The Prime of My Life

The reality that this post, which I meant to write with all good intentions weeks ago, has now come to feature prominently on the first of the new year may belie the constitution with which I made the resolution to post more frequently. Broken resolutions aside, this post is meant to be a summation of the year past, a review of the body of time referred to shortly as twenty eleven.

As a consequence of my birthday, the revolution of the Earth around the sun from one January to the next has always paralleled fairly closely with the passing of my age, give or take 24 days. The result has been that every year gets a defined age value, a set denomination of my longevity for every wall calendar purchased. As it turns out, the age for 2011 was twenty-three, which was, as the old idiom goes, effectively the prime of my life.

Now I say this affectionately, as it is inherently based on a corny joke that I continued to make throughout the duration of the year. If you, like me, possess a rudimentary knowledge of baseline public school math, then the concept of prime numbers (those which can only be divided by themselves and one) is something that you know of, if not have forgotten as it lost its need to be retained in the real world.

Now by no means is twenty-three the first time in my life that I was prime, as 2, 3, 5, 7, 9, 11, 13, 17 and 19 may take offense if I was so inclined to exclude them offhand. Yet, I will say that it is the first time I've been so outside the range of the milestone birthdays, which can be defined as any increase in age that earns you the right to a societal privilege. Compound onto my bad joke that 2011 was the first time I really felt like I was living my life how I wanted to, and the true reason for the goofy pun emerges: in a year that was hallmarked by economic crisis and the death of countless evil societal figures, I finally reached an operational baseline for my existence that I was content with; my prime.

The year began with Africa, which introduced me to the harsh reality of the world outside the west. A world that desperately wants to join the future, grasps at new technology, but implements and relies on it without the infrastructure or resources to make it dependable. A world easy to forget, where your dollar a day builds a water pump or school that goes derelict in a year when they run out of money to pay the upkeep. I was put in a place where consumerism couldn't be viable, lived in it, with it, adapted to it and then wrestled with my own conscience as I returned home to slip back into old habits. I realized how weak people are when faced with comfort, how weak I am when faced with what's easy, and hoped that acknowledgement of a problem is the first step to a solution. Twenty-eleven was a year of shifting comfort zones, from home to the extreme, and then back in a blink of an eye. I won't bore you here with stories out of Africa; there are many posts dedicated to that trip that are easy to access and give you a better idea of my attitude at the time.

The second half of the year was a stark contrast to the preceding months, and predominately featured me jumping through the hoops to lock down another piece of my hazy and steadily shifting future. It was a time of relative ease, relative fitness and emotional annoyance. The end result however proved to be fruitful, and those fruits have turned out to be a job in Japan, one of the things I listed as a thing to do on my very first blog entry.

In past posts I'd been relatively shady as far as details, and as my last real post was on the eleventh of November, it was mainly because I had no real details on which to speak. With December came a job offer, and in this coming February I will be flying to Nagoya, and beginning my contract as a teacher of English for ECC second language institutes. Although I had made it clear that I was flexible in my placement, Nagoya was my subconscious number one in terms of cities to go to, and I can honestly say that I was thrilled to be so lucky. As a transit hub to the country, Nagoya exists as the industrious, laid-back, financial capital to Japan.

To be honest, I should probably be more scared. I've cast around for ideas as to why I'm so calm in the face of such a drastically life changing experience, and the closest I can figure is that I am all worried out. Between the time I spent freaking out over Africa, and the time I spent asking myself countless 'what-ifs' during my first round of interviews with ECC in the spring of 2010, I have effectively exhausted the amount of time I can spend worrying over traveling and Japan in general. My immediate future is locked, and I'm along for the ride. There is no malicious intent in this universe, just a way of things, and if you worry or don't worry about something, things will happen the same regardless. It is a lot easier to cope with existence when you assume that nothing is out to get you.

My goal for this blog in 2012 is to become a lot more active. Writing has become this great release for me, and I always kick myself for taking too long between posts. For letting good ideas come and leave without even giving them a chance to be written down. Maybe not over the next two months, but hopefully after I arrive in Japan, this blog will become a bit more of a daily activity. More of a play by play than a monthly memoir of an event or a feeling.

