4 08 2016 apr 14 web by City Media

arts — news — attitude

14 — 27 april 2016 4.08 FREE

2 the london yodeller

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hermaneutics

So Whatever Happened to Bad Luck? by Herman Goodden

ith this issue of The Yodeller coming out on what would have been my mother’s 96th birthday, my thoughts have been alighting from time to time on memories of the splendour that was Verna Geraldine (nee McQuiggan) Goodden. One afternoon in her early 60s, she was cycling home

www.londonyodeller.ca Publisher Bruce Monck bruce@londonyodeller.ca Editor Herman Goodden editor@londonyodeller.ca Layout Kirtley Jarvis EVENTS Alysha Monck info@londonyodeller.ca Contributors Paula Adamick / Ciara Allen Marty Annson / Dave Clarke Joseph Couture / Shane Delear Nida Home Doherty / Adam Corrigan Holowitz Ian Hunter / Deanne Kondrat Andrew Lawton / Moira McKee Bob McKenzie / Menno Meijer Robert Pegg / Jason Rip Renée Silberman / Sean Twist David Warren / Barry Wells Advertising & Marketing

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Bernice Vincent Summer 2007, Sitting on Lawn, Museum London, near Rhino, from Changing City Series #3 [detail] Acrylic and graphite on panel, 2007 Collection of Museum London, Gift of the artist, 2011 arts — news — attitude

14 — 27 april 2016 4.08 FREE

from a shopping trip downtown which necessitated a quick zip through the CN railway underpass on Wellington Street just south of York. Being a stickler for following the rules and understanding that you weren’t supposed to cycle on the sidewalk, Mom always took the roadway through there instead of the commodious pedestrian pathways to the left and right. I and everyone else I knew always took the sidewalks because a) they didn’t dip down as low, thus saving you effort while ascending to Horton Street and b) it was much easier on the nerves when a big truck or bus zoomed through that acoustically resonant tunnel and you could swear that you were about to be plastered up against the subway wall. The city was in the process of recementing the western wall on the day of Mom’s trek and when some rubble on the roadway forced her front wheel to sharply veer right, she threw out her right arm to keep her balance and an exposed re-enforcing rod poking out of the wall dug into the underside of her arm just above the wrist and ripped a bone deep gash halfway up to her elbow. Bleeding like nobody’s business, she managed to haul herself and her knackered bike out of the subway and went into the cigar store next door to Rae J. Watson Cycle and Sports to phone my dad to come and get her. Frankly the severity of her wound was such that an ambulance wouldn’t have been out of order but, as ever, Mom hated to make a fuss. So Jack loaded her bike into the trunk and drove Mom to the hospital and when she was released a day or two later her arm was all wrapped up in gauze and she was soon outfitted with this metal and elastic contraption on her right hand which she used over the next three or four months to successfully build back the muscles in all of her fingers. She was given no guarantees that full use of those fingers would return and, aside from the pain and discomfort she endured, her prospects initially looked quite daunting. We all visited with her a lot those first couple of weeks, running errands and helping out and improvising meals. At one of these gatherings we learned an ambulancechasing lawyer had contacted her to see if she wanted to sue the City for failing

to properly clean up and seal their work site. “No,” she told him. “I couldn’t do that. I’ve lived in London all my life.” My God but I was proud of her. There was a recognition there that sometimes bad things happen with repercussions that simply have to be borne; that even if a reasonable case can be developed that some calamity wasn’t your fault, that doesn’t necessarily mean that somebody else should be made to pay. During that same period in our history – we’re talking the early ‘80s here – I landed a job as a night attendant, regularly checking up on eight or so mentally retarded kids in their teens who lived in one of six group homes at the Salvation Army Children’s Village. (The push to relabel them ‘developmentally delayed’ didn’t kick in until the end of my seven year tenure there.) In addition to hourly checks on their sleeping forms, I cleaned all the washrooms, did some laundry and made sandwiches for their next day’s lunch. It wasn’t terribly labour intensive work so I kept a typewriter on site and, except for those nights when there was an outbreak of flu and I seemed to be mopping up puke from 11 p.m. to 7 a.m., I was able to crank out articles, short stories and plays, completely overhauled my second novel, and only left in 1988 when I had built up enough contacts in the publishing world to make a go of that full time . . . which sort of worked out until digitization decimated that industry about 15 years later.

he Sally Ann was a sweet gig and I liked all the kids and my fellow staff members. But by the end things didn’t have the same free and easy swing as they did at the beginning. There was an in-ground swimming pool behind the cottage next door that saw heavy use through my first summer but wasn’t repaired when some problems developed. Insurance costs had skyrocketed and what if somebody drowned? Shortly after they filled the pool in and grassed it over. Another summer night early in my stay, I was told I didn’t need to bother coming in. A lot of the kids were away with their families that weekend and one of the women on the shift before mine decided to pack up the only two who were left and take them to her house

Verna Goodden in the bloom of her youth enjoying a less eventful day on her bike

for a sleepover with a couple of rented videos and popcorn all round. A splendid time was had by all but that woman was soon persuaded that what she had done out of the goodness of her heart for these kids she loved was way too risky. What if there’d been a car accident on the way to her place? What if a kid had choked on popcorn, fallen down her stairs or been wounded when her VCR went on the fritz and ejected Ernest Goes to Camp with maniacal vehemence? It sometimes seems to me that for my first 30 years, I lived in a sane world where it was understood that being alive, working a job or just having fun sometimes carried risks; that of course we had to watch out for ourselves and each other but it would be a cowardly waste to cut ourselves off from potentially valuable experiences and encounters just because we couldn’t guarantee a totally happy outcome. And more recently I live in a miserly and faint-hearted world where even something as banal as a takeout cup of coffee or an apple turnover comes with a warning that this heated product might indeed be hot, lest the provider gets his ass sued off in court for burning the lips of an irresponsible moron. Litigation-happy lawyers may be leading this demoralized charge into the abyss but we share the blame by heeding their reckless counsel; infantilizing ourselves and destroying the bonds of community as we try to turn our every mishap into a windfall where the other guy pays. 04.14.16

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e d i t o r @ l o ndo ny o del le r. c a 03 HERMANEUTICS

Herman Goodden — The poisoned fruit of litigation makes it too expensive and too risky to live an unfettered life

LAYING DOWN THE LAWTON Andrew Lawton — The OPP wander miles beyond their legitimate authority in policing social media for niceness YODELLING IN THE CANYON Barry Wells — The aptly named Project Jericho works to save the structural integrity of historic St. Paul’s Cathedral ALL THAT I SURVEY Joseph Couture — If they can’t get you on a good old fashioned morals charge, then they strangle you with red tape

BOOK CULTURE Ian Hunter — So this angry nutbar walks into a church she neither loves nor respects and decides to join it ESSAYS IN IDLENESS David Warren — The Easter Sunday massacre in Lahore and the chilling inner strategy of terrorism

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[Re: Matthew Trueman’s Dirt: Nature, Technology and other Imagined Comforts, Look at This, Mar. 3, Moira McKee] In regard to

the insightful art review by Ms. Moira McKee concerning Westland Gallery’s Matthew Trueman exhibit of detailed woodcuts – which unfortunately has expired. When a novice female

I never want to be on the wrong side in history where it’s proven to be the side that’s pointing fingers and screaming “YOU CANT SAY THAT!” And don’t forget it’s you progressives that are saying that crash and burn is unavoidable so why are you not listening? Remember when being inclusive,

DAPPLED THINGS Paula Adamick — Moscow Murder Mysteries: examining Russia’s staggering catalogue of top level, unsolved homicides

THEN PLAY ON Dave Clarke — Around Town: Peter Murphy at the London Music Hall / Lost Classic: Utopia’s Deface the Music / Mondo Phono: The Buggs cash in on The Beatles / Shortlisted: Five great music magazines RECORD STORE DAY Deanne Kondrat — Vinyl junkies on your mark, get set . . . Record Store Day hits London on April 16 UNCLE BRUCE Advice Column — What is a gentleman supposed to do when he comes across a lady who’s punching out a man?

FOREST CITY FOLK Menno Meijer— A visit to London’s contentious Springbank Dam and the people who are drawn to it SOUND SURVEY Renée Silberman — Organ builder and master craftsmen, Gabriel Kney, is one of London’s musical giants

1,000 WORDS OR LESS Bob McKenzie — In Memoriam: The life and work of London artist, Bernice Vincent 1934-2016

UP WITH ART Moira McKee — Up With Art party and auction combines great art and good works PERSONAL AESTHETICS Marty Annson — Short of messing with his beard, our columnist goes for the full Purdy Natural treatment

THEATRE SPACE Adam Corrigan Holowitz — Four scary 20 minute plays by different authors — it’s The Frights of Spring at the Arts Project HANGOVER HELPER Shane Delear — How much should you smile at the person whose boob you’re sketching in a life drawing class?

LOOK AT THIS Nida Home Doherty — Probing the wonder and the mystery of the creative process with Métis artist Annette Sullivan

27 RIPLASH

DO YOU SEE WHAT I SEE?

Jason Rip — Writer George McNeish set out to write a novel about the Fugitive Slave Chapel and instead reimagined the Civil War PEGG’S WORLD Bob Pegg — Celebrating Beetlejuice and the glory of Tim Burton before he started to lose the plot

DISPATCHES FROM DYSTOPIA Ciara Allen — Crying while trying on jeans — the dangers of eating before you go shopping EVENTS LISTINGS

SOUNDS RAZOR Sean Twist — Sure, he may be a bit of a wanker but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t suffer for his art in a dithery sort of way 04.14.16

Matthew Trueman: Jack, woodcut. Photo courtesy of Westland Gallery

reviewer sees genitals in artwork . . . men pay attention! I had to check this out for myself. What I believe the observant Ms. McKee may have perceived in the projected skyward hill of dirt and the mated large low valley woodcut would properly be described as classic archetypal phallic symbolism. Perhaps next time she could simply refer to it with this term.

— Albert Berklowsky, Art Critic

WHY PEOPLE LISTEN To A BLOWHARD LIKE DONALD TRUMP [Re: Donald Trump: We’ve Seen All This Before, Pegg’s World, Mar. 17, Robert Pegg] Here is

why liberalism must be stopped. Man boy Trudeau has ensured liberal power for decades after bribing natives, ‘Quebecers’, enviros, women, teachers and E.I. recipients with cash and benefits and for the crime of giving homes to Syria’s homeless instead of Canada’s 300,000 homeless. Bring on the revolution. What side are you on? — Zosha123

open-minded and tolerant of opposing views was progressive? And what does today’s regressive / progressive liberal call any opposing view? Racist. The tables are turned now and it’s you libs that are the dysfunctional power that we must be fighting. You wanted a revolution, well it’s here. Down with liberal bullies! — mememine

CITY IS NOT ACKNOWLEDGING NEW REALITIES REGARDING SPRINGBANK DAM [Re: The Curse of London’s river-killing, gremlin-infested Springbank Dam, Yodelling in the Canyon, Mar. 17, Barry Wells] I

attended the March 22nd City Council meeting. It has been deferred to a future meeting seeking legal advice. Funny how there was not one single supporter from the paddling community there. Leads me to believe this was already a done deal by the Mayor and he forewarned his canoe club buddies not to come. Our Mayor and Deputy Mayor want more

science but when they are presented with the facts, they dismiss them. The UTRCA 2015 report on the Easton Spiny Soft-shell turtle doesn’t lie. It is fact. Neither do the water quality monitoring reports, benthic invertebrate sampling reports, mussel monitoring reports and so on. If our Mayor is bound, bent and determined to repair the dam, maybe he could show us his science to support the rebuild. That’s right, his science was an election promise. There was already a study done on the Thames River in 2012 or 2013 for the Thames River Plan. Wouldn’t this suffice instead of spending millions more on a new Environmental Assessment while trying to incorporate Springbank Dam in the mix? And then we have Maureen Cassidy, our other Deputy Mayor. I have observed her at every Council meeting. She seems more content to play on her pink I Pad during the proceedings and not paying one ounce of attention. If I lived in her Ward, I would be furious. This has turned into one big political issue and our Mayor doesn’t give a rat’s ass about the environment yet he was the one who stated we are going to be one of the greenest cities on Canada. Maybe he should man up once and for all. — Ace Orton

YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING

[Re: Canadian Security Asleep at the Wheel, Laying Down the Lawton, March 17, Andrew Lawton]

If you want people to take The Yodeller seriously, you need to publish better work than this. I hope for your sake this article isn’t representative of the overall quality of the publication. — Scott Holden

lay i ng down t h e l a wt on

The OPP — Language Monitors of Social Media by Andrew Lawton

ust two days after encouraging Ontario Twitter users to be “kind” and not “hurtful,” the Ontario Provincial Police proved itself to be the intolerant party by blocking a vocal critic of its campaign to police speech. Rebel Media founder Ezra Levant tweeted a screenshot Saturday evening, showing he had been blocked by @OPP_News, the official Twitter account of Ontario’s police force. “On the snowdrifted highways west of Toronto, but @OPP_News has blocked me from road warnings b/c of my politics,” Levant tweeted. The self-styled “Rebel Commander” may not be your cup of tea, but he’s a member of the media, and more importantly a citizen of Ontario: in other words, the OPP is there to ensure a “secure Ontario” for him just as it is for you and I, if its motto is to ring true. But instead of keeping gangsters and drug dealers off the streets, the OPP focused its attention - fittingly on Apr. 1, though it was no April Fool’s Day joke - on telling people to “T.H.I.N.K. b4 u post” (though not about proper grammar and spelling, apparently.)

The department’s initiative encouraged Ontarians to think about whether a digital missive was true, hurtful, illegal, necessary, or kind. The last I checked, only one of those qualities should be of concern to police. Kindergarten teachers can manage the other four. Conservative blogger Stephen Taylor criticized the agency’s heavy-handed approach to policing the internet in a tweet of his own, ironically prompting a call from the OPP’s public relations department. Members of parliament Jason Kenney and Larry Miller weighed in,

only one of those qualities should be of concern to police. Kindergarten teachers can manage the other four

suggesting that ignoring or muting unkind tweets is a more appropriate action than assigning a police task force to tackle the practice. It’s unclear whether the OPP’s public service announcement has transcended from social media to real world law enforcement, but such a leap isn’t inconceivable. In January, Gregory Alan Elliott of Toronto was tried after being charged with criminal harassment for his criticism of three feminists, who didn’t like that their blocking of

him didn’t stop him from continuing his criticism of them on his own Twitter page. While Elliott’s charges were all dropped, it still set a dangerous precedent that police have empowered themselves to curtail online speech, even when it doesn’t fit the actual legal criteria set out for criminal speech — such as harassment and threats. The OPP has already shown a level of prejudice by blocking Ezra Levant: what would happen if that same man might need police assistance — or even protection? We can only hope that the OPP does not selectively protect its citizens in the same way it apparently selects who is worthy of online engagement. I looked at Levant’s Twitter feed, and saw only two tweets mentioning @ OPP_News prior to his publication of the screenshot showing the block. Admittedly, one of those had him telling the police force to “fuck off,” but such a proclamation is still protected free speech. If a private citizen wanted to block someone for that reason, I’d tell them to go to town. For a government agency — especially a police department — to take such an action is reprehensible, and will hopefully be short lived. We’ve all seen ample reason to fear the “speech police” — my fear is that such a term is now a literal one.

Lawton is the host of the Andrew Lawton Show on AM980 in London, Ontario andrew@andrewlawton.ca Twitter: @andrewlawton

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y od el l i ng i n t h e c a n y o n

Urgent repairs at St. Paul’s Cathedral Of special concern are irreplaceable lancet windows created by the Louis Tiffany Company by Barry Wells

he London Yodeller has learned St. Paul’s Cathedral, London’s oldest church and one of the city’s most historically significant properties at 472 Richmond Street — one designated in 2005 under Part IV of the Ontario Heritage Act — is undergoing emergency repairs to maintain its structural integrity and keep its walls from tumbling down. Dubbed “Project Jericho” by the church’s administration, the urgent repairs to London’s 170-year-old Anglican cathedral at the northeast corner of Richmond and Queens are necessary after water damage was discovered to exterior and interior masonry under the eaves, to interior plaster walls and wooden roof truss ends (embedded in the

bricks) which support the roof. The repairs are expected to take another seven or eight months to complete and cost more than $500K to ensure the ongoing safety of the building. Some interior restoration work to the plaster walls and scrolling will follow the urgent repairs. To date, contractors Empire Restoration in New Hamburg and Robertson Restoration in Brantford have worked on the project. St. Paul’s Senior Warden Melissa Broadfoot says there’s now “scaffolding in five places along the north and south exterior and interior walls.” In the meantime, regular church services and community programs are continuing while the work is underway. Ms. Broadfoot says St. Paul’s will be issuing a media release about Project Jericho at the end of April or in early May.

