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Once I started getting close to completing this ticket memory vanity project of mine I created a file listing the last hundred or so stories I had left to write. That way instead of flipping randomly through my ticket binders every morning I could just pick a show to write about from my pixelated list. Now that I’ve whittled it down to the last thirty or so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that I find myself looking at a list of shows that I’ve purposely passed over, shows that I’ve put off writing about for one reason or another. And chief among these avoided shows is the entry for July 12th, 2015, a Sunday evening in the middle of the Ottawa Bluesfest when I saw Willie Nile, Hat Fitz and Cara Robinson, and the great Richard Thompson.
I guess. I feel so guilty.
Willie Nile played on the Black Sheep Stage and I believe it was still daytime out so I guess I saw him first. He was fronting what was pretty much a straight-ahead bluesy rock band and they were not at all unpleasant, maybe even somewhat fun.
I wouldn’t be surprised if you haven’t heard of the either Hat Fitz and/or Cara Robinson but I suspect most music lovers in their native Australia know who they are. For us Up Overs: Fitz is a long-bearded old-timey slide player who plays a souped-up cigar box guitar and does indeed wear a Hat, while Cara Robinson is a super-solid drummer with powerhouse blues-belting vocal cords and together they made quite a sound. They were definitely a lot of fun.
And then there was [deep exhale…] the great Richard Thompson. The heart and soul of the original modern English folk movement; the lead guitarist, songwriter and co-founder of Fairport Convention; Officer of the Order of the British Empire; general all-around musical demigod; and the sole reason why I’ve avoided writing this screed.
Y’see, I had no idea who the guy was, and when I found out I didn’t really care for him much either. So my initial reaction to Richard Thompson was an ignorance that made me feel like an idiot, quickly followed by a musical pauper’s smugness that made me feel small and judgmental.
Like, he’s obviously a great guitar player in the way that guys like Paul Simon and Bruce Cockburn are great guitar players (and they are), another understated fingerstyle genius who deserves lauding and lauding and lauding to no end. So there I was watching him stand onstage all alone delivering remarkably crisp and perfect arpeggios and finger-rolls and all I could think was, “meh…” Oh, the shame.
He stood on the Black Sheep Stage (the intimate and wonderful Black Sheep Stage at that!) singing song after song of classic folk gold…songs that are known the world over, all of them completely new to me and none of them registering anywhere above “just okay” or “not bad I guess” on my personal music-o-meter. Gawd, it feels so ugly.
I was in the presence of greatness, witnessing an artist who has thrilled audiences the world over since before I was born and his legacy, his stature, and yes, even his brilliant performance on that evening meant nothing to me; did nothing for me.
Not that I am concerned about it on a day-to-day basis or anything. Heck, with the standout exception of Hallelujah I feel the same way about Leonard Cohen (which makes me awfully glad I didn’t see him in concert too), but I have been loath to sit down and write a diatribe (or worse, a jeremiad) about such a highly-regarded musical legend who has done me no wrong as the great Richard Thompson.
Incidentally, I was hoping that consistently adding “the great” in front of his name the whole time would numb the pain a little but it hasn’t very much at all, so in an attempt to salvage the rest of my day let me try to end on a positive note, something that can make me look to the great Richard Thomson if not with admiration and respect then at least with an honest appreciation:
If not for Thompson’s set I would have been stuck seeing Blue Rodeo on the main stage. For that I extend to the great Richard Thompson my sincerest gratitude.
(Whew. I’m glad that’s over, for both of our sakes.)
Todd Man Out 