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Sometimes even the long, sunny days of summer are not enough to hold all of our adventures, and July 10th, 2005 was another one of those days. In training for my pending introduction to long-distance cycling vacations I was up with the morning sun and out of the house by 6:30am, pedalling the Capital City pathways all the way to Aylmer, Quebec and back, racking up forty kilometres before bleakfunch*. After a shower and a quick backyard habachi I was off to the good old Ottawa Bluesfest for a full day of awesomeness.
By 1:45 I had my butt parked on the grass in time for the opening note of Mofro on the Black Sheep stage. I think this was my first time hearing them and I quickly liked them a lot. For the uninitiated, Mofro is a quartet from Florida who sound like they spent years touring the redneck cover band circuit playing songs by The Band and The Black Crowes before starting to write their own songs. The result was the kind of music you would expect to hear if you saw a band playing at a nameless ramshackle bar on a dusty back road somewhere outside of somewhere else in Georgia, and it was just the sort of thing to lure the first stealth beer and two out of my backpack.
The lead singer divided his attention between guitar, keyboards, and harmonica while his slide guitar partner put in a fine set, though his stage presence reminded me of a police lineup. The drummer and an organ player that served double-duty on the bass pedals rounded out the group and together they easily held my attention up to their last note.. They sure packed a punch, especially for a band that I didn’t know from Adam just an hour earlier. Bottom line: Mofro was a nice surprise to start an exceptionally fine and long musical day.
Dr. John was up next and listening to his signature NOLA alligator-boogie under the burning sun almost had me convinced that I was in New Orleans, up until he had to repeatedly implore the lawnchair-worshipping Ottawa crowd to “Get on up! Get on up!” I tell ya, when Dr. John starts singing down in the Big Easy ain’t nobody gots ta tell nobody to be gettin up offa their seat!
At some point in the day I managed to catch at least a little of Ottawa’s very own funky disco cover party band The Hammerheads. I used to go see The Hammerheads quite often back in the day – their residency at The Pit down below Rideau Street was always a great time – and they were always super-fun. However, in this case I’ll have to take my own word for it because I don’t actually recall seeing them at Bluesfest on this day at all. But my ticketbook says I did, and that meticulously-kept tome has proved less transient than my memory on countless occasions, so I defer. Now, getting back to things I do remember…
Up until this point I had seen k-os twice before, both times backed up by an acoustic guitar and tablas. From what I saw of this late-afternoon set the nightclub beat poet was long gone, having been replaced by an arena-sized hip hop rhyming machine who put on a cliché-free show full of high-quality music that was bursting with energy. Frankly, if not for the remarkably well-stacked daily lineup I would have stayed for his entire set but things being what they were I had to stage-bounce.
Why? Because: the Neville Brothers; crescent-city’s soulful Partridge Family. Two things I wouldn’t want to do with Aaron Neville: meet him in a dark alley or meet him in a singing contest. Though he looks strong, stocky and gruff the guy has a voice like a soprano saxophone oozing melted sugar. Everyone on the stage was fantastic but I still somehow managed to stick to my predetermined plan, which was to leave the Neville Brothers after just four songs no matter how much I was loving it. To limit it was to keep it precious; there was no way I was going to let myself get bored with talent as great as theirs. Mustering the discipline of a guy who goes out of his way to use words like “bleakfunch” I tore myself away and skulked through the darkness for my first taste of a punctuation-happy band called Do. Make. Say. Think..
It turned out being a pretty good gamble because I was soon in the throes of one of the best shows of the entire festival. DMST comprised of nine musicians music-ing on 25+ instruments to create an all-instrumental series of soundscapes that fluctuated between curious beauty and confident anger, all in a stew of poignancy. There were horns (even a baritone!), strings, angst, guitars, two drum kits…musicians were writhing around on the stage while others were rocking their heads almost clear off of their bodies; and all of it subliminally sublime and harmoniously cacaphonic. It was sweet and sour rocky road ice cream for the ears, in the very best possible way. Interesting, powerful, extroverted, introspective, and completely devoid of aspirations.
What a stellar end to such a very large day.
*Yes, “bleakfunch”, which rhymes with “fleck-crunch”. You don’t expect me to go around saying “brunch” every day do you?
Todd Man Out 