Get ‘er done!: notes towards an understanding of Calgary
William, our fearless driver/road manager/merch guy on the tour, drove the daunting entirety of the highway between Regina and Calgary. Well in need of a rest, he decides to catch a few hours' sleep in one of the comfy booths in downtown Calgary's Broken City Social Club before our show starts.
"Hey, buddy," a waiter pokes him, "hey man-you can't sleep here."
With his gangly legs sticking out past the end of the bench, Will wakes up.
"Sorry, man: it's a city by-law."
Given that touring is just a glamorous form of self-imposed homelessness, it isn't surprising that mighty Calgary is a tad unwelcoming to hoboes like us. This city is just weary with the weight of its cash. Like Ottawa and its hot economy, Calgary's got the self-assured stink of having a big savings account, but mixed with all the restlessness and recklessness of a cowboy on the high plains. Jobs are plentiful, but sympathy is scarce. That's why, despite all its wealth, it's reputed to be one of Canada's toughest places to bum a smoke or hitchhike out of.
We're playing with Matt Masters--plus, Canada's most honest songwriter, Ms. Carolyn Mark, has promised to crash the show with her posse--so you know it's gonna be a good one. Right as we are about to begin our set, I spot Carolyn from the stage as she sweet talks her way through the door. She's seen the collection of paint-by-numbers winter landscape paintings that my roommate, Cavan, keeps in our apartment, so tonight she's brought us a gift: a kind of Cornelius Kreighoff winter scene of some jolly habitants taking a sleigh ride in vieux Quebec. She deposits it at the foot of the mic stand as I begin singing. Hey, the lady knows how to make a showbiz entrance.
Of course, all of that excess cash decried in the above paragraph makes for great CD sales and payout at the end of a show. Not to mention a happy bar staff that are glad to force-feed us alcohol. After the gracious bar owner, Zak Pashak, has kindly offered us shots of liquors and spirits, I get a slice from a nearby pizza place.
(Incidentally, this tour allowed me to discover that Calgary has some of the tastiest late-night drunk food in the nation--rivalling Halifax's donair pizza.)
Burping my way back into the bar with my pizza, I'm stopped by the Swayze-in-"Roadhouse" style doorman:
"Sorry, buddy--can't let you into the bar with that."
"Why not?"
"Just a rule. No outside food allowed in."
"But your kitchen's closed!"
I decide this is a fight worth fighting. Not just for myself, but for all performers who yearn for the special treatment of being able to bring outside food into a club they've just played. Casting myself in the role of Don Quixote and the doorman as the windmill, I place my pizza on the roof of our van and walk into the bar.
"Hey Zak! Can I bring a slice of pizza into the bar?"
"Yeah. Of course."
Triumphant, I go out, grab my slice and walk back in past the doorman. Innocently, my mouth full, I say: "It's okay! Zak said it was okay."
His arms crossed, the doorman stares at me indignantly: "Yeah, I saw you go over my head, buddy!!!"
His biceps, his bandana--his overall Nickelback demeanour--seem to say, "Welcome to the West...YA PUSSY!!!"
