The following gibberish was originally intended as a stream of actual blogging. Like certain other things, its release was delayed.

Noisy Summer

Saturday Aug. 7th, 3:10 pm.

I have new neighbours next door. It’s like living next door to a perpetual aerobics class.

Is it too much for seemingly intelligent people to grasp that their excessively loud ‘music’ might disturb people around them? Why are people, no matter what they’re doing, so indifferent to other people? Clearly the world would work better if people were more considerate.

I’m reminded of this again when I’m on the ferry from Horseshoe Bay to Nanaimo.

Is it now some sort of tradition for louts to smoke pot on the outer deck? Never mind families with their kids. Never the rest of us. Again, anti-social behavior rules the day.

Is this what constitutes a liberal society? People must be accepted, regardless of how objectionable their behavior? They must be given space to do their thing, even if ‘their thing’ infringes on other people’s enjoyment of their own lives?

It occurs to me that in some ways, a traditional, conservative society is more co-operative, more oriented toward the collective good.

Good manners. Consideration of others. These things are denigrated in our society. In Vancouver, where idiots rant endlessly about the need for more fun, a handful of morons erode the collective respect that is necessary for a high-density population to live and work together successfully.

Is it a coincidence that a society like Japan, a heavily populated but geographically small country in which families often live in small apartments, is a society that also values politeness and courtesy more than our own?

I’m sick of this, and I’m going away.

***

6:30 pm

The leaky union out at the pumphouse is not leaking. I test the runoff taps. There’s lots of water in the pipes. Oh joy! No doubt it might start dripping later, after the pump is on and the pressure builds up. But that’s okay. If no one is here most of the time, then we’re not dripping water most of the time. Any leak that occurs is, as they would say on Star Trek, ‘within acceptable parameters.’

I really have to take a plumbing course. Some kind of entry level night class. One thing I’ve learned is that you can’t tighten too much. It’s an art. If you overtighten, you wreck the connection.

Kind of zen, that.

Sunday Aug. 8th, 11:00am

Get up early on Sunday morning, and decide on drive around the island. By chance I turn down small gravel road, and discover a beach access I have not yet explored.

Local property owners have posted innumerable ‘No Trespassing’ signs. Some fucker felled a bunch of trees along the access path to the beach.

I suspect that this is the site of the fabled Grande Hotel. The Grande was built atop a sheer rock cliff, and was the local hangout of most of the island's characters. There are legends of inebriated patrons wandering over the cliff on a dark night, but I'm not sure of their veracity.

Despite the unwelcoming signals, I persevere, and I find a superb stretch of walkable/climbable coast, with wonderful views.

The Grande seems to have been turned into a lodge/campground. Some guy in a Boston whaler, seemingly launched from the lodge, peers at me as I walk along the nearby shoreline. I am reminded of ‘Dr. No,’ when Bond and Ursula Andress are straffed by goons on a boat as they make their way along a Carribean beach toward Dr. No’s hideout.

3:30 pm

I’m not much on jazz guitarists. Frankly, I’ve scarcely listened to any of them. Obviously they’re virtuosos when compared to many of their rock counterparts, but I think the electric guitar was made for a bit of grit; the amplifier is part of the instrument.

I picked up a copy of ‘Birds of Fire,’ by John McLaughlin’s Mahavishnu Orchestra prior to heading over here. I’ve only heard McLaughlin on a couple of Miles Davis records, but he plays with a certain rock moxy. His eschews the prissy guitar tone that is the hallmark of some of his jazz cohorts, and he doesn’t shy away from The Riff.

The first thing that strikes me is the dual lead runs by Mclauchlin and violinist Jerry Goodman. Unbelievable how they synch some of these runs, but the tone begins to grate on me. A good idea, brilliantly executed, but slightly overplayed.

On the whole, though, I’m rather taken with the record. I will have to explore more McLauchlin. Bill Cobham is utterly masterful.

