Wild Bill is a mocumentary short that runs pretty close to a satire of the Oscar nominated doc, Searching For Sugar Man. I wrote original songs, cast all my musician friends for free and put together a fictious band led by my most extraverted friend, Bill Lawson. In real-life, Bill hosts a karaoke night on the weekends at a dive bar. We wrote the bar into the script and used the location and clientele in the movie for free. In the empowering words of Mark Duplass, we used what we had. In the climatic scene of the film, the fictional band plays a real concert of fake songs in front of a live audience. I begged a local promoter to let us play three songs in the middle of a real concert and we pulled it off, despite a disastrous sound check.

Wild Bill was a DIY production in every sense of the word. We begged, borrowed and stole wherever we could. There are many people in the film who think they are being interviewed for a real documentary on the late Motorhead singer Lemmy. A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do!

Originally, we planned to make the film in a more traditional way, but all our funding options failed to produce. We launched a small Kickstarter campaign for $2,000 and I kicked in an additional $3,500 out of pocket for a total budget of $5,500.

After we finished post-production, we got turned down by regional film festivals due to the 22-minute runtime.

I spent most of my twenties as a touring musician and decided to take matters into my own hands and treat our little orphaned movie like an independent touring band.

We first convinced a local music festival to host the debut screening. The festival was expanding to include more comedy events and had an interest in eventually having a film component, so they were eager to roll the dice on us. We screened the film on a Saturday afternoon to an audience of music fans and friends.

From there we were able to leverage that screening to convince a music venue in a different city to let us screen the film on a night they didn’t have a concert booked. During a blizzard on a Thursday night, we somehow packed the venue. This time, we followed the screening with a live acoustic performance from actor Bill Lawson, who performed the fictitious songs from the film.

We made t-shirts with a specific graphic from the movie and sold them online for $40 a pop. We used the money to book more screenings.

The coolest music venue booked us for a Saturday afternoon screening followed by a live performance by the fictional band from the film. They paid us $500 and again, the place was packed.

We even screened the film in the small town where Bill hosts a weekend karaoke night. We did two screenings, one at 4 PM and one at 9 PM. The 4 PM screening was so busy that people had to sit on the floor. The town mayor even showed up.

We continued to take the film on the road and use t-shirt sales and good will to fund the grassroots campaign. Here’s a couple things I learned from the experience:

1)      While a 20–40-minute short is the worst length for a film festival, it is the best length for an independent screening. If you add a Q & A and a short musical performance, it rounds the night out to an hour or an hour and a half of entertainment. We never overstayed our welcome and always left people wanting more.

2)      Making a longer short film teaches you about pacing, which you will never learn from something with a runtime of under five minutes.

3)      Grassroot marketing campaigns build momentum as you go. Each screening just got better as we went, and some people would even travel from town-to-town and support us.

4)      I brought as many cast members as possible to screenings and quickly learned that our lead, Bill Lawson, was a captivating showman who people loved to have a beer with after the show.

5)      When you build an organic audience, they have a better chance of them sticking with you for your next project. Make sure you collect emails for a mailing list.

I’m already thinking about our next film.  I’m not planning to submit to a single film festival next time. I have plans to utilize the grassroots audience we built during Wild Bill and fund the next film through a larger crowd funding campaign. I am completely convinced that there are other ways to promote films that are more effective, cool and fun. At this point I’m looking to the 80’s Hardcore band Black Flag for inspiration, not the film festivals.

Watch Wild Bill here: https://youtu.be/vUVrgKLbxmc

IMDB: https://www.imdb.com/title/tt35048666/?ref_=ext_shr_lnk

“The real animals are in the streets and in the bars,” said Dylan as we drove farther away from the mayhem of downtown Calgary. A church was visible in the distance, as promised in the directions we inherited. 

“This must be the place,” I said, quoting the Talking Heads and simultaneously announcing our arrival.

Dylan cautiously steered his faded green Jetta into the parking lot, frantically scanning our new surroundings for signs of life. We’d been in contact with a woman named Pearl, who instructed us to meet at a disclosed time and place. 

Our business was country music, and our job required us to convince people like Pearl we were the prodigal sons of the genre, capable of elevating any event via our musical gifts. We catfished unsuspecting victims, using a fabricated Kijij classified ad to oversell ourselves as a band of the purest pedigree. Rather, we were simply aging hipsters with a knack for internet marketing. Our friend Keith staged a photo shoot, making us look like demigods of 70s era AM country, straight off a record cover. We appeared enthusiastic and bright eyed in the hokey press photo, taken a few years prior. Today, we looked significantly older, like first term presidents. It was the last day of the Calgary Stampede, a metaphorical forty-day cattle drive in the badlands

We called ourselves The Wildrose Ramblers and we’d recently fallen in rank on Google search results to a senior’s walking club of the same name in Edmonton, Alberta. We billed ourselves as the Unrivaled Calgary Stampede Cover Band. 

We were not.

We waited in the car, coddling overpriced fermented teas between our legs, as 90s indie rock poured from the only working speaker in the car stereo. “Oh shit,” said Dylan, as an elderly woman pulling an oxygen tank waved her arms manically, as she laboured across the field towards us at a comically slow pace. She hauled a steel cart behind her, dragging her precious lifeline as it bumped up and down with every divot in the grass like car wheels on a gravel road. 

