I'm very excited about the shows that I'm booking for this spring and summer in Nova Scotia. Most are intimate, cozy venues – perfect for sharing songs about people, about ideas and all of the new songs I'm writing about rural living, down here by the sea.
A full list of the shows is kept updated on my CBC Radio 3 page.
Here are a few highlights:
May 12, 2011 – 7-9pm
Rose and Kettle Tea Room
For more info, visit the Rose & Kettle Concert Series web site.
Address:
Dartmouth Heritage Farm Museum
471 Poplar Dr
Dartmouth, NS B2W 4L2
(902) 462-0154
June 12, 2011 – time TBA
The Scuttlebutt Restaurant
139 Montague
Lunenburg, NS
Come for a yummy supper and intimate concert
June 25, 2011 - time TBA
The Chatterbox Café
Pugwash, NS
I'm planning a set with lots of activist material for this wonderful venue in the home town of the Pugwash Peace Exchange.
I'd love to see you at these shows and all word-of-mouth publicity will be greatly appreciated!
Monday, May 9, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Music and Politics
It's Earth Day Eve, Canada is in the midst of yet another federal election campaign and I'm thinking about the role of songwriters in a democracy.
Last fall, I had the good fortune to hear Canadian singer-songwriter, Jon Brooks, perform at a music industry conference. At one point during his set, he said* that while he didn't feel it was his job to tell people how they should vote, he did feel that it was part of his job to tell people to vote. To me, that felt like a rare oasis of meaningfulness in the midst of a desert of three days of music people talking "business" (which apparently has something to do with making money – I'm not sure, I kept tuning out during those parts).
I'm also thinking of something Michael Franti said* at a concert several years ago in Toronto. He told a compelling story about a fan who asked him not to go perform at a prison because the people there (in particular, a man who had harmed a member of the fan's family) did not deserve to hear such wonderful music. Michael Franti said he thought long and hard about that request and came up with this response: I don't play my music to reward or punish anyone, I do it in the hope that they might feel something.
I believe that this is the role of songwriters in a democracy – to write songs and perform them with the intention of engaging people's hearts and minds: to present different points of view, to stir up questions and emotions like hope, outrage, curiosity, longing, pain and joy. I believe that the more we feel and the more we think about the issues facing us, the more likely we are to take action: at the polls, in our communities, in our hearts and in our daily lives.
So, for what it's worth, I urge you to vote – every chance you get. And if you're a songwriter, (or a photographer, an artist, a poet, a novelist, a blogger, a dancer, an actor, a playwright, a designer, a comedian), I urge you to use your creative gifts and put them out into the world in the hope that someone who experiences your work will feel something.
Inspiration is contagious. I caught it from Jon Brooks and Michael Franti**. I hope you'll catch it from me. And I'd love to know how many people you inspire.
Here's a song from me about voting and hope:
P.S. The title of this post is also the title of the Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy song, Music and Politics.
*I'm paraphrasing here. I hope I have accurately captured the meaning of what Jon Brooks and Michael Franti said; the main point, though, is that this is what I understood from what each of them said and it was deeply meaningful to me.
**And a whole bunch of other people who unfortunately don't fit into this brief blog post. I'll find opportunities to write about more of the people who inspire me – all in good time.
Last fall, I had the good fortune to hear Canadian singer-songwriter, Jon Brooks, perform at a music industry conference. At one point during his set, he said* that while he didn't feel it was his job to tell people how they should vote, he did feel that it was part of his job to tell people to vote. To me, that felt like a rare oasis of meaningfulness in the midst of a desert of three days of music people talking "business" (which apparently has something to do with making money – I'm not sure, I kept tuning out during those parts).
I'm also thinking of something Michael Franti said* at a concert several years ago in Toronto. He told a compelling story about a fan who asked him not to go perform at a prison because the people there (in particular, a man who had harmed a member of the fan's family) did not deserve to hear such wonderful music. Michael Franti said he thought long and hard about that request and came up with this response: I don't play my music to reward or punish anyone, I do it in the hope that they might feel something.
