Another Thanksgiving Day night at The Costa-Lessa Inn.

It’s the day after Thanksgiving and I am sitting in the bar of this hotel speaking with friends I’ve met over the past few years. This hotel is north of perogy line (The Yellowhead Highway) in Manitoba, Canada.  I don’t want to tell the name of it is as I believe it will be better off left to your imagination. I can assure you with every last breath that it exists and the people are real. Real Ukranians inhabit the town. Farmers, fisherman, drinkers, dancers, First Nations folks, gamblers, singers, hunters, artists and even some Methodists.

I’ve performed in this hotel six times now. When I started I wouldn’t play my serious pull-at-your-heart-strings story telling songs, nor my irreverent comic-riffing Jake Rivers songs. No I started with Cash and Prine, Kristofferson and the like. The songs found their natural home in these walls among these bar-flies. ‘ANOTHER ROUND OF DRINKS FOR ALL MY FRIENDS!’
It began when I was stranded out here due to a gig cancellation. Another musician suggested I contact the owner and she would likely help me out. She did. I came – I played – I stayed.
Now it seems that every time I pass through, I am afforded the luxury of a few days off to come and play then meet the town. Recently, the band has been playing and staying. They feel the same way. The hotel, the people and the village are something special. Hell, I had my first ever moonshine experience here. Likely the reason I lost the love of my life…but oh well…no big deal right?

The band has returned home for the week leaving me to stay in this small room atop the hotel bar. Donnie and Shelley return next weekend for the final show of this tour.  I often tell people from the stage that we did 175 shows this year – in a way I say this to remind them that this blank squirrelly stare plastered onto my road weary face is just a by-product of too much fun, too many miles and not enough time.

You see it goes like this:
Wake up at 10:30am in the Costa-Lessa Motel. Call the front desk to beg for an extended hour before check-out. Brew up the stale coffee and eat a three day old banana. Discuss with your band mates who wants to make the run to the motel office to raid some oatmeal packs and war surplus apples. Load up the gear into the vehicle, punch in the next address and hit the highway. Drive anywhere for one hour to five hours stopping along the way for more sodium infused snacks and tepid gas station coffee. Car rides are dotted with a lot of silence where we all retreat into our private worlds. A sanctuary of beautiful thoughts awaits us there. We think about our loved ones back home, our loved ones last night or what may become of the day ahead. This constant living in the moment is such an engaged feeling that often days slip into years without realizing that the time has evaporated so quickly? For example, last week we argued whether we’d played THAT venue two years ago or just last year. The argument raged on for ten full minutes until someone pulled out their phone to check the past calendar date and finally layed down the gauntlet.
“Well…according to my calendar it says we played Cowtown last year! We started early and ended early. The entire thing was a fuckin non-event! That’s why I thought it was two years ago.”
No one likes to admit when they’re wrong. I was certain we’d played this one last year as I am usually a bit more in tune with these things.
Chalk one up for the boss!
“Oh wait….my bad my bad….I was looking at 2014 on my calendar. Yup, just as I said…it was two years ago!”
Yikes. I gotta get my shit together.
I kept quiet knowing that I was dead wrong. Sometimes I miss two years. (It’s true!) It’s a crazy way to live. But never one to let a great opportunity go by I shout out “What type of calendar app is that? Is it on a Samsung 7? You know they just recalled those eh? I think we need to wait until we get to the motel tonight to look at my website for proper verification.”

Usually laughter ensues. After the silence broken it’s always time for the dreaded song selection from someone’s phone. It seems the only thing we can agree on is silence.

Once we arrive at the venue it’s always sound-check, followed by  checking into the new digs; dinner; concert; meet and greet; sleep. Every once in a while when there is a perfect storm and maybe a few days off you can find that necessary debauchery and the love of your life willing to listen to some new songs on the beach or a bed. Sometimes you may even want to stick around. That’s the hard part. “Love me tender baby I’m only passing through.”

And then that  annoying alarm goes off again. It’s 10:30am. “Call the front desk. Get an extension on our check-out time!”

Shower. Rinse. Repeat.

In my particular case, I’ve been afforded the luxury of developing a network of kick-ass regional players across the country and in parts of the US. (and I mean KICK-ASS!!!)  The list is long and amazing. I count myself fortunate to have so many great players willing to join me.
For the most part though I’ve been happy to play with my Toronto band along with multi-instrumentalists Donnie Zueff in Manitoba, Robbie Smith in Nova Scotia and occasionally young blues maven by the name of Jenie Thai. (I believe she’s The Killer reincarnated – Great Balls of Fire!)
I could write ten books on each and every one of these players and fill the Library of Congress fifteen times over with stories and anecdotes to make you laugh and cry and twist and shout. But as you know, time is evaporating and we’re all missing years. Randy Newman calls them “The potholes on memory lane”. Memories just sink into them.

Check out his song POTHOLES and tell me he’s not a goddammed genius:

Now I used to pitch
I could get the ball over the plate
Anyway this one time
Must have thrown a football round or something the day before
I walked about fourteen kids in a row
Cried, walked off the mound
Handed the ball to the third baseman
And just left the field

Anyway many years later
I brought the woman who was to become my second wife
God bless her
To meet my father for the first time
They exchanged pleasantries
I left the room for a moment
This is first time he met her, you understand
When I came back
He’s telling her the story
Right off the bat
About how I walked fourteen kids
Cried and left the mound
Next time he met her
He told the same goddamn story

God bless the potholes
Down on memory lane
God bless the potholes
Down on memory lane
Hope some real big ones open up
Take some of the memories that do remain

I love that song. I guess it’s safe to say, as fast as time slips by we hold onto the good memories and hopefully the awful ones slip into those memory lane potholes. So yeah, we’re gonna forget about a few years but we’ll never forget the spirit and the people who were with us and shared the feeling. I know that all touring musicians can relate to this on a profound level.

I’m back up in my room now and it’s very quiet in this hotel save for the jukebox cranking “Son of a bitch, give me a drink” by Nathaniel Rateliff and The Night Sweats. The jukebox is right below my room and some local characters are toying with me. They know my band is gone. They know I’m tempted. They know I haven’t been drinking much these days.

My room is small but mighty. A tiny TV affixed to the wall beside a relatively modern print of a Parisian street scene. It’s so properly framed it seems out of place. The wood grained paneling and mirrored chest of drawers beside my double bed feel perfectly in order. There is another double bed in the opposite corner beside the tiny fridge, microwave and heater. The window overlooks the street below the front of the hotel. It’s snowing. There is no activity here tonight. The day after Thanksgiving and this whistlestop is barely breathing.

I’m in a contemplative mood as I’ve just had a great conversation with my sister Mary about the siblings who made it home to celebrate my father’s 95th birthday.  A big one magnified as we lost our mother on Mother’s Day this year at 90.  Dad told me just the other day, he keeps starting a conversation then turning toward her but finds only an empty chair where she used to be. That’s gotta be tough – almost seventy years of marriage.

My sister’s story was hilarious. The typical Thanksgiving Day / Dad’s birthday festivities ensued: Everyone drives 8 hours home to cook, eat, party and after the third day of being cramped together on limited sleep it turns into a version of Stressmas. We always seem to walk away feeling closer and better for it. I was sad I couldn’t be home for this one – but THEN AGAIN!
Mary finally asked “Where’s Waldo today?”
“Oh me? Thought you’d never ask. Oh I’m just in a small room in an old hotel above a country bar in a snow covered village in the middle of Manitoba on Thanksgiving. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. No one else does!”
I felt the sarcastic pity party would elicit a good chuckle.
“Hmmm…you’re actually sounding more like Del Griffith – shower curtain ring salesmen – right out of Planes, Trains and Automobiles!”
We laughed.
That is one of my sister’s favourite movies. Mine too. We have a tradition that we try to watch it at least once a year. Poor John Candy plays Del Griffith who ultimately has nowhere to be on Thanksgiving. Steve Martin – his adversarial road companion ultimately bonds with him and brings him home for the big dinner. Another John Hughes classic.
“Yeah Mary, someday I can sure feel like Del. It doesn’t happen often but when it hits, well I kind of wish I would have settled down and married one of those girlfriends back in the day. But that’s just me feeling sorry for myself.”

I went on to explain how this particular Thanksgiving may have been the saddest yet most fulfilling one of them all.
I was invited down to the closed bar for a turkey dinner on Thanksgiving Day at 5:30.  A server here mentioned she would be cooking for those of us on our own. She invited me to dinner. I thought it was a beautiful gesture.
When I arrived, we all helped carry the food out to the table and proceeded to dig in. There were only four of us. The leftovers were plentiful.

“Hi my name is Ernie…I saw you play here last year!”
“Hi Ernie, yes I remember you for sure. How have you been?”
“Oh it’s been a rough day. We lost our mother late last night. She was in the home.”
“Oh wow Ernie. Are you ok? So sorry to hear that?”
“Not really. I’m having a hard time today. My sister is getting my mom’s dress altered today. I’m worried about her driving in this snow. My mom wanted to be buried in that dress.”

Ernie was wearing a ball cap which was pulled down low. I knew he’d lived all around the western provinces doing odd jobs (as he said) until the work ran out. He informed me he’d come back home almost twenty years ago and found permanent employment with the town dump. He was only into coffee and cigarettes these days. He’d seen things.
“Hey Ernie, we lost our mother this year too. She was 90. I know what you’re going through man. My deepest sympathies.”

Just then, I saw one lonely tear roll down his cheek beyond the shadow of the ball cap brim. He wiped it away, stood up and said “I’m going to have another plate…want some?” I looked at him and immediately welled up. I don’t know how grief is supposed to be expressed. Why it shows up at the strangest times. I knew in that moment I was grieving the loss of all mothers, not just mine. I thought of just how beautiful the spirit of women and motherhood is. How that power can reduce two grown men to tears on Thanksgiving Day. When dinner was over we all cleaned up and said our good-byes.

I retreated back to my room to process what had happened and lay down and let the tryptophan weave its magic. I felt the emptiness of the hotel. The sadness kicked in. I couldn’t stop thinking about family and friends. Then as the night progressed it slowly turned in something comforting. I was taught a lesson in loneliness. I counted my blessings. What a notion to think that I was invited to Thanksgiving Day dinner from relative strangers? Good on those who are giving the misfortunate a bit of comfort during these times. Faith in humanity restored! “2017 is the year I start volunteering more!” I decried  (I must find a way to do this.)

I turned on the idiot box for some reprieve only to be inundated with a non-stop barrage of the orange haired no-nothing on  every channel. It so tarnished my pure feelings of the human spirit, I turned it off immediately and pulled out my guitar and wrote the first lines to a new song:

“He never had a father, he struck out on his own
He found himself a wanderer who never had a home
His mother was his guiding light his sister was his friend
He found his way back home to hold her at the end”

Your Perfect Matador Re-release Day!

Hello friends,
I thought I’d take this opportunity to let you know that today is the day we re-release my latest album Your Perfect Matador.
It’s a day I’ve long anticipated and it calls for a celebration. What should we do?  Well check this out first :https://smarturl.it/yourperfectmatador
Share it!

Your Perfect Matador - Jay Aymar streaming links
But first, I should acknowledge the flurry of emails I received after my New Years Day post.
I must have hit a lot of hot buttons in that post as it’s now officially my most widely read blog and seemingly (to me) the least creative piece I’ve ever written.
My brother Bill once told me that my blogs are too ‘out there’ and that I need to write more  honestly about what’s going on. “Too many sidebars and diversions little brother. Just tell people what you’re doing!”
Well Bill, I took your advice for that New Years Day round-up missive and talked about
1) US politics (Moving forward, I think it best to avoid the discussion of politics in polite company – yeah right! lol). But the climate does feel too fucked up right now. People are losing their minds over that which we cannot control. I was allowing big media to monopolize my head space until one day I was listening to a Tom Russell song and BAM…I kept listening to music and turned the TV off. Thanks Tom. Was it Hunter S. Thompson who suggested we involve ourselves in local politics? Saying at least we can affect change in a tangible way. Think globally – act locally.  I agree. Or like my mom used to say “If people could just start with trying to get along with their own families…the world might be a better place.”
2) Taking time off the road and moving back to my hometown.
It’s true. After an eleven year run on the Voyageur trail, I decided to take my whisky, pelts and guns and paddle my canoe back to the trail head. I likely have enough inspiration to create songs for the next twenty-five years. It’s simply a matter of refueling. A man can’t live on tuna, gas station coffee and binge drinking alone.
You know those Hollywood movies you see depicting the lives of strung out musicians: Crazy Heart; A Star Is Born et al? They’re cliches for a reason. Albeit at a much larger level. The suffering and creation game go hand in hand. The late nights, the revelry and climb, the fall. It’s fun until it isn’t. But WOW…is it ever fun.
My other brother Phil reminded me of his favourite movie about this theme: Tender Mercies. Robert Duvall plays the aging songwriter who meets and falls in love with a younger woman who has young child and he slowly cleans up his act and commits to her. We re-watched it last week and it hit so close to home I couldn’t fall asleep until 4:00am that night. I kept replaying things over and over again in my mind until I eventually got up and started a song about it all. That actually happened (which is a great sign!)
But in telling my fan base (you) that I’m taking time off the road, my inbox was filled with an incredible amount of love and offers of shows from across the country. THANK YOU for that. Once I get things sorted out and I can find suitable employment, I will make a point of working toward long weekend flights to your city for larger shows. It feels like a sensible approach. If that’s even possible.
I’ve been following my friends The Small Glories well deserved ascension on the international folk circuit and I’m so happy for them. Seeing their pace of travel reminds me of how tiring it can all be. I’m currently living vicariously through my friends back on the circuit.  Next weekend they’re all meeting in NOLA for a folk conference. That would have been fun but the ROI on the FAI has never quite been worthwhile for me. (Group hug aspect excluded).

The re-release of Your Perfect Matador.
(For the basics of the making of Matador head to my website www.jayaymar.com)
I’m not sure if you understand how long it takes to make a fully blown studio production like Matador? For me it hangs in my psyche like a long shadow. Most of it started in 2012, with seeds of songs and ideas and feelings of true love. Then there was finding the right producer. I did. Michael Phillip Wojewoda: https://mpwmusic.com/
Then with some help from Tamara Kater (grant writer) and Dan Greenwood (manager), and you (Pledge Music campaign) and my own contribution, I was able to come up with the amount needed to finish it. To date, I’ve recouped…um….let’s not talk about such things.

If you’ve been to any of my concerts you’ll know I often setup each song with an overly wordy introduction to heighten the suspense and connect you to the songs.
For those of you that haven’t been to a concert, here’s how it goes.

Matador explained – sort of.
I’m reading William Blake to her in her bed when our moment is interrupted : Your Poet Bleeding. I walk the village and notice the scribbling’s of a graffiti artist leaving artistic statements where they should not be. It becomes a metaphor for how we as artists can all ‘do a little wrong’ to make things right.’: Walls Are Pages. Walls are Pages – Video

This inspires me to learn more about art and it’s role in our subconscious state. How can art influence love? Step into the light. Rapunzel Rapunzel let down your hair: The Greatest Story Never Told.
Do I commit to my art or her? I awake in a motel room with this text “Dating you is like trying to hold on to a wild dog.” : Us Wild Dogs
The break. Trust and all the goodness that came with it is gone. Weird scenes inside the goldmine. The shadows start to creep in. The late nights get later. The strangers get stranger. The stories more harrowing: Alive in the Shadows.

Everyone asks me, why do you have three startling symphonic shots in the middle of that song? What is that about? Here’s your answer.
I wanted those shots to come exactly in the middle of the album. They represent the break that comes within the artist. Will the artist succumb to the life of drugs and pain or will they soldier on? (Alejandra Ribera sang so beautifully on this song that I am still humbled by her contributions. Thanks Alejandra – and thank you Richard Flohil for coordinating this.)
So what is going on here?
“Oh…back when we held the flame” (picture him holding his lighter up)
“To light the midnight sun (the crack pipe)
“We lit it for everyone alive in the shadows”
“Sirens wail singing to save us we took what they gave us free with Saint Vincent de paul of chemicals and alcohol.” (after the critical breaking point – they choose to live and get help for their addictions.)
After a joyous Clare Torry Great Gig in the Sky orgasmic wail of euphoria from Alejandra ensues, we’ve realized the tortured artist chooses to live and create. : Alive in the Shadows.
Back to reality…and now commenting on the world that is confronting us,  the artist makes a rare political commentary on the state of affairs plaguing our democracy.
If I had all of the money in the world I would have created a video for this song with my friend Shakaru S’aida(who sings on this song) dressed up as the Statue of Liberty on roller skates defending herself from a mob of  people wearing Trump masks (also on roller skates).
“You’re innocent it’s in your eyes
the silent truth in the house of lies
the scales are weighed the verdicts in
It’s a body of truth that’s build for sin
from the black and the white to the red and blue
I’ve never had much but I always had you
MISS AMERICA” : Always Had You.

And while we’re on this topic – #IMPTA

The artist now decides to hit New York city to get into the middle of things. He passes a small theatre company called “Two Planks and a Passion”. Meaning the only thing any of us need to tell are truths are two planks and a passion. A one act play by Jay Aymar! lol
But that’s such a rich image. Are the two planks a crucifix and is this the passion of the Christ? The long walk of judgement? Wait, that’s not a crucifix on his back, that’s a guitar!
And so the troubadour walks into a bar and falls in love with an idealized version of the woman serving him. She is an artist as well. She an aspiring actress. She will someday own this town:

“They’ll be congressmen and concubines
sharing the same ride
they’ll be lined up through Manhattan
to the Upper West Side
you’ll be holding down Ophelia
with roses at your feet
you’re going to turn this storied avenue
into your own little street

But you’ve got to pay the freight
so you paint your pretty face
for the lunatics and the politics
it’s Julliard around this place
pour me another one baby
and let me enjoy the view
I’m only playing good time Charlie
to be
close to you

lights fade
lights fade
I’ll carry out this charade
with my two planks and this passion

I saw the artist
I met the actress”

: Two Planks and a Passion

He leaves with her after her shift to hit a late night movie. As they sit in the theatre, he thinks about his previous love. He wants to be with her but inside he can feel himself dying. The spark is fading. Is he singing to her or God? : Take Me Home.

As we pan out from the scene to see the street, the root tops and buildings, we hear the voice of Banksy decrying “I wanna leave this town”
Why Banksy? Because for Banksy art is the reward. The creation game. To make the world a better place.” Banksy Was Here.

The story is complete. What’s it all about? You tell me.

I was fortunate to have Peter Chapman discover this disc and take a chance on re-releasing  it on his new label Fallen Tree Records. I asked Peter if he could tell me a bit about himself (for my readers) and tell me about the significance of the label name Fallen Tree Records. Here’s what he wrote back:

Peter Chapman founded the folk/roots record label Fallen Tree Records in 2018 after 12 years’ experience at Holger Petersen’s Stony Plain Records. His expertise includes working on the Canadian Gold certified recording Horse Soldier! Horse Soldier! by Corb Lund; a number of Juno winning or nominated albums (Paul Reddick, MonkeyJunk and Colin Linden); and the Grammy nominated Migration Blues by Eric Bibb. He was raised in the UK on a diverse mix of music, and volunteered at a hospital radio station for four years. Upon moving to Canada he started volunteering at the campus/community station CJSR, where he has hosted a weekly eclectic music show since 2007. He believes that music is a powerful connector: from memories, to place, to relationships, to civil rights and activism, music is essential to what it means to be human. Fallen Tree Records are currently working with: 100 mile house, Jessica Heine, Logan and Nathan, Silent Winters, Jon Brooks, Ayla Brook & The Sound Men and Jay Aymar.

Behind the name: The name, Fallen Tree Records, comes from a lot of places. The purest perhaps though is to think of a tree as a recording: the artist grows a song, just as a tree grows. The meaning of the song is under the ground, often hidden or obscured. The trunk, the branches, the leaves are what we hear. Finally the tree is perfect, the artist can’t do any more to their song. They record it and release it, the tree falls, it is no longer the artist’s. When we hear the song our experiences and emotions are mapped on to it, we feel it as part of us. New life grows on the fallen tree – think of the fallen cedar, where new trees, moss and flowers are now sprouting from the fallen trunk. The roots and meaning of the song are still there, but there is so much new life given by that fallen tree; by that song’s release. That’s what I hope the music we work on will do for fans: give them new life, new experiences and new ways to see the world.

So there you have it friends. Fallen Tree Records has picked up Your Perfect Matador and re-released it today. You should find some friends tonight and smokem if you gottem and blast this album as a way to celebrate second chances. Now that I’ve broken down the fourth wall for you and we’re all meta… you can start to make sense of what this album is trying to do. You can tell your friends and then before you know it, it’ll be a world-wide phenomenon and I’ll be on the road again playing to packed theatres with my full band. I can see it now.

Willie gets it:
“On the road again
I just can’t wait to get on the road again
The life I love is makin’ music with my friends
And I can’t wait to get on the road again”

But until then, check out these links and please, please share the album links your friends.


Somewhere Stephen Hawking’s Laughing: The Year That Was 2019

Where to start with the year that was?

When I woke up this morning I thought I’d be inspired to write you a long rambling piece about the state of the music industry, El Duce to the south, how I got a handle on alcohol, how I almost died in a car fire, how and why I moved back home, the lost loves and the hopes to pivot and find permanent employment. First you get the money….oh you know the rest.

But instead I turned on my phone and became distracted with friends New Years Eve pics. Who did what? Who seems lonely? Who’s in love? Who’s a new parent? Who’s writing and performing new music? Suddenly two hours slipped by and I realized we are alike in that regard. You don’t have the time or inclination to read the ramblings of another middle-aged, white, male singer-songwriter – ‘shut up…you have nothing to say.’ I agree. (Then again, I’m still writing this missive).

Another year over and what have I done?
I’ve watched CNN / MSNBC and read WAPO and the NYT  a lot. Too much.

I know I’m living in my propagandized silo of media information. I’m a willing victim much like you are. I’ve been kind enough to keep my mouth shut and not voice my political opinions in polite society. I mean, what am I supposed to say? That Dana Bash, Rachel Maddow, David Axelrod and Jeffrey Toobin are my Beatles? (That must mean FOX pundits are The Stones – “at her feet was a footloose man!”)  That Agent Orange is likely to cause a civil war? I can’t say that.  I don’t know what to believe. My compass is broken. My phone just beeped. I’ll be right back.

As the year progressed, I became less and less interested in the panels of 12 angry men and women giving us their thirty second insights on prime time cable news. The FISA reports, Robert Muller, Putin and the end of democracy. Even though I know it’s Fascism 101 to have the public tire of double-speak – I tuned out and turned off.

I re-read Morley Torgov’s A Good Place to Come From. I subsequently met Morley.
I composed and entire suite of music based on a sleazy politician. Now I have to record it.
I read a lot about alcohol and it’s effects on society and families. I decided to limit my intake.
I finally forgave myself for walking away from a woman I cared for so deeply. That was big.
I went out and saw live music again. My occasional bass player Vivienne Wilder playing at the Tranzac in Toronto. Shakura S’aida killing it everywhere.

I picked up my guitar again. I started playing old songs from artists I used to listen to.
I revisited the five hundred CD’s in my collection from artist friends who I’ve met over a lifetime on the road. There are so many great artists out there trying to build safe spaces. Places for your mind to wander and relax…away from the madness that is the real world. Find them and if you can’t find them, just ask me for recommendations.

Then, on December 20th, during an annual holiday show in my hometown, my long time road partner Fid Zueff (D. Ranger Donnie Zueff) surprised me with gifting me his old banjo on stage. I was blown away. Literally the best gift I’ve ever received and I was so thankful. He taught me three chords and I wrote a song in twenty minutes. It’s the kind of song I can write in twenty minutes all day long every day. (Know that going in…)

Jay with his new banjo

So that’s about it for me this year. A year of major self-reflection and deep diving in and out of politics, literature and music. The first year I’ve not had to wake up every day and move on to the next show in the next town. (With the exception of a terrific 11 show run over two weeks in Manitoba and Saskatchewan). A year of signing on with my first record label: Fallen Tree Records. A year of working closely with a great manager Dan Greenwood who’s already applied to 80 festivals on my behalf. (Fingers crossed.) A year of introspection. No hardcore touring. No girlfriend. No partying. Wow. It feels strange but somehow necessary.

So what’s my resolution for 2020? Try to be a kinder person. I mean…really try. You know? Oh and find a job and settle down and get back to the basics of life. We’ll see.

I truly miss all of you out there. I really wish there was a way all 3000 of you could transport me to your backyards for another show and another conversation. I wish the musical climate was better and I could have made a living at this but alas…we all have to be realists. Remember the vow of poverty? I made it eleven straight years. I’m the richest I’ve ever been. It’s TRUE!

I continue to remind myself how fortunate I’ve been for the gift of music. For without music, I wouldn’t have met you and learned so much and felt so much love. I know who you are and I am rooting for you big time. Keep the faith. We’ve got this!

Happy New Year.


Mitch Podolak – Rest in Peace

The world lost one of its premiere folk music ambassadors this weekend: Mitch Podolak.  Imagine Mt. Rushmore without Lincoln. This is a huge loss.
Personally, I’ve lost a spiritual advisor, intellectual jouster, artistic curator, employment counselor, employer, breaded veal cutlet impresario and eventually – a friend.
I’ve just put the finishing touches on my first political album entitled a War for Love. The second song “Songs of Peace and Freedom’ was inspired by one of our conversations.
“You say it takes a single brick into one pain of glass to start your revolution to free your working class”
Sadly Mitch will never get to hear this album and yet I was writing it with him as one of the ideal listeners.

Over these next few weeks you’ll be able to find more tributes pouring in then Trotskyites at a workers union rally. They will all essentially say the same thing – his was a war for love.

Who is Mitch you may ask?
Let’s start with this CBC piece culled from the newswire this morning:
Mitch Podolak, founder of Winnipeg Folk Festival, West End Cultural Centre, dies

Podolak was known Canada-wide for influence in creating music festivals

CBC News · Posted: Aug 26, 2019

Mitch Podolak, the founder of the Winnipeg Folk Festival, has died, family says. (CBC – Thacker)

A legend of Manitoba’s music scene, Mitch Podolak, has died.

Podolak was the founding artistic director of the Winnipeg Folk Festival and the founder of Winnipeg’s West End Cultural Centre, and played a role in the creation of music festivals across the country.

“He was my hero, and he uplifted anyone who had an idea, good or bad, if they were passionate about it,” his son, Leonard Podolak, wrote in a Facebook post Sunday evening.

“Creating festivals was his way of starting the Revolution. And what a revolution it has been.”

Mitch Podolak died from complications related to septic shock, his son told CBC News.

Podolak was a force in Manitoba’s music community. After co-founding the Winnipeg Folk Festival in 1974, he had a hand in the creation of more festivals across the country, including the Vancouver Folk Music Festival.

‘A true visionary’

An outpouring of tributes to Podolak on social media began Sunday evening shortly after Leonard Podolak’s post, including posts from the Winnipeg Folk Festival, the West End Cultural Centre, Manitoba Music and Prairie Sky Books.

In a post on Facebook, the Winnipeg Folk Festival honoured Podolak and offered condolences to his loved ones.

“More than one of our founders, he was a father, a friend, a leader, a mentor, a true visionary. We owe so much of who we are to him,” the Winnipeg Folk Festival wrote in a Facebook post.

“Mitch, your love for and dedication to folk music and to our community will always be a part of us.”

Podolak was made a member of the Order of Manitoba in 2015 and received an honourary Doctor of Laws from Brandon University the same year. He was also honoured with a lifetime achievement award, the Unsung Hero Award, from the Canadian Folk Music Awards in 2013.

In 2017, supporters donated $35,300 in four days to a GoFundMe drive to raise money to help Podolak renovate his home following major surgery on his spine that required him to use a walker.

His son wrote the family will be holding a memorial for his father in the future.

Eventually you’ll read about his loving wife Ava who is one of the most stellar, witty, fierce women you’ll ever meet. My deepest condolences to the entire family.

