the world that you need is wrapped in gold silver sleeves

The city has been wrapped in hoar frost for an eternity. Visually stunning it's been, with those branches tinted an impossibly persistent puffy white. A week in, though, it's become almost oppressively monochromatic.

The sky, normally the painful blue of the high-plains desert, has been stained a permanent white. Shrouded branches raking the cloud cover have only allowed more white to bleed out onto the permafrost. Ice ruts lining the streets in rhyming couplets hide their jagged edges beneath the shimmer of new snow grains.

Nobody bothers to shovel anymore. It's really only frost, after all, not proper snow.

Today, the sun returned, its spewing solar plasma reminding us just who determines the seasons. Not yet time to straddle the divide between supernova and red giant, Ra breathes a tale to Helios and hurls flares at the terrestrial prison of ice.

And branch by branch, life is released.

inferior only to the ocean, folkies will always dance

Rae Spoon / Geoff Berner
Local 522, Feb 5/10

I'm not sure how long Local 522 has been in existence, but Friday night was my first time there. In fact, prior to the announcement of the Spoon/Berner concert, I had never heard of the place. But with the impending closure of the Warehouse, it's a welcome addition to the live music scene in Calgary.

At first glance it has a slightly tacky 70's basement feel to it, with the moose head on the wall and all, but the upscale menu and fully stocked central bar, in addition to the generously-scaled and nicely padded stools, ensure that taking in a show is considerable step up from listening to Cheap Trick from the old orange chesterfield in the rec room.

It was a veritable who's who of the Calgary folk music scene at Local 522 on Friday night. And not just on the stage. I'm not going to succumb to the temptation to drop names here, but the headliners and their respective entourage were at the next table, while certain Woodpigeons and local crack songwriter/storytellers shared the table in front of us with a legion of Calgary Folk Festival royalty, and the merchandise.

It felt like home. I definitely felt like part of the tribe, particularly after having my name recognised (by virtue of this humble blog) while indulging in the inevitable chatting that occurs whilst perusing the available merchandise.

Opener (and violinist for Geoff Berner) Brigitte Dajczer only had three CDs left on the table, but I bought one with the proviso that she's going to mail it to me. Her solo set was very brief, a little nibble of Edith Piaff-inspired cabaret. It would have been interesting to hear more, but I imagine they were pressed for time due to the extended sound check which ran the show late, and which caused the Spousal Unit to declare more than once "they're not really burning the house down with this song, are they?" After a while one gives up on trying to explain the concept of tuning and sound check.

Rae Spoon had been very sweet and awkwardly gracious while signing his CD for me. I was offered a choice of Sharpies - an enticing purple from the merch table or red produced by the musician. But not just any red, he clarified in a conspiratorial tone, "it's claret". How could I refuse, claret autograph it was.

Once Rae took to the stage, any residual awkwardness evaporated. He was still sweet and so tiny up there on the stage, but proved to be such an engaging and comfortable banterer, that the transformation was palpable. He has an incredible voice, which belies his wee stature, and his ease and connection to the audience, already leaving their seats (myself included) for a better vantage point, really drew us in. When he played We Become Our Own Wolves from his incredible album inferioryouaresuperior, naturally we all howled along with our best wolf howls when invited.

Geoff Berner then reprised his patented drunken klezmer-punk schtick, but not before also graciously signing the cleverly offbeat merchandise that he had on offer, albeit in plain old ballpoint. He had the coolest looking accordion-bedecked tee shirts for sale, for which I am now kicking myself for not buying.

By the time Geoff took to the stage, the dance floor was packed. And I mean dance floor in the truest sense of the word. This was not merely a place where people stood and bobbed their heads to the music. This was a place where people danced! Waltzed even, when called upon to do so. I saw Rae Spoon being carried around under the arm of a gigantic guy in a toque, and Kris Demeanor and Chantal Vitalis cutting a rug in fine folk festival tradition.

We all sang lustily along with chorus of the Official Theme Song for the 2010 Vancouver/Whistler Olympic Games ("the dead children were worth it!"), and we ignored Geoff's announcement that in lieu of an encore, the band would just drink with us. And despite the somewhat celebratory announcement made by the accordion-playing whiskey-swilling, half-German-dating rebel that the bar was now sold out of Jamieson's whiskey, we drank to Geoff Berner and his merry band of misfits in heartfelt spirit.