“What in the hell kind of gig is this?” I asked Dylan through parched lips and a voice with the timbre of an aging Rod Stewart. 

“A local charity’s Stampede breakfast,” said Dylan, hesitant to say the words aloud.

We took turns fulfilling the role of corporate booking agent for our country cover band, only active ten days per year during the alleged, Greatest Show on Earth. It was Dylan’s year to play agent. I chipped away at his remaining patience by asking the same questions repeatedly: “what’s the gig?” and “what’s the pay?”

Dylan looked a fool, a filthy western shirt clinging to his chubby torso like saran wrap from the morning heat. His face was sunburnt from playing hatless and blotched from too many corndogs and late nights – occupational hazards in our line of work. I looked no better, donning a pearl button-up cowboy shirt covered in stains of overpriced draft beer, Wranglers and the Australian equivalent of a Stetson hat. True grit, indeed.

“How much does it pay?” I asked, hoping the amount would somehow justify my displeasure. 

“$1,500,” Dylan replied. 

“$1,500! That’s pretty good for a charity gig.” 

Dylan had no reason to respond to my optimism, this wasn’t news to him, he was simply going through the motions to get the job done. 

Pearl finally conquered the soccer field between us and hobbled onto the even ground of the church parking lot. Her oxygen tank clanked against the cement as it tipped back and forth before coming to a halt next to our guitar cases. “Where’s the rest of the band?” It was a question we fielded often. Dylan and I played nearly exclusively as a duo, but implied we were a four-piece based on the photo in the Kijij ad. We charged the rate of a full band, showed up with half the members and morally justified our actions by telling ourselves: “The White Stripes only had two members.”

“You’re looking at it,” I quipped with enthusiasm.

“Double trouble,” Dylan said, echoing my sentiment.

“Two’s a couple, three’s a crowd.”

We could go on like this forever. 

We amassed enough stock responses of dad jokes and bad puns to excuse ourselves for the intentional miscommunication. Besides, we had Pearl over a barrel. It was too late to hire another band and she’d already paid a 30 per cent deposit

She went with it, like they all did. This wasn’t our first rodeo.

After Pearl covered the basic logistics, she escorted us to a small stage with a three-walled tent set up to block the sun. Coincidentally, it also blocked the breeze becoming an unbearable heat box for hungover peddlers nearing the end of a marathon of shows. 

Our contract stipulated we play from 10 AM to 2 PM — an absolute beast of a performance we’d overlooked until now. 

We uncoiled cables and hoisted speakers upon stands in preparation for our start time. I pulled a flask from my pocket containing piss-warm Jameson whisky, which couldn’t be consumed as-is, but was palatable when mixed with the complementary orange beverage that so often existed alongside the traditional pancake breakfast we found ourselves at. A four-hour gig like this could wreak havoc on vocal cords. I knew firsthand that staying hydrated, avoiding late nights in loud bars, and passing on alcohol were the most effective ways to preserve a singing voice. 

Unfortunately, I was not willing to participate in any of these tactics and found the easiest way to save my voice was to sing as little as possible. We accomplished this by adding nearly endless guitar solos into every song. I carried a variety of harmonicas, filling a minute or two of space after every third guitar solo. It was a brilliant musical formula that stretched the typical three to four-minute country tune into an unsuspecting eight-minute anthem. The typical pre-disposed crowd of chatty-Cathy’s were none the wiser. 

At 10:07a.m. we rang the first notes from our guitars while we checked our microphones for volume and tone. The opening song was always the worst, as it drew a large degree of unwanted attention. The brief line check caused a momentary lapse in conversation, and the hundred-or-so people standing in the soccer field looked at us with a sense of hope.

“I’d like to thank you all for showing up bright and early and keeping us company. How bout’ a round of applause for our new friend Pearl. We wouldn’t be here without that hip, young gunslinger.” 

A sea of white teeth exposed as genuine smiles splayed across the faceless crowd. They clapped and cheered. I knew it was already over, we had won. I knew what kind of crowd I was dealing with based on the response to my first joke. First impressions were king, and I just made a good one. This would buy us room for error later. It’s hard to dislike someone who makes you laugh.

Shortly after we began playing, we witnessed a woman suiting up behind the tent. Unbeknownst to me, this local branch of a global charity had a mascot, a Raggedy Ann-looking-redhead type character. The woman in costume proceeded to skip around the park in the blazing heat, joyfully committing to the task at hand. A middle-aged woman approached the mascot and the two held hands and skipped together for the remainder of the afternoon. They looked blissfully content as we suspected a closet homosexual relationship being publicly displayed for the first time under the guise of a costume. The charity was a notoriously brutal Christian organization, and this may have been one of the few times to get away with such a stunt. Their love for one another was on display under the thin veil that so delicately protected them. We cheered silently, admiring their rebellious courage in our state of dehydration.

Pearl, the oxygen tank lady, made it undeniably clear that every hour, on the hour, she would be leading a group through instructional line dance lessons. It was a bizarre request coming from a woman with severe mobility issues. This was a blessing in disguise as it would give us a break at the top of every hour, while she fumbled through instructions like a geriatric Alan Jackson. 

