july 5, 2003.

On Saturday morning, when the sun came out, I looked at my arms. Innocent of sunblock, already sporting a proto-burn from the non-optional Staff barbeque & our weekend with the Boy's family, I thought of the fact that I haven't had a tan in more than a decade. Besides, I thought lazily, it's Canso. This is just a teaser before the heavens open up. How hot can it get?

Well, pretty damn hot, as it turns out. That day I wore a tanktop & maternity shorts, already stunned by the fact that I could wear something less than 2 layers thick. The sun shone all day - a hot, Valley-worthy sun. I broiled. I baked like a clam at a beach party. My burn was nuclear red by sunset, uncomfortably hot and just hinting at the misery to come.

Then there were the bugs. Tenty's plot backed into a medium-sized strand of bushes, and both mornings and evenings were marked by ferocious incursions of biting insects in all shapes & sizes. This was another side effect of the sun; whereas in previous years we often spent hours amusing ourselves in the tent while it rained, this year I could barely hang out around Tenty for anything other than meals & sleep. What can I say, I'm easily annoyed by insects. I wouldn't last a second in the rainforests.

We were down the hill from the shower/toilets building, so we were able to get a good view of the line-up before charging up the hill for our plumbing fix. (The boys charged, I sauntered. I don't move quickly these days.) I found out early on that the lineups were almost always for the showers, and that I could breeze by a dozen women to use the flush toilets. That was pretty sweet. Dirk decided to take a shower this morning, while the Boy & I ate gorp & tried to figure out what we wanted to see. One innovation I'm not sure I liked was that the workshops now start at 11 rather than 10. Sure, hungover musicians complain less, but that's a whole hour chopped off the schedule. Still, it meant that we had lots of time to get our act together before the first workshop...

But Seriously

The headliner (Laura Smith) was late, so a completely befuddled Ian Janes was thrust into the limelight. "I don't know why I'm here," he said. "I'm not funny. I'm going to play a song about trying to pick up a girl...which is something that they sometimes find funny." He was right - he wasn't very funny at all. I felt kind of bad for him. Next up was Nathan Rogers, who I later discovered is the son of Stan Rogers. Young guy (younger than me!), with tattoos and a skater feel to his aura. He told us that he would sing a song by someone who was a genius or an idiot depending on who you asked: Adam Sandler. This sounds completely and utterly ridiculous, but I was totally charmed when he started singing "Lunchlady Land." Without Adam Sandler mugging & putting on ridiculous voices, it's a lovely song. It also helped that Nathan sounds very much like his father. He also sang a "Barrett's Privateers" parody about his uncle called "Garnet's Homemade Beer," which we were singing for days. The Arrogant Worms (i.e. the reason we were there) were very solid, catching our brains with a song called "New Car Smell" that compared love to new car smell, unnecessary surgery, a Keanu Reeves movie, and Bat Out of Hell (we, again, were giggling & singing it for days). Laura Smith told funny stories but sang serious songs, which I wasn't sure I liked but seemed to fit the theme perfectly.

Wooden Ships and Iron Men

We went for Dirk, and I can't say I remember very much about this workshop. JP Cormier was good, of course.

We took the next 2 hours off to make sausages & sit in the sun. Fair skies still seemed like a miracle at this point, and although the Boy asked if I'd put on sunblock, I was noncommittal. How long would our good fortune last? (Sigh.)

Concert: Nathan Rogers

We weren't supposed to see this; according to the schedule this'd finished a half-hour before and we were there to see the Arrogant Worms. But because this stage was running behind, we were able to hear 10 minutes of Nathan, including a startlingly powerful version of his father's "Northwest Passage," and a brief discussion of filk music. Since Dahmnait Doyle was next, we left quickly before inertia could turn to torture. (I feel bad for cutting her up, but she puts me to sleep - and not in a good way.)

Rural Roots

With the time we'd gained from the late stage, we were able to catch the last half of the roots country workshop. Very solid work (especially from Michael Jerome Browne, who I started to love), and a Murray McLauchlan song about farmers that had half the crowd singing along.