What a hell of a night.

I write my school report on "Why I Love My Jeans"

It's immediately evident to anybody who has ever met me that I am fashion-challenged. So naturally my first reaction, upon receiving the invitation to the press reception for the grand opening of Fashion Central, was panic. I had absolutely nothing appropriate to wear and suspected that jeans and a Radiohead tee shirt were not quite appropriate.

Ultimately curiosity bested my wardrobe deficiencies, and that is how I found myself swanning about Calgary's long-awaited high-end fashion hub at noon yesterday with a press package tucked under my arm and a glass of champagne in my hand.

Located right smack in the heart of downtown (corner of Stephen Avenue and First St SW), Fashion Central is comprised of three painstakingly renovated heritage buildings, which contain high end boutiques and cornerstone fashion-forward stores like Betsey Johnson and Murale beauty store, as well as the fabulously decadent deVille coffee shop.

I am definitely planning another excursion when several more of the stores open over the next few months, because this place is spectacular. Bear in mind that this statement comes from someone who is allergic to shopping, so you know that Fashion Central has got to be pretty special. The architecture is stunning - exposed brick and sandstone walls, hardwood floors through all three levels, and all-glass storefronts facing into a skylit atrium with a fabulous red staircase.

Upon arrival, I received my stylish little press package, filled with goodies like a 4GB nerd stick (black and purple), the requisite background information, a button (which I supplemented with a few more swiped from the basket at the reception table), and the most adorable pocket mirror crafted to look just like one of the Fashion Central buttons - lime green with white polka dots. I am such a sucker for that sort of thing.

I chatted a bit, then headed up the feature staircase, taking care not to pop any of the 17,000 helium-filled pink balloons, which had been tied to the newell post on the landing, as I ducked underneath them. I wandered into the stores, marvelling at the architecture, which granted each store a distinct shape and size, and chatted to a few of the shop owners who were obviously very pleased and proud to be setting up shop in such a premium location. I have to admit I found myself fantasizing about leasing one of the remaining vacant spaces, just to be able to immerse myself in beautiful surroundings every day. I could set up a desk there, very spare and chic with maybe just a really fabulous blue bowl at one end, where people could leave donations for the privilege of watching me peck away at my laptop. Or they could take me to deVille and buy me a cup of coffee.

The reception was catered by deVille, whom I was pleased to see have opened a sister location to the divine coffee shop housed a couple of blocks down in Arts Central. Not trusting myself to juggle a slurpy raw thing in addition to the glass of champagne that I helped myself to, I stayed clear of the oyster bar, and I gazed longingly at the vast array of hand-dipped chocolates on offer, telling myself they were simply too beautiful to eat. But I did accept a little sandwich, which I munched on while poking through the rest of the shops, leaving a trail of crumbs on the gleaming hardwood.

The ribbon cutting was saved for the actual grand opening, but the press types in attendance were treated to a few words by the area Alderman, a Downtown Association representative, and by David Neill, the man behind this and many more downtown revitalization projects, about the scale of this project.

After the polite clapping, I poked my head into Murale where I was greeted enthusiastically and ultimately introduced to an esthetician who offered to give me a mini make-over. Defences obliterated by the champagne, I agreed to let her powder and lipstick me. She complimented my lip shape, so we are now best friends. I even scored an eye cream sample and managed to escape without purchasing anything.

I can see Fashion Central as being a fun place for the Marthas to descend upon during the next Womanly Weekend. We could treat ourselves to some libations at deVille, get outfitted in some rock n' roll haberdashery at Betsey Johnson, perk up the girls with some new lingerie from Nu Form, and get fitted with some false eyelashes at Murale.

And then the Marthas would hit the town.

fun with dead people: Mary Roach's Stiff

I am sure I have already yammered on endlessly to most anybody who will listen about what a fascinating and enjoyable book this is. But if you are one of the unfortunate few who has so far escaped my enthusiastic blatherings about Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers by Mary Roach, allow me to back you into the corner for a few minutes and give you my elevator pitch while you search desperately for a means of escape.

