As you may or may not be aware, I am currently working on my second book. This time, it isn't quite as autobiographical as my first, Not Only Am I With The Band... I should hope not considering the fact that it deals with a serial killer. Yep, and we aren't talking Dexter here folks. Cold, calculating, quite insane... fun stuff, nes't pas?

Which isn't to say that there isn't some of me and my experiences in this new novel; how could that ever be. Authors of fiction that say there is not some semblance of themselves, their experiences in their novels is lying. It is all just a matter of degrees. Sometimes there is alot of the author in the work, sometimes not so much so.

In the case of Dire Tides (catchy title, eh?) there are a number of elements from past experiences included. Rhonda and I met and honeymooned on Cape Cod the locale for most of this book. We spent a goodly number of hours in Provincetown ; the specific locale for most of this book. On holiday on the Cape I sang karaoke at the Governor Bradford in downtown P'Town which does in fact have karaoke seven days a week ("Drag Karaoke" no less).

The characters that frequent the karaoke bar at the Gov'nor are based in any number of ways on the real life people that I sing with on a weekly basis; on shared experiences (thank you Alina, I forgot all about the paper clip progression but you can bet your ass it is going to be integrated into the novel).

This is a work in progress folks. I have set myself a deadline for the end of May to have the first draft of this puppy all wrapped up. No deadlines from editors or publishers mind. Just something that I can shoot for. The amount of editing and draft revisions required afterwards are a black hole for me at the moment. With my first novel my editor said there weren't alot of edits required outside of grammer, spelling and some small breaches of continuety. But then again I had spent the better part of two years writing, reviewing and editing it before it ever reached his inbox.

Considering the fact that my first book was based in large part on personal experience, the task of writing a novel "from scratch" has been challenging; but in a fun and completely infecious way. I'm having a blast folks. I will continue to provide occasional updates and samples here as I believe are warrented.

If you are on Facebook, please come join my group there; http://www.facebook.com/home.php#/group.php?gid=53141012680&ref=ts. While there you might consider joining my group for Not Only Am I With The Band... at http://www.facebook.com/home.php#/group.php?gid=26129315315&ref=ts. Either way, please stay tuned. Here is a little taste, the first chapter of Dire Tides in it's current form. Hope you enjoy... comments most definately welcomed.

Chapter 1

Oh shit, it was dark. And damp. It was bloody damp. Brady could feel the sweat pouring off his scalp and down the neck of his tattered and stained shirt. Even if his hands were not currently trussed up behind his back, Brady sincerely doubted he would be able to see his hand right in front of his own face. Still he got the impression that the walls were ominously narrow; the ceiling unforgiving and low.

“A breath,” Brady’s mind capered, “Just take a breath. Slow and steady. Count to ten. Do anything that it might take to get me the hell out of this situation.”

But that didn’t seem to help at all. The ceiling still felt as though its raison d’être was to slowly squash the life out of him. Why was he still here? Why couldn’t he see? Why had no one missed him and come looking?

“I always thought Karaoke was perfectly safe,” he croaked out loud and chuckled.

“Guess I did one too many Bob Dylan songs,” his mind babbled.

He tried hard to focus on where he was. He tried to open his eyes but they seemed stuck shut.

He tried to settle his racing heart the better to hear ambient sound.

Listening, Brady could hear waves lapping against a wall somewhere very nearby. The rope by which he was trussed up squeaked in a gentle rhythm; swaying him gently back and forth. The lack of any other sounds forced him to the realization that no one would be around to hear his dying screams. He rightly concluded that he was on the waves; but too what end...

Just as he was contemplating these things Brady became aware that he was not alone.

“Hello,” he enquired.

A whimper greeted his entreaties.

“Who is that,” he hissed fervently.

Still no response; save another whimper.

“Do you know where we are?”

Silence.

“For God sake man,” he bellowed, “speak up!”

The volume of his own voice startled him into silence.

The air hung hot and humid all around. After the roar of his own blood subsided from his ears

Brady screwed up his courage enough to try and make contact yet again. Hanging there he had heard the occasional whimper coming from his unseen companion, the gentle lap of waves against the walls of the room which he was in and, worse, the sound of tiny feet scurrying around below him.

Actually, the approaching sound of heavy footsteps was worse. Brady was just ready to yell out when some primeval voice hissed for him to remain quiet. In this world of utter darkness how was one to tell friends from foes.

So he waited; waited and listened.

The footsteps grew inexorably closer. The perpetrator of these steps was in no hurry; savouring each and every footfall. Suddenly, the steps stopped; the ensuing silence unbearable.

Brady’s companion whimpered miserably.

“Shut up,” he hissed, “do you want them to hear us?”

From off to his right a low chuckle started, cutting through the darkness like a low voltage current through a sock full of marbles. The chuckle continued for a minute or two, playing counter point to the pathetic simpering of the unseen other.

“Ah yes, the new one.”

The voice; equally soothing and menacing, cold as a long abandoned graveyard at midnight, nearly ripped a scream from Brady’s throat. His roommate had no such self restraint.

“Now Leo,” this new voice reprimanded, “you are making Brady here uncomfortable.”

Upon hearing his own name Brady recoiled as though physically struck.

But at this rebuke Leo did shut up. Not even a whimper.

“There now, that’s much better. Isn’t that better Brady?”

Brady remained quiet, paralyzed with a terror as old as time itself.

“Yes? No? No worries, we will have plenty of time to get better acquainted later. In the meantime, you don’t mind if Leo and I play some more?”

At this Leo started to scream again. And when Leo’s voice finally gave out, Brady could hear the insistent chuckles, punctuated by the sound of ripping and of wet things hitting the floor with a sickening plop.Then the screaming started once more. It took Brady a couple of minutes to realize that, this time, it was him doing the screaming

Have you ever been depressed? And I don't mean feeling blue because you had a bad day at work kind of depressed.

Have you ever been diagnosed as being severely depressed? By an actual practising physician no less.

If you haven’t, all I can say is keep up the good work. You may now go back to your regularly scheduled web surfing activities.

Last year, 2008, should have been one of the happiest years of my life. I celebrated my 23rd wedding anniversary, had a good job, had any number of very dear friends, and had a wonderful vacation just outside of Estes Park, Colorado. What more could a body hope for?

Oh yeah, my first book had been published to excellent reviews... So why shouldn’t I be as happy as a hive of bees with a whole field of flowers. (I bet you thought I was going to say as happy as a pig in shit, didn’t you?)

I should have been, if not on top of the world, at least on top of my world.

But depression doesn’t work like that. Depression for me is like being buried under 100 feet of cold tapioca pudding. Have I mentioned that I hate tapioca pudding, warm or not? Being depressed is like being buried deeply under sludge like material, in a place where you can see nothing but blackness around you and not be able to move side to side let alone worry about just how far up it is that you have to travel before your head can break the surface.

Depression is one of those terrible diseases where you know, instinctually if no other way, pretty much what it is that you need to do to find a cure but have a brutally hard time trying to follow your own advice.

Friends and loved ones of someone who is depressed are in a very tenuous position. They want to help but have no idea exactly how it is that they can do so. Telling a depressed person that they need to exercise, get out into the community more, get some focus in their life, take up an old hobby... just about anything really doesn’t work, despite the good intentions. But for people who are depressed, well, o.k., for me anyways that was one of the worst things.

Being told about all the stuff that I should be doing, stuff that I pretty much knew that I should be doing, only served to remind me of the fact that I was unable to do so. After a while, my own realizations of my failures coupled with the reminders of those who loved me were devastating. I dreaded my wife Rhonda's return from work and the inevitable question about what I did that day. Some days, as I started attempting to draw back from the abyss I actually did accomplish things. On those days I was only too happy to share my accomplishments with her.

Hello dear, I did the dishes, cleaned the litter box, spent time trying to straighten the storage room out and I even managed to get out of bed before noon. All the while I felt like an over zealous Cocker Spaniel pup trying to earn his next dog biscuit.

But the days that I just couldn't rouse myself to do anything? They just tore my soul apart. Another day that had slipped by without me making any kind of progress; the disappointment that I felt in myself; the fear I had for having to admit as much to the person that I loved. Even when Rhonda was supportive, as she mostly was, on the days when I accomplished a big fat goose egg, her eyes belied the pain; the disappointment that she felt.

And, in a very real way the disappointment that I felt in myself, for whatever reason, seems to have been the key to the length of my depression.