At 11o'clock, as promised, Pearl shuffled into the tent, removing a microphone she squirrelled away in a hidden compartment of the oxygen cart and belted out a prompt command.

“ANYONE WHO WOULD LIKE TO LEARN TO LINE-DANCE SHOULD COME TO THE STAGE NOW!” 

An intense squealing came from the P.A. system. Pearl’s mic was running off a separate sound system and it was interfering with ours, causing ear-piercing feedback and distortion — it was the sound musician nightmares are made of. She ignored it with an unrivaled sense of confidence I’ve rarely seen.

Not being particularly mobile herself, most of the instruction seemed to come from vintage muscle memory, and her recollection of the dance wasn’t serving her well. Twenty minutes went by, and no one was closer to learning how to line-dance. 

Finally, we were instructed to continue playing.

By 1:30 p.m. we ran out of songs to play. We sat in the between-song silence that seemed to last an eternity. Between-song silence is something a good band never shows you — it’s an amateur move brought on by poor planning. By this point I couldn’t stomach any more Johnny or Hank or Merle or Dolly. We were in too low of a place for “Friends in Low Places”. 

The combination of sun-warmed Jameson and orange drink soothed my anxious mind as I stood spaced-out, possibly dealing with mild heatstroke. Bruce Springsteen’s pop masterpiece, “I’m on Fire” appropriately played in my head. It was pure and accessible, the antithesis to bad country music. 

We’d never played it before, but nothing mattered anymore. 

I fumbled through, guessing at the chords and connecting verses in the wrong order. We committed to the sonic bliss that is Bruce Springsteen, losing ourselves in the song. The unexplainable, mystic beauty possessed us for 17 minutes, bringing us 12 minutes away from the end of our contract. It was an impossible song to follow, so…we didn’t. 

As we stood in the post-show wonder, I gazed out at the Raggedy Anne mascot and her middle-aged lover, skipping through the field. I saw children with painted faces, laughing and dancing. Genuinely happy people smiled back at us, under impeccably clean Stetson hats. In that photographic moment, it was evident that Pearl had orchestrated a near-perfect event. 

We rolled up our cables, placed guitars into cases and took speakers down from stands. We loaded our gear back into the faded green Jetta as we heard an oxygen tank clanking against the cement. There stood Pearl, holding out an extended arm, clutching an envelope full of cash. 

“Great job guys. Can I book you right now for next year? I want to get you before someone else snags you up!”

We pulled the car out of the parking lot to set up for our final gig of the year. Pearl waved goodbye as we drove away. 

Little did we know this would be one of the final gigs as a duo. Dylan would soon decide to move to Montreal to change careers and pursue a PhD in physics. 

“Literal rocket science”, he liked to say.

Dylan and I went on to play many great shows, for wonderful crowds across the country. Despite it all, we often find ourselves defaulting to stories about the infamous Wildrose Ramblers and our annual 10-day country cover band. To this day, I still feel a pang of dread through my entire body when I hear the song Wagon Wheel, the most requested tune in Rambler history. Sometimes I even find myself wondering if Pearl ever taught anyone to line dance.

I swear Calgary has more Jeeps per capita than any other city in the world. I see an endless stream of these post-military SUVs, stuck in traffic, sporting bright, peacock-ish colours and almost never showing any dirt, mud, or any other indicator that they have ever left the immaculate Calgary roads. 

Let’s be clear, a Jeep is designed to be an off-road vehicle. Built for the battlefield, it was first called a GP (for General Purpose) vehicle, which was slurred into the Jeep brand we all recognize today. A new Jeep Wrangler has an MSRP value of $39,145 for its base model. It is an incredibly expensive and inefficient choice as an urban commuter. A 2019 Jeep Wrangler averages out around 19 MPG in city driving, in a time when gas is a completely optional expense for any urban commuter (Tesla Model 3 starts at $44,999 CAN) 

Over the last 5 years I’ve put on approximately 160,000 KM travelling all over North America. Averaging over 30,000 KM per year. This was done all throughout the year, making multi-trips to a remote heli-ski resort in British Columbia, to other ski hills, with plenty of KMs done on gravel roads. Aside from adding a set of winter tires, the car has been completely safe and reliable in a northern climate. I purchased the car for $7,500 cash with 144,000 KMs on it. I haven’t put any additional money into repairs aside from tires and filters. I run the lowest rate of insurance and still use the car (though I mostly ride an electric bike as my main form of transportation now) 

I can’t see any possible reason why anyone in a major urban centre would ever need a Jeep for commuting. Period. 

In 2013, I invested $5000 of hard-earned cash into making a full-length album. My band at the time was breaking up and I decided to throw it into making a solo album. I was told by numerous people that it was a lot of money to spend out of pocket. I was made to believe it was a bad investment. 

That album allowed me to start touring around the country and opened the doors to hundreds of different experiences. That original $5000 investment has paid itself off year after year financially. Even it had provided zero financial return, I still think it would have been a great use of my finances, just purely for the cathartic reasoning of putting something out there into the world that I made. 

I find it absolutely crazy that our society has absolutely no problem spending $39,145 on a new Jeep, which is inefficient and rapidly decreases in value, but I took all sorts of flack for spending a measly $5000 on a personal dream. 