STAINED GLASS Of special

concern, says Ms. Broadfoot, is the cathedral’s magnificent collection of stained glass, including four irreplaceable lancet windows created by the

Louis Tiffany Company in the late 1880s, located next to and opposite the nativity window of the church. As a result, snug plywood panels have been form-fitted over the exterior side of several stained-glass windows. By way of history, St. Paul’s opened for worship on February 25, 1846 (Ash Wednesday) after the original frame church on the site (1834-1844) was destroyed in a fire, also on Ash Wednesday, February 21, 1844. The grounds of the cathedral — which is the seat of the Diocese of Huron and built in the English Gothic Revival style — once served as a cemetery for London during its pioneer days (“St. Paul’s Grove Cemetery”). Most of the interred remains and their grave markers were transferred 136 years ago to Woodland Cemetery on Springbank Drive, a cemetery owned and operated by the Anglican cathedral. Twelve marked graves, however, remain on the grounds as reminders of London’s historic roots as a Christian pioneer settlement at the forks of the Thames River.

Photo: Sandra Coulson

St. Paul’s Cathedral property committee members Gordon Rolleston, left, and David Warren overseeing urgent repairs to water-damaged bricks, mortar and roof truss ends. Repairs to keep the roof overhead and protect irreplaceable works of art are estimated at more than $500,000.

During the 150th anniversary of the cathedral in 1996, four new stainedglass windows, designed and crafted by internationally renowned Canadian stained-glass artist Christopher Wallis, were placed in the nave. Three of the windows depict the life of St. Paul the Apostle and the fourth depicts a nativity scene.

FUNDRAISING Donations to this urgent repair project can be made online at www.CanadaHelps.org or cheques and money orders can be mailed to St. Paul’s Cathedral, 472 Richmond St., London, ON, N6A 3E6, Attn: Project Jericho. Envelopes dedicated to Project Jericho are also available at the church. All donations are eligible for an income tax-deductible receipt. For more information, e-mail cfieldhouseATstpaulscathedral.on.ca or call 519.434.3225 Ext. 201

Recommended Reading — Gargoyles & Gentlemen: A History of St. Paul’s Cathedral, London, Ontario, 1834-1964, by the late London, ON author and historian Orlo Miller (1966, Ryerson Press)

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WASTEWATER UPDATE On Thursday, March 31, 2016, there was another large discharge of sewage into the Thames River from London’s network of wastewater treatment plants and pumping stations due to a heavy Spring rainfall and London’s conjoined storm and sanitary sewer pipes in older parts of the city. About $300M is required to fix this ongoing pollution problem (by separating the conjoined sewer lines), with about $77M recently spent on system upgrades, including $40M for capacity improvements at London’s Greenway treatment plant, a project slated for completion in late 2018 or early 2019. On March 31, four of London’s wastewater treatment plants and three pumping stations dumped 53,287 cubic metres of raw sewage into the river and 66,438 cubic metres of partially treated sewage. To date in 2016, the running totals are 59,473 cubic metres of raw sewage discharged into the Thames River from London’s network of six wastewater treatment plants and 35 pumping stations and 91,171 cubic metres of partially treated sewage on the following dates: Februay 24, March 24, March 28 and March 31. The above data and regular updates can be found on the City of London’s website by Googling “City of London Bypass and Overflow Activity”. London’s sewage overflows into the Thames River eventually empty into Lake Erie via Lake St. Clair and the Detroit River. Not only does this sewage contribute to Lake Erie’s serious algal problem during the summer months, Lake Erie is where London gets 20-25% of its drinking water via the Elgin Area Primary Water Supply System with the water intake pipe located near the mouth of Catfish Creek in Port Stanley.

al l t h a t I s u r v e y

New Strategies for the Regulation of Desire Moral entrepreneurs lurking about in the state apparatus have found new ways to make a nuisance of themselves by Joseph Couture

he regulation of desire is nothing new, only the tactics have changed. Once upon a time the policing of sex, sexuality and the sex trade was the exclusive purview of the actual police, who seemed to rather enjoy their role as the moral guardians of the universe. Now things have changed. You’re more likely to be shut down by red tape in the red light district than by the plain old morality squad. I’m quite familiar with the story of the protracted struggle between the gay community and the police over what is and is not acceptable to them. We fought. We won. Sort of. Now that the tables have turned and it is no longer fun and cool to raid us and slap the cuffs on, moral entrepreneurs lurking about in the state apparatus have found new ways to make a nuisance of themselves. I’m going back several years now, but the first demonstration of this new tactic came up with the Central Spa here in London. It is a bathhouse for men who engage with men. It was being run by a guy I knew at the time, so I was privy to much of the inside story. For convenience sake let’s call my sorta friend “Buddy”. Buddy had been managing the Spa for a while. I was pretty sure he was stealing from the place because his lifestyle seemed to exceed his pay grade. Then he told me a secret. He wanted to open his own bathhouse and put the Spa out of business. He said it shouldn’t be too hard to do considering how run down the place was and any place had to be better than this. Then Buddy tipped his hand. He said the bathhouse was also unsafe because there was so much mold

in the ceiling tiles. Within days the place was over-run with City officials. The health department, the fire department, liquor inspectors and by-law enforcement officers were swarming the joint. Apparently, they had received an anonymous tip that the Spa was an unsafe fire hazard and was also flouting liquor laws. Perhaps they were required to investigate such a claim. But they didn’t have to do it so dramatically and so enthusiastically. The owner of the Spa was told that the mold in the ceiling was indeed a health hazard and it all had to be replaced immediately. This was going to cost thousands of dollars. But then it got worse. The fire department said the doors to the rooms were a couple of inches short of the mandatory width to meet the fire code. They would all have to be replaced. Now effectively, what this meant is that the entire facility would have to be torn down and be rebuilt. It would have put them out of business. It had been this way for more than four decades. Fortunately for them, the Spa had a good lawyer. He managed to dig up the old permit used for the original construction of the facility, which effectively grandfathered the place and exempted them from the new regulations. That was a close call. It could have put them out of business for good.

ast forward a few years, and it happens again. The place is overrun with police, fire inspectors, liquor inspectors, the health department representatives and by-law enforcement. They turn up at the door of the Spa en masse and demand to be let in so they can “inspect” the place. Now as someone famous once said, if I were taking a bath and the police

barged in, I wouldn’t be very happy about it. Nothing wrecks a good party like a police raid. The patrons scampered out as fast as they could. Apparently, they found nothing they could work with and let them off with only the warning that they were watching. Now this happened under the benign reign of former Police Chief Brad Duncan who had often made a point of reaching out to the gay community and trying to be inclusive. Without mentioning any names, I wrote in a column at that time that certain authority figures were obviously more concerned with the optics of being seen to be nice to the gay community rather than actually doing it. By the time I checked my email at 8:30 am the morning the paper came out, there was an email from Chief Duncan “inviting” me to call him. He left the number to the executive offices and his personal cell number. “Oh, boy,” I thought to myself. “I’ll never take a bath in this town again”. I called the chief first thing on the Monday morning and got put through to him right away. He was very friendly and professional and wanted to know why I would suggest such a thing, clearly knowing full well I was indeed talking about him. Now either Brad Duncan is a great actor or he truly was blindsided by the story of the “raid” because he clearly had no idea it had happened or what the hell to say to me about it. He said he would look into and find out what happened. I had a feeling someone was going to get in trouble that day because going rogue and derailing the chief’s public relations campaign and embarrassing him personally was probably a bad idea. It never happened again. At least not to the Spa.

in trouble. The business never opened again. Now if you’re wondering why I care about an Asian rub and tug, I don’t particularly. But what I do care about is who gets to decide what people can and cannot do with their own bodies in the City of London. I don’t think I want the fire department telling me I’m not allowed to run around in a towel in a bathhouse full of fat old men if I want to. Nor do I think the by-law enforcement people should have the right to decide if some desperate frat boy with a thing for Asians can make a new best friend for 80 bucks. The fact of the matter is times have changed. I don’t believe the average person gives a rat’s ass about what consenting adults want to do to each other. So I say if the morality police want to restart their business, they should do so honestly and declare a straight up war on sex like they used to. At least then the public can decide for themselves whether they think the fire department should be policing the bedrooms of London, or if they should stick to saving cats in trees. p

ow we arrive at the present. Here we see this new form of death by a thousand by-laws in action. Once again, this past December, the police, the fire department, health officials and by-law enforcement descended on all the massage parlors in London. They hit them all and refused to say what, if any, charges were laid, but they were interested in one in particular. It was the Five Senses Spa that had just opened downtown next to a Christian book store. It specialized in young Asian women for men. It seems the city has set the limit at seven for body rub parlors and this made eight, so they were

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and why and when stragglers slog their solitary path to the Church of Rome is a fascinating topic; some, like me, become convinced of the validity of the ecclesial claims Rome asserts. Others come in following a traumatic life event. Still others turn up at a parish Church because of a genuine curiosity as to just what goes on inside those doors. Fortunately the Church is immense, capacious enough to handle all who come, whoever they are and whatever their motive. Kaya Oakes is a middle aged California woman who teaches writing courses at the University of California at Berkeley; Radical Reinvention: An Unlikely Return to the Roman Catholic Church [Counterpoint, 2014] is her conversion story. Raised in a Catholic home by a devout but troubled father, she spent her hippie years denying, even despising, the Church. She tried many contemporary “isms” – feminism, environmentalism, vegetarianism – those sirens that offer ersatz religion, but none proved able to fill the God-shaped hole in her heart. Nor was she attracted to the Church. She writes: “With the election of Pope Benedict XVI in 2005, the Vatican became even more vocal about the so-called evils of birth control and abortion, and as a lifelong feminist who had depended on Planned Parenthood for medical care in

04.14.16

my pre-insurgency years, this was an obvious problem.” She further denigrates Pope Benedict XVI for allegedly making Church teaching repulsive to people of her generation; neither before nor after her entry into the Church does she display even a facile understanding of what Church doctrine is or how it came to be. Even Pope Benedict’s slight improvements to the Novus Ordo Mass she condemns as “sounding like shit”. Nevertheless Kaya Oakes decided that she wanted to become a Catholic – “Would the Church ever have any hope of changing if people like me bailed on it?” she asks. So she duly entered an RCIA program. At her Church the priest prays regularly for women priests, and the RCIA program there confirmed rather than

challenged her (shall we be polite and say heterodox) views. As she puts it: “Screw the dogma, I figured. I’m Catholic in my guts. Let’s just deal with that.” The local priest finds her a sponsor, another middle-aged woman, whose first question to Kaya is, “Why would a modern woman want to be a Catholic?” but then allows: “The Church can do some good in spite of its egregious flaws.” And so these two women, utterly secure in the conviction that their knowledge exceeds two thousand years of Church teaching, make their way towards the Easter vigil. Kaya Oakes chose Mary Magdalene as her patron Saint

(the sources she cites for her understanding of Mary Magdalene include the Hollywood movie The Last Temptation of Christ and Dan Brown’s novels) and

Kaya Oakes

sure enough at Easter Ms. Oakes became a member of Christ’s holy, catholic, and apostolic church. Immediately after being received she went to the Catholic cemetery where her father is buried and commiserated with the man who “foisted a love of this ridiculous church on me”. The odd thing is that after being received, she finds her life changing; she helps cook meals for the homeless and she becomes a volunteer at a women’s shelter. She experiments with the Spiritual Exercises of Saint Ignatius and discovered a sense of personal intimacy with God. Meanwhile, “every week, some ridiculous new edict erupts from the Vatican. Bishops are told not to report abuse cases to the police. Gay men are banned from entering the seminary. Vasectomies are declared ‘intrinsically evil’.” Of course, not a syllable of this is true, but Ms. Oakes is too ill-informed to distinguish truth from nonsense; nevertheless she is quick to discover that there is a ready market for her rantings in an unnamed “Catholic web magazine”; there her views are said to be welcomed by “alienated Catholics, wandering Catholics, Catholics whose faith was lost and found”, in other words “Catholics” (and I use quotation marks advisedly) just like her. Once settled down in her

parish church, Ms. Oakes discovers “the flagrantly ignorant things the big C. Church says about women”; for example the Church’s position on female priests she says is “crap”, a result of what she calls the “bossy, close-minded attitude of Pope Benedict”. She excoriates a priest in her parish who says: “Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord” instead of “Blessed is the ONE who comes …”, as though Jesus were somehow genderless. She finds in the parish a “Pray and Bitch” group of women, many former nuns, who meet monthly and live up to their name. The Church, they decide, is “a foreign environment”. Ms. Oakes tells the reader that she prays regularly to Saint Teresa of Avila and to Dorothy Day – “kick-ass Confessors”, she calls them – and she keeps up to date on Vatican pronouncements because “they give us something to struggle against”. And never, not once, in her 240 page account does a single priest or Bishop take her aside and tell her what Catholic teaching is or about obedience. So this is the Catholic Church, circa California, circa now. As Ms. Oakes winsomely puts it: “One of the rather open secrets about Catholicism is that plenty of Catholics don’t toe the line.” As a fairly recent convert myself I pass no judgment on the author or her book, except to say that it was eye-opening. I do, though, express a particular gratitude that I was received into the Church before I encountered Ms. Oakes in print. I don’t know that her sincere but infantile piffle would have altered my decision, but, who knows, it might have. Nor am I confident that it might not have a baleful effect on future potential converts. Ian Hunter is Professor Emeritus in the Faculty of Law at Western University. His latest book, Telling Lives, is available from Cardinal Books

es s a ys in i d le n e s s

Lahore, Pakistan Easter Sunday by David Warren

“Vile

and senseless ” were the Holy Father’s words for the huge massacre of Christians at the gates of a public park in Lahore, celebrating Easter Sunday. Many dozen were killed (mostly women and children), and many hundreds were maimed in this suicide bombing – so many, that all hospitals in the city were overrun, and desperately appealed for blood donations. It was on the scale of the slaughter at All Saints, Peshawar, in 2013; it was bigger than the Easter hits on churches across Lahore last year. For all these attacks, the Pakistani Taliban claimed credit. It is an umbrella organization with innumerable cells in groupings that are constantly changing. The structure is well designed to resist penetration by police informants. After each bombing in Pakistan, a couple hundred are arrested from among “the usual suspects.” No judge who loves his own life, or cares much for the fate of his family, could wish to preside over a trial. Hence the “catch and release” policy that

No judge who loves his own life or cares much for the fate of his family could wish to preside over a trial

seems to pertain across the country; and the frustration of Western intelligence sources who may happen to know who the real suspects are, and wonder why they are never arrested. Lahore is familiar to me from childhood, and through several returns in later life to this venerable and once beautiful city, which still offers impressive monuments from the Raj, the Mughals, and times between and preceding. Once Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs, Christians, even Parsees and Buddhists lived peaceably together in that beloved city. At Partition, this mix was suddenly reduced to Muslims and a native Christian (mostly