About 11 years ago now, I received a nice email from Mitch offering me a spot on his Home Routes circuit.  This was a new concept (well, a new spin on an old concept) of having folk music enthusiasts host house concerts across Canada. The hosts of each concert volunteer their time and homes to facilitate these intimate concerts which are unplugged and often have 50 or more paid attendees at the ready. Us working folk musicians (every 2 or 3 years) apply to get on the circuit to play about 12 shows in a few provinces. In having been accepted to do four circuits over the years (#5 is this November in SK/MB) I can say it’s a beautiful adventure. Not only do we receive first class hospitality from the hosts, we also receive a respectful listening audience who often become fans and supporters for the rest of our careers.

Up until 2017, the small but mighty Home Routes organization maintained their office in a discreet downtown Winnipeg location which felt more like a home than an office. (They’ve since relocated). The dedicated staff of approximately five people coordinated this ongoing tour of Canadian folk musicians performing in homes across the country. The logistics of such an endeavor are unfathomable. It operates almost as though a charity organization would  – operating costs at 15% and what little money does go around – it feels just perfect for the cause afoot. Tim Osmond, the current artistic director, banjo player, new father and all around super human, is running a lot of the day to day at the moment. I am really feeling for Ava the children and Tim and the inner circle today. Mitch was one of the great humans!

When I was offered my first Home Routes tour it lead to a few phone conversations with Mitch, which soon found us on the phone consistently. He became a true champion of my work and would often call with little messages of support. Believe me, when you’re an obscure artist, working in a traditional medium, writing long form narrative songs in an age of eleven second attention spans, having the nod of approval from a cultural guru in your field means everything. It’s like oxygen and sunlight to an aspiring sunflower. One day, we had an hour long conversation about his early days in Toronto working at the Bohemian Embassy in the heyday of Toronto’s early Yorkville scene.

I’d just had Ian Tyson record my song “My Cherry Coloured Rose” and Mitch wanted to share a few anecdotes about his early interactions with Ian and Sylvia. Back in the day  he was a young teen doorman at The Bohemian Embassy and  his coworkers were a variety of hippies, music enthusiasts and one friend with intellectual disabilities who would forever consider Mitch a true friend.  I’ve read a lot about those years from people on the scene like Bernie Finkelstein (True North) and friends like Jane Harbury who ran the Riverboat, but it was these unvarnished conversations with Mitch that made me feel like I was front row centre. As a long lost Gen-X’er with a  huge curiosity of this scene, I felt honoured to be offered such candid insights.

“Yeah Mitch, it’s interesting you say that about Ian and Sylvia. It’s rare when two voices automatically create that kind of magic” (Much like today’s Canadian duo The Small Glories – JD Edwards and Cara Luft – SEE THEM ASAP).

“Mitch, my brother called a few days ago to tell me that Ian was on CBC TV responding to the interviewers questions about the great reception to my song he covered. He noted that Tyson was getting a bit perturbed with this attention to the albums one cover song etc…”
Mitch was quick to shower Ian with superlatives for his cannon of work and creative gifts but came to my defense in saying “Jay, if he loved your tune enough to record it, then he should only be singing your praises. If someone pisses me off, I’m always tempted to leave a dead fish on their doorstep! I don’t do duplicitous bullshit well.”

And that’s how our conversations went. He understood the plight of the artist and fought hard to defend our integrity.

Our last few meetings were all about his desire to have me (or other interested parties) start a folk festival in my home town of Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario. Just having Mitch mention the Sault in this capacity was noteworthy.
“Jay, I’ve long been interested in starting a folk festival in the Sault. Eighty-thousand people with a diverse population. There is so much cultural heritage to promote and enjoy there. I’ve never understood why the Sault didn’t have a long standing folk festival.”
“Well Mitch, I guess it’s more of a rock’n’roll and country music town. It’s a steel town. Not too many folkies!”
This was not the acceptable answer. Mitch saw it as faulty logic. If we can agree that folk music is the backbone of all music, then this argument falls flat. After an hour long discussion I finally said “Ok, then what would be some of your top guiding principles to starting a great folk festival.”
His answer was surprising.
“You need to find a central location with ample parking and power.”
“Hmmm…Like Bellevue Park,” I responded.
“I’d have to come and see it. I think if I get out of this wheelchair, I’m going to make a special trip to the Soo and we can do a walkabout. After that we can discuss funding, boards and volunteers.”
Whoa…he was serious. I’d better not approach this lightly.  Alas…that day never came.

I could go on and on (as countless others are currently doing this morning upon hearing of Mitch’s passing, but I’ll leave you with an email conversation between us that went back and forth for several weeks approximately ten years ago.

I’d written a blog piece questioning the validity of political songwriting. I posited that many political songs didn’t withstand the test of time. They are often time stamped and history feels unkind to them. I referenced artists I love in the piece: Pete Seeger, Bruce Cockburn and Woody Guthrie. I argued for and against their use of specific themes in their songs. It elicited the following email response from Mitch (which I re-posted with his blessing at the time.). In reading this, I sensed the middle section may have been stock copy he’d sent to others like me before but perhaps that’s my cynical nature taking over. I’d like to believe not.

Thoughtful, caring, dedicated to a cause, articulate and action oriented. He made a positive difference in this world and fought hard for social justice of the disenfranchised. What ‘s more noble than that? I can’t think of anything.

Mitch, you are already missed more than you know.
Rest in Peace.
(Can you believe that my computer just auto-corrected  Rest in Peace to Rest in Pete? – did you do that?)

Mitch’s email response to my blog piece. 

“This Machine Kills Fascists ….or something like that.”

Hi Jay, Interesting piece. I understand the cynicism about being linked to causes that you’re not sure about or in fact don’t agree with. What’s really true is that very often people take a stand they don’t understand, in my opinion Rocket Launcher is a good example. What Bruce had to say about it sounded good at the time, given the opportunity to fire a rocket launcher at an Army Helicopter in Guatemala that was attacking civilians, I doubt Bruce would. Killing fascists, It’s a matter of belief and steely eyed courage. With a rocket launcher or a baseball bat, it’s a really good idea. Ask my dead relatives about fascists. Really interesting song in retrospect.

Every once in a while I read a piece like yours which if I understand it correctly says “I’m a writer and I’m working hard and struggling and I’m essentially not political and I in some ways resent the inherited and implied politics of the folk scene being thrust on me which is why  I have herein parodied the words written on the guitar of the most universally respected and iconized folk writer probably in history who happened to be very political”. Is that a fair analysis? If not read no further. I’m writing out of respect not from an argumentative head space.

Some years ago I was talking about Pete Seeger at the Winnipeg Festival, back in the days when I was running it, he was there that year, on the other side of a canvas wall, unknown to me was Norman Blake and Bryan Bowers. Bowers is an old friend of mine and he told me this story. Norman Blake hated Seeger because Seeger was a red. Norman writes all these very touching political songs about working folks in Appalachia but as a high school product of McCarthyism, he couldn’t draw the line between what he believes and Pete’s beliefs, which when brought down to the short hairs, are not that different. They weren’t spying on me on purpose, it just happened. I was so pleased that Seeger had showed up that I was gushing to a reporter and Blake went ballistic, he went back to the hotel because he was so pissed at me. A couple of days later he was doing a concert in Calgary at one of the clubs and he attacked Pete, red baited Pete from that stage and half the audience got up and left and a couple of folks told him to fuck off. Bowers asked me about it a year later when I next saw him. I didn’t know about them being on the other side of the canvas wall until then, I did know about the Calgary deal and I was as curious about Normans reaction. Bowers was curious about my reaction. I didn’t know what to say so I presented to Bowers a small historical outline that I’m going to present to you for your consideration.

The entire existence of the folk music market place in North America is, in the long term, a direct result of the work of the American Communist Party. Coming from a European tradition where folk music was more closely linked to the working class, the leadership of the CPUSA was looking for a link to American workers and some wag in Moscow thought it was a great idea so the Party started Sing Out magazine and Peoples Songs and the Almanac Singers and they literally made folk music the political assignment of Pete and Woody and whole bunch of others. For the most part, with the exception of providing a musical soundtrack to the rise of the CIO and directly to the civil rights movement and the anti-Vietnam war movement, the American Communist Party was bypassed and never got out of it what they put into it. They never made that emotional connection with the mass of American workers though their ranks rose to 175, 000 members in the USA in 1947. This is what brought on McCarthyism.


The period I’m referring to is 1945-1975. This is the time we often hear bandied about as the “urban folk revival” which is because the CPUSA got a bunch of urban intellectual’s interested in folk music and the whole thing took on a life of its own. City people started getting interested in the banjo because Pete played the banjo and once they started learning how to play, they discovered the traditional side of folk music and then discovered Mike Seeger. It was a wonderful convergence of ideas and history. Some of those people started the Newport and Philadelphia folk festivals which started to create a mass (relatively) audience for folk music. Estelle Klein who really established Mariposa as a big deal came through the same communist front Jewish organization that my folks came through and so did Gary Cristall  (Vancouver Folk Fest). A huge amount of the infrastructure ground work for the entire North American folk scene was done by Commies or their kids. It just happened that way. A number of festivals, Home Routes, the Winnipeg International Children’s Festival and the west End Cultural Centre owes its historical existence to the fact that I’m a Seegerite etc.

Political music is a major component of what we refer to as folk music. The body of work is immense. We have the last 500 years pretty much covered.

I don’t know whether you resist that “folk” designation as a writer, I think you’re a great folk writer, but  whatever you choose, the fact that you as an artist, starving or momentarily with resources, the gigs and the existence of many of the gigs you and your many colleagues get to play, are the historical rebounds from that CPUSA led  initiative in the late 1940’s.

All of which brings me to the point that “This Machine Kills Fascists” needs to be respected.

Your friend and fan,


So long my friend.

Where Have All The Flowers Gone – Pete Seeger

Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time ago
Where have all the flowers gone?
Girls have picked them every one
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?

Where have all the young girls gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the young girls gone?
Long time ago
Where have all the young girls gone?
Taken husbands every one
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?

Where have all the young men gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the young men gone?
Long time ago
Where have all the young men gone?
Gone for soldiers every one
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?

Where have all the soldiers gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the soldiers gone?
Long time ago
Where have all the soldiers gone?
Gone to graveyards every one
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?

Where have all the graveyards gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the graveyards gone?
Long time ago
Where have all the graveyards gone?
Covered with flowers every one
When will we ever learn?
When will we ever learn?


A Good Place to Be: An Afternoon with Morley and Me

Sometimes a story finishes itself at the just the right time. This is one of those amazing stories. The cycle feels complete on this one.
I debated where to place the big ‘reveal’ in this story. That’s an important discussion. Where should the ‘reveal’ happen in the arc of a storyline? In this case, I’m going to default to my Russian friends who are more prone to start with the reveal, thereby removing your anticipation and allowing you to focus on the poetry of the narrative. I should also add, that unlike my Russian friends, this story will be infused with happiness, laughter and small doses of crippling self-doubt. Dostoyevsky would be bored. Samuel Clemens on the other hand…

A few days ago, I met Morley Torgov. You may or may not know who Morley Torgov is. That’s really not important. What’s relevant is who Morley Torgov represents to me and why it was such a big deal that I met him.

When I was about thirteen years old, growing up in Sault Ste. Marie, ON there was little else to concentrate on aside from family and friends, girls, school, sports, and television. My seven older siblings were mostly out of the house by then but I did have my older brother Phil at home as my portal to the grown-up world. (He was six years older and introduced me to most of the music I still listen to today).
It was around this time that I began reading some of the English literature textbooks that were left behind in the small bookshelves of our basement barracks. I remember most of them like they were in front of me today. A picture book about Adam and Eve for children; Aristotle: Politics; The Norton Anthology of English Literature; You get the drift – I was indoctrinated to believe that we are from original sin until I read Huxley’s Brave New World and that basically evened things out for me. A thirteen-year-old left alone with these intellectual observations should surely have a teacher to help explain these concepts…but I didn’t. I just read them believing I could figure it out on my own. I even went as far as to pick up Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil and worked my way into the first chapter before I felt the weight of pretention and ignorance fall upon me. I’ve still never picked that one up.
Then randomly, I found a slim paperback with an intriguing title:
Night. By Elie Wiesel.
I finished it in one sitting. It changed my life.
The harrowing account of the holocaust as told through the eyes of a fifteen-year-old boy. This is when I needed to find someone to explain life to me beyond my bedroom walls.
My mother was good at this. She was able to take my then troubled mind about the horrors of what I’d just read and somehow bring it all back to reality. “Sometimes, man’s inhumanity to man is unthinkable. That is why we need to listen to others and offer our empathy. These are not things you should trouble yourself with at your age. Go outside and have fun.” And usually, that was the perfect remedy.

That same year, I happened upon another book offered to me from one of my best friends Dale who said it was ‘hilarious’ and ‘about our hometown!’
Wait. What? About our hometown? People who write books are authors. Authors don’t come from Sault Ste. Marie. How is that possible?
The book was called ‘A Good Place to Come From’ by Morley Torgov. Now, here I was fresh off reading about a child’s experience in the Holocaust and now I was reading about a childhood experience growing up Jewish in Sault Ste. Marie in the 1940’s with his father always by his side. Not only was it brilliant and heart-breaking and eye-opening, but it was also hilarious. I’m talking laugh out loud every thirty seconds hilarious. (It’s no wonder I didn’t ask my mom if I could convert to Judaism – a question which wouldn’t have been answered with the same affable open-mindedness).

Ultimately, the story recounts Morley Torgov’s real life as a child in the Soo. His father owned a shop on Queen St. where they lived. His mother had left them when he was little and it was down to him and his father and a small group of Jewish families to carve out a life for themselves in this remote northern Ontario city of steelworkers and hockey moms. They ate at Kings Chinese restaurant. They swam at Point Deschenes. They contributed money to help build a synagogue. They eventually made their way to Toronto. Morley’s reflection of these days would be summed up with “A Good Place to Come From.” Not a great place yet more honestly titled a good place. I’ve come to respect that decision to call it a good place to come from: because it is.

After reading this book I was off to the races. No more deep, dark exploratory literature for this kid. Gone were the days of Wiesel, Siegfried Sassoon, Orwell, Huxley, and Poe. It was out with the old and in with the new, and that meant hello satire, irony, and sarcasm.  Suddenly reading Leacock, Twain and Swift perfectly aligned itself with my surroundings. I had Morley to thank for that, and that’s a big deal.

A few years ago, I was visiting my original friend Dale in Vancouver whose life story would read like somewhat of a Kafka novel at this point. The term Kafkaesque is overused these days but I best describe it as the finest episode of Breaking Bad: The Fly. Walter and Jesse spend the entire episode trying to kill a fly, but it’s so much more than that.

Dale’s life has been an unbelievable journey. From the day we met as friends in pre-school we (along with six other buddies) all hung out together until our post-secondary years kicked in. Along the way, Dale would win junior cycling races for all of Ontario. He’d be the first to hold down two jobs and buy and car. He was a skilled draftsman and artist. He had a keen sense of history and math and ultimately studied history at university. After taking a summer job doing data entry at the Bank of Montreal he never left. He stayed on with them ultimately finding a mentor and studied to become a Certified Financial Analyst. He finished all three levels, which are akin to becoming a doctor of finance and ultimately had a meteoric rise to the top of the heap – beating the street on a regular basis. He was approached by a small but mighty firm in Vancouver and worked for options for years. He ultimately made it to the front page of the National Post’s business section as the analyst of the year and became somewhat of a celebrity (at least in the eyes of his old hometown buddies). They say, luck and timing have a lot  to do our successes, and in Dale’s case that seems to be a very valid truism. With years of reinvesting into the stocks of his employer, the company was sold to RBC at a major multiplier and with that came, Freedom 40…and wealth beyond what most of us could only imagine. And to think, this was our oldest pal? He hadn’t really changed that much. He’d just married and settled into a beautiful house in Vancouver. Now retired, he could truly do what he wanted to do. First things first…get back his first love – cycling.
During a tour break, I was staying with Dale and his wife Crystal for the weekend when the accident happened. I had to fly home for a funeral and leave my car in their driveway and got the news the day before I was to fly back to his place.
He was cycling, hit a rut, flew over the handlebars and smashed his head into the pavement with such velocity, it rendered him lifeless in a coma for a long month until at last, we all realized he was going to make it.
It’s been several years now since that accident happened and a lot has changed for our friend. He’s been confined to a wheelchair unable to walk much and has consistently worked at rewiring his brain while attending rehab daily. If anyone can make their way back to some semblance of normal, I know he can do it. Fortunately, as he says it, he is very lucky to have the resources for top quality medical assistance.

Last year during my visit on tour, Dale brought me into his music room. The standard old CD’s he’d long been listening to before our modern day roots revival. (Which has come and gone btw).  Mostly Chess recordings of Howlin’ Wolf or Willie Dixon or even relatively obscure Toronto artists like Big Rude Jake or Handsome Ned. And then I saw it.  Sitting among the towering stacks of CD’s tucked away on a small bookshelf: A Good Place to Come From. Morley Torgov.
“Dale, what the hell? Is that the original you loaned me from years ago?”
“Hmmm, probably not. It could be. I don’t remember. What a great book eh?”
“I loved that book. That book had a big impact on me.”
“Yeah, Aymar I remember you saying that. That’s cool.”

Just a few months ago, without warning an article came across my news feed that the Sault Ste. Marie General Hospital was gifted $3 million dollars to assist with cardiac care services by none other than my friend Dale Harrison.

Dale G. Harrison Critical Care Program
The Dale G. Harrison Critical Care Program. Amazing!

What a great day. I was a proud friend as were we all. What struck me in the articles that ensued were Dale’s references to how the Sault helped shape him with a strong work ethic and offer him a set of values that he’d keep with him for the rest of his life. In other words, he looked back on his old hometown as a good place to come from, much like Morley did.

Now, (in the truth is stranger than fiction category) I recently had a call from a woman named Kimberly Sinclair of Spin Count media. Kimberly has been working my latest CD release to radio and called to mention that she has a secret weapon in her arsenal – a social media whiz kid named Max Kirsh. “Max is great. He can help with your social media and revamp your website and I would highly recommend him, Jay!”
“You don’t have to tell me twice Kim.”

Max currently lives in Halifax but is from Thornhill, ON. He happened to be home visiting his parents when we first met so he said: “Why don’t we just meet at my parents’ place?”
“Good call Max. That’s the way we’d do it in Sault Ste. Marie.”

“You’re from the Soo? My mom was born there. She’s a Bassett. Her first cousin was Howie – whom she says you’ll never forget if you knew him.”

“Interestingly enough Max, my brother Dave used to talk about him. Said they played basketball at the Y together.”

Dan and I arrived to meet with Max and were introduced to his mother Paula. Even though Paula left the Sault when she was quite young, we seemed to know all of the same people and places. It wasn’t before too long that I blurted out “Yeah…like Morley Torgov said it’s a good place to come from!”
“Oh my god, Jay. You remember Morley? Of course, I do. If you’re from a certain generation in the Soo he was our Mark Twain.”
“He’s my dad’s best friend. I call him Uncle Morley. He’s still alive and well at ninety-one living in Toronto with his wife Anna-Pearl.”
“Wait!  What? This is crazy. Paula. There are too many worlds colliding for me to believe what is happening right now.”

“Would you like to meet him?”

Suddenly about four weeks later, I’m at Morley’s condo in mid-town Toronto, literally a five-minute walk from where I currently live. Paula meets me in the lobby as we await her father and friend to accompany us to their unit. We walk in together where I meet Morley and his wife Anna-Pearl. Both looking at least ten years younger than their rightful age, they immediately make me feel welcome and show me around their home. It would be exactly as I had imagined for some strange reason.  A beautiful view of the Toronto skyline poured into their long surrounding set of windows. Art filled the walls and corners as did books and magazines. A healthy stack of well-read New Yorkers rested on the coffee table next to the pot of tea and cookies Anna-Pearl laid out. (Paula informed me that Anna-Pearl is still taking continuing education courses – what an inspiration!)

We did the dance that strangers do when in these situations. It’s a tough one because I’m showing up as a bit of fan and I certainly don’t like it when fans of my music approach me with that conceit. I’m always gaurded against someones preconcieved image of me.  So knowing that, I took the opportunity to explain myself clearly, getting right to the point. I must have sounded like a crazy fan.

Morely and Me
Morley and me.

Sitting in the circle of six, I said “Well, yes I’m from the Soo…and I read your book A Good Place to Come From…and it made a big impact on me as a kid you see…cuz I’d just been reading some heavy stuff and you made me believe a young kid could be a writer from the Soo…like Frank Paci was. I won a poetry contest back then and met Frank Paci. Then I read his books too. Black Madonna and The Italians…and then I went to school and studied literature at university but also loved music and became enamored with writers who were like you as well as songwriters like John Prine and Tom T. Hall. You know it’s all connected Morely. Right?  Like my friend Dale who gave me your book when I was a kid who also believes the Soo is a good place to come from.”
It truly felt like that’s how I carried on. I’m not one to get too nervous these days, but when someone’s creative force has had an impact on you like this, it’s no small thing.

After my ramble, we settled into a proper visit with a great conversation about who knew who and who remembered what.
The highlight was the story of the building of the synagogue.
“It was at the bottom of Bruce St. right Morley?” said Anna-Pearl.
“Yes, and it still is. Remember so and so and so and so wanted the different names for it? As I recall it lead to a fist fight out in the parking lot.”
And with that, I chimed in “Ahhh yes…violence in the name of religion and they hadn’t even put a post in the ground.”
With that one wise-crack, Anna-Pearl laughed out loud and said “So true. So true! Have some more tea.” A major break-through in group!

As the conversation continued, I noticed a great trait in Morley. Seemingly soft-spoken, but when he said something it was usually well-timed lines of comic relief. He reminded me of Bob Newhart for some reason: dead-panned but hysterically funny when he wanted to be.

I just wanted to relay this story to you before the holidays as a way of saying that my Christmas came early this year.  I really hope yours is a great one too. The river we’re on; this crazy journey of our lives; Sometimes it brings us home – right to where we started. It reminds us of the reasons we left and the reasons we keep coming back.  If you’re lucky, you can say you came from a good place. If not, here’s to hoping you find one.
In the meantime, find A Good Place to Come From and give it a read. If you don’t laugh the night away, I’ll personally call you up and tell you bad jokes until you do.

Interested in exploring more about the concept of the big reveal? If you’re an artist, songwriter, author or filmmaker I’d suggest you immediately read the transcripts of the interview between Truffaut and Hitchcock. My oldest brother gave me this book several years ago and it is a must read for anyone in these artistic pursuits.

Happy Christmahannukwanzadan!

Simple Pleasures and Buried Treasures

Watch this little interview first:  https://www.cbsnews.com/video/john-prine-the-singing-mailman-delivers-again/

The last time I saw Prine was at Massey Hall about 13 years ago. My girlfriend snuck us in backstage by sweet talking the security guard at the back of the theatre. We made our way down the hallway to stand in line with the other autograph seekers (about 10 in all). When it was our turn, Prine signed ‘All the Best – John Prine’ on his Fair and Square CD. Then she began to explain that I was a songwriter and a big fan of his. Without a word of a lie he said “Well, I have an Irish bride that would rather I don’t go out drinking after my shows anymore BUT….(as he turned to his two bandmates – Jason Wilbur and Dave Jacques) “Why don’t you guys take these two out and tell them John Prine stories. My treat!” The band then invited us to sit with them in the green room where we met the opening artist Dan Reeder.
Dan was an ex-pat living in Germany as a painter, luthier, family man and part-time songwriter. As the story goes he loved Prine. So, he wrote a bunch of songs on his handcrafted guitar and recorded them at his home studio, sent them to Prine on a homemade CD with a two-sentence note describing his love of Prine’s songs and his phone number. Prine was so blown away by his songs he called him up and said: “Dan, how would you like to become famous?” Wanna open for me across North America?”
As Dan explained to me, he said “I put the phone down and asked my wife. Of course, she said yes! Then I asked Prine what I should wear and he said: “Wear whatever you want!”
To this day I remember Dan Reeder walking out to open that show in worn-out sneakers, faded Levis, a green t-shirt, a red ballcap and reading glasses all the while sitting on a stool with his guitar like he was at an open mic. His songs blew me away. I’m still a fan.
For instance, The Work Song: He had the audience singing “I got aaaalllll….alllll the fucking work I need…I got aaaalllll …..alll the fucking work I need!” Over and over again. Too great. Check him out www.danreeder.com

(In fact, the story of Dan writing Prine that letter and sending him an accompanying CD of original material was the exact inspiration for me doing the same to Ian Tyson. In a small way, that story changed the trajectory of my life. Thanks for the inspiration Dan).


After that, the bass player Dave brought us out to the hotel lounge where they were
staying around the corner. We closed the place down and heard some amazing road stories but the best of them all was about Dave being in the right place at the right time.
(Paraphrasing of course) “I was jobbing around Nashville a few years ago playing for everyone. Broke, tired and my wife was soon to have a baby. I had made my mind up that I was going to get a real nine-to-five job. I actually went downtown that day to do some job hunting. Along the way, I ran into a friend who asked if I could sub in for a gig that he couldn’t make in the weeks to follow. It was a one-off for John Prine.
Two years later, I’m still on the road with him and have never looked back. It changed my life.” In other words, Dave’s story was an all too familiar one about perseverance: albeit HIS story had a happy ending. I believe he’s still Prine’s bass player. I must have really thought he was ok because by the end of the night we were trashed and as I discussed my two-left feet he brought my girlfriend up to the dance floor and danced to 80’s music. (Gotta watch those damn bass players! lol) Too funny. As the night was over, he said he would try to get us tickets to Friday nights London show. The next day, Dave called and said it was all good “You’re on the guest list and we have you sitting four rows back – dead center!” What a guy. “Come down early and hang with us and meet John.”
So there we were two nights later in the green room once again. Dave took me over to sit with John in another room. I don’t remember what we talked about other than to say he was as cool as one could be with that scenario. During all of that, I noticed my new champion was handing out one of my earlier CD’s entitled Cashing in on Peace.
(I was a bit surprised and I know for certain I would never have done this if it were just me.  It was a country-tinged bluegrass style record of heavily Prine influenced songs. We recorded it live in one day around one mic: (bluegrass style) and added some bells and whistles after the fact. The owners of the Cameron House (prior to the sale about 15 years ago) had a Saturday afternoon band called The Cameron Family singers: Kevin Quain, Tony Benettar, Tom Parker and others. They became my band for the session. It was a unique CD – more comical than anything I’d ever done. A rail against the hippies turned yuppies.) 


Anyway, not long afterward I heard from Jason Wilbur about my CD and for a while, we were exchanging emails about songwriting. That was cool. That’s the last I heard of it.
We enjoyed the London concert which was essentially a carbon copy of the Toronto show. The difference though was how Prine kept his in-between song banter in the moment…and yes we even got a brief nod as “the Toronto couple who we’ve come to know!” How cool was that?

What I didn’t tell anyone is that I’d snuck in my old cassette voice recorder (yes that’s what I said kids – CASSETTE voice recorder – I’m a fucking Luddite – get over it) and recorded the Toronto show. I did this for my cousin Ken up in the Soo who was one of the first Prine fans I’d met. He loved Prine so much I gave him my entire collection of cassettes and then decided to bootleg him this concert for good measure. Unethical? Perhaps. But by today’s copyright standards – a genius move.

I bring all of this up because just the other day I was unpacking the few boxes I’d put in storage while I roamed the musical trail untethered for the past ten years. I was down to four blue bins  – a minimalist’s dream. (Possessions are bullshit). In one of the bins was a shoebox labeled ‘Buried Treasure”. What a trip! I found three letters from Ian Tyson and four from Don Cherry. About twenty rejection letters from 1993-1995. (The nicest of which was from Holger Peterson of Stony Plain Records who took the time to write a one-page letter about my live cassette submission. “Jay, you show great potential etc….remember to keep your guitars in tune…” It was very heartfelt and honest. That’s why people love the guy. It’s the little things. Things you don’t forget on the way up.