Sitting on an island....relaxing in the afternoon with some prog/rock/jazz fusion....looking forward to a nice drink....

I’ve become the Mule, circa 1998.

6:00pm

There was a sale at Roger’s Video at 15th and Oak last week. A whole bunch of VHS unloaded. I’m trying to build a small video library for the island, and so I picked up six movies, including ‘You Only Live Twice.’

Released in 1967, this was the film that soured Sean Connery on the Bond series. It was sprawling and over budget, and the filming went well past deadline.

The fact is, though, that any Connery Bond flick is a cut above anything else in the series. My main problem with YOLT is the admittedly absurd part where Bond is made to look Japanese.

Other than that, I quite like the movie. The setting is exotic, and the music is among the best of the series.

Roald Dahl wrote the screenplay. It has it’s moments, but it generally conforms to the Bond style. The first hour of the film rolls along beautifully. After that, it becomes a bit pedestrian.

The thing to keep in mind with the Bond movies is this: when they started the thing it 1962, they hit the jackpot. Connery was unkown at the time; the producers lucked out and got a first rate star. To use an hockey analogy, he’s a hall of fame player who’s been succeeded by a bunch of solid but unexhilarating journeymen.

But it’s not just that. The guy who directed three out of the first four Bond films, Terence Moore, was a well-heeled Englishmen of impeccible education and taste. He set the tone of the movies, giving the early ones an elegance and dry wit that is now lamentably absent. Composer John Barry created an incredible legacy. There were many others; editors, writers, and so on.

Getting all this talent in one place, at an (initially) affordable price, was a masterstroke for the series’ producers. The early Bond production lineups were like a hockey team of relative unknowns who become great, then move on as individuals to other things. If you think about it, it’s really no surprise that they couldn’t hold it together.

9:45pm

Unbelievable. I come to a gulf island to get away from noise and there’s huge party going on down the road, complete with loud music and a P.A. system.

Am I being filmed? Am I the unwitting star of some comedy series?

Aug. 9th, 2004

I’m working on a record album, and am aware that I have been the cause of some amusment to the handful of people who are awaiting the record’s release. It’s taking some time to complete.

I keep learning new things, and getting new ideas. In any case, the thing is done. I spent today working on it, laying down a couple of handdrum tracks, but this thing is basically finished.

The problem is, mixing is no mean feat. One of the biggest tasks is simply cleaning things up. You have to go through all the tracks and mute them when they’re not active. It takes forever.

This is the hard slogging that separates the pros from the pretenders in the word of recording engineers. Anyone who’s ever been in a studio is aware of the tedium of watching an engineer go track by track through the recording.

“What the fuck’s he doing?” you think to yourself, especially if you’re footing the bill. “Does it really need to take this long?”

When you try it yourself you realize that the guy in the studio is a lightspeed wizard who’s saving you about a billion man hours of sheer tedium.

I’ve found that I’ve been influenced by my contemporaries in recording as well. It’s a curious but enjoyable sensation to realize that other local musicians have more of an impact on your thinking than some hotshot rockstar.

It’s part of the process of a changing music scene. A kind of devolution is taking place.

Aug. 10/2004.

I’ve run out of overdubs. There’s nothing more I can possibly do. I’m finished with this, though I’m mindful of film director Anthony Harvey’s caveat regarding the creative process:

‘You’re never at peace.”

Lounged around for part of the day outside reading.

Noticed the headlines of the Vancouver Sun today. Something about the booming construction industry. Has everyone noticed that the Sun seems to be on some kind of campaign to convince everyone that the economy is in overdrive? These guys are little more than the P.R. wing of the B.C. Liberal party.

It’s all about Campbell. Low interest rates have nothing to do with booming real estate at all.

Aug. 11/2004

Went down to Victoria today. Took the scenic route through Saltair, Chemainus and Cowichan Bay. I advertantly came up that route a few weeks ago after attending a party of sorts on Saltspring Island. The sun had just gone down, and it was a beautiful drive.

