The Wooden Sky ::: photo by Brittney Bush Bollay

PROLOGUE

“Alix Goolden Hall is right there,” my friend said, pointing, as she dropped me off.

“Next to the church?”

“It is the church!”

So I passed through the grand wooden doors into a tall, wide room of pews and a pipe organ, with a delicately wrought balcony wrapping elegantly securing the upper section and stained glass windows reaching for the ceiling. It was a beautiful space, and I had the feeling it was going to be a beautiful night.

CHAPTER I

My Lovely Son ::: photo by Brittney Bush Bollay

Into this setting and onto the blond, half-circle stage stepped My Lovely Son.

The room was hushed; every cough or even camera shutter seemed jarring. There was almost no choice but to be rapt as My Lovely Son (a single man known at other times as Satnam Minhas) began carefully strumming his guitar and slowly, gently filling the hall with his soft voice and subtle melodies. The music rolled like a mist across the floor, then drifted up our skin, our spines, and into our waiting ears.

Minhas says he writes his lyrics first and then deciphers them; one song, he told us, was about “[his] ability to turn women into lesbians.” But there was no self-pity here; Minhas is able to laugh (softly) at himself, and between songs he invited us to join him. When the music played, though, the hush returned. My Lovely Son makes music for serious listening. If you can and care to appreciate understatement, the power of his subtleties will draw you in.

CHAPTER II

Clay George ::: photo by Brittney Bush Bollay

I would have placed Clay George as a banker, not a musician, had I seen him anywhere but on stage at Alix Goolden. His slacks, suspenders, and elegantly striped tie were a world away from the standard Northwest plaid. I don’t know the rationale behind George’s attire, but as an attention-getting gambit, it worked: when he stepped on stage I was surprised by and curious about this man whose formal dress made him seem so very Serious about the job he was about to do.

While George may have a banker’s facade, it turns out he has an itinerant’s soul. He sang us timeless tales of wandering - “This island rock will never be my home… in the morning I’ll be New York City bound.” - in a voice both confident and nuanced. His vocals subtly changed character to suit each song; sometimes he reminded me of Leonard Cohen, other times Wille Nelson. The shifts were never jarring or even noticeable, as smooth as his attire.

It was with this same deftness that George turned a delicate blade in the audience’s heart. “Now you’re lying in your bed with them sad songs playing / And I’m wrapped up in my head with them sad songs all saying / Ah baby, don’t you know this is what loneliness is for,” he sang in “Victoria,” a bittersweet tale of goodbye. Another song was a well-observed lament for the many Victorians on the down-and-out. “Bet your father never saw you falling,” he sings, “at the corner of Bridge and Bay / trying to fix your broken face / in the mirror of a car.”

After ten or so songs he packed up his guitar and left as he had appeared, quiet and confident. He no longer reminded me of a banker, though. With his case in his hand and his jacket slung over his shoulder, he strode away looking like the gangster of heartbreak.

Read the rest of the Book of Rifflandia …

CHAPTER III

The Whitsundays ::: photo by Brittney Bush Bollay

The Whitsundays, four men (and eight instruments) from Edmonton, play poppy 60s psychedelia updated with a more aggressive modern tone. Full of space-age beeps and whirls and theramin howls and dripping with classic psych-style distorted guitar, their songs may also build to a growl and roar that shakes the walls with its sonic vigor.

In a parallel update, three of the four members (once again, the drummer didn’t get the memo) wore similar outfits, hearkening back to the days of boys in matching suits. The Whitsundays, though, opted for skinny black jeans and white shirts, the lead singer adding a cardigan and retro-print guitar strap. They were cute, though not as individually energetic as I would have liked — except for the keyboardist, who made dramatic faces and Wayne’s World Scooby-Doo-ending hands at the theramin as he played it.

The Whitsundays would perhaps have made more sense opening for Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffiti - who they were instead playing against - than on Alix Goolden’s rootsy bill. On the other hand, their sun-drenched harmonies and toe-tapping beats brought a welcome cheerfulness to the room, washing out the lovely but dark tones left behind by Clay George. The music lit up the night and fought off the threat of the encroaching autumn, and their echoey, reverberating guitars spiraled up to the ceiling and filled the room. Lights like ripping blue waves danced across the ceiling, completing the vibe, and washing us away to happy shores.

CHAPTER IV

Have you ever seen a show so beautiful, so perfect, that every blissful moment is tinged with the heartbreak of the knowledge that eventually it must end?

EPILOGUE

The Wooden Sky ::: photo by Brittney Bush Bollay

There are only two ways to cure the type of heartache left in the wake of The Wooden Sky’s perfect set. The first is a bottle of red wine, but the liquor stores had all been closed half an hour by the time I left Alix Goolden. Luckily the second is to go dancing, and Shout Out Out Out Out were playing a block from my hotel.

Shout Out Out Out Out play crowd pleasing dance music that’s heavy on the pop, light on the blips and bleeps, and full of Daft Punk-ian fist-pump moments. They’re agreeable and a hell of a lot of fun. After a quick stop into my hotel room to drop my camera and change into a shorter skirt (hey, sometimes that cheers a girl up too), I descended into Sugar’s black-walled embrace, bought myself a double gin and tonic, tucked myself into the crowd and danced my cares away.

See more of Brittney’s photos from Rifflandia HERE