Posted by On June 17th, 2022 I found myself driving to Town to take in a few bands at a music festival. After running a few errands we checked into a Super 8 and pounded a couple of pre-show beerses. It almost felt normal.
The world felt like it was coming out of the stupid covid – though it wasn’t, really – and life had pretty much returned to the way things used to be. Not that I knew much about life out here on The Rock, having relocated from Ottawa just months before the pandemic, but I know that this was exactly the sort of thing m’lady and I expected to be doing in our new life in rural Newfoundland. That is: mostly puttering around a pretty house looking at the ocean and occasionally driving into the big city for an overnight entertainment jaunt featuring the sort of bands that we would normally have expected to see at, say, the Kemptville Live! Festival (where I have indeed seen David Wilcox, for example).
Oops, I’m getting ahead of myself. To catch you up: the “Town” that I was driving towards was St. John’s (hence the capital “T”), the festival was a ten-day single-staged affair called Iceberg Alley that began in 2017, and the bands were (in order of importance): David Wilcox, Burton Cummings, and Billy and the Bruisers.
In a minor stroke of brilliance I had affixed the bike rack to our car and brought along our bicycles. The ride down down down to the festival on the shore of Quidi Vidi Lake was amazing; I felt like Kate Winslet flying on the bow of the Titanic. When we arrived at the festival site we found no bike rack or bike depot or anything bike-related (naturally; this is Newfoundland after all) but buddy at the gate pointed to a nearby fence and said we could lock our bikes there and he’d watch them for us (naturally; this is Newfoundland after all).
Iceberg Alley takes place in a giant circus tent and man, it was big in there! After punching our print-at-home nontickets I wound through a wholly unnecessary back-and-forth gated maze lineup thing and purchased a mittful of varied drink tickets. Stepping into the main room I was amazed to see at least a half-dozen large drink stations (each with their own wholly unnecessary back-and-forth gated maze lineup thing) surrounding the main performance space, which featured a large stage facing a wide open area backed with a row of bleachers that rose to the roof. As we approached the stage the opening band – a ten-piece corporate cover band – started into You Should Be Dancing by the Bee Gees and they were nailing it. M’lady and I threw our hands in the air and grooved our way straight to the centre of the floor just one person behind the rail. This is where we would remain for almost the entire night.
Billy and the Bruisers were quite good. I can’t remember a single other song they played (oh right, they closed with 25 or 6 to 4) but everything they played they played right. Next up was the act that I was in the room…er…tent for, David Wilcox and man, he did not disappoint.
From my spot just ten feet away from the man I can tell you this: David Wilcox is ageless, with occasional flashes of Golum. He played guitar like he was still in his twenties, which was convenient given that his entire setlist was recorded back when he was that age. And that was fine with me because with songs like Riverboat Fantasy, Do the Bearcat, Downtown Came Uptown, and Bad Apple why would anyone need to hear anything else? As long as it was all played with verve and fire, which it was. And not just by Mr. Wilcox himself – who played an old Telecaster (customized with an oversized polished steel pickguard and four pickups) through a pair of Marshall doublestacks – his band was fantastic! I don’t know where he found a young bass player and drummer that could play old blues/rock songs with such head-shaking bliss and energy, but he’d best hold on to those guys. Together they made for a very effective power trio. Only Layin’ Pipe seemed lacking without the rhythm guitar parts; everything else sounded full as a trull.
As for David Wilcox himself I have to report that the man is a treasure. He’s a truly great blues guitar player and he puts in a hard-working performance every single time. If he was American I’m sure he’d be a household name. He’s Canada’s George Thorogood, at the very least.
And then there was Burton Cummings. Ahem. M’lady was convinced to come to the show based on Burton and man, he disappointed. Me, at least. I think she had a good enough time.
With apologies to the great Burton Cummings: He’s through. Finished. Done. Don’t go see him. His voice cracks almost constantly; he sounds like Eustace Haney from that old tv show Green Acres. His “stories” were repetitive and every song introduction included the phrases “This received X million plays on the radio” and “You’ve probably heard this once before.”
Four songs in I decided to concentrate on the songwriting and from then on I had a great time. That was coincidentally around the time I went back for more drink tickets.
No Sugar Tonight, Clap For the Wolfman, Laughing, No Time, Break it to Them Gently, I mean, that’s some good stuff. The man could easily rest on his laurels, and he really should. As a matter of fact, he inexplicably played several (like, four or five) obscure cover songs in place of monstrous hits of his own that he could have played but didn’t. I mean, Burton Cummings has an astounding array of material under his belt, and he played a half-dozen cover songs? Weird.
Also weird: The only other time I had seen Burton Cummings play was a solo show back in the ’80’s. Back then he was accompanying himself on a Yamaha DX-7 and playing for maybe a hundred people in a cheesy dance club that rarely hosted live music. He probably got paid, I don’t know, maybe $750 for the show. Fast-forward about thirty-five years and he’s headlining a festival fronting a five-piece band and probably getting paid $15,000 or more. Dude even had a percussion player*. And he’s playing exactly the same songs as he did back when I saw him at the Cosmo Club (except the covers). What happened in the intervening third-century that caused Burton Cummings’ cachet to have gone up so much? It’s not like he had a song featured in Game of Thrones or anything. I guess it must simply indicate a general revaluation of the valuation of classic rock.
Oh, and speaking of more drink tickets, after the umpteenth time winding my way through yet another wholly unnecessary back-and-forth gated maze lineup thing I approached the security guy at the entrance/exit and pointed to the bored and idle bar staff standing just a few feet away. “Do you mind if I just go in through the exit?” I asked, sure he would be fine with it. He wasn’t. “No,” he said, pointing towards his little peoplemaze. “Aw c’mon, there’s nobody at all here…” I said, walking towards the exit. “NO!” he reiterated, again with the pointing.
“Are you kidding?!?!” I asked, taking another step towards the exit. And believe it or don’t, the dude actually grabbed the metal gate thing and wedged the exit lane closed! Wowsers. All-righty dude. I walked through the wholly unnecessary back-and-forth gated maze lineup thing, got my beer, and walked back through the wholly unnecessary back-and-forth gated maze lineup thing. As I exited through the entrance I tapped dude on the shoulder and gave him a little salute. That was my final drink of the evening, for several reasons.
It was about this time that it started to get harder and harder to battle through the raised elbows back to our spot near the front so m’lady and I bailed and caught the last few songs from the back of the room. The sound was much better back there which made Burton sound that much worse. Ah well, it was still great songwriting. It was a good night out.
The bike ride back up the hill to our hotel after the concert was much slower than the ride down but somehow it proved to be almost as fun.
*I swear, Burton Cummings must owe the guy money or something. The guy had one conga and a tambourine. That’s it. To say that he added nothing to the show would actually be cutting him a little slack.
Todd Man Out 