Midsummer Concert with Jerry Leger and Shawn William Clarke; The Lessons Of Seeing Music by John Rutherford

MIDSUMMER SESSIONS CONCERT WELCOMES THE SEASON OF BOUNTIFUL HARVEST - OF MUSIC AND GOOD VIBES

GUEST MUSICIANS, JERRY LEGER AND SHAWN WILLIAM CLARKE, WELL RECEIVED AT ST. JAMES ANGLICAN CHURCH, IN GRAVENHURST

     The performances of Jerry Leger and Shawn William Clarke were being taped live, for future media use, in the amazing open-rafter church building, on that nicely treed corner of urban landscape, on Hotchkiss Street, less than a block from the main street, here in our hometown.
     We want to thank all those faithful patrons who showed up on a rather blustery, cool evening, traditional of a Muskoka midsummer's day.
     It's always a risky enterprise, running concerts, during the full-to-overflowing summer season, where each municipality, each town, village and hamlet, tries to out perform the other, by bringing in major entertainment, and some of the finest entertainers on the continent. There aren't many days in July and August, when you can't find a theatre production to attend, a free concert in the park, guest lectures, interesting workshops, a museum tour to join, ghost walks, and live music at a wide array of unique venues, including this one tonight; at St. James Anglican Church in Gravenhurst.
     In other words, it's a population, of permanent, seasonal and vacationers, divided, as to what is the best value, suited to their interests in the performing arts. So it wasn't the kind of crowd, Andrew and Robert, of Currie's Music, were counting on, but they realize the competition has deep pockets to advertise, and a media that chases those who they count as customers. We're not thusly appointed in this regard.
     As both boys are fearless about such things, and rarely lose sleep about filling the venue, the only real concern, is that the performers, who so kindly agree to participate, in the Sessions Concerts, aren't upset, because there's not a "standing-room-only" crowd. We've been impressed so much by these stalwart, weathered, travelling musicians, who would gladly play for a single patron, versus packing up their gear angrily, and heading off to the next, much more prosperous, community venue. In this regard, as compensation for what we don't have as an audience, we make it an otherwise pleasing vacation-event, for the musicians; regardless of attendance. And the thunder of applause, is made up in-kind, with post performance handshakes, and well wishes, plus their mother's homemade cookies. That's kind of nice too.
     Both Andrew and Robert are committed to running these concert events, because they believe, that over time, the local citizenry will step up, and support what they say they want, as entertainment options. I'm sure they wonder what it takes, to prove to their hometown, that they are sincere about working hard to maintain a bright lustre, of arts and culture; and if they are discouraged, they won't admit it, to me or anyone else. To them it would be a weakening of the resolve, to keep on plugging ahead, if they decided to drop the series because of low turn-outs. Instead, they get their inspiration from the musicians, themselves, who they know, are the ones who can truly herald change in attitudes, all on their own. Those who do attend, are being treated to good shows, and ones that they talk about the next day, and recommend the shows to others. The spin of goodwill goes on and on. Yet we all hate the fact, that these musicians, who have come all this way, have not been afforded the home hospitality, we think they deserve; and that comes from attending the shows.     When the residents, and sundry other movers and shakers of this burg, of Gravenhurst, and vicinity, complain about a shortage of entertainment options, or suggest there is a shortfall of exciting performers, at venues a short drive or walk away, well, we have to wonder what it would really take, to bring them out to one of our shows. It's not like we wouldn't give them free tickets, to help us welcome our special guests. Might a Gravenhurst council representative show up? Not bloody likely. But then we know this in advance, so we are never disappointed. Yet it is done to bolster opportunity for this community;  our future will include performances by local groups. We'd really like to have a local audience as well.
     I know both lads, who think a lot about this town, are going to continue to promote these Sessions Events, because that's the true grit of musicians, who back other musicians. They're tough cookies. They want our musician friends, past, present and future, to know, that we appreciate the fact, they came to our town to entertain us, for a small amount of compensation, and we will be forever indebted for their kindness; and their engaging performances.
     To Jerry Leger, and Shawn William Clarke, we extend our thanks, and a little apology, about not being able to attract a larger crowd, to enjoy such inspiring Canadian music. For those who did attend, God bless. There's more good music, in a great venue, coming down the pike.