I believe that this is the role of songwriters in a democracy – to write songs and perform them with the intention of engaging people's hearts and minds: to present different points of view, to stir up questions and emotions like hope, outrage, curiosity, longing, pain and joy. I believe that the more we feel and the more we think about the issues facing us, the more likely we are to take action: at the polls, in our communities, in our hearts and in our daily lives.
So, for what it's worth, I urge you to vote – every chance you get. And if you're a songwriter, (or a photographer, an artist, a poet, a novelist, a blogger, a dancer, an actor, a playwright, a designer, a comedian), I urge you to use your creative gifts and put them out into the world in the hope that someone who experiences your work will feel something.
Inspiration is contagious. I caught it from Jon Brooks and Michael Franti**. I hope you'll catch it from me. And I'd love to know how many people you inspire.
Here's a song from me about voting and hope:
P.S. The title of this post is also the title of the Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy song, Music and Politics.
*I'm paraphrasing here. I hope I have accurately captured the meaning of what Jon Brooks and Michael Franti said; the main point, though, is that this is what I understood from what each of them said and it was deeply meaningful to me.
**And a whole bunch of other people who unfortunately don't fit into this brief blog post. I'll find opportunities to write about more of the people who inspire me – all in good time.
Monday, April 4, 2011
No Fracking Way
I've been spending some time lately working on the campaign to stop hydraulic fracturing (also known as fracking) in Nova Scotia.
Hydraulic Fracturing is a process for extracting natural gas embedded in shale rock. The process requires the use (and contamination) of mind-boggling quantities of water. The companies who do it don't want to disclose what chemicals they use. In places where fracking has been allowed on a large scale, it has turned rural landscapes into industrial landscapes.
It seems obvious to me that it's an all-round terrible idea – and we can put a stop to it if we take immediate action.
Anyway, enough talk. I wrote a song about it.
I'm using a Creative Commons license for this song, so you're welcome to repost, distribute and/or sing this song in any non-commercial context, in order to facilitate spreading the word about hydraulic fracturing. The lyrics are included on YouTube and I'd be happy to send you the chords, too. Just drop me a line via my website, facebook, twitter...
And, if you'd like to learn more about fracking, check out these resources put together by the Council of Canadians and the Ecology Action Centre.
Hydraulic Fracturing is a process for extracting natural gas embedded in shale rock. The process requires the use (and contamination) of mind-boggling quantities of water. The companies who do it don't want to disclose what chemicals they use. In places where fracking has been allowed on a large scale, it has turned rural landscapes into industrial landscapes.
It seems obvious to me that it's an all-round terrible idea – and we can put a stop to it if we take immediate action.
Anyway, enough talk. I wrote a song about it.
I'm using a Creative Commons license for this song, so you're welcome to repost, distribute and/or sing this song in any non-commercial context, in order to facilitate spreading the word about hydraulic fracturing. The lyrics are included on YouTube and I'd be happy to send you the chords, too. Just drop me a line via my website, facebook, twitter...
And, if you'd like to learn more about fracking, check out these resources put together by the Council of Canadians and the Ecology Action Centre.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Shows in the City-formerly-known-as-Home
Hi Folks,
I'm playing a couple of shows in Toronto next week while I'm here visiting. I'd love for you to come out to either or both of these:
Tuesday, March 22
C'est What? (Front & Church)
9pm start
I'm opening for my friends Tanya Philipovich and Lucas Stagg who are resident at C'est What? every Tuesday this month. Come to listen, stay to drink.
cover $5
Saturday, March 26
Wise Daughters Craft Market in the Junction
3079B Dundas Street West (entrance on Quebec Ave. just south of Dundas West)
7pm – 9pm
I'm honoured that this intimate acoustic "Not-in-a-House House Concert" is part of the International Women's Day/Week/Month celebrations at Wise Daughters. Please note, this is an alcohol-free event, and if you want to bring your kids, I will try not to swear–too much.
Seating is limited so please call 416.761.1555 to reserve a spot if you would like to attend this show.
cover $5
I won't be back in Toronto until October, so if you would like to hear me perform my songs live (and I have some new ones for you!), now's your chance.