Blues Guitar Jam

I really loved the blues in high school, but my love slowly succumbed to disinterest in the face of live blues that seemed to consist of bloated power blues ballads, soulless Robert Johnson imitators and pass-the-stick solos that were nothing more than glorified wank-offs. The kind of blues I've found at StanFest for the last three years is the polar opposite of such naval-gazing crud; this is blues as the soundtrack of the folk, which is real to me. It is blues that rocks gently, blues that scorches occasionally, blues that winds around your brainstem and takes up permanent lodging in your emotions. This workshop - Harry Manx & Michael Pickett especially - restored my faith completely. I can't name a single song they played, but I enjoyed every second of it.

Kick it Up Dance-O-Ree

I was really looking forward to this workshop, as I so loved the Bill Hilly Band the night before & I loved Swamperella at their Mardi Gras dance. Unfortunately, we discovered quickly that Swamperella were not particularly comfortable with the quick-shot folk workshop format, and various members seemed really pissed off at the sound guys during an interminable sound check. By the time they were ready to go, much of our joy had leaked out soundlessly, and we sat quietly, waiting for them to redeem themselves. The Bill Hilly Band were pretty good, but most of my attention was not on them. I did enjoy the Stansong about the rabbit hunt, complete with mimed bunny ears.

By the time this workshop ended, we had a half-hour to go before the mainstage evening show which would start with the Arrogant Worms. It was decided that Dirk & I would buy our dinner from the stands at the top of the hill, while the Boy would build a vegetarian sandwich back at Tenty. (Note: our positive experiences with the hostels on the way down have convinced me that the next time we do this, we have to leave at least one day free before the festival so that we can make and freeze food for the weekend, instead of relying on our wallets.) Once again I was stunned by the price of fish and chips, but my doubts dissolved with the first hot fried mouthful. If I'm ever convicted of a crime punishable by death, I think that I want my last meal to be fish and chips from the Canso Lions Club. It is fucking good fish. (It is the fish of truth.) My only caveat is that I need to save it for the last night, because otherwise I'll eat it every night.

Anyway, we were well settled by the time the show started. The bugs were out in force with the setting of the sun, and I was starting to feel the pain of sunburn (not to mention a disturbing sensation from a delicate location - more on this later). It was still so warm that we could sit with a single jacket on (I later went to Tenty to change into overalls and completely unnecessary rubber boots, which at least kept the bugs mostly away). I was pretty happy, although the Boy was starting to drift off from too much sun.

The Arrogant Worms

They started cold, but gradually warmed up. J.P. Cormier came out to play on a few songs, and as they teased him about something, he crept up behind and licked a neck. "If you'll go up the hill after the show, you can visit J.P.'s booth: Be Licked by a Legend." That totally cracked me up.

This sounds bad, but I was totally bored by every other act that night. I amused myself by going back to Tenty & changing into warmer clothes, visiting the washroom to check if I was miscarrying or just sweating profusely, and going by the First Aid tent to use their big bottle of Aloe Vera on my worsening sunburn. After we'd heard Murray McLauchlin launch into the same song about thanking farmers that he'd performed 2 hours before, the Boy decided to go to bed. I went with him, thus missing Garnet Rogers & the Northern Lights (both of whom, according to Dirk, were awesome.) We pumped up the air mattress, singing Britpop songs for rhythm, and then kipped out in the suddenly-cold night. I wore a touque, thinking that it would get even colder.

I woke up at around 2 a.m. with one of the most vicious leg-cramps I'd ever experienced. Comes from walking up & down the frigging hill all day, I suspect. When that subsided, I lay awake in the chill and listened to night two of the Idiot Sing Along, completely unable to sleep. My face, my shoulders & arms, my upper chest & the tops of my thighs sang irritably, a long dirge based around the concept, "I told you to wear sunblock, idiot!" My bug bites itched like hell, and the ones in the patches of sunburn could not be scratched. My yeast infection of last week had begun to roar during the afternoon, and continued to scream at me as I lay listening to drunken guitar work. I couldn't find a comfortable position that supported my big belly & stayed away from human contact (all skin contact was torture at that point). I was, in a word, miserable.

Eventually, after taking off the touque and hearing the security force break up the Sing Along, I was able to sleep again. Good old pregnancy switch-off valve.