JERRY LEGER OPENS THE EVENING FESTIVITIES WITH A TRAVERSE THROUGH TIME AND PLACES WE USED TO KNOW

    (Jerry Leger's album - "Early Riser")  If you are future minded, his is a name to remember. It will be repeated and reverently referred to, by fans, and soon-to-be fans, for many years to come. The audience here, at St. James Anglican Church, tonight, can say they saw him when; and at a time when he was well on his road, to a solid foothold, in the accomplished rank and file, of best and most frequently noted folk singers in this country. He is as smooth a singer, guitar player, as he is, to the contrary, like the rough bark, of a weather-battered pine, reflecting boldly, and stately, in the sun-shadows etching down on a summer lake. It is a fine amalgamation of "the gentle" and "the rugged," but in the same song, where if you're intuitive enough, you can see banding ripples on what you assumed was still water. Myths are meant to be challenged, broken, and re-written, and I like that he doesn't take his audience for granted, by letting it sit back, with idle minds, and trace apathy. We are all in this together, and it's a pleasant experience, even just to drop our defenses, for a moment or so, to all things that might make us feel guilty and liberated, from the burdensome commonplaces of work and responsibility.
    Jerry Leger gives us a free pass, to explore ourselves. A chance to get away from it all, for just a while, and dream old dreams; sense again, all those familiar voices, that echo behind us, and to follow pathways we swear to know from a previous life. Music is meant to motivate. Intended to generate imagination, and stir the soul, to rise up and tear off the links of chain that bind us; to then explore whatever, wherever it pleases. How kind a man, to invite us on stage, as his true back-up spirit.    
    Inside what is discernible, as honest and heartfelt, without pretense or charade, facade, or the makeup of musical theatre, dwells the body and heart, of a fine musician, who trusts himself to lead the way; without the need of a precise map to anywhere in particular. He trusts his senses to traverse the route, and in a short time, we have come to respect his judgement.
    Jerry Leger, a travelling musician of considerable mileage, ground into his shoe leathers, has been down this path before, many times, and could hoof-it blindly, if the need arose. Much as if he can feel the imprints, of his own footfall, from all the other times, he's performed out in the open. No one to accompany him, or back-up his performance, to bulk-up the show. He's on his own, and the triumph of performance, is that those who follow behind, are never led off course; or fooled by the trickery of the musician's slight of hand. Or musical infilling, just to dress up what is plain and beautiful as it is. Such that, if you should actually pinch the man, he would wince as honestly, as his guitar is played. All truths of the senses, merging at the same time, show the character patina, reflecting a little of each place he has ever played; each audience he has performed in front of, and every mile travelled, having added to his depth of character; and the choice of songs, is mindful of all this enrichment, of adventures lived, and celebrated. Never just endured as part of the profession's standard of trial by fire.
     Jerry Leger is a folk singer with a story-teller's passion, and he offers the audience an opportunity to drop into his world, and not only look over his shoulder, at the landscape, and cycle of events unfolding, but gently places us shoulder to shoulder, such that we become all first person attendants, of his unfolding biography. He could have excluded us. Performed over and around us, but he waved us to come closer, because that's the kind of performer he aspires to be. Where lives should be shared, and adventures captured for posterity. Jerry Leger is not a flashy performer, who relies on anything more than sensitivity, and lots of it, to reach his audience; much as we might be drawn around a campfire, because it is warm; sitting beside a still Muskoka Lake, on such a chilly August evening as this. The flicker of the flames in an enchanted play of light and shadow, with the faint illumination of the Northern Lights, wavering over the horizon pines in a deep black late summer sky. This is not cliche. It's what a happy camper thinks about, hearing his music. There is the occasional cold chill, as if the tale is true, that someone, just then, had walked over a grave; but then again, we are rescued by the quaint comforts of soothing music, that suddenly, in new tempo, releases us from our fears, of what might lurk in the darkness, away from the safety of the fire. The urge is to crowd a little closer, and in this way, the guitar, and voice of Jerry Leger, inspires, like the rigorous snap and spark of a dry cedar log, on a blazing campfire, and our attention comes full circle. We have been thoroughly relaxed and then fully entertained.
     So when we hear the rippling of a phantom canoe, in the moonlit solitude, and the drip of water droplets, off a paddle blade that really doesn't exist, we appreciate just how powerful the artist-musician is, who can make anything come true, in the haunting glow of a crackling fire that afterall, never really existed. Thank you Jerry Leger for stimulating our imaginations.