So with a freshly written post, a form that gives me a clean bill of health, and a list of so many other things I need to get done in the next two months, I'll leave you with a song that I've been singing today and wrote this post to,

Thanks so much for reading and for your patience with me,

Much Love and Happy New Year!

Sean




As a note, here is the list from my first post 'A Gratuitous Introduction':

- Teach English in a foreign country. I may have been turned down for Japan, but Korea may be in my future - and experience breeds opportunities later.

- Tree plant in Western Canada. Despite all the people telling me why I shouldn't do this, the few that had the guts to tell me why I should had much more convincing arguments.

- Somehow traverse a country by WWOOFing at different locations as I go along. Meet the people, save the planet.

- Go to Japan. I WILL be in Japan soon. Man I want to go there so bad. And as a tack on I want to backpack Asia as well.

- Volunteer in Africa. I am currently waiting to hear back on a position I applied for. Things looks good. And perhaps climb Mt. Kilamanjaro while there.

- Work Visa in Australia. The visa costs $200, the experience lasts me forever.


Looks like I'll go three for six shortly, not bad!

Clever Title

I have this inability to turn my brain off. I will over think and over analyze everything if left to my own devices, and tend to do so on a day to day basis. I think that is why I originally turned to writing. When I put something down, and leave it out there to see, it no longer becomes my problem alone. By sharing what I'm thinking I can relinquish my sole responsibility on its domain, and slowly let it go.

The problem is that I am also inherently embarrassed with my writings, and I'm far from able to really write down all that I would like to. Some things will just always be mine to stew in, and maybe that makes them special. The memories and feelings that I can't express will always be mine alone; unique and special.

I've recently had a bad week, and by my 'first-world' standards, it was fairly awful. Yet as it played out I noticed that I never experienced that soul crushing despair that can sweep you away. Underneath all the happenings stood this perpetual foundation of indomitable spirit, and a confidence that things will continue to play out just like they always have. The ups and downs that form the staccato timeline of youth tend to level into a more linear flow, that becomes less defined by what you do and instead who you are.

I can't expect the world every day. Everything I do and have ever done has been through a series of steps, and this will be no different.

Full steam ahead.



Thanks for Reading,

Much Love,

Sean

Marty Stouffer's Delicious Narrative

When I was a kid I loved nature documentaries. They weren't just something that I watched on television, or programs that I simply enjoyed more than others, but instead an obsession. In the days before we got satellite, when the antennae was in place and cable didn't reach the remote side roads of our township; when internet was a thing done over the phone and I got about as much normal mail as email, we got one really specific nature documentary on our limited array of channels: Wild America with Marty Stouffer.

The show cultured a very homegrown backyard feel that focused on wildlife specific to North America, and although it contained a few healthy dollops of the old 'Ra! Ra!' pro-American sentiment, the propaganda was lost on a youth that simply didn't care beyond the mountain goats. Sure there were no lions, elephants or sharks, but the exclusion of everything that didn't exist on my continent made every animal seem that much more attainable. These things could be in my back yard. Wild America could be my world. To top it all off it was narrated by Marty, who's voice seemed thick and rich enough to be served as a meal. Now you can understand my real sense of wonder with this show, as it was done before I could go on the web and have everything at my fingertips. Marty Stouffer's thick tongued narration of the wildlife of my conceivable world was my greatest portal to nature.

The withholding of this show was actually a good way to motivate and punish me. I can recall several nights of no Wild America being used to set me straight. You didn't have to tell me no television, ground me or discipline me further. It was enough. I'm not trying to come across as someone that was a fiend for television, or that I spent too much time watching it in my youth. What I'm really trying to make clear is that there have been times in my life that I have really truly cared about something less tangible than an object or a person; but instead in a goal, future or ideal. The world of Wild America was the one I wanted to become a part of.

Fast forward to today and I have a hard time finding that feeling. I like some things and love some people, but that deep seeded passion that ever existed in me, fired in me, offering me any sort of great drive or motivation seems to flicker at best, and not be present at worst.