Decided to try it again, this time in the morning. Nice, but I couldn’t recapture the majic.

Very busy in downtown Victoria. Meandered around a bit then went on a drive around the very scenic and soothing Victoria waterfront.

I’ve always liked Victoria. It’s various rocky outcrops, complete with tan grass, remind me of a few other places in the world. Edinburgh, Auckland and parts of California come to mind.

Met up with my friend Gene, who pointed out a neat little music shop on Fan Tan Alley. Will have to go back.

Surprisingly non-aggravating on the highways. Compared to the endless motoronic displays around Vancouver this is the height of civilized society.

Aug. 12/2004

Everytime I come over here something goes wrong. Today was the day. First the hose came out of the rainbarrel as I was using it, giving me an unexpected shower as I struggled to fit it back in.

I managed to (I think) fix the outhouse door, which was hanging from one hinge. The other was attached to a rotting 2X4 that disintegrated. Water supply from well seems close to depleted. Have been struggling with a dripping pumphouse union all year. Might be a factor, but I don’t think it’s the cause of the dryish well.

Tried yet another approach to sealing it. No luck.

Arrrgghhh!

Aug. 13/04

Fairly idyllic day. Nice long walk in morning. Early enough to avoid crowds except one intgriguing older woman who I’ve seen around here before. She acknowledged me on the beach, which is more than I can say for the indifferent tourists currently over-running the place.

Did some more mixing clean up. Have to sort out all the effects plug-ins so I can bounce the mixes. I’ve always liked a dry sound, but you need things like compression and reverb more than I ever realized. The ability to apply these things in the right amounts is another of the chef-like skills recording engineers must possess.

I seriously doubt that home recording will ever rob engineers of their jobs. If anything, it will create more demand and appreciation for their work.

No one is going to like this record. I’m convinced of that. And why finish it anyway? Who’s ever going to hear it? I may as well just put it away and keep working on it forever.

Lounged around outside reading and listening to Charlie Parker for a while. In the late afternoon I went to a less crowded (ie. I was the only one around) part of the island and went for a dip. Great big surf, and a nice sloping pocket of sandstone. Very warm water. Unbelievable. I didn’t want to come out.

Evening wears on. Tiresome olympic ceremony on television. I’ve run out of movies.

Aug. 14/04

Well, that’s it. When this week started it seemed to stretch eternally in front of me. Now it’s done.

Nice walk this morning over a particularly rocky stretch of coast. Saw this incredible staircase built down a cliff.

Did a bit more mixing and overdubbing. Now I’m really finished.

Saw ‘Grandma’ Vera at the museum. An old friend of my dad’s, she used to own an orange cat named ‘Charlie,’ who inspired a song. Felt good to do see her; she was in high spirits as usual. Good spirits must clearly be good for one’s health. That’s a lesson I’m trying to learn. Went for a swim down by our place, despite crowds (ie. there were appx. 10 people around). Refreshing, though not as exhilarating as yesterday.


************************


Noisy Summer Part II

Aug. 19/04.

Went home for four days, now I’m back by chance. The opportunity arose and I took it. Very glad to be here. A great trip over on the ferry, and now time to relax with a DVD of ‘Foyle’s War,’ a British mini-series I’ve becoming seriously addicted to.

Aug. 20.04

Okay, I admit it, I’m still mixing the bloody record. But I swear I’m almost done.

Watching some Olympic coverage on television while mixing. It appears that Marnie McBean has adopted the Greg Millen style of sports commentary. I pity Chris Cuthbert, who must be wondering while he’s always the one to get paired with the motormouth.

Aug. 21.04

A bit more mixing, but seriously, it’s done. More Olympics. Sprinting trials. I have a friend whose brother became a trainer to athletes a few years ago.

His day job?

Pharmacist.

Rainy day today. Good. It will fill the rain barrels. Down at the beach the wind is coming up from the southeast. Low pressure system. Counterclockwise. Still beautiful. Went to a place on the island where I could watch the waves hitting the rocks and spraying all over the place.