Also in the box were posters and articles and at the very bottom a cassette with my writing “Prine – Massey Hall – for Ken.”
I mailed the cassette to Ken last week and he still hasn’t received it. (Maybe it’s the postal strike?)  I haven’t heard it in all these years. I hope it sounds ok. The next trick is finding a cassette player to play it. I’m sure the Goodwill will have something.

So, this morning I noticed Prine was being featured on CBS’s Sunday Morning show and I had to watch it. His final act is becoming his biggest. I won’t say his album Tree of Forgiveness is any better or worse than any other of his efforts. Anything Prine creates is cool and everlasting. I’m really happy he’s getting this swansong. I knew something was happening three years ago when I was hosting a campfire jam at midnight at the Trout Forest Folk Festival in Northwestern ON. About fifty guitar slingers showed up and it went until 4am. One young girl, no more than twenty years old, began singing Sam Stone and then Big Old Goofy World. She blew everyone away. Then it started a John-Prin-a-thon. I was supposed to be encouraging original material but it was too much fun. I stopped the proceedings at one point to ask that first girl interpreting Prine how she came to know his music? “My father used to sing me his songs as a baby. He was my Fred Penner.” The same story was repeated again and again that night as we conducted our John Prine Shrine to the stars. I realized then and there, his relevance was beyond a small cult-like figure. I could see this second-spring coming a mile away.

I sure hope he gets into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I said I’d boycott it if they ever let Bon Jovi in – and they just did!  But if John Prine gets in, I’ll begrudgingly overlook the Bon Jovi atrocity and like a steel cowboy, ride into Cleveland wanted dead or alive to pay my respects to the man who’s offered me a lifetime of beautiful art.

When I Get to Heaven – John Prine

When I get to Heaven

I’m gonna shake God’s hand
Thank him for more blessings
Then one man can stand
Then I’m gonna get a guitar
And start a Rock and Roll band
Check into a swell hotel
Ain’t the ‘Afterlife’ grand!

And then I’m gonna get a cocktail
Vodka and Ginger Ale
Yeah, I’m gonna smoke a cigarette
That’s nine miles long
I’m gonna kiss that pretty girl
On the Tilt a Whirl
‘Cause this old man is going to town

Then as God as my witness
I’m gettin’ back into show business
I’m gonna open up a nightclub called
‘The Tree of Forgiveness’
And forgive everybody
Ever done me any harm
I might even invite a few choice critics
Those syphilitic parasitics
Buy ’em a pint of Smithwick’s
And smother’em with my charm

‘Cause then I’m gonna get a cocktail
Vodka and Ginger Ale
Yeah, I’m gonna smoke a cigarette
That’s nine miles long
I’m gonna kiss that pretty girl
On the Tilt a Whirl
Yeah this old man is going to town

Yeah when I get to heaven
I’m gonna take
That wristwatch off my arm
What are you gonna do with time
After you’ve bought the farm
And then I’m gonna go find my Mom and Dad
And good old brother Doug
Well I bet him and cousin Jackie
Are still cuttin’ up a rug
Wanna see all my mama’s sisters
‘Cause that’s where all the love starts
I miss ’em all like crazy
Bless their little hearts
And I always will remember
These words my daddy said
He said, “Buddy, when you’re dead
You’re a dead peckerhead”
I hope to prove him wrong
That is … when I get to heaven

‘Cause I’m gonna have a cocktail
Vodka and Ginger Ale
Gonna smoke a cigarette
That’s nine miles long
I’m gonna kiss that pretty girl
On the Tilt a Whirl
Yeah this old man is going to town
Yeah this old man is going to town

Chip Taylor // Hugh’s Room Live // March 7 (and WHY YOU NEED TO GO!)

Hello friends,
this is a concert you need to know about. Like the rest of the world, I grew up singing Wild Thing and hearing Angel of the Morning just about everywhere. (Thanks, Shaggy!)

As a songwriter in the business I must confess to being only vaguely familiar with Chip Taylor (the writer behind so many hit songs), so when my friend and publicist invited me to see Chip perform I jumped at the chance. After that performance, I sought out every single thing Chip ever wrote. I went deep for three solid years. In fact two tours ago, I filled the six-CD player in my car with only Chip Taylor records.
The Little Prayers Trilogy, F#!K All the Perfect People, New Songs of Freedom, Block out the Sirens of this Lonely World (my personal favourite), The Trouble with Humans, Live from Ruhr Triennale (with Carrie Rodriguez)  New Songs of Freedom.

I eventually met Chip and had a brief conversation with him.

Told him how much I appreciated his contributions to the world. He played “F#!k all the Perfect People” for me. Here’s a cool video of that song:F#!K All the Perfect People

If you live in or near Toronto and have Wednesday, March 7th free, you need to join us at Hugh’s Room. In fact, I am trying to get about 20 people together at a big table. Let’s do it. You need to catch Chip. I promise you it’ll be a night that will make you feel better about the world.

If you’re wondering why you’re receiving this email in Vancouver, Whitehorse or Halifax it’s because I want you to tell your friends and family in the GTA to get to this concert. Really!

I was not asked by anyone to hype this show. I am only hyping it for pure love and respect for this artist.

Buy tickets here: http://hughsroomlive.com/event/chip-taylor/

NOW – Read the official press release below for the REST OF THE STORY.

If you (or your friends) decide to come, please let me know so we can all sit together.

“Block out the sirens of this lonely world…let them know just how great you are!”

Media information // For immediate release
Please retain for event listings



Chip Taylor wanted to be a professional golfer. Then he became a prolific songwriter who’s given the world at least two songs that everyone knows — “Angel of the Morning” and “Wild Thing.” And along the way he had a career as the sort of gambler that gets barred from Las Vegas for winning too much, and he’s been a bookmaker’s nightmare on the racetrack.

Now he’s set for a concert at Hugh’s Room Live on Wednesday March 7, with Vancouver-based singer-songwriter Sarah Jane Scouten as his special guest.

WHO: Hit songwriter CHIP TAYLOR with special guest SARAH JANE SCOUTEN

WHY: A rare opportunity to spend an intimate evening with a warm-hearted songwriter and storyteller

WHERE: Hugh’s Room Live, 2261 Dundas St. W, Toronto

WHEN: Wednesday March 7, 2018. Doors 6:00 pm, show 8:30 pm

HOW MUCH: Reservations $27.50 in advance at hughsroomlive.com or $32.50 at door. More details 416-533-5483.

Get this out of the way first: Chip Taylor’s brother is actor Jon Voight (which makes him Angela Jolie’s uncle) and he knows more about cards and racehorses and golf than any one man ought to.

As a songwriter and performer since the ‘60s his material has been covered by everyone from Anne Murray, Emmylou Harris and Linda Ronstadt to The Troggs, The Hollies, Waylon Jennings, Juice Newton, Shaggy and Janis Joplin.

Now in his 70s, he remains a prolific writer. After a hiatus during which he made a living in casinos and on racetracks, he returned to music in 1993 and has since released more than 20 albums on his own label, Train Wreck Records.

He’s also an engaging, funny storyteller, and Hugh’s Room Live is the perfect intimate setting for his wry sense of humour.

The opening artist is Sarah Jane Scouten — a perfect complement for Taylor’s warm onstage presence. Ms. Scouten has just returned from her fourth European tour, and will sing at Hugh’s Room Live after a lengthy tour in western Canada.

A quote to put Chip Taylor in context:

“If names like Willie Nelson, Guy Clark, Kris Kristofferson and Townes Van Zandt mean anything to you, you should make a point of discovering Chip Taylor. Whether you know it or not, he’s earned his way into that exalted company.” — American music writer Anthony DeCurtis.


Website: trainwreckrecords.com

“Wild Thing”: youtube.com/watch?v=lnNuOIzetQg
“Dance with Jesus”: youtube.com/watchtime_continue=115&v=ZGuRjBf4wkc



We met in an open air market
Fully aware of the price
We did our waltzing on water
Until one blade cracked through the ice
Don’t try to save me I’m already saved
Just save yourself and move on
Walk into the wilderness
Give the world its song

That’s what she said to me, just before we left each other for good. I decided to follow her advice and walk into the wilderness to give the world its song. I sold my belongings and moved out of my Toronto abode and hit the road to reinvent myself as a troubadour: living anywhere and everywhere to feed my art and soul. My friends dubbed it ‘The Mid-Life Crazies Tour’. Apparently, they were spot on.

Wait…let me back it up.

We actually met in a Starbucks by random chance. Her mere presence was intriguing as she typed away on her small Apple laptop writing what appeared to be a short story. She argued that writing fiction was the best form of creative expression, while I held fast to songwriting as a more refined medium. This minutia became part of the attraction.
“Hi, my name is Jay. Nice to meet you.”
“Hi, I’m Sylvia. Nice to meet you too!”
“As in Sylvia Plath?”
“I love that you know her. “
“I do. Such a sad story.
“Would you care to join me?”

Three months later we found ourselves attending book readings and university lectures offered by little-known authors and dinner parties with literary wannabees of the time. She was a short story writer of some acclaim. When we met she’d just turned down an offer to teach at an Ivy League University. She claimed the pressure was too overwhelming and her sensitive nature was at odds with these expectations. She suffered for these expectations. My English Lit degree paled in comparison to the depth of field she was playing in. I assumed she loved me for my music. I’m still not sure if she loved me at all.

As time marched forward we eventually began meeting each other’s friends and families. One particular Friday night we were invited to a dinner party with a group of her friends. We arrived at the condo and were welcomed by six seemingly friendly artistic souls all clamoring to make us feel as welcomed as possible. The condo owner was obviously attracted to Sylvia. For some reason, he reminded me of the actor James Franco. (A poor man’s James Dean). It was the first shot across the bow. His intentional dismissal of me and prolonged fawning over Sylvia became more apparent as the night went on. “Let me take your coat, Sylvia. Can I offer you a glass of wine Sylvia? What have you been reading lately Sylvia?”
I hung up my coat and made my way over to the kitchen where I was met by a mysterious goth-inspired girl dressed in knee-high Doc Martins, a Black Flag t-shirt, oversized black horn-rimmed glasses surrounded by her straight banged black hair. She seemed strangely out of place with the others.

“Are those real Doc Martins? They look like the real deal?”
That was my ice-breaker? “They look like the real deal?” What a buffoon Aymar. Why do you bother?
Without batting an eyelash, she turned to her friend and muttered something dismissive under her breath. She exercised that casual dismissive motion that only the intellectual elite can pull off. It worked.
Feeling stranded and confused I spiraled into self-doubt and secretly wished we could leave this cubicle of pretention. I mentally retreated to a place where I was surrounded by my true friends. MY FRIENDS would hang would hang up a strangers coat I thought to myself. MY FRIENDS would never overtly come on to my girlfriend. MY FRIENDS would offer a new guest a drink. MY FRIENDS would not talk Baudelaire! Wait! What?

And there it was. I wandered out of the kitchen to find Sylvia and Franco sequestered on a love seat talking about the impact Charles Baudelaire on modern film. Now operating out of fear and contempt, I boldly interrupted this conversation with what little I knew of the French symbolist movement and quipped “He had a big impact on Jim Morrison!”
Franco glared at me with disdain, “Who did?”
“Baudelaire!” I responded with trepidation.
“Excuse me but we’re talking film. Not music. I understand music’s your passion?”
“Um…yes to a degree. I’ll let you two continue. My apologies.”

Again I was met with that casual dismissive motion that only the intellectual elite can pull off. Sylvia was oblivious. She smiled and asked “Can you open that bottle of Cabernet we brought? It really should breath before dinner.”

And with that one non-gesture of defending me in that situation, I realized that Sylvia was not the one for me. As the night wore on, I slowly retreated back into my own headspace watching as the proceedings rolled on like bad Cinema Verite. The talking heads were smiling and laughing but the stilted movements of the participants seem choreographed. I was disappointed with myself for going this far into a relationship that was so obviously detrimental to my psyche. My anger with the scene and myself became so visceral that I reached for the whiskey, poured a double and steadied myself for the dreaded dinner portion of the evening.

We assembled into the kitchen to help ourselves to the catered Thai food and eventually made our way over to the dinner table. As I poured Sylvia and myself a glass of wine, our cordial host Franco decided to shape the topic of the dinner table discussion.
“I personally love round tables! A round table suggests egalitarian principles. Dining should be enjoyed equally by all at the table regardless of station.“
I could only once again retreat into my childhood happy place of Sunday dinners where my siblings and I sat a rectangular table, headed by my parents, where the pecking order was firmly entrenched. The best of our rectangular table conversations were the intentional breaking of formalities. My father would occasionally bang his fork on the side of his plate to establish order in the court, but when he spoke, it was never something as absurd as to extolling the benefits of a round table. Interruptions and sidebars were encouraged. You had to be lightning fast to get your point across. Comedy and cynicism worked brilliantly. Often it was the quiet ones of the brood who would say only one sentence yet that sentence would resonate like the wisdom of the Dali Lama for days. So when this pretentious hipster-wannabee banged his gavel and invented this lame topic of discussion, I took a deep breath and prepared myself for a long night. I was now watching Fellini’s 8 ½ and Franco had morphed into one of his clowns in a dream sequence. I couldn’t contain myself any longer. I violently downed my glass of wine then went back into the kitchen and poured myself a double whiskey. I returned for my grand entrance ready for some fun.

“Yes. I completely agree. A round table DOES represent an egalitarian position. Why should we have heads of tables? Why have heads of state? Are we not all meant to live free of these man-made constructs? If you think about it, anarchy really is the only solution!”
While these disingenuous words were leaving my lips, the goth girl who’d been seated beside me suddenly motioned toward me and smiled. Then if that wasn’t fucked up enough, I felt her hand slowly rubbing my lap beneath the table. I quickly stood up to pour myself another stiff one in the kitchen, but this time the previous few drinks had kicked in and as per usual I stumbled toward the wall. Memories of the Italian dinner party surfaced “Look at the mangiacake. He had too much of the vino!”
I made my way to the bathroom to reconnoiter. I gave myself the inevitable 30-second self-absorbed mirror stare down. “Look at you man. What have you become? Why are you attracted to Sylvia? What do you believe in?
I marched back to the table with a new found attitude. Upon returning to my chair I gave Sylvia a kiss on the cheek, establishing to both goth girl and Franco that both she and I were unattainable.
Then I went into great detail about the alternate benefits of a rectangular table.
“You see when I was a young kid in Sault Ste. Marie, I had this neighbour named Cyril. Every Sunday he’d come over with a new toy…”
And after five solid minutes of intentionally sucking the oxygen out of the room, I finished with “and that’s why I still dig rectangular tables.”
Franco was in full panic mode. He’d likely never seen a plain-spoken everyman in the flesh before.
He then did what all pseudo-intellectual douche bags do in these situations. “I’d like to propose a toast. I’d like to congratulate Slyvia for having her recent short story published in The Walrus. A brilliant story if there ever was one.”
And with that, he walked over to give her a hug and a kiss.
I turned to the goth girl beside me and murmured under my breath “It wasn’t her best work.”
She smiled.
Climbing Kilimanjaro is likely an easier task than making a goth girl smile, so with that victory, I filled her glass the remaining Cabernet and proceeded to check out of the conversation for good.

On the way home that night, Sylvia seemed oblivious to all that had gone on. She was proud of her little group of the intelligentsia. It was depressing. I was once again, disappointed with myself for allowing my loneliness to cloud my judgment in finding a suitable girl for me.

“Don’t forget, tomorrow we go to my parents’ place for their annual dinner party. Wear something nice.”

Where had I heard that one before? How could I go through with meeting the Fockers? I was already long gone in my mind. Perhaps this last Franco ordeal was just one bad night? Maybe I could find one last ray of hope through meeting her family?”

Her father was a doctor and her mother an accountant for the family practice. They lived in a starched white neighbourhood surrounded by golf courses and BMW’s. Her siblings were cut from the pages of a Nautica catalogue and their gentrified existence fit perfectly into the beige nouveau riche area of the city. The house sat perched over an English garden designed to appear wild in all of its perfectly manicured beauty. Luxury cars crowded the street and the driveway on our way up to the house.
Upon entering, we were greeted by the son of one of the guests who happened to be the president of a large investment bank. I’d noticed him looking through the curtains as we arrived and he’d obviously made a quick motion to the door to meet Sylvia.

“Hi Sylvia. I haven’t seen you since last year at the TSO? How have you been?”

Sylvia, now cognizant of my feelings from the previous the evenings’ events, quickly introduced me as her boyfriend, which quickly deflated Chad’s overpriced Pirelli tires.
“Oh I didn’t know you had a boyfriend?”
“Hi I’m Chad. We’re long-time friends of the family. How did you and Slyvia meet?”
“Oh randomly at a Starbucks,“ I responded.
“That’s amazing. I’ve loved this girl for years and you just swept her off of her feet at a Starbucks. You must have something I don’t!”
And with a patronizing pat on my back, he disappeared.
I whispered into her ear “Yeah, manners.”
She looked flummoxed. This was going to be another long night.

As I made my way into the house, Syvlia vanished to her old bedroom for a few minutes while her father fast approached.
“Welcome Jay. I sure hope you’re hungry? We have a great Thai chef on hand tonight who’s made enough for an army. Can I interest you in a drink?”

With that, I followed him down the hallway and into the dining room and there it was in all of its glory. A dining room table fit for royalty. Made of marble, it stretched out at least sixty feet and sat fifteen chairs on each side with two larger backed armchairs at either end for King Henry and Anne Boleyn respectively. (In that moment I was envious of her fate).

“Wow, that’s quite the table.”
“Yes, it sure is. I’ve always believed that a table should represent the household in which it sits.”
“I couldn’t agree more!”

I didn’t see Sylvia too much after that. I later discovered she had married for a while and now has two children. She never taught at Princeton. She never pursued her writing. We left on good terms.

I ran into her one night while finishing a show at the Gladstone Hotel in Toronto.

“Sylvia, I wrote a song about us called ‘ This Town Ain’t Big Enough’. It’s a duet. I hope you hear it someday.”

She did hear it. Then wrote me a nice letter to confess the one beautiful thing I had given her.

“You’re the only man I’ve ever met who disdained dinner parties. I laugh at that now. I look back and realize what you gave me. The freedom to dine alone in bed.”

I’ll take it.

Table for One

Don’t ask me why I’ve decided to write this today. It’s meaningless. You way wish to delete this and save your coveted time. You’ve been warned.

She brought me breakfast in bed and whispered “Do you like this?” I smiled and said “can we try dinner in bed too?” She laughed. We agreed that it felt excessive but was too much fun. Food, love and Netflix all from the confines of a big cozy bed. Then the sound of rain came down upon the roof echoing through the house. I dare anyone in that situation to not start humming:

“Well I love a rainy night I love a rainy night I love to hear the thunder watch the lightning when it lights up the sky …you know it makes me feel good!”

(And this is NOT an endorsement of Eddie Rabbitt. I repeat…NOT an Eddie Rabbitt endorsement. He gets this ONE ‘get of of jail free card’ for this song. Capiche? Good.)

After our third day of the bed-in I told her it was my favourite dining experience to date.

“Really? Do you have something against formal dining?” she naively asked.

“Do I have something against formal dining? Well, you’re going to think this is strange but…”

The solo dinner of the hapless bachelor is often awash in self pity, frugality and quite honestly a lack of patience for the finer art of culinary mastery. Often times I suspect I’m some reincarnated depression era dude from England where I’m satisfied with some deep fried battered Haddock and a few greasy chips. Captain Highliner meet Mr. McCain. Gentlemen start your defibrillators!

These days, to have access to an oven feels almost hedonistic. In my Spartan and pathetically selfish bachelor lifestyle, a Swiss Army knife and a can of ‘mystery meat’ constitutes a formal setting. I’ve whittled away the superficial formalities that have been imposed upon me by our entitled first world food marketing gurus. (That’s the bullshit I tell myself). In fact, I now consume my food as though I was serving life in prison for covering one single Barry Gibb song (which is certainly grounds for an extended stint in solitary). Completely hunched over – close to the table – my right arm wrapped around my plate of gruel for protection while the left arm moves swiftly in a back and forth shoveling motion. (The Swiss Army knife shiv placed gently in my sock.)

But you should know that this wasn’t always the case. There was a time from early childhood and long into adulthood that I was reluctantly forced to sit at a nicely set table, dining with others while maintaining proper etiquette. These were and continue to be some of my best childhood memories.

I was eight years old and my pal Cyril walked over to our driveway on a Sunday afternoon. He’d just returned from a day out with his father who’d purchased him the new Evel Knievel Stunt Cycle action figure. Every Tuesday his father would bring him toy shopping. It was crazy. I had nothing other than a ten cent Superball and board game called Trouble which no one wanted to play. So needless to say, I was beyond excited when Cyril came to visit his grandparents on any given Sunday.

Our driveway had just been paved that year so it was a great place to wind up Evel and see if he could jump the chalk line of our imaginary Grand Canyon. We went back and forth to see who could hold the record for the longest jump. Cryil won. He always did. He had an intricate knowledge of these new toys. Then, just as I was about to figure it all out, prepping for my jump the shark moment, I heard the familiar Sunday call from my mother “Time for dinner!”

“Sorry Cyril, I gotta go. See you after dinner.”

I went inside for our weekly roast beef dinner. My dad at one end of the table, my mom at the other end and the eight of us in our usual places. It was always memorable affair with my brothers and sisters making me laugh and usually a few weekly update stories thrown in for good measure. On this occasion I remember feeling constrained by the proceedings. I was obsessed on breaking Cyril’s record. I couldn’t contain myself. I was jonesing for more Knievel time. The time, energy, and love put into this traditional Sunday dinner was completely lost on me. I was on a mission. The second I could get away from that formal gathering I could be back into the thick of things. I would own the crown. Skip the dishes alright. Wait for the dessert then disappear amidst the clean up. Once outside, I waved Cyril back over to my driveway for a shot at the title.

I revved up Knievel a good ten times then then put put him down on the pavement…He was airborne! And with that I watched Cyril walk over to Evel, the bike and the ramp and proceed to stomp them all into a million peices.

“Hey! What? Why did you do that?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I felt like it. I get a new toy every Tuesday. See you next week.”
It was moments like this that made me wish I was a Protestant. Fewer kids in the family meant more toys. Besides, I heard they got candy after their Sunday services. We just got a lifetime of guilt for things we didn’t do.

Every Sunday for a few years it was the same thing. Cyril would come over with a new toy, things would be going along just great and then the dreaded….‘Time for dinner!’

This may sound hyperbolic but from that moment on, formal dinners just reminded me of confinement, wasted time and downside of huge families.

Years later, while living in Toronto I was dating a nice italian girl from my hometown who had recently moved to the big city. It happens that her parents decided to move down and built a house in which they rented her the basement. It was beautiful home which always made me feel a little homesick for LIttle Italy back in Sault Ste. Marie. Her mother Rosa was always making fresh pasta and drying it throughout the house. Her father Guido could be found in the garage making his sausages and homemade vino. Our relationship was at the six month mark and I got the dreaded call that it was time to meet the Calabresian Fockers on THANKSGIVING DAY no less!

“We’re having a big family dinner and I know everyone would love to meet you! Wear something nice. We all dress up.”

“So I’ll be the quintessential middle class WASP mangiacake at the dinner party? It’s my To Sir With Love Moment!” I replied with a chuckle.
“Ha ha, not quite but you know the drill.”

There it was. My big fear of formal dining situations reared it’s pathetic head. We were too new for me to get into the unamusing backstory of Cyril and the traumatic after effects of broken toys so I reluctantly agreed to the totally sane and generous offer of joining a great family for Thanksgiving Day dinner.

I arrived at the house wearing what any good red blooded Irish-Franco kid from humble beginnings would wear in the 1990’s. A nice pair of tan boat shoes, a matching pair of tanned docker pants with a matching tan belt and a red and green rugby shirt. All adorned, I might add, by a suit jacket made of burlap and reeds from the haute fashion house of Crickateer by Sears. Think George Costanza.

I made my way into the living room and was met with an an extended family of old and young resembling a scene directly out of any Fellini film. Everyone was dressed in formal attire. Even the young children seemed ripped from the pages of Toddler GQ.
Upon the extended table came the pasta and the bread and the chicken and the vino and the bread and pasta and the chicken and the vino and the bread and the… I was seated next to Guido at the head of the table which sat about fifteen of us.
He slowly reached over rubbing his thumb and forefinger onto the sleeve of my suit jacket “Heya Jay, we gonna geta you soma new cloth. I hava soma friends who canna helpa you.”
And with that he generously refilled my wine glass and gave me a firm pat on the back.
“Excuse me Guido, I’m just going to use the washroom. I’ll be right back.”
And with that, I stood up only to find my legs weren’t working. As I stumbled over to the wall to hold myself up, the entire table erupted in laughter “Ha ha…the mangiacake had too much of the homemade vino! Ha ha.”
Fortunately for them, this type of behaviour was exactly as what would have happened in our house so the ribbing made me feel completely at home. I had heard from my Italian friends back home that you had to go easy on the homemade wine. It was always stronger than the ‘good’ wine (which they reserved for the priests Sunday visits).
Upon returning I remember feeling my gelatinous, overheated frame slowly fading into a sleepy haze. I was still too proud to remove my burlap sack dinner jacket and sat suffering in silence looking at my soon to be ex-girlfriend. I could just feel it. The cultural divide felt too strong in that moment.

I fell into crippling self doubt as my overactive imagination whispered to me – ‘ What’s wrong with you Aymar? It’s only a dinner for Chrissakes!’

But the voices grew louder. “Where’s the turkey? Where’s the stuffing? The mashed potatoes?
And then, as though it was divine intervention, her mother Rosa appeared from the kitchen with a pumpkin pie. Was this redemption? Could it be? A bridge of commonality between our two cultures? Perhaps this could work after all? I mean….Pumpkin Pie! Come on.

I watched as Guido slowly placed a small piece of pie to his fork and brought it to his nose. I watched him sniff it as though an inquisitive basset hound.
“Heya Rosa….whatdya calla this? Is thisa mada a froma the squash?”
“No, it’s a mada froma the pumpkin! We make it fora the mangiacake”
Everyone laughed including myself. I truly loved that family.

And with that I thought “Wait a minute? No one here eats pumpkin pie? They just blew up the bridge.”
Now the truth be told, the cultural difference was a beautiful thing and the pumpkin pie was not a deal breaker: the lack of true compatibility was the deal breaker (even though she was a great soul.) That said, the memory of that one dinner party was yet another brick in the ever expanding wall of dining misfires while meeting the prospective in-laws.

The years progressed and I often found myself avoiding these dreaded dinner party invitations.
I was able to skirt around them like a trained professional, limiting them only to the rarest of special occasions.

Then, out of nowhere came the mother of all dinner party invites. Another girl and another set of Fockers. Only this time I was in my thirties and stakes were much higher. What happened next is the stuff of legend.

And this is where Evel Knievel jumps the Grand Canyon.

Stay tuned for the thrilling conclusion of….TABLE FOR ONE.

The Bridge to Rickles

When I was a kid, my mother’s bridge club consisted of her sister Marie and cousins Liz and Claire. It was always a big deal when mom hosted because I would inevitably be able to sneak a few deviled eggs away from the proceedings.
I learned a lot from watching these women play bridge. You think playoff hockey is competitive? Think again. Watching my mom take down her opponents was like watching the Rumble in the Jungle “Down goes Claire… down goes Claire.”
As the years progressed they decided to start pooling their weekly money into a trip fund. I believe Portugal (for some unknown reason) was first up. It explained why we had a cache of chicken logod items around the house for years to come.
Then they hatched a plan to go to Vegas – which I still believe would make a fantastic screenplay. (Any screenwriters out there? Perhaps we can collaborate?)