SHAWN WILLIAM CLARKE, LIKE THE COMING OF AUTUMN, WARMS WITH SONG, HERALDING A MORE COLORFUL SEASON YET TO COME

     Shawn William Clarke will be releasing his new album in September. We got to hear a few songs taken from the new CD, recorded for interests' sake, here in Gravenhurst, courtesy Mr. Clarke, this past Friday night, at our August Sessions Concert.
     It was sort of like, that solid, secure moment, when you land the canoe, on a stretch of isolated sand beach, paddles stretched across the gunnels for balance, you no longer need worry about; and feel compelled to just sit there. Unwilling to spoil the moment, by getting up, or climbing out of the vessel, so perfectly balanced in the water, and on land at the same moment; caught in the mesmerizing tranquility of waves, lifting and then dropping the stern of the canoe, like the rocking of an occupied cradle. It's a moment to savour. A time to reflect. To just sit there and enjoy all which might transpire, from that point in time. A traverse of a windswept, rough lake, has been successfully exercised. Yet there is a reluctance to end it suddenly, without the full appreciation of this moment of conquest; this soft landing along a forgiving shoreline, that keeps us upright, but we don't always know why. This is my summation, of how I felt, at the end of Shawn Clarke's set, this evening. We have arrived after a tantalizingly amazing paddle, safe and sound, and enthralled, about all nature's art we have witnessed, and explored, on our adventure. I can't pay a higher compliment. I am a writer who loves music, the open lake, soft landings, and his old canoe.
     It was the perfect follow-through for the evening, coming from Shawn William Clarke; a musician friend of ours, from Toronto, with a bit of his heart, still in Orillia, where his family lives; who has spent time recording his latest, newest CD, at our music studio, at Currie's Music, in the former Muskoka Theatre building, a couple of stone throws to the east.
     I feel comfortable with his casual folk style, because I've been listening to his recordings for months, as the resident writer, who lodges daily in the recording studio, hoping a stray musician will drop by for a visit. Shawn, now officially a member of our extended musician family, has a gentle way of getting into your psyche, and he's been doing it for months, as I listen and work away on unrelated projects. I am sure he's influenced my work, and about a hundred columns, since his CD started to be played, by studio master, son Robert, first thing each morning, when I'm what he calls "owly," meaning I think, of "precarious good humor." I suppose he has found the music of Shawn William Clarke, playing in the background, soothes the savage beast of the writer, craving a news source, or at the very least, a starting sentence to follow my byline. A coffee would be nice, I like to remind the wee lad. He puts on Shawn's CD, as a first mellowing step in the normalizing regimen, for grumpy old dad.
     I would suggest, that to review his work, this evening, puts me in a mild state of conflict of interest. I would start by suggesting, I have grown very fond of the young gent, because I'm now probably twice as prolific, as when his work wasn't being played regularly, in this little slice of urban paradise, we call our recording studio. A few readers have even remarked, with a tell-tale grin, that something must have changed in my life, because my work is so much more profound, and sensory perceptive. And while I'd like to take total credit, for this surge of creativity, I would be a dirty rotten scoundrel, not to throw a bouquet to Shawn Clarke; for having unknowingly provided, you see, a little background music, in which to gain some of the creature comforts, of a style and composition of music I find as stalwart, rugged, and gently reliable, as Tom Thomson's depiction of a Northern Lake; and of this, I am always willing to expose myself to inspirations, that are currented my way, in sun or storm, on the lake of my choosing.
     I like his work, and methinks the audience, here in the hallowed hall of St. James Anglican Church, thought so too, judging by the large applause from a modest crowd. There's a cultural celebration in his work, and I'm not sure he knows how much good he's doing, for those of us, who look out over this hauntingly magnificent landscape, of Canada, and wonder, momentarily, quietly, what binds it all together; this folk art we call our national dream. Our advice to him, is that he should continue creating his tantalizing music, to entertain us again and again. Shawn, I look forward to you coming into our studio, to beat the beast from within, and inspire me to see the good, where I perceive a resident negativity has burrowed. It dwells you see, in the writer, who can't write without the indulgence, of what for me, is "comfort" music.
     Thank you Shawn Clarke and Jerry Leger, for entertaining us to such a flourish of inspiration, on a midsummer's evening, here in South Muskoka.

