyard walls.

Leonardo da Vinci drank wine. Machiavelli drank wine. Mussolini drank wine. I drink wine! It provides a connection with the past that Pepsi Next lacks.

2. International

Wine is made all over the world. Strangely enough, even before I was interested in wine, I’ve found myself drawn to countries where wine is prominent—Italy, France, Germany and Greece to name a few. What a happy coincidence! My affection for Baroque architecture and my sparse knowledge of French dovetail nicely with this new interest.

I actually visited a winery a number of years ago on a tour of Greece, long before I had any taste for wine whatsoever. It was very scenic; as I recall I nearly crashed a wedding as I was trying to get a picture of the view. As far as the wine itself goes, I don’t remember much about it besides the fact that I didn’t like it, and one was made from oranges. Although maybe the fact that I don’t remember it actually recommends it; we did do a tasting.

A view worth ruining anyone's special day for.

I figured while I was there I might as well paparazzo them. Nothing but class.

Last summer Mitch and I visited the Okanagan, launching my true interest in wine, perhaps in efforts to reconnect with that carefree vacation lifestyle. The pace in the Okanagan is nothing like the pace in Edmonton… it might have something to do with the sheer amount of energy required to stay alive there, i.e. not much, in contrast to here in Edmonton (see this post).

Elephant Island winery, Naramata, BC. Pleasant.

Edmonton, AB. Unpleasant.

Wine represents a way of life that is different from my way of life. It represents a life that is full of pleasure, not one that is spent trudging to work at a utility company each day, as the snow piles ever higher.

3. As for calling drinking a hobby… well, it's nice to have an excuse for these:

So, in summary, a glass of wine can be an escape into a different time, a different place, a different level of consciousness. Drink up!

You'll Like What I Tell You to Like: Downtown EP

Some years ago I downloaded a free iTunes single by a little-known band from the Queen City called Rah Rah. The song was “Duet for Emmylou and the Grievous Angel.”

“Wow,” said I. Very little music has had the immediate impact on me like that track did. There was so much I liked about it: the six-eight lilt, the fact that they reference Regina (I was born in a town two hours down the trans-Canada; I can practically see the city from my backyard), the plaintive fiddle work, and most of all, the gentle croon of Erin Passmore.

I later picked up the album, Going Steady, and was suitably impressed. I had only one beef with that album, and with the band’s follow-up, Breaking Hearts: there wasn’t enough Erin.

I’m ashamed to say I’ve never seen the band live, but from what I’ve read, Passmore, who also serves as the band’s drummer, prefers to minimize the time she spends in the spotlight. She steps out from behind the drums just once per set—for “Grievous Angel.” And you can hear the modesty in her voice. It’s a subtle sort of greatness, unwilling to call too much attention to itself.

So imagine my delight when I heard about Downtown EP—all Erin, all the time! With eight tracks all to herself, there was room for Passmore to better explore her musical capacity.

It turns out that Passmore is a multi-instrumentalist and a very capable songwriter, but the thing that still gets me is her voice: it’s gentle as a cooing dove on a strong sedative, but just as you’re being lulled to sleep a her powerful high register will blast you from your reverie like a very melodious alarm clock.

The opening track, “Into the Woods,” is arresting, and it’s everything I love about Passmore. It has the melody and rich instrumentation of Rah Rah (I also read that several of the band’s musicians helped her out on the record), but with a more ominous mood. The title itself conjures up visions of Red Riding Hood venturing into the dark unknown.

“Downtown” is the most upbeat track on the album, and the most surprising: the distorted guitar-driven instrumentation is at odds with Passmore’s vocals, but it’s a successful effort. No track blends into the next—whether it be an aching ode to a love that can never be (“Married”) or a should-I-shouldn’t-I lounge ballad on a friend that could be more (“Rock the Boat”), Passmore tackles even stock subject matter with an earnestness that makes it much more than a pop song.

But the momentum wanes in the second half of the EP. If I’d bought the vinyl instead of the digital album I probably would have worn out side one while rarely even listening to side two. It’s not that the final four tracks are bad; I’m just an instant-gratification type of person. “Monster” has a fun picking pattern and folky feel, but “Fall,” “Sad Song” and “Captain” kind of meld together in a slippery slope of unhappiness.

