Wednesday, July 23, 2003
The metal detector keeps going off and the gentleman with the magic wand keeps getting more and more perplexed. Every time it passes under my armpits the beeping begins and being a good federal employee, he cannot pass me until the noise stops. The airport is busy with people arriving for morning flights, and I am becoming a snag in the smooth flow of passenger processing. After a few minutes it dawns on me that the hinges in my sunglasses are the cause, and removing them silences the alarm. Walking towards the departure gate, I'm impressed the sensitivity setting detected such tiny distant objects. Security is good thing, so long as unreasonable paranoia is kept out of the whole process.
The puddle jump from Madison to Minneapolis goes without a hitch and Lola and I arrive with ample time for breakfast of bacon and eggs, before flight time to Calgary. We have been staying close to home for a while, but now the time seems right to be somewhere far away from friends, from family, from the patterns of our domestic life. Lola researched performance dates for Ian Tyson, and concluded The Calgary Folk Music Festival would be the easiest location for us to reach. Neither of us has ever been in that area of the west, so this option holds a combined appeal. Besides, it is important to be able to leave the country, if only to Canada, where people speak English and the money makes sense.
Arriving in Calgary, we claim our bags and wait in line at the customs counter. When our turn comes a uniformed young lady asks why we are coming to Canada, and we tell her we are here for the festival. The answer is obviously too vague because she continues asking questions. We clarify that we are audience and not performers and when she asks what our plans are, I say there may be dancing. The correct answer is shopping, I learn later, since they want Americans to come buy things. Catching a cab to downtown, we chat with our Indian driver about the low rolling treeless hills resembling the landscape outside of Denver. One more of many cities on the dry high plain before the mountains.
Lola books us into Hotel International, and from the thirty-first floor we have a view of the Bow River, flowing down through the city from the Canadian Rockies. The building isn't suicide proofed like many of the name chain hotels, and a balcony lets us stand outside and look down upon China Town, Eau Claire Market and Prince's Island Park. Popping open small splits of champagne from the mini-bar, we toast our successful arrival. As we stand there, two young men washing windows drop down on rope hung scaffolding from the neighboring Amoco Center building. Amused by the unlikely meeting point and thirty floors high outside our boxes we laugh about work and vacation.
The rest of the afternoon and evening we explore on foot, shopping for coffee and wine at the Eau Claire market then cosmetics at the Hudson Bay Company. On 8th Avenue, we have a tap of local beer at The Bear & Kilt Free House, in an old sandstone foundation basement, and our bartender jots down two places for us to investigate later. We eat dinner at Hy's, established 1955, where I select regionally appropriate aged Albertan beef, while Lola chooses a small rack of lamb. The restaurant décor is windowless with dark paneling and thick carpets, so emerging just before ten at night we are amazed by the persistent daylight, and the realization strikes us that we are both very far north of normal.
The metal detector keeps going off and the gentleman with the magic wand keeps getting more and more perplexed. Every time it passes under my armpits the beeping begins and being a good federal employee, he cannot pass me until the noise stops. The airport is busy with people arriving for morning flights, and I am becoming a snag in the smooth flow of passenger processing. After a few minutes it dawns on me that the hinges in my sunglasses are the cause, and removing them silences the alarm. Walking towards the departure gate, I'm impressed the sensitivity setting detected such tiny distant objects. Security is good thing, so long as unreasonable paranoia is kept out of the whole process.
The puddle jump from Madison to Minneapolis goes without a hitch and Lola and I arrive with ample time for breakfast of bacon and eggs, before flight time to Calgary. We have been staying close to home for a while, but now the time seems right to be somewhere far away from friends, from family, from the patterns of our domestic life. Lola researched performance dates for Ian Tyson, and concluded The Calgary Folk Music Festival would be the easiest location for us to reach. Neither of us has ever been in that area of the west, so this option holds a combined appeal. Besides, it is important to be able to leave the country, if only to Canada, where people speak English and the money makes sense.
