Entry #23: I Met Tim Rice-Oxley From Keane and it was Pretty Damn Cool You Guys

I noticed today that my last post dates awhile back. The past three weeks have been fairly busy—Paris, Barcelona, London and endless bus rides in between (Barcelona to London= smelly 27 hour bus. Hell). I’ll write about that soon. But something more noteworthy happened today that I want to write down before I forget.

Which band has influenced and affected me the most is hardly even a question. Anyone who knows me a bit—particularly if you knew me between the beautiful (ha) ages of 13 and 16—knows about my unconditional fandom for the English piano-pop group Keane. My discovering of this band is largely responsible for many important facets of my life, the most important being my decision to play the piano.

Keane is dabomb.

someone I met in real actual life

Due to outlandish and amazing circumstances, I got the chance to spend an hour with Keane’s pianist and songwriter, Tim Rice-Oxley. But before I delve into the details, I want to list some of the many memories I have associated with the band. Here are just a few, off the top of my head:

1. The time I saw them live in Montreal with my sister Alice, my mum and my friend Kelly. It was the pinnacle of my fourteen year-old existence. Kelly had brought a Canadian flag and the singer took it from us and sang with it onstage. We may or may not have thrown rubber animals on stage (okay, we did).
2. There was a time when I was dedicated to writing novels longhand (ouf). I recall writing a chapter and listening to Hopes and Fears seven consecutive times. Six years later, still can’t tire of it.
3. I spent a lot—a lot—of time on the Keane forum, gossiping and gushing about the band with fans from all around the world. On the summer I turned fifteen, I boarded a train from Montreal to visit my Keane correspondent in New Jersey. We’d never met before, but we’d exchanged mixed CDs.
4. She and I went out for a drive and were so engrossed in singing along to Keane that we rear-ended another car.
5. The time I fancied myself a stop-motion animator so I could enter their video-making competition (see here).
6. The time I made collaboration music videos to their music with fans from around the world (see here and here).

Long story short: I put a lot of time and energy into loving these guys.

Anyway, so when Tim advertised a contest for young songwriters—the prize being an hour-long mentoring session with him—it would have been a crime not to try for it. I am young and song-writing. I wrote “Pathways” the day before the deadline, recorded it over at my friend Richie’s place, and tried not to get my hopes up too much.

When I found out I’d been selected… I had to lie face-down on the carpet for a while before I could explain to my friend why I was having a spontaneous meltdown. It was too surreal.

This week's The Observer

The first and last time I'll ever be mentioned in the same article as Tim Rice-Oxley

The meeting was in Battle, East Sussex. I was ridiculously early. I tried to prep myself for what was about to occur, without much success. When Tim walked through the door, I immediately felt that some cruel spectre had injected 500mgs of stupid into my veins.

“Is there someone in the loo?” he asked, innocuously enough.

“Hahahahahahahaha… no…” I responded, ever eloquent.

The hour went by very quickly. Tim is incredibly good looking and even more so in person. I was nervous—I can’t even think of any other event in my life wherein I was even in the neighbourhood of how anxious I felt this morning.

Notable moments from the session:

-Making small talk with the person WHO SHAPED MY WHOLE LIFE HOLY SHIT.

-Receiving honest criticism about my work (its full potential is undermined by it being under-produced and under-worked)

-Discussing the puzzlingly wide market for weird erotic lit (don’t ask)

-Listening to Tim PLAY MY SONG (WOW SNIFF DEAD) (it sounds much better when he does it)

When he tried to explain what he felt was wrong with my chorus, he struggled to find some words.

“There’s a great lead-up… but it’s like you’re dangling a carrot of…”

“A carrot of disappointment?” I tried to be helpful.

He laughed. “I didn’t say that.”

He had two pages of notes on my song. He is the sweetest.

Things that actually came from Tim’s mouth during the session:

“You have an amazing voice.”

“The melody of your pre-chorus is beautiful and perfect. I wish I’d written that.”

WHAT. WHAT WHAT WHAT WHAT

I just want to lie in my bed and sob. My feet might not touch the ground for days. My ego is basically Hindenburg pre-explosion.

