Clonakilty at the International Guitar Festival. Wrapping this tour of Ireland. Here: we watch each other's hands. He tunes too much. I don't. We tell stories. We embrace each other: friends new and old. We applaud. We shout. We gossip and laugh. We sit streetside and eat fish and chips. Some dance into the small hours of the night. But it is so much more than that.
Recently I've been watching old dogs more carefully. You see them: cheerful, wagtailing: but limping along beside their masters: and you know that the days and the months and the years are fleeting. Long in the tooth, one might say. A little grey hair, a few white whiskers: a few special pills: another trip to the vet: dreams about chasing squirrels: and running with the now grown, now gone children. They have their own dogs now. Young ones that bounce and ride in the truck: that bark at the gate: and still chase balls with purpose. I've noticed that the gear is heavier this year. And I don't always remember the names of the places where I'm going to perform tomorrow, or the next day. That shoulder is pretty sore. The one that I fell on three months ago. And these jeans are pretty threadbare, too, if you happen to see them in the right light. I can look like a street person when I need to sleep in a train station, or I can pretend to be a rock star when lounging in a hotel lobby. The truth is somewhere in between. Either way, my bladder is now similar to that of an eight year old dog, and sometimes I really need to go out. Badly. And it seems that my eyes are not what they once were. I don't beg. But I do know a few tricks. Mix a strong set with a couple of hot whiskies. Plug it in, and turn it up.
After two months of living in the Irish listings, I understand the rescue dogs better: as fellow travellers. We limp along: we shiver in the rain: we appreciate simple gifts of mercy: the divine grace of strangers: the last chances for redemption and purpose. While it has been a busy tour, I didn't see all of the Irish flowers that I wanted to see this year. And now: the gardens have been closely cut, the hedgerows trimmed, and the days of autumn numbered. Perhaps spring will come to walk me back here again: I leave in hope, yet also in some gathering sense of sadness. I've enjoyed barking at these gates, but there are still squirrels to catch, and balls to chase. Soon I'll be overweight across Africa: After I leave Doha I’ll be paying bribes on the freight. A couple of guitars, a couple of mics, a direct box, a little desk, a bunch of cables. Wagtailing in Neverland.
#livemusic #nationalsteelblues #canadiansongwriter #notfromwinnipeg #irelandblues #vintageguitar #storytelling #blackstairsbluesfestival #howthbluesfestival #seachurchballycotton #openhousebluestrail #rescuedog #deltablues #clonakilty #capetownblues #canadianblues #torontoblues @highlight #africanblues #southafricablues. My pal James Carr took this picture in Clonakilty, Ireland.
