Dave Gossage Sep7et (a fan’s perspective)

Where do I start? Last night I attended another concert at Café Resonance on Av. du Parc by this wonderful assemblage of Montreal area musicians playing the music of flautist Dave Gossage.

Let me begin by saying that in Montreal it is a rare thing to hear seven musicians playing high caliber Jazz outside of festival or concert settings, but in a café, it is almost unheard of. I try and catch them every time. Every time I go home smiling ear to ear.

Visually, the ensemble is striking. The front line consists of Dave himself looking like a wild lion maned wizard stage right with his electronic arsenal of effects that makes the word “flute” seem basic. He uses these effects Svengali-like to great advantage, making the breath of humanity into a nuclear hurricane or a murmuration of birds and anything in between. To his left, Alto and Bari sax player Samuel Blais (who also employed electronics (but more as colouration) and Tenor saxophonist Frank Lozano whose appearance as mild mannered accountants belies their fiery and intense expressionism on their horns. Stage left was the domain of stoic guitarist Steve Raegele (who resembles a medieval Norman soldier from a Monty Python film) sporting a hybrid cream coloured custom Stratocaster made by local luthier Ted Stevenson. His tidy lines and thoughtful counter melodies offering clean, subtle but integral support to the music. When he took a solo, he’d kick into overdrive and roar past the others like a sports car jumping a queue with tires spinning and engine racing.

Behind the front line, the rhythm section of David Guttierez Osei-Afrifa on piano and synthesizer(s), Double Bassist Adrian Vedady and drummer Rich Irwin. This time around, my sight line of these three was perfect. The movement and expressive body language of these three being as entertaining as their superb musicianship. David sometimes supporting “conventionally” on piano and sometimes offering other worldly sounds on his synths and bank of Gizmos. His sounds always delighting and surprising without overtaking. One of his solos, mind you, sounded like middle period Chick Corea with soaring melodies and liberal use of the “bend” feature on his synth while always his entire body was swaying and writhing entirely inside the music. The ubiquitous Adrian Vedady was the only musician on stage (besides the tenor) who went straight into an amp sans effects. He was basically (pun intended) holding everything together with his superb, deep, round sound, his solid sense of time and his aura of trustworthiness as he bobbed his head and was seemingly chanting the somewhat tricky ostinato lines of Dave’s music. Rich Irwin on drums and electronic drums also held things together rhythmically and confidently. Not only did I feel that his beat could be trusted, but his creative bursts and his personality not only supported, but elevated the music. The several other times (pre-Covid) that I saw the band, I did not have clear sight lines for the drums. He is super fun to watch.

The music itself (all written by David Gossage) which varied from funky and bombastic to pastoral and sweetly melodic might be considered “challenging” to the casual listener much as trying to follow a conversation in another language might be a challenge. I think that even though one might not “understand” the language, these men displayed their distinct personalities fully in what struck me as a collective love fest. This music is not about fame or money, although I’m pretty sure either would be a welcomed bonus. To me, the Dave Gossage Septet is about musical friends who are so different from each other coming together as a cooperative and creating light in the relative darkness of our wounded world.

I hope that there will be more offerings from this outfit in the near future. I’ll be there. You should be too!

a few snippets from a crappy phone


I am re-reading “Palm Sunday” and all of the other works of Kurt Vonnegut Jr. in my library which I mostly read when I was in my twenties. I like re-reading things. I have recently re-read Mark Twain, C.S. Lewis, Steinbeck, etc. 

Sharon thinks it’s nuts. She reads voraciously and is single handedly keeping Chapters/Indigo in business. She seldom re visits a book. She moves forward in her knowledge.

My thinking on the matter is this: if a book made me feel a certain way once, and it was a pleasurable experience, why not read it again? It is the same book, but I am not the same “me”. I could read a new book,sure, and I do, but have I gotten everything I could have out of the books I already own?

If I go to a favourite restaurant, I order what I like. For example, at Mr. Steer it is a #2. I don’t go there any more since they ruined the decor from cowboy kitsch to generic corporate crap, but the #2 was the bomb! I like to return to things that I know I will like. Today, I had a new sandwich from Premiere Moisson. It was not one that I had had before, neither was it as good. Tried and true works.

I like to watch movies more than once as well. I must have seen The Wizard Of Oz, Blade Runner, Apocalypse Now and The Big Lebowski at least six times each. 

Sometimes watching a movie that influenced me profoundly at an earlier time can lead to disappointment on re visit. “Easy Rider” was that for me. I found it shallow and trope filled and obvious. I learned much from that re visit. 

Music is something I re listen to as well. I hear nuances with each new listen, and my tastes change over time. I love Ornette Coleman now, but didn’t have ears at first. I have softened my opinion on John Denver recently and listened pleasurably. I don’t immediately barf when I hear Abba anymore. 

Any artist would be glad to be revisited. Appreciating art takes time. There is no way I could read/watch/listen to everything new, I take time and love things I know I love. If an author/artist I love comes up with some new material, I give it a listen, likewise if I find an artist I am unfamiliar with whose music I like, I search out more of their stuff. I get much pleasure from music that has existed for a long time. I am listening to Billie Holiday and Lester Young repeatedly this week. So old, so new. So great.

