“Sunshine at the House of Blues”

c. 2007 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(10-07)


Note to Readers: I am a product of the B. C. world – BEFORE CYBERSPACE. So please forgive me for clinging to the idea of vinyl albums, 8-Track tapes, and Rock ‘n’ Roll radio…

Much has been written about the fractured state of our modern music industry. Technology has wrought wonderful changes that offer democratic self-expression, the free sharing of ideas, and a potential for artistic liberty unknown in previous generations.

Yet unintended consequences have followed this Velvet Revolution.
The old structure of popular music has finally been broken, but in its place no new paradigm was established. So we live in a time of great decision.

As Ted Nugent sang, “It’s a free for all!”

Only twenty-five years ago, listeners were able to reliably discover popular tunes from FM radio, or MTV. Upon deciding to acquire a particular recording, a simple trip to any vendor of music would yield a wealth of singles, albums, and cassettes. CDs were still a cutting-edge innovation. No one could see the perfect storm that was brewing.

Today, music has become a universal commodity. Not released only to benefit artists and record companies, but also used to sell advertising, enhance product value, and enrich the cultural landscape. It is available anywhere, at any time, for any purpose.

But the vortex is gone.

In Century Twenty-one, there is no convenient focal point for Rock. No heavy-rotation center of the musical universe.

The flip side of this new reality is that music can come from unexpected places. Canadian artist Leslie Feist recently enjoyed a burst of popularity after her song ‘1-2-3-4’ was employed in a commercial for the newest i-Pod.

In my own life, the source for tonal inspiration has appeared from a new direction. I now owe allegiance to something more personal than WMMS or NBC’s late, lamented ‘Friday Night Videos.’

I call it ‘Wife-net.’

Liz had been searching her cyberspace networking site for a suitable profile track, when she discovered twenty-two year old singing prodigy Colbie Caillat.
After sampling ‘Bubbly’ she was enchanted.

“You’ve got to hear this!” she implored.

I was busy with a newspaper feature when she first mentioned the composition. “Colby? Like the cheese?”

My wife wasn’t amused. “C-o-l-b-i-e!”

“Oh,” I replied.

“Her songs are incredible!” she cooed. “And her bio mentions being the daughter of Ken Caillat. He co-produced albums for Fleetwood Mac…”

I almost fell out of my chair. “What? You mean she’s cultured cheese??”

Liz frowned. She pointed with a pink fingernail. “Stop it!”

I bowed my head. “Okay. So what else did you read in her bio?”

“Ken was co-producer for the ‘Rumours’ and ‘Tusk’ albums by Fleetwood Mac,” she said. “Colbie grew up around members of the band.”

“Quite an environment there,” I observed. “But I’ve never heard of her before.”

“This is her first release,” she said. “It’s called ‘Coco.’ And guess what – she’s playing in Cleveland this month!!”

Before I could comment, the room was full of gentle acoustic guitar strums, and a sweet vocal melody:

“I've been awake for a while now / you've got me feelin’ like a child now
cause every time I see your bubbly face / I get the tinglies in a silly place
It starts in my toes / makes me crinkle my nose
where ever it goes I always know / that you make me smile
please stay for a while now / just take your time
where ever you go”

My skin chilled. “That’s the best cheese curd I ever heard!”

“Rodneeeey!” she shouted.

I put aside my project. “Okay, you’ve got my interest. Where is she playing?”

Liz was triumphant. “At the House of Blues.”

She clicked on the song for a second time, while I listened silently.

“The rain is fallin’ on my window pane / but we are hidin’ in a safer place
under the covers stayin’ dry and warm / you give me feelin’s that I adore
It starts in my toes
makes me crinkle my nose…”

I took a deep breath. “That’s a fine fromage, I’d say.”

She paused while biting her lip. “So… how would you like to write a concert review, Mr. Reporter?”

I didn’t need to answer. We had tickets before I could finish my newspaper story.

Needless to say, the next two weeks passed with lightning speed!

Colbie’s performance was pure, and soaring. Her voice shimmered with the playful goodness of a sunrise filtered through treetops. I was struck by the authenticity of her persona. There was nothing contrived about her emotive delivery. No popstar devices or electronic enhancement tarnished the show. She nearly evoked a whisper of Woodstock.

Her court of bandmates provided tasteful accompaniment. Justin Young offered a tease of electric ukulele in addition to guitar. Tim Fagan wielded a variety of axes, both acoustic and amplified. His solos were enticing, yet integral with the compositions. Mike White provided a sturdy, melodic foundation with his bass. Michael Baker kept a tireless stream of rhythms in motion. Dylan Charbeneau worked keyboard magic into the mix.

The audience responded enthusiastically to ‘Realize’ and ‘The Little Things.’ The soulful caress of ‘Magic’ made them sway. But ‘Bubbly’ was the gentle anthem that connected everyone.

Liz was breathless after the show. “Colbie is signing copies of her CD and promotional photos. Will you wait for me?”

My grin was wide. “Can I get an autographed wheel of cheddar?”

She stomped her heel. “Just give me a few minutes…”

“Okay,” I agreed. “There’s lots of cool stuff to see here.”

My eyes wandered over memorabilia until I stopped at a shrine dedicated to the original Moondog Coronation Ball, held on March 21, 1952. Alan Freed was depicted with the regal air of a monarch. Awe made me stare.

I had slipped into a yesteryear daze when my wife reappeared. She waved her compact disc, victoriously.

“Colbie signed it!” Liz cheered. “And this picture, too!”

I read the inscription carefully. It said simply - ‘Colbie Caillat, to Liz…’

“This was a fantastic night,” she gushed. “Thank you!”

“It’s only fair,” I observed. “You see, I’ve got a show of my own in mind. Something I’d really like to see.”

She went still. “Oh? Who would that be?”

“They’re called the Psycho Reverb Hillbilly Dragster Club,” I explained. “The members play guitar, bass, drums, and a rebuilt Chrysler Hemi V-8.”

Liz went pale.

“It’s at Von Krupnik’s, a new place in Parkman,” I continued. “The nightspot used to be a diesel garage…”

Her mouth dropped open.

“They’re bound to be a hit with music bloggers on the Internet,” I said.

My wife shook her head.

It was a long, quiet ride back to Thompson!

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