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On August 27th, 2022 a last-minute decision was made to attend a concert of traditional Newfoundland/Irish/English bazouki/mandolin/guitar/penny whistle music at the small community centre/church hall in Freshwater, just a couple of dozen minutes down around the bay* from my house. M’lady and I were hosting a visitor from Ottawa for a week or so, a music journalist who perked right up when I mentioned the show earlier that evening** so I drove over the hill to Carbonear to the Shell and asked if they still had tickets left.
“No my darlin’,” the lady at the cash told me with genuine concern. “I don’t thinks we had no tickets to any show down ta Freshwater…”
As she spoke I thought two things in such quick succession they were almost simultaneous: 1) “Geez-Louise, I just read the email and it specifically said that advance tickets were available at Butt’s Esso in Carbonear! Why oh why can’t anyone seem to get their act together around here?” and 2) “Waitaminnit…I’m not at an Esso, I’m at a Shell.”
Fortunately I verbalized neither my ill-informed accusation nor confused realization before the lady spoke up again. “That would be Gerry Strong what sells dem tickets. I’m sure you can get ‘em at the door but just lets me call him now and makes sure for ya.
“You just hang on a second now, my duckie***,” she said as she grabbed a wireless phone and dialled Gerry’s number from memory.
“Gerry? It’s Francine down to the Shell. Oh, just fine dear how are you? And your mother? That’s good. Listen, I gots a fellah here’s looking for tickets to the show tonight down in Freshwater…Mmm-hmm…okay…all-right then, I’ll tell him. You have yourself a good evening too. Bye now.
“Not a thing to worry about my love,” she said, hanging up the phone. “Gerry says you can gets your tickets at the door tonight.” And after a hurried dinner and a lovely drive, we did.
We walked into the small rectangular room about a minute before 8pm and took our seats behind the second folding plastic table from the front. Just as our butts hit our chairs the band stepped onto the short stage and started into their first number, instantly lulling us backwards at least two hundred years.
(I’ve found that live music starts aggressively on time in Newfoundland and the crowds – however big or small – are notoriously punctual, silent, attentive, and respectful. And they clap at all the right times too, and loudly. It’s pretty dream-come-true-ish for musicians.)
The group was a trio of Newfoundland trad mainstays collectively called Cotillion. Individually they were a big booming singing guitar player with a delicate strum named Hugh Scott, a provincial legend named Dave Panting who has been omnipresent on the Newfoundland music scene since helping to form Figgy Duff (a band that influenced an entire generation) back in the ’70’s. Dave was splitting his time mostly between mandolin and some very melodic bass playing with a smattering of bazouki here and there in the second set. And standing between them was the man that had been at the other end of the line during my pointless trip to the Shell station: Gerry Strong on penny whistles and a wooden flute or chanter or some such thing. He seemed to be a pretty deep traditional music historian and he did most of the talking, of which there was much.
In a good way, though. It was nice to hear the stories about the songs and where the musicians “found” them. And it’s a good thing they did find them, for surely lots of the songs we heard would otherwise be on their last legs or worse had these deeply interested and largely skilled song collectors not picked them up from older, like-minded musicians and added them to their repertoire. There were off-kilter “crooked” instrumental tunes with chords effortlessly jumping in and out at the oddest of times, along with straight tunes with lyrics that threw the focus on the stories that would unfold. Sometimes the vocal tunes were pretty crooked too. There was one early in the set with a pretty elastic time signature…what was it called now…maybe The Gay Old Hag? Anyway, it had recurring stunted and elongated bars throughout the verses and a haunting major VI chord that seemed to come out of nowhere every time it came around, even though it appeared in the same place in every single chorus.
Dave Panting’s bass playing was really fun and interesting. It really helped drive the sound of the trio. Come to think of it, I could say the same thing about his mando playing too. He sure was a big part of the sonic direction of the group. And while Hugh Scott filled out the sound perfectly and added a big dose of personality and songwriting to Cotillion it’s undeniably the flute and penny whistle stuff that truly defines the band. Gerry Strong made it look so darn easy with his fluttering pinky finger trilling every penny whistle line with quivering perfection. He had so many long, convoluted melodies locked down – and I mean locked down – with Dave Panting’s mandolin that the two sounding like a single instrument. My goodness they were good.
After a short setbreak the band came back with more ancient jigs and seafaring tales mixed in with the scattered original composition that invariably fit right in with the older stuff. Near the end of the night Gerry played a set of jigs that he had composed and the music was was alternatively haunting and uplifting. Let’s see now…both of the jigs were named after mountains, one in Gros Morne and one out in British Columbia…oh, I forget the names, but that pair of melodies was pretty much the highlight of the show.
At the end the audience begged for more and after a quick huddle Cotillion came at us with – I could barely believe it – a three-chord funk tune, and it was great! The only downside was that I spent the first half of the tune trying to place Scott’s opening guitar riff. Was it Kool & the Gang? No. Was it James Brown? No…”
(It was the pre-chorus to Stevie Wonder’s Sir Duke. Dun dun, dun dun, dun dun, dun dun, dun dun dun da-dun; Blaow!)
Unlicensed, unpretentious, and of unwaveringly high-quality, it’s always a good time seeing music down in Freshwater. It’s actually a good thing they don’t serve alcohol, the road out of there is an arcing and careening up-and-down cliff-hugging sobriety test and the repercussions for failing the asphalt breathalyzer would be immediate and severe.
Of course we made it home safe and sound and then we nightcapped in the sunroom as the balmy, moonless evening slowly turned to morn.
*Note: in Newfoundland “down” refers to “north” whilst “up” of course means “south”. Oh, and if an event gets “put off” that means it wasn’t delayed or cancelled, but rather that it went off without a hitch. Where do they get this stuff, huh?
**”Evening” is twelve hours long in Newfoundland. It begins a minute after twelve o’clock noon and runs until midnight. That’s right folks, there is no “afternoon” on the Rock. They really should hand out a guide when you move here.
***I think you might be shocked to know how many times I’ve been called “my duckie”. It’s quackers.
Todd Man Out 