Stiff is not only one of the most enthralling books I have read in a long time, but also one of the funniest. Which is not exactly what you would expect from a book about cadavers. But with this book, Roach joins the ranks of those science writers who have become personal heroes of mine with their ability to explain complex concepts in such a way that even a dolt like me can understand them.

I have always been fascinated by the workings of the body (you can't stumble through a Master's in Physiology without some level of enthusiasm), and have never been particularly squeamish about the processes of decomposition. But even if you are bothered by the engrossing details of decay or by the thought of injury analysis of the human wreckage that is sometimes required to piece together the details of an air crash, I guarantee that you will be fascinated by the lengthy history of body snatching for the purposes of human dissection, by bizarre tales of medical cannibalism, and by a litany of attempts at human head transplantation.

Roach looks at the use of cadavers in medical school anatomy classes and as practice tools for plastic surgeons, as volunteers in body farms to pinpoint decomposition times and factors for crime analysis, at the use of body parts in crash injury studies and in ballistics and bomb analyses, and she ponders the concept of the human soul and the issues that arise in brain death.

Who knew that dead people led such busy and intriguing lives?

Did I mention that Stiff is hilarious? Somehow Roach manages to bring real laugh out loud humour to the subject, while still treating the deceased with dignity and compassion.

Personally I cannot wait to read Mary Roach's other books - Spook: Science Tackles the Afterlife and Bonk: The Curious Coupling of Science and Sex.

we'll pour, we'll score, we'll fall flat on the floor

My only regret is that we never got to use this awesome dainties platter that we found in the cupboard. That and the fact that Paranormal Activity proved to be just plain lame and not one bit scary. Other than that the Martha weekend was an overwhelming success.

The cottage we rented was uncommonly lovely, nestled in a little wooded alcove in a suburb overlooking a golf course, which in turn overlooked a lake. Other than a weird hodgepodge of architecture on the landing leading into the loft bedroom, it was tastefully and comfortably appointed. There were books and games in every room and the owners even left a bottle of wine for us in the fridge. Or it could be that we were just in the wrong house.

We only left the cottage once, to go on a hike on Saturday afternoon, which turned into a bit of a cross country trek. One of us was not wearing socks inside her runners, and yet she was the Martha who led us across the golf course instead of following the road, and the only one who didn't bale and head back to solid ground once we started breaking through the snow crust and sinking in past our knees.

Fortunately there were bracing libations and hearty sustenance waiting for us back at the cabin.

Much arts and craftery was undertaken. Knitting, hat box decoupaging, collaging, and pen drawing with just a soupcon of paint chip art kept us out of the bars and around the kitchen table. You know the Marthas are becoming more mature when they replace dancing on tables with cutting up National Geographics at them.

But fear not, gentle readers, silly photos were still taken and will be forthcoming shortly.

While you are waiting, I would like to invite you over to New Canadian Modern, where you can read my latest article about some of the inventive ways in which some music collectives function. The Collective Good gives you a little bit of history, a little bit of social commentary, and a profile of an arts and music collective that's doing things right.

Tell me you don't want to read that!

muffins for my Marthas

I'm off on a Martha weekend! Holed up in a cabin in the woods with my looney friends, a scary movie or two, and way too much food and drink.

There will be giggles aplenty. At least until the ax murderer shows up.

Enjoy your weekend, my pretties. I'll let you know how I fared without any internet for two days.

near singularity

The dishwasher, which has always required a cautious little dance of precision button-pressing combined with a sort of door-rattling action in order to start, has recently upped the ante. It now insists upon a new and more complex series of button pushes to accompany the door-rattling before it will even consider starting. I fear that a demand for human sacrifice cannot be far away, but I am going to try to contain its thirst for blood to a goat sacrifice or two.

I suspect that the dishwasher has been communicating with the furnace humidifier while our backs have been turned. The steady leak dripping from the soldered join looks suspiciously conspiratorial. Buckets have been recruited.