We are all running out of time. Appreciation of the arts takes time. A glance at a painting is not enough, music playing in the background is not enough, being unable to recall scenes in a movie, or unable to discuss at length the nuances of a novel are indications that we may have only scratched the surface.. go deep or go home…..

I don’t have the kind of mind that gathers info and spews facts. I can’t be omnipotent, or even close to it.

I know a little about a lot,  And I know a lot about a little. 

I love being micro-rich

I like to linger. To savour, to immerse myself in what I am experiencing. I’d rather visit a few countries intimately than tour the world in a whirlwind. 

When you find love, love. 

Roll into Tim’s to win….

We didn’t have adequate milk supply at the cottage, so We visited one of the Tim Horton franchises in Lachute on Saturday so Sharon could have a latté. I placed the order via the intercom and as I approached the window of the drive-thru with five bucks in hand the Tim’s worker on duty handed me the coffee and said “la madame en avant à déjà payer ton café”! Sharon insisted I give the cashier the 5$ as a tip, which the lady tried to refuse, but ultimately accepted. Win/win, right?

Yesterday we had to return to Lachute to get a baking thermometer and my sister asked if we could pick up 2 dark double doubles for her and my bro-in-law. We saw that there was a huge lineup at the same drive through, so I said “f…. it” and we drove past and up the hill to Canadian Tire for the thermometer. There was another Tim’s there, so I drove in to the parking lot, but the lineup was very long, so I thought maybe going inside and ordering would be faster. The lineup was such that I didn’t even get inside, and in the five minutes I stood there not budging, no one came out either. Again I aborted and thought we’ll just forget about the coffees. As we retraced our trip back into the centre of town, Sharon saw that the lineup there had shrunk to only a few cars. I turned in and ordered three drinks and got to the cash where the same lady served me and said “bon appetite” in the way that some English people mangle the french language on purpose(like merci buckets) and then repeated what had happened the day before: “La madame en avant à déjà payer” only this time she closed her window as fast as my dropping jaw so I couldn’t pay her a tip. It was completely surreal. How can this rarity occur twice in a row? On the way back to the cottage Sharon and I discussed the absurdity of it all and posited several theories about what may have happened and why. I think this may be how conspiracy theories get invented. Was it a Thanksgiving thing? Did she recognize my voice and decide to repay the tip from the previous day? Was it a Tim Horton Illuminati plot that tracks Anglos in green jeeps? Maybe it was a special effort by Tim’s to make people more generous and sell more coffee, or maybe it is just that some people are just kind and enjoy surprising others. It was fun. We were surprised and thankful and it put smiles on our faces. 

Small Town,Main Street, Saturday Night.

On Saturday, Sharon and I were tasked with getting pizza for the gang (my brothers, sister and all our spouses). Our rental cottage was in the hills outside of Brownsburg which is very near the town of Lachute where I had gone to High School fifty years ago.

Lachute is a hub for the surrounding agricultural community and is a fairly large small town. When I was a teen the place to get pizza from was Princess Pizza. My exact memory of that place is gone, but when I got to Main Street I did remember another place with booths that I had gone to as well. Chez Carole was still there, so I went in and ordered three huge pizzas “to go”. They told me it would be about twenty-five minutes so I went out to wait in the car with Sharon. 

The layout of the street is somewhat like a very wide boulevard. When I visit this street, I am always reminded of 50’s era movies of American small towns and/or small town scenes painted by Edward Hopper. They used to have angled (zig zag) parking, but switched to parallel.

There is parking next to the sidewalks and on either side of the median. I was parallel parked next to the median facing east. When I got in the car after placing the order Sharon remarked on the number of motorcycles and mullets she had seen. I replied “Small town, Main Street, Saturday Night” as an explanation. Clusters of teens walking in groups, older couples looking for a place to dine out, etc. Driving up and down the street itself were several restored vintage cars and many Harley Davidson motorcycles.

We watched a couple on the other side of the median getting prepared to mount their bike. Each article of biker clothing carefully put on in a ritual dance. Chaps tightened, vests attached, bandanas adjusted helmets fastened and sunglasses donned. Then some little stretches and the rider got on followed by the driver who had an extra adjustment of his junk before straddling his hog, kicked off the kick stand and fired up the electronic ignition. They rode away slowly and deliberately showing off their leather and poise. I said to Sharon that everyone is on parade tonight.

Just then we saw two identical fire engine red Mazda convertible sports cars in tandem. They slowed and the first driver made a gesture to the following driver and they parallel parked in unison. I was amazed. It was like some synchronized swimming choreography we were watching. They backed in as if attached and then went forward about a foot and then back about half that, all in unison. The passenger doors opened as one and two former trophy brides got out and turned to watch the tops of the cars glide into place and then the two drivers struggled to get out. I recognized the effort of two large bald men with bad knees attempting to look effortless. They succeeded and rounded their vehicles to join their companions and cross toward a restaurant. It struck me at the time how unhappy they presented and I imagined that the men had probably been relevantly employed in industry, but had been cruising on their initial success for the last twenty years and now were too entrenched in their ways to be able to handle any change. The expressions on the faces of the female companions had a strange fadedness to them. Bottled blondes in clothes just a wee bit too tight and shoes that pretended to be stylish, but weren’t. 