I'm playing a couple of shows in Toronto next week while I'm here visiting. I'd love for you to come out to either or both of these:
Tuesday, March 22
C'est What? (Front & Church)
9pm start
I'm opening for my friends Tanya Philipovich and Lucas Stagg who are resident at C'est What? every Tuesday this month. Come to listen, stay to drink.
cover $5
Saturday, March 26
Wise Daughters Craft Market in the Junction
3079B Dundas Street West (entrance on Quebec Ave. just south of Dundas West)
7pm – 9pm
I'm honoured that this intimate acoustic "Not-in-a-House House Concert" is part of the International Women's Day/Week/Month celebrations at Wise Daughters. Please note, this is an alcohol-free event, and if you want to bring your kids, I will try not to swear–too much.
Seating is limited so please call 416.761.1555 to reserve a spot if you would like to attend this show.
cover $5
I won't be back in Toronto until October, so if you would like to hear me perform my songs live (and I have some new ones for you!), now's your chance.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Bringin' it back home!
I'm so excited about the gig I have coming up this Saturday, March 12, at the Fire Hall in Petite Riviere. It's Song Circle with a great line-up. Stellar singer-songwriter Ian Sherwood is hosting, with hilarious Jamie Junger, passionate Ria Mae and me completing the circle.
The show is part of the wonderful Little River Folk series, which participates in the Bringin' It Home program to present Nova Scotian artists. (I'm thrilled every time it hits me that I'm now a Nova Scotian musician!)
If you can come down to Petite on Saturday night at 8pm, I promise you a rare treat of a show. I'd love to see you there!
The show is part of the wonderful Little River Folk series, which participates in the Bringin' It Home program to present Nova Scotian artists. (I'm thrilled every time it hits me that I'm now a Nova Scotian musician!)
If you can come down to Petite on Saturday night at 8pm, I promise you a rare treat of a show. I'd love to see you there!
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Late bloomer vs. perennial?
A couple of weeks ago, I turned forty.
No big deal, right? I'm not generally hung up on age and aging. Women in my family tend to live for a long time, and – knock wood – so will I. In truth, I don't feel like I'm even middle-aged, yet.
What I do feel like, though, is forty. I'm forty. And that definitely means something and is nudging me toward thinking about where I'm at and what it's all about.
I have been called a late bloomer.
I prefer to think of myself as a perennial.
The way I see it, I bloomed early, I bloom often and I just keep blooming.
The "late bloomer" label got stuck on me because my blossoms didn't last that long. As each one faded and dropped its petals, it was dismissed and forgotten, treated as if it had never existed. But just because they didn't last, doesn't mean I didn't flower as an academic whiz-kid, an academic burn-out, a celtic rock band frontwoman, a bored temp, an eco-friendly personal chef, an avid quilter, a closeted songwriter, an IT tech support representative and a Mac jockey. There were some great moments in each of those incarnations, but in a culture that pushes us to pick one thing and excel at it (or else!), I missed a lot of the moments, too focused on trying to coax each blossom out – desperately hoping it would be The One – and then wasted time grieving it after it faded and made way for the next flower.
Musically, I have already bloomed a number of times. I sang with bands in my late teens and early 20s and loved it. But I didn't have the emotional maturity to handle the ups and downs of life in a band. I tried performing solo in my mid-twenties, but I wasn't emotionally ready for that, either. In fact, I hated it. I hated being in the spotlight. (I wasn't too keen on being out of the spotlight, either, but being in the spotlight was definitely worse.)
So, I took some time (i.e., a decade) and worked at growing up. I found a mentor and a community of people to help and I worked hard at it. Through the years, it became clear that singing and songwriting are essential parts of me. A lot of other things I can take or leave, or change as necessity dictates, but music and my relationship with my muse are vital and non-negotiable.
I will always sing. I will always write songs. As long as I breathe.
That's certain.
But despite that certainty, many aspects of deciding to become a recording and performing artist in my late 30s are fraught with uncertainty. Why am I doing this? How do I fit in? What do I have to offer? What do I want? And, on the really bad days: Who the hell do I think I am?
Questioning every move can be a pain in the neck, but I'm grateful that I know how to ask those questions, rather than accepting the cookie-cutter definition of success that is tirelessly promoted by our society. I'm glad I know that that brand of success is not what I'm chasing. It wouldn't make me happy.