When they returned home, all I was interested in was if they saw any musical shows but they said they’d decided to see a comic instead: Don Rickles.
I was much too young to know about Rickles then. His story. His movies. His Carson and Dean Martin Roast appearances.
Finally Liz said “He was so insulting and rude…we walked out!”
That was it. It was all I needed to hear and I was off on a Don Rickles fact finding mission.
Coming from a large family with five older brothers and two sisters, we were well versed in the art of insult comedy. Survival of the fittest baby. An Irish girlfriend once reminded me that this is how big families show love. Once you’re tough enough to take cutting insults from loved ones, you’re tough enough for anything!
So needless to say, when I discovered Rickles I loved him. He was better and faster than my older brothers Bob and Dave in the art of the insult (and trust me these guys are ninjas).

I would urge any aspiring artist to read Rickles Book as it’s a lesson in perseverance and risk taking. Including the Chaplin’s and Stooges, the Henny Youngman’s and Dangerfield’s, the Lenny Bruce’s and Carlin’s, the Moms Mabley’s, Red Foxx’s and Pryor’s to Phyllis and Joan and Eddie and Louis….no single human has made me laugh harder than Rickles.

“Don Rickles is the best comic of all time and I’d stand on Liz’s coffee table in my cowboy boots and say that!”

He made me laugh until the very end. I’m gonna miss that guy.

Interestingly, at the recording studio last week one of the lads was reading his phone and said “Hey…that guy Don Wrinkles just died”.
I just brushed it off thinking they were talking about another obscure jazz guitarist from the 60s I’d not heard of.
Then it registered….”Wait….did you mean Don Rickles died? ”
“Oh yeah…sorry man…Rickles not Wrinkles. He was pretty famous eh?”

“Well….I first heard of him when I was eight years old. You see my mother played a game called bridge…..”

RIP Wrinkles…thanks for the laughs.

I have tried in my way to be free

It’s been a rough week.

I am speechless on every level.

Ironically, I heard that Leonard Cohen passed via text messages while working on a song for my next album. I have thoughtful friends.

When we recorded a live record last year I added one cover song to the mix: Bird on a Wire. My friend Jadea Kelly joined me on stage to sing harmony.

Before we released the album, I contacted Robert Kory, Leonard’s manager in L.A.  I sent him our rough, unmastered version of the song and he quickly asked that we obtain the necessary license via a specific music lawyer in Canada.

It proved a bit costly for me to justify releasing it on the live CD.

I have uploaded that rough version onto Soundcloud for you to hear. I’ll leave it up for a while until we get through this.

When did you first hear Leonard?  Tell me friends.

Here’s the link to the song:


The Bells of Retribution

It was about fifteen years ago now. The day I drove through the beautiful fall colours along Highway 7 toward a tiny little village about an hour north of Kingston, ON. I was en route to visit an old friend who’d moved there from the Sault. He’d recently lost his wife to cancer and the urgency of my arrival was anticipated with the joy that only an old friend could bring.

The place was a dry country for many years, save for the one watering hole out on the highway: The Legion. It was a great Legion Hall where I’d come to know many of the folks who’ve now since passed.

We always hung out in the small bar in the basement. A pool table, a  shuffleboard, pickled eggs, cold Labbatt 50; a calcified museum where memorabilia of the brave local men and women of the region adorned the walls beside a million other reminders of a by-gone era. An era I was not born into but an era my father lived through.

My dad often reminds us of the time an army recruiter walked into Ste. Anne’s College in 1939 and stood at the front of the classroom. “He pulled down a map of Europe. Mentioned something about a bad man named Hitler then told us how pretty the girls were in England. It wasn’t conscription but it may as well have been! Within minutes we were all in line at the back of the classroom signing up. When I told my mother she was very proud of me. She made me a care package upon leaving with the understanding that I’d be home in six months. I returned five years later.”

He carried a picture in his wallet of a girl he ‘kind of liked’ who lived in his Acadian village. “I looked at that picture throughout the war. It kind of got me through things. I returned home to realize she was married. Don’t look back son. You can’t change the past. Look forward and keep busy.”

In asking him about whether he saw action he would refuse to respond. There were times when we’d be relentless with our questions, yet he’d refuse to answer. He’d only ever say “Those who talked too much of heroics likely didn’t see the worst of it.” We accepted this answer.

We knew he’d been ‘knocked out overboard’ somewhere in Normandy.
“I can’t quite remember. I was on a small boat in Normandy I think. I can’t remember the weeks prior to or after that incident really. The Germans bombed us and I was hit in the head by a piece of shrapnel… so they tell me. They said I was lying unconscious  on the bottom of the riverbed for over two minutes when a member of my regiment Bill Goodall found some scuba gear amidst the chaos and saved me. I never did find out what happened to Bill. I heard he moved back to Calgary. I wonder if he’s still alive?
You know the strangest thing about that experience? I awoke in a field hospital with a knife in my mouth! I panicked – thinking I’d been captured and was being tortured. Immediately a nurse held me down and said the doctor was holding my tongue in place so that I wouldn’t choke.”

These minor anecdotes were all we’d receive over the years. It’s only been since mom passed last year that he’s cryptically mentioned that he was part of D-DAY +1. He said they were referred to as “the clean up crew.” He told me the story. I can’t bear to repeat it.  Lately it’s been one after another  – usually comical stories. What’s better than humour in face of all of that darkness. I guess that’s why I loved Heller’s Catch 22 or Altman’s MASH.

Dad just turned 95. I recently reread him Wilfred Owen’s classic WWI poem ‘Dulce et Decorum Est’. Owen himself died a week before the armistice but was able to get these poems home in the form of letters – directly from the trenches. The title is based on an ode from the Roman poet Horace, addressing what he calls The Great Lie that : “It is great and glorious to die for ones country.”

My father never tires of this sentiment.

As I sat down in the eastern Ontario Legion Hall that crisp autumn Saturday afternoon,  a woman came downstairs and tapped me on the shoulder.
“I’m sorry to trouble you with this, but I have a daft idea. Would you mind coming into the office for a minute?
The last time you were here you played us a song your wrote about your father and I think there are some men upstairs in the main hall who’d like to hear it. We have a band peforming later so there’s a full PA on stage and a lot of vets are here to celebrate a members retirement. Do you have your guitar?”

And with that, I was out in the parking lot grabbing my six string and then proceeded into the main entrance of the hall. The parking lot had filled up since my arrival and there were at least 200 veterans, mostly men sitting at long tables. They were dressed in their official military uniforms and suddenly the hall became very quiet.

The woman introduced me along with the brief story of how she’d heard
the song, which added proper context to my arrival. I offered the aforementioned story to set up the song and then sang it to pin drop silence. handwritten-lryics-to-the-bells-of-retibution

When it was over, I opened my eyes to see the men on their feet applauding. The applause lasted long enough to make me well up. I thanked them and while still shaking…left the stage to go back out to the parking lot. Unable to deal with the emotion of the moment, I sat in my car for ten minutes until I was able to go back in and properly meet the men.

Of any performance I’ve ever given; anywhere and for all time – this one simple performance will never be surpassed. Ever. I knew it the moment it happened. I still get chills thinking about it.

I went downstairs to join my friends for the evening. The guitar came out and stayed out for the duration of the night. We sang every song I could think of. The basement bar filled up with many of the vets after the ceremony in the hall was over. At the end of the night I had all of the vets singing Vera Lynne’s – We’ll Meet Again (I’d learned it from my fathers record collection). A day to remember.

I can’t know about the horrors of war. These wars that plague humanity. Is it about the haves and the have not’s? I think so. Can’t we outthink our nature?  I don’t know. I’m just another flawed human living in one of the most prosperous countries in the world. I’m no great historian and likely an innocent contributor to the empires pending fall. I only see merit in trying to paint the hallways a little brighter for all of us who have to walk through this life. Maybe that’s my role. What’s yours? No different from anyone elses yet much different from the vets who put their lives on the line to defend a principle.

And for that one songwriter who I met a few years ago who chastised me for wearing a poppy arguing it was a tired symbol of war – shame on you.
I thought you knew better.

Here’s your song dad. And to the memory of Bill Goodall, the West 27th Nova Scotian regiment and veterans of all wars I can only quote John Lennon: “War is over. If you want it.”


Jay Aymar 2016 Canadian tour dates

Below is the list of our Canadian Tour Dates. Please take a moment to share this with your friends across Canada. I’m sure we can fit them into a concert somewhere!

Expect a who’s who of special guests at our shows along with a book reading to start each concert, followed by a full night of live original music. You can’t beat that!
It will be so good you’ll have to tell two friends…and they’ll tell two friends and so on and so on and so on…

If you see this poster anywhere that means we’re going to be in your town:


Thursday, May 26
HALIFAX – THE CARLETON (with Laura Smith) $27.50

Friday, May 27
Evelinas Hall – Little Brook, NS $20
Monday, May 30
SHELBURNE, Nova Scotia. All Natural Ingredients Concerts $20
Tuesday, May 31
MONCTON – Plan B $10
Thursday, June 2
Ringo’s Acoustic Series
Friday, June 3
Saint Andrews by the Sea, NB – Kennedy Inn Concerts
Saturday, June 4
Saint Andrews by the Sea, NB – Kennedy Inn Concerts
Tuesday, June 7
Gagetown, NB – Creekview Concerts $15
Wednesday, June 8
Grimross Concert Series $20
Sunday, June 12
WAWA – Superior Adventures Concert Series $20
Monday, June 13
Rossport – Serendipity Concerts
Tuesday, June 14
Wabigoon, ON – Pappy’s Cafe $15
Wednesday, June 15
Ploughshares Concerts
Beausejour, MB $20
Thursday, June 16
7:30 pm
Sunset Saloon, Winnipeg (Jeff Robson’s House Concerts) $25
Friday, June 17
Sandy Lake Concerts, Sandy Lake MB
Saturday, June 18
Sandy Lake Concerts, Sandy Lake MB
Sunday, June 19
3:00 pm
Sandy Lake Concerts, Sandy Lake MB
Monday, June 20
ROSSBURN – GS Concerts $20
Tuesday, June 21
Thursday, June 23
Regina, SK – Grassroots Regina Folk Club
Friday, June 24
Medicine Hat, AB – Inspire Studio and Gallery $20
Saturday, June 25
Lethbridge, AB – Owl Acoustic Lounge $15
Sunday, June 26
The Works Art and Design Festival
8:45 – 9:30pm
Edmonton, ABMonday, June 27
Needle Vinyl Tavern
Edmonton, AB
Thursday June 30, 2016.
Calgary, AB – Wine-Oh’s $10
Canada Day
3-6pm (tickets: chessbookingagency@gmail.com
The Stop. Black Diamond, AB.Canada Day

Late show
Ponoka, AB (Private)
Saturday, July 2
NANTON – The Auditorium
Thursday, July 7
FERNIE, BC – Infinitea
Friday, July 8
TWIN BUTTE, AB – SOUL FEST see website for weekend pass rates.
Saturday, July 9
Sunday, July 10
Thursday, July 14
Calgary – Hotel Arts
Friday, July 15
Fratters – Red Deer, AB $20
Saturday, July 16
Halo Farms Private concert Red Deer, AB private
Monday, July 18
Tuesday, July 19
Kitsalano Concerts. Private.
Wednesday, July 20
Duncan BC – 39 Days of July Festival (see website for details)
Thursday, July 21
Duncan BC – Garage Showroom $10
Friday, July 22
Cortes Island, BC – Gorge Hall $15
Saturday, July 23
Cortes Island – Gorge Harbour Concert Series $15
Tuesday, July 26
Gabriola Island – The
RoxyTheatre $20
Thursday, July 28
Bowser, BC. Champagne’s Summer Concert Series $20
Thursday, August 4
Vancouver – Main on Main (private)
Saturday, August 6
Blue Belle Bistro, Kaslo, BC $15—

Friday, August 12
Twin Butte – General Store $15


Rolla Pub, Sept 16,
Rolla, BC

Rolla Pub Sept 17
Rolla BC

Saturday, September 17, 2016
Northern BC HOME ROUTES TOUR (12 shows)
Sunday, September 18, 2016
Northern BC HOME ROUTES TOUR (12 shows)
Monday, September 19, 2016
Northern BC HOME ROUTES TOUR (12 shows)
Tuesday, September 20, 2016
Northern BC HOME ROUTES TOUR (12 shows)
Wednesday, September 21, 2016
Northern BC HOME ROUTES TOUR (12 shows)
Thursday, September 22, 2016
Northern BC HOME ROUTES TOUR (12 shows)
Friday, September 23, 2016
Northern BC HOME ROUTES TOUR (12 shows).
Saturday, September 24, 2016
Northern BC HOME ROUTES TOUR (12 shows)
Sunday, September 25, 2016
Northern BC HOME ROUTES TOUR (12 shows)
Monday, September 26, 2016
Northern BC HOME ROUTES TOUR (12 shows)
Tuesday, September 27, 2016
Northern BC HOME
ROUTES TOUR (12 shows)
Wednesday, September 28, 2016
Northern BC HOME ROUTES TOUR (12 shows)
Thursday, September 29, 2016
Northern BC HOME ROUTES TOUR (12 shows)
Friday, September 30, 2016
Northern BC HOME ROUTES TOUR (12 shows)

Thursday , October 7

The  Basement

Saskatoon SK. $20

The Singing Country Folk Poet

I’d just finished my stint in Nashville leaving behind several great friends who’d helped me find the heart of another Saturday night! You might know some of them from the Canadian roots music scene: Melanie Brulee, Jadea Kelly and Cindy Doire. I’m a lucky man to be occasionally surrounded by such youthful beauty and supreme talent.

jadea and friendsIn fact, Jadea sang on a duet that I wrote several years ago entitled Worthless String of Pearls. It references “searching for the centre of all night long!” We did. Ouch. The next morning was a little rough.
“My head hurts, my feet stink and I don’t like Jesus.” Thanks Jimmy.
They were en route to Las Vegas for a Griswold family vacation while I had to split for Columbus, Mississippi.

I was to perform in a house concert of distinction. I mean, it was a house so grand I expected to see Scarlett O’Hara greet me at the door. That said, I spent the entire evening pre and post show examining the walls of this great house.

If that’s not enough the next morning I drove a few miles down the highway to visit the Howling Wolf Museum. What is going on here. How do you finish an afternoon like that? Well, with southern BBQ at Phil’s roadside BBQ shack. Great guy. Loves the Wolf too.

Drove by Muscle Shoals but didn’t have time to check it out. That was a drag. I would have just found point zero, slept in my car by the river and cranked some Etta James, but I had to split for my next show in Georgia.

My agent in the US booked me for these shows and this next one was a definitely a gamble. I hit a place called The Red Clay Theatre in Deluth Georgia. They were having a songwriting competition and I won the $100. jay theatreI get to return for the potential to win $1K in November if I want. Someone told me they have some heavy hitters who judge the 10 finalists. I hate these competitions with every fibre of  my being. Judging art! Arggg!!!  Usually these songwriting competitions ask for $20 per entry. It’s bad. Don’t do it kids. Just go sing your songs. Stop letting people judge your art for money. It’s just wrong!
This competition was free and although I have been protesting this type of nonsense, I was happy to take the hundred bucks, find a nice room  and order some first rate Mexican food. Mexican food introduced to me through Michelle Malone who was at the theatre. She was kind enough to invite me out with her band after the ordeal. It was only after I came returned home did I Wikipedia (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michelle_Malone ) her to find out she’s a two time Grammy nominee blues rocker who packs them in from all around the US. A cooler gal you will not meet. We did the CD exchange and I’ve been blasting her tunes ever since. A real gem. She wants to co-write. Never tried that. Maybe I’ll start.

The next morning I was surprised to hear from Michael Phillip Wojewoda, a Canadian producer I admire greatly. This guy has produced many of my all time favourite albums over the years and his work has only been garnering more and more accolades as time rolls on. (See: Buffy Sainte-Marie’s latest Polaris and Juno winner – Power in the Blood or Amelia Curran’s – They Promised You Mercy. Both on extremely high rotation in my car).
We’ve been discussing working together and he’d just finished listening to a few of my demo’s and was very encouraged. I wrote back that I was encouraged as well and that somehow we would find a way to work together.

I’ve only ever made indie CD’s and have yet to get a big name producer (save my pal David Baxter) to work with my stuff. I think it’s the time to do it. I’m going to have to find about 30K -40K to get it done. Everyone keeps telling me to do an online fundraising platform and I think I’m going to try it out. Much like the songwriting competitions which I’ve resisted, I’m going to have to suck up my pride and ask my fans for some money up front. We’ll see how it goes.10005288_203493063358876_1835073073_n(1)Anyway, having Michael contact to let me know he wanted to hear the rest of my new songs put me into a great frame of mind. It was enough to distract me from the sad letter I’d had from a recent ex-girlfriend AND the fact that my mother was just admitted into a long term care facility. Life.

The next few shows were fast and furious. My songs seem to resonate more in the US. I can’t explain why. Maybe the listeners take the craft more seriously here. I sold a ton of merch at these US shows. Very promising.

I’m going to need to sell much more merch to fix the broken air conditioning in my Toyota. It was hot and humid to the point of being unbearable. I had every window open and that didn’t help. I quite often drive for hours with complete silence as I finish verses of songs in my head. That’s why I require long drives alone. That’s how I write.

Sweet Virginia
I arrived in Appomattox, Virginia for my Friday night show. It was strategically booked for me in a book store. I’d been reading chapters of my book (The Chicken Came First) at several gigs. When I arrived for sound check, I performed a quick set for some students who were working away in the corner. We talked about their university courses, living away from home, dealing with their future, the American election debacle and of all things: ROOTS MUSIC! It seems the young guy Ryan was also in a roots music band. He couldn’t stay for the concert and was bummed out.
“You guys hang tight. I’m going to give you a hour of original music before the show starts.”
And so I did. When I got back to the hotel room that night, I found this email in my inbox.

Jay Aymar!
Thank you so much for lighting up my Friday Night.
I was so happy to be able to make it just for your private set, and I apologize for having to leave. I did not know you were playing tonight; otherwise if I knew there was a full set live show I would have scheduled to stay the whole time; I love listening and meeting artists like you.

I look forward to reading your book as well as checking out some more of your music. I really appreciate guys like you, and that you give me a story to see the big picture of who you are, and why you are you. But so far, you are in my Johnny Cash, Buck Owens and Hank William’s all rolled into one category. You’re a singing-country-folk-poet in my opinion.

I will get back to you when I finish your book, because I think you are a really awesome guy to follow, and get to know more than just a standing act.

But in the mean time, put me on your mailing list, and I’m gonna follow your tour since you are a great inspirational songwriter that has fantastic taste in style and lyrics.:)

I have a list of places that you should tell your booking agent to put on your next tour/ even this summer if you have any availability in PA.
I would love to have you make it through my area if that’s possible!
My hometown area is driven by artists like you and there should be no difficulty for you getting in or drawing any crowds, since you are a national touring artist.

Your new fan,

Now to be honest I receive occasional letters like this but am hesitant to go full braggadocio on the world so I keep them in a file marked: Happy Thoughts.
So far I have 122 Happy Thoughts in this file. This one got to me because of the unbridled enthusiasm AND likely the best line about my music and spirit of all time: The Singing Country Folk Poet. I love that. I’m gonna use it.

I finished the week touring Virginia and the many sites of the civil war. It really is a beautiful state. I stopped into a gas bar en route to Washington DC and had the strangest encounter with some civil war actors who were dressed in full regalia for the tourists.
“Hey man? You’re a Canadian musician? You should meet our buddy over here…”

What do you do when you meet one of the Beach Boys sons (Denis Wilson) after having just watched the documentary on how his father and Charlie Manson were originally buddies? He seemed like a cool dude. Drove a black jeep with batman crest on it. Lots of tats and big black hat and long civil war coat. He had just returned from Europe after meeting with a publisher who’s interested in a book he’d written on his father.
We talked about the Beach Boys and the sun and the heat.
What do you do when a Beach Boy’s son tells you to drive to Boot Vil in Ruckersville VA? You follow his advice about the need for cowboy hats while touring all summer long and do it. I bought a straw cowboy hat which now goes on and stays on.

Actually, I never really dug the Beach Boys. I know, I know – Pet Sounds. Guess you had to be there.

I finished my show in Washington, got back on the highway and blasted some Wolf for the next hour. I now know why anyone would howl for this long in this heat. And hell, I’m just driving. Imagine some white asshole forcing you to pick cotton under that sun? The world is crazy man.

Things I’ve learned. I need to fix my AC. Always play a long sound check set even if there’s only a few people there. Read more Kafka. When in Georgia, always finish any dubious statement with “Bless your heart!” And finally, under no circumstances, don’t go on a ten minute tirade from stage about the absurdity of Donald Trump. Don’t say things like “He should make ball caps that say “Make America Hate Again!” Don’t do this. You will lose 50% of your merch sales after the show. And as you know, I need that money as I’ll be making my first real grown up album soon.

Driving into the Maritimes now. I’ll be going coast to coast for 70 shows across Canada from May to October. Special guests galore. See you soon amigos.
“Drinking doubles on the Rock till I washed up on the shore so they shoved me off the dock for a show in Labrador…” ohh…you know the rest.

Always Look on the Bright Side of Life

Always Look on the Bright Side of Life

Every year around Easter time I remind myself to watch this Monty Python classic: The Life of Brian. This closing ditty always got to me. The absurdity of blind optimism in the face of such horrific circumstances: to be hung on a cross whistling and singing “Always look on the bright side of life.”

So I again watched this movie a mere week after watching this years Oscar winner for best picture ‘Spotlight’. The one-two punch of the juxtaposition of both movies basically drove a nail through my Easter plans.

Then three days ago we put my mother into a respite home as she was in need of urgent care. When I arrived yesterday to visit, I noticed among the many magazines, one simple book nestled beside her. The Holy Bible. My mother was an avid reader, yet I’d never seen her read the Bible before. Yes she has unshakeable faith but we certainly weren’t thumpers.

There are no Atheists in fox-holes as they say, so I’m sure when my final hours arrive, I’ll be reexamining the complete works of  Emily Bronte, William Blake, Dylan, Ghandi or a host of other spiritually connected folks who’ve shaped my faith – whatever that really means. I left my mothers bed side and drove home thinking about the years we spent dedicated to the Catholic church. As altar boys; attending Catholic schools; youth encounters; social functions etc..

So much of our lives were spent in this Catholic kaleidoscope. If I feel guilty for writing about leaving the church, it’s probably because I was taught how to feel guilty through the church. That’s not to criticize my mother for her faith or for any soul that holds the same strong convictions for any good word. It just had me thinking – what would I likely hold strong to before the curtain falls.

Maybe it would be the church of music. Specifically the music that has shaped me. Music that fights for the oppressed or rejoices in freedom. Music that makes you sing and dance. Music that makes you think and feel. Music that brings passion or pure joy.

Maybe someday someone will try to convince me that my faith in music is all just a myth. They will argue that my music is devoid of cultural or spiritual significance. I will rail against those comments as falsehoods, knowing the everlasting power of the music that shaped me.

Why am I writing this?

Today, as I as repacked my bags to prepare for a two month US tour, I looked inside my Larivee Guitar for the first time in a long time (to search for a serial number) and noticed the blood-stained manufacturers label.The blood was from a friend who I allowed on stage over ten years ago to perform a set of original music. LariveeMemories flooded back on how this old guitar had been with me for so many events. It’s ludicrous to have faith in an inanimate object. I know this. For some inexplicable reason, an instrument can often feel alive. Perhaps I should to have faith in the luthier? The human who constructed the guitar.In this case it’s Mr. Jean Larivee.

Here goes:
“Happy Easter Mr. Jean Larivee and thank you for creating this guitar that continues to inspire performances. You’ve been dropped in the water, left overnight in the sand beside campfires, pulled apart by the European air, briefly stolen then replaced by a gang of crack addicts, braced together three separate times and lastly…bled upon by a player who strummed violently with his fingers. The blood stains on this label are a reminder of how much you’ve sacrificed for my unholy treatment of you. Please forgive me if I keep you shrouded in your case until Tuesday morning. You’re ascension onto the stage will happen in Columbus Ohio where you will once again perform miracles.
You will sing:
“We turned Jesus in Elvis who turned records into bread
We work the world for prophets
Now that our King is dead
From the Vatican to Graceland
We’re playing in one chord
And singing gospel numbers
In the name of the Lord
We all loved the King
Yet we crucified him too
Love me tender baby
I’m only passing through”
Jay Aymar

As for you dear reader:
I’ll be out there for 10 straight months often touring with a fiddle player and additional players. Starting in Columbus Ohio, down to Alabama, up through NY and Maine, into the Maritimes and over to the BC islands then into the US again for October and November. (all dates to be posted shortly)
I’ll be singing new songs that were brought to me from this old guitar.
Here’s a new one captured a few weeks ago in Kansas City:
Jay Aymar: Live at The Folk Alliance in KC

See you on the trail soon enough!

Oh and for the record:

Happy Easter!



My Mocha-Choco-lata-ya-ya moment

In the truth is stranger than fiction file…here we go again.
I was having a Starbucks Coffee at the Indigo reading a newspaper – minding my own business – when a random businessman sitting next to me loudly put his order in with his colleague to buy him a double Mocha-Choco-lata-ya-ya while turning to affix his gaze on my newspaper.
I was reluctant to move or utter a word. I knew this guy, who’d crammed his gelatinous frame into his Italian suit was sweating over the chance to engage in conversation.
I didn’t have to say a word.
“Hey, are you reading about that crazy girl who randomly stabbed that guy? She was a good looker too! It might come out she was a terrorist!”
Still I didn’t look his way. I just mumbled – “Uh yeah…I don’t think so!”
That was all it took.
“Well, I don’t know but I think she might be a terrorist. You know what I mean? Hey, think what you will of Donald Trump, but at least he calls it like he’s sees it!”
I looked up and made the mistake of turning toward this guy.
“Uh, I’m not quite sure what to make of what you’re saying but I fail to see the connection between it all.”
I foolishly thought this one comment might get me out of this ridiculous situation.
He continued “Yeah we have Jeb the weakling. Pataki – well he was on the children’s stage. Cruz – he’s sharp as a tack. Knows about the Triad. Trump didn’t know about the Triad….”
and on and on and on. Literally without a breath for 10 solid minutes.

I looked over to see his colleague still in line and it appeared I was going to be held hostage for another ten minutes with this dude’s boredom offense. I had to make a move. I felt trapped.
“Well, you’re talking to someone who’s left of Bernie Sanders so talking about the conservatives is lost on me!”
Now, I want to explain that I’m private about my political leanings and I may or may not be left of Bernie Sanders but that’s not the point. The point was I just wanted to get this dude out of my grill. He was ruining a perfectly good Indigo hang.
Suddenly his buddy arrived back at the table with their coffee’s and just desserts.
He said to his colleague “This guy is buying into that socialist Bernie Sanders!”
I just stood up, grabbed my coffee, folded my paper and began walking away.
The colleague said “Hey pal, do you know who this guy is?” Pointing to his friend.
“Um. NO I do not.”
“He runs a successful firm at King and Bay. What do you do?”
“I’m a songwriter.”
“Well he could make or break your career. Do you know that?”
I thought, oh you poor bastard, you and 50 other MBA grads were likely Koreshed by this sociopath into believing your dreams of a gold plated, hollowed out world would come true if only you could keep building that pyramid to nowhere on the backs of innocent investors.
Instead I said “Uh..no he could not. Some things are not for sale. The difference is, I can write a song about peace and try to make the world a better place. He can’t do that.”
The big man once again blurted out “Well MEEEERRRYYY Christmas to YOUUUUUU!” in a loud sarcastic tone.
I turned back and said ” Happy Hanukkah” while flashing the peace sign.
Then he screamed again “THAT’S WHY YOU LIKE BERNIE SANDERS!”
I just walked away.
I came back to my room to eat a Swanson’s Turkey dinner to celebrate Christmas and all of the great people I’ve met over the years. I feel lucky to know you all. We’re all in this together.
I hope you all have a good one this year with family and friends and loved ones. Say a few prayers for the artists out here…we’re always saying some for you.


