Tongues of Angels
It is as if angels have landed in the lobby of the Tampa Bay Westin. The room is a grand hacienda: coconut trees, a miles high roof and glimmering chandeliers. The singers sit by babbling fountains after a long day of try outs for the Tampa Bay Opera. They are young, bubbly and speaking in tongues. One by one they take turns trying to crack each other up by singing nonsense. And it is so stunning that everyone and I stop breathing.
My life can be written in moments like these:
I am 14 and caressing the curves of my upright bass. Its varnish shining. I’m lovingly rubbing the resin on the horsehair bow. When I play the E string my chest rumbles and shakes.
I am 6 inhaling the sweetness of my grandma’s hymns. Her voice wafting above the trees, calling me home.
I’m 22 and the feedback from Jay Walsh’s Fender Twin guitar amplifier is pulsing and throbbing and seducing me into a trance.
I’m 9 and my Uncle Junior is breakdancing to LL Cool J’s ‘Rock the Bells’ in his fresh Kangol and it seems like his body is made of magic.
I’m 17 playing Nas’ Illmatic over and over and over until I know every phrase and snare hit so well I can recite the entire album like a soliloquy.
When I start performing at 15 it is all amazing to me. My friend Mark the Czar and I will lock ourselves in the church practice room and play until our limbs grow heavy.
Then I see Buddy Guy in Kitchener and I have never seen anyone so happy. So I want to be a blues man cause it feels so raw and real and it is okay to be sad when you sing.
Then I hear Billie Holiday and can’t stop listening to her voice. It drifts. It lilts. It reminds me of places I’d never been.
Wayne Bond, Jay Walsh and I ghost whole summers listening to Hendrix, Beatles and Zeppelin. By the time we get to Oasis it feels even better. We are the odd kids no one listens to so when Liam Gallagher sings: ‘you and I we gon live for-evaah’ it says something we need to say but can’t. We do many stupid things under that spell. Years later I am on tour with Liam. We are guzzling Guinness back stage at Brixton Academy. Star-struck, I ask feebly: ‘what was it like back then?’ He looks at me slyly and half whispers: ‘stupid things done proudly mate, stupid things.’
When I discover the Clash and Bad Brains we change our name to ‘Jen Militia’. Somewhere between Jasper and Golden, surrounded by the majestic Rocky Mountains, we turn a corner in a snowstorm and almost die. Only the white light of the full moon saves us. A herd of 50 elk are crossing the barren snowdrifts in silence. We brake-skid our way to a hairy stop. Half of us sleep through it. Half of us go dream walking in the land of behemoths and frozen stars. And so it is in these times: joy and panic punctuated by moments of heartbreaking beauty.
One Sunday in Memphis, Reverend Al Green sings “God Bless America” as Jonny Riddim and I sit in the pews of his sleepy church. My lips tremble. My eyes well with hot tears. My palms are sweaty. I want to drop to my knees and surrender my Canadian citizenship. He stomps and teases, his voice powerful from a life spent spilling out his soul. The deacon yells ‘hallelujahs’ and mops his brow with a purple silk handkerchief. The band sizzles because, says the Reverend: “mah gawd dee-serves the best” Perfect pop theatre. Al Green, David Bowie, Grace Jones, Leonard Cohen: the poets, the romantics and the drama queens become my heroes.
I’m sitting in Manhattan’s piano bar watching Alysha Brilla’s body tense and ease like the string of a bow. She whispers a song to herself and the whole Universe, it seems, shushes to witness her breathing.
I’m standing next to Danny Michel at the Glen Gould Theatre while Rob Carli plays a clarinet solo so ludicrous I can’t compose myself. It feels like stand up comedy and I’m losing it. I forget who I am, where I am and what I’m doing. As he become like Ginsberg once said of Dylan: ‘a column of air’
What is this romance that has chosen us? Who are these miracles I call friends? What fierce flames we have held against the night. What acts of joy and beauty we have committed! Are we foolish dreamers? Courageous seekers? Attention addicts? All of the above?
Yet we know that on any given night if we vibrate with some sincerity, we can change the world.
It is for this, not money, not fame, not attention but for this we have sacrificed ourselves.
So I salute the Angels in all of us. May we speak only in notes of light.