Catholic) minority. Even around 1960, as a child at St Anthony’s school, I was aware that Christians should be meek and respectful, especially during Ramadan. One might delve into the history – the nexus of nationalism and the budding “Islamism” by which Pakistan itself was created – to understand what is happening now. Both were imported, as “ideas with consequences,” and both were expressions of modernity. Both ascend from the roots of the country, and to imagine that some political policy could eliminate the “root causes” is to postulate time travel. At my last visit to Lahore, already more than a decade ago, many people I spoke with were worried. They knew the great majority in Pakistan, or at least in sophisticated urban Lahore, were no fanatics; that their attitude was still, basically, “live and let live.” But they were already frightened by the explosive increase of graduates from the madrassas – typically they’d estimate “five percent” – committed to a violent Islamist agenda. Their comparison was typically to Iran, in the last moments of the Shah. It was hardly a majority of Shia fanatics who brought the Ayatollah Khomeini to power. Paradoxically, it was this Persian warning that set the stage for Pakistan’s enduring terrorist underground. The country’s governments have been all too aware of the precedent, and determined to prevent it “from happening here.” They have thus played a game of carrot and stick, assuaging on one hand with Shariah innovations in the civil law, and on the other building a huge army and intelligence establishment as much for domestic as any foreign purpose (such as rivalry with India). But in the mountainous North-West, the border with Afghanistan is always porous; and any large bureaucracy is subject to organized political infiltration. As generations of Pakistan’s politicians have explained to visiting diplomats from the West, they are not in full control of events, and cannot be. They have no wish to surrender to the Taliban, but there is no conceivable way to defeat it, short of another melee on the scale of Partition. “Vile and senseless.” The pope’s analysis is only about one-third right, according to me. I’m with him on “vile” – along with, I should think, the great majority of Pakistanis. The slaughter of innocents is understood as vile, even

by non-Christians. This is complicated, however, by “identity politics” which, with the assistance of mass communications, has brought primitive tribalism back into modern political life, with international repercussions. Hence, even in Pakistan, and even decades ago, I would sometimes detect an insinuation of “the Christians have it coming,” because they were imagined to be arrogant, despite their best efforts to keep their heads down. Or in the West, the growing sense that in light of terrorism, “the Muslims have it coming.” There is an Us-versus-Them that helps to explain how complacent masses quietly identify with members of their own respective tribes, even when they are obviously in the wrong. It is a personalized calculus that is specifically modern, though built on facts of identity that seem ancient and irrevocable. But “senseless” these attacks are not. They, too, are part of a very modern, “democratic” calculus, which first emerged in the outwardly senseless violence of anarchists, socialists, and nationalists, in the nineteenth century. The calculation was,

that violence – what Rumsfeld liked to call “asymmetric warfare” – could change the odds for a hopeless cause. “Terrorism” is adopted as a tactic, or even a strategy, because it often works. It works not because it appeals to a majority, or can be made to appeal to them. Terrorists are too rational for that; more rational indeed than those who think them “senseless.” Gratuitous acts of carnage – whether to flesh or to archaeological targets in Iraq and Syria – are meant to hold the attention of the masses, to shock and horrify them. The Lenins, the Hitlers, the Maos, the Khomeinis who came to power, understood the use of “senseless violence.” Though seldom with enthusiasm, all were more or less welcomed by the complacent masses, when their revolutions triumphed. The attitude was invariably, “At least we’ll get some peace.” So here is the sense in it. East and West, the radical employs violence and chaos not to incite some bourgeoisie into unpredictable action, but to prey upon their longing for security. In the end they will surrender anything for a quiet life.

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d ap p l ed t h i n g s

Moscow Murder Mysteries As Stalin used to say:

“One death is a tragedy, a million deaths is a statistic.” by Paula Adamick

amed New York critic Edmund Wilson hated detective stories. Yet everyone he knew read them. Including T.S. Eliot. Which often left him as the odd man out at 1940s cocktail parties whenever the conversation turned to the latest bestseller by Dashiell Hammett, James M. Cain or even Agatha Christie, all of which bored him senseless. Except for the very occasional Father Brown mystery by G.K. Chesterton or a Sherlock Holmes mystery by Arthur Conan Doyle, poor old Edmund couldn’t see the point. Even worse in Wilson’s view were really popular mystery writers

such as Rex Stout whose crime-fighting hero, Nero Wolfe, lacked the wit and glamour of earlier mysteries such as those by Conan Doyle which at least featured the fairytale poetry of hansom cabs, gloomy London lodgings, dark moors and grand country estates. “Nor were the endings satisfying, being neither fanciful nor unexpected,” he lamented in a New Yorker column in 1944. “I finally felt that I was unpacking large crates by swallowing the excelsior in order to find at the bottom a few bent and rusty nails. I also began to nurse a rankling conviction that detective stories in general profit by an unfair advantage in the code which forbids the reviewer to give away the secret to the public — a custom which results in the concealment of the pointlessness of a good deal of this fiction and affords a protection to the authors which no other department of writing enjoys.” Fair enough. But in dismissing detec-

Have you ever really looked at Tom Benner’s Rhino at Museum London? It’s GORGEOUS. Enjoy your city !

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tive stories in general, wasn’t Wilson overlooking a new and wholly exotic detective genre already ripping through Stalinist Russia? What Moscow’s real-life murder mysteries lacked in excelsior and rusty nails, were compensated for by actual bloody corpses and real-life killers whose modus operandi were designed to ensure that no living policeman, detective or journalist could ever solve the case. And live to tell the tale, that is. Although this entirely new genre — call it the Moscow Murder Mysteries — went unnoticed for years, its first official case hit the front pages internationally with the death of Sergei Kirov, the Leningrad boss most likely to succeed Soviet dictator Josef Stalin. Shot in mysterious circumstances on December 1, 1934, Kirov’s murder was a huge sensation. The assassin was named almost instantly as Leonid Nikolaev and executed days later after a secret trial. Two weeks later, Grigory Zinoviev, long-time head of the Communist International and Lev Kamenev, a founding member of the first Bolshevik Politburo, were arrested and shot. These executions were soon followed by the deaths of 5,000 more party members, marking the beginning of the Great Terror. In addition, Stalin was also whispered to be ordering the assassinations of his leading agents all over the world, particularly those in civil-war-torn Spain where virtually all the creatures who helped him take over the Left were also murdered. Among them were Evhen Konovalek, who organized arms supplies to Spain and was then killed in Rotterdam in 1938; Rudolf Klement, whose headless corpse was found in the Seine; Antonov Ovseenko, Consul-General in Barcelona, who died after being lured back to Moscow to become Minister of Justice; Walter Krivitsky, Soviet military intelligence boss in Western Europe who was chased for three years until he finally died a ‘suicide’ in a Washington hotel in February 1941; and Leon Trotsky, founder of the Red Army and Stalin’s arch rival who fled to Mexico where he perished in August 1940, two days after an assassin buried an ice-pick in his skull. Still other Moscow Murder Mysteries include the deaths of two particularly accomplished liars. Willi Muenzenberg, founder of the Comintern propaganda mill, was found dead in June 1940 in a forest in Saint-Marcellin, France. And Otto Katz, master spy, and a man of such charisma and cunning that he became the inspiration for the Hollywood film Watch on the Rhine, the muse of play-

wright Lillian Hellman and the pillow pal of screen actress Marlene Dietrich. But that didn’t save Katz from a hideous end. Like so many colleagues eventually eaten by the crocodile they’d served so well, Katz was tortured and hanged on a meat hook during the notorious Slansky show trials in Prague in December 1952. Three months later, Stalin was also dead, soon followed by his security chief, Lavrentiy Beria. So whodunit? Stalin? Prove it if you can. Beyond the circumstantial evidence, that is.

ou might also ask yourself why this genre of murder mystery has endured so long? And whether Wilson, had he been aware of it, would have been as hooked as the cocktail bores. Impossible to know for the simple reason that as the events of World War II were monopolizing the news the world over, Moscow’s murder mysteries were virtually unknown to all but the perpetrators, the victims and a handful of journalists fascinated by the fact that every case lacked hard evidence or even fingerprints. But que sera. As Stalin himself used to say: “One death is a tragedy, a million deaths is a statistic.” Still, who would have predicted the persistence and endurance of this particular genre so long after Stalin’s passing? Could it be that the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917 began to breed a new species of man, Homo Sovieticus, a term coined by sociologist Aleksandr Zinovyev in the 1970s to describe the collective worker as a master of doublethink devoted to mankind in the abstract yet ruthless to men in the flesh, professionally disciplined yet socially underdeveloped, living chronologically in the era of Albert Einstein yet psychologically in the time of Ivan the Terrible? Now that would have intrigued Wilson. As would the system’s more recent victims.

Paul Khlebnikov, 41, an American journalist and editor of Forbes Russia, killed with a machine gun outside his office in Moscow in 2004. Known for his investigations into corruption and the murky world of Russian business and politics in the 1990s, the case has never been solved.

Anna Politkovskaya, 48, a journalist and fierce critic of the Kremlin, shot in the entrance to her apartment building in Moscow in 2006. Known for her reporting on human rights abuses in Russia’s troubled North Caucasus, five men have

A murder investigation in the vicinity of Moscow’s Kremlin

been found guilty of carrying out the hit, but whoever ordered the contract-style killing has never been identified.

Alexander Litvinenko, 44, a former KGB officer, who died of radioactive polonium-210 poisoning in November 2006. Two former Russian security services men, who allegedly added the isotope to his tea when they met him in the restaurant of a London hotel, fled back to Moscow and have not been prosecuted. Natalya Estemirova, 50, abducted in the Chechen capital of Grozny in July 2009, the human rights campaigner was later found dumped by the side of a road with bullet wounds to her head. Estemirova’s killers have never been brought to justice.

Anastasiya Baburova, 25, a trainee journalist, and Stanislav Markelov, 34, a human rights lawyer, shot in broad daylight in January 2009 as they strolled away from a press conference less than a mile from the Kremlin. The main target was assumed to be Markelov, a lawyer who had represented victims of a 2002 Moscow theatre siege when Russian special forces killed over 100 hostages during a rescue operation. Two neo-Nazis were convicted of the double murder in 2011.

Boris Berezovsky, 67, found dead with a ligature around his neck in his Surrey mansion west of London. The businessman fled to Britain from Russia in 2000 after falling out with Vladimir Putin, and used London as a base for criticising his

former protégé. Said to have taken his own life because of unconfirmed financial troubles, the coroner recorded an open verdict.

Boris Nemtsov, 55, shot in the back four times in Moscow in February 2015. He died hours after appealing for support for a march in Moscow against the war in Ukraine. Putin condemned the murder and assumed “personal control” of the investigation into the killing. In an interview shortly before his death, Nemtsov, who served as first deputy prime minister under Boris Yeltsin in the 1990s, said he feared Putin would have him killed because of his opposition to the war in Ukraine.

In all, an ugly — and incomplete — list, full of riddles and enigmas. Still, Wilson must have had some inkling his boredom would take him somewhere entirely new. Which may be why he was already admitting his new interest in Graham Greene and his canny anticipation of the Cold War and the literary world’s next craze — the spy thriller. Which he explained thus: “The world has been ridden by an all-pervasive feeling of guilt and by a fear of impending disaster which it seemed hopeless to avert because it never seemed conclusively possible to pin down the responsibility. Nobody seems guiltless, nobody seems safe; and then, suddenly, the murderer is spotted, and — relief! — he is not a person like you or me. He is a villain!” A form of resolution and absolution still denied to the Russians.

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t hen pl a y on

by Dave Clarke

AROUND TOWN Peter Murphy at the London Music Hall Friday, April 15th

The original “Gothfather” first burst onto the music scene as the front man for the post punk band Bauhaus, who pretty much jump-started the Goth genre with their first single, Bela Lugosi’s Dead, which was featured prominently in Tony Scott’s landmark vampire film, The Hunger.

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After Bauhaus had run its course Murphy’s next project was Dali’s Car with Japan member, Nick Karn, who released one album before splitting up for lack of interest. It was Murphy’s second solo release, Love Hysteria that got some interest in North America, and its single All Night Long and its moody black and white video in regular rotation

MONDO PHONO

on MTV, that opened the door for his next album, the breakthrough release Deep and its single Cut You Up that held the top spot on Billboard’s Modern Rock Tracks chart longer than any other single up to that time, a record that was finally broken by REM’s Losing My Religion. Peter Murphy will bring his stripped down show to the stage of London Music Hall on April 15th with an all acoustic performance of his hits. Tickets are $40.00 and the show gets underway at 7 p.m.

Bugging Out on the Beatles The Buggs The Beetle Beat Coronet Records (1964)

was inevitable that with the crazy success of the Beatles and Beatlemania in general that enterprising labels would try to cash in and perhaps dupe a few customers with releases like The Beat Boys’ Beatlemania or The Beats’ The Merseyside Sound. One of the most interesting cash-ins was the Buggs’ The Beetle Beat, touted on the cover as “The Original Liverpool Sound” … “Recorded in England”. Not quite true, as the Buggs were actually a Bergenfield, New Jersey band called the Coachman V and the album was recorded in New York City. The band was convinced that the album which included two Beatle tunes, I Want to Hold Your Hand and She Loves You and a bunch of Brit-sounding originals like Mersey Mercy and Teddy Boy Stomp, was to be released under their Coachmen V name. To add insult to injury, the moody “Beatlemania” style cover featured models, not the band members, and the band never received any royalties at all from the recordings even though Coronet would re-release the album in 1966 under the title Boots a Go Go and tracks from the album would show up on a bunch of the label’s compilations as well. Not totally discouraged by the experience was the Coachmen V’s keyboard player, Gary Wright, who would go on to join Spooky Tooth and enjoyed a solo career with the mega hit Dreamweaver.

LOST CLASSIC

Todd Rundgren and Utopia Deface the Music Bearsville (1980)

After the debacle of the Buggs’ Beatles story is this loving tribute to the Beatles put out by power pop superstar and gifted producer, Todd Rundgren, and his prog rock outfit Utopia. The 13 songs on this album pay homage to the fab four, capturing the sounds of all the phases of their musical career. Rundgren had

FRIDAY APRIL 15

WHALING BAND SATURDAY APRIL 16 HOT TUB HIPPIES SUNDAY MATINEE APRIL 17 LANCE ANDERSON WITH THE VILLAGE BLUES BAND

FRIDAY APRIL 22

SONS OF SANDFORD SATURDAY APRIL 23 CHRIS TROWELL BAND SUNDAY MATINEE APRIL 24 TBA WITH THE VILLAGE BLUES BAND

190 WORTLEY ROAD (519) 438-5141

www.WORTLEYROADHOUSE.com

already shown an incredible talent for mimicry on his previous album Faithful which included one whole side of exact copies of tunes by The Yardbirds, Beach Boys and The Beatles. What makes this album special is that instead of parody (done so well by The Rutles two years earlier) is that the Utopia tunes capture the spirit of the Beatles tunes without being outright imitations. The opener I Just Want to Hold You has the feel of She Loves You and I Want to Hold Your Hand but also captures the general Merseybeat sound as well. Todd does a pretty good Paul McCartney vocal and on the tracks Alone, Life Goes On and All Smiles this is put to good use on songs that sound-check McCartney-sung tunes like Eleanor Rigby, Fool on the Hill and Michelle. Nice little musical touches prevail like the variation on Day Tripper’s opening riff on That’s Not Right, or Hoi Poloi, which combines the satire of George Harrison’s Piggies and then throws in a little Penny Lane horn riff, for good measure. The album concludes with the Beatles psychedelic phase with the track Everybody Else Is Wrong, which forgoes the lyrical psychedelic imagery but still may remind you of I’m the Walrus. The album was looked on at the time as a musical oddity, and though it made it to #65 on the charts (probably more on the momentum Rundgren had going from his previous album Adventures in Utopia which had made it to #32), this one has weathered better than p most of Utopia’s output.

SHORTLISTED

5 Great Music Magazines 1.Dig

1955 to 1968?

Cited as the first teen magazine, Dig besides covering music, features other teen interests like movie and TV celebrities,

3.Creem

1969 to 1989

Creem was true rock n roll, published out of Detroit , and edited by one of the greatest music writers of all time, Lester Bangs, as well as featuring other great music writers like Robert Christgau and Dave Marsh. Each issue also included, as a tongue in cheek homage to teen magazines, a celebrity pin up (Creem Mate of the Month, Creem Dream or Creem Profile) that also featured their fictional Boy Howdy beer.

4.Trouser Press Magazine 1974 to 1983

clothes and dating. My 1960 issue has a dreamy picture of Leave It To Beaver’s Tony Dow on the cover and the accompanying article is entitled “15 Is a Goofy Age”. Dig also asks questions like “Are All Athletes Creeps?” and has a music column called Rhythm and News that asks, “How Now Elvis?” But my favourite part is their pen pals (remember them?) pages Paper Mates. I won’t be writing David Giuffre from Manhattan Beach, California who proudly declares, “I hate rock and roll…does anyone agree with me by any chance?”

