When I started out with The Stickpeople a million years ago, I had a soundman, Leslie Charbon. He was a part of the band. It was a luxury, something I learned when I started touring without him. Every night became a crapshoot, and chances were that the more competent the person sounded over the phone in the days/weeks leading up to landing at their venue, the bigger the gamble when it came to showtime and the more disappointed I would be. Sometimes it would feel like yelling into the wind for two hours.
As the band has grown for the Nights of Grief & Mystery, it has become clear that we need a sound person, so for this tour we bit the bullet and hired Joe Meekums. I had long forgotten the impact on stage of knowing that shit was being handled out front, that we had a co-conspirator out there with a vested interest in helping us get to where we so deeply want to go every Night we do this.
I am (we are) indebted to Joe (quite literally) for being reminded that the words, lyrics, melodies, grace notes, subtleties, silences and roars are all worth being heard out there in the rooms we play.
Thank you, Joe.
Portsmouth, Hampshire, England.
Last night’s gig was sold out thanks to the tireless efforts of a few visionary folk here. I’m shitty at geography, so didn’t know much about this place.
Here’s what I DO know now:
I’m staying in a house once owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle;
The theatre we played in was built in 1874;
Henry the 8th stood on a tower around the corner from where I’m writing and watched his beloved ship, the Mary Rose, unexplainably sink before his eyes en route to battle the French;
The theatre we played in was where Charles Dickens’ mother went into labour with him;
In a part of England that was flattened by bombing in WW2, the theatre we played in was left standing because it was owned at the time by a Nazi sympathizer who helped guide German war planes toward the harbour using lights on the theatre roof;
The queen of England is here today.
The president of the United States is here today.
Peter Sellers was born above the Chinese food place down on the corner;
The neighbourhood I’m staying in was in lockdown last night, a curfew enforced, and our drummer had to leave the post-gig meal withoutapple crumble and creme fraiche so as not to be arrested after midnight;
There are snipers on roof tops;
Choppers in the air, keeping the tension company.
The Unrepentant Night is a recasting of songs from 2017’s Vain + Alone 2.0. There is not much to say with regard to the “why” of it, except to say that it is this artist’s desire to have his songs live for more than the allotted 2 minutes the current clime affords them, such is his attachment to them. Also, it is this artist’s opinion that Kevin Breit is a genius and the honour of having him turn his considerable talents on these songs is all mine. Breit’s playing and producing relationship with music is all chest down: there is very little of The Head that gets in the way, other than the requisite amount to move muscles, tendons, and the like, and there is palpable feel and intention in his approach. It could be said that his head helps him get to the heart of the thing, then it fucks off.
I’m proud of what I did on Vain + Alone and equally proud of the decision to pursue this recording in the manner I did. I learned an untold amount from afar watching Kevin Breit reshape the songs. Understand, I was not a part of any of those decisions. I wrote the songs and sang the songs. That’s all. As he describes it, the kids would leave for school at 8:30am, he’d sit with a pad in his lap in front of his gear and put his head down to listen to the V+A version, then its 3:30pm, the kids would be coming through the door, the head would snap up to greet them and the bulk of a track was done.
About as close to magic as I might ever get.
Produced, performed, arranged, engineered, and mastered by Kevin Breit
Written and sung by Gregory Hoskins
Additional appearances by:
Mike Stevens, harmonica
Ciro De Batista, drums and percussion
Batt Brubeck, cello
Davide Direnzo, drums
Lisa Hodgson, bg vox
Produced in part thanks to a grant from The Ontario Arts Council.
On my way to the funeral of an old friend this morning, I got a note from Laurie Brown that a podcast went live today that she and her team had woven together centred on an interview with Stephen and tracks from A Night of Grief and Mystery. For those of you who don’t know, Laurie has long been a fixture of Canadian broadcasting and has always brought a fresh perspective to her line of questioning when acting as an interviewer and a deeply creative approach to her hosting duties. Having signed off from CBC’s The Signal last year, she has made her broadcast home at lauriebrown.ca where she continues to create her innovative conversations with listeners in her Pondercasts.
Today’s weather was typically awful, the driving treacherous, the funeral heart wrenching/beautiful, the welcome home warm. We sat and listened to the pod cast and I couldn’t have planned a better way to end this day.