Back at the cabin, things are as idyllic in rain as in sun.

“Rain is different in the country,” said a former barber of mine.
Yes it is.

Only one problem; I’ve been caught unawares alcholol-wise. I’ve got lager, limes and vodka, but it’s clearly a whiskey and ale kind of day.

Aug. 22.04

Up very early today to go home. I rather dread going home, which is not good. There will be more rave music next door, and I will run the risk of turning into what Super Robertson would call a ‘rage hero.’

Have the Olympics on while I clean the place up. More rowing.

Marnie seems particularly interested the anguished facial expressions worn by rowers at the end of the races. She likens one exhausted visage to “that painting ‘The Screamer.’”

Hmmm.

Sounds like a title dreamed up by some art grad-turned porn director.

Aug. 23.04

How about that. ‘The Screamer’ has been stolen from a gallery in Oslo.

Back at the games, we have some rather disappointing rowing results.

The Canadian Olympic Committee adopted tougher standards for athletes to get to the games this time. I can remember the rowing coach commenting that he thought this was good, that only the elite athletes should be going. Presumably he felt his team was included in this category.

Perhaps he’ll be a little more charitable next time.

Frankly, Marnie McBean should get out of the booth and into a boat. My previous smartass comments notwithstanding, her and Kathleen Heddle were one of the best athletic teams this country has ever produced in any sport.

Aug. 24.04

Home now. Olympics going full bore. The best comment on the Feliecien incident comes the very same day via blog from Paul Wells of MacLeans:

“Tomorrow’s National Post editorial: Perdita Felicien fell down because Chretien kept Canada out of Iraq.”

Aug. 25.04

Much handwringing at this point over the usual disappointing medal totals. “We must provide more funding, and specialize in certain sports,” say the experts.

Actually we already do specialize in certain sports. The thing is, most of them are part of the winter games.

A quick review of the medal totals of the past three winter Olympics shows that Canada finished in 5th, 4th and 6th place respectively at Salt Lake City, Nagano and Lillehammer. In 1998, remembered by most as the year in which we didn’t win in hockey, we actually won more medals than the U.S.A.

If it weren’t for pesky little Norway, and their ability to succeed in the five dozen or so Olympic varations of cross-country skiing, we’d have a real shot at the top three.

We need a few more Canada-friendly sports in the winter games. A few more curling-like events. Maybe synchronized snowboarding. Or perhaps a Zamboni competition; who can flood the ice the fastest. Extra points for planting your national currency at centre ice.

Aug. 28.04.

From an article on Adam Van Kouverden in the Globe and Mail.

“What really hurts the amateur athlete, and rubs off on him, Mr. Oldershaw (Van Kouverden’s coach) said, is "the real apathy. I felt it myself, when I was an athlete. People would ask me what I did, and when I told them, they'd say, 'But what do you really do?' "

Sounds like being a musician.

In many respects, the Olympic athlete and the unsigned musician are a lot alike. Toiling in fields or genres that are sometimes obscure, their efforts ignored in favour of those of a handful of superstars. Is a centre on a N.F.L. team really a better athlete than a kayaker? Is a guy who can slug a baseball in the major leagues really a better athlete than a mountain biker? Especially when the former is allowed to dope up and the latter is not.

I’ll admit I’ve watched a lot of the Olympics this year. I always watch them. What I like the best about them is the unknown athelete who trains hard and grabs a medal. They’ll go back to an ‘ordinary’ life afterwards, but they will have known some real glory, some real recognition. It’s Warhol’s 15 minutes of fame syndrome.

Sept. 19th, 2004.

Today I took off back to Gabriola. Last weekend of summer. My neighbours back home have quietened down somewhat (though now that I write this I imagine they’ll fire the rave music back up).

Perhaps I judged them too harshly.

All’s well that ends well.

For now.

And now into the Autumn.