Maybe these numbers need to be flipped? Maybe it’s time to start reconsidering how we spend our money and utilize our time? What if you instead invest $40,000 into something that might be able to provide you some real benefit and potentially open new doors personally, creatively or in a business sense. 

Maybe it’s time we stop using Jeeps on city roads and save them for the battlefields. Smarten up.

After a couple years of ploughing the fields of literary duds, I’m happy to proclaim that 2018 has been a hell of a good year for personal literature consumption. I read some of my favourite books this year, a few that would even register on my Top Ten list, and one that would even creep onto the Top 5. 

I’ve been reading voraciously over the last few years, devouring anything that sparks a glimmer of curiosity. Unfortunately, by reading anything that came in sight, without a proper screening method, I wasted time pursuing books I didn’t need to be reading. A book is a serious commitment of time, so this year I really only read titles strongly recommended by credible friends, confidants or admired public figures. I didn’t accept light recommendations only the type that the nominator would back up with a bullet. 

I read many good books this year. Here are the greats with a brief explanation: 

French Exit – Patrick DeWitt 

I tried very hard not to like Patrick DeWitt. His claim to fame is his novel The Sisters Brothers, a clever Western that feels like a lost Cohen Brothers script. A little too much like a Cohen Bros. script to be frank. People loved it, people really loved it. Maybe it was jealousy - or as my pal Bruce said, “Guy Vanderhaeghe writes considerably better Westerns with a fraction of the acclaim” – For whatever reason, I just didn’t want to get behind DeWitt. Upon further investigation, it certainly was jealousy. 

French Exit is a leap-up in quality. He earned his early success retroactively with this novel. It’s a joyous tragedy about a highly (un)likeable mother-son team who take the world by storm. I usually rebel against novels set in New York or Paris, or worse, both, but I just loved this story. The dialogue is whip smart and worth studying. It’s sincere and Malcom is such a wonderfully delightful character whom I would like so very much to befriend. 

My Brilliant Friend (Neopolitan Novels) – Elena Ferrante 

Ironically, my friend Dylan tried to get me to read this for years. An intense and detailed autobiography about female friendship. The first book of a four-part series about two young girls navigating meager life in Italy. The narrator has an uncanny ability to expose the complex motivations behind a young girl’s decisions and how they lead to loyalty, alliances and deception. I will absolutely read the rest of this series. I believe HBO just made this into a television mini-series. 

A Confederacy of Dunces – John Kennedy Toole 

I’ve often considered Holden Caulfield, Frank Bascombe (The Sportswriter) and Harris (Harris and Me) to be some of my favourite literary characters. Ignatious J Reilly has pushed them all aside into obscurity. This is the funniest book I have ever read. I’ve never burst with laughter so many times while reading a book alone, in a public place. The book has a tragic back story and sadly is the only real book the author wrote and seems like the cause and effect of his suicide in his early thirties. It uses a classic comedy set-up of a protagonist who belongs in another era yet somehow perfectly captures the socio-economic framework of New Orleans. The city built a statue to honour this memorable but despicable character. 

 Boyhood Island (My Struggle: Book 3) – Karl Ove Knausgard 

A virtually unknown and completely unremarkable Norwegian author wrote an autobiography – the catch…it spans 6 volumes and over 6000 words. He can talk about an erection for 40 pages. It works because it’s normal, he’s an everyman writing in extreme detail with beautiful imagery about completely everyday events. This is part 3, supposedly the weakest in the series. It covers the early years of childhood. It completely captures the innocence, wonder, fears and sorrow of these strange times in our lives. Relatable to every single person who was once a child…so, everyone. 

Tribe – Sebastian Junger 

A short book of non-fiction from a war photographer about PTSD. New perspectives, fresh ideas, well researched and personal. He somehow brings it all together and offers amazing moral insight about how we live our lives. 

How To Make Love To A Negro Without Getting Tired – Dany Laferriere 

An accomplished Haitian refugee moves to Montreal and starts his life over with nothing. He deals with racism (surprise) but it’s more complex than that. Rich, white McGill women want to ___ him out of defiance and he want to ___ them to be closer to the American dream. Billed as fiction but based on interviews I’ve read, it’s quite the opposite. An immigration story with some originality and cajones. The title makes me uncomfortable to write and especially uncomfortable to say aloud. The title is also intriguing enough to have made me want to read this. A Canadian classic. 

St. Urbain’s Horseman – Mordecai Richler 

Mordecai Richler has become one of my most cherished Canadian favorites. This is a little deeper in his back catalogue, it’s a fantastic read but by no means his best, I would start with The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz or Barney’s Version to be introduced to his view of the slums of the-cold-water-flat-Jewish-Montreal. You can do a pretty extensive drinking-n-eating tour of Montreal through Mordecai’s favourite establishments. 

Gimme Refuge – Matt Love 

I found Matt Love’s book A Super Sunday In Newport on a Monday, in Portland. Coincidentally, I had just had a great Sunday in Newport the day before. I bought the book by divine intervention and it changed my life. Gimme Refuge is his memoir about leaving his day job as a teacher to become a writer. It’s dedicated, committed and at times, sad. Matt taught me about the importance of being a regional writer and being connected to where you are from. I plan to ask Matt to edit my next book. 