During this lost period my folks moved from their home of 40+ years into a 1,000 square foot apartment. It was time. My Father had well and truly shovelled more than his fair share of driveways over the years and my Mother had tended to their Home and Garden worthy backyard lovingly long enough that they were both due a respite.

As is usually the case when someone is moving, my folks had to unload some of their flotsam and jetsam. Forty years worth of ballast to be sure; and their first instinct was to give that which they felt strongly about but knew that they could not hold on to, to people they knew would appreciate those self same things.

A couch, two recliners (one of them a rocker), a rocking chair and a WONDERFULL hardwood kitchen table later Rhonda and I had been truly blessed. But there were the small things, those things that are the threads that tie a lifetime together.

My Mother, as many mothers do, kept all of my report cards. Why? As best as I can figure, because she was my mother.

We all grow up differently, don’t we; with pros along one avenue and cons along another. Those pros and cons go a long way towards defining who it is that we are going to eventually become.

I never truly had any real focused vision of myself as a youngster; only what it is that I heard and what it is that I wanted to hear. I never believed myself to be a diminutive Einstein, Descartes, or Solzhenitsyn.

One of the things that my folks bestowed upon me for which I shall be forever grateful, were my report cards, all the way from Kindergarten right the way through Junior High.

For whatever reason I had come to believe that every shortcoming in my person, my actions, and my soul were a direct affront to all the promise that I had showed in my early years. After all, I had been a genius growing up, under appreciated, unsung, hadn’t I?

As it turns out, not so much so.

I have been blessed with two of the best parents that anyone could ever possibly hope to be blessed with. They supported me at the right times, chastised me at the right times (but never, EVER to harshly). I fell DEEPLY in love with music and they went along with it. I decided to pursue Journalism as a career; and they supported it. I decided that Journalism had run its course (more for health reason than actual intellectual reasons) and they supported it.

After a while it became easier to see myself through their eyes rather than the cold, discerning eyes of those who are well and truly impartial.

Reading through my report cards from kindergarten onward I came to recognize those things in myself now which were, apparently, self evident way back when. Creative, good with words, imaginative, not so good with mathematics, not so good with practical science, even though he understands the theory. Loves music; loves theatre; loves all the artistic disciplines to the eternal detriment of all the practical ones.

Having read those reports, semester after semester, year after year had a profound effect on me. Any self loathing or disappointment that I had ever had for myself was, to a very large extent, self defeating. As surprising as it may be, today, as I sit here, I am pretty much the person that my grades kindergarten through grade six teachers originally had pegged me to be.

How fucked up is that.

But it has been a very liberating experience. Flagellating myself for ideals that would always and forever be outside my ability to reach are well and truly dead.

That I am a flawed human being has never escaped me. Hell, it has never even bothered me. To think of one self perfect and pristine is the worst kind of “sin”.

To my eternal shame I have managed over the past year to loose track of certain people who, always were well and truly worthy of being deemed friends. Stef, I love you my friend. Congrats to you and Christina on the birth of your first born. I know and truly appreciate what that must mean to you after all your trials and tribulations.

Depression is real, and it is as debilitating as any virulent disease, if not quite as terminal as some. Fortunately I managed to avoid the razor blades.

I'm not sure if my head has broken the surface yet, but I can certainly see the light.

And for today, that is just fine.

My first book. I am very proud of this work and have received a number of good reviews. Witness;

This is one of those rare books that can take the reader through memory lane at the same time as treating them to wonderful new experiences. The story is excellent; very well written, with a good mix of the narrative and dialogue between some very good characters, whilst managing to sound both informal and intelligent.
Stephen writes so naturally and fluently; he easily changes mood and pace, his humour shines through and lightens the darker moments, but not in a way that is detrimental to the poignant moment. Very well done indeed.

- Mark - Angel Editing

Reading this book brought back fond memories of my own teenage years. The days when the freedom of having too much time on your hands was a way of life, and all the trouble that can lead to. The story of a life centered on a love of music, with all the friendships and life lessons one learns along the way.

- Steve Barrett

A truly thought provoking book for anyone who came of age in the 1970's. It brought back many memories of people & events in my own life, that I hadn't thought about for many years. A worth while read.

- Rob Patterson

What a fantastic read! A real page turner. I couldn't help remembering all the special times way back when while reading this book! Thank you, Mr. Greenaway, for one of the best 24 hours I have had between the pages of a book!

Hope there is a sequel!!!!!

- Marj Barton

What a great read. I thoughly enjoyed the entire book, and found myself recalling some of my earlier years and experiences. Great job, can't wait for the next book.

- Burt Bogue

Wonerful praise to be sure... and believe me when I tell you I am thrilled with all of it. I tried to write a book that I myself enjoyed, and it seems I was able to find kindred spirits.

Here is a breif synopsis:

What happens when a young man from a middle class family is introduced to the world of sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll? If you came of age in the 70's then you may well have lived a similar childhood. If you didn't then consider this an archeological remnant from the past. Where do love and sex collide? When do the drugs stop mattering quite as much? And Rock 'n' Roll. When should that cease to matter? Follow the exploits of Stephen, a young man coming of age in a small bedroom community for a large North American city. Then... imagine if you had access to most everything your teenage lust might desire...

If you would like to read a sample, here is the first chapter:

Chapter 1: Editor’s pick for disease of the month: The Bubonic Plague

You know that you are living the rock and roll lifestyle when someone offers a small block of hashish to you as payment for services rendered… and you accept it.

---------------------------------------------

The residents of Wiarton had two oddities descend upon them that weekend when The Hash Puppies pulled into town; a rock and roll band and a stripper. Now for those of you who have never been to Wiarton, it is a small sleepy burg which clings to the shores of Colpoy’s Bay inlet on Georgian Bay in Northern Ontario whose main claim to fame is Wiarton Willie. That’s the Canadian equivalent to Punxsutawney Phil. You know, that mangy rat that comes out of the earth every spring only to turn tail and disappear back into his hole leaving us with another eight weeks of winter.

The weekend started out inauspiciously enough with yours truly picking up the lead guitarist / vocalist and his girlfriend in my old metallic blue Datsun B210 hatchback. Eric and Christie; Christie and Eric; soon to be husband and wife; but I’ll get to that. Soon to be ex-husband and wife; but I’ll get to that as well.

Eric was a handsome specimen of masculinity… with a very androgynous persona. He was mid height, call it 5 foot 8. Curly black hair, wiry physique, well toned muscles… and a completely infectious grin. Man he was a goof, but a completely loveable goof. And man, could he play that guitar. He was always in great shape; despite the fact that his lifestyle dictated he should have no reason to be so.

On the other hand Christie, or Chris as her friends called her, was kind of stocky, red haired (which probably should have told Eric something) and completely manic, with breasts that could have seen a boy right the way through puberty. She was a mass of contradictions. One minute a real party animal and the next a complete party pooper. Sort of made your head spin to try and keep up. I never knew how she and Eric met. One day he just sort of showed up with her in tow.

“You know where we are going, right?”

“Relax Stephen” says Eric to me. “He’s so serious” says Eric to Chris.

“Eric, I need to know where we are fucking going!!”

“Here, let me spark up a doob…”

In those days, that made everything right. Now I am older and wiser. I know that it really doesn’t make everything right. But I’ll be damned if it doesn’t give you that illusion…

Needless to say we got lost. Not badly so. Not irreparably so. But lost is lost, especially when the band is due to be on stage at 9:00 PM, it is currently 8:00 PM and you have just got your bearings enough to realize that you are still two hours away from where you need to be one hour hence.

So what do you do? Why smoke some more dope of course. Didn’t get us any closer to our destination, but…

By this time my poor old Datsun was starting to make peculiar noises. You know, very un-car like noises. Ugly noises. Noises one can imagine a badly winded pony might make while carrying a pre-weight loss Richard Simmons up an extraordinarily steep hill. Death rattle sort of noises.

Well, two hours turned out to be closer to two and a half by the time we pulled into the parking lot of the Churchill hotel only to find a man standing nearby taking a leak on the front tire of an old grey beater Chevy pickup truck. Eric grabbed his overnight bag and guitar case, I grabbed my duffel and the amplifier and Christie grabbed the dope. Let me just say at this point that pot sort of messes with your sense of time. The fact that we might have just made a group of customers wait an hour and a half didn’t really perturb us too much. I mean, we did get there and we would just play later to make good. No biggie. And besides, the Stones, in their heyday, would sometimes make their audience wait upwards of four hours before they would take the stage. And they were already in the fucking building. It’s all good. All’s fair in rock ‘n’ roll.