TO HECK WITH SANTA CLAUS - THERE SHOULD BE A STATUE OF BAND CONDUCTOR, JOHN RUTHERFORD IN MEMORIAL PARK

HIS CONTRIBUTION TO MUSIC IN BRACEBRIDGE WAS LANDMARK, AND A TURNING POINT FOR A LOT OF ASPIRING MUSICIANS

     Earlier this morning, I was sitting here, in the temporary peace and quiet, of our Gravenhurst music studio, thinking about the reviews I wrote last evening (as published above), at the Sessions Concert, with musicians Jerry Leger and Shawn William Clarke, at St. James Anglican Church. I guess what I was contemplating, was more of a personal critique, in between the mental arcade game, of trying to find something interesting to write about. As I've noted previously, I am not a music critic by profession or qualification. I just attend our concerts as a supportive parent, and I also happen to be a writer of a blog. I guess you might say, I weigh-in on the concerts, as a ball playing haunting the left field.
     Even when I was writing for the community press, and attending concerts regularly, I was usually so full of complimentary booze, delivered to my table, I just offered praise in return for favors. We all hated ourselves back then, but we never stopped taking the freebies, and handing out glowing reviews, always being hinged on the fact, the venues were without coincidence, major advertisers with our publication; and even if the shows were horrible, it was incumbent upon us, to write exceedingly well of them, for three distinctly important reasons. First, we were broke, so anything that provided food and beverage, plus entertainment, was seen as a fringe benefit to a low wage. Secondly, many of us were single, and we wanted to get in good with the performers, who might consider a good review, reason enough to date us, some time down the dusty road. Thirdly, because we lived cheque to cheque, and barely made rent each month, we couldn't afford to write reviews with any degree of honesty. It was our job, you see, to make advertisers happy with the business deal they had arranged with the paper. We found ways, over time, of writing reviews that were positive but not in the glowing sense of what we had done for others, far more deserving. And the best part, was that we got to keep our jobs. You just couldn't call a play a "train wreck," and expect the theatre company to keep paying for a full page ad, with full color, in our summertime weekly. I hated myself, but I learned to live with it!    The only backslide to this, was when, because of the positive reviews we wrote, readers went to the show on our advice, and hated every moment; and then let us know how crappy we were, at reviewing concerts and summer theatre. They wanted us to pay for their ticket refunds.
     Well, that was then, this is now! I don't do that any more, and there are no fringe benefits, because the shows my sons promote today, were designed to break-even, and after expenses, the performers split ticket sales. It changes show to show. There has been no profit for the boys, since the Sessions Shows began, well more than a year ago. It is of course, an advertising advantage for us, and in fact, other than facebook pages, it's the only advertising we pay for, throughout the business year. But we don't take out full page ads, or buy spots on the local radio station. It wouldn't make much difference anyway, except put the cost of the shows fifty percent higher, and there would be less money to divide between the performers. I know about these things, from many years of immersion, deep, deep, in the print industry.
     I do not write commercially targeted reviews. There is no gain for me, and likely not much for the performers, other than scrapbook infilling, if even that! I am not informed enough about music, in the contemporary sense, to write the kind of helpful critiques, that an artist could actually learn from, which would be nice, I suppose. I'm kind of old and crusty, and impatient with that kind of thing, which got me thinking about my former music teacher, in Bracebridge, John Rutherford, who taught me how to appreciate the art of music, as a player, not a bystander. He inspired me to see music, but all he really did, was amplify what I'd been doing naturally since childhood. John put a practical application to the process, and his approach to music has worked for me, in so many ways, ever since. So I was thinking about John, as if he was sitting on the sofa beside me; mind to mind, offering an silent explanation, as to why it is, I continue to personalize the music I hear. And play out so many real-nature scenarios, that come to mind, immediately, when there is music being performed around me. I can't help it. I am still a child of nature, and I pay much more attention to the sounds, than the actual content of the songs. Sort of like the way we used to dissect famous poems, for their true meaning, back in high school english class; revealing to our surprise, something beyond the initial impression. Like Robert Frost's famous poem, about "Birches," and "Stopping By A Woods, On A Snowy Evening," which after literary analysis, nature has a lot less to do with the poet's inner meaning, than say, the politics of the day in America.
      I'm not saying I was getting all kinds of deep-seeded messages, from the performances of Jerry Leger, and Shawn William Clarke, but I was being motived by the music itself, more so than from the titles of the songs, or the words of the story-line. In my defense, it is the combination of the guitar and vocals, that peaks my most poignant adventures of imagination. It was an imbedded resource I possessed, as child; but a skill that was honestly honed by John Rutherford, my conductor-mentor, who seemed to know there was something weird about the kid, from Alice Street, beyond what he could perform for the band, with a brass contraption, known as a "baritone."