A Complicated Kindness – Miriam Toews 

Miriam Toews embraces her traditional Mennonite upbringing in Steinbach Manitoba the same way Mordecai Richler embraces his Jewish ghetto in Montreal, with one arm open and the other ready to use for protection. Toews writes about her heritage honestly. This is a heavy book about a heavy subject but she always avoids passing judgements and tells it in her own way. My favourite female author working today. 

Honourable Mentions: 

Man’s Search for Meaning – Viktor E Frankl 

The Flinstones – Mark Russell/Steve Pugh 

Everything is Flammable – Gabrielle Bell 

Wytches - Scott Snyder

Last year I became completely burnt out with music. The non-stop hustle of the freelance, creative life had worn on me and I had very little left to offer. I stopped writing songs, practicing guitar and rehearsing new stories, and simply went on auto pilot. I pandered to audiences and relied on my pre-existing contacts that I had developed through constant gigging over the years.

Half-way through 2017 I got a job at a local brewery and got another gig hosting and producing an interview based podcast for some corporate whores. I had a huge part of my ego tied up in doing music full time and it was hard to give that up. For the later half of 2017 most of my income came from my other two jobs, rather than creative pursuits. 

The podcast job didn’t last long, and the program essentially lost funding by the end of the 2017. On the plus side, I inherited some awesome gear and learnt how to become a one-man, professional podcaster. It was a tough gig but I really enjoyed it. I was thrown under the bus for 6 months and forced to adapt to each situation and make it work. It was the greatest crash course in podcasting on the planet. I developed my abilities as an interviewer, my audio and technical skillsets and learnt how to arrange each episode in a compelling way. 

I still have my part time job at the brewery (which I love). I’ll be there until I die, they fire me, or until I relocate. (I work at Village Brewery in Calgary if you are wondering. Stop by for a beer sometime)

I applied for a number of full-time gigs when my podcasting job ended. I got a few interviews for high paying, impressive positions that I didn’t think I was qualified for, yet didn’t receive even an interview for some entry-level, non-profit jobs. I got a phone call to find out that I was the 2nd choice for a Finance Communication Analyst position in Edmonton. Life would have looked a lot different if I had been the first choice. 

During all this artistic and personal malaise, I was accepted to a 3-week Singer Songwriter Residency at the Banff Centre. I felt a little strange accepting this, as I really didn’t feel like a songwriter anymore. With no better options on the table, and having a romantic notion with the Banff Centre, I decided to pursue the opportunity…and I am sure glad I did. 

I spent three weeks with 30 of the most humble, interesting, compelling, empathetic and honest songwriters I have ever met. It was a deeply cathartic experience which ultimately led me to fall in love with songwriting again. I had lost myself somewhere on the road. I had stopped really listening to music and was almost exclusively listening to podcasts and talk radio. I had become cynical to the idea of music and was tainted by touring and playing too many bad shows. 

The Banff Centre changed all that. It made me excited to create, listen and collaborate. It made me feel good about the future and the beauty of creative pursuits. It made me realize that I like making art because it’s important and fun. That’s it. The program reminded me that I’m a music fan first and foremost. It reminded me of the beautiful innocence of music. 

We received some free recording time during the residency and we were encouraged to experiment. I did just that and ended up tracking a blistering punk/emo tune, a mystical country song that sounds like The Eagles and a duet I co-wrote with my friend Alix, that sounds like She and Him.

I was able to rediscover a new found joy in music, art and life during my time at the Banff Centre. I feel a sense of gratitude that I haven't had in a long time.

As of June 1st my lease is up on my East Village apartment. I’m not exactly sure what the future holds or where I will end up, but I can’t help but feel like I’m being pushed by some guiding force or intuition towards my creative endeavours. 

I don’t have a solid plan, but I will most likely be focussing on the following during the next six months: 

-Releasing my book, I Am The Lizard King, as a weekly audio book-podcast 
-Releasing an EP of songs (Painted Horses EP) that I recorded in Edmonton over the last 4 years 
-Freelance grant writing for friends 
-Pitching freelance articles to magazines and websites 
-Touring as a working musician 

It’s a hard life trying to make a living off one’s art, but it’s been a good life. I’m remaining open to possibility and trying to bury my ego. I’m not sure what the future holds, but I’ll be sure to let you know. 

-Tanner

Some towns are just too small to have a town drunk, so people take turns. I suppose it was Fred’s turn, and I believe I inadvertently funded his night on the town. I met Fred while he was bartending at the local Legion and we got to talking. 

Most years, around this time, I get hired to play between three and six nights at a very expensive heli ski resort in a very small town in inland British Columbia. I book a few other shows and make a winter tour out of it. I always get treated well and I always get a few stories out of the trip. The money is just good enough to keep me afloat for the rest of the month. It’s not my favourite place to play but it’s the closest thing to a vacation I get these days. 

The heli ski resort is viciously expensive and draws in 1%-ers from a global market. Affluent Europeans, drunk Australians and a few fiscally conservative, morally bankrupt, Trump supporters from America, all gather around to ski fresh powder, drink quality scotch and potentially cheat on their wives with mediocre looking employees in their mid- 20’s. The punk rock spirit dies a little bit everytime I play this resort. 