My relationship with the spotlight has changed. I no longer hate and fear performing. I no longer think that it's all about me. I love songs for their potential to connect us with each other, through laughter, rhythm, ideas, empathy and energy. I prefer not to sing for people, but to sing in their company. Intimate house concerts and community venues provide opportunities for people to engage in music all together, blurring the line between performer and audience to create a shared emotional experience.
At a big concert, with the stage brightly lit, the performers can't see who's there with them, and I think that often creates a gulf that perpetuates our society's hierarchical thinking and passivity. I believe that being at a live music performance should bear no resemblance to watching a movie or a show on TV. When I go to hear live music, I want to tap my toes, hoot and holler, smile, think, laugh, cry and feel transported by the energy in the room.
I want to feel energy rushing up my spine and making all the hair stand up on the back of my neck.
When I perform at a show, I want to feel that way, too. And I want everybody there to experience it with me. I want to feel like we can engage in a conversation through the songs and our responses to them. I love it when everyone at a show feels so present and comfortable together that we spontaneously chat between songs. I love it when everyone in the room can connect and collaborate in creating the show's energy.
In our culture, being present and making connections can be revolutionary. Whether as a performer or audience member, I want to come away from every live music performance feeling like I contributed in some small way to a revolution.
Are you with me?
No big deal, right? I'm not generally hung up on age and aging. Women in my family tend to live for a long time, and – knock wood – so will I. In truth, I don't feel like I'm even middle-aged, yet.
What I do feel like, though, is forty. I'm forty. And that definitely means something and is nudging me toward thinking about where I'm at and what it's all about.
I have been called a late bloomer.
I prefer to think of myself as a perennial.
The way I see it, I bloomed early, I bloom often and I just keep blooming.
The "late bloomer" label got stuck on me because my blossoms didn't last that long. As each one faded and dropped its petals, it was dismissed and forgotten, treated as if it had never existed. But just because they didn't last, doesn't mean I didn't flower as an academic whiz-kid, an academic burn-out, a celtic rock band frontwoman, a bored temp, an eco-friendly personal chef, an avid quilter, a closeted songwriter, an IT tech support representative and a Mac jockey. There were some great moments in each of those incarnations, but in a culture that pushes us to pick one thing and excel at it (or else!), I missed a lot of the moments, too focused on trying to coax each blossom out – desperately hoping it would be The One – and then wasted time grieving it after it faded and made way for the next flower.
Musically, I have already bloomed a number of times. I sang with bands in my late teens and early 20s and loved it. But I didn't have the emotional maturity to handle the ups and downs of life in a band. I tried performing solo in my mid-twenties, but I wasn't emotionally ready for that, either. In fact, I hated it. I hated being in the spotlight. (I wasn't too keen on being out of the spotlight, either, but being in the spotlight was definitely worse.)
So, I took some time (i.e., a decade) and worked at growing up. I found a mentor and a community of people to help and I worked hard at it. Through the years, it became clear that singing and songwriting are essential parts of me. A lot of other things I can take or leave, or change as necessity dictates, but music and my relationship with my muse are vital and non-negotiable.
I will always sing. I will always write songs. As long as I breathe.
That's certain.
But despite that certainty, many aspects of deciding to become a recording and performing artist in my late 30s are fraught with uncertainty. Why am I doing this? How do I fit in? What do I have to offer? What do I want? And, on the really bad days: Who the hell do I think I am?
Questioning every move can be a pain in the neck, but I'm grateful that I know how to ask those questions, rather than accepting the cookie-cutter definition of success that is tirelessly promoted by our society. I'm glad I know that that brand of success is not what I'm chasing. It wouldn't make me happy.
My relationship with the spotlight has changed. I no longer hate and fear performing. I no longer think that it's all about me. I love songs for their potential to connect us with each other, through laughter, rhythm, ideas, empathy and energy. I prefer not to sing for people, but to sing in their company. Intimate house concerts and community venues provide opportunities for people to engage in music all together, blurring the line between performer and audience to create a shared emotional experience.
At a big concert, with the stage brightly lit, the performers can't see who's there with them, and I think that often creates a gulf that perpetuates our society's hierarchical thinking and passivity. I believe that being at a live music performance should bear no resemblance to watching a movie or a show on TV. When I go to hear live music, I want to tap my toes, hoot and holler, smile, think, laugh, cry and feel transported by the energy in the room.