When we walked in through the back door of the place we were suddenly forced to re-think our initial assessment of the situation…

Did I mention that the entertainment prospects in Wiarton were somewhat limited? As we would learn over the course of the weekend there were three bars in the town and three local acts (who played two types of music… country AND western) that rotated around those three bars on a weekly basis. New talent was somewhat of a rarity and, apparently, warranted considerable attention.

As such, when we came through the stage door we were confronted with the not to inconsiderable sight of eighty or so people, evenly split between Indians from the nearby reservation and Satan’s Choice from the local chapter. Many of the Choice wore a red bandana, which means they had either gone down on their old lady while she was on the rag or they had killed someone. Either way, I didn’t want to get on their bad side.

The whole assorted lot of them was pretty tanked by this point, not to mention pretty belligerent. Fortunately Ian and Roger had been there for quite some time and had all the gear set up, save Eric’s guitar amp. At least they hadn’t waited until Eric had shown up to break out their kit.

“Where the fuck have you been?!?!”

Ian, The Hash Puppies drummer; was a big blonde bear of a man who was usually quite loveable. That is, except when the coke was coursing through his veins and he was starting to peak. Starting to peak while not on stage yet; that just boiled down to bad timing.

Rock music and pharmaceuticals walk a very fine line together. Take a drug to soon, peak too early and give a sluggish performance. Take a drug to late, peak later than you intended and give a tentative performance. At this point Ian was pretty much drum solo intensity and he hadn’t even laid stick to skin yet.

“Right… all set” said Eric, completely non-plussed by Ian’s obvious disconcertion… “Let’s rock and roll”.

Roger, The Hash Puppies bass player was Bill Wyman incarnate. Black hair, new wave meets punk look; frenetically laid back. “Let’s play some tunes”.

Eric, Ian and Roger took their places on stage. I took mine behind the light mixer; Christie found Roger’s brother, Alan, in the crowd and ordered a drink.

This was rock and roll, folks.

The lights went down and the crowd was waiting like a pack of hungry wolves sensing that you only have another click or two left in you before you succumb to the cold. A final snort, the drumsticks rise before beating out a tattoo on the snare drum. The lights blaze, the guitar roars…

“Been a long time since I’ve rock and rolled, woman…”

The lights pulsed. The band was rocking. My back was to the crowd. Did I mention that the crowd was fairly belligerent?

Rock and Roll ended and the crowd responded with a guttural sound presaging a kind of anticipation. Whether this was of a good time to come or the prospect of disemboweling the hapless newcomers wasn’t quite clear.

Next up was J. J. Cale’s great song made classic by none other than god himself.

“She don’t lie, she don’t lie, she don’t lie… Cocaine.”

Listening to a band rehearse is a rare treat, especially when they are good and you love the music that they play. But watching a band play the music that they love live is taking it to a completely different level. The band was definitely on that night.

After Cocaine the crowd became a little bit more focused in their enthusiasm.

“Play War Pigs”

“Play Paranoid”

“Play Dazed and Confused”

The band swung into Roger’s first vocal excursion of the evening; Suffragette City by Bowie.

I hazarded a glance behind me. Drinks were flowing; bottles were taping in time to the music. Smiles were starting to appear. The vibe that had started out so ominously was now turning a corner. The band could feel it. The music was re-invigorated. Ian was peaking. Madison Square Garden was beckoning.

The response was gratifying after Roger’s tune finished. The requests started up again.

I had to smile. At a time when the best you could hear at most bars was lackadaisical covers of top 40 tripe, this crowd was calling for all the stuff that was The Hash Puppies stock in trade. Eric called Roger over to the drum riser and a brief discussion that I could imagine as readily as if I had been on stage with them ensued.

“Waddya think” asked Eric.

“What the fuck” replied Ian and Roger.

And just like that the set list became an all request evening. To their credit they never missed a one. Once the Choice realized these skinny white guys knew Zeppelin, Sabbath and the Stones like the back of their hand, everything for the rest of the weekend fell right into place. The band had won them over.

At one point during War Pigs a heavy hand fell on my shoulder. The lights on stage went dark for a moment until I regained my composure. When I turned to see who the hand belonged to I was confronted by this big mother fucking mountain of a man done up in Satan’s Choice regalia; including the red bandana. He wasn’t smiling. I could almost read my obituary.

“You guys are fucking awesome… whadyaalldrinking…”

It was hardly the legendary Stones Touring Party of 1972 but it was still pretty sweet. For the rest of the weekend we were well taken care of.

If you would like to buy a copy, you can do so at the following spots:

http://www.lulu.com/content/2593662
http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewwork.asp?id=28497

Or let me know personally... I always have copies on hand and can even personalize / sign them for you.

So You Want To Photograph Concerts, Do You?

Step into my darkroom said the spider to the fly.

Is there anything in this life quite as satisfying as being able to photograph your favorite act live in concert? Well, I suppose there is sex... so, is there anything in this life quite as satisfying as sex and being able to photograph your favorite act live in concert? True, I imagine being rich could be pretty satisfying. So, is there anything in this life quite as satisfying as sex, being rich and photographing your favorite act live in concert?

Fine, being rich and having sex while photographing your favorite act live in concert then.

This isn't going quite the way I imagined it would.

Let's just say, for sake of argument, that there is nothing more satisfying in this life as photographing your favorite act live in concert.

The Cameras the Thing

Back in the day it was easy to photograph your favorite act. Just pack up your handy dandy gadget bag, procure a ticket to the show, stock up on film and get yourself to the gig. Intoxicants optional. So long as you weren't trying to smuggle anything into the concert in your gadget bag you were good to go.

These days it has become more difficult, but not impossible to bring a camera to a show. If you try to waltz in with a professional looking camera (read SLR either 35mm or digital) then you had best have a photo pass. But with the proliferation of cell phone cameras the rules have become a little more lax. While disposable cameras and point and shoot digital cameras are technically still not allowed, secutrity at most venues will turn a blind eye if you try to bring one in. Their only other option is to confiscate a shit load of digital camera equipped cell phones.

So now you have managed to get your camera into the concert. What now. Several things come into the equation. Some of these are under your control, some of them not so much so.

ISO That A Tripod In Your Pocket Or Are You Just Happy To See Me?

I'm not going to get into the details of ISO other than to say it is a universal designation for a film's sensitivity to light. If you are real old school then you may remember it as ASA. While the designation originally applied to film there is an ISO setting on most digital cameras, approximating in the digital domain the camera's sensitivity to light.

The higher the ISO the less light you require to capture an image. But there's a trade off, both in the film and digital realm. The higher the ISO the grainier the image will be. Degrees of detail is sacrificed in exchange for capturing the image.

I suggest a minimum of 400 ISO, shot with the lens wide open (using the smallest f-stop you can). Unless you have a spot metre I don't suggest, under any circustances, that you attempt to use your light metre. That way disaster lays. The very first concert which I shot with a 35mm SLR was the Tubes at Maple Leaf Gardens in 1978. I didn't know any better so I let my light metre dictate shutter speed and aperature.

Some of the shots turned out alright. Some of them actually took on slightly sureal blurring flourishes which I could not have planned for. But if the light was in the slightest bit dodgy at all on stage then the pictures just plain didn't come out. The problem is that while the person you are shooting maybe sufficiently lit there may be a whole wack of black in the image which throws any light metre worth its salt to hell and gone. In this picture, if I had let the old light metre walk this way then Joe Perry's jacket would have been a white lit pale pink instead of the yellow lit red that wound up in the picture. The background would have been grey and any details in the fans would have been washed out.

Google 18% grey to read a little more about what it is that your light metre would have you do with every single photograph that you take.

So, you give the light metre a pass for concert photography.

What about your flash you ask? Blasphemer; Get thee behind me Satan!

Alright, let me be a little bit more objective. If you are close enough to the stage to take a great photograph and you use your flash what you will wind up with is a stark, contrasty image of your guitar hero, with none of the spectacular lighting effects which many bands spend scads of your hard earned money on. Flash photography is generally frowned upon and if you persist in taking alot of flash photographs you will draw security to you like you had walked into a dog kennel wearing Milk Bone underwear.