I thought that maybe these people were former classmates of mine (they certainly could have been) disguised by fifty years. My imagination placed them in this same scenario every week-end since the mid seventies. I could see at a glance that they played golf, but probably didn’t enjoy it. 

As they walked away (still synchronized on auto-pilot) I forgave myself for being so judgemental and turned to look at Sharon and I was filled with thankfulness for her, for the week-end away, for the time with my siblings at Thanksgiving.

photo by Sharon Cheema

A Senses Census

Most people neglect their senses which makes no sense to me. This morning in my quiet time for thinking I was intensely aware of the sounds near me and I thought I would start a list of sounds in nature that I love. I then thought, ”why stop there?” How about other sounds made by humans? How about sounds you hate? How about the other senses: Touch, smell, taste, and the most used one (unless you are blind), sight. This got me to thinking about some of my friends and acquaintances who are missing one or more of their senses. I am grateful that I have my senses and I am aware and focusing on them.

It can be argued that there are more than five senses. Proprioception (body awareness that tells us how much strength to use for a task, for example) and the Vestibular sense which gives us information as to where our head and body are in space. I learned about these senses from Occupational Therapists in my career working with children with Autism, but these senses  are also useful and necessary in helping music students with the ergonomics of their instrument.

 For the sake of this essay/ set of lists I will deal with the five main senses and I will limit my lists to a top ten favourites, although within each category there are subsets and subsets of subsets…. oy, what have I started?

Sounds in nature that I love.

I love the sound of water…. not so much inside the house where it can signal a leak or a run on toilet etc.

The gentle lapping sound of a lake on the shore, on a moored boat, a dock etc. puts me in a calm and happy mood.

The powerful cymbal crashes of an ocean’s waves reaching a beach like in Cancun or rocks like at Peggy’s Cove, N.S.

The placid calm of a river’s stealthy flow or the roar of fierce rapids or a waterfall

the babbling of a brook

Then there are the different sounds of rain: gentle rain on differing surfaces, steady pouring rain, the tattoo of hail. 

Thunder-all kinds

Birds all have unique sounds. Here are some that I love:

Honking geese high overhead in v’s… usually signalling a change of seasons. The sad departure signalling the impending arrival of our long winter or the delight and hope of their arrival in spring.

chickadees, song sparrows, Blue Jays, crows, the white throated sparrow. mourning doves, kookaburra laughing. woodpeckers pecking, red winged blackbirds

I love the sound of wind in trees both coniferous and deciduous …the cracking of sap freezing.

I love cicadas, crickets, bullfrogs, galloping hooves, wolf howls (distant)

Man-made sounds that I love (aside from music…another category)

I love most train sounds… the clickety clack of wheels, the grinding, searing sound of switching tracks, a lonesome whistle in the distance ,  steam locomotives hissing, chugging.

zippers make a pleasant sound…Metal Zippers have a great sound both opening and closing. Plastic ones, not so much.

Car tires on a metal grate bridge deck. The Victoria Bridge in Montreal was built in 1860 to accommodate trains. It was the first link between the island of Montreal and the mainland. Built for trains. In 1899 the part that one could drive on was opened. As a child, I looked forward to visits with Uncle Charlie and Aunt Hemmy who lived in St. Bruno on the South Shore. We took the Victoria bridge even though there were several other faster routes in part, because my dad loved the sound as well.

air being let out of a tire or a bottle of carbonated liquid being opened are distinct sounds that please me.


wood being chopped 

park swings

the sound between stations  while dialling on an old tube radio.

empty churches

languages that are different from mine

Sounds I  hate 

velcro adjusting sounds like someone gathering phlegm in order to “gob”.(spit).

powered garden tools

60 cycle hum fluorescent lighting ballasts

any unwanted sound in a mic while recording.

microphone feedback

worn disc brakes

vocal fry

yelling,whining, patronizing

a needle dragging across a vinyl disc…also unwanted pops and clicks and click repeats…. I don’t mind these sounds in hip hop music, however. So, unintended

smells I love

peeling cucumber

slicing watermelon

camp fire

cooking curry, bbq, frying onions, bread, cookies, cake

vanilla stuart factory where they made cakes Laurier street

cooking with butter

baby shampoo 

Nathalie’s perfume

froesias- especially yellow ones.

smells I hate

cooking smells on clothes toaster, fried food, curry


pig/ sheep manure

stepped in dogshit. picking up poop with a bag is ok, except when the poop is “smooshed”. 