2. Rolling Stone 1967 to present

A true innovator in music magazines, originally published every two weeks on newsprint giving it a great immediacy and treating music seriously, covering political matters and including great investigative reporting. Fantastic hip writers flocked to the magazine, including Hunter S. Thompson, whose Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas was first serialized in the magazine. Still going under the leadership of founder Jann Wenner, like the hippies that became yuppies, the magazine has become fairly mainstream, and a great repository for Calvin Klein ads.

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It started as a fanzine under the Transatlantic Trouser Press name, and became the place to go for great articles on punk, power pop and new wave, with

an emphasis on regional indie scenes. Their Trouser Press Music Guides are indispensable and they still have an excellent on line presence.

5. Mojo Magazine 1993 to present

This UK publication is a fave of the true music lover with meticulously researched articles, flashily illustrated with rare photos and a great sense of the whole history of modern music. They are often on the cutting edge of breaking new bands and spotting new music trends. www.londonyodeller.ca 13

Illustration: SD

A Vinyl Lover’s Dream

by Deanne Kondrat

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ecord Store Day is a holy day to record collectors. It’s more exciting than Christmas, it’s bigger than Jesus, it’s bigger than John Lennon. Erm, scratch that last one. But Record Store Day is a BFD for those who worship vinyl. This year, the festivities take place on April 16 across Canada, and our little London, Ontario is no exception. RSD is a day for collectors, enthusiasts or just the curious to come together at their favourite record shop(s), get some deals, find some gems and seek out the coveted limited edition Record Store Day releases. This year there are about 100 limited releases and they include a little something for everyone. For the ‘90s kids, Alanis Morissette is releasing an LP of demos; for those who like to spin their hip-hop, Lil Wayne is releasing The Carter AND The Carter II on vinyl; if you’re a little more old-school, some great David Bowie picture discs will be available (those will be sure to go fast, collectors); movie buffs, the Star Wars Force Awakens March of the Resistance can be found on a 10-inch; and Record Store Day has not forgotten your mom, or 13-year old cousin, because they are including two Ed Sheeran releases (For the full list of

Record Store Day hits London April 16 releases head to RecordStoreDayCanada.com) “I’m really excited for Never Mind The Bollocks Picture Disc (from The Sex Pistols),” says Speed City owner and operator Michael Todd. “It’s one of my favourite records of all time!” Speed City Records has been involved in Record Store Day every year since its inception, and year nine isn’t any different. Aside from special releases, Speed City will be giving away totes, stickers and tshirts throughout the day. “Also, be sure to bring your quarters for a game or two of silverball,” reminds Todd. Aside from having a well-rounded record selection, Speed City also has a basement full of pinball machines, which Todd buys and sells, but also sets up for his customers to play. “You gotta try TRON! It’s an amazing pinball machine,” he notes. This Record Store Day is bitter-sweet for Todd as it’s the last one at Speed City’s current location at 299 Springbank, which the shop has called home for nearly a decade. “We were getting cramped after 19 years in business. It was time to build to suit, so to speak,” says Todd. “No longer just making do, but actually plan, renovate and create a better space.” However Speed City regulars will not have to travel far to get to the new location, it’s (literally) just down the road at 294 Springbank Drive. “And yes, we have a spot set

aside for a few (pinball) games at the new location,” he adds. The vinyl resurgence and dedicated customers have helped Speed City grow to a larger home, does this mean that vinyl is actually here to stay? “We all saw what happened to hockey cards in the ‘90’s. Nobody can predict the future but for the moment vinyl is cool and still a lot of fun,” says Todd. Before you make your list, set your alarm early on April 16, and set out on your Record Store Day adventure, Todd has some veteran advice for you: “Get there early.”

Record Store Day London, Ontario

City Lights Bookshop 356 Richmond Street 20% off all records and CDs. 30% off all music books (biographies, history, tabs/sheet music.) Grooves Records 353 Clarence Street Live music from 10am to 6pm, including local favourites Mountain of Wolves and Danielle Fricke. Grooves will also have trivia, contests, games and prizes. Speed City Records 299 Springbank Drive Giveaways throughout the day, including t-shirts, stickers and totes. As well as the option of a game or two of pinball.

Advice by

Uncle Bruce SUBMIT YOUR QUESTIONS TO

info@londonyodeller.ca

Dear Uncle Bruce — So there I was walking along Richmond Street last week in the mid-afternoon when I came upon the appalling sight of a man roughly handling a woman outside of a certain tavern. As I steeled myself to intervene and come to her defense and offer protection as I’ve always understood a man should do, the man briefly relented and the woman then attacked him full force, screeching and swearing as she smacked the glasses off his face and repeatedly tried to knee him in the groin. I came to see then that the man’s apparently violent actions were in fact all exertions on his part to restrain his female assailant and keep her at a safe distance. So I didn’t do anything and I have felt badly about it ever since. Tell me, mano a mano, what would you have done in such a situation? — Not Quite Sir Galahad Dear Not Quite Sir Galahad — We’re talking Tuesday about three o’clock outside of the Richmond Hotel, right? I was there. That was my hapless cousin Osbert getting the crap pounded out of him by his third wife, Lucretia, who was ticked off when he told her that seven Pink Ladies was probably enough and maybe she should switch to diet Coke. Sure, Osbert can be a little irritating sometimes but he really has had uncannily rotten luck with women. What would I have done? I went to get the car and must’ve pulled up shortly after you’d moved along, scooping up Osbert and driving him home (the poor man was shaking like a leaf) and letting Lucretia cool off as she made her own way back to Skunk’s Misery a couple hours later. Would you believe it? They were actually celebrating their third wedding anniversary and were supposed to go see Superman vs. Batman after having a few celebratory drinkypoos. Something tells me they’re not going to make it to their fourth. — Sincerely, Uncle Bruce

n Dear Uncle Bruce — Where do you get off in the last issue calling Donald Trump “a vain and uncultured windbag . . . in thrall to his ego to a dangerous degree”? And that Robert Pegg a couple issues back called him “a jerk and an asshole”. I’ll bet you two Yodeller eggheads put together with all your fancy schmancy ideas and your prissy articles about cinema verite and classical music and vegetarian tutus aren’t even pulling down a thousand bucks a week and yet you sit in judgement of a multi-billionaire who might just become the leader of the most powerful nation on Earth. Frankly, I think you’re just jealous. — Trump’s the One for Me

Dear Trump’s the One for Me — Well, I’ll let the Peggster defend himself but you do realize that I commended the Donald for having the courage to broach vitally important subjects that the other candidates won’t go near? It’s the follow through once those subjects are raised, it’s the failure to articulate policies or plans or express anything more coherent than beating his chest and bragging about the size of his fortune, where the man is an utter embarrassment. If elected president I fear he’d be a disaster. Probably no worse than the current occupant of the White House (and at least he’d be awful in a different way) and definitely preferable to Hillary ‘the Pantsuit’ Capone . . . er . . . Clinton. You know when I look around at the tawdry state of governance in jurisdiction after jurisdiction – the States, Canada, Ontario, London – I begin to wonder if maybe democracy is irredeemably pooched and feel a measure of concurrence with historian Will Durant who was asked what he felt was the best form of government over all and answered: “Enlightened monarchy tempered by occasional assassination”. — Sincerely, Uncle Bruce 04.14.16

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Let the River Flow It is an odd mixture of nostalgia and environmentalism that divides Londoners like the Springbank Dam divides the river. While the dam acts as a centrepiece for visitors to stop and view the river from above, those who visit also appreciate the naturalization occurring along the banks in the 10 years since the dam went out of commission as well as the improved health of the river and its creatures.

Jan Huson [top left] stops to see the view every time she jogs through the park but hopes the gates are not repaired to flood the river behind the dam.

Lori Carter [left] jogging through the park on a cold April afternoon says she would not like to see the dam recommissioned. Her cousin runs a canoe trip company and the Thames is one of their runs. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s just nicer to run straight through,â&#x20AC;? she said.

Bill Essey [top right] came by to catch a glimpse of a rare sighting of a Harlequin duck visiting the dam site. His preference is to let the water run. Meili Ma, with her daughter Catherine, 4 [right] is a PhD candidate in London and says the river is better running free. She has not lived here long enough to see the dam closed and the river flooded, but looking at the natural state of the river above the dam, does not like the prospect of it being flooded again. Forest City Folk is an ongoing documentary of contemporary life in London by London Photojournalist Menno Meijer

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s oun d s u r v e y

by renée silberman

rom a fourth century author, Claudian the poet, we have the following on an organist’s performance: “Let there be also one who by his light touch forcing out deep murmurs, and managing the unnumbered tongues of the field of brazen tubes, can with nimble finger cause a mighty sound; and can rouse to song the waters stirred to their depths by the massive lever.” Even then, in Claudian’s time, when the organ survived its infancy, knowledge of it had not yet spread to Western Europe. However, the instrument enjoyed a long, strong life in the Middle East, where St. Jerome, around 420, reported the existence of an enormous organ in Jerusalem, with twelve bronze

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pipes, two elephant skins and fifteen smith’s bellows, capable of producing a volume of sound audible to listeners across the valley separating the centre of Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives, a mile away. Pepin, the father of Charlemagne, recognized the merit of organ music as a stimulating call to prayer. In the 14th century, composer Guillaume de Machaut pronounced the organ “king of instruments,” a descriptive title still in use, applied to church, theatre, botanical garden and baseball stadium instruments. From the Renaissance forward, the organ underwent rapid development. Throughout Europe national styles began to emerge. Characteristics of tonal variety expanded, disposition of pedals, cabinet design, were modified and enhanced. The Baroque era perhaps represents a high point

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in the history of the organ’s evolution, for during that period the major advances in construction, in the mechanical action, complexity of sound properties, arrived in fully defined form. The successful realization of the organ’s potential was immediately grasped and cultivated by Bach. What followed later during the Romantic period were a series of refinements allowing for the production of symphonic quality timbres, rich with the possibility of crescendos, more sophisticated ways for the performer to handle huge numbers of stops and a great number of manuals (keyboards). The modern period brought further changes, with the addition of electro-pneumatic key action, electric-stop action, and more recently, digital elements. As one might imagine, there has also been a retro-appetite for a

Photo: Renée Silberman

Gabriel Kney Organ Builder, Master Craftsman

Living quietly in our midst here in London is Gabriel Kney who has dedicated his life to the rare and elevated tradition of organ building.

re-examination of the old ways of building, now referred to as the “organ reform movement.” And why should there not be renewal in the organ world? Returning to sources is an essential part of regeneration. Why review the history of the organ and its position in the kingdom of music? The reason now unfolds. Living quietly in our midst here in London is an individual who has dedicated his life to the rare and elevated tradition of organ building. Gabriel Kney, unprepossessing in conversation about himself, is, in point of fact, a quite remarkable figure. Born in 1929 into terrible times in Speyer, Germany, Gabriel survived the evils of the Depression and World War II. What to do next? How to face the future? A not unreasonable idea, making use of talent and opportunity, seemed to be running down the street from home to the Cathedral where there was much need for restoration following the shattering of the country. Gabriel apprenticed himself to master craftsmen Paul Sattel and Franz Nagel, acquiring a deep understanding of his craft, learning from the ground up, from the inside out. Historic instruments had to be re-made,

new ones built. The hands were engaged, but so was the inner life. The object, the instrument as a vehicle of expression, becomes a means of unlocking the spirit within. During his time of apprenticeship, Gabriel also studied organ and church music, which gave him insight into the central point of producing instruments. After completing a rigorous course of study, Gabriel Kney sought opportunities outside Germany. He contacted organ makers across North America – the only nibble came, improbably, from Keates Organs in Lucan, Ontario!!! (The history of keyboard production in Ontario is itself a worthy topic of study). Gabriel remained with Keates from 1951-1955, until the company moved to Acton. Within the brief period of four years, Gabriel built a life in this part of the world. He transferred skills acquired in the land of his birth, then planted his heart and feet in the New World. Friendships, loyalties developed. His professional experience grew – he worked in many capacities at Keates, as tonal director, builder, restorer – he knew the business. In 1955, Kney felt sufficient confidence to open Gabriel Kney Pipe Organ

Builders, Ltd. In this endeavor Gabriel intended to intensify his interest in “mechanical-action pipe organs based on historic tonal concepts and construction techniques.” Gabriel’s growth as an artist-craftsman flourished in the environment of freedom and social health; he yearned to integrate himself into mainstream, English-speaking London. In the course of visiting organs around town, Gabriel befriended Gordon Jeffery. Jeffery needed help with a neoBaroque instrument. This was the starting point of a life-long friendship between the two men. Kney oversaw the building

A most extraordinary confluence of people and plans brought Gabriel Kney to a very public display of his talents

of an organ for the new Aeolian Hall (our current hall of that name), following the fiery demise of Gordon Jeffery’s original hall. That instrument is now in Kitchener. Kney also built an organ in Jeffery’s house on Queens Avenue, a showpiece home with an instrument to match. Gabriel constructed a mechanical-action organ in 1955, his Opus 1. This organ attracted the attention of musicians from further afield. The great keyboard player Kenneth Gilbert, impressed by his testing of the instrument, encouraged Gabriel to begin advertising his wares. Gilbert made a small recording that was advertised through the publication Diapason. From this point on, Kney’s reputation spread. In short order, he began to produce organs for the North American market, with a considerable number finding their way to the US. One reason for the placement of so many instruments south of the border is

that the mechanical organs are widely favored there. Kney, to this day, calls upon many of his instruments, advising on their maintenance. A most extraordinary confluence of people and plans brought Gabriel Kney to a very public display of his talents. In the late 1970s, a committee of musicians was convened to plan the construction of a major organ for the new Roy Thomson Hall in Toronto. Among those on the committee was Hugh McLean, renowned organist, and at the time, Dean of the Faculty of Music at Western. McLean, along with Sir Andrew Davis and the rest, promoted Gabriel for the job. The Gabriel Kney Pipe Organ Opus 95 made its inaugural appearance on September 18, 1982 in a performance by Hugh McLean. Kney has truly inhabited more than a single universe in his lifetime. (Mr. Kney does not experience unalloyed joy over his Toronto “child,” feeling that architectural tinkering some years after the original building of the Hall might have altered the original sound.) The vastness of the project has to be seen in a large light, through both a wide-angle lens, and a telephoto one. An organ is complex – the one at Roy Thomson consists of more than 5,027 pipes, four manuals, 2 consoles, fifteen pedals . . . built over a period of more than 20,000 hours, at a cost of $620,000 dollars. Big numbers. And this majestic instrument came to life here in London, in Gabriel’s shop on Falcon Street. This is part of the mystery of macro and micro, each a miracle. The scope of human experience veers between extremes. Our private worlds exist on both ends of the spectrum. Imagine a boy growing up in a universe of intense, immense chaos – imagine that child attempting to create some orderliness. Music, in Gabriel’s case, and for others as

well, provided a place of refuge and calm. Music was an antidote to violence, a steadying force in barbaric times. A source of renewed life. Not only did he work on fabricating instruments, over the years, he contributed to performance as an organist at a number of churches in London. The music of Bach encapsulates the gamut of the human emotion, from the most intimate to the most worldly. The organ possesses unique qualities of expressive possibility, and those possibilities were fully exploited by Bach the master. To listen to Gabriel Kney probe the depths of Bach’s music, is to enter into a very unusual place. Gabriel daily plays an organ in his home, creating an atmosphere that can almost be called sacred. Certainly we are aware of transcendence, of the power of music that takes us beyond ourselves, beyond the minutiae of daily life. Perhaps Bach has much to do with this, although there is much more – we think of the continuity of beauty, of harmony and grace that eternally flows from music. Let us now turn to a vital question – Where does Gabriel Kney appear in the annals of organ building? When asked where he thinks he fits into the big picture he is modest – he replies to a comment about his relationship to Bach – “the Spirit of Bach has been with us long before I was around and it will be with us long and forever after me. But if I could have made even the very slightest contribution in the 21st century in the name of this GREAT SPIRIT, I would be humbly very happy.” Gabriel Kney’s gift to London encompasses his talents as an instrument maker, as well as his positive attitude toward life. In his quiet way, he is an enthusiastic London booster: “I have traveled far and wide on this continent, but coming home is the best thing of all.”