If you are no where near the stage then you will get an over exposed view of the first few rows directly infront of you and, if you are lucky, a welll it distant view of the stage.

So ditch the flash, you'll thank me in the morning.

That Dot Is Mick Jagger And That Dot Is Keef

While proximity to the stage is a real big plus it should in no way stop you from bringing your camera along if you are sat further back. .With the lighting and rear projection screens that so many acts use in their show these days, there is oppertunity a plenty to grab some very cool shots from a distance. There is a definate trade off; there are pictures taken close to the stage that you just can't capture from the back of the stadium. So to are there images you can get from the back of the stadium that you just can't hope to get close up.

One is not necessarily better than the other. Just different.

Let's Not Forget Why We're All Here In The First Place

The music, right. Let the music act as a guide to your pictures. Most bands are there to put on some kind of show as well as play you their music. Theatrical bands like Alice Cooper and The Tubes on one end of the spectrum with comparatively static bands like Pink Floyd and Genesis on the other. I'd rather shoot Cooper and The Tubes up close since both of these bands have a very active and theatrical front man. I'd be just as happy to shoot The Floyd and Genesis from a bit further back, due in no small fact that their theatricality comes more from the lights and rear projection screens.

Then there is everything act in between. The Rolling Stones who combind spectacular lighting with a lively cast of characters and one of rocks preiminent front men. Aersomith with the dynamic duo of Steven Tyler and Joe Perry providing the visual flash amidst the blazing lights.

Each and every act has it's strengths and weaknesses. Each and every act has it's merits as a photographic subject.

Dramatic musical passages will usually come with dramatic lighting, effects or onstage tableaus. Wait for it and be ready to click the shutter; you may wind up with nothing or you may catch Gowan mid leap from his keyboard, or a string of flash pods going off across the stage. These moments are over and done before you know it, so if you aren't anticipating them and ready, you will miss them.

While you can spend a good amount of your time watching a concert through your view finder the images you can capture with the right set up and a little patience will satisfy you over and over again.

Above all, have fun; enjoy yourself. This is a live concert after all.

There is very little which a little bit of studio finagling can’t fix.

If you are into this kind of thing I highly recommend The Garden Tapes, a stellar website which get’s into pain staking detail about all of Led Zeppelin’s legitimately released live albums and how they are often Franken-Zeppelin efforts of meticulously pieced together performance montages. When introducing his dissertation on “How the West Was Won” Eddie Edwards, the author The Garden Tapes sites a then current interview with Jimmy Page where the interviewer asked Page why he had combined two concerts as he had for this release rather than just releasing one complete concert. “Presumably it was so that he could choose the best parts from each night? ‘No,’ he replied with uncharacteristic candor, ‘it was just to give that Garden Tapes bloke something to do.’

Classic live albums like “Get Your Ya Yas Out” and “Live At Leeds” have not escaped this malaise. While they are held up as quintessential representations of everything that a live album should aspire to be they themselves have not managed to escape a certain degree of studio wizardry.

Does this diminish their stature? Does this make them any less than the classic albums which they are? Not from where I sit.

But once you have graduated, once you have found yourself looking for the proverbial ‘more”, then, my friend, you are ready for the wonderful world of bootlegs. Recordings of Illicit Origin. The Great White Wonder.

Check out the following excerpt from my book "Not Only Am I With The Band..." for more on this subject.

Step into my parlor said the bootlegger to the fly
So many things in life are affected by where you are at any particular point in time. As an example, I met my future wife because of seaweed. Really. Doesn’t sound to romantic, does it? Romance is attributed to most things based upon any number of external forces. I mean, why are roses considered romantic? Of and by themselves they are just flowers. Very nice flowers I will grant you but not inherently romantic.

A woman may consider roses as romantic because the receiving of beautiful gifts makes her feel more beautiful herself. Also, roses are usually used in combination with a nice candle light dinner, again, not inherently romantic.

Guys find roses romantic because the giving of them usually leads to sex.

All the romantic guys are now saying “speak for yourself” and my wife is saying “hope you weren’t planning on seeing any of that sex for the foreseeable future.” What I can say in my defense is this. I am a romantic. Honestly I am. It’s just that I tend to look for the humorous, ironic and absurd in almost everything that I see. I just usually don’t express these observations out loud.

In my minds eye my face has been slapped a thousand times.

Yet I still cannot look at seaweed without thinking of when my wife and I first met. Maybe I’ll tell you that tale one of these days. Maybe if you keep on reading…

Now, where was I? Seaweed.. slap in the face… roses…. Romance… right place, right time… Elton John… oh right, Elton John.

My trek to find and acquire all music Elton lead me to start frequenting a record store located at the Oshawa Centre called Symphonette. Symphonette was situated on the upper level of the mall near Sears back in the days when the mall used to stretch from Sears at one end all the way to the Golden Griddle and bowling alley at the other.

By and large the people who used to work at Symphonette were one dimensional drones, there because they had to be, with no real passion for that which they sold; at least none that I could ever detect. One day I was in line waiting to make a purchase. The guy in front of me already had a red bag which obviously contained a record. He also seemed to know the guy behind the counter because he was spending one hell of a long time talking to him.

So, while waiting for them to finish whatever pressing business they had with each other I turned my attention to the red bag lying on the counter. You could almost make out what was behind that thin red veneer. Just when I thought I could suss out the title (something about “Strange Rain”) he snatched it up and mentioned the two words that were always guaranteed to get my attention in those days.

“I just picked up this Elton John boot” he said, withdrawing the record from its hiding place.

I was suddenly all ears and eyes. The album was a two tone job, blue-green and white. It showed an image of Elton John wearing some weird looking head gear and outrageous glasses. The title of the album was “Just Like Strange Rain”.

“Where did you get that????” I blurted.

“Go away kid,” snarled Mr. tall dark and pimply behind the counter.

“No, no. I really want to know. I love Elton John and thought I had all of his records. But I’ve never seen this record before.”

The owner of the record slid it along the counter to me. I snatched it up greedily.

Elton John – Just Like Strange Rain. Recorded live at the Hammersmith Odeon in London England on 12/24/1974. The record label was a company called “The Amazing Kornyphone Record Label. TAKRL for short.

Holy shit!! Where had this come from?

Imagine that you are a collector of fine art. You love Leonardo Da Vinci. You think that you were aware of everything that the master ever produced. Then suddenly, one day, you are made aware of a completely and hitherto fore unknown work. What do you do? What questions can you articulate? So many questions; so little time.

I split the difference and cut right to the chase.

“Where did you get this?”

I didn’t care what it was; I just knew that it was something I had never seen before, apparently recorded by an artist that I was currently enjoying a very intimate aural relationship with.

After an interminable period of time I got the information that I was after. Apparently the record was something called a “bootleg”. If I really wanted one I would have to go to a previously unheard of record shop called “Moonglow Records”.

“Ask for Marty” said Mr. Stridex pads.

“Thanks” I said, turning to go.

“And kid” this from the owner of the record.

I stopped and turned to face him.

“You won’t find this record in the Elton John section.”

I stared at him. Where was I to find it then?

“These aren’t like regular records” offered Acne central.

“Tell Marty that Jeff sent you.”

Jeff… right you are then…

That was all they would say, so I thanked them and fled Symphonette as if my life depended upon it. My initial urge was to charge downtown Oshawa and try to ferret out Moonglow Records that very instant. Yet there was something in their words and tone of voice that spoke of danger. Baby steps were required here; baby steps and a back up.

Cowardice being the better part of valour I decided to wait until the next day and enlist someone from the neighborhood to join me.

So next morning came around and the only person I could find to accompany me was Mike. With some effort I talked him into joining me on my quest. I tried to emphasize the implied danger and play down the fact that the root cause of this danger was a record. On the way downtown I filled him in more fully on what had transpired the previous afternoon. That these records were contraband was pretty evident. I had no idea how “Marty” would react to some kid walking into his store and asking to see some illegal merchandise.

We decided that Mike would wait outside the store for five minutes after I went in before entering. Then, if I was in trouble, he could quickly exit and fetch the local constabulary.

With our plan in place I screwed up my courage and entered the store.

Moonglow Records was a dimly lit narrow hole in the wall. No more than 20 foot wide by about 60 foot deep, it’s one aisle was lined down each side with record bins. Posters and additional record display racks fought it out for possession of the very walls themselves. As my eyes grew accustomed to the lighting I noticed that I wasn’t the lone customer in the store; two others listlessly flipped through albums near the back. Just inside the entrance was a counter flanked by a huge hand made display rack on the wall. Standing behind the counter was a stocky man with thinning black hair. I stood my ground as he spoke on the phone.