cigarette smoke first hand/second hand Has always been gross to me. As a child I had a friend whose clothes always smelled of stale smoke

stale breath…sour alcohol breath smoker breath, garlic hot dog burps

marigolds. They look lovely and last forever, but their scent is kind of sickly.

wet grey flannel pants. So sour smelling.

gasoline. -Oddly, I like the smell of Gasoline, but hate it on my hands after filling the tank.

touch I  love

the feel of real fur coats in the hall closet

cold smooth pebbles on my skin

the touch of my father’s stubble at the end of the day

the first tentative kiss before the heat.

velvet, satin, corduroy both wide and narrow

flannel sheets

smooth planed wood.

touch I hate

tin foil on metal filling.

putting on cold or wet, or cold and wet clothing.

emptying a pumpkin or a Turkey cavity

even the thought of someone touching my collarbone

tastes I  love

well toasted crumpet with melted butter and marmalade.

Fresh baguette with salted butter and honey

ripe in season cherries


the cracklings on my mum’s roast beef

This list is by no means exhaustive, but if it makes you, the reader think about your senses or evokes similar visceral memories I am glad you have finally come to your senses.

Life Loves On

It was a rainy day in Montreal, I was kind of Blue having heard of the death of a close friend I had known since high school. I was reading The Atlantic magazine articles on line. I came across this one: https://www.theatlantic.com/press-releases/archive/2021/08/september-2021-cover-press-release/619694/ which is a story about how losing someone in 9/11 affected a family from the perspective of 20 years later. The story resonated with me.

While practicing my nylon string guitar later that morning I started playing a couple of chord sequences that caught my fancy. I was zoning out and started to ad lib words and “life loves on”stuck. I decided to try and build a song around that phrase. I love turns of phrase and tried many before settling on life loves on and love lives on which are subtly similar and yet somewhat different. The actual 4 note motif for “life loves on” fits the “Hallelujah” part from an old Anglican Hymn: “All Creatures Of Our God and King”

I was staring out the window at the teeming rain and the phrase “into each life some rain must fall” which I thought might be a bible verse because my mum had used it often. I googled the line, and It turned out it was a line in “The Rainy Day” written in 1842 after the death of his first wife, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. The entire poem fit neatly into what I was trying to create, so, rather than re-invent the wheel, I set his poem to music with only a slight adaptation and some repetition.

The Story Of Jack Gas

Chapter One

This is a story about Jack Gas, a boy who grew into his name. Jack grew up as a normal boy who did normal things and everything about him screamed normal except for his name which was an easy target for the bullies at school and at the playground. He was teased mercilessly because his name sounded a bit like “jackass”.

In 6th grade, as “the puberty” visited, Jack developed quite a nervous stomach. He quite literally grew into his name. Jack became chronically flatulent. His body began producing methane at an enormous rate. Jack needed to expel this gas very frequently to avoid debilitating cramps and severe discomfort. At first, his “outbursts” arrived every five minutes or so, which Jackie tried to disguise by lifting a cheek off his chair and manually lifting and separating his buttocks to minimize the noise. Unfortunately this had the effect of making his gas “SBD” which we all know is “Silent, but deadly!”.

For some reason the farts smelled worse if there was no noise. The snap and pop of his noisier farts dispersed with a lesser olfactory effect. It was impossible for Jack to “sneak one by”. Anonymity was not an option. Everyone knew that all smells and all rude noises came from Jack Gas. This was actually convenient for some his classmates who could fart with impunity and never be blamed. A whole new perspective on “passing” gas. Jack Gas was given credit for other people’s twinkies. 

The toll on Jack Gas’s school/social life was extreme. He became ostracized No one wanted to be seated near Jack at school, the girls all thought he was gross and the boys, although some were secretly jealous of Jack’s ability to expel air at will, played along with the girls in calling out Jack Gas for being gross. Jack was reprimanded so often by the teacher for his classroom clearers that eventually Jack Gas was given permission to leave the class discretely without raising his hand first if he felt an eruption coming on (which was frequently). 

Jack Gas’s home life also had become quite different. The constant flatulence meant that Jack ate in the kitchen at dinner time rather than around the dining room table with his family. Road trips together were also a thing of the past as Travel with Jack was quite unpleasant. Jack Gas’s only road trips were to see any one of a plethora of medical specialists who tried to get to the bottom of Jack Gas’s condition. Dieticians, internalists, allergists, just about every medical specialty ending in “ist”. Then the were the non medical “ists” and “paths”, herbalists, naturalists, mycologists, osteopaths, naturopaths, pathists, istopaths, none of whom could offer any relief. The only thing relieved was Jack Gas’s dad who was relieved of hundreds of dollars with each futile attempt to fix the problem.

Isolation began to take it’s toll on Jack Gas. He never got hugs from his parents, never horsed around with his brothers anymore. Jack Gas no longer played any team sports, didn’t go on field trips, in fact all extra curricular school activities had to be stopped. No scouts, no choir, no summer camp.

The family dog, “Pizza” didn’t mind most of Jack Gas’s smells, and only left the room for the most vile smelling ones. You knew a bad one was in the air if Pizza left the room.