     Sitting here today, thinking back to how I was taught, about music, and all its dimensions, in John's class, I suppose I do owe my teacher a belated thank-you, for something he did for me, that he probably never thought about thereafter. John passed away this year, and so did his wife Dorothy. I had waited too long, to thank him, for broadening my perspective, and improving my skills as a musician.
     As the Town of Bracebridge, is currently entertaining the idea, of helping to finance a $40,000 sculpture of Santa Claus, to be mounted somewhere on the main street of town, as a business promotion, with a Christmas-time theme, I have been coming up with many more deserving citizens of the past, who have earned a little extra recognition, for the way they turned the community in a positive direction. Gosh, if I had $40,000, I would commission a bronze statue of John Rutherford, in one of his most memorable poses, holding onto his conductor's baton, with hands at both ends, with the stick showing a definite upward, or downward bow, as if, at any moment, it would snap in two. This was what we all knew of John Rutherford's fierce determination, to discipline his band, to perform what was written in front, to the best of our ability; which he felt was at least twenty-five percent higher than we assessed of ourselves.
     Even audiences recognized, when John was at his most intense final moments before implosion. He would clench the baton in the wishbone position, tighten up the muscles of his face, and then, if necessary, turn, slowly, almost clumsily, as if to start boxing an opponent. His position, to face the audience, came when he presumed they must be at fault; and with great concentration, he'd snap the baton in half, as if someone's limb, dropping both ends to the podium surface. It was the peak of his emotion. He was angry. He felt minimized by either the audience, or disrespected by his musicians, who by the way, loved the man regardless of his frequent displays of anger. I remember John doing this, during a concert, at a private school in England, while we were on tour in the spring of 1974. The British students were talking, and laughing, through the music of "Lohengrin," by Richard Wagner, one piece of really tough music we handled well, and John felt the teachers in attendance, weren't doing a thing to calm the situation. At first, when he started to bow the baton, we thought it was something we had been doing, and keep in mind, it was in the middle of the piece, so we had also, temporarily lost communication with the mother ship. When he turned, with his heavy feet, and substantial frame, we simply stopped playing, and nervously waited the very next event to manifest, from up on that stage. He stood there for a moment, quietly, as if a cobra about to strike, looking out onto the unruly audience. But everyone in that huge room, heard the snap of the white polished baton, being snapped-off into two pieces; and the subsequent bone chilling sound, of both ends bouncing off the conductor's podium, and then tumbling off, onto the stage itself. This is the part where we braced for the wild howl of the north Canadian wind. There was no instrument on earth, that was louder, than John Rutherford's voice, when he bellowed over the heads of five hundred badly behaved brats; and every teacher felt the scorn of this Canadian band leader, unimpressed by the school's hospitality to that point. We held our breath until he was finished, but I'm sure we all thanked God silently, that he hadn't broken his baton because of some shortfall on our part. He had done it many times, and it was never pleasant. So why would I ever find this endearing? Why would it be appropriate, to create a statue of a man, in a pose, just about to break a baton in two, because of some perceived discreditable conduct? Well, that's kind of the magic of the guy, in the first place. His intensity was a part of his character. Even when he laughed he was intense. Conducting, he might as well have been the reanimated Richard Wagner himself. But damn-it, he gave us a discipline about music, and its performance, that made us all respect the importance of playing it the correct way; not how we thought it should be played, or any interpretations, based on our prowess on respective instruments. He wanted us to be self critical, and to never, ever, give ourselves a pass, when in our hearts, we knew we'd cut a few corners in performance standards. His view was, that if this snuck through, it would become a regular occurrence, and we would pass off bad habits, to all the other musicians in the band. He wasn't wrong.