So far I think the humans are still in charge of the house. I did after all manage to fix the garage door that refused to close this morning. But I am not taking any chances and I plan to leave at least one escape hatch open at all times. You know it's only a matter of time before they rise up and revolt.

the essence rare of retail therapy

Socks and lightbulbs are the lemmings of the personal consumption world. When they decide to commit suicide, it's never alone in a bedroom with a bottle of pills. No, socks and lightbulbs like to go out with mass cliff leapings. The minute you spot that first hole in your favourite puppy socks, you know that it won't be long before you are scrounging about in the sock drawer desperately searching for a mate to that last argyle.

Which is why I found myself sock shopping on album release day. I had planned to pick up a couple of new releases, I fully admit, but when Sears was practically giving socks away and I found myself walking out of the store with a sackful of socks and a mittful of money still clutched in my fist, well I had to spend it by the Best Before date, didn't I?

Five new pairs of socks, five new CDs. And a healthy dose of justification.

How have you been honing your self-justification skills lately?

For the record, if you have not yet picked up the new Eels album, End Times, I strongly advise you to run, don't walk, to the nearest record store to buy it this morning. It's that good. Here's a taste:

the Januaryists

I thought I was okay with it still being January. We are past the third Monday of January, so we should be over the hump of despair and coasting into the flat stretch of resignment. I have gotten rid of most of the considerable Christmas lard that I accumulated this year and am starting to feel fit again. And I have some projects lined up that have me pretty pumped.

I was pretty okay with it still being January.

And then I read the Calgary Folk Festival volunteer newsletter that landed in my inbox last week, complete with a link to this montage from last year's festival. I don't think I spotted myself (thank god for small mercies), but I am pretty sure I saw a fellow Record Tent volunteer shaking her groove thang. Now I am counting the sleeps till the Folk Festival again and watching the clock tick backwards.

Is there something that you just can't wait for?

people who do stuff

I was wandering through the Market Collective one weekend last fall, picking up a few handmade cards, feeling some scarves, when a table near the stage caught my attention. Behind the table, which was piled with gleaming jars of preserves and dotted with luscious ripe tomatoes, were two guys cheerfully offering samples of their hand-crafted salsa. Salsas with names like Ghandi in Sixty Seconds, Jon Bon Fire, and Screaming Hippie.

Naturally I was intrigued. So I sampled. And I was impressed. And then I thought, there's a good story here.

In fact, I have been finding that there are a lot of good stories amongst the inventive entrepreneurs who forge their own paths in this city. To celebrate the gumption and the inventiveness of entrepreneurs, I am writing a series focusing on some locals who are doing cool things with their small businesses. You will be able to read them at New Canadian Modern over the next few weeks.

I'd like to invite you to riffle through The Salsa Boys of Summer, the inaugural story in the series, which is now available for your reading pleasure.

Bring your appetite.

there's a song that will linger forever in our ears

It was my sister who first introduced me to the McGarrigles, back in the day when I used to invite myself over to her house on the weekends. I would luxuriate in the warmth of their kitchen, watching her bake muffins on many Sunday mornings, while the coffee brewed and CBC radio provided the sound track to our weekend.

And I would peruse their album collection, listening to Mike Oldfield and Genesis, Stringband and Kate and Anna McGarrigle.

Kate's death yesterday was not only a huge loss to Canadian music, but it felt like a personal loss of someone who opened my ears and who whet my appetite for all manner of Canadian music in the decades that followed.

Peace, Kate.

dear sir, I have a complaint

Evidently the third Monday of January has been named the most depressing day of the year.

Firstly, it's a Monday, obviously. Secondly, it's long enough after Christmas that all the seasonal bonhomie has worn off (although frankly, I thought that happened a lot sooner). The credit card bills are becoming a reality, and New Year's resolutions have either been ditched or are getting really tough to stick with. Oh yeah, and there's still another three months of winter to survive. Five if you live around here.

So, Happy Official Most Depressing Day of the Year!

We certainly have every excuse to wallow in self-pity today, but you know what, let's not. How about if we concentrate instead on what is good and precious in our lives and celebrate that? Let's look for the beauty and ignore the shit. And if you need a little help getting started, please watch this clip that the always stylish Ms Beth sent me the other day. I've been saving it up for a day just like today.

This man, who happens to be homeless, lets loose with the most powerful interpretation of Creep that I have ever heard. Move over Thom. Much as I love you, this man now owns your song.

Mustard sings Creep from Rex Kramer on Vimeo.