Jack Gas was still afflicted by the time he had to start Junior High School. He had hoped to be better, but to no avail. His hormones were full on raging and Jack Gas started to notice girls. Girls noticed him as well, but only in order to avoid him. There was a girl he saw from time to time in the library who didn’t move if he sat down near her, and who treated Jack Gas normally. Her name was Lorna. She was what you might call “bookish”. She spent all of her spare time in the library. Jack Gas started to spend more time in the library as well now in hopes that he would somehow encounter Lorna. Even when he did encounter Lorna he had to wait until the engrossed Lorna surfaced from her reading. Jack felt like a polar bear waiting near a seal’s breathing hole in the ice for the seal to arrive. 

One day, as Lorna closed her book, she took off her eyeglasses and was cleaning the lenses when she looked up and there was an awkward moment when she and Jack Gas made eye contact. Jack nervously spoke first. They discussed the book she had just read and had similar observations about the plot and the characters. The small talk was good, but Jack had a question he was dying to ask her. He finally just blurted out “How come you don’t avoid me like everybody else?”

Lorna replied that she has no sense of smell, and furthermore, likes to be left alone to read, so  she didn’t find Jack Gas’s smells offensive, and as a bonus, no one bothered her if she sat near him. She continued by saying that she liked that Jack was respectful of her space and didn’t interrupt her reading. They started to hang out together and even walked home together as Lorna’s home was a mere block and a half away from his. 

One day, Lorna invited Jack Gas to come inside for a snack and to play backgammon. Jack balked, but Lorna reassured him that it was OK, her mum was deaf, so couldn’t hear his farts, and Lorna had inherited her poor sense of smell from her dad, Ernie “Hot Rod” Morris. Ernie got his nickname from a local hoodlum named Gary, whose only apparent skill was in giving nicknames as slurs to his neighbours. Gary had observed that Ernie was a very timid driver who drove at a snail’s pace through the neighbourhood. Ernie was not, in fact, timid, but drove slowly in the neighbourhood because of the dozens of children and pets that lived there. Jack’s nickname from Gary was: “Pepe” short for the Looney Tunes skunk Pepe Le Pew. Lorna was soon to become “Pepe Adjacent”

Hot Rod invited Jack to stay for supper. Cabbage rolls….. 

Jack Gas and Lorna became inseparable. Their friendship blossomed and seemed to be headed towards becoming a romance as well, but fate intervened. Maybe not fate insomuch as the inevitable cruelty and unfairness of life in the pitiless substrata of high school cliques. Lorna soon discovered that being Pepe Adjacent meant that she was soon unable to follow her other interests (choir, weaving, debating and puppetry) because of the gossip and cruel innuendos of her peers in these clubs. She had to decide if it was worth it to remain Jack’s friend. 

Lorna was in tears one night after she had gone to bed. Her dad had noticed she was not herself at dinner and when he heard the sniffles through her closed door, he knocked and entered. Lorna spelled out her dilemma to her father and he set himself to thinking about how to solve her problem. 

Her dad remembered years ago how out of place he had felt due to his lack of scent. His peers would put salt on his cornflakes and serve him actual dog biscuits. Could have been worse. Ernie told his dad about it and his dad suggested visiting a “word-of-mouth” man named “Ruby” who had a semi-hidden kiosk in a lane off a cul-de-sac in Chinatown. Ruby had various cures for sundry human conditions that actually worked. His ointment to destroy warts was his biggest seller, but he also had a balm for shingles, he had a pill that could give a man a 24 hour erection, and on a related note, an oil for any number of venereal diseases. Ruby had many other concoctions as well. When Young Ernie went with his dad to visit Ruby, he recalled the dimly lit, smoky hovel with deadly accuracy. When told of the problem, Ruby stroked his tiny grey beard and started to pull out several drawers and gather some ingredients together. Each ingredient was in a tiny box or vial that had icons on them that Ernie assumed were words in Mandarin. Ruby mixed seven dry ingredients that may have been herbs, or dried mushrooms or powdered bones, etc. Only Ruby knew exactly what the ingredients were, and he almost never spoke, hence these were secret recipes. When he had mixed his concoction for Young Ernie, he separated the powder into 8 piles with a razor blade and placed each pile into the centre of small brightly coloured origami papers (I know, Origami is Japanese and Ruby is Chinese). He then folded each little paper into neat envelopes that easily opened only one way and provided a natural spout to pour the powder either directly into the throat, or into a receptacle to mix with liquid. Ruby said “Good for 8 days” and “twenty dollars” and ended with “one small side effect, nothing free”. He never divulged what the side effect was, but it became clear after Young Ernie took his first dose and began smelling smells much more vividly than we ever could. It was like he got smell and taste on a level with a dog’s hearing. Ultra smell and ultra taste akin to having an operation on your eyes and going from blindness to fully sighted when the bandages were unravelled. Words like “lush”, “opulent”, “savoury” come to mind. The drawback was that each smell was like an overdose. Each taste was overwhelming and all together made for unpleasant eating. Young Ernie learned that day that living without scent and taste was not so bad as being overwhelmed by it to the point of paralysis. He flushed the seven remaining packets down the glugger.