SJOSTRAND DESIGNS helping you create empowered environments

BRENDA STRAND | 519-636-7056 Master Feng Shui & Metaphysical Consultant brenda.sjostranddesigns@gmail.com SAVE THE DATE! Brenda will be having a ‘Pick your Topic’ talk on May 28th! Want to know how Feng Shui can support your career goals, family relations, health or bring romance? Email Brenda your wish list of what you want the most support or information about. She will be speaking on the Year of the Fire Monkey energies in each sector as well and how this related to the different areas of one’s life. A Q & A will follow. Tickets $5. Specific details TBA on website and the May Now & Zen Newsletter.

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1 ,0 0 0 wo rd s o r l e s s

compiled and edited by by Bob McKenzie

friend of 55 years, Bernice Vincent, died at Victoria Hospital late in the evening of Friday, March 25, 2016, at the age of 82. Like other friends who are now gone, Greg Curnoe, Jack Chambers, Hugh McIntyre, and Bernice’s husband, Don Vincent, she was unique and unforgettable. I am not qualified to speak with any expertise about her art, but I can say that, like Bernice herself, her work was always intelligent and beautiful. Here is what two of Bernice’s friends said about her life and work at her funeral on March 30.

Bill Exley

Vocalist in the Nihilist Spasm Band

Bernice was born on March 6, 1934 in Woodstock, Ontario, the only child of Dorothy and Charles Goodsell. She later said that she felt repressed as a child, and decided in Kindergarten to become an artist. After Grade 12 at Woodstock Collegiate in 1952 she enrolled in the Special Art programme at Beal in London. She even did some art modelling there, as can be seen in a photo of Bernice in a bathing suit with Hugh MacKenzie in the book, bealart. Don Vincent had already graduated from the programme, but at Jim Kemp’s suggestion, she and Don worked together on a brochure for the Western Art League. Shortly after that Bernice won a scholarship to

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study art in Mexico. Don went to Mexico, bought her a wedding ring there, and they were married one year later in 1956. They lived on Kent Street behind the Guild house, on Queens Avenue across from the old library, and for two years at 546 Dundas Street. From 1962 until Don’s death in December, 1993 they lived at 23 Oregon Road, and Bernice continued to live there until December, 2015. Life with Don Vincent brought new experiences into Bernice’s life. She had a couple of jobs and worked briefly preparing window displays at Kingsmill’s, but when she decided to have children, employment was harder to find, and she continued with her art. Her son Charles was born in 1965, and Esther in 1968. She did not do as much painting between 1966 and 1970, but after that time most of her amazing art was created. Don, who was a well-known photographer, had his darkroom in the basement, and Bernice had the studio with high windows, looking out onto the garden and gazebo. The atmosphere of their home was congenial, where one might drop in on a discussion of politics, the London situation, music, art, or even hear Roy McDonald read “Rindercella” on Christmas Eve. I remember one evening when Don played many renditions of Pachelbel’s famous canon, including some absurd modern ones, at which we all laughed. Their lively curiosity was matched by

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a broad sympathy with other people. Bernice and Don were never people to condemn others, though Don loved to argue with them, and their hospitality included learning from people with whom they might be at odds. Don was a powerful personality, but Bernice maintained her own creativity. I thought it interesting that Bernice distinguished herself from Don, saying that she did not work from photographs, but from her own observations. The night before Don’s funeral, just a few days before Christmas Eve, a person said to Bernice that, of course, she would not be having Christmas Eve this year. Automatically Bernice said “no,” and almost immediately corrected herself and said “yes, of course.” Much living and art were yet ahead. Bernice’s modest and unpretentious manner attracted many good friends; for example, Dawn Johnston, who got her going out in the world, Barbara Pratten and the Wednesday lunch group of Art Pratten and Hugh McIntyre, after which grocery shopping often took place, and Bob McKenzie, who took her to concerts and operas. Her main support in recent years, of course, has been Don Muller. He started to get to know her in 2000 when they met at a drawing group to which Dawn Johnston had brought her. Don Muller remembers Thanksgiving, 2002 as an important date in his getting to know her. They sat in the gazebo until two o’clock in the

Photo: Bob McKenzie

Honouring Bernice Vincent

I’ve just noticed that most of the people I know are weird morning. Her daughter Esther was pleased when on a visit to Peterborough she spoke of a gentleman she had met and wanted advice because, she said, “I haven’t dated since the 1940s.” She wanted to put her hand on his knee but was afraid to do it. In recent years Don Muller brought her to very many gatherings, even after her dementia was recognized in approximately 2013. I do not recall her missing any of the Nihilist Picnics at Poplar Hill, including the 51st one, held last September. She and Don were regularly present at Eric Stach’s many Friday night Jazz Series at 105 Clarence Street; and they were always there at the regular New Year’s Eve Parties, begun by Greg Curnoe in December 1960 and continuing to the present. On December 31, 2014 both of them were there at the party held by James Reaney and Susan Wallace. My wife and I received postcards from Don and Bernice from Paris, France, where they visited the Pompidou Museum and other sites — and then another one from Paris, Ontario. Even previous to these events, Bernice’s in-

terest in the world led her into various adventures. She went to New York City in October, 2001, one month after 9/11, and before that in August, 1997, both times with the Nihilist Spasm Band, which in 1997 was playing at The Knitting Factory there. My

also about the Cloisters. At the Metropolitan Museum of Art, when I asked at the entrance stalls about the price of admission, a man on duty several stalls away recognized my voice from recordings he had heard of the Nihilist Spasm Band and let the three of us in at no charge. When we told this story to the other members of the Band, they, of course, started to claim that their taxi fares and other expenses were also dismissed with the words “Nihilist Spasm Band: no charge,” even though this was not true. Bernice, as always, took pleasure in such nonsense. As a matter of fact, a few years ago Bernice made the statement, “I’ve just noticed that most of the people I know are weird.” In an essay on Goya, Aldous Huxley contrasts

Photo courtesy of Thielsen Gallery

Bernice Vincent: Travelling into Autumn, 2007, acrylic on panel, 12 x 12 in

wife Norma accompanied her on walks in the city and said how interesting it was to look at the city through the eyes of an artist, as Bernice commented about details at the tops of buildings, and

artists who lived their lives producing good works which in later life were very similar to those which they did when they were young, to artists who never ceased to develop throughout their careers.

He speaks of those who have lived “without ever ceasing to learn of life.” “The field is relatively narrow; but within it, what astonishing ... treasures.” He could have been speaking of Bernice whose art moved through a series of distinct stages, always leading us to see things in new ways. One thinks of the domestic scenes of her early work, a painting of a cat or an ironing board, and then a painting like Pearscape in 1975 with its Magritte-like surrealism where the earth is made of pears below the sky. In 1993–94 she experimented with paint mixed with sand and dried plant materials, and she did another distinctive group of paintings about changing London, painting construction cranes over buildings; and, earlier, pictures of roads penetrating green nature. And All Around Me — All Around You from 1992–93, is one of many works concerned with time and change and the sky. Robert McKaskell said that she painted “the kinds of objects we know but seldom study.” Bernice herself said, “Every time I step out the door, it’s the beginning of an adventure.” She was always concerned about the London arts community and the society we live in. In the 1950s she joined the Artists’ Workshop founded by Selwyn Dewdney. In 1962, together with Greg Curnoe, Jack Chambers, Larry Russell, Brian Dibb, Tony Urquhart, and Don Vincent she was a founding member of Region Gallery on Richmond Street. In 1966 she joined Greg Curnoe and Murray Favro as they removed their art from a London Art Gallery exhibition in protest against the decision that had been made not to allow John Boyle’s Seated,

Nude to be exhibited. And in the early 1990s she did her green painting of women, commemorating the 1989 massacre of women engineering students in Montreal. She did indeed live “without ever ceasing to learn of life.”

Brian Lambert

Musican, artist and Collections Manager at the McIntosh Gallery

I’m very honoured to be asked to talk about my friend Bernice as an artist. For someone who produced work for five or six decades her C.V. probably wouldn’t cover more than a few pages. Does that make her unsuccessful? Does that make her a bad artist? I think everyone here knows the answer. Bernice Vincent was an artist. To me that means that for her making art was an undeniable compulsion. Somewhere I saw a quote from Bernice that said, “You don’t have to go far to find something interesting,” and this is certainly reflected in her work. I first met Bernice as a member of Forest City Gallery. I had just moved back to town and she was certainly one of the first senior artists I would have known — and Greg, of course. I got to know her a bit over the years, saw her stand up at meetings of Forest City for things that she really believed in. But mostly she was a quiet soul unless she had something that she really felt passionate about. The things she painted were quiet, diminutive, much like her. For me the most interesting thing about Bernice, and getting to know Bernice, happened when I decided to take a hiatus from art and I started a business doing renovations. Of course, most of my clients were artists, art

Bernice Vincent: The White Sheet, acrylic on board, 91.4 x 121.9cm, 1984, McIntosh Gallery Collection, Western University

dealers. When Don died Bernice would call me to come in; she wanted to renovate the kitchen, so we did the kitchen. Over I don’t know how many years I was a regular at the house. I’d get there in the morning, she would welcome me, make me coffee. We’d have a chat, discuss what she wanted done, and I’d go do my work and she would go into her studio and do hers. She might stop to make some lunch or something, but she lived in her studio. She really was an artist. That’s what she did. I was always taken by her work. There’s some-

thing really captivating about the different stages. Some of my absolute favourites are the early, what you’d call domestic works. At the McIntosh Gallery we have an absolutely fabulous painting, one of my favourite works by Bernice. It’s called White Sheet. It’s a picture of a sheet blowing in the wind on the line in the back yard. The sheet itself takes up most of the surface and around it is a painting of the yard. And I think that Bernice saw life and motion in all those small things and she was able to capture them in a way that was very powerful in spite of the fact

that they were diminutive subjects. As I went there over the years I got to see Bernice working every day on different things. I see a lot of people here wearing one of her buttons which became very famous. She made a lot of them. If she didn’t have a big piece she wanted to work on she’d find something small to work on. There was a bit of a lull in the workload. I think I had replaced every single floor in the house. I’d done the kitchen, a bathroom I think. So there had been a lull. I hadn’t seen her, I hadn’t seen her work, and I walked into

her studio and I saw this amazing thing. It was an entire wall of panels, each one with the silhouette of one of fourteen women, though only seven panels would fit on the wall of her studio. I didn’t know at the time the subject of the piece but I remember it being absolutely stunning in its visual impact. Now, it was a piece about the Montreal massacre, where all these women died, but they were all delicately drawn silhouettes. There was no indication of clothing, but there was no sexuality suggested either. I was really taken by the texture and I asked about it because every inch of each panel was covered with a rough surface. She had taken from the yard, scrapings, I don’t know if it was from the lawn mower or from whatever it was. The entire surface of each piece was covered and then painted, and it occurred to me when I was thinking about that piece, how beautiful it was on all sorts of levels, because, if you think about it, all fourteen women died, and she chose to use yard scraps as the base for it. It’s the eternal circle — you die, go into the ground, and then come up. To me, that piece is Bernice’s masterpiece. It can stand against any work, anywhere.

INFORMATION: BETH STEWART 519-668-6743

Brochures available at Museum London and Library Branches or online at www.londonstudiotour.ca 04.14.16

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u p wi t h a r t

Arty Party and Silent Art Auction take over the Palace Theatre on April 23 We need art. Because art reflects who we are, it transmits our culture, it allows us to see ourselves and connect with others. — Richard Gilmore by Moire McKee

D April-Lea Hutchinson: A New Beginning (Self-Portrait)

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escribed as ‘a multisensory experience of art, culture, compassion and community,’ Up With Art is a charitable event in support of The Unity Project and its year round work in helping London’s homeless find shelter and relief. The Unity Project offers secular, participatory and home-like emergency shelter and transitional housing for men, women and youth aged 18 and over. Shelter residents have personal accountability for taking care of themselves, each other and their community. Frontline staff support each individual with their personal action plan for stability and independence. More than 70 works of art, ranging in value from $150 to $3600, will be showcased at this gala, all of them donated to this good cause by collectors or the artists themselves with the bidding starting at one half of the appraised price. Project development manager Silvia Langer boasts that in this auction’s sixth glorious year, the works “cover every inch of the Palace Theatre and there is not a not-awesome work of art in the show.” Proceeds from pieces sold at the auction all go to support The Unity Project’s Life Skills program, an initiative so important to our city, that assists vulnerable Londoners with better navigating “the system” to gain employment and provide the means to care for themselves and others and acquire some stability and independence in a home of their own. The featured artworks have been gathered into thematically linked sub-galleries. UPwithArtists & UpstARTs features donated works from a stellar list

of local, renowned and emerging artists including Deborah Worsfold, Jeff Willmore, Erik Atkinson, and Jason McLean. Collectors Alley gathers art donated off-the-walls of notable collectors including two by Gilbert Moll, a Greg Curnoe, a Clark McDougall and a Klaas Verboom. Friends of Unity showcases the art of clients who’ve been helped by the Unity Project,

Gallery where a dozen quality wines donated by lawyers at Harrison Pensa are paired with (and concealed by) a work on paper by an artist. As much as I enjoy lawyers and wine, the real boon of Up With Art is the art itself. Even if you’re outbid, showing your support with the purchase of a ticket to view this impressive assortment is worth more than what you’d spend

Erica Dornbusch: Walking Through Yellow Field

many of whom are now involved with UP’s New School of Colour. One of the most dramatic images in this year’s auction hails from this sub-gallery; Marshall Custus’ Alley Up is a stark charcoal sketch of the street as seen from UP’s front door. There’s also something called the Winescape Micro-

on a couple of pitchers and a night of culture at Joe Kool’s. For the sake of inspiring others to attend this worthy event and dig deep in support of The Unity Project’s mandate, I have compiled a selection, a wish list of sorts, of ten particularly notable and collectible pieces that will all be going up for auction:

Roly Fenwick: Beech Tree (2011) Watercolour on paper Carl Beam: North American Indians (1998), Mixed media on paper James Kirkpatrick: Back of Protest, (2015), Acrylic, Acrylic Marker on Paper Greg Curnoe: Looking N.E. Evening, Skokie Mountain (1989) Watercolour Duncan de Kergommeaux: Grave stone for Oscar Wilde in Pere LaChaise Cemetery, Paris, France, Colour Photograph with coloured frame Clark McDougall: Near 13th Concession, Serigraph 149/200 Marie Fournier: A Country Farm, Acrylic on canvas board Ron Benner: Erie-Place of the Puma (2016), Photographic print on archival paper and clay from Lake Erie Artist Proof (edition of 11) Geoffrey Hume and Wyn Geleynse: Untitled (2016), Ink(s) and gold leaf on watercolour paper Gilbert Moll: Clouds (1971), Serigraph, Artist Proof Up With Art! ARTY-PARTY & SILENT ART AUCTION April 23 @ 6:00 p.m. The Palace Theatre, 703 Dundas St., London ON Tickets: $40 Advance, $50 at the door 519.433.8700 / www.unityproject.ca

per s ona l a e s t h e t i c s

You Make Me Feel Like a Purdy Natural Woman by Marty Annson

hen reading a list of ingredients, it’s important to remember that the first ingredient listed is the most plentiful within that product, and following that rule, the second mentioned is the second most plentiful and so forth. This is especially pertinent, and adorable, when it comes to Purdy Natural’s line of plantbased, locally-made products. If you turn over that delicious smelling hunk of soap in your hand you’ll see (alongside some stellar design work) that the very first ingredient listed is “LOVE”. My first impression was to smile, of course. Who wouldn’t smile getting a cute little wink from a bar of soap, a teensy “ha-ha” to start off a process usually laiden with mispronunciation and disillusionment? This however, did not stop with a teensy “ha-ha”; instead this feeling changed into an earnest and lengthy “hmmmmm...” as I started to think, “Wow, what a great opener for an article.” Purdy Natural is just one of the flower-children of London, Ontario. Small, personal businesses that have sprung up, and helped to begin London’s reintroduction as a relevant, and successful municipality. A strong network of these

small businesses keep their names coming up in conversation, our thoughts, and our social media. It’s rare that I go a day at this point without seeing #ldnont or

