Li’l Andy ditches his tour mates—and a potluck dinner!—in hopes of reaching a state of “total chillness” in Nelson, BC.

The Spaghetti Incident

At the very start of this tour, we picked Josh up at a Tim Horton’s at the corner of Sparks and Metcalfe in beautiful downtown Ottawa. Ashamedly, I was not my usual hyper-punctual self that morning and left him waiting at a four-seater table with his suitcase, Telecaster, cowboy boots in a plastic bag, and toolbox full of guitar pedals and patch cords.

I walk in a full 15 minutes late. Josh (yes, that’s him in the photo above, burning his crotch while sitting on the back of that bronze moose on a 38ºC day in Osoyoos, BC) is listening to something on his iPod. Around him, Conservative Party bureaucrats in blue ties take a quick coffee break and parents on their summer vacation to the Nation’s Capital organize enormous backpacks while their kids buzz around them. I tap Josh on the shoulder.

“Alright, McConnell—let’s do this thing.”

Josh looks at me, and with the loud voice of someone wearing headphones, pleads: “Andy, can you get me the fuck out of this fucking town?”

The other patrons briefly glance over. Doesn’t this guy have a high school to janitor somewhere?

***

But now we are in Nelson, BC (British California), and it’s hard to imagine a Canadian town more different from uptight Ottawa. On the patio of the Royal on Baker St., “real” locals who’ve grown up in Nelson drink pints and scoff at the “wannabe” locals who’ve come from all over Canada and Australia to support the town’s mountain biking and skiing economy. In the Save-On-Foods, hippie kids wheel one another around in shopping carts while doing groceries for the evening’s potluck.

As unlikely as it would seem, even our band has caught potluck fever and are doing a little ingredient-purchasing ourselves. With three days off here, Josh has decided to make a feast’s-worth of the coveted Gaggio family spaghetti sauce recipe for our host, Pat, whose contract work as the Canada Post rural mailman for the area leaves him precious spare time in which to prepare meals.

Now, the problem with lead guitarists is that they take their work home with them. They tackle every part of life as a lead guitarist would. This can mean, among other things, a tendency towards excess, flair where understatement would serve better, and an unnecessarily technological approach to simple tasks.

“You think he has a garlic press?” Josh asks, weighing a deluxe Zyliss model in his hand.

“Why don’t you make the pasta fresh and I’ll buy you a mechanized spaghetti cutter with the grant money?” I retort. “Make sure to keep the receipt!”

On our way to the cash, we pass that kind of gourmet cheese area they seem to have in every mega supermarket. Josh holds a baguette over one shoulder like a baseball bat.

“Man. You wanna get some brie?”

Normally, I don’t bicker so much with fellow band members. But it is Day 9, about the time when Tour Mommy begins to need some “mommy alone time.” And right now, I’m craving solitude like a single middle-aged woman craves dark chocolate and a foot massage.

And then, at precisely 6:15 p.m., the opportunity presents itself. William has unwisely volunteered to help Pat on his 13-hour-long mail route; we dropped Mark off to spend time with his family in Penticton; Josh is in the kitchen seemingly preparing a pilot for a TV show called “Country Musicians Cook Italian Without Proper Kitchen Implements.” Grabbing the keys to the van, I throw my hat on my head and drive off in search of that most-promised of BC tourist commodities: relaxation and that mental state known as having achieved “total chillness.”

Suspending my central Canadian smugness as best I can, I decide to try the Nelson thing, which, as far as I can see it, involves sitting on a beach with some Kootenay True Ale and basing your life on the vaguest understanding of the Eastern religions. The accommodating cashier at the BC Liquor Store informs me that “the young people” tend to congregate at a place called Taguma Beach.

“Sure,” I think. “Why not? I’m young. I’m a … person.” And with my case of beer in one hand and car keys in the other, I head off down the highway in search of the mythical-sounding Taguma Beach. Dinner is only going to be served at “around 8:30,” says Chef Josh, and I’ve got lots of time.

I park the van in the tree-lined glade that is the parking lot and stroll to the sand. The Liqour Lady was right, there are young people here: kids ranging from 2 to 9 years old, whacking one another in the head with pool noodles and stepping on their sister’s sand castles. Party on.

It’s now 7:30 in the evening and the Kootenay River is freezing frickin’ cold. After getting some serious brain freeze from diving down in the water and nearly losing my sunglasses, I stake out a spot between the beer caps and cigarette butts on the beach. As soon as I sit down, I begin to thinking: What time is it? Am I missing dinner? Should I be getting back? They don’t know where I’ve gone and might need the van. But then I catch myself: what am I doing? I’m supposed to be relaxing here. So I attempt something very BC— I try to lose all track of time. I’m not gonna go back to the van to check the clock; I’ll just go when it feels right.

With my air of central-Canadian anxiety dissolving about me, I try to blend in and the local British Californians don’t seem to mind. Down the beach, parents liberally allow their children to change and appear fully nude in public, even with a lone Camaro-sunglassed cowboy sitting conspicuously in plain view. Anywhere else in Canada, and they’d have their cellphones out dialling the paedophilia hotline.

A group of 20-somethings have started a barbecue and some beach volleyball in proximity to my little patch of sand. Fearing that a stray ball might come dangerously close to me—and that politeness might put me to the terrifying test of serving it back to the players—I decide that I’ve had ample R&R time on Taguma Beach and head back to the van. Before putting the key in the ignition, I place the CD case of Carolyn Mark’s “Nothing is Free” in front of the digital clock. The cartoon of Carolyn on the cover serves as my dashboard Virgin Mary statuette as I drive back into town—“Our Lady of Losing Track of Time and Unwinding.”

At Pat’s house sloping upon the hills of Nelson, two gallons of spaghetti sauce are simmering on the stove. Josh is playing an unplugged electric guitar while swinging in the hammock on the front porch. Will and Pat are not even back yet from delivering the mail. I look to the clock in the kitchen. It’s 8:31 p.m.

Read the rest of Andy's tour diaries:
Part 5: "The Attack of the B.C. Lioness" http://www.popmontreal.com/en/node/2418
Part 4: "Get 'er done! Notes Towards an Understanding of Calgary" http://www.popmontreal.com/en/node/2086
Part 3: "I Love Winnipeg and there's nothing you can do about it!" http://popmontreal.com/en/node/2021
Part 2: "Sudbury and Thereafter" http://www.popmontreal.com/en/node/1422
Part 1: "Meeting Leonard Cohen" http://www.popmontreal.com/en/node/1408