“… you can pick it up tomorrow afternoon. I have to go into Toronto so I can snag it for you tonight… yeah.. don’t worry, you’ll love this group… O.k. see you then…”

Hanging up the phone he turned his gaze to me.

“Can I help you?”

I swallowed dryly and ventured “I’m looking for Marty”

The man smiled and closed his eyes when he spoke.

“I’m Marty,” he chuckled, “what can I do for you?”

“I’d like to pick up the new live Elton John album.” I wished I could have remembered the title but the name escaped me.

Marty started to walk out from behind the counter and proceed down into the depths of the store. My heart swelled. Could it have been that easy? Near the back of the store Marty stopped in front of one of the bins on the left hand side. When I caught up with him I realized that he was standing by the Elton John section.

“You won’t find this in the Elton John section…”

My heart sank. Screwing up my courage one more notch I tried again.

“No… I’d like to see the new live Elton John album.”

Marty started flipping through the albums.

“Yeah 11-17-70. It’s not new but it is his only live album… and I’m afraid we’re all out of it. I could order it for you.”

“The record I’m looking for isn’t in the Elton John section…” I ventured, while wondering what this 11-17-70 album was.

Marty looked at me, with a baleful look, one that I would come to know only to well and said nothing.

“It’s a special album…”

“Special, eh?”

“Yeah, a special LIVE album by Elton John. “

I said this quietly so as to not attract the attention of the other patrons in the store.

Marty eyed me suspiciously. You know the look you get when you are loosing someone; bordering very much on the “whatever” vibe. Problem was that Marty was regarding me, very much on the “who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you blabbering on about” vibe.

I could picture myself beaten to a pulp, lying crumpled in a heap in some dark Oshawa alleyway.

In desperation I blurted out “Jeff sent me!!!!”

The gathering clouds receded from Martys face.

“Oh,” he said in understanding. “You mean the bootlegs!”

I recoiled, glancing furtively around trying to gauge what impact this pronouncement had made on the others. Where was my back up? Hadn’t it been five minutes yet? I needn’t have worried. The other patrons in the store continued flipping threw the bins, lost in their own little worlds. When I turned my attention back to Marty he was just disappearing behind the curtained opening of a doorway at the back of the store.

Should I follow? Was he going to get a gun? What should I do? Just as I made up my mind to follow him, he re-emerged clutching not one but two albums in his hand.

“Are these the ones you are looking for?” asked Marty as he passed them to me.

I didn’t recognize the first one. On its cover was a red and white picture of Elton John; he was wearing some weird looking costume or another. All Across the Havens was the title. It too was recorded live at the Hammersmith Odeon in London England on December 24, 1974. This was the same place and date as the other record but it had different songs. I quickly flipped to the second LP.

This was the one I had come for. Just Like Strange Rain.

Marty quickly explained.

“These two are from the same show; part one and part two if you will.

“I’ll take them both… how much are they?”

He smiled as he walked past me.

“Let’s go back up to the counter.”

As we approached the front of the store Mike came tentatively through the door. When he saw me walking towards him under my own steam he seemed to relax.

So I bought the two LP’s, raced home, slapped them on my turntable and proceeded to play them both over and over and over again. While I had seen a few concerts by this point I really wasn’t that familiar with the studio versions of the songs that were played. For the first time I was listening to live versions of songs that I was all too familiar with in all their studio finery; the experience was nothing short of a revelation.

Some songs were played faster, more frenetically, obviously picking up on the energy of playing before a live audience. Other songs sounded close to their studio incarnations, with various instruments up higher in the mix. Some vocals were done straight up, others placed emphasis on different lines, different words. Yet others were extended in length well beyond their vinyl constraints.

I was to find out through trial and error, that bootlegs were not always of the highest sonic quality. That’s not to say that the two discs I bought sounded bad; on the contrary. They both sounded amazing. Maybe that was part of the problem. If the sound quality had sucked my whole life might have turned out differently. But they didn’t and neither did it; the records and my life that is.

And that ladies and gentlemen was how I bought my first bootlegs.

We interrupt this tale for a sermon regarding bootlegs, counterfeit and pirated recordings.

Hot Wacks and the Great White Wonder

A pirated recording is a recording of officially released material dolled up to look like new product and released by someone who does not hold the copyrights to the material.

A counterfeit recording is an exact copy of officially released material in the same album sleeve and trimmings with absolutely no effort made to distinguish it from the officially released album. Much like those bogus Rolexes you can buy in Tijuana and Nogales.

A bootleg record is made up of live recordings, studio outtakes and demos, none of which have officially seen the light of day.

The Recording Industry Association of America, RIAA for short, lumps all three of these items into the same illegal milieu. I am in complete agreement with their view on the first two. Pirates and counterfeiters are ripping me, the consumer, off. That’s just wrong. If I am going to buy material released by my favorite artist then I am going to buy it from a legitimate source. The quality is just better, the artist gets credit for their work and the record company will continue to release their material. Profits from recordings also go towards the discovery of new acts.

Pirates and counterfeiters should be shot and pissed on, not necessarily in that order. At the very least they should have their executive washroom privileges revoked.

Bootleggers, on the other hand, are filling a demand for additional product that would not otherwise be available; this at the very least.

At their best, bootlegs capture moments in time that would be lost and gone forever if not preserved on tape. Many cultures throughout history have strived to preserve their accomplishments for posterity sake; even back when the word posterity did not exist. Think about it… why invent an alphabet if not to record words, thoughts and deeds so that future generations may gaze upon your nuggets of wisdom with rapt adoration. I look at recorded music as a historical time line of events and accomplishments. The record companies are responsible for releasing the major highlights that anyone of us would want to be remembered for, on behalf of their clients.

Only problem is, for many artists that represents only a part of the tale. In the same way that diaries and personal accounts flesh out any period in history, so too bootlegs flesh out the history of a recording artist. High points and low points unflinchingly captured for all to hear. When an artist is out on tour, night after night, each performance is not necessarily exactly the same; even if they play the same songs each night, eschewing the practice of switching certain tunes in and out of the set list in an attempt to keep things fresh. The guitar player could be having a particularly good night ripping off blistering solos and imbuing the proceedings with a certain magic. Or, the singer might be under the weather and, in an effort to prop up their band mate, the rest of the band rally round and give a truly spectacular performance. Or moments that are just out of the ordinary.

Jeff Beck’s musical turn on Jean Genie / Love Me Do and Around and Around during Bowie’s infamous Ziggy Stardust retirement gig at the Hammersmith Odeon in 1973 exists no where else save for on bootleg.

Mick Taylor joining his old band mates The Rolling Stones to play the entire show at Arrowhead Stadium in Kansas City on their 1981 tour of the Americas. You won’t find that filed under R for Rolling Stones.

Another sidebar here; it’s the whole issue of filing music. Elton John is a proper name. His records should be filled under J for John, Elton. The Rolling Stones should be filled under… no, no, not T for The. When filing an artist words like “The” and “A” are silent. You drop them before you file them. The Rolling Stones would be filed under R for Rolling Stones, The.

Jethro Tull? It’s a trick question. Even though Jethro Tull was an actual person he does not now, nor has he ever, played in the band. As a matter of fact Jethro Tull the person died in 1741. It is doubtful that he ever heard Aqualung or any of the other songs recorded by his namesake. Since Jethro Tull is not the name of anyone in the band you would file it under J for Jethro Tull. Same way you would file Lynyrd Skynyrd under L for Lynyrd Skynyrd.

George Thorogood and the Destroyers? Under T for Thorogood. As in Thorogood and the Destroyers, George.

This explains why you might go into your favorite record store from time to time and not be able to find your favorite artist. Don’t give up. After you have checked the right place for them to be filed try to imagine that you are illiterate. Where might you file them if you just don’t have a clue? Odds are you will find them there.

Right, back to out of the ordinary moments in music; you have the cases of a final performance of a beloved member of a band before they leave, or in really bad cases, die.

The late great Bon Scott’s final gig with his beloved AC/DC in France before his untimely death is captured on bootleg to enjoy over and over. As is Freddie Mercury’s final live gig with Queen at the Knebworth Festival, Stevenage, North Hertfordshire, England in 1986.