     I often think of myself, as irreverently undisciplined. Even to the point of delusion. I can even come to believe, I am easy-going, and so accomplished, that I no longer require critiques of my work, at this time of my writing career. It's on these occasions, honestly, that the image of John will just pop-up, and scare the hell out of me, because he's always in that statuesque pose, even if he's sitting down; where he's soon going to fly into a rage, because I've shown weakness at my craft, by simply being complacent about my skill-level. He wasn't my writing coach, and I never confided in him, about my interests to one day become a writer. His repeating, ever-so subtle lesson, for all these years, has been as simple as a broken baton, to make a point. That I had become weak. Ridiculously weak, and was sacrificing all the work I had done, for all the years spent building for the future, because of a reckless cockiness, about self improvement; staring through me with the profound message, that one should never assume that the best has been achieved, and that there is nothing left to be matured or improved upon. He did this for many of his students, over the years, he was the lead conductor of the music program, at Bracebridge and Muskoka Lakes Secondary School, as it used to be, on that corner of (Rosemount) Tanbark Hill, and McMurray Street.
      John Rutherford insisted that we be uncompromising, and disciplined about everything connected to music, practice, performance, and even instrument handling and cleaning. It was an almost military arrangement, and there were quite a few kids who were intimidated out of their sneakers, by this imposing, posturing chap, on the riser above his flock; yet in reflection, the survivors of the program, can look back on this period of instruction, as being both necessary, precedent setting, relevant to the rest of our lives, and bloody-well inspiring.  The statue, in this pose, would show just how intense and determined the man was, turning students into musicians, who would travel abroad, and bring positive credits back to the hometown. This happened on and following every single band trip, and it was important to John, and he knew, eventually in retrospective, we would feel the same way; and have that "wow" moment, down the road a tad, realizing suddenly, how the power of music, executed properly, could finger its way into everything else we were pursuing in the professional sense. We could be better at our jobs, having experienced the results discipline could generate. We had the tools to become better dentists, engineers, contractors, doctors, lawyers, business owners, and even writers. There wouldn't be a single former student of John Rutherford's, who wouldn't understand the "pose of intensity," which, if was paralleled in nature, would be a sudden dam stopping the flow of the Niagara River, just as it was about to crash, and thunder, over the brink of the great falls. We knew the look and the fall-out, and we did everything in our power to avoid it, whenever possible. Still, we had to experience it, to gain the benefit of his wisdom, played out so poignantly, for all to see.
     This is a long overview, to partly explain, my own intensity, listening to the music I adore. I too, have a little of the Rutherford intensity in my blood, and it always serves a greater purpose. I am discerning, and I do know what I like. When I do give my viewpoint, it's based on all that is in my past, and it includes those moments, good and adverse, with John Rutherford staring me down; but always in a way I could learn from, and improve myself, at the same time. He taught me a love for music well beyond instructing me, on how to play the baritone "contraption". In many ways that I can't quite explain, he gave me reason to question my general impatience, for just about everything, including music, and try a different, more spirit-full approach, to the appreciation of the performing arts. I've been doing this ever since, and it may be the only time I'm truly patient, on any day in any week; when I have the privilege of listening to the work of others, live or as a recording here in the studio. Music well played, always gave John a wee grin, as if it had been played that way, just to please his taste, and his model of proficiency. More than just the fundamentals of playing well, he showed us in so many ways, how we should listen and interpret a musical performance; grading it as much, on how it made our senses tingle, the goose-bumps when played perfectly, and sensing the story within the music. His idea of well executed music, was that it inspire thoughtfulness, and spark imagination; and if it did neither, it was a waste of time for everyone on stage, or in the audience.
     When I heard that John had passed away, after a long and painful illness, I immediately imagined that pose with the baton, as if he was still sending me the message, that I was to pursue life with determination and passion; and if I dared again, to pick up that baritone to play, that I would insist of myself, a level of excellence, such that I had never achieved at any time previous. Well, I didn't resort back to the baritone, to pick up where I left off. I did begin applying it however, to my writing, as a sort of brush-up, as he would have approved; like applying oil to the valves of the great horn which I often neglected.  And each and every time, I am in a position to do a small, happenstance overview, of a musical performance, whatever that might involve, I put myself voluntarily in his company, as an ongoing source of inspiration, and reminder, of the successes discipline initiates.
     Music, you see, and hear, is supposed to nurture and cultivate imagination. That's all there is to it! I found that healthy vein of inspiration last evening, at St. James Anglican Church. I credit John Rutherford, for me being able to visualize music; but that's not such a bad affliction to have, when reviewing concerts. At least to me. You have to judge whether I've lived up to Mr. Rutherford's standard.
     Thanks so much for visiting with me today. Did I mention I love music. Explains why I immerse myself in it constantly! Even at this moment, there is a strange confluence of music, from a variety of shop sources. I'm not complaining. Just living the life of a humble, retiring writer in a studio residence.