If you’ve read the chapter entitled: The Sludge Boat you’ll know I did a very short, horrendous stint on a cruise ship during a weak moment about ten years ago. When I arrived back home to Toronto, I was perusing a Goodwill thrift shop and came across this poster entitled: AT SEA. I didn’t realize it at the time but it was a numbered lithograph by Chilean artist Sergio Gonzales Tornero (born 1927).It just reminded of the ship of fools Gonzales-Tornero-At_SeaI’d left behind in Barcelona so much that I had to buy it.The price tag was $50 – ridiculously expensive for a Goodwill.The girl at the counter informed me it was 50% off day, so with that, I shelled out $25 and bought it.I brought it back to my apartment and eventually put it into a nice new frame.Over these past seven years of being transitory, I’d totally forgotten that I’d left it in my sisters basement.I just found it today and realized it was a numbered (66 of 100) and signed lithograph. Here’s what I found out about Sergio online:”Sergio Gonzalez-Tornero was born in Santiago, Chile on May 27, 1927. He studied in Chile, Brazil, the United States, the Slade School in London and at Atelier 17 in Paris. Principally a printmaker, Gonzalez-Tornero has had more than forty solo exhibitions in Chile, Canada, Europe and the United States. Sergio discussed his printmaking technniques in an essay on page 325 of The Art of the Print by Fritz Eichenberg, ISBN 0-8109-0103-X.Gonzalez-Tornero was awarded a fellowship by the New York State Foundation for the Arts in 1987 and a grant from the Adolph and Ester Gottlieb Foundation in 1990. He is a member of the Society of American Graphic Artists, Boston Printmakers and the Philadelphia Print Club.His work is included in numerous international collections including the Museum of Modern Art in New York, the Metropolitan Museum, the Brooklyn Museum and the New York Public Library. Gonzalez-Tornero is married to printmaker Adrianne Colum whom he met at Atelier 17.”Now I’ve also just discovered that auction houses have it listed as high as $1500 US. Wow! Can this be real?


Happy Hallowhat (Revsited)

Many of you have read this chapter either online, or as part of the book, however, it’s worth posting once again as it’s that time of year again. Full disclosure: I’d never felt this story fit into the theme of the book and had no intention to include it alongside the other short stories of life on the road.
Then a strange thing happened. Some fans who’ve now become friends, Doug and Liz Champagne from Vancouver Island told me it was their favourite story.
“Jay, you have to include that story. I laughed so hard man. You HAVE to!”
“Ok Doug, since you’re The Dude….I will abide!”
So here’s the story with notable references to costumes, trick or treating, fear, high-school hijinx, and bad acting with a girl named Lois who is now living somewhere in the US Virgin Islands. Those five back and forth years with her are forged in my memory like beautiful dream. Thankfully we’re still friends.  In the book, Canadian folk artist Pearl Rachinsky has brilliantly illustrated Lois to complement the song I wrote for her entitled: Could it Be.
So to answer the question (finally) of what the references mean?
She had Picasso prints on the wall. A copy of On The Road on her coffee table. Knew “Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night”, all of Cohen’s records, a poster of Janis Joplin on her bedroom door, a May West spirit and the soul of Aphrodite. That’s all I’ll share for now.
I’ve included it all here for you today. Happy Hallowhat!


My fascination with Halloween started quite young. I remember the very first time I was allowed to go along with my older brother and sister who were leading the way, they brought me home in tears after thirty minutes, telling mom I was a ‘tag-a-long’ and I was unceremoniously dumped back at home to count my twenty-five kiss candies. After a few years I realized I would have done the exact same thing if I’d had a younger sibling. Such is life.
I remember there was a three-year run when my desire to dress up as something totally unique was squashed as I donned a scruffy jacket, work socks, green toque, plastic bottle sticking out of a paper bag and went out as a homeless man. What the hell? Who approved this? Oh, I almost forgot the burnt cork rubbed on my face to simulate dirt. Oh so, hobo-sheik. So, yes there I was, stumbling around my neighbourhood looking like a kid who simply couldn’t pull his act together before the big day. That said mom did rig up a big-time Batman costume a few years later for which I’m eternally grateful. I have shied away from costumes ever since.
Two of those years, nearing the end of my route, just as my pillow case was beginning to fill, some bad-ass kids jumped out of the bushes and ransacked us. The first time they got away with my loot and the following year I held on tight enough to retain it all.

Ahhhh the loot: 10 per cent chocolate bars, 10 per cent fruit which was hurled immediately onto the street to detect the razor blades, 30 per cent multi-coloured chalky candy in a roll, 40 per cent Kiss Candy’s (made by the Dental Association of America), 8 per cent variety paper bags, 1 per cent loose change, and 1 per cent tooth brushes (always from an absentee dentists house). We’d get home and spread it all out on newspapers and proceed to hoard our stash for the days to come. Inevitably the high profile chocolate bars would appear in my brother Bill’s stash as his sweet-tooth was beyond legendary. I can’t say I blame him – we all have our weaknesses. After all, I still owe my brother Phil the complete songbook of Bob Dylan. I lost it along the way.
The years passed and there we were eighteen-years-old meeting at the Bolan house to prepare for the big Halloween Bash at the Ramada Inn. Greg, Marc, Geoff, Andy, Bob, Dale, Paul – the whole gang. Some were really into it and some of us were not. We had to inform our buddy Greg that the wizards beard he was Crazy-gluing to his face was neither effective nor safe. He disregarded our comments and continued gluing on a cotton baton moustache and eye-brows. Amidst the heat of the party hours much later on, these artificial adhesions simply looked like strands of rope dangling off of his sweaty face. Wizard my ass. I quickly borrowed Mr. Bolan’s trench coat (see hobo) and deked into a Shoppers Drug Mart to buy a mask. They were sold out of my size (oversized noodle alert) and I was forced to buy a skin tight plastic mask of an old man with a big nose. I remember trying to cut a hole in the mouth to help me breath and to allow for the occasional cigarette but alas, I ripped it to the chin making my costume look beyond low rent. Comical I guess, but really low rent.
Naturally we were strobing on some different planet by 10 p.m. By 11 p.mp I was wobbling around the ballroom reuniting with high-school buddies and sneaking out to the parking lot for a puff or two. Suddenly I heard our local radio DJ (dressed as the Iron Sheik) hosting the ‘best costume’ award from the stage. I stumbled into a long line behind the Three Little Pigs who I’d met earlier and eventually made it up onto the stage. The Sheik held the mic up to my torn mouth and said ‘So what group are you?” I asked rhetorically “What group?” Two hundred people laughed.

I didn’t get it at the time, but it was GROUP judging, i.e. Three Little Pigs. I was a random solo with an awful costume. I thought he was asking me what my favourite group was, so I responded The Beatles. People began to boo and The Sheik leaned in close and said “Are you okay buddy?” I was far from okay. I was escorted off the stage like the loser I was. The only redeeming part to this story was seeing my buddies on the floor in laughter when I arrived back to our table. Watching Merlin laugh through the cotton and Crazy-glue was enough reward for me.

The costumes are just one part of this scene I avoid. What about the pagan rituals? What about the witchcraft and horror? I’ve often never been able to deal with scary movies the way some folks just seem to love them. I enjoy the intentionally bad B-movie genre that’s tongue in cheek but as for the rest? No thanks! I can handle amusing campy flicks with chainsaws and goalie masks but when fiction turns to the spirit world? No way.
It first started when a gang of us tried to watch The Exorcist. Halfway through the movie, some of the guys came up with excuses about how they have to ‘get home early’, ‘stuff to do’, etc… Suddenly everyone was gone. I was terrified. Not only did they bail on me, they proceeded to tap on my windows and phone the house and hang up. You know all the tricks your good buddies would pull on you back then. To this day, I have still not finished that movie.
Then many years later it was another movie: The Blair Witch Project. I was in Gananoque, Ontario and I stopped in for the night at an old resort. The girl at the front desk claimed they only had a few cabins out back available to rent. It was a cold November night and just the perfect backdrop for what was about to happen. When I checked into my room I noticed a sign on top of the TV which read ‘Free Movies at front desk’. I walked to the front lobby and inquired about their selections. She strongly advised a new movie called The Blair Witch Project which was her ‘favourite of all time!’ I bit.
When that movie was over, I looked out the window of the cabin and noticed a long thin tree branch creaking up against the eaves. Suddenly I heard noises in the closets. My imagination was running wild! Or was it? I immediately took the movie back to the front desk like it was possessed. “I can’t believe you suggested that movie!” I said with authority.

“Would you mind switching me to another room?” I asked.

“Oh wow. I’m very sorry about that. I guess that movie is not for everyone!”

“Not for everyone? Are you kidding me? That movie was terrifying. I really need you to change my room.”

“I’m so sorry but we’re totally filled. You’ll be ok. Just get some sleep!”

I drove to an all-night Tim Horton’s and drank decaf until 5 a.m.

So why did I share this story?

The other day my girlfriend asked me if I’d like to go out for Halloween.
I cleverly responded “Why don’t we just stay home and have a Halloween party for two?”
“Yeah right. But you won’t dress up for me?” she said.
“Well, yeah of course I will. I’ll go buy a pizza, come back and knock on the door and you can answer it dressed up in classic French maid attire! You’ll be the French maid and I’ll be the pizza boy! It’s perfect.”
“Works well for you lover boy but what do I get out of the deal?”
“Well, I’ll eat some pizza and watch you tidy up for a bit and when the time is right I’ll let you make your move!”
“Sounds like you should dress up a Martian and go join your imaginary friends back on planet dreamer! And once you’re done that, call the Ramada Inn to make those reservations like I asked.”
“Yes dear. Oh, have you seen my trench coat and that old plastic wine bottle?”

She has Picasso in her hands
Dylan Thomas on her breath
Kerouac in her plans
Cohen in her death
Living just this side of lonely
in a house she’s built of stone
 Her thoughts are always shared
although she shares them all alone
Could it be
she’s tearing down the walls that surround me
She’s opened up my door and found me
She’s got a pearl within her heart
Portia in your eyes
May West in her breast
Aphrodite in her thighs
She’s a rainbow in a hurricane
A queen inside a fool
She everything she’s anything
She’s her own golden rule
Could it be
She’s tearing down the walls that surround me
She’s opened up my door and found me
The future’s an illusion
When our past is left alone
Now is the confusion
It’s the understood unknown
There’s echoes in the distance getting closer every time
If you  can’t do the loving boy
then don’t commit the crime
Could it be
she’s tearing down the walls that surround me
she’s  opened up my door and thrown away the key
Could it be
you’re tearing down the walls that surround me
You’ve opened up my door and found me
Could it be

There’s nothing GOLDEN about these so-called GOLDEN years son!

It’s your 94th birthday today dad. And Mom you’re going to turn 90 in three short weeks! Amazing really.
I’m touring the Yukon and thinking about the party I’ll be missing. Wish I was home.
Tonight, I’ll be singing your song at the show:
The Bells of Retribution
I wish the world could thank you for your service in WW2. I know you question whether people care about your service or the veterans anymore, but I know most people do. I wish that whenever you went down to your mailbox you would find random thank you letters instead of generic bills and junk mail. Maybe a teacher will read this and inspire their students to write you some old fashioned letters? Stranger things have happened. I’ll post my address just in case.
J. Aymar
4716 Yonge St. #2220.
Toronto, ON.
M2N 6V1

Happy Birthday!
See you soon.

The following is a chapter about my parents from a collection of short stories I recently released entitled: The Chicken Came First (and other half-truths from my life as a touring songwriter).


And the Oscar goes to: Madeline Aymar

My mother has always been a realist and for her possession of that trait, I owe her a mountain of gratitude. On the other hand, there have been the occasional flashes of idealism where my mother, though a child of the Great Depression and the Second World War, offered glimpses into a heart that dared to dream. This is why our conversation last week was so incredible. I felt for the first time ever, she was beginning to understand my life as an artist. As I watched the Academy Awards celebration it brought me into my mother’s original dream world, a world she so clearly loved: The movies.

Madeline (Theriault) Aymar

Mom was born and raised in Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario in 1925 to a French Acadian father and a Canadian born Irish mother. The Soo is a steel town known for its rugged beauty where Lake Superior, Lake Michigan and Lake Huron intersect in Northern Ontario. During the Great Depression her father owned a billiard hall which sustained them through the hard times, putting food on the table for their seven children. Of the five boys and two girls, mom was the second youngest and generally spent her days much like any other child of her era. Frequent visits to the neighbours would involve card games or book swapping. My mother and her ‘kindred spirit’, Jackie Wall, would walk side-by-side through the downtown streets quoting Lucy Maud Montgomery and dreaming of life beyond their three block radius.

Next to my grandfather Eli’s billiard hall, was the Princess movie theatre. My mother often recalled fondly of how she and Jackie learned that the local bakery would offer five cents to anyone who would return ten bread bags to the bakery for re-use. Naturally, this mission was to be executed with the objective of getting back into the theatre to re-watch screen idol Shirley Temple singing On the Good Ship Lollipop!

I am convinced that these movies helped shaped my mother’s world view. What passed for casual entertainment was pure escapism – imagination set loose – if only for a few hours. Imagine walking back out of the theatre into the streets of this northern town. It must have felt so mundane compared to the option of singing and tap dancing for the world! But time has a way of marching on and before you know it, mom was all grown up. She’d been prepping for nursing college in Detroit and big adventure was waiting. It was post-war and soon after commencing her studies she met Delbert John Aymar, aka Dad.

Dad was born in 1921 in a rural Acadian fishing village, Lower Saulnierville, on the south shore of Nova Scotia. His own father, Benjamin Aymar, died from tuberculosis when my father was only six months old. He spent the majority of his childhood in St. Anne’s College, a Catholic boarding school run by priests from France. He would only go home to visit his mother for the summer months then spend the rest of the year at the school. This went on until he was 18.

Dad served in the Canadian military for most of World War II. Upon completion of his basic training in Halifax, he applied to the air force. They ran him through the standard educational tests; balance and eye sight tests; then into a cockpit after which they passed him. The very day he was accepted into the air force he was told it was too late as they’d called him into action and he was needed as infantry. In retrospect he said, “I was lucky! The pilots didn’t have a very long life expectancy.”

During the latter part of the war the Canadian military sent a letter home to his mother saying her son John had been killed in action. This ‘clerical error’ was not resolved for two weeks, leaving his mother heart-broken, then obviously elated to hear he was alive. His mother Emily eventually remarried. She had four more children and as such, Dad had four new brothers and sisters.

Upon coming back to Nova Scotia, he attended The University of Halifax for a year but soon felt it was time to head for Toronto. Along with his friend Henri, they drove to Toronto and worked odd jobs for a while, eventually landing a position in sales with Imperial Tobacco, (back when smoking was hip). If you’ve not seen the early 1970’s Canadian cult classic movie ‘Goin’ Down the Road’ (written by playwright William Fruet) I strongly suggest you seek it out. It’s essentially the story of my dad and Henri twenty-five years earlier.

After working with Imperial Tobacco for a while they transferred him up to “this English city with a French sounding name!” – Sault Ste. Marie. Before too long he met my mother and the rest was history.

As of now, dad is 93 and mom is 89. They are alive and well and still together at home. Mom has become a bit forgetful in her advanced years, but dad has decided to take care of her on his own. Two more amazing people you’ll never meet.

During a recent visit home, my mom was recalling the days of her early childhood. The stories were so vivid I asked her if I could record them. She agreed.
After a while, the conversation turned toward my chosen profession. I thought I’d share this with you:

Mom: So where are you living these days?
Me: I got out of my place a few years ago. It didn’t make financial sense. I’m living wherever I hang my hat.
Mom: What does that mean?
Me: Well, I’m trying save money while living on the road.
Mom: How do you like that?
Me: It’s hard but it feels good for the most part.
Mom: So how are you making money my dear?
Me: I’m playing my music. Remember? I make music?
Mom: Yes but you can’t make a real living out of that can you?
Me: Well, I’m trying to Mom. It’s very tough. I’m living the life of an artist.
Mom: An artist? Do you paint too?
Me: No, sometimes they call musicians artists as well.
Mom: So you’re living as an artist? How is that?
Me: It’s great. Sometimes it’s tough. But what isn’t tough? I’m feeling better I ever have.
Mom: Don’t you want to settle down and have a family?
Me: I think there’s a better chance of that happening while living as an artist mom. She’s out there. Maybe she’ll be an artist too.
Mom: Oh god – then you’ll both be broke! Can’t you just do your music on the side?
Me: Yes mom, I’ve done that for many years but it just doesn’t work that way. It’s something I have to do full time. Sounds crazy I know.
Mom: What’s the point of it all?
Me: Hmmm…good question. Maybe deep down I’m hoping to make the world a better place.
Mom: How can you do that through your music?
Me: I don’t know. Maybe writing my own songs and singing them is a good for all of us. Hey I just had you singing ‘Who threw the overalls in Mrs. Murphy’s chowder!’ And you were smiling and laughing. That counts. Right?
Mom: (laughs) I guess you’re right. I’ve always liked to dance to music though. Don’t you do any toe-tappers?
Me: Yeah I’ve written a few of those.
Mom: So you’re doing this to make the world a better place?
Me: Well that’s a question for the age’s mom. I’m likely doing it for money and girls! Just kidding.
Mom: Seems to me every famous person I’ve ever read about had a miserable life. They always seemed unhappy. I DO wish you’d find a nice girl and settle down.
Me: Well, I’ve committed to this and yes it’s hard but I’ve never slept better. I’m living for my art.
Mom: But you don’t have a home to live in? You are not making any money? Don’t’ they call that being a bum?
Me: Ok mom, all I’ve ever known is that you raised us to believe in this guy named Jesus. Right? Now, no disrespect to my buddy Jesus, but he advocated giving up all of ones worldly possessions. Right? Ok. Well, I’ve done that. I’ve given up my worldly possessions and am travelling the countryside to spread the good word about living, dying and loving through my songs. They didn’t call Jesus a bum. Right?
Mom: Oh I’m sure they did at the time. Do you still go to church?
Me: I like the way Tom. T Hall responds to that one. He’s a Nashville songwriter. They call him The Storyteller.
Mom: What did he say about Jesus?
Me: In one of his songs he sings “Me and Jesus got our own thing going! Me and Jesus got it all worked out.” I guess I don’t know what to think about it all. I hope there’s something up there.
Mom: So you don’t go to church anymore?
Me: Well, not as much as you’d like I guess.
Mom: How long are you staying home for?
Me: Three more days.
Mom: Oh, don’t say that. I hate good-byes. Do you have a wife and family to get back to?
Me: I love you mom.
Mom: I love you too my dear.

It’s sad to see my mother go through this phase, but as she’s always said, “We only remember the good times as we get older.” I believe she’s right.

As I sat to watch the Academy Awards on Sunday night, I couldn’t help but think of my mom and her fond memories of the movies. They left such a big impression on her mind. She could imagine herself as Maureen O’Hara in The Miracle on 34th Street or Elizabeth Taylor in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. She never did join the theatre or find herself involved in this creative process in any way, but she sure did love the movies.

Her love of plot reigned supreme. She has always said there is no replacing a good story. Then it dawned on me. That’s the subconscious insight she’s always imparted into my song writing. As I watched the Best Picture nominee’s I felt this strange reassurance that true story-telling in movies, literature and song will forever be at centre of things.

She’s also always reminded me that a good story never goes out of fashion.

“It’s all about how you tell it, son!”
I couldn’t agree more.
I wrote this story you mom.

Part 2 – Excerpt from The Chicken Came First. Chapter 12: The Rise and Fall of Jake Rivers

I made my pit stop back at the motel a quick one. I took another thirty minute power nap, changed my guitar strings, put on black jeans, black shirt, black boots, black belt (with silver belt buckle) and mentally morphed into Jake Rivers during the short drive over.
Upon pulling up the building, I noticed they’d taken the time to update the flashing marquis above the door.


When I walked in, Big Eddy immediately introduced me to the volunteers who were setting up the various items for auction around the hall. He had a crew of guy’s help me set up my PA and I had the sound check over with in twenty minutes. He then introduced to the main coordinator of the event from Ducks Unlimited who made immediate inquiries as to whether he could use my microphone throughout the night to announce auction winners and make the occasional speech about how we should protect our wetlands.

“You betchya sir. The microphone is at your disposal. You just tell me when and I’ll step back and let you speak!”
So pleased was he with this arrangement he responded “Jake, I’d like to offer you to spot at our head table to dine with us tonight. How does that sound?”
“That would be a true honour sir.”

And so it was. One short hour later I was up at the long head table setup on risers overlooking the rest of the circular tables below. They sat me at the far left where I was treated to a great view of the Blue Jays game on the small TV perched behind the bar. I felt like misplaced Johnny Cash at the head table of a Dean Martin Roast. After dinner, I stood up at the bar with Big Eddy and my new friends of the dais and pretended to inhabit my Jake Rivers persona as the talk turned to moose hunting. We all mainly listened to Big Eddy hold court:

“Yeah, so there we were getting skunked after three days. I was hungover and standing in two feet of water when my young lad said he wanted to take the shot. There she was, right in our sights. He started shaking and then shaking some more. By Jesus he had some bad buck fever. He couldn’t pull the trigger!”

The conversation went around the circle until all eyes turned toward the man in black.
“Hey Jake, this ever happened to you?”

By that point I’d heard the word ‘buck’ and was already thinking about John Candy’s superb turn in the hilarious John Hugh’s film Uncle Buck. Just thinking about Candy’s laugh and face made me drift into a world far away from shooting animals.
“Oh hell, this one time up north, we had to quarter some road kill. Now that’s a story for another day!”
Although a true story, I was really hoping they would let me off the hook without further questioning.
Noticing a five second pause, I took a look at my fake skin watch and said “Well boys, I think it’s time for some music!”
“Knock’em dead Jake! Just tell us what you’re drinking and we’ll take care you from the bar!”
“Eddy I’ll take a cold pitcher of your finest swill. Let’s get this party started!”

The night rolled along as predicted. I offered a standard assortment of old time country cover songs with the occasional Rodney Dangerfield joke thrown in for good measure. The Ducks Unlimited spokesman came up at the end of the second set to finish his part with the auction. He thanked the volunteers and then said “I like to extend a very special thank you to our friend Jake Rivers for providing this top quality entertainment tonight. I think we can all say what a great surprise it’s been to have you grace our stage Jake.”

I walked back to the microphone and said “I’d like to thank all of you for being such a great audience. From the volunteers who cooked that amazing pork dinner to our server Linda behind the bar to Big Eddy who booked me tonight! We’re two sets down and the night is just getting started.”
With those words I announced that I’d be taking a thirty minute break.

I met the same guys circled around the bar for another discussion. I was definitely feeling like I’d already had a bit too much to drink, so without wasting any time, I ordered another pitcher to steady myself. I was holding court with the gang as the topic of conversation was now about music. We were finally in my wheelhouse. After five short minutes I realized I had these guys in stitches.

“One of the days I’m going to marry Loretta Lynn. Just don’t tell Dolly boys. I don’t want to break her heart.”
“If I had Johnny’s Cash and Charlie’s Pride I wouldn’t have a Buck Owen on my car.”
And on and on and on. Basically I was copping lines from the 1970’s American TV show Hee Haw.
“Well, I gotta go for a smoke. I’ll be back for set number three in fifteen minutes.”
“I didn’t know you smoked Jake?”
“Only when I’m drinking. I’m up the three packs a day!” (Another pilfered Dangerfield line).
And with that, I stepped out to the front of the Legion doors to hear the fading laughter and general good time noise of a fully packed Legion Hall at 11:45pm on a hot summer Saturday night in Nowhereville.

As is the case with the outdoor smoking set, it’s generally a scene unto itself. I met a wife pushing her husband in a wheelchair down the ramp to the sidewalk. Once they were settled, I offered them a light and we shared a brief quiet conversation about the starry night while slowly inhaling carcinogenic sticks sanctioned by the same government who issued the Surgeon General’s warning on the packaging.
“Hey look” I exclaimed “I got the one that says ’Smoking may harm unborn babies!’ Guess these ones won’t kill ME then!” They didn’t laugh.
They nodded, smiled and went back inside.

Standing there on my own, I realized it would be a good time for a two-smoke break. You know, collect my thoughts and catch some fresh air. Just as I fired up my second I heard some low mumbling from around the corner. It was a group of BC’s finest youth. They appeared like every other twenty-something in Canada. Wool toques, skateboard and ski logos plastered on every square inch of their clothes, long hair, short hair, nose rings, pierced eye balls, tattoos, ripped jeans. In other words, they were completely normal. They immediately noticed my black attire and pointed to the sign.
“Dude. You’re Jake Rivers! My aunt just texted us and told us to get down here to see you.”
“Yeah that’s me guys. Nice to meet you. Where you all from?”
The conversation meandered for a while and we all shared yet another cigarette. Then, I noticed one of the guys expertly rolling a cannon-sized joint with one hand while holding a lighter and bag full of pot in the other. He was obviously a trained professional.
“Hey Jake, you wanna try some BC bud? It’s the best in the world!”
“Funny you should say that. I was just thinking about weed today. I don’t smoke it really. It makes me paranoid. Besides I’ve had a few too many brews already and I’d better be careful.”
“Oh come on man. You can’t come to BC without trying a bit of our bud.”

I get that same come on everywhere I go:
“You can’t come to Memphis and NOT eat Gus’s Fried Chicken!”
“You can’t come to Quebec City and NOT eat poutine!”
“You can’t come to Rome and NOT see the Vatican!”
“You can’t come to Manitoba and NOT have perogies!”
“You can’t come to Nashville and NOT play at Tootsies!”
“You can’t come to Alma and NOT eat a sticky bun!”

So, with some perverse logic circling around my head I blurted out “What the hell. Fire it up!” And with that I proceed to smoke on this thing like I was Tommy Chong hiding out in his trailer on the set of Up in Smoke. It seemed to have lasted about ten solid minutes.

“Hey Jake, we’re gonna deek inside. Can’t wait to hear you man.”

Within about two minutes I felt a strange feeling come over me. It started with my heart. My heart was palpitating so fast it was draining the blood from my head. Then my eyes started to feel blurry and I was immediately dizzy. I looked over my shoulder to my name ‘Jake Rivers’ flashing on the marquis.

I was very stoned and immediately started questioning my authenticity as a human being.
“What are you doing Aymar? Where are you? A middle-age man in the mountains of BC pretending to be a guy named Jake Rivers? Get your shit together. Settle down and meet a nice girl! Get a job! Mom’s right! What have you become?”

And with that, I staggered to the side of the curb and put my head between my knees and closed my eyes. Suddenly I heard voices in my head. They started off very softly. Riiiiiiiveerrrssssss…..Riiiiveeerrrsssss….Jaaaaakke….Jaaaaakkke….” Then they grew louder and louder until I realized that someone was actually screaming out “JAKE RIVERS, where are you?”
Totally lost into a deep paranoid, panicked realm I thought to myself “Who is this Jake Rivers asshole and why does some guy keep screaming his name?”
“Rivers! Rivers! What’s going on man? It’s almost 12:30 and everyone’s waiting for your next set!”

It was Big Eddy who’d come out to find me. I’d forgotten who I was supposed to be. I’d forgotten just about everything. I looked up at Big Eddy and said, “Just give me another five, I need some air.”

Eddy left me to my own devices and I stood up and tried to walk around in circles to get some air and snap out of this awful state. It wasn’t working. I could barely stand. It was at that exact moment that I had an epiphany. If George (No Show) Jones could do it then so could I.

I stumbled back into the hall to cheers. As I wobbled toward the stage I heard uproarious laughter as I was assuredly pretending to play the town drunk. I staggered over to my guitar and strapped it on. I looked down at my guitar neck, placed my left hand on the fret board and totally blanked out. My guitar was melting. My hand look like it was made of plastic. I couldn’t move my fingers from the G chord position. I looked up to the crowd who were laughing less. I looked back down at my hand. I strummed one chord. I looked up at the crowd one last time to see Big Eddy walking toward the stage.
“Hey Jake, you’re putting us on right? You ok?”
“Eddy, call a cab. I’ll be back tomorrow to get my stuff!”
“What? You’re kidding right?”
“Eddy, can you please call a cab!”