Get comfy, light a fire if you’ve got one, or maybe a candle, and drink in this gem of modern broadcasting. It is about dying, and it’s just as much about living.
I know other singers can slide easily into the skins of songs they didn’t write, but I cant. It is such a self-conscious thing for me because I’m always sure that I never get it quite right. This is probably because I don’t see myself as a singer: When I fill out a car loan application, I put “Songwriter” or “Musician”, or “Artist” if I feel like brightening their day in the credit department. Not “Singer”. The only time I sing songs I didn’t write is when I sing with the Art of Time Ensemble and by the time I walk out on stage, I’ve wrestled my way inside the songs as much as I can, mostly desperate to not oversing the thing, but create some kind of respectful distance. A song aint just notes and words…not songs I agree to sing, anyway. There is some kind of intention woven into the songs I agree to sing and that is the thing I’m trying to locate…more the bones of the song rather than the skin. Most often the songs are some kind of iconic. Yesterday, a friend pointed me to a video that was recorded earlier this year of a performance of Chancellor by Gord Downie and there I saw another clip of After Mardi Gras by Steve Earle.
I came to these songs a stranger, as I come to most songs that aren’t mine. I’d forgotten I’d sang Chancellor and whinced my way through the video. I’d never heard the song before being asked to sing it (and I was asked as if it was assumed I knew of it) and it was a tender time in the arc of the story that had emerged about Gord Downie and so I climbed into the song with even more uncertainty than usual. Making my way around the atypical phrasing and imagery of Chancellor was more difficult than contending with the desire for redemption and the self immolation of the heart in Steve Earle’s Mardi Gras. It was Gord’s vampire versus Steve’s inner demons… I dunno… As I wrote that just now, it occurred to me perhaps the songs had more in common than I thought.
In any case, the thing I did note in these video performances was the tenderness in the arrangements (courtesy of Kevin Fox and Jonathan Goldsmith), the focus of the players on the stage, and the respect I remember feeling everybody bringing to the enterprise. I am sharing the stage with Andrew Burashko, Drew Jurecka, Mark Mariash, Don Rooke, Rob Piltch, Rachel Mercer, Douglas Perry, Joseph Phillips, Stephen Sitarski, Kevin Turcotte, Bryan Holt, and John Johnson.
And we all, on the stage and in the house, were surely sharing the minutes with the spirit of the songwriters: Steve Earle and Gord Downie.
I went to the Louvre once. It was 1987. I was 23. I was on a belated honeymoon trip. I ate french fries on the patio while playing Crazy Eights, mistakenly sat on a Louis the XIV chair and set off the alarm, and lined up to see the Mona Lisa only to bail on the lineup and take pictures of people looking at the Mona Lisa instead.
I’m not very good in museums. I become super self-conscious in crowds, and in art galleries I break into a sweat under the pressure of liking what I’m seeing, or the expectation of my having an intelligent opinion because, apparently, it is not enough to like a painting, to be intrigued or moved by it: you have to know why and be able to tell your mates…and anyone else in earshot…if you talk loud enough.
A couple weeks ago, L & I were in Montreal and took in the Chagall exhibit at the Musee Des Beaux Arts. It was near the end of the exhibit’s run and the place was packed. People moved from room to room like sheep and I was a sweaty mess of nerves within a few minutes but I discovered something important: I enjoy seeing paintings when I can get up close…really up close. Like sitting in the Louis the XIV chair kind of close.
I found a painting that didn’t have a crowd gathered around it…a portrait Chagall had done of his father (he did a few, I think). With my nose a few inches away from it, I took my time looking at the canvas without the feeling of 50 pairs of eyes drilling into my back.
I saw ridges– the pressure exerted, all the places the painter decided to stop moving the brush, the exact moments his brain signaled the muscles in his arm, wrist, and fingers to ease up or bear down or change direction. Up close, the thing was a study in intention, force, and trust. Micro movements and decisions made on some sub-existent level. The place where what is invited and what actually appears seem to work it out for the greater good, all caught in oil and pigment a few inches from my nose. Looking at it like this allowed me to relate to the humanity of the painting, and of the painter. I appreciated how he painted those he loved, and that he painted himself, too.
I lasted longer than I thought in the gallery, but will confess we did spend a good portion of time in the Kids Chagall Colour Zone playing with puppets. Well, one puppet. A donkey puppet. I loved that puppet.