I’d already grown tired of the routine, but habits are hard to break.
Those years weren’t boring, far from it. If they were I’d have done things differently, or so I’d like to imagine. There was more live entertainment, but the crowds in Timmins were far less interactive than they were in points south. There were no mosh pits. There was no crowd surfing. People just pressed towards the stage and took their entertainment in passively. Those who did, anyway.
Point in case, my first concert. Between my first and second years of college, The Headpins and Toronto came to town and played at the Mac. Karen and I got tickets. We were excited. We recalled the line leading up to the doors of the Mac in earlier years when the Stampeders and April Wine used to come to town. We expected the same. But Timmins was already gaining the reputation of a town that would travel to see its music but wouldn’t attend concerts in their own town. That “big name” bands only played Timmins on a Tuesday or a Thursday may have had something to do with it, but DUI charges may have had something to do with it, as well. I don’t know. The crush of Schumacher Days ought to have dispelled that myth. No one seemed concerned about DUIs then.
We were surprised to see that the Mac was only half full for Toronto and The Headpins. They had hits! They were played on the radio! They were playing on the weekend! Yet the floor was only half full of patrons. I didn’t care. One of them was Keith! We hung back, watched, talking as The Headpins took the stage, and then as Toronto walked on and Holy Woods asked us, “Is anyone out there high?” She paused for effect and cheers before declaring, “So am I!”
I expected more after my college years, but no one came to town, not often anyway. Johnny Cash did, but I had no interest then in the Man in Black. I did for Big Sugar! We bought tickets, but were surprised to discover they were playing at a little basement bar downtown. They had CDs!
The night came, I was having a couple in the early evening, still in the light
of day. It was after 8 pm, the show was not due to start until about 10 pm. I
was seated at the bar when I saw Gordie Johnson walk in with Dave Mcloughlin, a
local disk jockey. I was star struck. I couldn’t wait for the show.
Skip forward, Big Sugar took the stage. The ceiling was low, the speakers
brushing the ceiling. The bar was narrow, a natural funnel for sound. Small,
tight, contained. Gordie was dressed in Hugo Boss, natty and neat, his tie
cinched, his hair greased back. He waited for the whoops to die down as he
strummed his ever so silent jet-black Paul, tuning it for what felt like
forever. Then he clicked the pedal and a hum thrummed the narrow space.
He looked up. He surveyed the wall to wall to wall crowd, and said, “Let’s rock this place,” quietly into the mic. His pic raced across the strings, and I wished I’d brought earplugs.
He rocked! Sweat flicked off him like rain and song by song he pealed a layer off. Jacket, vest, tie. Sleeves were rolled up. Hair whipped across his eyes! I wished for a pit to crash in front of the stage, for anyone to be raised up to surf the crowd, but the attendees stood stock still, zombies lured by the amps.
So I was always up for something new, some new type of distraction to fill the void I knew was lurking inside me, rising up with increasing rage. I realized that I needed to get out of town. I needed some quiet pursuits that challenged my mind.
One day much later, in 1996, I was in my bank when I saw a stack of booklets. I picked one up and looked at the cover. The Stratford Festival. I’d heard of it, but I really didn’t know anything about it. So, I picked one up while waiting in line and leafed through the pages. Glossy photos gazed back up, filigreed script scrawled across the pictures. Shakespeare and such. Plays. I thought I might like that, so I asked the teller if I might take one with me. She said yes, so I did. I asked around. Was anyone interested in that sort of thing? I received blank stares in response.
I read about each play being performed, and noticing which plays were being performed on my upcoming week’s holiday in September, I picked up the phone and ordered tickets for Samuel Beckett’s “Waiting for Godot,” and Tennessee Williams’ “Sweet Bird of Youth.” I booked a hotel on the main drag, and when the time came, I drove the 10 hours to see my first theatrical plays.
I fell in love with Stratford. Bookstores, music stores, antiques and chocolatiers. Restaurants and pubs and coffee houses spilled out onto the wide sidewalks. There were manicured parks and statuary and gardens in one and all.
But as I pulled in, I saw people in suits. Suits? I panicked! I didn’t pack a suit.
I asked the front desk whether I needed one, wondering where the hell I was going to get one on such short notice. She told me not to worry, that no dress code was in effect.
After settling in, I walked up and down Ontario Street, browsing shops, buying little, taking in the ambiance. I found myself sitting out a thunderstorm in Balzac’s, as quick and furious as any I’d seen, inhaling a dream of dark roast within as sheets of rain blurred the thunderheads without.
Balzac’s, Bentley’s and the Boar’s Head became my haunts that week. And a remainders bookstore a few blocks down. Pazzo’s, Fellini’s, and the York Street Kitchen filled my belly.
Ever been? Maybe you should go. You might like it.
I found my way to the theatre to wait for Godot. I took my seat, my first of many.
I love Stratford. I’ve been going back for over 20 years now.