There are things I would like to do, things I will do, and perhaps things I think I'd like to do because I'm stalling for time. Yet I have a hard time finding anything in my life that I have ever truly thrown my all into. My schooling never saw it, and I can say beyond a shadow of a doubt that most employers to date have not seen me properly motivated.

I'd like to say that the pure enthusiasm for nature is eventually what led me down the road to my biology degree, but I can say that it is no secret that my beginnings in biochem at Guelph University were a byproduct of my top two high school grades being Biology and Chemistry. So when did it go? What killed it and how?

Stepping back, I'd like to suggest that this is bigger than me. Perhaps more a sign of the times than any specific problem with myself. In this age of North American consumeristic excess, the media likes to play up the angle of do less for more. On the internet, television and radio, everything is gratification now for a fee to be delivered later. Instant reward for delayed or ultimately avoided work.

The discovery stories of hidden talents and the serendipitous tales of big lotto winners perforate the news, and help move along this idea that the universe owes us something, or that we're due for our break and we just need to wait it out. The entitlement of the current generation is staggering, and although I get urges of it, I feel like by acknowledging the absurdity of some universal debt to me here and now I have a better chance of moving down a better course. The fact remains though: I cringe at the thought of the work-a-day life.

In my opinion people can be roughly split into very clear categories, and they generally go something like this: 1) those who know what they want and how to get it, 2) those who have no clue what they want and settle at first sign of stability and, 3) those like me who have no idea what they want but refuse to settle for anything; and instead slot in one plan after another waiting for either something to click or a handout from the cosmos so that they can join the first group.

I guess to sum up, I am blaming the world for my problems. Cliche, a little. It's just that some days it seems strange to feel like the only person in Brownian motion while the rest of society appears to flow downstream. I sometimes wonder if this truly unrelenting need to always feel like I'm working towards something is an inherently North American attribute, or a human condition. For the record I am going to Japan, and that counts as a thing I am working towards. I am excited. I am motivated to do well, and to give it my all and try my best. But then what?

I like writing, maybe I'll work towards that too.

Thanks for reading,

Much Love,

Sean



Doesn't this just reek of American small town values and patriotism? Hahaha! I love it.

Filler

I try not to get scared.

The question is whether that is really possible. Or is the real question what is there to be afraid of? I'm afraid of the dark, and not in the 'oh the lights are off' sort of way. I'm afraid of that slow count down towards the solstice, the inevitable march towards the early evening.

If you take it at face value it bothers me. I don't like short days. Yet, in a world where people put meaning where it isn't or shouldn't be, it denotes the tick tock towards the unknown. I'm a bit of a nihilist, but I recognize the need for some self imposed meaning in one's life to enable a semblance of progression, even if not on the grander scale. Find reason to exist in the now.

What I'm trying to say is that I get broody in the fall. Funky, but not dancing. In a funk. The evenings are long and I stew through them. I'm counting down to a placement that has been my focus for almost two years. Next year I should be in Japan working, for upwards of a year no less. This is exhilarating, the best news I've had in a long time. So why is it terrifying?

The opportunity is amazing, and beyond a shadow of a doubt I'm taking it. Yet people tether. Even when I don't mean to, or try not to, I root. Avoid all the intimacy and commitment you can and you'll still find yourself apprehensive to pick up and part. You'll miss the family, the familiarity and the feeling of a place at a time. I've learned in the past couple years that when you live in a world that can be dark and scary like ours, find what makes you happy and keep it close. Friends and relationships may often be fads and fleeting, but they are crucial for getting through the now. Much like the darkness, impenetrable by sight, there is always a fear of what is hiding in the future.

There is a quote by T. Harv Eker that reads:

"Nobody ever died of discomfort, yet living in the name of comfort has killed more ideas, more opportunities, more actions, and more growth than everything else combined. Comfort Kills."

In the words of me, the irony is that the biggest hindrance to you living your life is life itself. I'm not really afraid of the dark, or of the fall, or of being out of Canada. I'm afraid of living my life.

... but I try not to get scared.

Live through this and I won't look back.



