Posted by 
On July 12, 2009 the sun rose behind cloudy skies on a warm Ottawa Sunday morning. Or so I assume; I slept until well past noon. It was all I could do to empty a pot of coffee and a bowl of cereal in time to cycle downtown for the opening act of the afternoon’s Bluesfest In The Byward offering down in the Market at 4pm. I was fifteen minutes late. Moreso, it turned out that C.J. Chenier’s set had been bumped up by a half hour so I had missed it entirely. No matter, after seeing him play the last two nights running it was really intended more of a social visit anyway.
One of the things I’ve always loved about music is how quickly it can create connections and bring people together. After both of their shows m’lady and I had hung out with C.J. and his band until the wee hours and it seems that we had made fast friends. After missing their set we caught up with the guys backstage and managed to convince half of the band that they would be crazy not to check out the Bluesfest before reconvening for their midnight gig back in the Market later that night. C.J. and his guitarist Tim Betts hooked up with a friend of theirs who plays washboard with Lil’ Brian (ever heard two washboard players talk shop? Crazy.) and we all went back to their hotel to freshen up. Tim and I had a little jam (his guitar was signed by his uncle Dickie) and soon I was leading our little crew on a Canadian history-laden stroll along Wellington Street all the way to LeBreton Flats.
We did a walkabout under ominous skies and my posse seemed very impressed with the festival grounds and the overall layout of Bluesfest. These guys have played countless festivals all over the world and it was nice to hear them sing praises. When I enthusiastically pointed out a cupsucker – the festival’s simple-yet-ingenious recycling creation – pictures were taken, beers were emptied and cups were gleefully sucked. After a refill at the beer station and a wandering perusal of all the stages we decided our best bet was The Soul Of John Black on one of the side stages.
We manoeuvred ourselves in front of the beer tent where we felt we could be social without bothering anyone. The music was kickin’ but really we were all more into digging the overall scene with the band on one side of us, the Ottawa River bouncing rare glimpses of sunlight on the other, and thousands of happy fans in between.
Eventually the ever-teasing rain built up enough strength to force us to seek shelter. When the precipitation ran out we regained our beer tent pole position in time for Hubert Sumlin’s set. Hubert Sumlin (1931-2011) was an original olde-schoole bluesman; the man played guitar with an incredible list of blues legends including guys like Muddy Waters and the Howlin’ Wolf. Heck, when Sumlin died Mick Jagger and Keith Richards paid his funeral expenses. Any way, the crew that I was hosting had all crossed Sumlin’s path in one way or another along their musical journeys and they were all excited to catch his set. As expected, when Hubert was wrenching out pentatonic masterpieces we were engrossed, but frankly we didn’t get much of that. At seventy-eight years of age and with just two years left in him, when Hubert wasn’t handing a solo off to one of his band members he was handing one off to the great Texas Horns or local hero David Maxwell who was sitting in on keys. But hey, all in all it was a top-notch blues show and we all enjoyed it, though it would have been nice to have heard more playing from the man himself.
By this time the guys had to head back downtown for soundcheck so I pointed them towards a cab, wolfed down a burger and staked out a good spot for the evening’s headliner, Joe Cocker (1944-2014). The crowd waiting for his set was huge and real estate was at a premium.
I must be mistaken, but it’s like Joe Cocker never recorded an original song, or at least he never had a hit with one, not one that I can think of anyway. Not since Elvis Presley is there a cover artist that I can call to mind that has made such a career for himself. Joe Cocker may not have written (many?) songs but to say he hasn’t added to the canon of rock music would be a large mistake. To take a great song a make it your own is such a rare and intangible skill that very few inarguable examples come to mind. John Coltrane’s My Favourite Things, The Beatles version of Twist & Shout, Manfred Mann’s’ take on Blinded By The Light, and, well, pretty much every hit Joe Cocker ever had. With nothing but a raspy soul voice that always sounds on the verge of breaking and a pair of awkwardly flailing arms, Joe Cocker became a legend by crafting remarkable arrangements of incredible songs, and he will forever hold a firm place near the top of the greatest rock screams ever, which he proved every night as he tried to sever his vocal chords during his definitive cover version of With A Little Help From My Friends (recorded just a few months after The Beatles initially released it).
Anyway, Joe’s show was great. He delivered one of those sets where almost every song elicited a mass “Oh yeah, he does that one too…” as the crowd was reminded of just how many hits the man had produced. The Letter, She Came in Through the Bathroom Window, You Are So Beautiful, Feelin’ Alright?, Up Where We Belong…what a show.
Afterwards it was back downtown to Capital Music Hall for a midnight set from dj extraordinaire Kid Koala. I don’t know much about dj’s but I know I like what this guy does an awful lot. With three turntables and a mixing board at his disposal, Kid Koala uses vinyl as his primary source material but he makes completely, utterly different music with it. He is a Record Player. What he does is completely his own and no-one else on the planet could stand up there and reproduce the well thought out, almost symphonic set that he created with those records. There are those that would argue that djing is some sort of lesser musicianship and to those I would say: go see Kid Koala. To accomplish anything near what Kid Koala does with his turntables would take as many years of dedicated practice as it would to become an accomplished guitarist or drummer. His set was mind-blowingly creative; he did a version of Henry Mancini’s Moon River with a brilliant solo that perfectly mirrored the melody. That solo alone was proof enough that this scratching stuff is inherently musical at its base.
My new old friends in C.J. Chenier’s band seemed hurt that we weren’t planning on catching their last set of the festival so m’lady and I ducked out of Kid Koala a bit early and B-lined it over to Fat Tuesday’s. Alas, we were too late to catch any of the band so we missed them for a second time in one day, but with hugs and email exchanges all around I’m still glad we made it in time for last call.
And after a long day like that there was nothing left but to crawl into bed and get a good night’s rest. Just kidding, of course. In actuality we retrieved the bikes that we had locked up in the Market so many hours earlier and rode them home, where I cracked another beer or three and scratched my head in front of a computer screen until I had pecked out enough pixels for my daily review, much of which I scavenged all these years later whilst putting together the missive you just read.
Todd Man Out 