Arriving in Calgary, we claim our bags and wait in line at the customs counter. When our turn comes a uniformed young lady asks why we are coming to Canada, and we tell her we are here for the festival. The answer is obviously too vague because she continues asking questions. We clarify that we are audience and not performers and when she asks what our plans are, I say there may be dancing. The correct answer is shopping, I learn later, since they want Americans to come buy things. Catching a cab to downtown, we chat with our Indian driver about the low rolling treeless hills resembling the landscape outside of Denver. One more of many cities on the dry high plain before the mountains.
Lola books us into Hotel International, and from the thirty-first floor we have a view of the Bow River, flowing down through the city from the Canadian Rockies. The building isn't suicide proofed like many of the name chain hotels, and a balcony lets us stand outside and look down upon China Town, Eau Claire Market and Prince's Island Park. Popping open small splits of champagne from the mini-bar, we toast our successful arrival. As we stand there, two young men washing windows drop down on rope hung scaffolding from the neighboring Amoco Center building. Amused by the unlikely meeting point and thirty floors high outside our boxes we laugh about work and vacation.
The rest of the afternoon and evening we explore on foot, shopping for coffee and wine at the Eau Claire market then cosmetics at the Hudson Bay Company. On 8th Avenue, we have a tap of local beer at The Bear & Kilt Free House, in an old sandstone foundation basement, and our bartender jots down two places for us to investigate later. We eat dinner at Hy's, established 1955, where I select regionally appropriate aged Albertan beef, while Lola chooses a small rack of lamb. The restaurant décor is windowless with dark paneling and thick carpets, so emerging just before ten at night we are amazed by the persistent daylight, and the realization strikes us that we are both very far north of normal.
Thursday, July 24, 2003
In the morning, after breakfast in the market, we walk to Prince's Island Park to gain familiarity with the festival grounds. The sky is wispy with high clouds barely muting the summer light, and from footbridges over the Bow River you gaze directly into swift clear turquoise blue waters. A small group of people are settled beside a fence near the wide open entrance gate, where purple shirted volunteers are fully engaged in the details necessary to have everything operational by 5:30 that afternoon. Lola purchased advanced tickets, but at this early hour the pick up window is nowhere near ready. Downtown is filled with traffic noise, and with people engaged in routine workday tasks.
Shortly before one in the afternoon we go to the hotel lobby to catch a Calgary city tour. A bus pulls up and we find ourselves the only two people on board with the driver. He stops at other hotels searching for anyone else, but it is apparent that on a sixty-seat bus, the three of us are the cargo of the day. Recalling Chitzen Itsa, we find nothing odd about a private guide, but our driver struggles to find a comfortable ratio between "party of three conversation" and "over on the right side presentation". One city of sandstone, built on the railroad with cattle money. One city built oil boom fast from steel and glass.
Autumn 1875, concerned about uncontrolled whisky sales to Native Americans, a band of horse soldiers ride out to establish a fort at the confluence of the Elbow and Bow Rivers. It served as a starting point from which to impose law, with a garrison willing to use force to limit the harmful actions of freedom. Facing north within the reconstructed log walls, the vista is exactly as viewed a century ago. Looking west from the same spot the skyline is filled with the tall buildings of a city of eight hundred thousand. An uncivilized west vanished within a generation, and the cute aspects became mythologized in circuses.
A fatal traffic accident on Sarcee Boulevard sends our large vehicle searching through new construction on the residential edge of town, looking for a back door approach to the Olympic grounds. Atop a ridge, four yellow excavators work with choreographed precision, digging in roadbed and sewer lines and everyone agrees, Calgary knows construction. At the top of the ninety-meter ski jump, we look out upon the spread of homes over the hills, and the abrupt transition to scrub land when the subdivisions cease. Late afternoon we watch as teenage Canadians practice luge starts in hopes of Olympic Winter fame. Over and over, in frayed clothing they slide down indoor channels of ice.
The festival begins as the evening begins, and a moment occurs near the end of the day:
The sun is setting late on a far north evening and the trailing winds of a summer day flow brisk enough for cottonwood leaves to dance in the current. Back lit with the sunshine, they swirl in dark distorted circles, pivoting around their anchoring stems. River trees on a high plain river island, near the swift flow of melted ice from high altitude snow packs. On the other side, the glass towers of Calgary rise abruptly from the foothills and sparkle with inner brightness. Elvis Costello sings "Alison", and the sound blends perfectly in the evening air. Closing my eyes my fingers dance in space and all my thought is focused on the waiver in the words, and keyboard chords fading ever away.
