Not Down, But Hangin' Out in East Van

Yeah, blues skies over Hastings St. East. Dresses up this dirty town in sunshine. Postcard pictures of the end of the line. This is as far west as you can hitch a ride, or walk. In Canada, it's where you wind up when you've left every other place behind. When your money is always gone, when you are selling your ass for a fix, when you are looking for a place to sleep, hungry, sick, broken, waiting for blues skies like these to give you a lift. Blue skies when it's not too wet. Blue skies when it's not too cold. Blues skies when there's a little money changing hands on the sidewalk. Blues skies dripping down the sides of tense, blown out hotels, busted neon. Blue skies. Hell looks pretty sometimes, too. These girls are rolling up their skirts, flashing traffic with their still half-good legs sticking out of their dying bodies; face paint like death masks, lives going by at high speed. Speed. No, oxy. Some kind of solvent. Just spare me a joint, pal? Spare change? Buy this phone? Shoes? Sox? Give you a blow job for ten dollars. I'm sorry, sorry. Not today, sorry. We're all walking under blue skies. If there's a God, we're all His creatures. Some of us are living in clean clothes dangerously, and others among us are on these filthy sidewalks, fallen from grace, living dangerously, too. Living still, but shadowed. Even by these blues skies today. Even by these blues skies Dante could paint.

Here's a totem honouring those who died on these streets. Here's a man feeding gulls. Here's a clutch of spanish speaking men smoking a joint. Here's some native guys, drooling and swaying around a paper bag. No pictures. Now I just draw them for you, like a curtain around a sick bed. Softly, gently, with a few words. This yawning crack at the end of the world can be healed, and it's people raised up.

I'm donating a show today to the Vancouver Native Health clinic, down on Hastings St. in East Van. It pap test day- Papaloosa Day, I think they've called it. Volunteers and staff scurry about wearing "I Love My Vagina" t-shirts. Lunch is served. Meds are distributed. AIDS counselling is given. Tests are provided. Clothing and make-up are distributed. The place is already jumping when resident music therapist Caitriona Murphy and I settle in to play our first set. We really have a blast! It's great to play with a fiddle player this good! I throw some wild stuff at her and she doesn't blink or miss a beat. I throw extra beats in. That doesn't miff her either! I've got to get this talented musician for a few of my west coast shows next time. VNH folks are getting one of the best shows of the tour!

This is Doreen. She runs this crazy place. It's like working in a war zone. It reminds me of the old MASH movies. You never know what's going to come through the door, but staff here rise to every occasion. They not only help with difficult health issues, but they do much to restore and maintain the dignity of those they help. An Elder is on hand today, and he is smudging, blessing, clearing away people's troubles, too. Actually, I'm not sure exactly what he is doing, but he has an eagle feather, and he's moving it around people. And it works. People are seeking him out, and he reaches out to help them. Western medicines don't do it all. Meanwhile Doreen scurries around. She never stops moving, never stops talking. I don't know if she ever stops smiling. She's in the business of saving lives, and helping people finish their lives with as much comfort and dignity as possible. I'd like to nominate her for an Order of Canada- would somebody do that please? And how about pouring some money down these hungry streets?

It's been a great day, and now I'm heading out into the sunset. I've had more fun playing here to a crowd of First Nations women... I felt like they understood every word of every song in a very direct way. The Blues is a healing music and I'll be glad to bring it here, to East Hastings, again and again. If Steven Harper can play piano, I'd like to invite him to come and help me play a little healing duet next time.

Big ol' beer room at the Pat. Should take it over as a blues club.

See ya later. On my way.

I get into the Lincoln and drive over to Main. Making the turn, the cops are looking at me out of a plain wrapper. My windows are tinted. Their windows are tinted. We both know that we are looking at each other. They drive on. I drive on. They don't want to get involved today. Whoever I am, I'm up to no good tooling around this 'hood in a big, white Lincoln. And they are right. I'd lead a march across town to city hall. These guys just want to contain the mess. They don't want leakage.

I go across town now to the Cottage Bistro. I've phoned this club and sent emails with no response. What the hell. The place is just opening as I walk in and search out the owner. "You don't answer your emails," I say. "You've got a nice room, you should book me. My name is Doc MacLean, and I'm going to play for you." There's a hockey game going on, and a photo shoot with a model pretending to be a singer. But I don't care. I unpack my National, tune it up, and play three songs on a chair next to the bar. People applaud. The owner gives me a soft drink. OK, next time through town you will know who I am. Nice scotch collection. But it pisses me off when people don't answer their emails.

Now it's hotel time, and I GPS my way back out to the suburbs. I've got one more night in Vancouver, this time on the money side of town. I'll see what colour that is soon enough.