#buylocal at least once, and most of the time referencing a fellow entrepreneurial endeavour instead of advertising one’s own. The small business community of London has gone a long way to foster a feeling of municipal pride, or at least cohesion. As a part of this ever-growing group, Purdy Natural does a great job of getting it’s name out there and showing us what they do, which as it turns out is a whole lot. My first experience with Purdy Natural was this past summer, returning to London from the East Coast with fresh eyes and cautious optimism. I made note of the adorable babushka and rose I had

begun to see regularly on my friends’ sinks, bedside tables, and vanities. I had experienced their soap (Honey Baby $7/bar) and was curious to see what

Since getting

foundation out of a beard is harder than most would think, I focused on the skin-care side of things else they had to offer. Making my way to their brick-and-mortar, I was welcomed by a charmingly rustic interior, and

more delicious fragrance than I had expected. Purdy Natural provides London was an impressive array of options for both skincare, and make-up. Since getting foundation out/ off of a beard is harder than most would think, I focused on the skincare side of things. Soap (which also is available in full “logs” if anyone wanted to know) was just the beginning. Purdy Natural has a variety of offerings, from soap to salt scrubs, lipbalm to deodorant, and both mists and souffles for the body. (On a personal note, I’m far more likely to rub something called a “Body Souffle” on myself than I am something · called a “Body Butter”. It just sounds better, right?). On top of all that, one needn’t worry about what one chooses to purchase and rub on one’s self because Purdy Natural uses only fine, plant-based ingredients to concoct their delicious products. What they’ve put in, however, is just as important as what they’ve left out. All Purdy Natural products are made without the use of artificial dyes, harmful chemicals, and have never been tested on animals. Their philosophy is: if you can’t eat it, don’t put it on your skin. They’ve taken the guessing game out of ingredient reading … well, for the most part. If you haven’t brushed up on your Latin lately (ugh, Plebes) then you

may not recognize some of the classical names of our favourite plants and vitamins. However, both questions and feedback are encouraged at Purdy Natural and they’d be more than happy to let you know what Persea Gratissima means. Now, as with most things of a certain quality, these are not “cheap”. I wouldn’t call them “expensive” either, however. Purdy Natural products are priced at a point which makes purchasing them reasonable, and helps to sustain a local business that doesn’t have massive buy-

ing power. So long story short, they’re priced like treats. Don’t you think you deserve a treat? I think you do. All in all, it’s more than worth it to check out what Purdy Natural has to offer, and if you can’t make it over to 111 Mount Pleasant Ave., then you can surely checkout their helpful website at www. purdynatural.ca. Short of a homing pigeon, they’ve made it very easy to acquire their products and a trove of knowledge on what they have to provide for us and our dirty bodies. Go clean yourself up.

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t h e a t re s p a c e

Spring Scares Coming to The ARTS Project Four scary plays TWENTY MINUTES LONG BY FOUR local writerS by Adam Corrigan Holowitz

or most of us spring brings relief from another frightful winter. But thanks to four London playwrights we can get one more dose of horror before the cheeriness of summer fully sets in. The third instalment of Frights of Spring will play The ARTS Project from April 21 to 23. The event consists of four scary plays, each by a different local writer, all twenty minutes in length. Each play is performed in a different room at The ARTS Project, although not the actual theatre space. The audience is led to each of the play locations. The previous two instalments of the show have been great fun and spine tingling. Frights of Spring is the brainchild of Jason Rip, who organizes the plays. He invites three other writers to join him

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to write each of the plays. This year is the year of the J playwrights: Jason Rip, Josh Cottrell, Jeremy Hobbs and Jen Frankel. The first instalment of Frights of Spring took place at Grosvenor Lodge. Rip feels The ARTS Project is the perfect venue for the show. “I think TAP is a wonderfully moody building. There are traces of old stove chimneys in the attic, a vintage elevator that doesn’t work — I used to work there so I really got to know the layout.” The ARTS Project used to be Hawthorne’s Hotel and Rip describes the plays as taking place “within the bowels of the old Hawthorne’s Hotel building”. The building is an actively haunted site. For Rip part of the inspiration for this theatrical event is cinematic. “I always like compilation horror movies like Creepshow, so that was part of the inspiration. Horror is a much neglected genre in theatre. What I like about horror (when one thinks about film for instance) is that it’s very hard to do well. When it is done well, it takes us back to our most primal instincts, involving things like the

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fear of getting eaten by a larger animal.” Rip’s contribution to this year’s show is called The WarmUp. Rip says this play “was a last minute replacement for a play I wanted to write about an African warlord who moved to New York City and became fat on McDonald’s, eventually achieving a second notoriety for amassing the world’s largest happy meal toy collection. I couldn’t get the actors I wanted, so I wrote about a winter night’s encounter between a female priest and a woman who believes that she’s a demon.” Before you go on the actual tour of theatrical frights, let’s preview the other three plays on the bill.

Pinprick written by Jen Frankel and directed by Kim Kaitell

Playwright Jen Frankel has created Pinprick which the director describes as a “dramatic thriller with episodes of giddy hilarity thrown in.” Kaitell sees her big challenge as “drawing the audience in quickly and then getting the message of the story across in such a short time.” Kaitell likes the Frights of Spring model because “the audience is already set up. Before they even get to the theatre, they know they’re about to experience something scary and unusual. It then becomes a question of holding their interest and taking them to the edge of their seats.”

And how does she propose to do that? “It’s all about building the energy. How the actors relate to each other, how they react to their surroundings, changing the climate of the story suddenly and unexpectedly. It’s also about the imagery being offered throughout the play, how the stage is set and the mood it is intended to create. Low lighting, chilling music, the colours used in the choice of costumes” all work together to create the desired fear-inducing effect.

Widdershins written, Directed and Performed by Josh Cottrell

Josh Cottrell, best known as an actor on London stages, has created a performance called Widdershins¸ which he describes as “a campfire story that takes a wrong turn”. Cottrell says “I was a camp counselor for a number of summers at out-tripping camps. I always appreciated the power of a campfire tale.”

Little Problem written and Directed by Jeremy Hobbs and Performed by Émilie Pilon-David

London writer Jeremy Hobbs, who gave us the fabulous solo plays The Hero and Neverland a few years back, has written a solo monologue spoken by a “pale young woman in extremely minimal conditions”. This performance takes place in the basement of The ARTS Project. Hobbs notes that “these subterranean conditions are deeply tethered to the narrative itself. At first, we’re not entirely sure who this spectral narrator

is, but as the story unfolds her identity gradually (and tragically) comes into focus.” He says that he “wasn’t interested in centering this piece around jump scares or cheap fright tactics, but rather earning our chills by slowly, measuredly weaving a tale that gets under one’s skin in a way that will continue to linger long after the lights have come up.” Hobbs says that the inspiration for the play came from his “interest in medical phantasmagoria — in particular the history of medicine and surgery, with regard to how it has progressed from its rather barbaric beginnings to the refined (and arguably overmedicated) industry of the modern era.” Inspiration also came from turn of the century Paris. In order to find an authenticity to the work, Hobbs cast francophone actress Émilie Pilon-David as the performer of the piece. Hobbs says that “hearing Émilie speak these words in her native accent gave the entire piece an authenticity that would have been impossible for me to achieve on my own — plus it genuinely made the hair on the back of my neck stand up, which seems like the Golden Ticket when the goal is to try and send a chill down the viewer’s spine.” Frights of Spring By Jen Frankel, Jason Rip, Josh Cottrell, Jeremy Hobbs Featuring: Dan Ebbs, Margot Stothers, Sookie Mei, Tammy Vink, Charlene McNabb, Lavender Menace, Kathleen Morrison, Josh Cottrell and Emilie Pilon-David April 21, 22, 23 at 8pm The Arts Project, 203 Dundas Street $20 For tickets: 519-642-2767

han g over h e l p e r

Being Alive by

shane Delear

herein our hero withstands the psychic onslaught of life drawing while at somewhat less than 100% . . . Good day friends. Part of my sacred duty to you is to dip my toe in different waters so that I might, by relaying to you the difficulties they are fraught with, save you from harm. May I submit, humbly, that if you’re getting done work and a notorious friend asks you out for “just one” but every other time the two of you imbibe, “just one” turns into “just one more” until out of nowhere it’s last call . . . if that friend asks you out and the next day you were planning on checking out a life drawing course downtown . . . if I were you — and I was — don’t do it! Save yourself! The agonies you will endure! This will be your first ever such class, so you have no idea if there’s a particular etiquette involved. It’s easy to guess though that you shouldn’t arrive 20 minutes late, yet somehow you still manage it. Something you’re not willing to risk is bringing in outside food or drink, so be sure to scald all of the inside of your head taking a last swig before you jettison half of your coffee. (Food is allowed. You’ll later sorely miss that coffee.) Now, make sure to awkwardly avoid eye contact with everyone in the room and blush furiously. Witness for the first time that you have the loudest, clumsiest coat

in the world. It’s as if the zipper was constructed from exploding trains. It’s not so bad once you’re settled in, aside from having one of those sheepish hangovers where you’d somehow find a way to be embarrassed by paying your bus fare if that came up. Like your wallet would be spring loaded and you’d rain three year-old-loyalty cards from sandwich shops in cities you probably won’t return to just everywhere. Since your brain and emotions are inclined to these pratfalls, this is one of those days where you’re not sure about the correct amount to smile to anyone but especially not the person whose boob you are drawing. Like what precise kind and duration of eye contact is appropriate? How can one adequately convey that there’s no sexual or power dynamic here? Would it be inappropriate to convey that

anyway – I mean, what if that’s something that they get out of this? Ugh, are you just projecting a lifetime of hangups onto what should be a banal moment? But no, it shouldn’t be banal, it should be righteous! It should be a crys-

This will be your first ever life

drawing class, so you have no idea if there’s a particular etiquette involved talline event: someone just accepting and loving themselves and being willing to be vulnerable and feel safe and let it all hang out. And all in the service of art! Everyone just gets to bear (bare?) witness to this sage-like grace. You, toxic and haggard, are allowed to remember that every human is beauti-

ful. Just perched and back hurting on a hard wooden bench, smelling pencil shavings, listening to four or five retirees scratching at their paper – you get to be dumbstruck that anything at all even exists. Then you start to notice that this is taking forever. Then you get to remember how bad you are at this. How humbling all of this is – but that’s why you went, right? Not to be good right away, but to be able to make mistakes and grind away at them over and over (and over) again. Oh – and this is a great tangent to run down – now you have to judge everyone else’s motivation, as if any of them are more narcissistic than you are. Maybe some of them ARE doing it for their egos or to ogle breasts, but it’s not your business anyway. It’s just as likely that they are talented and relish the chance to practice – that they don’t need any external moti-

vation to just do something that’s not numbing. That they’re, you know, engaging with their lives. So despite having broken your no shot rule, the whole thing is worth it. I don’t even care if it sounds hopelessly eager – this is what being alive is all about. Existing, and

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doing things, and getting better. So, I take it back; maybe you should go for those few drinks after all. Even if it might make you wish you had sunglasses indoors the next day – you’ll be talking, and existing, and doing what you do best. p

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lo o k at t h i s

Painter of Dreams Usually I dream about what needs to happen on the canvas by Nida Home Doherty

I look around at my art on the walls, I can tell that my art is happy to be here, to be looked at, talked about, getting some fresh air, and really shining in this lovely coffeehouse. And as I look around the room I can see that each one of my paintings is telling a story, and I like how they represent the two sides of me; as a Métis I have a First Na-

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tions side and there is also my early French-Canadian side. My paintings come to me in my mind’s eye; usually I dream about what needs to happen on the canvas. So these paintings are not really landscapes. There are visions that I have, coming from dreams that have been given to me by the Creator. The urge to do a specific painting becomes so strong that I am called to put it on canvas. But I don’t rush into it. It is more like this — it comes to mind, and then I sense its presence. I just let it percolate, maybe over a period of months, until I see the whole image clearly. Sometimes I ask the Creator for more information. Maybe I am not understanding; I am not receiving the message. So I wait for it. Take this painting here, La Vase Portage. This is an image I envisioned. I have never been to this place, or any of the places in my paintings. I am taken there in my mind’s eye. This depicts the point of entry at the mouth of the La Vase River, near North Bay, on Lake Nipissing. It is very boggy, with lots of thick marsh. Paddling there is very difficult, but this is where the Voyageurs would start out after a long portage. I painted this using the strong reds and greens of the Voyageurs. I try to give a sense of that moment, of the ruggedness of the landscape that they travelled through. This painting came to me in a vision, so I didn’t predetermine the time and place. I see the image as a gift from the Creator and from my asking the Creator for guidance. Sometimes I put an idea out there. For example, I put out to the Creator that I wanted to do a painting series on the path of the Voyageur; and snippets would come to me in my dreams. I would receive a snippet of an image. And I would just let this percolate until I saw it more fully before I attempted

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Annette Sullivan: Sampler Sauvageese. Story of Marie Olivier Sylvestre Manitouabeouich, acrylic on canvas, 24X24, 2016

to put the paint on the canvas. It would become clearer over time. In this painting, here are the Voyageurs’ canoes, and the bundles of fur they have picked up, and they are camped by the rapids for the night. The Coureurs de Bois, the Runners of the Woods, were brave men, who travelled through this harsh landscape in their birch bark canoes. They not only transported these heavy bundles of furs, but hunted as well. In the background is a rendez-vous point of a First Nations camp, and the Voyageurs are heading back to home base before the winter comes. This tells something about their lives. They would put up their canoes and sleep under them. And here it is late fall, as you can see from the colours in the trees. These colours as I have applied them give a dream-like effect. The perspective in the painting is also dream-like, from looking across at the First Nations encampment, to looking down from above, on to the Voyageurs’ camp. It was about a year after I painted this that I found that this place actually exists. I saw it on the Internet. It is on the north shore of Lake Superior and, yes, there is a waterfall, and it is actually part of a Voyageur run. This is how the message becomes solidified. There are some paintings here where I put out an intention that I want to connect with

my First Nations ancestry. I have many kinds of First Nations blood running through me: I am a French Indian carrying Mohawk, Huron, Abenaki, Mi’kmaq, Oji-Cree and Algonquin ancestry from the fur trade, but more specifically, I am Muskrat Métis. In this painting, Wolf Song, how the paint is applied and the yellows and oranges of the fall colours and the way the light is coming through the trees and the reflections in the water, speak loudly about this beautiful country as First Nations knew it, and of our strong interconnectedness to nature. This is a place that does exist, near Windake, Quebec, a place of the Huron and Wendat. The Huron are my people, and they tell me they know where this is with the trees, and the waterfalls. And again I was as if dropped in this space and time.

should mention that these paintings are not for me, they are passing through me, they are out there for others to hold and in some way to resonate with. It is in Eagle Woman Rising that I am working with the other side of my First Nations ancestry. And it is with this series of paintings I am talking about claiming back what is lost, not to be afraid to claim who you are. I am suggesting moving into that part of yourself that can rise above the storm, and to

metamorphose, and become one with Eagle. I can see the completed series in my mind’s eye, so it has already been presented. These are two painting that are completed from that series. The other two are still percolating. I have envisioned the series as representing four stages of change and claiming oneself. First Eagle Woman is looking up and seeing the eagle, she is discovering new sides of herself. In these two paintings she is changing and merging into the eagle. In the fourth painting, this is where she is the eagle. You can see the use of the Woodland Artists style in these works with stylized images, flat areas of colour, bold outlines, and shapes and images of nature flowing into each other. But my work is also a message to our youth, to know yourself, and to reclaim what you have lost. Eagle has good medicine for us. The four stages of evolving, separating, and merging are a teaching tool. My style is continuing to evolve as well, as I am coming into my own as an artist. I am influenced by people like Daphne Odjig, and Norval Morrisseau, and like Picasso, who saw the world differently. So I am also standing open, and I always put a message out to other artists to help me with my work. And many times I receive a message from certain spirits who have gone to the sky, or passed over to the other side who offer me help and direction. Emily Carr speaks to me a lot. She is someone I identify with as having affected my painting. I am always trying to break through any preconceived notions of how the painting is to go on the canvas. After three years of painting, of exploring and experimenting, I am finally getting it, I think. The Art of Annette Sullivan continues to April 24, 2016 The Coffeehouse 754 Dundas St., London, ON

ripl as h

George McNeish Stops the Civil War The United States never met an enemy worse than themselves. They damaged themselves more than any outside force ever could have by Jason Rip