This more than anything in the transient world of rock and roll highlights the historical service which bootlegs provide. Capturing an artist’s or bands last shows… talk about priceless. John Bonham’s final performance as the power behind the mighty Led Zeppelin at Berlin’s Eissporthalle on July 7th, 1980; I could sit here and rhyme them off all day long; Stevie Ray Vaughn, Buddy Holly, Brad Delp, lions and tigers and bears (oh my).

Bootlegs come from many different sources. Everything from FM radio broadcasts, line recordings from the soundboard right the way down to the lone taper who sneaks his tape / MD / DAT decks into a concert and presses record.

Obviously, quality varies from source to source. Some albums are as good if not better than most live recordings legitimately released. Others not so much so; a boot of Deep Purple live titled “Glutton For Punishment” for example, sounded as though someone took their younger brothers first portable tape recorder into a concert hall and sat as far away from the stage as was humanly possible. Maybe even as far away as the parking lot.

It was a case of crowd with barely audible backing group. Hot Wacks, the bootleg bible, listed their review of “Glutton For Punishment” as “Piss poor, worst bootleg ever”.

No really, don’t hold back. What do you really think of it?

Needless to say I quickly introduced Jeff to the wonderful world of illicit live recordings. When a copy of Glutton became available Jeff, a huge Deep Purple fan, snapped it up. All so we could experience exactly how poor piss poor really was.

It was pretty poor. I think Hot Wacks succinct review hit the nail squarely on the proverbial head.

We ended up playing Frisbee with it, it the parking lot of the Oshawa Centre. Seeing as vinyl records could be used as lethal weapons we were lucky not to loose an appendage or vital organ. On one throw the record arced high into the sky before slicing it’s way back down to embed itself two thirds of it’s circumference into a flower garden.

I gotta tell you though; when it hit a solid brick wall… it blew up real good.

The biggest kick for me with bootlegs was the ability to relive a live performance over and over again. In all of it’s ragged glory; especially if it was a recording of a concert that I had actually attended. Many official live recordings just don’t hold a candle. They are edited, incomplete recordings. Or worse; they have been “sweetened” with studio overdubs correcting a bum note here or a missed cue there. Even records like the much vaunted “Get Your Ya Yas Out” by The Rolling Stones, considered by many to be one of the greatest live albums ever has been tainted by studio overdubs. Stones aficionados point to the bootleg “LIVEr Than You’ll Ever Be”, a show recorded in Oakland California as the quintessential document of the 1969 tour. It is an excellent sounding audience recording that was released in December of 1969, just over a month after its November 9th 2nd show recording.

As a matter of fact, “Get Your Ya Yas Out” was released by the Stones record company in large part as an answer to the release of “LIVEr”.

And that’s not the first time a bootleg has forced a studio into releasing a legitimate live product. Elton John’s live album 11-17-70 (titled 17-11-70 in Great Britain) was released as a direct result of bootleggers recording and releasing a live broadcast by Elton from New York radio station WABC.

Even the grandfather of rock bootlegs, Bob Dylan’s “Great White Wonder”, released on the Trade Mark of Quality label, had an impact on a major label. In the early days, bootleg vinyl came in plain white record sleeves with either a paper insert or a rubber stamp to identify the disc. GWW is widely recognized as THE first rock bootleg. It contained studio outtakes of songs by Dylan that had been recorded in his basement with his then current band (who were soon to leave Dylan and go on to become The Band).

So popular was this record that some legitimate record stores mistook it for an import and actually started stocking it.

Dylan’s record studio recognized a buck to made when they saw one and subsequently released the double LP “The Basement Tapes”.

True story; you can look it up.

One final argument that the RIAA uses against bootlegs goes something like this:
“People who buy bootleg recordings won’t necessarily buy the artist’s officially released material thereby denying them their due recompense.”

Or

“People who buy bootleg recordings of an inferior sound quality might hold the group erroneously responsible for the sub standard product.”

Let me say this about that. It has been my experience that people who buy bootlegs probably own every other officially released recording that they would be likely to have bought already. They are looking for the ever elusive “more”.

And in some cases the process works in reverse. Remember my first exposure to Queen in Kirk’s cannabis suffused lair? The next time I heard Queen was when Jeff brought his latest bootleg acquisition to my place to give it a spin. It was an album called “Command Performance” on The Amazing Kornyphone Recording Label.

“It was recorded at the Hammersmith Odeon in London around last Christmas.”

“Cool”

I remember the name Queen, as it applied the band, rang a bell. By the time the strains of the first song came throbbing out of my speakers I had made the connection.

“I know this song,” I blurted.

How could I not. It was one of the songs that Kirk had played for me after the Bowery Boys had left his basement to go and check out the myriad changes the mall had undergone since the previous day. It was off of their album Sheer something or another and it was called… it was called… Now… I’m…

“Here!” I cried triumphantly.

And it was. “Now I’m Here” the opening track from Queen’s third album “Sheer Heart Attack”.

Why do I bring all this up now? Well, just to say that the first Queen album that I ever owned was, in fact, a bootleg. That particular bootleg to be specific because, once we were through listening to it, I forced Jeff to travel right back down to Moonglow Records so that I might pick up my very own copy of it.

Now I own every single legitimate recording that Queen have released, including Brian and Roger’s more recent collaboration with Paul Rogers playing the role of Freddie Mercury. Not to mention an additional bootleg or 12.

So I can personally refute the RIAA’s assertions that buying bootleg records will take money out of an artist pocket. How, you might ask, do I know that I wouldn’t have caught on to Queen eventually of my own accord? Well, the answer there is… I don’t. This was, after all, right around the time that “Bohemian Rhapsody” was turning the Top 40 world on its very head. But that’s not how it happened. Bootlegs led me to buy into the artist’s catalogue; a trend that continues to this very day.

As I have mentioned sound quality on bootlegs can range from stunning to horrific, with many different aural shades in between. It is always wise to do some homework when buying them. With the advent of bootleg CDs it is possible to give a disc a listen to prior to purchasing. You need to determine your own personal tolerance as it relates to the minimum sound quality levels you will be able to live with. Just because bootlegs have the ability to capture historical performances doesn’t always guarantee that they will be the best quality. As with any illicit product the price is higher than its legitimate counterpart. And whatever you do, if you buy a bootleg and it is of substandard quality, do not, for heaven’s sake, blame the band. They had nothing whatsoever to do with its production, sound quality et al. The only thing a band is responsible for is their performance. Keep in mind too, like you and I, bands are not always at their best.

Most people who collect bootlegs know that the quality can vary wildly. Some will collect a performance solely on the merit of the historical significance, the rarity or for the sake of completeness, regardless of the sound quality. Others will only purchase excellent quality soundboards or radio broadcasts, forgoing some aspects of a performance to only gain quality. I tend to split the difference.

These people do not hold the band or the label liable. Except maybe to wonder why an exceptional performance has not be released officially.

Record companies just don’t like to see the profits going to anyone else….

End of sermon.

Can I get an “Amen”?

Ode to our Angie

Angie came into our life a few months after we lost our first cat, Pushkin. Technically, Angie came into our life after my wife Rhonda got tired of me moping about the house following Pushkin’s death and told me it was time to go to the Toronto Humane Society (now Toronto Animal Services) near us.

And wouldn’t you know it, one of the very first cats we saw was the splitting image of the recently departed Pushkin.

Well shit. Divine provenance or a test. Who can say. The potential Pushkin the second was in pretty rough shape fur wise; badly matted, dirty and none to friendly. But what the hell, he had just been brought in and was in no way shape or form comfortable with his surroundings.

So we waited…

The next day when we went in we found out that this cat had bit someone. Understandable since he had been caged, but not the type of animal we wanted to bring into our household.

We noticed a brother and sister, much younger than the old fella we had our eye on and were working ourselves up to them. As we were looking at the duo a lady from the Humane Society entered the room and saw us admiring the two young cats.

"You know, I'd take that black one in the corner there before I took those two."

Rhonda and I had glanced in at the black one the lady had indicated but found her near the back of her cage eating. When we had tried to engage her, she had basically ignored us and continued to eat.

Not very sociable, we thought.

"Don't let the fact she was at the back of her cage eating and paying no attention to you discourage you. She was an outdoor stray and, as such, makes the most of any food presented her."

So we turned our attentions more fully to the black creature from the lagoon.