Lorna said to her dad “I’m not asking for me…..It’s Jack’s problem.” Hot Rod said that maybe Ruby (if he’s still alive) has a cure for flatulence. Let’s go check it out. Lorna called Jack and they drove to Chinatown and parked on the outskirts. Hot Rod and Lorna walked along oblivious to all the wonderful aroma encounters available in Chinatown, but Jack was familiar with all the fried smells, the sugary smells, even the not so great stench of the trash bins behind each establishment. He bought some Sesame balls with the red plum paste inside to have later. 

Hot Rod’s memory navigated to the last lane before the cul-de-sac and he almost missed Ruby’s kiosk as it looked even more decrepit and over run than it had twenty years previous. He opened the door gingerly and squinted into the dark. Sure enough, on a stool behind the counter sat a wizened old gnome with a scraggly beard who bowed to him without speaking. Hot Rod started “you may not remember….” And the old man said: “no taste, I remember, want more?” Hot Rod  responded in the negative, the old man laughed…”side effect too much, huh?” And Hot Rod nodded.

Jack Gas didn’t need to describe his problem to Ruby. Ruby said “too many fart, yeah?” Jack shrugged. Ruby said “one minute” Ruby went about the same ritual he had done with Hot Rod twenty years earlier. Drawers flung open and shut, boxes and vials extracted, only the ingredients were different or maybe not, only Ruby knew. Ruby pulled out his mortar and pestle and began grinding ingredients in the mortar. He was humming lightly a melody that was all at once universal and unfamiliar. No words, just sounds, although to our ears a foreign language seems to be just sounds…. We don’t know if it was an incantation or just happy unrelated music. When Ruby was done, he separated the powder evenly and placed eight piles each on their paper origami paper and folded each one meticulously. He turned to Jack and said “good for eight days, no charge this time, next time forty dollar.” Ruby added: “not so small side effect, nothing free…!”

Hot Rod, Lorna and Jack returned to the car and started for home. Hot Rod suggested that Jack take the first envelope right away. Jack poured the powder down his throat and chased it with some iced bubble tea. Almost immediately Jack’s gas stopped. The relief was short lived, though as they discovered the “side effect”. Twenty minutes after ingesting the powder Jack sensed a humongous explosion building up inside of him and he knew it was going to be a ripper.


I am not exaggerating when I say that from the time it started until it’s last murmur Hot Rod’s car logged 2 kilometres in city traffic. The volume and force of this particular fart might have even registered on the Richter scale. Aside from the force of it, both Hot Rod and Lorna who supposedly had no sense of smell, rolled down their windows and leaned towards the fresh air gasping. Some side effect. 

After the Guinness worthy fart, however, Jack experienced a relief that was to continue until the next day. Twenty four hours fart free. The potion worked. 

The Fourth Wall in Cottage Country

We were sitting around a campfire deep in Quebec cottage country last night, surrounded by pine and balsam trees and enjoying the crackling of the fire and poking at it occasionally to produce fireflies and fireworks. In the distance we heard some music wafting on the air from another cabin that is far enough away for us to feel private, but we were still within earshot of their music. It wasn’t all that loud, and we might have felt it intrusive but for the conversation and the memories it inspired.

I recognized the music as coming from an album (albums) I had owned and enjoyed as a teenager when my family first moved to the Laurentians.

Grand Funk Railroad was a rock power trio popular in the early 1970’s. At the time, their music appealed to me. I liked that it was bluesy, had sort of soulful vocals, fairly decent vocal harmony and lots of guitar improvising. I mail away ordered Grand Funk Live which was a double album and had extended versions of all the songs I liked except “Closer To Home”. I think I got it through the Columbia Record Club from an ad in the back of a comic book or the Saturday coloured section of the paper. 

The live album came out in 1970. I mentioned to the girls that I knew the album well and said “I bet we and that neighbour are the only people in this entire world listening to that particular album at this very moment.” They guffawed and said “no way! “, but we finally agreed that it would be highly unlikely anyone else was listening to it as it is way out of fashion and almost entirely forgotten. A footnote. A possible answer to the Boomer version of Trivial Pursuit. Unless there was some revival of the music of Grand Funk Railroad going on in the world right now that we are unaware of, or a satellite radio specialty station, probably no one else was listening at this exact moment. 

It’s most likely that the neighbour playing it is a man, French speaking, probably around my age. This music appealed more to men/boys. I was Almost certain it is the vinyl, not CD or mp3. Although I heard “Closer To Home” with flute, so maybe a playlist or maybe he had a stack of lps out of sequence.

I asked my companions (my girls and son-in-law) to invent possible scenarios for why the person would put on this particular album at this exact time. 

Maybe he comes to the cottage on weekends or vacation to let off steam and keeps his records here. Maybe he is a “local”. Someone who never left the area he grew up in. Perhaps he put the music on and conked out blotto on the chaise longue.