Later in the evening, there was a Q & A session with promoters (Melting Vinyl and BBC Introducing). They explained how to make it as a starting musician/band in this day and age—that is, an era where everything is done via Internet and music is expected to be free. They gave some pretty solid advice for bands who already have an established fan base (not me). Still, there was a good takeaway message: get out and play. Play, and make sure to really connect with those who want to listen.

I went back to see Tim after the Q & A to thank him. He wished me luck and told me to send him my new stuff. He told me Keane likely wouldn’t be touring for a while… but that with any luck Mt. Desolation, his other band, might be playing a few shows soon. I mostly nodded my head like an idiot while drowning in those scintillating blue eyes.

I am absolutely exhausted and uplifted. I want to do today all over again. 

Pics coming soon.

NB I didn't take any of these pictures. 

Entry #22: Scotland is Amazing and You Should Go

It’s impossible for me to recall, now, what preconceived ideas I had about Scotland prior to my arrival a fortnight ago. I didn’t know much about it, but I was determined to live in England. For some reason, I had dismissed Ireland and Scotland early on as candidates. Something about the cold, the difficult dialect and rumours of “beer pressure” (I’m not very good at drinking).

This causes a slight disturbance in my plans, because I’ve kinda sorta fallen in love. My sweetheart is the soft, undulating glens... the grey lochs... the stratus shrouding the tips of mountains. I may never have known so many shades of green. Oh, Caledonia!

There is so much to clamour about. I'm not sure where to begin.

A little over a week ago, before the fateful vote, I decided that if I were to see some of the Highlands, I should probably invest and do it in the proper touristy way.  I decided to book a three-day tour with MacBackpackers, a youth-geared organization, that would take us up and around the Isle of Skye, making stops for stops like Loch Ness, Culloden and Glen Coe. It was probably twice as expensive as doing it on my own would've been, but as a history-loving liberal arts graduate, it was a no-brainer.

It was the right decision. The landscape is absolutely heart-capturing. Unfortunately, my camera decided to die forever while I was on my way to Edinburgh (die die. It's not battery life. It will never rouse again) so I couldn't take any pictures. Luckily, my fellow backpackers were sympathetic and allowed me to showcase some of their pictures.

Here are some pretty pictures of the trip taken by Wing Ho Chong:

Glen Coe

Climbing up to the Old Man of Storr

I don't even know where this was, but the clouds were pretty cool mates.

And a couple from fellow Canadian Kassy Pointer:

Pretty sure this is in Glen Coe. That's Kassy posing. Darn cuteness!

I included this one of me walking in Faerie Glen so you know I ain't lyin'

Along the way, we were regaled with various bits of Scottish history and folklore which concerned the sights before us. Though I love myths and fairy tales, I think my favourite one was non-fictional: the story of Flora MacDonald and how she helped the Scottish king escape from England's government forces.

Brief backstory: The year was 1746. There had been a long-waging war between the English and Scottish because the English king, who ruled over both countries, was not the legitimate heir to the throne. The true heir had been exiled, and his offspring Prince Charlie was actually born in Rome. However, he led an uprising- a group of Scot rebels known as the Jacobites- to overthrow the illegitimate king.

For a while, it seemed like they had good chances. Unfortunately, Bonnie Prince Charlie was more brawn than brain, and a succession of not-so-smart directives led to the loss of an important battle at Culloden, dispelled the Jacobites and put a heavy price on his head.

He had to escape. Flora, a wealthy Scot's niece living on the Isle of Skye, agreed to help him in his evasion. She hatched a plan.

"You'll have to dress up as a woman," she ordered.

Prince Charlie was appalled. He was a king. A king!

But the English were coming, and they wanted his head. So he donned on of Flora's dresses, and a reddish wig, and lipstick (so the story goes) and embarked with Flora on the ferry to Ireland.

Of course, the English were checking for Charlie on all the outgoing boats, and this one was no exception. After checking Flora's identity, they turned to the disguised Prince.
"Who're you?" they barked.

Panicked, the prince made an unintelligible high-pitched sound.

"Ma'am, we asked you a question."

Again, only a squeaky emission.

Just as the guards were about to seize this mysterious red-headed creature, Flora stepped in.

"She's my maid," she declared. "She's Irish. She's quite dim and she only speaks Gaelic."
Charlie squeaked encouragingly.

