Tour Journal
19.4.14 Saturday Montreal Morning comes too soon. But for some, namely Ramsay, sleep has not even arrived. Ramsay has her finals in a matter of days. Has remained diligent and alert - as far as humanly possible - since we said goodnight to her at 4am. Drawing, writing, measuring; realising both graphic and artistic concepts. Her morning demeanour is shrunk. Rachel Ries, in her burgundy leathers, waves with both hands up to our window perch. She's like a winter rose. Drive to Montreal. Music is shared. First we delve into Molly Thomason. Her music is too vibrant for a slow morning. But I like the capacity in her voice; to be so many things from sweet to mellow to raucous. Rachel introduces us to Karianne Hurst, Cuddle Magic, Joan as Policewoman. Find mutual admiration and intrigue for John Grant. Conversation and listening covers some beauties: Anais Mitchell, Lhasa De Sela, Devon Sproule, Jesca Hoop... Le Bleury. Our venue. Greeted with a kiss on each cheek by Sebastian and the bar man who likes to sway with solitary smile and closed eye behind spinning vinyls. Bill Calahan's new album, a dub reversion. All a move. Last year. Calgary folk festival happened (just after our Dawson Experience). The day we play the main-stage we meet and play with a woman called Mamselle and her band. We are so full of thrill from the jam we ask the percussionist, Moise, to join us for The Fog during our performance. That night I follow Moise with djembe, Mamselle with passionate voice and Jerome the bassist to the hotel lobby where we sit and jam with a rotation of musicians, rappers, improvisers, appreciators and falling-a-sleepers until suggestion of morning seeps through the floor to ceiling windows. Moise is the promoter of my show. Since our meet he has been trying to get us to Montreal. Thanks to him, on his birthday no less, here we are. He sets up his whole percussion set. Each have a shot of coffee liqueur before soundcheck is even underway. Jen and Rachel Ries get on. They seem to jigsaw. I see them sat in rapture at coffee. She asks Jen to join for some songs this night. They play beautifully; every dynamic detected, predicted mutually. Jenny Berkel, singer, writer and (most recently) english teacher, has just walked through the door in a typical Jenny Berkel black hat. Graceful, effortless and self affirmed as ever. She and I shared a Parisian gig and some elegant autumn adventuring last year. Justin from Heavy Weather is with her also. They join us at a velvet sofa. As does Jerome from all those months ago. Enjoy to hear Jerome speak in French. Some silly point in the evening Jen will record him as he, oblivious, converses in a call, the context or subject of which we know nothing about. His voice is alluring. Boy at the front. Knows all the words. Sings Lay-Oh, loud. I am impressed. Another wants to share a beer apres gig and discuss a french song project. A girl wants to say thanks for helping her through her studies. Farewell Rachel Ries, you good woman. Off to sleep in her own home for the first time in months. She has two sweet days before tour sweeps her away again, the way it always does. Funk music begins to permeate until chatter is no longer sensible. The small wooded bar fills up. Loses it's cabaret seats. Suddenly we are surrounded by very good dancers. Street dancers. Break dancers. Popping shit. Shifting feet, gravity defy style. Super turbo speed arm swinging. Moise is a spectacular dancer. He can do this really cool salsa move where you feel like you twist around him so much your arms should be tangled but they are not. At first Jen refuses the offer of another drink. But the music is only getting better and our dance moves only more adventurous. She gives in. Another lot of coffee shots, please. The night doesn't end until we are safe, alone in Jerome's apartment. After more birthday shots, bitter cocktails, stories lost in translation and in the mist of loud music. Smiling faces. French accents. About to lay our heads, finally, giddy and aching at 5am.