“H

istory was my worst subject in school,” admits George McNeish, who, at the age of 64, has just published his first novel The Alternative, a revisionist account of the American Civil War. McNeish’s novel tells the story of Bobby Johnson who, being an only child on a Louisiana plantation, makes friends with his father’s slaves, particularly a bright-minded lad named Samson. Bobby will eventually fall in love with Ruthie Lancer, whose father is a brutal tyrant in the mould of Simon Legree. The novel has a little bit of Romeo and Juliet and a lot of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Without revealing any spoilers, McNeish’s book eventually reveals what great things can be done when systems of production are based on cooperation rather than competition. His next book, a historical analysis of the American Civil War, will elaborate on themes established in his novel. “The United States never met an enemy worse than themselves,” said McNeish. “They damaged themselves more than any outside force ever could have.” He is fond of the quote from the early abolitionist John Brown regarding the perceived inevitability of the Civil War: “The crimes of this guilty land will never be purged but with blood.” “Two hundred years of slavery had altered the consciousness of people to the extent that injustice, cruelty, and torture seemed to be the norm,” said McNeish. “In fiction, at least, I wanted to change a way of thinking and so prevent a war. Even in fiction, I sometimes doubted if it could be prevented.” McNeish has a trace of the sage about him. The former chair of the Fugitive Slave Chapel Committee and a member of the Bahá’í faith, he is able to deftly weave themes of redemption into his work. Even sadistic slavers can be brought to see the error of their ways. When the clever slave Samson, whose physical fragility was once held against

him, discovers new scientific methods of agriculture and a cooperative style of working, he is able to put a dent in the slave system through pure efficiency. Another redeemed character, Ichabod Kempler, simply follows his mule wherever God takes it. McNeish’s literary world is eventually devoid of villains. One-time slave and famed abolitionist Frederick Douglass is cited as the main inspiration behind the story. McNeish described a time when Douglass realized just how inefficient slavery was: “An old ox, worth eighty dollars, was doing, in New Bedford, what would have required fifteen thousand dollars worth of human bones and muscles to have performed in a southern port.” – Frederick Douglass, My Bondage and My Freedom, Chapter 22

ccording to McNeish, the moral lessons to be learned from the bloodiest period of American history can be transferred to the present. “It is common practice in a family to encourage siblings to cooperate and share. It seems that, on the family level, these traits are seen as being beneficial to that family unit. However, go beyond the family and fierce competition is the order of the day. A properly functioning society needs to provide the opportunity for all to contribute to it. If some are not contributing, others must work harder and therefore have less time to enjoy the fruits of their labour. We may believe we need things, but what we need is each other.” In the novel, changes to the master/slave relationship create not only a more humane but a more profitable system. “The system that Bobby and his

best friend, Samson, taught was mutual respect and cooperation between the management and the help. One who is respected will naturally want to do a better job for his or her employer. When all strive toward a common goal success is inevitable. Thus, when friendship replaced the whip, the plantation owners got more done, were conscientious of waste, and invented tools.” This enlightened upgrading of approaches is “The Alternative” mentioned in the novel’s title. McNeish knows a thing or two about agricultural practices, having grown up on a farm just outside Kitchener. Although he dabbled in writing back in high school (“mostly poetry on an antiestablishment, anti-war and pro-peace theme”, The Alternative is his first major work, written in a six month period mainly while McNeish was working at his beading supplies store. “Every surprise in the book surprised me,” said McNeish. “I had a hard time writing the character

of Samson because he is way smarter than I am.” Following the age old writer’s practice of ‘kill your darlings,’ McNeish eventually edited his book from 61 chapters down to 19. McNeish has self-published The Alternative under the banner of his grass roots organization “Sowing Peace.” To order a copy online or from the author, go to www.alternative.9li.ca. Despite being a late bloomer, George’s bloom has definitely flowered. “During difficult times in my life, writing became therapy. When there was no one to confide in, I could always rely on my pen to comfort me.” Although he confesses that he struggles with marketing, McNeish has come up with a “peddle my book” idea that involves “peddling” in both senses: selling copies off a bike cart. To bring things full circle, McNeish is still active in the cause of the Fugitive Slave Chapel, the structure once located on Thames Street and now successfully moved to Grey Street. “A lot of structural work remains undone,” he said. “We are currently evaluating how to proceed.” McNeish reminisces how the chapel inspired the novel. When he first heard that a demolition permit had been submitted for the old building in March of 2013, he went late to a meeting of people interested in saving it. “I expected two or three people, but the basement was packed. God sent his angels.” George’s wife, the Reverend Doctor Delta McNeish, suggested that George write a history of the chapel. Instead, his Muse sent him down South. “I hope that I have written a fiction more believable than truth,” said p McNeish.

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Pe g g ’s w o r l d

Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse, Betelgeuse! Tim Burton movie summoned to Hyland Cinema for Retro-mania Possibly the best feel-good movie about Death ever. Fun for the whole family! by Robert Pegg

emember when word of a new Tim Burton movie was met with a smile and anticipation instead of groans and dismissal? Remember when the wunderkind director was such a fresh new talent in the late 1980s and ‘90s with his own distinctive visual style that other people’s films – such as Barry Sonnenfeld’s The Addams Family were often described as ‘Burtonesque’? I still use him as an adjective. You know that black wrought-iron fencing outside Spriet Associates on the corner of York and Richmond? I often point it out to tourists with the comment, “Oh, it’s very Tim Burton.” For a while there, the man could do no wrong. Neither in Hollywood, nor with audiences. Nor with me. Starting with his first feature film Pee Wee’s Big Adventure in 1985, Burton’s golden years continued with Beetlejuice, Batman and Edward Scissorhands. For me, the end of his best period came about halfway through Batman Returns in 1992. It was

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not as inventive nor original as his earlier films, was a bit of a mess and was the first time he seemed to lose control of things for the last part of a movie. That said, when compared to the current Batman v Superman … well let’s not even go there. That’s not to say that he hasn’t made movies I’ve liked almost as much as his first four films. There’s Ed Wood and Nightmare Before Christmas. But at some point between Mars Attacks and Planet of the Apes, he seems to have lost his way and become if not a lazy filmmaker when it came to choosing projects (Charlie and the Chocolate Factory or Alice in Wonderland,) at least one who takes the easy way out – Dark Shadows as a tonguein-cheek comedy or the worst sign of running-out-of-ideas – a sequel as in the soon to be released Alice Through the Looking Glass. Kinda sad that someone with so much promise ends up “reimagining” other people’s work or rehashing his own. He is still capable of occasionally coming up with something that reminds me why I liked the guy in the first place. As with Ed Scissorhands, some of his best movies are ‘small’ personal films like Big Fish or Big Eyes. I have high expectations – and high hopes – for the upcoming Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children. If nothing else, he has a good eye for promising material suited to his talents and sensibility.

Michael Keaton and Winona Ryder as the terminally bored and miserable teenaged daughter ‘Lydia’ — one of the best things in the movie

So let’s keep a happy thought. Because we are here today to praise Tim Burton, not to bury him. For a good example of how truly original he was at his peak, we can fortunately witness for ourselves on the big screen when the Hyland Cinema presents Beetlejuice as part of their Retro-Mania series on Friday, April 29th at 11:00 p.m. Because the movie came out in 1988, I’m going to just assume that you, Dear Reader, have seen it at least once at some point in the past 28 years. When it first came out on video, it became a New Years Eve tradition in this house. First eat a ton of Chinese Food, then play a game of ‘Mousetrap’ and then sit down to watch Beetlejuice timed so it ends just in time to go out on the porch and bang pots and pans at midnight.

nyhoo, for anyone who hasn’t seen the film, Michael Keaton plays ‘Betelgeuse’ (pronounced ‘Beetlejuice’, of course,) a freelance bio-exorcist hired by an accidently killed young couple to help get a family of mostly unwanted people out of the home they had in life and are confined to spend the next 125 years in as ghosts before they are officially allowed to ‘rest in peace’ or go on to their ‘reward’ or whatever. All we actually see of the ‘Afterlife’ is as a bureaucratic kind of Deceased Services Department complete with waiting room and case-workers. So that’s the plot. Here’s the real reason to see this film – for a comedy, it is a close as you can get to a perfect movie. As a director, if you liked what Burton did with Pee Wee’s Big Adventure, you will love his work in Beetlejuice. What he did with both movies is surround himself with the best of talent. There is not a bad

performance in the bunch. As the two newby ghosts, Alec Baldwin is actually likeable and Geena Davis is her usual adorable self. Catharine O’Hara does what she does best – particularly when paired with scene-stealer Glenn Shadix as ‘Otho’ the former paranormal expert turned interior designer. At the time, the movie introduced most of us to Winona Ryder as the terminally bored and miserable teenaged daughter ‘Lydia’ – the only one who can see the two ghosts or Betelgeuse because “I myself am strange and unusual.” I don’t think she even cracks a genuine smile till she gets an ‘A’ on a math test near the end. As low-key as her performance is, next to Keaton, she’s one of the best things in the movie. As for Keaton, if you think those Bat-big babies made a big fuss about Ben Affleck being cast as the Batman for the current movie, that’s nothing compared to their outrage on finding out that Burton wanted him for his first Batman film. I don’t know what they were so scared about. As over-the-top as he is here, this guy can play anything he wants and do it well. Throw in a script full of corny jokes, witty dialogue and some pathos, a Danny Elfman score, some Henry Belafonte calypso and some Burtonesque art direction and set design and you’ve got yourselves a movie. Possibly the best feel-good movie about Death ever. Fun for the whole family! I suggest seeing the original on the big screen at the Hyland while you have this opportunity. Because the next time you see Keaton and Ryder on the big screen again as those characters will be the upcoming Beetlejuice 2 sequel, directed by Burton. Hey, Tim – don’t screw it up!

d isp a t ch e s f ro m d y s t o p i a

Society? None for Me, Thanks

“

Ciara Allen

Whoever is delighted in solitude is either a wild beast or a God.

”

Francis Bacon, inventor of the bacon strip, said this. As a person who enjoys solitude I would prefer to think myself the latter, but considering I sleep in a nest of wrinkled clothes and try to bite people whenever they put their hands near my face, I could be wrong. Either way, the quote resonates with me. This is not to say I don’t have any friends at all; before I became completely maladjusted I managed to bring together a respectable collection of companions, but now that I’m older and riddled with character flaws the thought of befriending people fills me with crushing existential dread. This fear of fellowship (unless it’s “of the Ring”) became particularly apparent to me when I was “randomly selected” (I see you, Big Brother) to serve as a prospective juror. For this I was seated in a room with nearly 200 strangers. While I spent my time avoiding eye contact and crafting elaborate excuses to get out of there (wearing a shirt with a picture of Charles Manson on it went sadly unnoticed), two women behind me nattered away incessantly, beginning with small talk and ending with uncomfortably intimate details of their lives which I was unfortunately privy to as neither seemed able to control a whisper. Can people really become friendly so readily?

For me, even agreeing to drinks with a co-worker opens up a slew of “what ifs”, from “what if they think I’m weird?” to “what if I get too comfortable and tell an awkward story about my sex life and then we have to be friends forever?” No thanks, I feel safer sticking to what I know. My existing familiars already have to accept everything about me, we have way too much dirt on each other for anyone to walk away now even though they’re fake bitches who will never admit that I look fat in something when we go to the mall together, and they always drag me around stores for so long that I don’t have time for Manchu Wok. I would eat before shopping but I don’t want to end up crying while I try on jeans again. Anyway. Though my preference is for near total isolation, sometimes friendship just happens. Two weirdos collide and something sticks, like a shared fondness for chili cheese dogs or a mutual hatred of other people (though you may never agree on the importance of the food court). You get through a few awkward friend-dates and years later you’re sitting in lawn chairs swilling mint juleps and berating joggers from your front porch, alone together. There’s always a risk that you may misjudge the quality of a person, but they’re easy enough to shake if you know how to fake your own death. Just remember that no one is obligated to like you, so if someone does you should probably cling to them for dear life. At least you’ll have someone to show up at your fake funeral.

SUPPORT THESE FINE BUSINESSES WHERE YOU’LL FIND Aeolian Hall Museum London the art centre Music & Video Place THE ART EMPORIUM mystic bookshop art exchange THE OLDE BAKERY CAFE artisan bakery ON THE SIDE ANTIQUES The Arts Project Palace Theatre FRAMING & ART CENTRE Attic Books PLAYWORLD FRINGE CUSTOM FRAMING & GALLERY Beat Goes On quiznos Grand Theatre BELLONE’S RAILWAY CITY BREWERY harvey’s Bijan’s Art Studio red roaster irene’s fish & chips B.J.’S COUNTRY MARKET root cellar organic cafe joe kool’s BONDI’S PIZZA scot’s corner John Bellone’s THE BOOK BIN Speed City records KING EDWARD RESTAURANT boston pizza Starbucks L.A. Mood Cardinal Books STRATHROY ANTIQUE MALL LITTLE BEAVER RESTAURANT Chaucer’s Pub subway THE LITTLE BOOK SHOPPE cherryhill mall Sunrise Records LITTLE RED’S PUB & EATERY Citi-Plaza mall tim horton’s london library branches city lights bookshop turner’s drug store London Music Club Coffee Culture VILLAGE PIZZA london pain & headache clinic Covent Garden Market western fair district Long & McQuade culture rising westland gallery LUCAN DONNELLY MUSEUM DAVID’S BISTRO white oaks mall memory lane antiques ELGIN COUNTY MUSEUM WIMPY’S DINER ELGIN COUNTY RAILWAY MUSEUM Michael Gibson Gallery WOODSTOCK ART GALLERY muldoon’s pizza Forest City Surplus YO YO’S YOGHURT 04.14.16

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thur APRIL 14 - we d A PR IL 27 Send us your lis ting (25 words m a x ): info@london yodeller.c a

D e a d l i n e f o r A p r i l 2 8 - MAY 1 1 i ss u e i s W e d NE S DAY APRIL 2 0

music & c lu b s

14 APRIL THURSDAY AEOLIAN HALL Planet 9 Drag and Dance, Doors open: 7pm, pay what you can LONDON MUSIC CLUB Home County 2016 Media Launch, Doors open: 6pm / Anthony Gomes, Doors open: 8:30pm, $20 adv, $25 door / Reid Jamieson with Carolyn Mill, Doors open: 7:45pm, $12 adv, $15 door VICTORIA TAVERN Jack Richardson Music Awards - Marie Bottrell, Doors open: 7pm, $10 15 APRIL FRIDAY AEOLIAN HALL Frank D'Angelo & His 15 Piece Band, Doors open: 7pm, $25 CALL THE OFFICE Millennium, 9pm, $5, 19+ CHAUCER'S PUB Hannah Sanders & Ben Savage, 7:30pm, $15 adv, $18 door LONDON MUSIC CLUB Sarah Jane Scouten & The Honky Tonk Wingmen, Doors open: 7pm, $10 adv, $12 door / Poetry Slam Finals feat. Janice Lee, Doors open: 7pm, $10 NORMA JEAN'S Howzat

WORTLEY ROADHOUSE Whaling Band, 10pm YUK YUK'S Glen Foster, 8pm & 10:30pm, $19.92, 19+ 16 APRIL SATURDAY AEOLIAN HALL Light of East Ensemble, Doors open: 7pm, $20 adv, $25 door CALL THE OFFICE JRLMA Hall Of Fame Showcase: Zuul's Evil Disco/ '63 Monroe, 9pm, $10, 19+ LONDON MUSIC CLUB Diamond Mine A Tribute to Blue Rodeo, Doors open: 7pm, $10 adv, $13 door / Jenny Berkel wsg My Father's Son, Doors open: 7:30pm, $12 adv, $15 door / Jack Richardson Music Awards Education Day, 9am, free NORMA JEAN'S Zed, $10 WORTLEY ROADHOUSE Hot Tub Hippies, 10pm YUK YUK'S Glen Foster, 8pm & 10:30pm, $19.92, 19+ 17 APRIL SUNDAY AEOLIAN HALL Fred Hersch Trio, Doors open: 7pm, $40 adv, $45 door BUDWEISER GARDENS Gerry Dee, Doors open: 6:30pm VICTORIA TAVERN Reverend Freddie 4 - 7pm, free / Smokin' Dave 9pm - 12am, free

sp o t l i ght Jennifer Orchard CD Release Concert

One of the London’s star violinists, Jennifer Orchard, returns for a special appearance at Bishop Cronyn Church on Friday, April 22 at 5 p.m. This world premiere CD recording release concert will include music by forgotten Russian romantic composer Paul Juon. Jennifer Orchard will be joined by esteemed London musicians, violinist Scott St. John and cellist Christine Newland and this CD’s recording partner, pianist Igor Kraevsky. Limited seating. Tickets will be sold at the door. $15 general admission and $8 for students and seniors.