And that's how Prince Charlie got out of the English soldiers' grasp and safely to the shores of Ireland. Flora Macdonald was later arrested, but she is remembered for her quick wit in smuggling Charlie, effectively saving his life.
Just one of the great stories I heard on the tour.

Funny things have a tendency of happening to you when you're traveling alone. Especially when you're staying in hostels. The one I stayed at in Edinburgh, called Edinburgh Backpackers, did not at first seem immensely promising. It had something like eight flights of stairs, no real communal area, and mediocre dorms (that I shared with 13 others). When I finally reached my bed on the Sunday night, I was not in the best condition. I'd spent most of the day in a minibus, driving down from Skye, and had had more than my fair share of the bottle of Scotch that had been passed around between us. All I wanted to do was bury my face into my pillow, hibernate and make beluga-like moaning sounds. Preferring not to embarrass myself in such a way in front of 13 strangers, however, I had no choice but to keep it together.

As it turns out, there were a lot of musicians staying in the hotel that night. After playing duets and having tea with a friendly fella who I found in the tiny lounge, I returned to my dorm. It was occupied by an all-male South African choir group, who were heckling a couple of the girls. When they saw my ukulele, they exploded with excitement. "Play something!" they insisted.

For the next hour, my life might have been an outtake of Glee. Whatever I played, they joined in, beatboxing, harmonizing, throwing in doo-ops and making any sound I produced sound like something from a musical. It was surreal.
If you're interested in checking them out, they're called  So Soweto Encha and they're really something else.

Anywho, I had a quiet last few days in Glasgow, trying to lay low and not spend too much. Something I really like about Glasgow is that you can set off in any direction and find a park within minutes. I love parks. They're so therapeutic. I also watched some episodes of Friends for the first time (whaaaat? I know).

There's so much more to tell, but all I can say for now is to put Scotland on your travel list. You won't regret it.

Anyway, I'm currently on my 20-hour bus journey from Glasgow to Paris... Meeting a friend and staying in hotel for a few days. My first time out of the UK since June!

And after Paris? I have no plans... We'll just see what happens!

Love to all of you xoxo

Entry #21: Aye! Or Naw?

Yesterday, whilst meandering in the streets of Glasgow, I came upon a large demonstration in St. George Square. That's neither here nor there: since arriving in Scotland, I cannot walk down the street without being pelted by stickers, flyers, and patriotic excitement. I now have enough pamphlets and booklets to kickstart my own referendum kiosk. The city is (more than) a wee bit agitated.

If I expected the demonstration to be a sober affair, I was pleasantly surprised. The man animating the YES crowd was more of a comedian than a politician, elucidating responses from demonstrators by throwing out catch-phrases.

"No-tory-" he would begin-

"US!" the crowd would shout in return. A clever reference to the Scottish disapproval of a Tory government at Westminster.

After screaming back and forth for a while, he launched into a song about [Alistair] Darling's "eyebrows of mass destruction". Directly following was Scotland's National Anthem, which everyone chanted with much enthousiasm.

I have read a lot about the referendum, and have tried my best to inform myself about it in the past week-by reading flyers, asking questions to strangers, and immersing myself in a unfamiliar but friendly city.

When people I'm interrogating learn I'm from Quebec, they usually roll their eyes. They've heard enough about Quebec. The situation is not the same. And I must say, after a lot of reading and thinking, that the issue is very different indeed.

Let me assert: I do not support the separation of Quebec from Canada. I have never supported this. Not because this political standing is without valid points, but because I believe, at heart, that it is motivated by a racist, hateful and supremacist foundation. 

However, if I were in any power to influence the Scotland independence vote, I would say aye.

Scotland's population is a little over 5 million- less than 8% of the United Kingdom's total population. Their vote, though not redundant, is not nearly significant enough to sway the verdict of a Westminster electoral campaign. In fact, in the last federal election, less than 40% of Scots voted at all. No doubt that those who didn't felt it was obsolete, and can you blame them?

"But... isn't Scotland already its own country?" I ask a protester, because I know nothing about anything. I mean, it does have its own prime minister.

"Yes- but ultimately financial and political decisions are made in London," he replies, not offended by my ignorance. "The truth is that Scotland has different needs and a different agenda than most people in Southern England. We have no jobs. Too many people are hungry. The education system is suffering. It's frustrating to have a government who chooses to invest in nuclear weapons. If we were in control of our own affairs, we could focus on issues that affect us directly."