Friday, July 25, 2003
Lola has us awake early, and lightly packed for the day, we take out on foot to find where our rental car has been reserved. In the weeks before the trip, Lola has taken great care to make sure we have the documentation to demonstrate full legal right to drive in Canada, but the clerk is only interested in the validity of her credit card. The car is aimed toward the street and after adjusting the seat and mirrors I accelerate slowing into the traffic. Just over one hour later we are in the mountains, climbing the main road to Lake Louise.
The Canadian Rockies, like all mountains, are remnants of collisions on the global time scale. The natural state of rest deformed, broken and left to endure a constant pull back down towards a level, where like waves on the ocean, the span between peak and trough measures a few meters. Our morning drive is under a low ceiling of soggy clouds, but in the heights, the noon sun shadows the fine details of crevices and cracks. Above the tree line, white patches are reminders that summer warmth is a brief interlude within the cold. On a side road back down we stop like awestruck tourists to be near two ear tagged elk.
Banff is filled with traffic so we park to walk the commercial streets to find something truly unique to the time and place. In the third jewelry store, Lola finds an ammolite pendant authentically representative of the area. A few shells of Cretaceous cephalopods that lived abundantly in the waters of the Bearpaw Sea once covering Alberta were fossilized into variegated gemstones. Exploring outward we find only resort complexes and enclaves of mountain housing development. Perhaps if we had invested more time we would have found the paths where the pavement turns to gravel, then to dirt ruts, then to rock.
Back in Calgary for the night, we check out the activity on 17th Avenue SW but its all hangouts for Fraternity boys on summer vacation. Well-managed, well-stocked and clean enterprises with loud sound systems, patio seating and young clients looking for romance rather than adventure. Standing in an alley nibbling on a two for one slice deal of awful pizza we decide to look for something less contrived, something more dramatic.
In the darkness we go looking for the King Eddie and find exactly an old corner building, next to the Salvation Army, across the street from the railroad tracks, playing the blues, live. The one bar has local beer on tap and five bottles of hard liquor on the rail which Richard pours out in measured small shots. Ray in the cage says the cops drive by enough, and Sal in the chair says not to worry. In the backroom, an old stage built for strippers waits for Monday nights. Ray in the cage says when a city grows fast it tosses off some people. Nelson doesn't talk much, but he points out how people drift off in the darkness. Lola and I take our turn on the dance floor since we had promised immigration.
In the middle of the night, in the middle of a strange city, in another country, I'm driving and I don't know where I am. Pulling in a parking lot I ask Lola to look for the Calgary Tower and I drive whatever direction takes me back towards that landmark. Lola spots our hotel and we weave up the spiral circles of the parking ramp. Back in the room I take the camera, double strap it around my neck, and lean out over the balcony to picture the lights so far below. Then two shots of the horizon night lights with three visible stars over head forming a triangle.
Saturday, July 26, 2003
Stage Six is the last high arched forest green canvass covered platform placed throughout the festival grounds. As the furthest placement from the large main stage building, stage six is positioned with it's back towards the temporary orange plastic snow fencing which keeps the public foot traffic on a walking path across the park. Today and tomorrow the morning and mid-afternoon intervals between main stage performances will be filled with hundreds of musicians having their turn on a side stage for anyone who cares to show up in person and listen. For some, their moment is 10:30 a.m.
Packing in bottled water, Lola picks a shaded patch of grass on a rise overlooking that back stage. She holds that spot as I explore the perimeter of the grounds. Three very different acts share the stage for an hour taking turns performing. A local Calgary guy plays guitar and sings his own lyrics, followed by Friends of Dean Martinez, an instrumental group from Tucson, Arizona. From Mexico, Son de Madera plays Son Jarocho music, a style evolved over 400 years after the Spanish introduced string instruments to the area. In full formal dress, a young woman dances on a box, adding the traditional zapateado footwork rhythms to the vocals. Ah, culture.