I woke up the next morning to a knock on my door at 11:30 a.m. It was my friendly motel owner and her husband greeting me with a fresh coffee and asking me if I was planning on staying another day. It was a beautiful morning and as I stepped outside to join them I realized just how hungover I was. Ten minutes into our picnic table conversation, the events of the night came back to me. I ran back into my room to realize my guitar was not there. Where was my PA? Where was my gear?

“Oh MY GOD!” I realized what had happened. I didn’t have the heart to tell my new friends that my alter ego Jake Rivers had made a terrible ass of himself a mere twelve hours earlier. I jumped in the shower and did the long walk of shame back to the scene of the crime. Fortunately when I arrived, they were all new faces behind the bar. A younger server and an elderly woman were talking in the kitchen and prepping for the day ahead. The women came out.
“You must be Jake? You’ve come back to get your sound system I take it?”
“Yeah. Geez. Uh. Hmmm. Well. Uh. I’m sorry about last night. I don’t know what happened!” The two of them looked at each other and began to laugh. That one merciful laugh saved me. It was a gesture of pure kindness.
“Well, you wouldn’t believe it if we told you.”
“Please! Tell me what happened after I left.” The young girl took over the story.
“Well, my aunt Linda told Eddy that she’d texted some of the kids to come over to the show. Then after you left, Eddy and Linda brought a few of the boys outside to ask them what happened. They finally admitted to convincing you to smoke some weed. Eddy was really angry. He told them that they had stick around and pack up all of your gear and put it into the back store room. But before that, he used your microphone to apologize on your behalf to everyone. The old timers all know about this strong BC weed. Everyone was mad at the kids for ruining a great night.”
“Are you kidding me? I still take full responsibility for smoking it though. I made that choice.”
“Yeah,” she replied “but it seems to happen to everyone around here at one time or another. Eddy and everyone loved you. Oh, and here’s your money!”

I couldn’t believe it. I walked around the bar and gave both of them a big hug. To think that in a moment of complete fragility, I was offered mercy. I was relieved to find it was cash as I didn’t relish the notion of asking them to cut another cheque under my real name. I immediately pulled out $50 and said “Please buy Eddy and Linda, and everyone a round of drinks on me some night.” Oh, and if you see those kids again, tell them it wasn’t their fault.”

With that, I packed my gear into my car and drove back to the motel. My new friends awaited me with some more fresh coffee and a bowl of fruit.
“My husband would like to hear one of your songs.” It was perfect. I spent the next hour singing Jay Aymar originals and cleansed myself from the sins of my Jake Rivers past. What a great feeling.

“You know, if you like swimming there’s a nice lake about twenty minutes away. It’s where everyone goes on hot Sunday afternoons!” I took them up on their suggestion.

There must have been over two hundred cars in the vast gravel parking lot. People were barbequing, walking dogs, cycling, playing Frisbee and occasionally jumping off the rocks into the water. I walked down and claimed an open spot on the sandy beach, cracked open my half read copy of Carl Hiaasen’s Lucky You and daydreamed my afternoon away.

The next morning, the owners of motel left me a note attached to a small bag on my door.
“It was a pleasure meeting you Jay. Thank you for the music. Here’s a little something for your drive.”
I opened up the bag to find a little box filled with some grapes, a banana, a yogurt cup, a raisin bran muffin and small juice. I dug into my computer bag to fish out one of my Thank You cards reserved for just such occasions and wrote “I’ll never forget you and hopefully our paths will cross again!”

I drove back to the main intersection in town and kept driving for ten hours in an easterly direction -destination unknown. Suddenly, I noticed a small roadside saloon up in the distance. I checked my clock and realized it was already 9 p.m. As I approached this country bar, I saw a vacancy sign blinking in above the door entrance. I pulled out $50 cash from my wallet and walked in with a confident yet humble swagger.

“Hi there, I’m a touring musician just looking to spend the night. I want something clean and quiet and l’ll be leaving early in the morning. I only have $50. YES or NO?”
The girl young girl behind the counter looked a bit panicked. “Well, I’m going to have to call Judy. She’s the owner. Our rooms are usually $45 plus tax!”
“Well, you drive a hard bargain. No need to call Judy. I’ll take it!”

After checking in I came back to the bar for a bite to eat. There’s nothing like a Monday night crowd in remote country saloon.

“What are you drinking buddy?”
“Uh, I’ll have a ginger ale and a look at your menu!”
“Sure. You gonna get up and sing some songs for the open mic?” I turned around to see a house band assembling their gear on stage.
“Well, I think I’ll just sit back and enjoy it tonight!”
The bartender smiled “Yeah, I know how you feel. I can’t sing a lick either.”
I leaned in and asked him “I’m a little lost. For the life of me I can’t remember the name of the last town I was in and I don’t even know where I am now. Where are we?”
He looked at me with a straight face and said “We call it Nowhereville.”
“Wow! Change that ginger ale to a Labatt 50.”
“Labatt 50? No one drinks that around here!”

Here we go again.

Excerpt from The Chicken Came First. Chapter 12: The Rise and Fall of Jake Rivers

The Rise and Fall of Jake Rivers

It was the perfect day to drive around the mountains.  A Saturday in July and I’d finished my show in Chilliwack the night before. Chilliwack! What a classic Canadian band! (Wish I had the same affinity for the town) “Whatchya gonna do when I’m gone”.  I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m getting out of here.

I’d left the comfort of my bass and fiddle accompaniment back in Vancouver and was riding solo again. It felt good to be on my own. Some time for reflection to collect my thoughts and with any luck, find a place to settle in for a few days to relax and work on the new songs I’d had floating around in Camry.

It was a rare weekend off without any shows booked. I was so exhausted I was simply content finding a quiet motel for a few days, preferably near the water and away from civilization. I was dreaming of this time alone to simply relax and read a few books; make some home cooked meals; call the girl I’d been trying to see and with any luck finish those new songs I’d been working on.

I finally rolled into a motel nestled into the mountains with a really cool Swiss vibe. “Where are the Vonn Trapp kids?” I thought to myself.
I was greeted at the front desk by and woman who’d obviously not modelled herself after the aesthetic of the property.  She had inked sleeves down both arms hanging out of ripped purple tank top. She’d just come in from the back of the office after obviously smoking a Cheech and Chong sized joint.
“Yeah, sorry about that, I had that god-dammed tom cat on the property again. It’s a sonofabitch trying to keep those bastards off the property! So you’re from Ontario. Long way from home. How can help you?”
Whenever I first meet someone who so nervously bursts into a long winded backstory about a subject unrelated to the surroundings, my first reaction is to give that person a lot of time and space.  I can feel their socially awkward pain I guess.  In this case, I couldn’t figure the source out her panicked breathing. Maybe she was just really, really stoned.

“Wow! Those pesky tom cats can sure mess up a perfectly good afternoon eh?” I responded, trying to bring her into a peaceful frame of mind before I begged for a cheap room rate.

“They sure as shit can! I have too many cats around here as it is and since my old man took off fishing for the week, I’m running around like some chicken with my head cut off. It’s too nice of a day for me to be wasting my time on this shit!”

Now I could tell with certainty that she was extremely high.

“Listen my friend, we’re all booked up for the next week few weeks here. I mean it’s tighter than a bulls ass! It’s busy season in these parts and you’re shit outta luck for a room. Where you have to be tonight?” she asked.

“Well, I’m a musician with about five days off and I’m just looking for a cheap place to crash out and relax.  Any ideas?”

“Well, I’d just point my car THAT way and keep drivin’ and askin’ around. If you hit the town of Hope, you’ve gone too far.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Oh you know what they say about Hope! It’s the meth capital of Canada!”

In the past five years I’ve heard so many small towns take claim to this dubious distinction.  It’s like I expected to read it on the sign entering town “Welcome to Hope. Meth Capital of Canada.”
Or better yet “Welcome to No Hope.  Ride the Roller Coaster over on Meth Mouth Mountain!”

After she mentioned this, I gazed around the property and realized the quaint ‘Sound of Music’ mirage I’d conjured up was just that – a mirage. The dusty Folgers instant crystals bottle and open container of Coffeemate on the rickety TV table near the brochure rack was my first clue. This led me to quickly scanning the property noticing the cat colony and one too many bikers hanging out by the ice machine. I affixed my gaze back toward my nervous hostess and now all I could see were the remnants of what once would have been a pretty smile, now the obvious victim of smoking methamphetamine.

“Thanks for the advice! I’ll keep looking around.” A part of me wanted to offer her a bar of Dial to rinse her mouth out from the prolific amount of swearing she was spewing out to random customers, but the rebel in me loved the fact that she made it sound so natural – almost elegant.
So long, farewell, adieu, adieu, adieu!!!!

I’ll never forget the drive that day. Cruising through the mountains is an amazing experience.  One minute you’re overlooking a cliff onto a great body of water and the next you’re witnessing a mountain climb up over the horizon. It truly is a spectacular experience.
My thoughts turned toward my recent encounter with the woman. Maybe she was right? Maybe I should stay out of Hope BC? I wonder how many cats she had on the property. I wonder if her husband was leaving her because of her addiction. Maybe they were both bikers. I wonder if her weed was home grown BC bud.  Is BC Bud strong? I wondered how much stronger weed is these days versus the days I tried it back in high school?

I meandered my way through a few more motel properties only to find they were all booked up. It was now getting late into the afternoon and I was ready to find any place to chill out.
Without warning, I came over up over the hill and notice a small county road veering off to my right. As Yogi Berra once famously quipped “when you come to the fork in the road – take it!”
So I veered right and kept on daydreaming. Suddenly I realized I had accidentally taken a service road into the heart of a small unknown town. To this day I still don’t know what town I was in. I’ve forever dubbed it ‘Nowhereville’ in my mind.

I meandered through the town and noticed a quaint little motel right in the heart of the action.
The grounds were immaculate. Every flower was accounted for. Every window shutter bursting with bright white paint and red picnic tables held perfect umbrellas with Canadian flags on them.

As I approached the front desk, I heard an aggressive vacuum cleaner humming out of Room #4.
I made my way toward the room to find a tiny woman smiling away while completing her task.
Upon noticing me, she turned it off and approached me with a big grin “Hello, are you looking for a room?”
“Yes I am! I’m just wondering what your rates are?”
“Well, how many are in your party?”
“It’s just me,” I replied. “I’m a musician looking for a quiet place to take a few days off to relax.”
And as if she couldn’t possibly radiate any more joy, her grin grew even wider.
“Oh my dear God! My husband and I love music. We love everything about music. It ran in our family you know. Do you do this for a living?”
“Yes I do. I’m a touring songwriter.”
“A touring songwriter! Oh my, that sounds so exotic. What does that mean?”
“I write and sing my own songs, play them on my acoustic guitar and usually perform them with a band consisting of a fiddle, bass, and guitar!”
“Ahhhh what a beautiful gift. My husband will be back tomorrow. I want you to stay for the weekend to meet him. This is amazing.”

Every once in a while, the musician will encounter this type of enthusiastic soul. Someone who is so connected to the lifestyle of an artist that they’re simply contagious. These little cherished moments become the important ones. They are never to be understated. This woman was all heart and I was all ears.

She brought out some homemade lemonade and we shared a great conversation at the round picnic for about thirty minutes. Her and her husband moved to Canada in the early 60’s from Poland.  It was a familiar immigrant story but one with so many highlights. After their children were raised they purchased the motel and put down new roots. The motel was completely spotless. Every ounce of their love and attention blanketed the grounds.  From the trimmed hedges to the flower gardens to the freshly painted lines on the new paved parking lot.

She continued “So let me ask you? What is your favourite place in Canada?”
(This question is asked of me daily and I’m so often used to giving a pat response.)
“Well they all have their unique charm. I’m not really sure if we’re all totally the same or if geography dictates differences between us?”
She immediately stopped me “I think the mountains make us who we are here. We are mountain people. Island people are island people. Bush people are bush people. Ocean people are ocean people. City people are city people! I could never live in the city!”
I went on to tell her about a thesis I wrote in University comparing and contrasting the difference between two historians who discussed this exact point.
Knowing I was going to sound pretentious I just committed to sharing this story and began, “Harold Innis and Donald Creighton discussed the effect of geography and communications on the development of the Canadian identity.  From what I can remember we Canadians had an easy go of it getting to the centre of our country down the St. Lawrence. Then the railroad out west made it easy for us to get people out here and information back to Ottawa. We didn’t have that lawless west – that pioneering spirit of the US! So maybe that’s why we don’t subscribe to gun culture (outside of hunting) like our friends to the south. We didn’t need them as much. ”

I remember rambling on for another few minutes until she stopped me again “Like I said, our geography makes us who we are! Mountain people are mountain people. Island people are island people!”

We both paused to laugh for good while. Then she continued. “Well, you’ve told me some helpful things my son, now I want to help you!”

“The next time you’re hoping to find a good rate at a motel I want you do use these tips!”
“Walk in with $50 cash and say,” I am a musician on the road across Canada and just want a bed for the night. I want something quiet where I can sleep. I won’t require room service. I won’t need a thing. I just want a clean and quiet room.” Then hold out the $50 and ask YES or NO. What’s the worst that can happen? You have to drive to the next motel to do the same thing? Easy right? That’s how you do it! This will surely save you some money.”
Her words of wisdom have been forever etched into my brain. I’ve been using this tactic ever since and can assure you it still works better than Expedia!  So with that, she showed me my room and I agreed to stay for the weekend. I gave her a few CD’s and stepped into my digs for a quick siesta.

I woke up  after dinner and thought it would be a nice time for a stroll around town.  After a twenty minute walk toward the edge of town I saw a blinking arrow below a bright yellow sign which read “Ducks Unlimited Meat Draw – Tonight!” The arrow pointed to a Legion Hall just around the corner.
“Maybe it’s a perfect time for an ice cold draft” I thought to myself.

I walked into the Legion and sat up at the bar.
A man resembling the character actor Wilfred Brimley walked out with his green work shirt on, black suspenders , wildly overgrown handlebar moustache and said “What can I get you buddy?”
“How about a Labbatt 50!”
“Labatt 50? No one orders that one around here anymore. Where you from?”
“Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario. Don’t hold it against me. I decided to take a few days off and relax in town here. Anyway, I’ll just take a cold draft.”
“Here you go. So you’re on vacation?”
“No. I wish. I’m a touring musician and the band has headed off in different directions and I’m just working my way home to Ontario now.”
“You don’t say! What kind of stuff do you play?”
This is when I noticed he might have been interested in something.
I was wary of going down this path. I really just wanted a few days off from the crazy schedule I’d been keeping. I really wasn’t into strapping the guitar back on for at least another four days.
“Well, I play just about anything. My own stuff mainly.”
“Oh really? What kind of stuff is that?”
(This is when I offer up a stock line for my own amusement summoning the curse of The Boss.) “They say I’m the next Bob Dylan!”
“You know, you got me thinking. We have a big fundraiser here tonight and you’d think I could have found a band? Everyone was booked up and I was kind of stuck. Do you do any old time country?”
At this exact moment I had a decision to make. Would I? Should I? If I go with this, how should I proceed?
“Well, yeah I can do some old country. Cash , Willie and Haggard type of stuff if it’s requested.”
His grin rivalled that of my new friend back at the motel.
“Ok, sit tight right there. I have to make a call and see what we have in the budget!”
This was the tipping point. I either stop him now or let him make the call. I decided I’d let it play out.

I already knew what the offer was going to be. A standard pub rate with all of the food and drinks a glutton could ask for. I had already accepted the offer in my mind but tonight I would allow my alter ego, Jake Rivers, a chance to take the stage.  Besides, Jake was itching to get back into the limelight after his long hiatus.

Jake Rivers was an invention born out of necessity. Rivers was invented one weekend near Simcoe Ontario when I had a ticketed show for $10 in town, yet another nearby venue wanted to book me to play cover songs the following night. The financial offer to perform the covers show was great so I agreed to it. I then realized that it could backfire if some people paid to see my serious ‘artiste’ show one night then could catch my pandering sing-along shtick the following night for free.  I asked them to put the name Jake Rivers on the marquis. It made perfect sense in a nonsensical kind of way.

It was nickname given to me from my family after working up in the northern bush camps for a few summers. Jake Two Rivers to be exact was pulled from a character from a 1960’s CBC show called The Forest Rangers. It ran well into the 90’s in syndication and it had that true Canadiana feel. Without the Forest Rangers, there would have been no Beachcombers. What Canadian kid without cable didn’t love those shows? One of the main characters on the show was Joe Two Rivers, a wise First Nation’s man who consistently imparted traditional aboriginal wisdom to those around him. When I arrived home from my first summer of working up north, my family was calling me Joe Two Rivers. That soon changed to Jay Two Rivers.  It stuck. Finally, that fateful night in Simcoe, Ontario when the venue owner asked for my name, I quickly blurted out Jake Rivers. Jake was close enough to Jay so I wouldn’t feel totally fraudulent. I had to drop the “Two” to tighten things up. I even had my cover story about how I was in the studio working on my first full length album entitled: Rivers Runs Wild.

So, as I sat up the Legion Bar nursing my 8oz draft, Brimley sauntered back behind the bar and made me the offer.
“We’ll even throw in meal and drinks?”
“Ok let’s go for it. What time?”
“Let’s say around 8:00pm till whenever? How many sets do you normally play?”
“Oh let’s just play that one by feel. If it’s rockin, I’ll keep going. If it’s dying out, I’ll wind it down. When’s last call?”
“We can’t go any later than 2:00am. Hey what did you say your name was?”
“Jake Rivers. And yours?”
“The call me Big Eddy”.
“Alright Eddy, I’ll go grab my stuff and be back in a few hours!”
“Looking forward to it Jake.  I’ll put the word out!”

I walked back to the motel quite excited about the night the awaited me. I instinctively knew the crowd that would be attending. They would mainly consist of friendly seniors from the area. There would be a few war vets sprinkled into the mix along with a high percentage of hunters, some conservationists, the women of the local crafting, quilting and crocheting auxiliary, and the usual assortment of Legion volunteers and members who come out every weekend to have some fun and visit old friends.  They’d all be primarily of Scot and Irish descent with names like Smith, Campbell and MacDonald. They’d request songs like Okie from Muskogee, It’s Hard to Be Humble even the occasional Stompin’ Tom song. In short, they were going to love Jake Rivers.

I made my pit stop back at the motel a quick one. I took another thirty minute power nap, changed my guitar strings, put on black jeans, black shirt, black boots, black belt (with silver belt buckle) and mentally morphed into Jake Rivers during the short drive over.
Upon pulling up the building, I noticed they’d taken the time to update the flashing marquis above the door.
to be continued….

The Chicken Came First – Preface

Book cover front and back

Hello friends,
If it feels like I’ve been a bit stingy on the ramblings lately well that’s just because I’ve been hoarding my words for this book.
With some cajoling by many of you and a fierce internal battle about it all, I’ve decided that the world needs another book much like I need a hole in the head. I’ve dissected many of my previous tall tales and tightened them up a bit with the help of a great editor who worked closely with me to help ‘keep my voice’ throughout these pages.
The stories selected were the ones which had the most traction as evidenced by the hit counts online.
I’ve even added a few new ones for you. Below is the preface of the book as it will appear.

We’re going to be touring across Canada again this year starting in a few weeks. (Find the Western Tour dates at the bottom of this page). We still have a few open dates so if you are willing to host us, we’re willing to discuss the opportunity. I’ve been in discussions with several book stores for readings and concerts as well so if you’re connected to a book store, please pass this along.

Pre-orders can be made directly to me where I’ll sign one and put it aside for you. (info@jayaymar.com)



Some days I don’t even know where I’m from anymore. Most days I can’t remember what town I’ve left or where I’m off heading to. I might forget the names and the faces but it’s the stories I remember. They find their way into my songs. These are your stories.

Why do I continue to write songs and release music and tour? Perhaps I do it for my own selfish reasons: ego; acceptance; freedom; internal rewards. It appears to have nothing to do with money and everything to do with that which money cannot buy. It’s a mystery. It’s illusive. It is magic and mayhem. It’s often a lie, but it feels closer to the truth than anything I’ve ever known. For the time being, it’s a living.

Depending on the venue and where I’m touring, I’ll often perform with regional players. This has allowed me to meet so many amazingly artistic souls out there. For example, how else could I meet a man like Donnie Zueff from Beausejour, Manitoba? Who’s Donnie you might ask?

Donnie is not only a great fiddle player, he’s a walking, talking encyclopaedia of Canadian music. By the time we hooked up, he had learned my catalogue of songs and we were off for a two-week tour together. I couldn’t have been more satisfied with my new road companion. I was not only treated to fiddle virtuosity during our live performances, but classic Canadian road stories from a guy who’d played through every decade from the 60’s onward. Among the highlights were stories of his childhood friend Burton Cummings to his time spent in the Canadian music scene from then until now.

Our discussions often shifted toward his main gig for many years touring with a Canadian songwriter Rick Neufeld, a folk singer who played at coffeehouses throughout North America and who also wrote the beautiful, iconic song entitled ‘Moody Manitoba Morning’. It’s such a great song and it seemed that wherever Donnie and I performed across Manitoba, people of certain generation knew that song as it if were part of their DNA.

“Hey Donnie, did you ever ask Rick how he wrote that one? It sounds like it came to him quickly?”
“Well, I think it did. The good ones always do, eh?” he replied.
“That song really captures the essence of this landscape if you know what I’m saying?“ I said.
“Do I know what you’re saying? I’ve only played that song thousands of times with Neuf and it gives me shivers every time. You’re lucky if you can write one of those songs in your career Jay!“

This is how our conversation went during our long drives between shows. Donnie enjoyed driving as much as I did. He held the same Zen-like philosophy on how it helped him meditate and fuel his creativity. I agreed with Donnie, telling him I did most of my best song-writing when I had the car on cruise and could just let the highway drift by.

At one point, our conversation shifted from music to food and how to live with a champagne appetite on a beer income.

“Yeah, well once you get to the point where you can cook a full roast beef dinner with aluminum foil and chicken wire on the engine block, then you’ll know you’ve arrived,” Donnie said with a smile.
“Oh that old standby,” I replied. “Heard of it but never tried it! So let me guess, you fed your band mates seven-course meals five nights a week with that trick?”
“It’s hard to believe buddy but happiness really IS only a cheap cut of beef, some tin foil and eight hours of open road.”

We were about two weeks on the road during that segment of the tour when Donnie suggested that I consider recording a live show.

“You should capture this part of your musical journey with a live recording. It’s a great experience and you’ll always have it as a testament to where you were this point in your career and life. It’s all coming back to this anyway,” he added with conviction.

“What do you mean” I replied?

“Well, music has always been a community thing. It’s always been about people playing songs for their friends and family. You know the way it was around the around the campfires and in the kitchens and back porches and barns and dance halls. It’s all coming back. If you ever take it more seriously than what it is, then the fun is gone.”

Profoundly he added, “Why do they call it playing music? They call it playing music because it’s meant to be fun. It brings me down when musicians take it for more than that. You know what I mean?
Anyway, I think you should just get your band together and make a live CD. Record the songs you’ve written that mean the most to you!”

“I can’t disagree with that logic Donnie,’ I responded. I agree with you. Everything is coming around full circle.”

After a few great weeks of shows the Manitoba portion of my tour was complete. I’d come away learning more about Manitoba socials, the Pierogi line, Ukranians and Mennonites, fiddles, accordions, rock’n rollers, farmers, hippies and best of all, how to cook a pot roast on an engine block. Hell, it beats working for a living.

Before Donnie and I went our separate ways, I had to ask him one last time. “What did your dad say when you told him you wanted to learn to play the violin?”
“Well, when I told him I wanted to play the violin, he responded in his thick Russian accent: ‘Vy do you vant to learn the wyolin? Vy don’t you learn something that vill make you money, like the accordion?’”

“Oh man I love that one. Thanks again for the laugh’s man. Good luck with the D. Rangers reunion next year!”
“For sure Jay. See you on the trail. Make a live recording! It’s important. ”

I was drove westward to meet Sahra Featherstone who had been accompanying me on violin and harp during many of my Toronto shows during that past year. Sahra’s command over both instruments is astounding. For over twenty years she has toured the world with a who’s who of musicians. When I ask her about the essence of her musical journey she inevitably grins and says, “It’s who I am.”

She was flying into Calgary in a few days where we’d meet up and perform three weeks of shows throughout Alberta and into the beautiful islands of British Columbia.

When we finally met I immediately discussed Donnie’s idea of capturing a live recording.

We talked about it at length for another two weeks. Our talks ventured into the current realities of music industry. The amazing shows, the soul-destroying shows, and the toll it can take on the psyche and body.

It was during one of these long conversations that I revealed my darkest musical secret. I disclosed how I was once so spiritually and financially bankrupt I threw artistic caution to the wind and jumped onto a cruise ship for a few months to perform the North American songbook as though I was a poor man’s Wayne Newton.

“Aymar, if you don’t write a book and put that story in it, I’ll disown you!” Sahra warned.
“Ok Featherstone, as long as you allow me to share your bad artistic decisions too!”
“No way man. I don’t sell out and tell!”

We meandered our way through the BC islands playing to appreciative audiences and taking in the spectacular scenery. There’s nothing quite like an outdoor concert with mountains painting the distant sky against a full moon. We eventually found ourselves in Squamish, BC, staring at Big Chief, the Canadian mountain climber’s mecca. Sahra would stay here for a while to climb the mountain while I ventured eastward to continue on with my tour.

I returned home a month later to decompress and get back to some much need bookwork. Soon afterward I received a call from David and Janet Tangness a couple who’d seen my show at The Apollo in Thunder Bay, Ontario earlier that summer. They were interested in booking me for a series they ran.
“Jay, we might be able to have you record this in Janet’s small church in Scarborough, ON. She’s part of the choir and we’ve successfully put on shows there in the past!”
“Wow David. The acoustics would be amazing. I think we should do it!”

The next morning I contacted my band and we pulled it together: Vivienne Wilder, double bass; Joe Ernewein, guitar and piano; Sahra Featherstone, violin and harp; and yours truly, guitar and vocals. I was even lucky enough to have my friend Jadea Kelly join me on a few songs. The next call was to my faithful studio engineer, Chris Hess who was more than willing to help capture the live recording.

The song selections were deliberate. They were mostly songs I’d written about questioning spirituality. They were songs about the bigger questions. Even the fun songs and the love songs would have a spiritual component. I would call it “The Chicken Came First”, culled from the line of a brand new song I’d just finished.

While ruminating on how the live show should play out, a number of ideas ran through my head. Should I add a long accompanying booklet? Maybe I should offer some short stories? Maybe Featherstone is right? Maybe I should turn this into a book? Maybe I could add some illustrations to compliment some song scores?

I wondered if Pearl Rachinsky, a Canadian artist and illustrator I’ve long admired, would be interested in illustrating the book for me. One phone call later and a lengthy discussion about chickens and Pearl agreed.

So, on February 7, 2015 we assembled into the small Trinity Church in Scarbourgh, Ontario and made the live recording. It was the perfect choice.

Soon afterwards, I tidied up a few of my short stories and prepared them for the accompanying book.

The Chicken Came First (and other half-truths from my life as a touring songwriter)

I hope you like it.