And there she was, front and centre at her cage bars, arching her back and rubbing against the rungs, purring up a veritable storm.

"Can we take her out of the cage?"

This from Rhonda.

"By all means."

And thus the love affair began.


So what were we going to call her? Blackie? Ebony? Midnight? Inkspot? Too predictable. Too pat. We settled on Angie, named directly after the Rolling Stones song of the same name. Me being a complete and utter music freak and Rhonda being not to terribly far behind, it was a no brainer.

We took Angie to our vet, Dr Black, to have him check her out, make sure we weren't buying a lemon as it were.

Angie was a three year old when we got her. She immediately entered our household and made herself right at home; both in our home and, more importantly, in our hearts. While she may well have been an outdoor cat in her previous life she certainly wasn't going to be one in her new home. Save during the summer; Rhonda and I aquiesed and let her out during the summer months, but only when we were outside with her.

She immdiately found every single depression in the ground under all of our fences and easiliy breached their defenses. Once we had all of these plugged she would still wind up in our neighbours backyard immediately to the back of us. How? We have no idea. The thought that the Angie we knew and loved near the end of her days could actually make the six foot leap up a fence to make her way into their back yard is foreign to us... and yet she must have. I made enough trips to our neighbours backyard for to retrieve her to verify the fact that she still made it out of our yard.

At some point or another, Rhonda and I decided that Angie needed a sister. Yeah, I know, but we were so much younger then.

The introduction of Angie to her newly minted sister Jade went just about as well as you could have expected. That is, so long as you expected the ruling Queen of the household to completely reject the usurper, to completely ignore us and pout for a couple of weeks. If you expected that reaction then you most definately would not have been disappointed.

Since Angie was named after a Stones theme, it was only just that her sister should be as well. Thus Jade was named after Mick Jagger's daughter.

Whereas Angie had been three years old when she joined our household, Jade was but eight scant weeks of age. Angie, God love her, deferred almost completely to the baby. Food is ready? By all means eat your fill and I will take what is left. Affection is there to be had? By all means get your share. There is more than enough love to go round in this house.

And how did Jade repay Angie for her troubles? Why, the same way that any spoiled child will repay their senoirs. She tried to monopolize our affections at every oppertunity. She attacked Angie at every chance. In a nutshell, Jade took everything that Angie offered her and then some.

And yet, Angie very rarely complained. From time to time she would look at Rhonda and I as if to enquire "and you brought this imp into our family because...?"

We had no response for that other than we thought she might have appreciated some company.

The "Cat Dynamic" as I liked to refer to it was born.

Angie spent the rest of her life deferring to the baby. And Jade gladly accepted.

She left us, just as January turned to February. Close but not quite right to the day that we first brought Angie home. It was her liver, you see. Leukemia? Cancer? Who can say; we heard both. Only one thing mattered. Our beloved Angie was sick and she wasn't going to get any better. Oh sure, there was some treatment we might have affected, but when you are talking the possablity of sucess in terms of 5% maybe, MAYBE 10% then the question must become, why? Who are we really doing this for? Who is going to benefit from this decision which has been placed before us? Her or us?

Unlike so many pet owners Rhonda and I were afforeded the oppertunity to spend some time with our Angie before she shuffled off this mortal coil. Hell, unlike Rhonda and I with Pushkin who died on the opperating table. Angie, who had always been pushing the 12 to 13 pound mark and was now reduced to eight to nine pounds thanks to her illness. At 15 1/2 years old we both, painfully, decided that she had earned a pass on us force feeding her for two months on the off chance that she might get better.

She was quiet, in her cage, upper level extreme right when we saw her last. So weak she could barely lift her head. Yet when we picked her up she still had a purr to give us, a purr to say that everything was alright, a purr to say that she still loved us. A purr to say thank you? We can only hope.

After spending an hour with her, trying as best we could to comfort her we had to take our leave. We could force feed her for two months on the slim chance that it might do any kind of good. But what good would that do when put up against the "big C". We would have been deluding ourselves.

Rhonda, God love her, signed the papers that basically said we would not hold Dr Black liable for having her put to sleep.

The decision made we wanted to keep her collar for sentimentality sake. I went back up to see our Angie one last time. To save Rhonda from having to see her yet again, with the decision which we fully anticipated cast in stone to be sure.

Angie always hated to have a collar on. Hell, what animal ever likes a collar; a brand to be around their neck.

As I unhooked Angie's collar for the very last time I kissed her on the forehead and whispered in her ear;

"Only the most special girl's get to have their collars off."

And she was; and she still is a most special girl.

Angie helped Rhonda and I get past the loss of our first pet, Pushkin.

Angie helped our much loved Jade be the cat that she is.

Angie will always be loved and most truely missed.

Aerosmith - Devil's Got A New Disguise, The Very Best Of Aerosmith


Artist: Aerosmith

Label: Columbia

Release Dates:

Original: October 10, 2006
CD: October 10, 2006

Discs: 1

Aardvark's Rating:




How many greatest hits packages does any one band need? Well, if your name is Aerosmith then the answer to this question would be a whole whack. Let me see. In 1980 they released Aerosmith's Greatest Hits, not the most imaginative of titles but what the hell. 1988 saw the release of Gems, a collection of deeper cuts like Rats In The Cellar, No Surprize, Adam’s Apple and their ever welcome take on the old Yardbirds warhorse Train Kept A Rollin’. Then came the first of the Geffen era GH packages called Big Ones, released in 1994. 2001 saw Young Lust: The Aerosmith Anthology, another Geffen package which, this time, pulled together a few rarities like Love Me Two Times, Head First and the orchestral version of Amazing.

Next up came the career spanning O, Yeah! Ultimate Aerosmith Hits the result of Columbia and Geffen cutting through the legal red tape which comes with the division of royalties when you are talking about two competing companies trying to collaborate.

Throw in the re mastered and expanded Aerosmith - Greatest Hits 1973-88 in 1997 and I believe that brings the total up to six. Throw in any number of packages released in other countries and the number becomes even scarier. And, if you are the type to lump live albums in with Greatest Hits packages, you can tack another five onto the total.

So why another greatest hits package? Well... money, I suppose.

Don't get me wrong, Aerosmith have been through a hell of alot of shit this past year. First off, the band were forced to cancel the remainder of their Rockin' the Joint tour due to vocal problems that Steven Tyler was having; A trend whcih, sadly, had been becoming more and more the norm over the past number of tours.

Tyler had to go in for laser surgery on his throat, which necessitated him resting his voice for six weeks, a Hurculean task for someone as talkative as he is.

This would not have been the best of news at the best of times but, since the band were planning on working on a new album following the RTJ tour the timing just could not have been worse.

Next up, original bass player Tom Hamilton was diagnosed with throat cancer. The ensuining treatment has left him unable to tour with the band when they hit the road again for their co-headlining Route Of All Evil tour with Motley Crue this past fall.

So any plans to release a new album this year were pretty much DOA; shot down before they could really get started. But why release yet another greatest hits package instead? As I mentioned above, for the money, I suppose.

I was going to go into another little bit here about the merits of each indivdual song included herin. But then I thought "Why?" Each and every song on this disc, save two, are available elsewhere, most notably on the real career spanning O, Yeah! Ultimate Aerosmith Hits set.

Those two exceptions are a couple of new songs: Sedona Sunrise and the titular Devil's Got A New Disguise. Songs, I might add, which were originally slated to appear on the new album.

You see, the "new" album was to be made up primarily of reworked studio out takes, a practice not unheard of in the wonderfull world of rock and roll. Sedona Sunrise was originally a song demo'd for their album Pump from 1989 while Devil's Got A New Disguise was originally recorded for 1994's Get a Grip.

Both songs have been reworked from their original demo versions for release here.

Sedona is a song, not unlike their classic What It Takes and could very well have been a cross over hit on the new country stations with the right kind of promotion. Sadly, the studio seems to have missed that boat. But then again, what else is new for Aerosmith.

Devil's has the feel of a Love In An Elevator / Eat The Rich hybrid; an uptempo rocker with hooks you could rip your flesh on and a number of double entendres that Tyler has become famous for over the years ("If you see Kay, tell her I love her").

Neither of these songs are instantly great, but then again, how many songs truely are. I guess only time will tell if they become long standing staples in Aerosmith's set list a la Sweet Emotion and Walk This Way, or if they become relegated to the status of also rans. My gut tells me it will probably be the later.