A song on my mind:

Ink'd: A Story Retold

I'm going to take the opportunity to retell a tale, that, admittedly, is quite a bit older than I am. That doesn't say much though, as that at the ripe age of only twenty three, there are a very large number of things that are older than me. The reason that I am willing to impose some jurisdiction on this story however, is that I recently decided to make it very much a permanent part of my life.

Stories are a curious thing in that what means something to me may not have the slightest bearing on you. The value of a story to a beholder hinges on so many tiny variables, that to expect a uniform reaction to the gritty details of an epic saga is ludicrous. Luckily, one of the more important variables in a stories perceived value is something that I can have an impact on: presentation. Just as you don't want your father to read you a bedtime story in monotone when you're eight, I'm going to take a piece of lore that is equally undramatically presented in most forms and try and impart a bit of what it means to me onto you by readressing it in a more zestful way. Hopefully when this blog is all said and done, a baseline level of understanding into why I chose to get this tattoo will be imparted. Enjoy.

Note: this isn't part of my rather non-existant belief system, but rather an ideal and a sentiment that resonates with me. Nothing more.


A long time ago, Gray Eagle was the guardian of the Sun, Moon, Stars and of fire and fresh water. Gray Eagle was a bird; more importantly though, he was also a man. This was a time of legend, when the animals existed in both beast and human form, but were ultimately Gods. The concept doesn't need to be confusing, you just need to accept it and move on - life becomes a lot easier that way. Pro tip: read the book Anansi Boys by Neil Gaiman, that will explain all.

Moving on, Eagle was the keeper of all the celestial bodies, and a couple other nick-knacks that were fairly useful, and he kept them with him inside his longhouse, where he lived with his daughter and who knows who or what else. You see, Eagle was a bit of a hoarder. He had all these wonderful things, but refused to share them with the world. Now, unlike that show on TV where insecure Americans hide their bought-in-bulk Costco wares in their spare bedrooms due to a plethora of mental instabilities, Eagle's reason for keeping these treasures of the universe to himself was rather more pointed: he hated humans.

Yes, humans were detestable to Eagle. He despised them for any number of petty reasons, some probably more recently justified, and as a result forced them to live in a dark world void of the heavens, fire and clean water for drinking. Enter Raven. Raven was a dapper young man, and more importantly a bird of the purest white. A handsome young beast with the tiniest glint of trickery in his eye. You could only see it if you looked closely though, and even then only from certain angles.

I mentioned before that Eagle lived with his daughter. Where her mother was is not important. I'm not a marriage councilor, get over it. Now, being a young Eagle-person of the female variety, she of course had all those urges that I assume are typical to avian-hominids and of course showed interest in the snow-white raven suitor. Inviting him back to her fathers pad, Eagle-daughter then managed to set the stage for one of the biggest debacles to ever throw down in all of Native American lore.

Upon entering the longhouse of Eagle, Raven instantly noticed that there was a treasury of wonders to be had. This is where the story begins to get a little fuzzy. First of all I question how he happened to find himself in a position where he was alone with the booty. Creative explaining chalks this up to a females ability to retire to the restroom to freshen up, and we'll just assume that big bird was out picking on people. The second issue is why Raven decided to even steal them at all. It was pretty clear that he was probably going to score with daughter bird, and no doubt would have other chances to play the looter. Assumedly the humans called in some gambling debts, a trickster like Ravens seems like a craps sort of guy.

The point is that sensing a golden opportunity, Raven grabbed the sun, moon, as many stars as he could carry, all the water (impressive) and a burning brand of fire before flying off from Eagle's longhouse at full speed. The legend states that he in fact flew out of the building's smoke hole, which for the sake of my retelling exploded in a Michael Bay kind of way, just as he emerged from the smoldering rim.



Not wanting to fly blind, the first thing that Raven did as he emerged into the darkness of an empty sky was to put the sun in place. With this new light, his next instinct was to fly far out into the ocean until he reached a little island where he could lie low for a while. After careful consideration, Raven decided that the best option was to ditch the loot so that no one could prove it was him. The problem is that the sun had started to set, and so to take care of this, he threw the moon up in its place, and scatter the stars around it. Under this new light he was able to continue his journey back to the mainland, where he could toss what he had left.