On the first night of the three night stint, I was approached by a Californian male named Don. He bought me a $25 glass of scotch and chatted me up about drums. He knew what he was talking about and told me about a few of the jazz and blues bands he had played in over the years. At the end of the night he asked me if he could play drums with me. I was playing the shows with an accompanying guitar player and we had no drums in sight nor an interest to play with someone whom we had never rehearsed with. 99% of the time it’s a bad idea to play a show with someone you have never met before or played with. 

The next night Don approached me again and asked if I had found a drum set. The inner voice inside my head told Don to “shut the fuck up before I kick your fucking teeth in,” but my speaking voice simply replied with a humble “no.” 

After our set, the entire resort seemed to be heading to the Legion. Staff would be fraternizing with guests, and I knew things would be getting weird. I told my friend and accompanying guitar player that we better head down there for one drink just to see what chaos would ensue. 

When we got to the Legion, I felt out of place and decided to start chatting with the bartender. Legions across Canada are filled with my type of people. This is how I met Fred. I asked Fred if he knew where to find a drum kit. 

“Ya, I’m the only drummer in town and I’ve got a kit at home.” 

“Hmmm, some guy is on my ass about finding him a kit so he can jam with us,” I stated. 

“I hate loading gear, otherwise I would,” Fred echoed the thoughts of every musician in Canada. 

“Well I’m sure this rich dick would pay you an absorbent amount of money to use your drum kit,” I said. 

I’ve always had a Robin Hood complex and my desire to ‘take from the rich and give to the poor’ was far stronger after a couple beers. 

“See how much you can get,” said Fred with a laugh and a friendly demeanour. 

I found California Don playing pool and I approached him with my discovery. I explained that Fred had a kit but that it was going to need to be rented. I explained that Fred would need $400 for the use of the kit. Don didn’t have an issue with the price and paid $400 in U.S. dollars. 

“Wow, shit! I’ll deliver the kit for that price,” said Fred with a big smile. Legion brothers always look out for one another, and I was throwing Fred a bone. It would be the easiest $400 he ever made. 

The next day at 3 PM Fred showed up with the drums and a buddy to help him load them. That morning I had been secretly hoping that Fred wouldn’t show up. The whole idea seemed like a bad one after the buzz from the beers had worn off from the previous night. But here they were and I was going to have to deal with the situation. 

We got the drums setup and California Don sat down and jammed a song with us. I knew right away that we got lucky. He had great hands, could follow my lead and could fake his way through a song with grace. He was going to do just fine. 

It was a calming feeling to know that we would be able to get away with this. I headed back to my cabin to relax for the next three hours until the festivities took place. 

When I returned I couldn’t help but notice that Fred was still there. He was now mildly intoxicated and telling Don about how he used to play two straight hours of Led Zeppelin covers in the 80’s. 

This was a fancy event and the guests were starting to roll in. Everyone was dressed up for the banquet that would celebrate the end of a wonderful week of skiing overpriced powder. 

Fred was wearing grey sweat pants and old Nike pumps. He didn’t seem like he was going anywhere. He seemed like he was going to make himself at home and enjoy the party. 

You could hear a pin drop in the room when the owner of the heli ski resort took the stage and offered an awkward and heartfelt speech. He had the rooms full attention except for Fred - who was the only person still talking - his natural voice echoing louder than the speech coming from stage. I heard him proudly mention about “I used to do two hours straight of Zeppelin covers in the 80’s,” as the owner talked of the special week. 

Fred was still there when we manned the stage for our first set of the night. I heard someone yell, “Fucking rights boys,” and I’m damn certain it was Fred. 

The next time I noticed him, he was bringing in two new friends through the back door. They were equally as out of place as him. Next, I noticed him carrying a tray of drinks back to the table for his newly established posse. 

I realized then that Fred was going to spend the entire $400 on booze. I now realized that I didn’t help out anyone, I simply enabled a person who was a raging alcoholic. 

Towards the end of the night I saw Fred getting kicked out of the fancy lounge. Apparently Fred had passed out at the table he was sitting at. I heard the bar manager asking him who had even got him into the event. Fred tried to mumble “Tanner” but it came out more like “Tghsghsdhhhhhhrrrrrrrr” and wouldn’t hold up in the heli ski judicial system. 

The next day when we took off we noticed that the drum set was still sitting on the stage. 

I couldn’t help but feel a small sense of satisfaction. I pictured Fred banging out Zeppelin tunes just as drunk as John Bonham.

My sister was in Cuba last week so she brought me back a Hemingway picture to place on my writing desk. I like the idea of always keeping an artist you respect close-by to watch over you. It keeps you accountable at the very least. It takes even more courage to find your own path with an onlooker like Hemingway, watching you through the process. 

My favourite piece of prose is from The Old Man And The Sea: 

“He always thought of the sea as la mar which is what people call her in Spanish when they love her. Sometimes those who love her say bad things of her but they are always said as though she were a woman. Some of the younger fishermen, those who used buoys as floats for their lines and had motorboats, bought when the shark livers had brought much money, spoke of her as el mar which is masculine. They spoke of her as a contestant or a place or even an enemy. But the old man always thought of her as feminine and as something that gave or withheld great favours, and if she did wild or wicked things it was because she could not help them. The moon affects her as it does a woman, he thought.” 