Tuesday, June 16 Serendipity Concerts – Rossport ON
Wednesday, June 17 The Appolo, Thunder Bay, ON
Thursday, June 18 The Bijou House. Kenora, ON.
Friday, June 19 / Saturday, June 20 Sandy Lake Concerts. Sandy Lake, MB.
Sunday, June 28 Railway Club, Vancouver, BC
Tuesday, June 30 Studio Live Cumberland Concert Series – Cumberland, BC
Wednesday, July 1 Champagne Wine and Song Series – Bowser, BC
Thursday, July 2 39 Days of Summer Festival – Duncan, BC / 2nd show Garage Showroom Saturday, July 4 Gorges Hall, Cortes Island, Cortes, BC
Sunday, July 5 Chars Landing, Port Alberni, BC
Tuesday, July 7 LZ’s Concert Series, Kelowna, BC
Wednesday, July 8 Rockwater Grill Mainstage, Golden, BC
Thursday, July 9 Wine-Ohs, (with Jeni Thai Nolan) Calgary, AB
Friday, July 10 JD’S Concert Series (with Jeni Thai Nolan) Panoko, AB
Saturday, July 11 Halo Farm Fest (with Jeni Thai Nolan) Red Deer, AB
Monday, July 13 Fairveiw Concert Series, Fairview, AB
Tuesday, July 14 Wembley Concert Series, Wembley, Alberta
Thursday, July 16 Ridgevalley Concerts, Ridgevalley, Alberta
Friday, July 17 / Saturday, July 18 The Legendary Rolla Pub, Rolla AB
Friday, July 24 The Owl Acoustic Lounge, Lethbridge, AB
Saturday, July 25 Cosmic Clint’s Music Series – Medicine Hat, AB
Sunday, July 26 The Nanton Auditorium, Nanton, AB
Wednesday, July 29 – Hammiota Hall & Arts Council Presents: Hammiota, MB
Friday, July 31, Sat. Aug. 1st. Sun. Aug 2nd – Sandy Lake Festival, Sandy Lake, MB
Fri. Aug. 7, Sat. Aug 8, Sun. Aug. 9 – Trout Forest Music Festival.


Just a very quick update to those of you across Canada who read my occasional musings. Something is happening here and you should know what it is – isn’t that right Mr. and Mrs. Jones? I’m recording my first live record. I realize you may not be in Toronto but I’m sure you may have friends who’d like to contribute a random whistle or ill timed clap? Forward them them the details. They’d love you for it.

The album will be Jay Aymar Concertaccompanied by an extensive lyric book and many stories of how the songs were inspired along with a sampling of my road stories. The booklet design and artwork will be created by the incredible illustrator Pearl Rachinksy. We’ve worked together in the past and she’s simply amazing.
Vivienne Wilder will be charting the songs as well.

On February 7th at The Church of the Holy Trinity, Guildwood (East Toronto) I’m performing with my band The Abercrombie Zombies (Sahra Featherstone (violin / harp), Joe Ernewein (guitar), Vivienne Wilder (upright bass) and special guest Jadea Kelly to assist with some guest vocals)

Book: The Chicken Came First: And other Half-Truths from my Life on the Road.
CD to accompany book: Jay Aymar and The Abercrombie Zombies – LIVE

ADDRESS on MAP for the Live Show:


I’m not sure why I’m thinking about fashion and music this morning but “I think it has something to do with the way that I fill out my skin-tight blue jeans! Oh….Lord it’s hard to be humble!” No, that’s not what I’m really thinking. I’m thinking about the show I had at home over the holidays where a random guy from my old high-school caught me during the break and said “Aymar, why do I see pictures of you on stage wearing black cowboy boots, a black shirt, and black jeans? I’ve seen you wearing a collared shirt, a suit jacket and tie on stage? What’s that all about man? There’s already one Kristofferson and why would you want to wear a f’n collared shirt if you’re a folk singer? I would have thought then that the freedom of being a folk singer was so that you never had to wear a tie or fancy boots ever again? I only remember you with a t-shirt and jeans and sneakers! Why not just dress the way you dress. You’re a folk singer. Who gives a shit?”
As God is my witness, I couldn’t remember who this guy was. Really. He was from my high-school and either looked so much different that I didn’t recognize him OR he was never really on my radar to begin with. I was obviously on his. (Come to think of it, I wonder how many people’s radar’s I’m not on?). But as these situations call for thinking on the fly I responded with “Huh…you’re right!” Nice. Quick thinking Aymar.
And he WAS right! I’ve been asking myself his question ever since. I only ever wore t-shirts, blue jeans and sneakers. Usually t-shirts that were given to me from my older brothers or ones that mom brought home from parts unknown. My favourite one read “Life’s a beach, then you die!” Wow…so heavy. The shoes were always white Adidas. As my Uncle Brendy told me (and I trusted him because he ran the best sporting goods store in the country – The Duke of Windsor – still going) that ADIDAS stands for “All day I dream about sex!” I was ten when he told me that and he was forever my God. Then his wife, Aunt Dot chimed in “Brendy – that’s not true. It stands for ‘All day I dream about sports!” Years later I came to realize they were both lying. I bought my runners there every year until Brendy convinced me to buy Tennis shoes called Stan Smith’s. They were great. Then they disappeared. It was back to ADIDAS.
The blue jeans were always Levis. For a while it was Howwick Painter Pants and Jordache Jeans but they were always for the ‘too cool’ rich kids (or smart, hard working kids who held down two paper routes at once). I remember the year I didn’t get any cool Levi’s handed down to me and I had to walk around grade 9 with Brand-X jeans. Yeah…that’s what they were called “BRAND-X” right there on the label above my boney ass. Dark blue denim…they came with a sticker that you slapped on your forehead that read “Hi girls…don’t ever give me a chance.” I’d walk down the hallway muttering: “All day I dream about sex” and then go play some sports.
Funny that this random guy remembered the jean jacket. It was a hand-me-down and this girl from St. Joe’s Island painted Neil Yonge’s Harvest album cover on the back of it. That was my favourite album in grade 9 and I loved that jacket. My mom thought it looked ratty and donated it to the Sally Ann. I’m still waiting to see some random sixty year old wearing that jacket in Moncton, or Vancouver someday.
So, thanks random guy from high school for reminding me that I never used to care about what I wore. My favourite line about fashion is from that song from Midnight Cowboy – “I’m going down to where the weather suits my clothes!”

So today I’ll take that money I made the other night and buy some white Adidas sneakers instead of that painting. I’m going to wear them everywhere from now on. I’m washing my old Levi’s and t-shirts. I’m never wearing anything else ever again.
I hope she’s cool with my hard lined fashion stance at that wedding next weekend.

PT 3: CHEERS! Where everybody knows your shame!

(from Part 2) I knew something was up because Zoran was always much too busy to actually sit and break the bread during a Saturday dinner rush. “Jay, tonight’s a special night as my parents are visiting. They have friends and relatives coming in from the old country. We’re going to reserve these tables in the back and have a traditional meal prepared for them. It’s my mother’s birthday! I know it’s going to get busy in here in a few hours and the Newfies…well you know what I mean…the Newfies will get a little crazy. They’re going to want you to drink on stage and play those dirty songs. Now you know I like that normally uh? Right? You know I like what you do, but just for tonight I need you to calm down. Just take it easy. You can still have some drinks but don’t play those songs. Especially that’a song about “It’s forty below and I don’t giva fuck! OK? Just wanted you to know!”
“You got it Zoran. Gonna be a fun night man.”
Famous last words.

Flash forward to 9pm.

I find myself on stage with the usual Saturday night glow. The joint was jumping. Suddenly, in walks Zoran in a white suit accompanied by his wife in a long sequined black dress and an entourage of Euro-chic relatives and friends adorned in silk and fur. It was like a NOLA  Mardi Gras procession, only the revelers weren’t jazz fans – they were Stompin Tom fans – and I wasn’t Dr. John,  I was “Dr. J ” master of disguises. As they made their way to the reserved table, the place was overcome with an audible hush. There became the implicit understanding that Zoran had special guests in the house, and even the Newfies were obliged to calm down (a feat akin to the Apollo landing).

Midnight. The hour in any bar when “ALL BETS ARE OFF AND NO ONE IS FAITHFUL”. (I want to credit this line and philosophy to an Irish Public House owner from Dublin who I met while in Athens Greece. He’d just retired from inheriting the business from his family after having started in the bar at the age of twelve. “Fifty five fucking years later son and I finally sold it! There isn’t a story I haven’t heard or thing about human nature I haven’t observed! I know one thing for sure ” Give people a few drinks and by the time it hits midnight ALL BETS ARE OFF AND NO IS FAITHFUL!” I never forgot that.)

Midnight. The crowd had become seemingly restless with my lack of antics they’d come to know and love. They slowly started demanding pure nonsense:  “Bud the Spud! I’ve Seen Pubic Hair!” The tension grew palpable and suddenly the rising din of beer bottles being slammed on the table to the tune of RODEO SONG – RO – DE – O – SONG….clang clang clang. It was medieval. It was enticing. It was something I just couldn’t do.
Suddenly Zoran, as if in slow motion, stood up from the back of the room, glowing in his white suit, made a gesture with his hand across his throat as if to say “DO NOT PLAY THAT SONG – PLEASE? AS WE DISCUSSED EARLIER” and stared directly into my blood-shot soul.

That split second felt as though it was an eternity. If I’d have played the song, who knows what Zoran would have done? Would he throw me out on the spot for this amazing betrayal? If I didn’t play the song, my legions of lowest common denominator fans would have surely staged a mutiny.  How could I live with devalued street cred (at least until the after party kicked in).
Then I had a thought. It’s the kind of boozed soaked thought that can only come when you get off on walking the tight rope of social decorum.  Zoran and his family represented about ten people. The revelers represented ten times that. Simple math? Besides, it was not like Zoran and myself had ever shared more than a five minute conversation in the two years I’d been there. But the fans…MAN. The fans! They’d become my friends. I thought, if I appease them I can’t go wrong.  Zoran will forgive me once he sees the bar receipts and I’ll retain all street cred.  So, without further adieu I took the soldiers stance…I put my hands in the G chord position, slowly raised my fresh pint of draft and toasted the bar, toasted Zoran’s mother – sang happy birthday and spoke into the mic.  “Zoran, please forgive me, but it’s cold outside and I have to go start my truck because we’re heading to the rodeo tonight.”
“Well it’s forty below
And I don’t give a fuck
Got a heater in my truck
And I’m off to the rodeo
It’s an allamande left
And allamande right
C’mon you fuckin’ dummy
Get your right step right
Get offstage you goddamn goof
Y’know you piss me off
You fucking jerk
Get on my nerves”….

The place erupted like Manchester United scoring the go ahead goal with a second to go. It felt like an over-reaction. It seemed too obvious – as though the bar levied an insult directly to Zoran and his unsuspecting family.  I saw the white flash of  his suit crumble into his chair. Disgraced and humiliated in his own bar. A man too gracious to make a scene in front of his family he let the show go on and rode out the night. I continued to play well past 1am and as they paraded out of the bar Zoran leaned in to me and quietly whispered “It was a good run! Come by for breakfast tomorrow.”

The morning after hangover depression only heightened how bad I felt for my behaviour the night before. But then again, I was used to that feeling. Nothing a few days of sobriety and hard work wouldn’t cure. That filthy need to be loved – the great ego stroke –  fucking hubris  – booze – weed – it all took over and in one moment I’d betrayed Caesar when he was at his most vulnerable. A guy who’d been nothing other than fair to me. Maybe that girl who’d left that message on my phone a few hours earlier was right. I truly WAS an asshole. I could only hope Zoran would understand that it was all just a blur of good times with some poor choices made along the way.

“Jay, I don’t know what to say about what happened here last night man. I know things get out of control and I guess I am partially to blame for letting it happen. It’s not all your fault!” (Are you kidding me? What a guy!)
“Well, Zoran, I was caught up in the moment and really didn’t want to offend YOU, I was just playing into the crowd. I’m really sorry man!”

It was during breakfast that we had our longest conversation. I learned even more about his family back home and his current family in Canada.  He told the story of why he bought the bar and all of his future plans. He couldn’t believe I had a university degree and that I’d been playing other shows as a songwriter. It was a great way to end things. He was ready for a change and so was I. It was meant to happen. But before I left, he told me a story that really taught me a lesson.
“Jay, do you remember six months ago you were playing Saturday afternoon matinees? Performing your own songs?”
“Yeah for sure. It was OK but it wasn’t too profitable for either of us as I recall.”
“Well, there was that elderly Jewish man sitting at the bar with a friend who was paying a lot of attention to your songs. Remember him?”
“Yes I do. He wrote down his first name and phone number on a piece of paper beside the word DIRECTOR but I just thought it all seemed too weird. I remember him saying he worked in film and really liked the song I wrote about my mom. Why?”
“Well, he really is a highly respected Canadian director you know. He came back in here a few months ago and told me how disappointed he was that you didn’t follow up with a phone call. He was going to give you a break. You didn’t take it seriously man. He really was upset!”
“Oh wow, Zoran. You’re killing me. I guess my cynicism is my worst trait.”
“No, Jay….you just have to start believing in yourself a bit more.’
I’ll never forget that conversation with Zoran. He was setting me straight.
(Having saved the number I actually called the director the following week – who must remain nameless – and apologized for not following up right away. He scolded me and talked about missed opportunities and professionalism and kindly asked that I not contact him again. Ouch.)

I would walk by the bar a few more times over the next couple of years and it seemed awfully quiet. It always filled me with mixed emotions. Finally, one night I was out on a first date and she said “Hey, that bar has Karaoke! Let’s go try it out!”
Without even getting into it, I let her lead me back into Cheers. I couldn’t believe what was going on. It was the first time I’d ever seen my replacement. The stage had been moved to the right. There was a new sound system with some random dude inviting everyone to come up  to sing and dance while they read the words on a TV screen. After watching a steady stream of folks hit the stage to butcher Patsy Cline’s Crazy, I decided to kick it old school and give them an ironic version of American Pie. For eight glorious minutes I sang about The Big Bopper, Elvis, Janis Joplin, Buddy Holly and Chevrolet’s and some good old boys drinking whiskey and rye. Karaoke. The day the music died – INDEED!

I didn’t recognize a single person in the place. I walked up to the bar and asked “Hey is Zoran here tonight?”
“Zoran? Oh god no. He sold this place over a year ago. Who are you?”
“Oh I used to play here on weekends a while ago!”
“YOU’RE JAY? People come in here and ask about you all the time. They want to know where you’re playing these days?”
“Oh that’s nice…mostly just taking a break.”
“Cool. Hey are you the guy that played that Rodeo song one night?”

I smirked and walked away knowing that the story and the legendary night had lived on. If you’re gonna go out…you may as well go out in a great ball of fire like Jerry Lee Lewis. (Mind you – it’s not like I married my thirteen year old cousin or anything.)

Oh and the Buick LeSabre Estate Station Wagon with wood grained paneling? It caught fire in my driveway. The neighbour saved our house by putting it out with a fire extinguisher. I sold it for parts for $200.

“Well it’s forty below and I really give a fuck cuz I don’t have a truck and I’m off to the rodeo!”


PT 2 – CHEERS! Where everybody knows your shame.

(from Part 1) I was playing my guitar regularly by then and had written a bunch of self-indulgent songs about hitch-hiking, kings and castles, fish in the ocean. They were all shit. A few of them found their way into a CBC contest and they made a little demo of my stuff. I was even playing a few folk festivals on weekends and opening for established artists like Fred Eaglesmith and Willie P. Bennett. I didn’t take it seriously at all.
Why would I? I had a great job selling water door to door. A pimped out station wagon and a Hondo Flying V electric guitar, fender amp, and a Samick acoustic for late night hangs. All I really wanted was a place to drink for free on weekends. I had a master plan….

I figured if I could learn another fifty of the standard sing-along songs (Brown Eye Girl, American Pie) I could cold call my way into a deal with some local bar owner and see what we could work out. I’d already had several hundred of them blazed into my memory. How? I don’t quite know how. That little miracle just happens to me. A strange memory for songs I like.
My roommates were more than happy to be rolling with the liberal arts dude now. They could make real money during the week, but the true currency would be with the party happening back at our house after the gig when the bar was invited over.

So, I did my walkabout and after several unsuccessful attempts I stumbled into a bar called Cheers. (Back when the sitcom CHEERS was a mainstay in North American culture, every uncreative, copyright infringing trust fund baby from the Greatest Generation decided he would invent his own version of the bar ‘as seen on TV’!) Now in my quest to find a suitable partner for my pending venture, I thought, ‘hmmmm – anyone who’d be willing to stake their life savings on ripping off a TV sitcom theme for their bar is likely going to an easy sell!”
Cheers, was just as you’d think it should be. A typical wood and brass interior with a pool table in the back, a long narrow bar along one side, a stage in front of the window. Patrons were greeted with that familiar odour of fried chicken wing – meets carpet freshener – meets stale draft and cigarette smoke. A notch above the basement lounge of the Waverly.

“Hi I’m looking for the owner!”
“I’m the owner. How can I help you?”
“Hey…my name is Jay Aymar a singer songwriter guy who just moved into the neighbourhood. I’m looking to find a place to play my guitar and sing songs every weekend. I’m just making some cold calls as I live around the corner.”
“My name is Zoran. Nice to meet you. Interesting you say that. We were JUST talking about mixing things up in here and recently bought a new PA. What did you have in mind?”
“Well, I don’t know really. Make me an offer?”
“Well, how about you come in this Saturday night and we’ll see how it goes. I’ll offer you $300 and all you can drink!” (Ahh the good old days – try to find a place in TO that’ll give an upstart solo sing-along ACT more than $100. Wait a minute! The solo singalong thing barely exists anymore (outside of el tourista patios down in Margaritaville . Guess they pay DJ’s a lot more than that now).
“Sounds good to me Zoran! See you Saturday.”

With that, I raced home and told the gang the great news. We were  now hooked up to a three second stumble from our home at the place where ‘everybody should at least know our names’ in short order!
It was going to be epic.

The first gig was quiet save for one group of Northern Secondary High grads in the back room playing pool. They were seemingly on the boarder of being of age but it struck me very quickly that Cheers was not looking too closely at the fake ID’s. The two servers had been working with Zoran since it opened a few years prior, and they were not only TO beauties, they loved to have fun and encouraged rowdy behaviour at every step. We got to know them all so well as they would come back to the after party ritual every weekend. So during my first break, I met Jim, the kid who was the biggest music fan of them all. “Hey buddy, that was great stuff. Are you going to play here every weekend? If so, we’ll get everyone form the neighbourhood to come out!”
“Yeah, it’s a test run tonight but if it goes we’ll we’re going to keep going every weekend.”

Oh so it was. Jim and his crew told everyone in the hood and before too long the tables started filling up. Let me state again – this was in no way a professional gig. I would stand on the stage and play for four hours straight – singing, drinking, smoking, telling jokes, bringing up people for some stupid human tricks. You name it.

One time a bra-less peroxided blonde with huge 90’s hair jumped up on stage, took her top off and began to grind me and the mic stand! Mid song! (I’m sure I protested loudly! lol). Now you’d think someone would have found this inappropriate behaviour? Not so. Everyone laughed and cheered until finally Jim ran up onto the stage and raised both of our arms like we’d just finished a prize fight and battled it to a draw! I can’t make this shit up! She fumbled around for her Iggy Pop t-shirt, put it back on and resumed drinking. I recall seeing her at our party later on that night.

One night, Jim brought in about five tables of his friends and some relatives who must have been from the east coast. These guys kept requesting Stompin Tom Connors and McLean and McLean! I knew about two Stompin Tom songs but hadn’t really learned any McLean and McLean. For those of you who don’t know the difference between the two? Well, it’s very slim. One sings funny songs about Canada and the others sings funny songs about Canada – only one is peppered with filthy words. McLean and McLean’s biggest hit was a cover called The Rodeo Song “It’s forty below and I don’t give a fuck gotta heater in my truck and I’m off to the rodeo!”

Things got so ridiculous that these guys were walking up on to the stage with weed crammed into their cigarettes (cleverly disguised – NOT) and placing it LIT – into the ashtray next to me, while the crowd challenged me to a chugging contest. Yes this all happened. The strange thing was, it didn’t matter how many pints I downed, I could always remember the words to every song and many said they enjoyed my really intoxicated show better than my semi-intoxicated show.  I believe they were right.

Jim’s east coast relatives who showed up must have felt right at home when I started singing Stompin Tom and The Rodeo Song. The place erupted. I mean ERUPTED. That night about forty of us piled into our house for the after party and played as many songs as I could. That week I immediately learned ten more Stompin Tom songs and a few more McLean and Mcleans with the promise to see them all again the following Saturday for round two.

The one thing you have to know about Maritimers  (especially Newfoundlanders) , when they find something they like, they’re loyal as hell. I swear the have their version of an underground railroad and secret telegraph and when they want to show their support – the ‘put the word out’ and BOY do they come out of the woodwork.

The next week I showed up and the place was filled. Suddenly, I was the draw. The main event. I was barely ready for this. I mean emotionally. It meant continuing this charade of playing the big drinker, loud , obnoxious, pot smoking humourist with a guitar singing bawdy songs for drunks. How would my liver manage? How could my psyche manage? I was still trying to be a respected songwriter in completely different circles? I don’t quite know how I embraced it all …but somehow I managed.

I stood up that night and drank my way through the proceedings.  The server told me she’d served more draft that night then any night previous. “Jay, I think you should renegotiate your deal with Zoran! You should go for a higher percentage of the bar sales!”
“No Joanne, a deals a deal. Zoran’s been good to me and he lets me drink and eat for free. I’m good with this arrangement (if I only knew then what I know now! Geeeshhh).
The weekly Saturday engagement turned into a lot of doubled up dates. (Fridays and Saturdays) .Saturday’s often had capacity line-ups and suddenly I was the one responsible for drawing every Newfie from parts unknown into the Yonge and Eglinton area . It was bound to blow up. it had to! Nothing this crazy can last forever. Right? It carried on for 20 months like this and there was no end in sight. I’d dated every girl who worked at the place and my liver was now about as efficient as a colander.

One Saturday I arrived a few hours early in the dead of winter for some pre-show dinner and drinks. I used to eat, read and drink on my own in the back booth by the pool table with occasional interruptions from the staff. It was my happy place. It was always the same questions “Do we need someone to pick up beer for your party afterwards? Is there a party afterwards? I have hash. Do you have vodka?”
Suddenly, that night, Zoran decided to pull up a seat and have a beer and talk about life. I learned a lot about him and his family that night. The heir to a Yogurt fortune from a wealthy European family.
“Jay my friend. How’s the beer and food? Zoran’s treating you right – right? You’re happy here?”
“Oh yeah man. It’s been great. What’s up?”
I knew something was up because Zoran was always much too busy to actually sit and break the bread during a Saturday dinner rush. “Jay, tonight’s a special night as my parents are visiting. They have friends and relatives coming in from the old country. We’re going to reserve these tables in the back and have a traditional meal prepared for them. It’s my mother’s birthday! I know it’s going to get busy in here in a few hours and those crazy fans of yours…well you know what I mean…the Newfies will get a little crazy. They’re going to want you to drink on stage and play those funny songs. Now you know I like that normally? Right? You know I like what you do, but just for tonight I need you to calm down. Just take it easy. You can still have some drinks but don’t play those songs. Especially that one about “It’s forty below and I don’t giva fuck! OK? Just wanted you to know!”
“You got it Zoran. I’ve got you covered.”
Famous last words….
(to be continued)…

Cheers…Where everybody knows your shame

A few days ago I wrote a letter to my friends, fans and family across Canada with the hopes of cheering a few folks up, appeasing my conscience and basically offering some holiday goodwill. I even mentioned three times throughout the diatribe that I was very sorry for anyone I’d left out as it would be impossible to remember everyone (obviously) and that it was all written quickly over a few pints of Guinness. So, as good fortune would have it, many of you wrote to me personal emails wishing me the best of the season! That’s the spirit! Thank you. And as human nature would dictate, a few of you decided that no good deed would go unpunished and you’d rain on my Christmas tree with choice comments of “Thanks for the mention pal!” or “Are you for real?”
But hey…I expected that.
Rock n’ Roll’s a dangerous game kids.
You gotta have skin like leather if you want to survive in this business
(enter you’re own cliche here:)

Which brings me to this last email from: justin201@—–“
“Hey Jay, thanks for the vid and the letter. I remember we used to go to a bar called Cheers in North Toronto at Yonge and Eglinton. I think the guy that played every weekend was you? I really do! You mentioned McLean and McLean in your email and I remember a guy on the guitar singing the Rodeo song. Was that you or am I making this up?”

Wow! The internet. Full circle. “Justin, you’re not dreaming buddy. it WAS me.”

It was the mid-nineties and I was indeed playing McLean and Mclean’s Rodeo song (written by Gaye Delorme of Cheech and Chong fame – and one of Canada’s finest guitar players) – at bar called Cheers at Yonge and Eglinton in Toronto. The crazy part is, I think Justin is referring to the night I sang that song and all hell broke loose. I’ll get  to that later. Let’s start at the beginning.

I’d just graduated from Carleton bluffing my way through a BA (and I truly mean bluffing!)  How I managed to fumble my way through that WAS and still IS a mystery. I loved a few things about it though. I could write essays. I loved writing essays. I was good at it. I love reading the assigned texts. From the Romantics to Canadian lit, American lit , Shakespeare, Absurdist Theatre and Modern Poetry et al. It was really great. The only problem is, I have a memory like a sieve for most things and by the time it was all done, I was qualified for teaching, songwriting or Jeopardy. I wasn’t accepted into teachers college as my marks were too low and my experience was zilch. I obviously hadn’t made strides to move into that direction. Jeopardy? I’d already made my mind up I was a Wheel of Fortune kind of guy. Songwriting? Well….that sounds interesting.

I moved to Toronto with my flashy new B.A. and a $27,000 student loan debt ready to tackle the world. My sister knew a family friend who was the sales manager of a spring water company. They offered me a job in sales. As the sales manager said, “We stick a mirror under your nose and if it fogs up…you’re hired!” I was hired to sell water cooler units and bottles of water – door to door to businesses around the GTA. Most reps lasted a week. I last two years. Hunger and debt does strange things to a psyche.

After I was hired, the manager said “Well, what are you driving?” I said “ I just got my license last week and I don’t have a car!” “Well, you’d better get on that. You’re going to need to load up water coolers and bottles everyday so you should likely go for a small van!”

The next morning I perused the back of the Toronto Star and found an ad for a station wagon in Markham, ON. The woman who answered the phone assured me the station wagon was ‘top notch’ as it was her husband’s corporate ride for many years. Recently retired they only need two cars, not three! (Must be nice)
As I took the bus over to the address, I noticed the houses getting larger and larger. Two car garages, wide streets, yet postage stamp backyards where the houses all looked somewhat the same. Just add water subdivisions – I once heard some refer to them as. I knocked on the door and the nice woman invited me into her completely white kitchen, with white walls, white furniture and a small white poodle. She showed me her backyard pool and bemoaned the fact that they could only use it three months out of the year.
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“We live in Florida for six months and travel the rest of the time.”
A part me cringed for every living soul struggling in the ghetto. (Then again, something tells me those struggling souls were  having more fun – in an unknowing kind of way).

As we kept talking I really connected with this woman. I could tell she loved my story about coming from Northern Ontario, and how I’d recently moved to Toronto trying to get into sales.
“My husband was in sales his entire life. He did very well. Insurance. Have you ever thought about insurance?”
I’d only ever heard from others that insurance, although lucrative, would be one of those things that would leave you friendless after about five years. You find yourself showing up to the mens rec hockey league and guys are leap-frogging for the exits “Oh shit, here comes Aymar…gonna hit me up for some life insurance again!” And that’s no disrespect to life insurance sales reps! In fact, my father bought some for me when I as a baby (to help out a friend) and lo and behoild…I’m now worth more DEAD than alive!

So when she found out I was a Carleton U alumni with a B.A. she really opened up. “My god, that’s where my daughter went and she’s likely close to your age.”
When she told me her name, I was relieved to not know her. Who knows how we may have met in that blur of a party they call higher education? (If you know what I’m saying).
She called her husband and immediately asked if he could offer a better deal on the vehicle.
We eventually made it out to the garage and there it was.
A 1985 Buick Estate Station Wagon – fully loaded – complete with faux wood grain paneling ala Plains,Trains and Automobiles / Uncle Buck. In fact my nieces and nephews (who were quite young then) dubbed me Uncle Buck or UB for short – because of this ride. It was purely ridiculous. A tank. People got out of the way when I barreled down the highway.
Anyway, her husband agreed to a better deal and the next day I showed up with a cheque for $1500 and drove away in my new ride. Nothing says “Single styling salesman in his mid-twenties, like a wood grain paneled station wagon!”

For the next two years it was so grossly mishandled and weighed down with water coolers and bottles, the shocks gave way….the rust set in…and eventually it was spewing out blue exhaust enough to make David Suzuki put me on the fucking green party hit list.