When the moment struck him, Raven next let go of the fresh water, and this became the source of all the fresh-water lakes and rivers today. It really was a lot of water. Our Hero of the story obviously had a much bigger attachment to the brand of fire though, as this became the last thing that our bird-brained protagonist found himself flying with. Possibly it was because it was actually attached to him somehow, or somewhere that shouldn't be mentioned. Let's ask ourselves, if you're managing to carry the sun, moon, ALL the stars and ALL the fresh water, where do you put the burning brand of fire?

If you play with fire you get burnt. This is a fact of life that we all learn the hard way at some time in our life, and Raven was no exception. Whether he just let the brand burn down a little too far, or that he was careless with its placement, the fire eventually became too hot for him to hold, and he dropped it far to the ground below.

The consequences of this were two fold. First off, before he was able to drop it, the smoke from the burning flame billowed around his ivory feathers and coloured them black with soot. This is why Ravens are now black birds. The second is that we learn that rocks, like Eagles, are also hoarders, and upon the brand following into a group of them, they greedily soaked up the flame, and that is why rocks now spark when you strike them together.

The End


With my story over, I guess I owe you a little bit of clarification. The part of this story that really resonates with me has to do with the sun. Ever since I was a child, the high points of my years has always been summer oriented. I'm a lover of light and warmth, and enjoy the life-providing rays of our mother Sol to the umpteen degree.

Even as August progresses, I have already began to notice the continually shortening days, and with a heavy heart acknowledge that all good things must come to an end. As hippy as this sounds, it is the truth of my existence. I have never been one to be depressed, yet still always find myself experiencing a thin film of gloom upon my otherwise cheery demeanor during the lightless months of our Canadian winters.

Coupled with that is the romantic notion of the Raven itself. Ravens are clever birds, thinkers that have the ability to solve problems and use tools. There is a notion of freedom that is associated with all birds too, that thought of just being able to pick up and fly away.

Even if it was just a story, this Raven gave me the sun, and now I always have it with me, even as the light starts to fade a little earlier every night.


Thanks for reading,

Much Love,

Sean



Read The Original Story Here

*aside from the image of my tattoo, which was designed and ink'd by a local tattoo artist, the other two images are not mine and instead a result of a google image search. My tattoo is not completely true to the haida style of raven, but instead more bird like due to my wishes.

Hillside Is A State Of Mind

I keep making the same mistake. I make plenty of mistakes, but in this instance I'm referring to my oft repeated blunder of assuming that having more time to write will actually enable me to do so. As if my blogs were more time sensitive than content influenced. I'm no super machine that can pull something out of my hat on a whim, and I'm not a fantasy guru that can spin a tale out of the crevices of my mind in the heat of a inspirational brainwave. I am experience driven. The things I write have always been based on situational material; emotional fuel from the good and bad of my day to day.

I've had a couple ideas, even considered making an attempt at another illustrated blog, such as the one titled Guilty from all the way back in December of last year. Nothing struck me though, nothing that really made me say "woah", I can put this in words. The internet is bogged down extensively with copious tripe and superficial content that the last thing I need to do is drip into the pond as I try and write about the trivial highs and lows of my every day. I can be happy keeping things to myself every now and again. If I find the need to write another thing that no one is going to read, I need it to be for me.

So if I must be event driven, an event that has come to drive me greatly in such a short span of a couple years is the music festival of Hillside. I am sitting in the twisting early morning air of my softly humming fan, nursing a bruise from a puck to the face and listening to the intensely powerful and penetrating banjo picking of a talented artist named Old Man Luedecke; finally the words to a blog that has for so long eluded me finally begin to flood into my head.

(Obviously not from Hillside)

I'm trying to find a way to describe the feel of Hillside without sounding like I'm just emitting random psychobabble. The truth is that the title of the blog really does explain it all. Hillside is a mindset, it is the feeling you get when you are surrounded by tens of thousands of people that are all exuding positive emotions. It is a mob mentality of overwhelming goodwill. Hillside is a feeling, an emotion and definitely a state of mind. The success of the festival lies in the talented artists and its impeccable organization, but the spirit of the festival is driven by the kindness and enthusiasm of its attendees, volunteers and performers.

