Thursday, July 05, 2007
Blues Fest Day 1 - Van Morrision's Cash Transaction
I can't get 30 people t pay $3.00 to see me. (A damning statement. Except I'm in Ottawa, Ontario. So, the truth has set me free.) So it was intrigued by the anthropology of it all when I went to see Van Morrison at the ottawa Blues Fest.
Officially, 35,000 people lined up against massive fencing to get in to see Van, the old songwriter/ singer. Executives, hicks, scenster kids, office hens, they were all there. Yuppies chatted on their cell phones. "The ticket building? Yeah. I'm lookign at it! Ok it's 7:15 pm, I'll call you back at 7:30 pm. Hopefully we'll be closer to the front of the line! I know..." Obviously, the experience of waiting out on the street was these people's triathelon. Their pilgrimage through the mountains. this was a big adventure to them. they were not at the mall, grocery store ordriving home to the suburbs. They seemed to all be saying to themselves, "Hold on Beth. You will survive." These people weren't here for Van Morrision, or evn his songs. They were here because someone, the media, the sponsors etc. told them to be. and because their neigbours were here. The mentality was: "I 'm keeping up with the Jones'. Oh and there happens to be a concert too."
Van Morrision started the show with about 5 thousand people tillwaiting to get in. One of the festival volunteers (a mix of men with piercing eyes and sunburns, high school kids and the occasional mentally challanged character) decided to herd everyone down to a secord door. The line fell apart like rats running for the last life raft. A swaty guy who'd obviously worked all day at the parts department of some auto centre hollered out, "This is a piss poor system!"
For my part I talked to a local rock and roll photographer (who has photographed every band in Ottawa, excet mine, and posted them on his blog) about his camera.
We burst through the doors, noone checking to see if we had the $50.00 tickets or not. I decided to head for the stage. it was time to wind, twist, push and needle my way through a sea of jean jackets, expensive hair cuts, recyclable wine glasses with glowing stems and collabable lawn chairs. Eventually the artery became plugged and I was caught like a heron in a fish net of humanity.
I looked around to see who's comapny I was in. There was a sporty bottle blonde with no idea and her beefy boyfriend decked out in an ugly maroon leather Queen's University jacket, complete with badges decreeing his Indian/Canadian heritage sewn on the back. There were a couple of women from Westbro village wearing Mountain Co Op Equipment everything and mathcing lassy dog shaed hair dye. A ueer rights activits who knows me, but decied to do me favour and snub me. to the left was a moltey crew of real hicks. Young guys of about 20 with more facial hair than their fathers, ball hats, joints, trashy bimbos and stinky cigarettes. all of them, all of it right up in my face.
I could see Van Morrision's white hat bogging in the distance. He didn't say a word to the crowd. He just cut from one song to the next. One office hen declared excitedly e listening to a greatest hits CD!" Actually it was like listening to a megamix of nostalgic puff that refused to come up for air.
People really got into as the night capped off with "Brown Eyed Girl" and "Gloria!" people sang along without knowing what they were saying. At the end, Morrision muttered, "A hand for the band" and walked off without another word. The band cugged to a stop. some local news persoanlity stumbled onto the stag with peeling makeup and declared, "you've just been a part of music histiry!!!!" The office hend ans old hippies all stared at themselfves and each other. "a part of history?! Who me?!" I wonderd "History? How? In what way?" I mean what these people had just experienced was paying top doolar to be herded into a human hellland to watch a tired Van Morrision toss an uninspired performance onstage like a rag he blew his nose on. a man who was there to do a job. The history we witnessed was witnessessing a successful bid at mass propaganda that a giant cash transaction is an excellent rock show. Everyone go getyouself another raffle ticket.
I can't get 30 people t pay $3.00 to see me. (A damning statement. Except I'm in Ottawa, Ontario. So, the truth has set me free.) So it was intrigued by the anthropology of it all when I went to see Van Morrison at the ottawa Blues Fest.
Officially, 35,000 people lined up against massive fencing to get in to see Van, the old songwriter/ singer. Executives, hicks, scenster kids, office hens, they were all there. Yuppies chatted on their cell phones. "The ticket building? Yeah. I'm lookign at it! Ok it's 7:15 pm, I'll call you back at 7:30 pm. Hopefully we'll be closer to the front of the line! I know..." Obviously, the experience of waiting out on the street was these people's triathelon. Their pilgrimage through the mountains. this was a big adventure to them. they were not at the mall, grocery store ordriving home to the suburbs. They seemed to all be saying to themselves, "Hold on Beth. You will survive." These people weren't here for Van Morrision, or evn his songs. They were here because someone, the media, the sponsors etc. told them to be. and because their neigbours were here. The mentality was: "I 'm keeping up with the Jones'. Oh and there happens to be a concert too."
Van Morrision started the show with about 5 thousand people tillwaiting to get in. One of the festival volunteers (a mix of men with piercing eyes and sunburns, high school kids and the occasional mentally challanged character) decided to herd everyone down to a secord door. The line fell apart like rats running for the last life raft. A swaty guy who'd obviously worked all day at the parts department of some auto centre hollered out, "This is a piss poor system!"
For my part I talked to a local rock and roll photographer (who has photographed every band in Ottawa, excet mine, and posted them on his blog) about his camera.
We burst through the doors, noone checking to see if we had the $50.00 tickets or not. I decided to head for the stage. it was time to wind, twist, push and needle my way through a sea of jean jackets, expensive hair cuts, recyclable wine glasses with glowing stems and collabable lawn chairs. Eventually the artery became plugged and I was caught like a heron in a fish net of humanity.
I looked around to see who's comapny I was in. There was a sporty bottle blonde with no idea and her beefy boyfriend decked out in an ugly maroon leather Queen's University jacket, complete with badges decreeing his Indian/Canadian heritage sewn on the back. There were a couple of women from Westbro village wearing Mountain Co Op Equipment everything and mathcing lassy dog shaed hair dye. A ueer rights activits who knows me, but decied to do me favour and snub me. to the left was a moltey crew of real hicks. Young guys of about 20 with more facial hair than their fathers, ball hats, joints, trashy bimbos and stinky cigarettes. all of them, all of it right up in my face.
I could see Van Morrision's white hat bogging in the distance. He didn't say a word to the crowd. He just cut from one song to the next. One office hen declared excitedly e listening to a greatest hits CD!" Actually it was like listening to a megamix of nostalgic puff that refused to come up for air.
People really got into as the night capped off with "Brown Eyed Girl" and "Gloria!" people sang along without knowing what they were saying. At the end, Morrision muttered, "A hand for the band" and walked off without another word. The band cugged to a stop. some local news persoanlity stumbled onto the stag with peeling makeup and declared, "you've just been a part of music histiry!!!!" The office hend ans old hippies all stared at themselfves and each other. "a part of history?! Who me?!" I wonderd "History? How? In what way?" I mean what these people had just experienced was paying top doolar to be herded into a human hellland to watch a tired Van Morrision toss an uninspired performance onstage like a rag he blew his nose on. a man who was there to do a job. The history we witnessed was witnessessing a successful bid at mass propaganda that a giant cash transaction is an excellent rock show. Everyone go getyouself another raffle ticket.
