By Al Drinkle
One evening this week I was completely spellbound by the beauty of a wine that came my way. It was a mature bottle from a producer whose lofty reputation I had long felt was unjustified, and the experience changed my mind by blowing it. But I've been writing too much about wine lately and would rather share another example of the disarmingly auspicious impact of unexpected profundity.
Last night I witnessed something incredible—or perhaps I should credit the experience to a couple of unrelated things. It was the evening of September's full moon, the gorgeous weather obstinately impervious to the date on the calendar, and we had just enjoyed an al fresco dinner with a delicious bottle of Salamancan Rufete. As dusk chased away the day's balmy splendour, my wife began to settle into the routine of a work night while I, rather spontaneously, decided to walk downtown to see a rock and roll show.
Lighting a jazz cigarette as I traversed through my neighborhood, the delicious darkness incrementally enveloped me with each step. By the time I got to Centre Street Bridge, the full moon was rising sinisterly above the Bow River, mocking the sun as its macabre orange luminescence broke through lingering forest fire smoke. It seemed to signal the end of days, not just this day, especially as wisps of cloud provided the foreboding orb with a momentary moustache, beret and rakish leer, and I stopped to bask in its empowering glow before walking the final stretch to the venue.
I descended into a dark, clamorous basement, greeting friends and acquaintances as a quintet of New Yorkers tuned up their instruments on stage. A general shaggy aesthetic foreshadowed their '60s garage influences, though the bassist looked like the bouncer of a gay bar—at least based on my limited experience—and the organ player could have been a Parisian model. I'd previously checked out their records which I didn't find compelling enough for frequent revisits, but the sound was sufficiently interesting for me to venture out on a lovely September evening. If anybody in the bar anticipated what was about to happen, it certainly wasn't me.
After greeting the small crowd and expressing their gratitude to everyone for coming out on a Sunday night, the band exploded into a set that was so consummately intense, cohesive, mesmeric, and unhinged that I could barely process what was going on. Everyone in the band wielded their instruments as if to communicate that their sole life purpose was to participate in this very performance. They were all adepts in accordance to the standards of their genre, but each played without the ego that besets so many musicians. Instead of showing off, each played for the greater good of the band as a whole and the performance as an event; and seldom have I seen five musicians (or any other number, for that matter) so convincingly play as if they shared one brain. They certainly shared one vision, and one idea of what constitutes a great show.
The band seamlessly alternated between driving, grooving and jangly tempos; extended jams would culminate in taut, orchestrated crescendos; segues between songs were sharp and merciless; and as they bounced and leapt around the stage, they were clearly loving it all as much as the audience—to whom the band was collectively hypnotic like a burning moon. I too was under their spell, and grateful beyond measure for the unhinged rock and roll experience.
I awoke this morning with suspicions already mounting as to whether or not it was even real, quickly committing these details to the page before the memories evaporated like dreams. Had I walked into the bar last night with outsized expectations, I still would have been impressed. As it was, my aloof openmindedness left me benignly haunted by how fulfilling full moons, lunatic art and warm September evenings can be. Perhaps one should approach all situations with modest anticipation at most—to mitigate abject disappointment, sure, but also to keep the mind fertile for blowing.