Aerosmith are one of my favorite bands. Their musical cannon, while comparitively sparse for a band that has been around for as many years as they have is none the less strong (especially their first five albums). To get a true sense of who they are you need to see them live and see them in their natural habitat.

So, it is with a heavy heart that I give this recommendation.

If you are a long time fan this album is pretty much a non starter. Unless you are a completist (like I am) the two new songs may not be worth the investment. Rumours are running wild right now that these songs may well be included on the new album when it comes out, which will make this disc doubley redundent.

Even if you are new to Aerosmith there are far better discs to purchase. If you are only interested in one greatest hits package then go for O, Yeah! Ultimate Aerosmith Hits. It contains a fine sampling of their early Columbia days, their "comeback" days spent with Geffen and their later day Sony output.

But if you really want to get to know these bad boys from Boston, then why don't you just go out and buy each of their solo albums. I'd recommend starting with Toys in the Attic and Rocks from the early days, Permanent Vacation and Pump from their Geffen cannon and Nine Lives and Honkin' On Bobo from their Sony period.

In the end, I suppose it might make a good stocking stuffer. The music is all worthy; it's just been done any number of times before and in better configurations.

Disc One: Dream On / Mama Kin / Sweet Emotion / Back In The Saddle / Last Child / Walk This Way (Run DMC version) / Dude (Looks Like A Lady) / Rag Doll / Love In An Elevator / Janie’s Got A Gun / What It Takes / Crazy / Livin’ On The Edge / Cryin’ / I Don’t Want To Miss A Thing / Jaded / Sedona Sunrise / Devil’s Got A New Disguise

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow,
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, saw dawn, felt sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Doctor Major John McCrae, 1st Field Artillery Brigade May 3, 1915, Second battle of Ypres, Belgium

Any time that I read the words to Lieutenant Colonel McCrae’s oh so famous poem it has never failed to bring a tear to my eye. The thought that men and women who I have never met were and are willing to lay down their lives so that I might enjoy the kind of freedom that I do has never ceased to touch me in the most profound manner.

The poem was rescued from a trash heap when McCrae, not satisfied with the words that he had written, tossed it away. It was originally published in England’s “Punch” magazine in December of 1915.

The general impression in my mind is of a nightmare. We have been in the most bitter of fights. For seventeen days and seventeen nights none of us have had our clothes off, nor our boots even, except occasionally. In all that time while I was awake, gunfire and rifle fire never ceased for sixty seconds..... And behind it all was the constant background of the sights of the dead, the wounded, the maimed, and a terrible anxiety lest the line should give way.(Prescott. In Flanders Fields: The Story of John McCrae, p. 98)

Unless you have been there, how could any of us truly appreciate the horror that war brings.

McCrae himself didn’t survive the Great War, the war to end all wars. During the summer of 1917, he was troubled by severe asthma attacks and occasional bouts of bronchitis. He became very ill in January 1918 and diagnosed his condition as pneumonia. He was moved to Number 14 British General Hospital for Officers where he continued to grow weak.

On January 28, after an illness of five days, he died of pneumonia and meningitis. The day he fell ill, he learned he had been appointed consulting physician to the First British Army, the first Canadian so honoured.

John McCrae was buried with full military honours in Wimereux Cemetery, just north of Boulogne, not far from the fields of Flanders. Bonfire led the procession, McCrae's riding boots reversed in the stirrups. His death was met with great grief among his friends and contemporaries. A friend wrote of the funeral:

The day of the funeral was a beautiful spring day; none of us wore overcoats. You know the haze that comes over the hills at Wimereux. I felt so thankful that the poet of `In Flanders Fields' was lying out there in the bright sunshine in the open space he loved so well.... (Prescott. In Flanders Fields: The Story of John McCrae, p. 129)

For me, Remembrance Day has always found a focus in one person; Alexander Greenaway, Uncle Alec to me.

My uncle enlisted in the Irish Guard Armored Division in 1943 as a radio man. He saw action in France, The Netherlands and Germany during the Second World War. He landed on the continent on D-Day +6. He took part in Operation Market Garden, the failed Allied offensive of September 1944. If you’ve ever seen the movie A Bridge Too Far then you have a general idea of what happened.

He never spoke very often of his time in the military; at least not to me. But when he did I was rapt. I have always had an extremely healthy fascination with history. The how’s, why’s and wherefore’s of what has transpired.

A few anecdotes that my uncle proffered to me come to mind.

My uncle and a few others visited the grave of a fallen comrade buried in a small graveyard somewhere in France. While paying their respects a German barrage started up, shells falling all around them. Uncle Alec and his friends hit the deck and crawled on their bellies until they could get out of the open and take shelter.

“Afterwards,” he said, “I remember looking down at my uniform. There were little tufts of grass twisted around the buttons.”

Following the bombardment they made their way back to the barracks which were situated several kilometers up the road. On the way they were greeted by any number of newly liberated French families brandishing bottles of Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon.

“Tommy,” they cried, “Come, eat, drink.”

By the time they made it back to their billet they were more than just a little tipsy.

Another time my Uncle’s tank was out on patrol. The forest they had been driving through suddenly gave way to a clearing. Feeling exposed, the tank commander ordered them to back up into the woods. No sooner had the tank retreated than a shell from an unseen enemy whizzed by the front of their Sherman and exploded on a hill to their left. Unbeknownst to them, a German Tiger tank had pulled up beyond a knoll to their right.

There were more stories of camaraderie, but the one that sticks out most in my mind is the story that my uncle told me about the death of his best friend, Billy Waters. It was during Operation Market Garden which started on September 17th, 1944 and ended on September 25th, 1944, short of their ultimate objective of the Arnhem Bridge. The 3rd Division of the Irish Guard were actively involved in this attempt to push through to Germany’s doorstep and end the war by Christmas.

While their tanks were in line along the approach road to bridge at Nijmegaen a German 88mm gun opened up on the column. My uncle’s tank along with a number of others was dispatched to hunt down and destroy this threat to their flank. It was only after he had returned from this action that he found out one of the tanks destroyed by this threat had been Billy’s.

On his next leave home he went to visit Billy’s mother, to pass on condolences and share in their grief. Mrs. Waters threatened to break both of my uncle’s legs, not because she blamed him in any way, shape or form for her son’s death. On the contrary, she wanted to incapacitate my uncle so that he would not have to return to active service. So much did she think of her son’s friend, she did not want to see the same fate befall him.

58 years later, sitting in my parent’s basement on the occasion of my fathers 70th birthday, this memory was still so fresh in Uncle Alec’s heart that it was all he could do to raise a glass in his friends’ memory. You see, my dad’s birthday is September 22nd a date which fell in the middle of the battle oh so many years ago. So sharp was the emotion that there was nary a dry eye amongst the men who had retired to the basement to have a drink and a friendly game of darts.

My uncle survived the war. He spent time in Palestine, joined the elite British Airborne before ultimately moving from Belfast, Northern Ireland to Toronto, Canada, a place which he called home until his death.

Even in his new homeland he continued to serve, joining the Toronto Metropolitan Police, a job which he held until his retirement. Always on the front line; always ready to give of himself on behalf of others. That was my Uncle Alec.

My uncle joined his fallen comrades this past fall. All of his years with the Guard, the Paras and Metro’s finest could not lay him low. In the end it was illness which felled him. In hindsight his sickness was mercifully short, although it never ever seems that way at the time to those that love him, does it?

Much to my ever lasting shame, I never took the opportunities afforded me to say thank you, to press, even a little, the better to understand all that he had been through. I can only hope that, having gone to his great reward, he can some how sense the admiration that I felt for him.

Not much to hang on too, but in the face of the death of a loved one, sometimes it is all that we have.

And so, while my thoughts have always turned to my uncle as a very real embodiment of all that Remembrance Day has stood for, it is now tinged with a deep melancholy; a tangible sense of loss.

If you know someone who has served; or even know of someone who has served, please take a moment to talk to them; to endeavor to understand the sacrifices they have made, and the brotherhood which they have forged in the process. At the very least, to say thank you.

In the end, regardless of whether or not you agree with the idea of war and the reasons why it is still waged, and probably always will be, remember, it is never started by those who serve their country, sometimes making the ultimate sacrifice, always marked by the experience even if they don’t.

Have a care, recognize that they are putting themselves in harms way for you, for me, for all of us.

Thank you Uncle Alec. Your duty is well and truly done.

I will never forget you.