For the second year in a row my attendance was serendipitously made possible through the kind actions of friends with extra tickets. The truth of my existence is that I no longer have the where with all to accurately predict if I will be around for any given July in Canada, and thus lack the justification to buy a pricy weekend pass the many months ahead of time that is required in order for them to not be sold out. This years heroine was Clare, who was a last year hillside acquaintance. I don't know why she bought an extra one, but I love her for it. Hillside friends are special friends.

I always do a poor job when I attempt an exact recount of a series of events, so I guess I'll break it down into the things that I feel are worth mentioning and still try to give a sort of overall guideline. The hillside I went to last year was in many ways amazing, so it is truly incredible to say without hesitation that this years' was by far better. I feel like my first hillside was keynoted by several really good bands that were bridged by copious forgettable, if not undoubtedly talent people, such that the time between the performances that stuck was enabled more by the high of the festival than the content on stage. The contrast this year was striking; bands I had never heard of, or that were something on the peripheral of my consciousness all came to play, and play really well. The down time between sets that I wanted to attend was basically non-existant, and really troubling conflicts of interest arose when faced with a tough decision on who to see.

Much to my embarrassment, but post-festival elation, I could often be seen marching off to the merch tent post set to try and track down an album by the artist I had just seen. When I plaintively told the man at the cash register that hillside was draining my money he was quick to point to the reusable beer mugs in my hand. I think it was only after the third time that the same guy saw me passing through with more albums that he finally realized the depth of my problem. I couldn't be happier now though, as I find new music often feels like a depleteable resource. The battle to keep a play list on my computer or ipod that is fresh and new is always a harrowing task, and I think I may have just gained a multi month advantage.

The friday night of hillside has come to feel like a warm up, where you slowly ease yourself into the feel of the festival. The bands that play, with exception, are usually listed on the friday night for a reason, and the time can be used to get your feet wet and have some beers. I'll post pictures from the program and circle what I saw. If I circle two in a set it means I bailed on one to see another, or just sampled both.




The Saturday is when the festival really comes together in my mind, and I don't think that's just my opinion alone, as it was the only day of the three that was completely sold out. Maybe it is the fact that it is the busiest day that give it the feel of being really high energy, but the bands started playing at 11 in the morning and before I knew it I was slightly drunk and in the home stretch for sets.



Saturday opened up with me listening to Dala playing with Doug Paisley, and then flipping to the main stage to watch some Graveyard Train followed up by Dala again with their own set. Graveyard Train is a band all the way from Melbourne, Australia, and they came prepared to play. With a list of songs that all seemed to be about some sort of ghoul or ghostie and a group of band members that includes a harmonica/hammer and chain player, these guys put on a performance that was pretty much unforgettable. Since Hillside is so big on workshops and mashing different artists together to jam, I believe I must have seen these guys three times by weekends' end and was never disappointed. My sister Jessica, who was fortunate enough to make it out for Saturday, even went and saw them again on the Monday night in Toronto. I couldn't work up the energy after my exhausting weekend, I must be getting old.




Dala, which played right after Graveyard Train, didn't quite bring the high energy music of their predecessors, but still managed to pull off a performance no less amazing. This is a group that consist of two admittedly good looking ladies, that I actually know best through my parents having played them in their house. They have a way of harmonizing their voices that is no trick of studio magic. I would wager that after seeing them preform, they sound better live then they ever do mixed on a cd. The natural back and forth banter, and the ease with which they sing and have fun is infectious. I'm not always in the mood to listen to their kind of music, but I will admit that they have a good thing going.



Aside from the surprising Sweet Thing in the midday, the true highlight of the Saturday came at sundown. Starting with Hooded fang at 8 and finishing with Hollerado, the final acts on the island stage made the day. With the beer in hand, and the good times rolling, Saturday evening started with the catchy pop beats of the lesser known Hooded Fang, flipped to the groove infused melodies of the up and coming Sheepdogs and finally was capped off with the fun and energetic set of the ever enjoyable Hollerado. Huge numbers of people were crowded under the tent at the island stage, sweating in the sweltering summer heat and grooving in place while standing on the picnic tables, enthralled by the energy and quality of the performances.








