We've been bumping The Kills at our house lately, Cat and I– we both have work to do, and we want to recreate the excitement that Jamie Hince and Allison Mossheart gave us the other week at the Commodore Ballroom (along with their guns and LA Witch, who killed it as well). Cat's an artist and a teacher, and the two of us have similar issues with productivity and faith in the absence of inspiration. It's not that we don't want to work; it's just we need something to burn the same as steam engines, and we get sluggish when we go too long without the kind of coal you get at places like rock and roll shows.
A couple of Tuesdays ago, we were driving south from Whistler, the place where we met and the place we've always thought of as our home. Cat had just interviewed for a job, and I'd spent a few days womping with a dog, Bodhi, who we'd lived with in Pemberton a year or so earlier. Talk of the future has been a running theme and the CR-V was heavy with it– by the time my eyes were stealing glances at Serratus we had talked ourselves within the draws of anxiety. I was thinking quickly with the radio low and Cat was looking for a way in to the show (I f*cked up getting tickets, I was waiting for a cheque). My mind was everywhere from Trump to my magazines to Cat's career, and occasionally on moving all of it to Europe or Tofino or somewhere else with lots of new. I think Cat was pushing back the realization that her reality was about to gain momentum in the shift it started a few years back. Her interview had gone pretty well. She found tickets cheaper than face value, and the world showed us once again that it was there for us. The Sea-to-Sky started, in its ambling way, to once again become a road toward a beautiful and revitalizing night.
We ate at Hungry Guys Kitchen on Granville– finding a bit of decent food made us feel better about being downtown. A lot of nights my net emotional input in the city's entertainment district (in any city's entertainment district) swings into the red– I don't like seeing a lot of what goes down, though I do try to appreciate everybody's reasons for being where they are. It's hard on me, I'm too impressionable to endure so many sights I see as sad. But Vancouver was in her rougue that night, wearing the hints of the perfume she wore at the Olympics and at Game 5 of 2011's final– she looked good. There were enough late-twenties to mid-forties rockers around to give some texture to the flocks of club kids, and against the music crowd's denim even the young and painted looked to have some style. Cat recognized the some of the buskers and street folk– she's been in Vancouver long enough to know it now. We talked a bit about that. There's a lot more in the world that we connect with through shared experience now. It's very cool.
LA Witch was coming on as we got settled. The three-piece played surfy rock and roll with enough grit to give its California sound some edge. We found a spot near the front and the speakers hit me hard. The bassist was driving with a heavy foot and the sound shook my body. Cat loved it, she turned around and smiled a full moment, then looked back with all her focus to the girls on stage. I watched the guitarist, trying to learn her songs, and the crowd moved and whooped. Energy was high and the air felt good– LA Witch had the room warm within a couple of songs, and by the end of their set we were a better audience than a good chunk of those I've been part of in Vancouver.