As noon arrives we move to the beer garden and make our way to the far back corner were there is an excellent view of the stage three. A 79-year-old Mississippi blues singer going by the stage name T-Model Ford plays for an hour, and upon recommendations we drink a local brew called Grasshopper Ale. There are plenty of tables so we sit and talk tales with strangers, telling people we came just to see Ian Tyson play tomorrow. Some white boy from Nova Scotia calls himself Buck 65 and does a hip-hop act without his turntables which failed to show up at showtime.
As the day passes we end up at the last table in the far corner talking with a group of locals. Some are roadies for the event and some are just friends and local musicians. They find it slightly incredulous that we came all the way to their fair and when one blurts out, "American tourists", I laugh out loud saying there is something sad if the last, best experience of your life, was the 1988 Olympics. They find it more impressive that we found the King Eddie. From our spot along the back fence, I watch the light reflecting off the background buildings change steadily over time, and make a mental note to capture that image tomorrow, if the image appears again.
The main stage shows begin at 5:30 and we are in the wrong place to see anything, but music fills the air like a soundtrack to the night. Al Stewart is the third artist up, and songs I first heard twenty-seven years ago on the radio are being played live and in person. Melanie from Longview insists I go to the front edge where I can actually see Kathleen Edwards, a twenty-three year old from Ottawa. The crowd constantly shifts during the course of the day as people position themselves to best see whom they came to see. Ani DiFranco is the headliner to close the night so Lola and I move to the front side of the beer garden. More experienced now we find a much better vantage point than from where we heard Ricky Skaggs play bluegrass two nights ago.
Sunday, July 27, 2003
Lola wakes me up to tell me she is leaving for the fair grounds to listen to the morning performers. She tells me there is a note listing places and times where she may be found, but regardless of how the day develops, she will absolutely, positively be at The Ship and Anchor stage at 2:30. Giving me a kiss goodbye, she leaves me with coffee and several hours of unscheduled time in the bright daylight of a beautiful warm dry day. Knowing there is one task I want to do a tad of urgency underlies my leisurely pace of waking to life.
I need to photograph the King Eddie and while I don't know the address I remember the location in detail. The problem is that I'm out of film and almost out of Canadian currency. The problem gets bigger when it turns out the building with the cash machine that accepts my card is locked closed on Sunday and none of the other cash will kick out any money. Aware time is passing away I spend my last dollars for overpriced film and start walking towards the railroad tracks.
On the edge of downtown the mix of roads and buildings becomes generically urban. An arterial street dives under the tracks and emerging on the other side I walk past low utility structures. Over gravel-paved parking and up to the fence near the rails I square up for a shot when the feature blue aligns between the tanker cars parked and waiting for the next job. In the clear light of day all the fine details are crisp and in focus. Task completed it's time to shower away the sweat and dust in preparation for the coming day.
Lola has claimed a portion of a picnic table near where Ian Tyson, Al Stewart, Niamh Parson and Amos Garrett share a stage. Ian and Al get talking with each other, swapping stories that make it clear to each other that while they have never previously met they are both old men who have achieved a lifetime of earning a living by singing and playing. Ian and two guitarists play an acoustic rendition of "Summer Wages", and Lola tears up a bit because we traveled this far to be exactly at this place, exactly for this moment.
In the hours before the final shows, we relax and converse with the various people in attendance. Lola gets into animated discussions on cosmetics with two young women while their mother and I talk about the larger concerns facing all of us in this changing world. We move close to the front when Sarah Harmer prepares to take the main stage. The program compares her voice to Joni Mitchell but her performance reminds both of us of Nancy Griffith. At last Ian Tyson's band takes center stage under show colored lighting. The final band on the final night.
In the middle the set, Ian pauses to talk about why he wrote the song, "La Primera". He explains he could not stop thinking about how the Spanish introduced horses to the Americas late in the fifteenth century. In reality it was a difficult undertaking with fateful consequences, as horses provided their owners with a speed and mobility advantage in the conquest of the continent. As a working rancher he envisioned, he understood the visceral hardships in the actual task of bringing large animals on a long ocean journey in small overloaded wooden boats. With eyes closed he sings the refrain: "I am a drinker of the wind, I am the one who never tires. I love my freedom more than all these things"[1].
[1] Ian Tyson, copyright 1998, Slick Fork Music SOCAN