I want to feel energy rushing up my spine and making all the hair stand up on the back of my neck.
When I perform at a show, I want to feel that way, too. And I want everybody there to experience it with me. I want to feel like we can engage in a conversation through the songs and our responses to them. I love it when everyone at a show feels so present and comfortable together that we spontaneously chat between songs. I love it when everyone in the room can connect and collaborate in creating the show's energy.
In our culture, being present and making connections can be revolutionary. Whether as a performer or audience member, I want to come away from every live music performance feeling like I contributed in some small way to a revolution.
Are you with me?
Friday, February 4, 2011
I hate to gloat, but...
It's been a little while since I last posted. Just about two months, which is, I guess, the exact amount of time it takes to pack up 2 decades of life in Toronto and resettle out home in rural Nova Scotia.
Wow, is it ever some nice out here. (If you live here, you know what I mean. And if you don't, have you considered moving?)
I've settled in remarkably fast. In some ways, it's like I never left. My dialect and accent are coming right back. And the gentler pace of life suits me down to the ground. Years of rushing around in the city have given way to calm, quiet, easy days. I do a little work. I write some songs. I bring in wood for the stove. I go play cards with my grandmother. I shovel snow. I cook supper. I watch Republic of Doyle. I tweet. I go to bed and sleep like a rock.
For me, it feels like I'm undertaking a rehabilitation: detox from the pressured, go-go-go of city living. Don't get me wrong, I loved living in Toronto. I loved running around, doing a million things, seeing a million people. But I got worn out. And some of the harsher aspects of the city started to get to me. I didn't feel like I could continue to live there and still be the person I want to be or have the life I want for myself.
I chose to simplify. Living here, I can afford to work less, which means more time to be creative, more time to contribute to the greater good, more freedom, more breathing space.
No question, it was still a terrible wrench to leave. I miss a lot of people. I wish a bunch of my Toronto friends and family could have moved out here with me. And, I miss a few things, too. Mostly lunch specials. (Hey, Salad King! Hey, Ritz! Hey, Pho Linh!). But, what Nova Scotia's south shore lacks in diversity of restaurants, it more than makes up in friendly people and pristine forests and beaches. And when others tout the cultural advantages of living in Toronto, I have to smile. Don't they realize that I can go down to the Fire Hall and enjoy incredible, award-winning live music — for 20 bucks or less?
It seems I've landed in Paradise. It's good to be back home.
Wow, is it ever some nice out here. (If you live here, you know what I mean. And if you don't, have you considered moving?)
I've settled in remarkably fast. In some ways, it's like I never left. My dialect and accent are coming right back. And the gentler pace of life suits me down to the ground. Years of rushing around in the city have given way to calm, quiet, easy days. I do a little work. I write some songs. I bring in wood for the stove. I go play cards with my grandmother. I shovel snow. I cook supper. I watch Republic of Doyle. I tweet. I go to bed and sleep like a rock.
For me, it feels like I'm undertaking a rehabilitation: detox from the pressured, go-go-go of city living. Don't get me wrong, I loved living in Toronto. I loved running around, doing a million things, seeing a million people. But I got worn out. And some of the harsher aspects of the city started to get to me. I didn't feel like I could continue to live there and still be the person I want to be or have the life I want for myself.
I chose to simplify. Living here, I can afford to work less, which means more time to be creative, more time to contribute to the greater good, more freedom, more breathing space.
No question, it was still a terrible wrench to leave. I miss a lot of people. I wish a bunch of my Toronto friends and family could have moved out here with me. And, I miss a few things, too. Mostly lunch specials. (Hey, Salad King! Hey, Ritz! Hey, Pho Linh!). But, what Nova Scotia's south shore lacks in diversity of restaurants, it more than makes up in friendly people and pristine forests and beaches. And when others tout the cultural advantages of living in Toronto, I have to smile. Don't they realize that I can go down to the Fire Hall and enjoy incredible, award-winning live music — for 20 bucks or less?
It seems I've landed in Paradise. It's good to be back home.
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