He emphasizes that he doesn't dislike or resent the English. "We jest have a different reality than them."

I ask if they expect to have a good alliance with the UK if they do separate.

"I hope so. I mean, I think they might be angry at first, but they'll get it. And we can keep up business trades and alliances."

To me, that sounds overconfident. Kind of like a son who demands emancipation from his family but comes home to cook meals and do his laundry. Nevertheless, perhaps the benefits outweigh the price. It's impossible to tell.

For the sake of neutrality, I also talked to a lot of NO voters. Although most of them are less overt about their political standing. The first man I talked to was a Scottish shopkeeper. When I brought up the subject, he shook his head.

"Scotland is already struggling financially," he said. "I'm scared this'd just push her over the edge."

He acknowledged that the Tory government was not so representative. "We have our differences," he said. "But it's better to deal with the devil you know, than the one you don't."

NO protesters

JK Rowling, partisan of the NO party, released a statement to back up her standing. "All the major political parties are currently wooing us with offers of extra powers, keen to keep Scotland happy... I doubt whether we will ever have been more popular, or in a better position to dictate terms, than if we vote to stay."

Some of the NO arguments in brief: 

1. Scotland cannot keep the pound and will have to develop its own currency
2. The financial risk of separating is too great
3. Pensions will be at risk. Family allowances will be at risk.
4. UK pride
5. Scotland will have more say in UK politics because the UK does not want to lose them

There are many more, but these are the most significant from what I can gather.

The vote is today! Me and G (I know it's G and I, but Me and G sounds cooler) went to the polling station. It was kind of quiet, but the excitement was tangible.

"For the first time in a long time, I'm excited about voting," she said. 

To quote one of G's referendum post on Facebook: "It's like those feckin annoying motivational quotes that some eejit probably has tattooed on their arse: 'if you always do what you've always done, you'll always get what you've always had'".

I'm excited. Are you excited? I'm excited. Aaaahh.

Entry #20: Scotland at Last!

After a last few days in Devon that can only be described as turbulent, I have effectively waved goodbye to everything I knew in the UK and journeyed up the island. Writing to you from Glasgow!

Since I've known my plans for a few weeks now, you might think I'd be prepared for this move. You might think I'd be ready.

But if you know me, you know better. As far as organization goes, I'm afraid I could not be any worse.

If you're me, you wake up early because you haven't packed a single thing. After looking around the room at all there needs to be done, you promptly return to bed for another hour in despair.

If you're me, you want to bring all 16 books you have acquired over the summer, but have limited space and muscular power. You must donate at least 11.

If you're me, you finally half-heartedly begin to pack all your worldly possessions, hoping that your broken suitcase might last a final trip (the seam beneath the zipper has unraveled halfway around the perimeter, leaving a gaping mouth even when the suitcase is zipped up).

If you're me, you have no choice but to arrive at the inescapable conclusion that it will not.

If you're me, you run around Sidmouth on a brief goodbye tour and steel yourself to Not Under Any Circumstance Cry.

(But If you're me, you cry anyway. Just a bit).

Then, If you're me, you have thirty minutes to purchase a new-old suitcase, re-pack all of your belongings, and catch the coach out of town. Success!

Finally, at 4PM, I arrived in Bristol, lugging my new-old suitcase that had already broken (the long plastic handle simply pulled out of the suitcase, leaving two holes in the top and forcing me to drag it by the short cloth handle). I wanted badly to visit Bristol, but was impeded by this new-old monstrosity. There was nowhere for me to store it,and I couldn't drag it many distances. It's heavier than me, folks.

I had breakfast (long, long overdue) at a place called the Blue Pig Cafe. The man behind the counter was a Russian pastor, who took a liking to me, gave me a free sandwich, discussed the difficulties of construing a polyglot service, and blessed me on my journey.

I had a six-hour stopover,so I sat by a fountain of Neptune (Poseidon, not the planet) and cracked open my book, The God of Small Things. I had been reading for about five minutes when I glanced across the plaza and saw someone else reading the same book.

It's not that much of a coincidence- it did win the Booker Prize in 97- but still. That was almost 20 years ago. If you're me, you want to go rejoice over this coincidence.