The world is filled with such a masculine presence, and I love how the old man refers to the sea as “la mar”. It’s such a romantic notion and shows a sign of respect. This wisdom is acquired from years of contemplation while fishing for marlin, something that may be a lost art one day. 

I try to imagine everything in nature to have a feminine spirit. 

I think about the Old Man often. I wonder if that was his last fishing trip? If he created a sufficient legacy to hang his hat on? Is he still following the Great DiMaggio?

Every time I hang up my coat in the front closet I get a whiff of fermentation. The smell has increased with the volume of the batches I’ve been brewing. It’s doesn’t bother me. In fact, it kind of feels like home, like the dog meeting you as you walk in the door. 

It smells like progress - life is happening. 

I borrowed a 25 gallon, stainless steel, brew kettle from a buddy. That’s a significant step up from the 5 gallon glass jar I was using before. 

I withdraw every book the Calgary Public Library has on the topics of “Kombucha” or “Fermentation”. 

In Japan it is often referred to as Kocha Kinoko (Red Tea Mushroom) - actually, I have no clue if that is true or not, I just jotted it down from a library book because I liked the way it sounded. 

Kombucha doesn’t involve mushrooms. It involves a SCOBY, which is the mushroom looking thing that freaks most people out. Symbiotic-Culture-of-Bacteria-and-Yeast. It is the life-force that many people are afraid to touch and is often kept in the fridge between batches (don’t ever do this). 

I started brewing Kombucha because I couldn’t afford to buy it. I can make 5 gallons for as little as $5. Some con-artists are charging up to $32 a growler at local Kombucha breweries. These people are criminals. I want to make Kombucha just to share it with people and make it accessible. I don’t want it to turn into a privileged, yuppie drink. 

One time I was dealing with the worst hangover of my life and crushed an $8 bottle of Kombucha and it made my body feel like it had a soul again. Small price to pay for getting your soul back. Love at first gulp. 

I’m going to have to throw a tasting party once this batch is done. I don’t have enough space to store 25 gallons worth of flavoured, refrigerated, Buch. 

Maybe I will start bottling it. My friend Curtis could make me a label design. “For The People” Kombucha. It will be cheap, maybe by-donation. I could drop-it off and teach people how to make it. It could have an illustration of Robin Hood on the label - Robin Hood during an acid trip, that would be cool. Something weird. Lavish colours exploding everywhere. Maybe I will deliver it by bike in the summer. Make it accessible for everyone. 

I can already picture the ridicule and criticism I would get if I posted something like that online. All the rednecks would be confused and therefore defensive. The anti-hipster-hipsters, that do too many drugs and hang out down town, would hate it, based on the principle that it’s healthy and they themselves are aging like dogs. Alas, this is the price you pay for putting yourself out there. I wish I was the type of person that didn’t care what people think. Those are the best kind of people. Rare gems. 

I’m a sensitive beast and I don’t take well to ridicule. I’m working on that though. 

Ginger is the easiest flavour to master. Rose hips and hibiscus are hot right now. Dry hopping is the next trend. 

If we aren’t connected to our food sources and we can’t take pride in our learned and acquired skills then what kind of people are we. I’m trying to get a black belt in Kombucha.

Artistic Realizations 

Sword In The Stone - 5 years old 
A young King Arthur is turned into a squirrel. He is pursued by a female squirrel. She grows attached to him, he is uncertain, he is turned back into a human. Female squirrel gives me my first indication of heartbreak. I feel sad for her. 

Cocktail starring Tom Cruise - 6 years old 
We move to town for a few years and during that period we inherit the Holy Grail…aka, the Super Channel. We have a TV downstairs and I have 3 blank VHS tapes. I can’t tape over Prancer cause mom loves those piece of shit, made-for-TV, Christmas movies. So that really leaves me with 2 tapes. I record Cocktail and can’t bring myself to tape over it for almost a year. I watch it once a week. I learn everything I know about women from Tom Cruise. I later learn that Tom Cruise probably isn’t the best role model for a 6 year old. 

Edward Scissorhands - 7 years old 
I’m sleeping over at Grandma’s. Uncle Ken rents this on VHS. Grandma gives me a glass of beer so I can be like Uncle Ken. I have one sip and hate it. She lets me keep the full glass near me anyhow. The movie scares me, then makes me laugh, then makes me angry, and finally sad. I never stop thinking about it. 

Brick by Ben Fold Five - 9 years old 
I hear this song on the easy-listening FM station. They play it a lot. I hear it while I’m waiting in the truck while my dad is shutting off the tractor. I hear all the words and know that I’m too young to make sense of it all. Years later I realize it’s about an abortion and I cry and cry. 

Pearl Jam’s Evolution - 11 years old 
We get a satellite dish back on the farm and the first thing I see is the music video for Pearl Jam’s scorcher, Evolution. Todd Mcfarlane animates it and it is absolutely gut wrenching. The guy that gets attacked by the computer makes me still hate computers. Burn them all!  