Sunday starts fairly tame, with the highlight being the Gosspel session for two hours starting at eleven. I suppose this is supposed to be hillsides version of church, to make all the Godly feel better about missing a sermon to listen to sick beats. Understandably then it may make you raise an eyebrow and wonder why the professionally unreligious such as myself would find this to be the best thing in the morning. The truth is that even though the workshop is often orchestrated and run by one of the artists that is sufficiently Jesus-enthused, the rest of the jam is comprised of really good, often folky artists, that aren't necessarily heaven bound, but fit the sound that the session was going for. The long and short of it is that if you're willing to put up with one or two drawn out songs about Heaven and the like, you get to listen to artists like Dala and Old Man Luedecke play entirely session-unrelated tunes.



With the morning Gosspel being my first chance to have a look at the banjo playing dynamo Old Man, it was fortunate that his whole set was later on that day, and he didn't fail to disappoint. There were two Albums that I got signed at hillside, and one of them was his. The other was by a band named Paper Lions, who's CD I had actually bought on a whim hoping that they'd be amazing and actually making a really accurate prediction. While I was walking into the merch tent to track down Paper Lions to sign my CD, is when one of the more memorable moments of the festival happened for me.

If you have browsed over the schedule of Sunday that I posted, you'll notice that playing on the lake stage in the early evening was one anomaly of a performer: Fred Penner. Yes, the legend of a man from my childhood played at hillside this year, and although he didn't bring any new age guitar-shredding Freddy P to the stage, he did manage to pull of a set that was by far one of my favourites.


(This is not my video, just took it off the youtubes)


Partially by the virtue of his charisma alone, and then coupled with his energetic, funny and generational gapping music, Fred brought such an energy to the stage that the whole fenced area was alight with smiles, laughter and singing along. Furthermore, Mr. Penner wasn't afraid to collaborate either, and invited both Serena Ryder and Dan Mangan up during his set to sing along with him. When I was a kid, Ghost Riders in the Sky was by far and away my favourite song of his, and I can remember clearly lying in bed with my rewind-button-less sony walkman, flipping the tape over and fast forwarding so that I could listen to it over and over after my parents had gone to sleep. The point is that I'm not entirely sold on Serena based on her own music alone, but she definitely won some points with me after pulling out all the stops to help Fred belt out one of my favourite childhood hits. Good beer and a childhood icon was a little overwhelming.

Back to the memorable moment, as I was walking into the merch tent after Paper Lions' set to get my CD signed, completely by surprise I bumped into none other than Fred Penner himself. This, unfortunately, set off a very awesome and embarrassing series of events. I didn't want to do the cliche thing and tell the man how I grew up with his music, but as a result had no idea what to say to him and started babbling like an idiot while shaking his hand for an awkwardly long time. Eventually, sensing that I had seized in the head, he took the initiative and asked me my name and said he was happy to meet me, jump starting my facilities back to working order.

The festival concluded with a very off sounding Sloan and me losing my car. I feel bad that my only words for the prolific 90's Canadian pop sensation is that they were 'off', but that is all I can muster. I was never really a huge Sloan fan, they just happen to be one of those bands that had so many hits that I can't help but know all their music. Unfortunately their voices haven't aged well, or they were just having a bad night, but either way they failed to put on a performance that had me enthused. Don't worry about my car either, it was just the next lot over.

If there is one last thing I can say, it is that after a festival like that, I am truly proud of the state of the Canadian music industry. As a person that spends too much time on the internet, I'm not a stranger to the complaining that occurs in regards to the state of the world's music scene. I walked away with seven new albums from Hillside, and every one of them was a Canadian band or artist. The truth is that if you ever feel that there is no good music being produced anymore, you're just not listening hard enough.

A big thanks again to Claire for having that extra ticket, and to Her, Gabe, and Sarah for putting up with me all weekend. Hillside friends really are special friends.

Thanks for reading,

Much Love,

Sean