But at least this depressing turn makes me eager to return to the beginning of the album for a second listen. There’s still some hope there.

Because the World Needs Another Person Who Won’t Shut Up About Their Pets

To celebrate this long weekend, I headed back to Saskatchewan to spend some time with my family.

My parents have two dogs, a white mutt named Charlie and a grey cockapoo (that’s a cocker spaniel/poodle cross) named Bailey. Here they are:

The distribution of focus in this photo roughly equals the distribution of my love.

There wasn’t a whole lot to do this weekend so I spent a considerable portion of it lying on the floor with my camera trying to capture their canine cuteness.

Polite befuddlement!

Chin rubs are more rewarding when you have to work for them.

Look at all that majesty.

Bailey and I later set out for a game of ball. I brought along my camera, still searching for the perfect action shot that eluded me at roller derby.

Bailey's tongue in mid-flap, frozen for all eternity.

I pressed the shutter a micro-second too early here--she's about to launch into a mid-air catch. This is also a good shot of Bailey. :)

If you ignore the overexposure, this was probably the most successful shot. It really captures Bailey's passion for her sport.

An appropriately lazy post for a lazy weekend. Hope you all had an enjoyable Easter!

Derbytown

Last weekend I took in some derby.

Roller derby is a decades-old combination of sport and spectacle that has been resurfacing in the last decade. Participants in the event I attended were just little girls, aged about 10-17, and my God. They are already far tougher than I will ever be. 

I saw her kill a puppy.

For the event we headed up to exotic North Edmonton—where we don’t need trash cans, we’ve got bushes! The track is in a small arena on an old army garrison. It smelled like feet.

That may be due to all the roller skates or just a carryover from army days, but it took awhile to get used to. Our seats were in the front row, right on the track—it’s called “suicide row,” due to the number of times spectators there are victims of plays gone awry on the track.

Exhibit A.

The rules of roller derby are complex, but for those who are unfamiliar with it, it involves two teams of girls—the “pack”—skating around an oval track on roller skates. Each team has a “jammer,” who skates around trying to overtake the pack. Every time she laps the pack, the jammer earns a point for her team.

But that description eliminates the real point of the sport: the bruising. This is where the “spectacle” portion of the event comes into play: girls in fishnets and fake eyelashes doing whatever they can to edge each other off the track.

A lot of newbies were participating in the first game of the evening—ten-year-olds who could barely stay upright—so there was little real action. The second game featured older and more experienced players, so the claws came out a little more. As I understand it, the adult league can lead to such injuries as broken legs and dislocated shoulders, so I’m hoping to take my camera to one of those matches sometime to get a few shots of these graceful swans flying into the sidelines.

Not that I’m pro-violence or anything, but I bet these are some of the toughest gals around. I didn’t see a single tear all night, even among the tiniest, most novice players—and there were a few nasty spills. 

The team that gets concussed together, stays together.

Initially I wasn’t sure about how I felt seeing little girls dressed up in fishnets and short shorts and whaling on each other. But after watching the games, and watching the teams interact with each other, I’ve decided the whole movement in its modern incarnation is about liberation. It’s much more “take that” than “look at me.”

It was a great way to spend a Saturday night—even if my hair smelled like moldy socks till the next day. And roller derby can spawn a great point of discussion over beers with your friends afterward: what would your derby name be? Each player adopts a derby name and persona (to distance oneself from the violence? I’m sure studies have been done on this) suggesting the kind of discomfort they’re able to inflict on other players. “Banana Bomb” and “Kat-astrophe” were examples, along with the more explicit “Miss Pain.”

“Piston” was the idea that immediately came to mind for myself, but I feel that with some thought I could do better than that. Mitch suggested “Whore-phine,” like “morphine”—something you’ll need after a match—but maybe it could be made a little more menacing—consider “WhoreFiend.” The possibilities!

I took my camera and spent the evening trying to get a sweet action shot with a jammer in the foreground and the slightly out-of-focus pack in the background. As you can see, I was not successful, but you know, practice, whatever. Check out my quasi-successes below!

Hip dislocation. It's a derby thing.

A triumph of panning!

In which I get artistic.

Evolution: From upright to flat on your ass.

Just as an aside... what does the law say about taking pictures of minors without their parents' permission and posting them on the internet?