Hi Everyone
Some of you know this already. Our latest show was in Orillia, Ontario, as part of the Lightfoot Days Festival. The concert was on the Thursday, which had been proclaimed “Gordon Lightfoot Day”. The next day was proclaimed “Lightfoot Band Day”.
I’m not kidding. I’ve got an official plaque to prove it. 
Very cool. It’s an honour similar to being presented with the Keys To The City. The mayor of Orillia, Don McIsaac, and the head of the nearby  Rama Reserve (I didn’t catch his name; I just called him “Chief”) handed the plaques to us onstage before the show began. 
The concert was great. There was a mistake or two, but we’re so damned confident we plow right through and no one notices.
Here’s how I rate my own personal performances: 

1. Perfect Game……..never had one. This is what you aim for rather than realistically expect to achieve.
2. No Hitter…….. no mistakes, good rhythm, confident. I’ve had quite a few of these and the hundredth is just as sweet as the first.
3. MEH…..No really bad notes, but no really good ones either.
4. Crap…….. you play so badly the bandleader hands you a roll of toilet paper.
5. Get A Day Job…… self-explanatory. 
   If you’ll excuse the expression, I had a number 2 (No Hitter) on Thursday night.

Some Blarney

As anyone who’s seen us knows, when we’re individually introduced, we tell stories about our combined 150 years of touring and recording with Mr. Lightfoot. 
After Rick introduced me in the second set Thursday, I stood up, pulled my microphone towards me, attempted to thank the audience for their warm response, and the damned mic wasn’t working. This is how I subtly signalled the crew: I yelled, “HEY YOU GUYS, I NEED SOME SOUND!” but after a very slow minute, nothing had changed. It was almost as awkward as getting locked out of a hotel room in your underwear (another story). I hopped off my riser, made a beeline to the front of the stage and spoke into Rick’s microphone to vigorous applause.
I started with a Billy Joel anecdote and morphed it into my story about Kris Kristofferson. Those stories required the use of the words  “you asshole” once, and the phrase “full of shit” twice. And you can’t just quickly slide over them. No; experience has taught me that only an almost lips-touching intimacy with the microphone and a guttural voice blast will get the necessary reaction from the crowd.

Slang and Crudity Works Sometimes

Later, at the meet and greet, I got an effusive smattering of praise for my storytelling.

My Guests

My cousin Paul Kelly, his wife Sue, my brother Pat, and sister Jane were there. 
Paul, coincidentally, was until recently the mayor of the next city north of Orillia on Highway 11, Gravenhurst. For years I’ve been inviting Paul and Sue to shows in this area. When I was growing up, Paul and his sister Susan lived about 20 minutes away from us. They were big fans of Canadian music, particularly Toronto music. During my early teens, I recall seeing a 45 rpm record of George Olliver and The Mandala in their collection. Ten years later, I was in George’s band. 
Susan, who sadly isn’t with us anymore, was a big fan of Gordon Lightfoot for years before I joined his organization. 
Their family had a cottage in Muskoka, near Gravenhurst, that Pat and I visited a few times each summer. As we got into our teens, Susan and Paul would have the Toronto rock station, CHUM AM, playing regularly. There are a lot of songs from the mid-60s that zap me right back to those days. They’re like time machines.
Sonny and Cher’s I Got You Babe and Roy Orbison’s Pretty Woman are good examples. When I hear those tunes now, I can almost smell the pine trees and taste the toasted marshmallows.
That era was 65,66, and 67. Little did I know that there was a guy just 20 minutes down Highway 11 who was on the brink of stardom and would eventually be a huge part of my life.
Years later, it seemed appropriate to invite these cousins to shows when it would be convenient for them. Susan and her husband Terry lived in the Toronto area, so Massey Hall or Fallsview Casino Niagara made sense. By the 2000s, Sue and Paul were living in Muskoka, so Casino Rama was best.
For the record, they didn’t assume they were getting comped. More than once, by the time I told them about an upcoming show, they had already purchased their tickets.
My other guests in Orillia were my awesome brother-sister duo, Pat and Jane. It was also supposed to be my sister Mary and her husband Enzo, but they cancelled the day before for health reasons. This is where it could have been extremely awkward.

I Could Have Lost My Family Privileges

There was a huge demand for tickets, so it was important to let the venue know about cancellations. Now, because Jane had told me that she was going with Mary and Enzo, I assumed she was pooping out too, and I had Barry, who was in charge of (among many things) the comps, cancel her ticket. 
I spotted her at the ‘meet and greet’. “How the hell did you get in?”
“I gave them my name at the box office, and they handed me an envelope with a ticket inside it. Why?” she replied.
Okay folks, think about this: How often in your life has one screw-up corrected itself with another screw-up? 
“Two blacks make no white” is an old Scottish proverb and is probably the origin of “Two wrongs don’t make a right”.
A sage observation, to be sure. I can hear an old grey-bearded Scot I knew years ago, Percy Porcelain, whose thick brogue would only begin after a tumbler of Johnny Walker say, “It’s a fay thing, Mike.”
Fay my ass. The box office and I both popped the pooch. The result? No harm, no foul….. In this case, ‘two wrongs don’t make a right’ was wrong.
It was a wonderful evening of great music filled with smiling, happy people who undoubtedly felt they got their money’s worth of entertainment. They practically lined up afterwards to talk to us.

Could It Have Been Any Better?

Yes….. if my girlfriend, Jeanette, temporarily exiled in Saskatoonistan, could have been there. 
Actually, she could have, but she was faced with a choice. Either Orillia or  Massey Hall on November 21. She opted for the latter, which I think was a no-brainer. I mean, Massey Hall? Canada’s Carnegie? This was our home while Gord was still with us. It will be my 114th appearance there. You read that right. One hundred and fourteen times performing on that stage! Barry and Rick have me beat. I’m just guessing, but Barry’s gotta be 150 at least, and Rick must be nudging 200 plus.
And now we’re going in there and selling well, as headliners with no opening act, and without the man who wrote all the songs but continues to be (posthumously) our raison d’être. 
Life is full of surprises. Who would have thought?