And thus I had very pleasant company until my megabus arrived, playing ukulele and reciting lines from Bright Eyes monologues (I thought I was alone, guys).

I took a bus with beds! Bunk beds! Sort of like the Knight Bus, except without the disembodied head. It was cold, and not particularly comfortable, but I didn't mind because I was excited.

The next morning we pulled into overcast Glasgow, where my host kindly picked up my zombified self from the station and led me back to her flat. She has a kitty and a spacious, colourful apartment- such a stark contrast to my gloomy digs in Sidmouth! I am well.

Yesterday I decided to go to Pollok Park. It was 6K away, but I don't have a bus card yet, so I walked. The weather was beautiful. The leaves are crunchy and there are still blackberries in the bushes. There was an art museum (contaning Zola and even a Cezanne) amidst fields of Highland Cattle. Who came up with this idea? I like it.

Pollok Park

They're fluffy! and brown! and they can run!

this is a tapestry with 20+ bible stories on it. It used to be for teaching. It's over 1000 years old.

ancient pooch

this made me very sad.

Excited to see more! 

 

 

Shoutout to Lynn and Gemma for their kindness!

Entry #19: For Lack of a Better Post, Here Are Some Pictures

Things are good in ole Sidmouth, nothing fresh to report. Starting to get itchy to be on the road! Here are some pictures I found on my camera, mostly from that time I went for a hike, got lost and wound up at the Donkey Sanctuary.

Folk Fest '14

                                  

Folk Fest '14

jest a pair of asses

beware of dangerous animals

windy beach hiker selfie yaya

Blog #18: Crash Course in Correct Conduct

Like any animal, humans are born with a set of instincts- essentially an internal survival guide detailing what one is to do in case of fire (run), encountering a dangerous predator (run) or engaging with an attractive other (mate). Unfortunately, human life is very complex and demands acquiescence of a larger set of rules- also known as social mores- to which one should abide for the optimal functioning of a community. These are not in-born. Someone- mom- dad- sister, brother- guardian- must essentially teach us how to live.

Or, at the very least, function in society in a way that is sustainable.

For those who have the misfortune of somehow having missed this social inauguration, I come bearing a few tips.

Let us make use of the hypothetical. Say you are an eighty year-old man and you come across a young woman sitting alone on a bench. Do you:

•  a)      Say hello
• b)      Have a seat next to her (despite three adjacent free benches) and ask her questions about her nationality, age, work and living conditions
• c)      Ask her on a date
• d)     Invite her to move in with you (after all, you have two bedrooms and a big kitchen!)
• e)      Force a slip of paper with your phone number into her hand
• f)       Tell her you will go looking for her in the local coffeeshops
• g)      All of the above

A - Is perfectly acceptable. It is polite and friendly to greet someone with whom you cross paths, and can often brighten the day if done appropriately.

B – Is okay. If this lady is living in a small town full of old people, she probably has a similar encounter at least three times per day.

C – Don’t. You’re eighty. You’re missing a fair share of upper teeth. Chase may arguably be in a man’s nature, but this is an exemplary situation where this “nature” should be restrained. She, in all likelihood, does not want to date you.

D – For God’s sake, don’t.

E – Go directly to the Beyond Help subdivision.

F – Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200.

G – You have demonstrated in six simple steps how to alienate another human being. Please take a moment to reflect and potentially refine this strategy.

Humans are wont to interact with each other. Argument, war, murder and all nasty intermingling is often the result of social or cultural misunderstanding. Is there something to be done for those who appear not to understand the fundamental rules of public politeness? Taken to the furthest level, it may be as important as knowing not to put one’s hand in the fire or to run from rhinos.

Entry #17: Festival Folly (This is Hour 65)

Why is it that exciting things are more prone to happen when one is deprived of all creature comforts? What a week.

Cutback to last Saturday: the Sidmouth Folk Festival, the biggest annual folk festival in Britain (I'm told) comes barging into the sleepy town. Suddenly, the population triples: old men donning rainbow-print wool pants can be seen buying chocolate and ale at Tesco's; the promenade is burgeoning with youth activity and police arrests; impromptu musical phenomena comprised of any instrument- ranging from harmonicas to rubbish bins- band and disband in the streets. The demographic is altered dramatically, shifting from elderly shufflers to bright-eyed hippie girls. Everyone- everyone- is wearing flower crowns. The noise and bustle begins around ten in the morning and ends in the wee hours of night. The Sidmouth employees are easy to spot. They're the ones plodding up and down the lanes, wearing wrinkled uniforms, clutching their caffeinated drinks like an old man his walking stick.

