Vancouver, Raw Canvas

It's raining and ugly and dark and I'm GPSing (great word, eh?) my way around the west end of Vancouver. The district is arty, upscale, and the streets are narrow with angle parking, expensive metres, and small spaces. It's a pain to move the big Lincoln around on these streets, but eventually I get a spot right outside the club. The place is a bit more upscale than I had thought. I guess I was expecting a paint and canvas store, with a music area in the back– kind of a young, art student kind of hangout. This is a pretty trendy looking bar, and my posters are nowhere in sight. As I say to a friend, this is never a good sign.

Going in, the place is busy. I'm met by the manager who tells me there is a private function going on, all the tables and chairs are taken, can I come back later... Well, yes, I guess. I am early, after all. I elect to move the car to a nearby public parking lot, where I presume the rates will be less than the $6 per hour I'm paying at the metre. Over at the public parking garage I'm informed that it is closed and locked at 11:PM. My car will be locked in overnight. Not acceptable! I drive back over the block to the club and look for another street meter spot. Nothing doing. I drive around the district for nearly an hour in the rain before I get another spot. Another $6. Back to the club. No seats. Could I sit by the open door and wait?

There is to be an opening show tonight, actually two local shows before me. These guys are arriving and crowding in. We meet. The first up is going to be a young singer song-writer I met last year at Long and McQuade in Surrey, BC. Next up will be my friend David "Boxcar" Gates, a great, up and coming bluesman out of White Rock, BC. Meanwhile the place remains crowded. I remain seated by the door in the cold. The owner serves me a glass of wine, but it's still cold here. He asks me if I've collected money from people entering the club. I say no, that's not part of my job, and the place is already full anyway. Doesn't the club collect? No, apparently not. Can I collect from people already inside? Well, it is a private party, and they have paid to use the room... Mmmm, how much would the night be worth to me? Would $50 be OK? No, not. Three artists here, and we're not going to play for free.

I wasn't expecting to make money here, but I'm not going to give the show away either. It's sort of awkward, but everybody seems to mean well here. We come up with a compromise. OK, we'll pass the hat. Rather, Dave and I will take the hat around table to table. I have no intention of starting the show until we have at least a couple hundred bucks in the hat! Mainly these are generous, if noisy folks, and it doesn't take more than a few minutes for us to reach target. Showtime!

The first set is a real challenge for Rob. He works hard, sounds good, but it is a noisy room for a singer songwriter. I know what that's like. He's doing the weight lifting here tonight. David follows and plays a great set. He's working hard for this crowd, too. I really enjoy his music and his take on the blues. The Boxcar is on the inside. Check him out. You will hear him soon. And a really nice guy. We're pals. (Somebody took pics, if they send me the jpegs, I'll get them up here. I left the tour camera in the car again.)

I get set up to go. It is a little quieter now. Not much, but a little. I get David to sit in with me and play harp. We do three, maybe four songs, and then the owner signs me to finish. I'm not used to that, but I say "OK, we'll take a short break, and we'll be right back." But the night is done! The club closes at 11:PM, and it's time. Nobody told me that. But everybody seems happy.

I split up the money, and we head out into the drizzle. There's more room on the streets now, so I bring the Lincoln around, and David and I shoot the breeze for a few minutes. We'll do this again, somewhere. We had fun in spite of any problems. People had a good show. The blues is alive and well. Vancouver is a tough town to play. I don't think we were even in the listings. The club wasn't listed anywhere I looked anyway. We'll see what it is next time. I may just take a PA out onto East Hastings and give the show away altogether. I'd rather do that then play for pass the hat or for $50. I mean, the waitress takes home more than that. The beer company gets paid, the hydro company gets paid, the plumber gets paid. The people who drink in clubs like this have good jobs and good shoes– somebody pays them. There's a real disconnect sometimes, and I don't want to do anything more to encourage it. There needs to be an understanding that at very least a service is being provided. A value added service. The venue doesn't provide beer and then pass the hat to gather some money for it. The beer has value. And a return is expected on it. I didn't expect to make much tonight. It was just the way in which I didn't make much that bothers me. I've got a "real" show again tomorrow, so this Tour will be back in the saddle- financially speaking anyway.

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.