The five-hour jaunt up the 69, past Barrie and Parry sound is nothing to me anymore. In fact I find myself reliving the same thoughts I had when I would go up north with my parents as a child. The same stops I’d always stop on a family road trip, Barrie for gas and Timmy’s for coffee, though in this case I stopped at Petro for both. I know…I know, Petro Canada for Coffee?  I collect the points, what can I say.

The drive up the 69 has changed so much since I was younger, the widening and re-routing of it from a single lane too a dual lane has taken some years, but its always further north each time I go. Its new pathway lays right next to its old one in most places,  the old rock cuts, dull and worn made way for new blasts through the Canadian shield. Freshly exposed rock that seems to glitter in the sun as you zoom by it. “Its all the same” I think, “but totally different.”

The Townehouse in Sudbury, ON is no exception either to an aging mind.  A stage I think I’ve played at least eight times now looks and feels familiar and with the exception of what I’m told are huge renovations, it’s the same place I’ve always been. Familiar smells of beer and old wood fill the air. Familiar faces behind the bar, though on this night it was a new face, Scott a wonderful gentleman would be slinging me drinks and tell me about his weekend camping and partying with other music goer’s at the River & Sky Music Festival. A few locals are scattered around the bar and on the patio smoking.

The night would remain much the same, Scott and I chatting. “It’s a late starting bar.” He says. “No one really comes here until 11, 11:30.  The Townehouse isn’t one to get to the party early, no it prefers to be…fashionably late.” He jokes.

Paul Lowenberg, owner and booker of The Townhosue walks in as Scott and I laugh and we say hello. “You ready to go?” he says causally, walking over to the sound board. Paul has invested so much of himself in the bar,  always friendly but on a Tuesday night after waking from what I was told was a nap only 15 minutes prior to arriving at the club, he’s more interested in setting up the stage for me so he can return home. “I’m good whenever you are Paul, thanks again for having me out.” I say.  “No problem Kirby, you’re welcome anytime.” He says switching on the power conditioners at the back of the stage.

I do my sound check as groups of people begin to stream in. Out side the door I can over hear a displeased party asking why they have to have to pay the $5 cover to get in. “It’s for the musicians, it all goes to them”, the door man explains, in a line that sounds so exhausted he must have said it a thousand times. They reluctantly hand over the Laurier’s like terrorists release hostages to cunning and witty negotiators, confident they will be screwed in the end.
I want to tell them its for gas…or that “Don’t worry I don’t suck. I really appreciate you guys coming in tonight, it’ll be fun.” Though that rhetoric is usually lost on most people.  They have to come in upset at the $5 loss. There’s no changing that. Its my job to make them forget about that money…or at least make them laugh about how it will help pay for my heroine addiction and/or current months Bentley Payment. “What, do you expect me to drive a Toyota? I’m a Canadian musician damnit.” I laugh to myself.

I step down off stage, watching them walk by and can’t help but remember the many other nights the exact same thing has happened. How it will probably all happen again tomorrow or the next day or in some other town. The thought snowballs into teased regret. “Am I really doing this all over again, is this really what I want to do?” I sulk sullenly and walk outside for a smoke before hitting the stage.

It shocks me daily how much back and forth happens in ones head. When in pursuit of the intangible, with only a flicker of light guide you. I want to say I have a deep burning desire and I’ve always thought “I’m gonna be a star!” But it’s not like that. It never has been for me. Music is something I do. I love to do it but it never changes the all to human feelings that can creep in on anyone given the right circumstance and alone time like this tour provides.  Will provide anyway. Looks like I’m getting an early start to the self-deprecation.

The thought comes and goes as fast as a body kit car on the 401 with a douchebag driver at the helm. I collect myself and hit the stage amongst a cloud of drinkers, a party of bitter patrons, now out $5 and to my surprise, four friends of mine who came in from Espanola (45 Mins west of Sudbury) to come see me play.

"Wet banana!"

“Holy shit, you came!” I say walking up to them, “Of course we did, we said we would.” The phrase hangs in the air. The phrase I’ve heard from friends and family, seen typed in many a Facebook message and event wall. “I’m totally coming to your show!” someone would say. And the inevitable “Oh, I totally forgot/had to work/no one wanted to go.” flaking out of what I usually calculate at 95% of human niceities and Facebook pleasantries.  To see these friends, the two I only met once, two years ago but have stayed in touch with on Facebook and who brought out two of their friends with them floors me.

We say hello, catch up and pile back inside the club so I can take the stage. Most of the grumblers, casual drinkers and Tuesday night binger’s are at the bar sharing stories, shooting pool around the corner of the bar or generally not paying attention. Scott the bartender gestures a head nod to indicate he’ll turn down the house music. “Thanks Scott!” I shout.

My friends from Espanola (Or Espo as we took to calling it) sit right up front, chatter to each other until I hit the first note then collectively snap they’re heads around to face me. “They’re actually listening,” I think. “Well that’s the point isn’t it, to come to a live venue and listen?”  One would think something so obvious to be true though you’d be surprised how often it’s not the case.

After the first song a few more people come and sit down, the applause grow as the night goes on. Bar drinkers leave they’re stools to come check out a song or two, nod in appreciation to me then return to they’re friends and drinks. A few turn to point at the stage while talking to their friends.

“You’re pretty good!” one man says at the back of the room. “Thanks!” I reply, “I just started playing this morning.” I joke.

My friends from Espo laugh and as I start another tale of another song the cell phones come out, pictures are taken tagged and uploaded to Facebook.

The night began so calm but turned into something so different.  A quote from a Sheryl Crow song sticks in my head “Listen to Coletrane, derail your own train.” It lingers in my head and I laugh as 2:30am rolls around. Friends leave with Cd’s and tee shirts they bought. A woman from Hamilton talks to me about growing up in the east end, buys some “I ♥ Kirby” buttons and thanks me for playing as she leaves.

“So you’re gonna come play in Espo right?” my one friend says as the head for the door. “Of course!” I say, “I said I would didn’t I?”

All the same I think, but totally different.