While I wish I could have partaken in the clamor and celebration, I faced the week with bitter, tired dread. Dinner at the hotel stayed steady and quiet-most guests preferring a night out on the town to a three-course meal- but the coffee shop practically exploded.

The shop is divided into two parts: the café area, where clients can sit to eat and drink, and the shop. I am not the choice waitress (I am told that my service is so straightforward that it is almost rude, which is reduced to my being Canadian) so I run the till. The "fast food" we sell- in the sense that it is pret-à-manger- consists of pasties, pastries and pies. In case these words are unfamiliar: pasties are small bundles of dough, often flaky, filled with something savoury (like steak or cheese); pie does not refer to any of the apple or cherry variety but as single-serving chicken or beef pie.  Most of what I did for six to eight hours at a time is set up the pasties, pastries and pies for display, sell them, and microwave them if desired. Over the course of the week, I've endured enough radioactive waves to make a new-age mother faint in horror. There was not a moment of calm. People poured in and pushed past each other, forgetting their manners in their burning desire for a soggy sausage roll (that'll be £2.25, thank you very much). As soon as I could manage to escape out the door and into the street, I had to pause 50 yards down to catch a breath of fresh air.

But staggering out of the shop was only the first half- I still had to be cheery and presentable at dinner whether or not I'd just spent the last eight hours being told off. I did my best, working straight through from 9AM-8:30PM on several days, but I have little choice in conceding that I am not cut out for this kind of schedule.

Despite all this work madness, I did manage to go out and see some of the festival. I made friends with Australians. On Wednesday night I was walking down the street just after 10pm when I was drawn over by this band of amazing musicians who appeared to be improvising in incredible syncretism. There was a lead fiddle, a ukulele, a guitar, a tambourine and a one-string bass box (?). I had never heard such a deep, textured sound from a street group. What's more, they all seemed miles away, eyes closed, nearly afloat on the melody.

I stood watching for a while, when someone with a drinks cart offered me free coffee. Who can refuse free coffee? Even when it's 10pm? Sheesh. I accepted, and learned they were a travelling Christian organization in town for the folk festival to play music and raise money. What ensued was a two-hour discussion on whether some teachings of the Bible might be based on the socio-cultural norms of the time and whether it was reasonable to say that some could be dismissed as outdated in this day and age (no prizes for guessing which side I was on). But it was lovely to have a strong, passionate discussion, which I find often leaves me very buzzed. I didn't sleep that night, and clocked in another 10 hours the next day.

By the time Friday night rolled around, marking the end of the festival, my café coworkers and I were only too willing to celebrate the end. Tequila shots may or may not have been consumed. Tipsy talks concerning David Hume perhaps occurred (I don't go looking for philosophy. It finds me). A frigid midnight swim in the Channel definitely happened. Needless to say, Saturday morning did not find me in the best condition at work.

By last night, I was dead on my feet. Coming home round 10 at night, the only thing I wanted was to dive into bed and not emerge for a full twelve hours. Unfortunately for me, I am sometimes kind of dumb and had left my keys on my bedside table. So I arrived at my door, in the rain, to discover that I was very much locked out.

I rang the bell. What good are flatmates , if not to let you in? But H wasn't home, and E doesn't open the door. Ever. I knew she was there. But she wouldn't open up. I rang the landlord-no answer. I went to the door of the couple I'd stayed with on my first few nights, but they weren't in, either.

Well.

I didn't feel too cool when I rang up my coworker, A, to help a girl out. Lucky for me, she responded to my plea for help and drove into town to pick up my sad wet body in front of the supermarket. I'm eternally indebted. I slept a great lion's sleep. It felt good, too, to hang out with someone my age, which I haven't really done since I left Quebec seven weeks ago. She has a lovely garden. I am lucky. When I got home this afternoon, I slept right through til half-past five.

Please forgive the truly terrible prose of this entry. I still need to catch up on more sleep. I will put a few pictures up later this week. Life's good. Goodniiiiight. X