30 the london yodeller

04.14.16

WORTLEY ROADHOUSE Lance Anderson with The Village Blues Band, 4 - 8pm 18 APRIL MONDAY VICTORIA TAVERN Karaoke 19 APRIL TUESDAY VICTORIA TAVERN Honky-Tonk Tuesdays with the Heartaches Stringband, 8 - 11pm, free 20 APRIL WEDNESDAY VICTORIA TAVERN Antifolk, free 21 APRIL THURSDAY LONDON MUSIC CLUB Roxanne Potvin, Doors open: 6:30pm, $12 adv, $15 door / Said the Whale, Doors open: 8pm, $20 adv, $25 door VICTORIA TAVERN Open Mic 22 APRIL FRIDAY AEOLIAN HALL Gordie MacKeeman & His Rhythm Boys, Doors open: 7pm, $25 adv, $30 door CALL THE OFFICE Catl/ Daddy Long Legs/ Hiroshima Hearts, 9pm, $7, 19+ NORMA JEAN'S 2nd Chance WORTLEY ROADHOUSE Sons of Sandford, 10pm YUK YUK'S Graham Kay, 8pm & 10:30pm, $19.92, 19+ 23 APRIL SATURDAY AEOLIAN HALL Emm Gryner, Doors open: 7pm, $23 adv, $26 door, $20 senior/student St. James Westminster Anglican Church BRASSROOTS’ CELEBRATION 30th anniversary concert and official release of the 7th cd. 7:30pm, $65, 115 Askin Street LONDON MUSIC CLUB David Francey, Doors open: 6:30pm, $30 adv, $35 door / Buttonfly Trio & The Aforementioned, Doors open: 8:30pm, no cover NORMA JEAN'S Thunderstruck, $5 cover WORTLEY ROADHOUSE Chris Trowell Band, 10pm 24 APRIL SUNDAY CHAUCER'S PUB Canal Street String Band, 7:30pm, $15 adv, $18 door WORTLEY ROADHOUSE Chad Vanesse with The Village Blues Band, 4 - 8pm YUK YUK'S Graham Kay, 8pm & 10:30pm, $19.92, 19+ 26 APRIL TUESDAY VICTORIA TAVERN Honky-Tonk Tuesdays with the Heartaches Stringband, 8 - 11pm, free

t h e at r e ARTS PROJECT ALL I REALLY NEED TO KNOW I LEARNED IN KINDERGARTEN: THE MUSICAL Celebrate the whimsy of childhood to the wisdom of old age. Apr 14 & 15: 7:30pm, Apr 16: 2pm & 7:30pm, $15 (groups of 5 or more), $17 adv, $20 door, Til Apr 16 /

FRIGHTS OF SPRING 4 spooky 20 minute productions that will be scattered throughout various spaces, 8pm, $20, Apr 21 - 23 GRAND THEATRE BUDDY: THE BUDDY HOLLY STORY Celebrates a career which spanned an all‐too‐brief period during golden days of rock n’ roll, $29.95 - 81.50, Til May 7 MCMANUS STUDIO JULIUS CAESAR Caesar must be assassinated but once the deed is done, the conspirators have to reckon with the consequences of their actions. 7:30pm, $16.95 - 22.60, Til Apr 16 / RALPH + LINA Rough and tumble romance following struggles of two Italian lovers in the face of war, immigration and old age. 8pm, Apr 26 - 30 PALACE THEATRE AUGUST: OSAGE COUNTY Darkly comic drama worthy of the praise it has received from critics and audience. 2pm & 8pm, $22, Til Apr 17 / RABBIT HOLE Becca and Howie Corbett are a happily married couple whose perfect world is forever changed when their son, Danny, is killed by a car. 2pm & 8pm, $9 - 22, Apr 13 - 17, Procunier Hall STRATFORD FESTIVAL A CHORUS LINE On stage, they move as one. But each member of that glittering line has a unique history of hope and heartbreak. 2pm, $25 - 139.05, Apr 19 - Oct 30

gal l e ri e s & museums THE ART EMPORIUM Featured Artists for May: Jacqueline Kinsey, Debra Baker, Edser Thomas, Randy Bloye, Nathan Hiller, Debra Kubu.Reception is May 15 2 - 4pm. Refreshments and parking are free. Open 11-5 pm, Closed Tues, 177 Main St. Port Stanley THE ARTS PROJECT 44TH FANSHAWE FINE ART GRADUATE EXHIBITION Intelligent and humorous, quiet and loud, political and aesthetic, individual and cultural. Til Apr 23 / TING COMIC AND GRAPHIC ARTS FESTIVAL 4- week celebration showcases 11 comic and graphic artists from London and the greater Southwestern Ontario area. Reception: Apr 30, 6 - 9pm, free, Apr 26 - May 21 DNA ARTSPACE RELIEFS & DRAWINGS: Patrick Thibert. the trajectory of his long standing interest in juxtaposing lines, planes, and geometric forms. Til Apr 16

ELDON HOUSE FAMILY PHOTOS: HARRISES AT HOME Historic photographs attributed to the Harris family who lived at Eldon House. / THE LOST ART OF BOBBIN LACE Explores the rise and fall of an elaborate art form and illustrates the complicated process of creating bobbin lace. Til Jul, Interpretive Centre / TEDDY: A MILITARY GENTLEMAN The life of Edward Montgomery Harris. ELGIN COUNTY MUSEUM BEHIND THE CANADIAN LINE An exhibition of over 30 original sketches of people and places near the Canadian lines during WWI by H.W. Cooper. Also paintings by Ross Osgoode an artist from St. Thomas who served in the war. Til Apr 22 FRINGE CUSTOM FRAMING AND GALLERY HOME AWAY Art exhibit and sale. Til Mar 31 FANSHAWE PIONEER VILLAGE BARN RAISING PROJECT A special travelling exhibition of hooked artwork. Donation, To Apr 22 FOREST CITY GALLERY ARCHAELOGICAL INFRASTRUCTURE / JEN AITKEN & ARYEN HOEKSTRA Unearths the apparitional architecture of an imagined city. Reception: Apr 22, 7 - 10pm, Apr 22 - Jun 3 ILLUMINE GALLERY AWAKE Celebrate the end of the season of snows with bright colours and lively themes. Reception: Apr 2, 7pm, Til May 21, St Thomas JEWISH COMMUNITY CENTRE SONG OF SONGS Israeli Quilts, 10am - 3pm weekdays, free admission, Til Apr 21, 536 Huron St, London MCINTOSH GALLERY ANY DREAM WILL DO: Kim Moodie. Startling new perspectives on themes previously explored only in painting and drawing. Til May 14 / LEADING THE WAY: Early Canadian Women Artists. Til May 14 MICHAEL GIBSON GALLERY HEAVENLY BODIES AGAIN with Gathie Falk, Til Apr 30 / FEEDER BOARDS with Aganetha Dyck, Til Apr 30 MUSEUM LONDON THE DAILY GRIND Camilla Singh, Kelly Mark, Stephanie Aitken, the Manos/Buckius and BGL collectives and others. To Apr 24 / A RIPPLE EFFECT: CANADIANS AND FRESH WATER A Ripple Effect examines the larger story of Canadians’ relationship with fresh water by focusing on the Thames, Speed, and Eramosa rivers. To Aug 14 / CANADA

AT PLAY: 100 YEARS OF GAMES, TOYS, AND SPORTS In the dead of winter or the heat of summer, outside or inside, Canadian children have always worked hard to have fun! This exhibition examines our favourite games and toys over the past 130 years. Til May 15 / FREE PLAY the work of contemporary artists who borrow from play and games to reveal social, philosophical, and cultural issues. Til May 8 THIELSEN GALLERY GROUP EXHIBITION: featuring recent paintings by John Lennard, Til Apr 15 WESTLAND GALLERY ANGELA LORENZEN & MARGARETHE VANDERPAS Til Apr 17 / CATHERINE MORRISEY Reception: Apr 22, 7:30pm, Apr 19 - May 7

special events 16 APRIL SATURDAY CLEAN UP DAY AT THE VILLAGE Bring your favourite rake and broom and help volunteers open Fanshawe Pioneer Village for the 57th season. Stay for a thank you BBQ at 4pm, free, Fanshawe Pioneer Village 17 APRIL SUNDAY LONDON HANGINGS PART 2 19 individuals ended their lives on the gallows at the old Court House. John Lisowski presents the stories of Henry Smith, who beat his wife to death; Marion “Peg-Leg” Brown, perhaps the most infamous murderer in London history; and Sidney Murrell, who shot Russell Campbell, during an unsuccessful attempt to rob the Home Bank of Canada in Melbourne, Ontario. 1 - 3pm, cost by donation, 519661-5169, Eldon House 21 THURSDAY - 23 SATURDAY ART SHOW at Lambeth United Church 26 APRIL TUESDAY MUSICIAN INCUBATION SESSION 2 hour session helping bring insight to local amateur and professional musicians in the areas of: Music Marketing, Branding, Musician Skill-sets, Live Performance Logistics and more! 7:30 - 9:30pm on last Tuesday of month, light refreshments offered afterwards for our net-working portion of the session. Registration will be closed a week prior, on April 19th, as space is limited! Please call 519-494-1939, Plumb Music at 89 Wharncliffe Road South

sounds r azor

Suffering For My Art As a CanLit writer I’ve been taught that words are fickle and vague and what’s important is to work in ‘snow’ as much as possible by Sean Twist

a prominent member of London’s artistic community, I was doing what most of us do on a Friday night: I was crashed on my couch, trawling through Netflix. I could have been upstairs working on my latest novel — an 18th century bodice ripper about — well, I was still kind of stuck at the bodice ripping part, but that was going to be awesome. I needed time to let my subconscious work. Sift through the many ideas and nuances and things. And I also had bought a new couch, so it was probably best that I lay on it. I scrolled through my Netflix suggestions, which always makes me wonder if Netflix thinks I’m an idiot. Try as you might, Netflix, I will not watch anything with Kevin James. Then I came across Fritz Lang’s Metropolis. A silent film from 1927 seemed just the thing for a Friday night for an artist such as myself. But when the film went on forever with text screen after boring text screen about how they modified the found footage, I quickly lost interest. Whatever, dudes. Just show me the damn

film. I don’t think this was even the one with the cool Queen songs. Besides, I wasn’t seeing anyone on Saturday to whom I could brag about watching it. Waste of time, then. Next it was Trainspotting. I didn’t get much past the opening scene where Obi Wan runs down a street and gets hit by a car. Choose life, Renton? I choose not to watch Trainspotting for the hundredth time. Then I thought Children of Men might be just the thing for a writer of my stature, what with my reputation for crafting tales of darkness tinged with a redeeming sense

my 18th century bodice ripper. I wondered if I could take Joe Abercrombie in a fight. I gave up on Netflix and moved over to Xbox Video. I scrolled through the new TV shows, since I was getting tired and I was too lazy to go upstairs and track down my BluRay of Lost In Translation. Then I saw The Americans. I had read some positive reviews of this on the few websites that I, as a creator of art, trust. You know, like The A.V. Club or any YouTube video with a woman rocking dreads and tattoos. Besides, KGB spies living in ‘80s sub-

GIVE IN

of humanity. But Netflix had taken that film out back behind the barn and put a bullet between its eyes. There were plenty of Kevin James films, though. When I blinked I swear I could see the words GIVE IN flash across the screen. I glanced at my wife, who was sound asleep on another couch across the living room. Joe Abercrombie’s Red Country lay on the floor beside her, tumbling from her hands as she fell asleep. I noted that she always seems excited about a new Abercrombie novel. She didn’t seem that interested in

urbia looked promising the way anything with Michael Bay or Vince Vaughn does not (Netflix, stop!). So I paid three dollars and waited for The Americans to begin. My wife rolled over in her sleep, ground her teeth, and sighed.

inally, after watching a loading ouroboros for a goddamn eternity, The Americans began. Then I had to watch the opening scene in some skeezy bar three times as I tried to make the subtitles work. Apparently there were no sub-titles. Which I felt just goes to

show why America is a dying empire and wolves will run unchallenged through the streets in a few years. I didn’t understand what was going on. Which is understandable, because my subconscious was busy juggling all those ideas, nuances and bodices that would clearly evolve into a staggering work of something or other. But then a chase began. That was a narrative I could follow. Especially one with a very recognizable drumbeat. I sat up. I looked over at my wife. I considered waking her up, but then weighed my options of receiving a death glare if I did so. I’m not sure if she would appreciate the fact that The Americans was using Fleetwood Mac’s Tusk as much as I did. I upgraded that to ‘pretty sure’ when she frowned in her sleep. Well, it wasn’t a pure version of Tusk. It was an extended version to accompany the many cuts necessary to maintain the tension of the chase scene. As a writer of at least one chase scene, I understand arcane things like that. As probably the number one expert on Fleetwood Mac in London — okay, real talk; my street — I also knew this. My wife has been thrilled — if that is the right word, since as a CanLit writer I’ve been taught that words are fickle and vague and what’s important is to work in ‘snow’ as much as possible — to listen to me go on about Fleetwood Mac. She even turns up the radio really loud when their songs play, to fully experience

the music I’m trying to talk over, I assume. I know so much about the band, which is one of my endearing oddities as an artist. Because I’ve never really been a huge fan of them. It was just difficult to be 12 in 1977 and not hear Fleetwood Mac every single day, since Rumours was apparently the only album that came out that year. Or to see Stevie Nicks and know that blonde women with brown eyes were to be approached with caution. Or to understand

that Tusk is a work of absolute genius. Because as a creator of material most people don’t get, I get Tusk. It’s weird. It’s noncommercial. It’s a fuck you to expectation. And it’s surprisingly awesome in a chase scene. I let my wife sleep and finished the show. I liked it. The lead guy looked like Lindsey Buckingham, a bit. I turned off the TV. It was one a.m. Didn’t Stevie Nicks like to wear bodices? God, I thought. I hope so. p

www.LONDONMUSICCLUB.com

470 COLBORNE LONDON 519-640-6996 ELECTRIC JAM EVERY THURSDAY

ACOUSTIC OPEN MIC EVERY FRIDAY

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THURS 14 HOME COUNTY 2016 MEDIA LAUNCH BIG HALL (AFTER HOME COUNTY)

ANTHONY GOMES THURSDAY NIGHT BLUES FRONT ROOM

REID JAMIESON & CAROLYN MILL FRONT ROOM

FRI 15 SARAH JANE SCOUTEN & THE HONKY TONK WINGMEN BIG HALL

LONDON POETRY SLAM FINALS FEAT JANICE LEE

SPECIAL EVENT -- STARTING AT 9AM

SAT 16 JACK RICHARDSON MUSIC AWARDS EDUCATION DAY KEYNOTE SPEAKER: EMM GRYNER BIG HALL

DIAMOND MINE TRIBUTE TO BLUE RODEO FRONT ROOM

JENNY BERKEL WSG MY FATHERS SON THURS 21 SAID THE WHALE BIG HALL

SAT 23 DAVID FRANCEY FRONT ROOM

BUTTONFLY TRIO & THE AFOREMENTIONED

COME EARLY FOR A GOOD SEAT & GREAT FOOD 04.14.16

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