Has he been listening to this album often? Or is it an occasional pleasure. Maybe it is “break up” music that he plays to cleanse his psychic palette of the fresh pain and loneliness. Maybe he just bought it out of curiosity at a garage sale or flea market, maybe he found it by the curb after someone tried to sell off their lps. Could have been a recent gift from an old friend. A plethora of possible scenarios. Nostalgia, soundtrack to drama, odd coincidence. My youngest daughter had another scenario to add: maybe he is a founding member of Grand Funk who wooed local ladies to his lair with his fame and needed to hear his own music to “perform”. Highly likely, but no.

I prefer to believe that his name is Yves and he listens to this music regularly and has been doing so since he was fifteen.  Never breaking free of the mould. An eternal teenager. 

I imagine if I had stayed in that time warp for the last fifty years. Stayed in my home town, never broke out, never matured, never went to uni, never had careers, kids, never saw the world…. never progressed past Grand Funk in my listening. The human equivalent of one of those blind mules they used to put in mines whose life consisted of trudging up and down a mine shaft hauling ore and returning empty bins to be refilled. Back and forth, back and forth, always the same track, never seeing daylight,  always eating the same mash, never even a pat on the head, just doing. 

When I was fifteen,  I dressed like Neil Young, wore my hair long, wore patched jeans and flannel shirts or hunting jackets. I knew it all. 

I am kind of still like that, except my jeans don’t get patched anymore and now I know nothing. 

At that age I stayed in my room a lot listening to the same five or six lps  over and over again. When no one was around I would blast them loud as I could. 

-Traffic- Low Spark Of High Heeled Boys

-Santana- Abraxas

-Grand Funk -Live

-Deep Purple -In Rock


There were more, but these were a few of my high rotation dirty pleasures. 

These albums would also spin at “get togethers” with friends. We didn’t really have parties, or at least, that isn’t what we called them. Maybe I just wasn’t aware of or invited to any parties. These get togethers Were a place to strut, get high, drink beer, try and pair off while listening to what we believed was the coolest music ever created as we were differentiating from our families of origin.

From the vantage point of our campfire, we heard no talking, just the music. If it was a get together, it was a get together of mutes. I think it was just one guy…. passed out.

I know I could have gone over there and seen for myself, I probably would have liked the guy, maybe had a beer.

Maybe the music was a signal for anybody within earshot to come and visit and get together. Maybe it was a warning to stay away. To leave him alone.

I didn’t want to break what in theatre they call the fourth wall. He probably thought he was all alone in the country as we also had thought. It is like the “privacy” of those curtains in hospital wards. We believe that we are alone but everyone in the room knows you are getting your catheter changed. 

I had other reasons to not seek out the source of the music, one of which was in order to write a story about it. Sometimes fiction can be better than reality.

Better Than Gold

My first music teaching job after graduating from McGill, was in Manitoba. I inherited a healthy band program from my friend Kenny Gold who had recommended me as a bilingual music teacher. I made the move out west and worked my butt off to keep the program growing. 

My predecessor had started a jazz combo which I continued. We had a lovely group of kids that took it pretty seriously. In the combo were three kids whose parents were musicians. 

Pete and Joe were brothers. Joe played alto sax and flute, although he didn’t play flute in the combo. His brother Pete played drums and piano. Both boys were very adept at their instruments and I could not teach them anything technical as they had already surpassed my knowledge. What I was able to teach them was style, humour and attitude and pointed them towards the right things to listen to. Their parents played in the Winnipeg Symphony and both brothers had had extensive private training. Both boys went on after school to playing, writing and recording original music. Joe had his own studio. For a while as well. 

Clayton was a tenor saxophonist and had a lovely tone. A big sound. He was not a very good reader, but made up for it with a great ear and his ability to imitate his tenor heroes. His dad was a jazz bass player, so Clayton heard lots of that style of music. I never told him what to play, though I did suggest he try to copy solos from pros. His playing on St. Thomas (Sonny Rollins calypso tune) was particularly beyond his years.

Another set of brothers, Bruce and Richard played trumpet and bass clarinet respectively. Bruce was a hard worker and was able to extend his range pretty high à la Maynard Ferguson. Their dad was a “band booster” and drove kids all over the place and was able to get us playing opportunities outside of school. 

Our pianist was Leanne. She never improvised, but was a very good reader, so was able to play jazz voicings that were written out for her. Her mum and dad also were very supportive. 

Our bass player was Ricky. He was a tall, quiet, steady ginger who was a very steady bottom for our horns. At the Brandon Jazz Festival the band was billeted in a dormitory. When I did my rounds checking on kids, some of the rooms were pretty rowdy, and mildly naughty things were going on, Ricky was reading the bible……

The combo kept getting better and better. Joe graduated, but returned to school for rehearsals. We went to Jazz festivals and at one of them we won a gold medal in our category. We were thrilled to bits as you can imagine. This win meant we were invited to a national competition held that year in Calgary. It was a big honour, and we started to fund raise even before we got the go ahead from “the suits”.