Of Mice and Men - 12 years old 
Mom lets me read whatever I want. I want Lord of the Flies, To Kill a Mockingbird and Of Mice and Men. She says I won’t like them and I can only choose two. Lord of the Flies gets put off and has never been purchased or read to this day. Some sexual things in the novel go over my head but the maternal friendship makes it clear that it’s a rough and tumble world out there. 

Different Seasons (specifically Shawshank Redemption) - 13 years old 
I borrow Different Seasons from my friend Drew. Mom says I won’t like it. I realize she and I have very different taste in art. I read Shawshank Redemption. The ending is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever read. I can still quote it. I have full faith in everything when he says, “the Pacific is as blue as it was in my dreams.” Love it so much that I dig into Apt Pupil and Stand By Me. I discover all these movies because of this book. I never read the other story. I can’t even remember what it is. Was it Green Mile? Shit, if it was then I missed out. 

Final Fantasy 8 - 14 years old 
Everyone talks about Final Fantasy 7. I lie and say that I played it but never have the opportunity. My cousin has part 8 and I play it in instalments while visiting. The love story moves me. I want to be in love. 

Mrs. Potters Lullaby by Counting Crows - 15 years old 
“Step out the front door like a ghost, nobody notices the contrast of white on white.”  
“If dreams are like movies then memories are films about ghosts.” 
“If you’ve never stared off into the distance then your life is a shame.” 

They play this song a lot on the easy-listening FM station. I can read between the lines and hear all the pain and loneliness in Adam Duritz voice. I don’t know that he’s talking about depression exactly, but I know that one day I’m going to understand what he’s talking about more than I ever care to admit. 

I would rather not hear the Counting Crows this way. I would rather just passively enjoy Mr. Jones like everybody else.  

Darryl’s Grocery Bag/ All Age concert - 15 years old 
I hear the Olds Alberta based, pop-punk band, Darryl’s Grocery Bag for the first time at an All-Age show in Lethbridge. That’s it, it’s all over for me that night. I know I’m going to play in a band one day and probably forever. “I’d rather be broke, and live on a stage, I’d rather pump gas for minimum wage, I’d rather be here than somewhere you are, do you like my van, cause I hate your car.” 

Left and Leaving by the Weakerthans - 16 years old 
Abby sends me this song over MSN messenger. I’m not even aware that you can send shit over MSN messenger. I instantly realize that he can’t really sing, but it’s perfect anyway. All my favourite singers can’t really sing, and it’s probably all because of this. He is a truly great writer. 

The Rocky Fortune - 18 years old 
Darryl’s Grocery Bag grow up and become a Folk Rock band. Don’t we all. 

Bukowski - 18 years old 
I hear about Bukowski in high school but mostly ignore his work. I get dumped by my first real girlfriend and Bukowski pours me a stiff drink and pats me on the back. 

Modest Mouse - 19 years old 
When my mother hears Modest Mouse she tells me that there is some underlying sense of evil. Tyler and I get so obsessed that we actually believe that Isaac Brock is sending us subliminal messages through the songs. 

Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac - 20 years old 
On the Road has nothing on Dharma Bums. Plus, I’m living dangerously close to On the Road when I’m reading it. It hits too close to home. Dharma Bums ages a little better and is a little more deeply rooted in spirituality. It’s where I’m going, not where I’ve been. 

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance - 24 years old 
I have a nervous breakdown on a beach in Belize while reading this. It challenges my entire value system and makes me question my motives. It shakes me to the core. It’s a quality book about quality. 

The City Streets - 25 years old 
My friend Sam makes me listen to the City Streets. They are the best band to come out of Edmonton and maybe the best rock band in Canada. They are like the Constantines if the Constantines had narrative lyrics. I can’t figure out why people don’t love them like I do. I realize that art is not fair. Actually, art is always fair. I realize that the Canadian music industry favours the safe and the shitty. People will talk about them like they do the Replacements one day. As a legacy act. 

TBC 
-Tanner

My New Year’s resolution in 2017 was to build a treehouse in the woods. Yep, it was a very mature endeavour that would help me grow into a better person. My original resolution was to be more wild. I wanted to spend more time outside, being a feral child and swimming in lakes, climbing trees and getting dirt under my nails. I wanted to do more hiking, hunting, fishing, swimming and general chillin’ in the great outdoors. I thought the resolution had the right intentions but needed something more tangible to determine if it was a success or not. So hence the “build a treehouse in the woods” resolution. 

I planned to build the structure illegally in a National Park, in a location that was secret but not too difficult to hike to with supplies. 

I was more wild in 2017 and it was a great year for me. My family lives on a farm in southern Alberta and I spent most of my time at home, riding horses and spending time in the garden. My gardening skills improved significantly, it’s an apprenticeship that requires man hours. I put in a week hunting Bighorn sheep by horseback and sleeping in an outfitters tent in October. We produced 70 lbs of deer from field-to-table, doing every part on our own. Looking back, I definitely had a wild year. 

The only problem was I didn’t actually complete my resolution. I scoped out a spot and planned things out, but the actual labour of construction didn’t happen - so I chalk that up as a fail. 

So I’m moving last year’s resolution up to 2018 and pairing it with my New Year’s resolution which is to try standup comedy. 

Building a treehouse in the woods and doing stand-up comedy feel like a match made in heaven!