It was during these years that I was sharing a house at near Yonge and Eglinton with some university buddies who’d also come to Toronto. (Albeit business grads where were much more interested in starting real careers at Bay and King).

I was playing my guitar regularly by then and had written a bunch of self-indulgent songs about hitch-hiking, kings and queens and fish in the ocean. They were all shit. A few of them found their way into a CBC contest and they made a little demo of my stuff. I was even playing a few folk festivals on weekends and opening for established artists like Fred Eaglesmith and Willie P. Bennett. I didn’t take it seriously at all.

Why would I? I had a great job selling water door to door. A pimped out station wagon and a Hondo Flying V electric guitar, fender amp, and a Samick acoustic for late night hangs. All I really wanted was a place to drink for free on weekends. I had a master plan. What happened next is something you really won’t believe (unless you happened to be there!)
…to be continued

One of These Days, I’m Gonna Sit Down and Write a Long Letter

I suggest you watch this video first. It’s my postcard to Canada and ALL OF YOU! THANK YOU!
I sincerely wish you all a HAPPY HOLIDAYS. For the million people I simply didn’t mention in this letter – please forgive me – it was all stream of conscious writing and I couldn’t deal with revising it over and over. It would never end. You’re in there – even if you’re not in there.
Watch it then come back read on…

“The Beaufort Sea (French: mer de Beaufort) is a marginal sea of the Arctic Ocean, located north of the Northwest Territories, the Yukon, and Alaska, west of Canada’s Arctic islands. The sea is named after hydrographer Sir Francis Beaufort. The major Mackenzie River empties into the Canadian part of the sea, west of Tuktoyaktuk, which is one of the few permanent settlements on the sea shores.
The sea, characterized by severe climate, is frozen over most of the year. Historically, only a narrow pass up to 100 km (62 mi) opened in August–September near its shores, but recently due to climate change in the Arctic the ice-free area in late summer has greatly enlarged.” Wikipedia

Seba holding number 19
So what do the Beaufort Sea and this kid – Sebastian have to do with anything? Well, on my tour last year a lot of people tracked me down to perform house concerts and quite often, I’d oblige once we figure out our route and schedules etc… “Set it up like a theatre, tell everyone it’s a concert – not a party – try to get 60 people at $20 each and we’ll do it during the week!” (Kind of response). They represented about 20% of my touring shows last year (during weekdays) and they’re all artistically rewarding. A big part of the scene was that there were always kids at the concerts. Whether it be the hosts children or just people who wanted to expose their kids to this antiquated art form known as ‘trad music?” lol
So I decided I’d better have some Dollarama gifts in my trunk for the kids I was meeting and singing “Apple Pickin” to.

There I was, in Beausejour Manitoba, fresh off touring with Burton Cummings old pal, Donnie Zueff. Donnie, god bless him is a saint. Not only a premiere fiddle player but a guy that’ll pick you up the train station (after waiting four hours) then drive you to his home where his wife has prepared an amazing home cooked meal. That’s Donne. He lives in Beausejour (about 40 minutes north of Manitoba) with his family. I had a free day to wander the streets of this small town and hit their local Dollar Tree. (Which is misleading because most of the imported plastic junk was $1.25 or more). It took no more than two minutes for me to get that plastic resin headache that’s become all too familiar when shopping at these junk stores. “Excuse me miss, do you sell gas masks for a buck? No? Oh ok…I’ll try the lemon fresh spray in aisle 143!” As I wandered lonely as a cloud – through the card section I came across the toy isle. That’s when I saw it. A small cartoon-like puzzle of Canada with pictures of Cowgirls and Mounties and Whales. I knew within a split second that this would be the only gift I’d give to kids across Canada. The one that would have them looking at the places I’ve been to. Sharing with them the amazing greatness that is our country. It really IS that great – and yes – I’ve been around this globe.
So I loaded up on the same puzzle. I think they only had about twenty in stock but that would be perfect.
I came back to Donnie’s place and showed him my amazing score while we rehearsed my song Tune Out, Turn Off, Drop By on banjo.
Just before I crashed out that night I had a eureka moment. I’d make a game out of the puzzle for all the kids in Canada to play. I’d number the back of every single puzzle piece in order. Every kid got a puzzle with numbers on the back. I would take two puzzles and write the identical number on the backs of the same piece – while the others were random. I would not know who had the corresponding puzzle. As the tour wound down, I informed the parents that I was going to draw my puzzle piece. I pulled out from my hat, The Beaufort Sea – #19. The kid in the pic – Sebastion (they call him Seba) WON. What did he win? Well, I guess he’s been made the distinct guest of honour of this major annual Christmas card. (oh and he already has a Dollar Tree puzzle of Canada from Beausejour Manitoba. Not a bad haul Seba!

You see, that’s the kind of life it turns into when you’re playing this much. A million and one stories all crammed into a week. Too many fall by the wayside (into the potholes on memory lane – as Randy Newman so eloquently puts it). Seba’s parents have been hosting my dog and pony show in their home for four years now. Every single year it’s an honour, a laugh, a swim, a feast – all of that. And to think I met Seba’s mother in another lifetime while at Carleton University. She was a gem then and is only getting more polished and precious over the years. Her husband Steve just happens to be a volleyball coach for the Kelowna Heat (and a national champ!). He’s likely one of the best volleyball coaches in the country! Imagine that…a coaster makes good. Anyway, Sebastian buddy, I hope you have a great Christmas, and I just wanted to take this time to thank everyone across the country with this little video tribute to Canada.

We recorded my song Overtime in my brother-in-laws amazing basement bar (how Canadian is the basement bar?) and this goes out to everyone who’s helped keep that Voyageur trail tended. The organizers of the shows, the roots radio folks, the musicians, the AD’s, the reviewers, the volunteers, the cooks, sound crew, the friends we made. By the time I’d hit Calgary, I’d had reunited with my Toronto-based fiddle player Sahra Featherstone. She flew out to tour with me for three weeks and was then going to meet her boyfriend Dale Sood (amazing videographer Arts and Rec) to rock clime Big Chief in Squamish, BC,  She would play the harp and violin with me for the rest of the tour which brought us all the way to Cortes Island. And when I thought I couldn’t possibly laugh any harder than I had with Zueff, Sahra came along and had my stomach muscles in need of therapy after the first 48 hours. Another story for another day. The day we left Cortes I started this song based on a couple we’d met who just moved there to reinvent themselves:
“Oh my love, all we need
is a little bit of dirt and a single seed
Natural light, H2O we’ll plant our love and watch it grow – oh –oh……..
There’s evidence of life here”
but again…I digress.

So to compliment this video here is my long (stamp saving) Christmas card to all of you amazing souls out there who’ve supported my live music over these past years and I want you to know that there’s never possibly enough gratitude in the world to show you for this. Let’s just say, you keep the tending the trail, and we’ll keep walking it – portaging it with our canoe full of songs.

So in no particular order:
Mom and Dad in the Soo. 88 and 93. Still going strong. I’ll be home for Boxing Day. The first year I’ve ever missed Christmas Day. The countdown begins. I love you more than life itself.

My brother Bob, Nicolene, Steve and Sarah (Liv), Matt, Phil, I want you to know I found Chuck Norris’s MIA 3 and we’ll be having a marathon in 2015. Count on it. Thank you for the critical insights on my work Bob. That’s all a brother could ever ask for. Honesty. You’re the best in the business.
Jeanne and Tom, Steph, Kato, Ali , Mary and Tom, Beck , Kel and Jack (charity starts at home and wow aint’ that the truth – my home away from home off the road and so close there’s nothing I can really say here), My brother Dave (only Dave and I know this – but we are the unheralded Canadian comic duo. No one can make the other person laugh harder! Period. McLean and Mclean? Maybe! Close. Bowser and Blue? Lightweight. Cheech and Chong? Beyond our reach. The Smothers Brothers? Mom always liked you best man.) Tom and Sharon, Jamie, Brendan, Mark and John (strength and wisdom and pure kindness and a lot of fried chicken – that is the answer. And Tom, you’re Colonel Parker and Saunders rolled into one. The best motivator, critic and coach a songwriter could have. I wish every songwriter had you in their corner man!) , Bill Aymar (work hard, party hard, a great Toronto host to out of towners, a great friend and best chef I know – your herbs are mind blowing), Phil Aymar (we’re one in the same – except you’re just better– my conscience, my confidant and proof that being humble is a virtue), all of my cousins (Theriaultville) who are the biggest best family I know. To Tom and Mary-Lou the wedding of Mary-Anne and the Professor and my first myspace friend. To my cousin Jeff – for the brightness you brought to the world. To Lynne and Kip for the spare room and Jeff and Hannah for the late night hangs…to Lorrie and Joe and Matt and Steve for the concerts and laughs. To Mike – thanks for cleaning my teeth after losing my dentist…Oh shit… to Leo’s Auto on Doncaster in Thorhill (Leo is the best, most honest mechanic in the universe – he doesn’t’ need your business but go there anyway!) To Dr. Sam Leitenberg you are going to be missed! You were more than a doctor. You were a friend. (Anyone know of a good doctor in the GTA theriaulvilleout there?) I can’t begin to go down this rabbit hole – we’d be here until New Year’s Eve. lol

To my original buddies and all of the crew of Monterey Gardens. The long lasting friendship that’s about a tight and good as any guys have ever had it. It’s unbreakable. To Mel, Andy, Ters, Humphry, Greengras, Burnsy, Deli 1 and 2, Saints..the memory of our buddy Bo and the Bolan family….oh hell the list goes on and on. See you in a few weeks.
Here’s a few of us “Catching Rainbows in the Falls” before the Batchewana sauna.
The crew

My musical acquaintances in Toronto over the years. Those I’ve played with and toured with and as a friend once said “They’re all the most creative, honest and talented people you’ll ever meet.” That’s true!
Some know this story – some don’t. I was contacted by Ian Tyson six years ago. He wanted to record my song. Great honour indeed. I was selling wine and grossly unhappy. I was a ‘lazy bastard living in a suit” to quote Cohen. I left the girl. The apartment. My belongings.
The first call I received after meeting Tyson was from SOCAN. “Jay, Richard Flohil wants to know if he can contact you?” “Who’s that?” I said.
“You’re in the Toronto music scene and you don’t know who Richard Flohil is?”
“Well I said, I’m not IN the Toronto music scene. I’ve been out of music for fifteen years. I’m quitting real life and getting back into the music scene!”
“Well, can we give Richard your number and have him call you?”
“Of course” I responded with great anticipation.

One day later a superb British accent snuck through my phone “Hello, is this Jay Aymar?”
“Yes…this must be Richard!”
“Yes mate. Listen, I’ve just heard a song you’ve written about Don Cherry covered by Ian Tyson. I’m just wondering – WHO ARE YOU?”
Flash forward six years later and FLO (as we all referred to him) has graciously introduced me to many of the great souls inhabiting this list. There’s not enough hours in a day to cover his story, but if you’re at all interested, just head out to any roots music haunt on any given night in TO and look for the guy with a bevy of beauties flanking him. He’ll be wearing a long white scarf and sometimes closing his eyes to get a cat-nap mid rock n roll show. Don’t take offense. It’s just how he rolls.

So who are you? Well, you range from all of the musicians who’ve played in my CD’s over the years to the engineers and creative designers. Like my first and most loyal engineer Chris Hess. He worked for so many years without asking for a dime. I don’t even know how one could start to thank someone for that. He’s the biggest Kris Kringle of them all folks.
David Baxter for consistently offering up warm, rootsy gems for this world to hear. (He’s a helluva writer and performer in his own right – and you should RUN to the Cameron House in Toronto if you ever have the chance to catch him.) He plays often with another songwriter named Corin Raymond who is also a cool talent on the scene. Oh and the Cameron House gang of constants – like Peter Barnard. Thanks for always promoting my blogs. Thanks to Heather Hase, Dave Reigate and his dad and the Antonacci’s for coming to so many shows this year too.
There’s no way to thank the insanely talented girls on the scene that I’ve been privileged to meet. The easiest way to is have you look up the collective known as the Ladies in Waiting and you’ll see them all right there (Oh and if you live in Toronto or know of anyone in Toronto they should go to their Christmas show Thursday Dec. 18th at the Hugh’s Room.
Google these names and check them out. All of this outstanding creative energy will be in one room. Andrea Ramolo, Faye Blaise (sounds so nice you want to say it twice), Melanie Brulee, Sarah Burton, Cindy Doire (all the way in from the Maple Leaf Tavern!), Sahra Featherstone (my trusty sidekick from this year’s tour and an inspiring human being!), Kristin Sweetland (check out her photography), Tricia Foster (check out her pipes) , Anique Granger, Treasa Levasseur (find her song “Let Me Sleep on It”), Samantha Martin & Delta Sugar (opening for the Blind Boys of Alabama at Massey – yes that’s happening) , Sophia Perlman, PerlHaze, Karyn Ellis (amazingly, off-beat funky folk songs and one who’s gonna help me organize the annual Roots Music Bowlerama for charity) and Marina Marina. Oh and Jen Squires (photographer) for these pics and my last album cover. You’re incredible. And Chung Wong – for being the biggest music fan this scene has ever met (minus Flohil).
While we’re speaking of female artists this year: To Roxanne Potvin for being a brave, beautiful artist (and gracing my Hugh’s Room show with her presence and amazing band!) Alejandra Ribera for knocking me out with La Boca (wow), Shakura S’Aida for bidding on my sorry ass at a charity auction a few years ago and to our pending coffee date at Targette (and for your earth shattering performances), to Jadea Kelly for answering the call to lend your vocals to my old timey duets and for creating Clover. To Allen Wells who’s brilliantly executed your vision. To Laura, Bonita, Patricia, Joe and Paula, Dave and Kerry for keeping the eastern Ontario fires burning, to John and Lia and Jennifer – may we party soon and have a Cuban feast! And to the great Cullen crew who’ve thrown us some amazing concerts and keeping the London fires burning bright. And of course Frank Loreto for his amazing site “Ears to the Ground” and his great house concert hosting skills!
To David Farrell, Kerry Doole, Bob Mersereau, Eric Thom, Mike Regenstrief (to name a very small few) for writing about it all. And to Gail Comfort, Steve Fruitman, Julie Miller, Jan Vanderhorst, Allison Brock, Tom Power, Jim Marino, Brenda Tacik, Fish Grikowski, Peter North, Gerry Goodfriend (I wish I was born with that handle) Andy Frank, Jeff Robson, Jan Hall, Daryl Sterdan, Jeanna Khan, Marc Campbell, Eden Monro, Roddy Campbell of Penguin Eggs (top notch magazine!), Barry Hammond, Shelagh Rogers, Danny Gaisin, Brian Kelly,Tom Murray, Heath McCoy, Stuart McLean, Jerome Clarke (Rambles Magazine – You want to read in depth reviews – check out Jerome Clarke – he goes deep!) Brian Johnson, Doug Swanson, John Apice of No Depression, Larry Leblanc, Tom Coxworth, and Steve Clark (rest his perfect soul)  Oh hell….I’m leaving out a million more. It’s gonna get ugly by the omissions. That’s it. Well save, Twisty, Shelley Marshall, John Scoles and your door crasher specials, to Mitch, Tim, Ava, Selena for keeping Pete’s dream intact, JD Edwards (finally caught a full show in Brandon) and band, Sean Burns, Tim Hus, Dave Gunning, Tamara Kater (introducing me to super writers: Sam Baker, Jordie Lane, and Del Barber) To the Canada Gold suite in Kansas for introducing me to Stephanie Nilles. I want to say that again – thank you for introducing me to Stephanie Nilles. Singularly the very best performance that has resonated with me – maybe ever. To the heirs of her throne, Arianna Gillis, Jenie Thai, David Newberry, and Ann Vriend. To Jodie Peck for being a badass butcher, northern girl and stone cold rock and roll! To Peterbuilt Pete for settling down and having a baby (and loving Hogans Heroes). To Kaia Kater, Craig (just say Currie) Cairns, Emma Jane, Sarah Erickson and your awesome parents for pointing out Steak and Lube (an actual restaurant in bumble-fuck USA) , to Chip Taylor for imparting so much wisdom into my songwriter soul and a big thank you for singing FUCK ALL THE PERFECT PEOPLE to me at ten paces away, Newland and Frank (the comedy team behind RMC), The Folk Music Ontario crew perfect cultivation , to Alex Sinclair and the Borealis crew for so much of the fabric – Fiddlers Green, Grit Laskin, Paul Mills, Bill Garrett, every living soul connected to Stan Rogers, Linda Truro, Derek Andrews, Jennifer Drysdale (amazing artist) Joanne Crabtree, Laura Smith and Tannis Slimmon for bringing such pure beauty into this world, Nicole Colbeck, Jennifer Ellis, Scott Merrifield, The CFMA’s…oh gosh… and Gadke for teaching me about centre earth, Thor, metal and general merriment. To Steve and Sue Tenant for just about everything Folk and goodwill. To their awesome ‘sound-guy’ son! To Aengus Finnan and Dayna Manning (who I met through my part-time fiddler Laura – laugh-a minute-Bates) as people I barely know you given me hope that true love is always just around the corner – amazing really. To Fitzy and Scott for having a baby. To Greg Cockerill and Kurt Nielson for learning my stuff on the fly and nailing the Hugh’s show (go Blue Jays) , to Jane Harbury, Suzie Vinnick, Emily Mitchell, The Mills, The Tivoli and Auerbach Houses, to Taylor Mitchell for remaining my guardian angel (I know this to be true), to the guy who fixed my Camry and the eagle that followed me on the highway, to the deceased deer, to Rocky the native artist who made me the Buffalo tooth after hearing the song Crow. To my buddy Chief and the loss of his old man Simon this year. To all of the folks at the Happy Horsheshoe Campground, The family of Gordie (who passed away too young and taught me about truck driving, being High and Lonesome with Bill Munroe and just how big Bluegrass is in Japan), to the original boys from the Cashing in on Peace CD years – Kevin Quain, Tom Parker, Tony Benattar and your amazing Liberty Boots ( I still remember that one day recording session). The Folks at the Sandy Lake Hotel – Judy and the gang “Al MacDonald had a farm…ei ei o”) To finally hearing Kim Begg’s stuff and realizing how awesome she is. To Meg Lederrer for being a cool camper and booking me every year. To Shawna Caspi for writing great tunes and slaying them in Richard Landing; Sarah Jane Scouten for making me howl two weeks ago; Alanna Martineau for finally making the pilgrimage to TO (good on ya!) to Kev Corbett for always telling me the most interesting stories at every conference then slaying me with his sweet sounds, to Jon Brooks for doing the hard honest work, to Longevity John for inviting us to your festival and kind words and unique form of payment, to Diggin Roots – what a great show!, to Sue and Dwight constantly making me laugh every morning with your street level insights, Paul Corby and your excellent Orbital sounds. To Sheila in Thunder Bay (get well soon), to Hanna Hunzinger at Fables (we’re all missing Chuck and feeling for ya!) To my east coast relatives Marie, Neil, Gus and Rose, Ruth and Harold and all the kids…to James and George Aymar and the Acadian village of Saulnierville (the documentary they’re making of James!) to his son Marcel Aymar (my cousin) of the incredible band CANO – to the south shore and the Twins, and all my friends at the Sea Dog Saloon: Allen and Tim and the kitchen kaleigh crew that mind scarred me and Manitoba Hal who imparted sober wisdom to me one night, and to Dave and Dianne from Burlington who have become friends – not fans – and true believers. Merry Christmas to you too!
Wrycraft and Bronwin Parks for creating amazing designs for everyone, Fancy Pants Lance Lorree and The Alien Rebels, Carolyn Marks and NQ and your gang of misfits, for Jeni and Phil and all of the folks at the Theatre in the park and of South Country Fair – , Scott Cook (the reincarnation of Woody) and on and on and on.

If I read this list and realized I was not on it – I’d feel hurt, then pissed off then likely laugh because there’d be no way the dude could remember everyone! Forgive me – but thank me for trying. Oh and Ian Tyson and his daughter for hosting Sahra and I on his ranch and then mailing me money! I love ya man and NO I don’t ride fucking horses. Only once when I was drunk – and I fell off immediately.
Ina and Piet and Ye Old Jar Bar. Jay and Tracey – two great individual Medicine Hat artists who put me up for four days (you rock) for Clint and crew who continue to support me and teach me things about the Law I just never new, to CKUA, the CBC, PBS, Vinyl Café. Ewen and Jane MacKenxzie and kids (for housing 5000 albums, getting married, introducing me to scotch!)  For Stew Crookes and Michael Timmins and Josh Finlayson for dissecting my songs and advising me on production. For Joe Ernewein for finding my songs and wanting to produce them. To my Cameron family residents of this past while – Vivienne Wilder who continues to amaze me with her prodigiousness and Kesley McNulty for your tasteful playing every time I see and hear you, to Justin for stealing my records (lol) and all of the Boxcar Boys, Ozere, Slocan Ramblers….oh man….I’m rambling again. I guess you’re the next generation. I explode with happiness when I hear your talent.
Michael Louderoute for holding that umbrella over my head during the downpour and offering me some shelter from the storm. To Todd Snider, John Prine, Jerry Jeff Walker, Carol King, Dylan, Guthrie, Sachmo, Beethoven , Shel Silverstein, Cash, Kinky Friedman, and Lucille Ball, and anything that Neil Simon ever created. And I’ll even give a Merry Christmas shout out to the not one Artistic Director of any folk festival who’s never come out to see any of my shows after being apprised of their whereabouts well in advance – that’s over 700 shows in six years and counting – I’ll even wish YOU a Merry Christmas because that’s the kind of guy I am.
And speaking of “That’s the kind of guy I am” I’ll wish Pat, and Donna and Andy Garreau a happy holidays. And in the memory of Mikey and Wes and all that’s holy and good in this world. And to Donald P. Bertrand where you may roam. To the entire town of Bruno! (Can you start my tomato for me?)  And to Jess (a beautiful muse and artist) and Nikky and Frank and new friends and old friends and all that’s to come and everything under the sun isn’t real…but the sun is eclipsed by the Super Moon in Revelstoke.
To Up North Terry and Val and your old pal Tom Wilson who told me your nickname – who also told me Paul Reddick’s nickname (The High Priest – another one of my complete favourites. A full-fledged artist in his prime!) Thank you Terry and Val for the place to crash and write last winter. Thanks to Bob and Cathy Hodgeson for buying a bunch of my merch and bringing huge crews to my shows! Thanks to Shawn McGuire for supporting me with buying t-shirts and mailing an old fashioned letter, thanks to Andrew Charles for shoveling me out of the snow last year and filming so many of my shows without asking for anything, (humbling man), for Nick the Greek and your awesome family, and Nathalie the super cool sales dynamo, and the other Nathalie, the super cool sales dynamo aka Daisy wherever the hell you are; to Nathalie in BC for traveling to Europe and inspiring Rock On (a song that’s requested all the time), for Chloe Charles who is going to win a Polaris Prize someday – for being my friend, an inspiration, using a bit of my song ‘Rock On’ in her song ‘Business’ and opening for Sixto Rodriguez! Are you kidding me? To Donna Callison who’s bar got wiped out in the rising tides two years ago: I hope you live to rebuild your High River dreams.
To Spider for introducing me to a great bar with Lance in Cowtown. To the Dummer in Red Rear. Thanks for hosting us a great party. To Doug and Liz Champagne and friends for one of my favourite concerts of the entire year! You guys amaze me – you’re now family along with Gary and Anne Holmes and the entire set of Vancouver Islands. To Valdy for having me open for you (something I’ll never do again! Talk about a master of the solo set).

Finally to the late great John Lennon who taught me to NEVER EVER IDOLIZE people. He said so in his song GOD. That’s why I idolize him. He also said in that song “I just believe in me…Yoko and me….and that’s reality!” So I thought, hmmm….he at least believes in one other person outside of himself – YOKO! That’s quite a revelation. I’ve steadfastly refused to settle for anything less than my version of YOKO ONO. (For whatever that’s worth). The real deal. So I’ve been close a few times. Recently, I believe I held her but I screwed it up. Sometimes that happens. There’s an entire new batch of songs written and inspired by her though. That’s the cool thing. Guess it’s back to eating Swanson’s TV Turkey Dinners in front of the Charlie Brown Christmas Special again. Can you give me a collective ‘awwwww’…..thank you! It really does help!

What else can I say? You may think this crazy letter to you was a gigantic ass-kiss of tremendous proportions and some of that might just be true. It’s also been a letter I’ve been meaning to write for a few years. It came back to me after watching Neil Young’s Prairie Wind concert and he sings the song ‘One of These Days”. “One of these days, I’m gonna sit down a write a long letter to all the good friends I’ve known!” I thought, yeah….me too. Then I went to buy stamps and cards and thought I’d buy few pints of Guinness and do this instead.
Feliz Navidad! Happy Hannukah! Merry Christmas! Happy Holidays? Happy Festivus!
See you on the trail amigos.

Shuffle those sticks, assemble your lines

In Memory of Jean Beliveau
For those of you who’ve been my shows you’ll already know about my parents Madeline and John who are still going strong at 88 and 93 up in the Soo. You’ll also know that they had 8 children who are all in some way or another ‘a bunch of hams’ who really like to party and have fun (that goes for our extended Theriault family of course.) So you’d know from my shows that they had me much later in life – mid-to-late 40’s and so I was ‘taught and brought up to – the laws to abide – and that the country I come from had Jean Beliveau on it’s side!’. Yeah that’s right – see the puck my dad is holding in this picture? It almost didn’t survive as the family heirloom it surely is.
One random snowy night in Monterey, we shuffled the sticks and assembled our lines at the outdoor rink across the street at Clergue school. A few slapshots later and our random Canadian Tire puck was tipped over the boards and buried in the snow – LOST.
cropped pic of dad mom and me puck

I raced home and begged dad to borrow the family heirloom puck as “we were in a real pinch!”
“Ok son, but you know the story of this puck! I was with your mother at the Forum in 1953 on our honeymoon and I caught that puck after it was tipped off of Jean Beliveau’s stick! Don’t lose it – whatever you do!”
“You got it dad!”
Upon returning to the rink a few new neighbourhood kids had shown up to play. Well…truth be told they were the neighbourhood bad-asses. A few of them fresh out of juvy and likely already selling weed to their grade seven cohorts.
It took a nano-second for one of them to realize it was an official Montreal Canadians puck. He bent down – picked it up and said “Hey guys…this is real NHL puck. Thanks for the gift man!”
“Hey give that back! That’s my dads puck!” I said, shaking in my Bauer Supremes.
“What’re you gonna do about it kid!”
Normally I would have hung around a bit longer to attempt rink-rat diplomacy ultimately leading to getting the shit kicked out of my skinny ass – but I decided to race home immediately as desperate times called for extremely desperate measures. “Hey dad, these crazy bully guys saw your puck and took it! They won’t give it back! Dad? Dad!”
Road-runner cloud!! Poof!!  He appeared at the rink in front of the thieving bullies.
“You guys don’t want to know the story behind the puck in your pocket and why you’re gonna give it back to me right now!”
“Uh…yes sir. Sorry sir. We were just joking around.”
BAM. They left the rink in great shame and we finished the game with the standard frozen orange plastic ball. A real downgrade if there ever was one. Some poor bastard always took one in the crown jewels and we inevitably had to scrape him off the ice and into the rink shack to curl up for twenty minutes.
So god bless Jean Beliveau! The guy they said was the best ambassador our national sport ever saw (not it’s not Lacrosse).
As fate would have it, I wound up a long suffering Leaf fan. And ironically, the Aymar name was traced back to being French Huguenots in France – kicked out – made their way to NYC in the late 1700’s, came up to southern Nova Scotia and became Catholics…kicked out…some went to New Orleans…some stayed…some moved to Sault Ste. Marie and married, had eight kids and forever coveted the puck caught off the stick of Jean Beliveau. Why? Easy. It had to have been the very best week of his life. Celebrating his honeymoon in Montreal. His time served overseas must have seemed like a long gone memory….
RIP Mr Beliveau. Or as you would have said “Just call me Jean!”