After all the plans were put into place we had a band meeting before a rehearsal so I could complete our application form. I needed the birthdays of all the kids. Ricky had just had a birthday and as I wrote the info on the form, I realized it bumped us up into a higher category (18 -22). I told the kids, and arguments started. Some of the kids wanted me to lie about his age. I said that it was tempting, but what kind of a role model would I be if I lied? I managed to convince them that the goal was to play and do our best, and who cares if we don’t get a medal, we already proved ourselves. I also said that getting a medal if we know we cheated would not be an honour.

In Calgary, the kids saw and heard excellent music, attended workshops with pros and fraternized with jazz music nerds from all around the country. It was fun and interesting.

Our performance went very well. All the kids were at their very best. Joe, Clayton and Bruce played particularly inspired and with a new fire. They played with nothing to lose, up against really good college kids against whom we felt we had no chance.

On awards night, we sat through some really great music interspersed with each categories results. As each category was read and the honourees lauded,  we saw products of great well-funded programs reaping their well-deserved awards. When our category came up, we all crossed our fingers and when we heard the words “Silver goes to St. Norbert Collegiate” we all were on cloud nine. I had tears, pretty sure they all did. It was such a great feeling.

The evening continued and individual awards were presented. Clayton won Yamaha award for “outstanding soloist” Bruce also won a similar award for one of his solos.

I think we went out for a treat afterward, and we talked it over. Everyone was ecstatic at our placing. I asked if anyone regretted not lying, and everyone said “no”. 

I was proud of those kids, they were like a little family.

Sometimes Silver is better than Gold.

P.S. we were invited to play the Montreal Jazz Festival, but most of the kids were not able to go. So, in order to attend, we changed the combo lineup and I got to play with Pete and Joe who had been accepted to McGill and two other musicians who went on to successful music careers. 

After Calgary,  I decided I had done a good job, but I wanted new challenges and to be back in Montreal, so I resigned and enrolled in the Masters program at McGill.

Not the combo, but Senior Band from 1987 or 8

My Best Lesson Wasn’t Planned….

One of the most effective lessons I ever taught came spontaneously as the result of a “teachable moment.”

The year was 2001 and the date was several weeks after 9/11. I was teaching a grade ten music class in a private school and as part of my lesson I was exposing the children to music that they might otherwise never hear. 

Some of the details of this lesson are hard to retrieve, like what music I was playing at the time. Let’s just say it was Chicago playing Saturday In The Park. It might more probably been Tower Of Power. I do remember It was a band with horns, of that I am sure. A boy in the class said “that sucks!” I immediately stopped the song and asked a one word question: “Why?”

The boy replied “because it does!” I replied: “I see, and what criteria did you use to make that assessment?”. He said “I don’t like it!” Which I said was a more acceptable statement because it was a personal opinion. I dug deeper. “”Why don’t you like it?” I continued “ it is tuneful, well produced, well recorded, a very listenable piece of music.” I then made the parallel of food, saying: “I don’t particularly like lasagna, do you like it?” He answered in the affirmative as did most of the class. I asked what he thought his response would be if I had said “Lasagna sucks!”? Lights went on around the room as the discussion grew deeper. 

We recognized that sweeping statements were poor communication and realized that one needed to have a reason to like or not like something. The boy really had no vocabulary for what I was seeking from him. I was able to give twenty reasons why I did like it and how, with all the great music out there I would not play them something that “sucked!” 

I told the kids that it is much easier to say something destructive than it is to very create something. Blank stares. 

I went to the closet and picked out a retired hand drum. It had once been half of a set of bongos, but had lost it’s partner and was just one of the useless unusable instruments hanging around a music room. I held the drum up and asked how it was made, and how long it might have taken. We discussed the materials, wood that was grown, harvested, sawed, beveled, shaped, glued, varnished. The skin was a calf that had to be birthed, kept, slaughtered, skinned, cut, tanned, stretched. The skin was held in place by metal pins. The ore needed to be mined, smelted, shaped, plated. There had to be a design for the drum, etc. The point being, making the drum took ideas, effort and time and cost. We agreed on a value of time and a cost. 

I then threw the drum on the ground as hard as I could and jumped on it, completely destroying it. The kids looked at me like I was insane. They asked me why I did that. My response was: “It is really easy to destroy something that was hard to create!” I asked them how much thought and energy went into destroying the drum? I saw more lights go on. 

I then guesstimated how long it took to build the twin towers which we had watched collapse live the previous month. We talked about all the architects, engineers, tradesmen, etc. Same as the drum. And as it happened there were half a dozen Mohawk children in the class who said their fathers had been away in New York for seven years working on the girders. Mohawk people have a long tradition of being high altitude steel workers. We discussed the human cost of their absence and the long commute to and from Kanawake. We then reflected on how long it took for the buildings to fall and how much skill it took to bring them down. 

All the lights went on.

To wrap up the lesson I paraphrased: “It is harder to create something than it is to destroy it” “Be a creator, not a destroyer!” 

The kids actually applauded.