Vanessa. And Vancouver. Welcome.
As the first official posting in my spanky new blog, I'm going to point out that most of Vancouver missed one kick-ass concert last Saturday night, which I had the good fortune to witness up close from the dance floor of the Commodore Ballroom. The concert was actually two concerts: the first being a decent show by the alternative mellow jam band New Monsoon -- but following them being the Venezuelan funkedelic funsters better known as Los Amigos Invisibles.
I should perhaps start by saying that I started last Saturday having my pancreas worked on by an energy-balancing massage therapist. (When you go for a massage in Vancouver you never know what's going to happen.) I should also probably mention that I had consumed a substantial amount of a particularly delicious (and low-sugar, I'm quite certain) cannabis cookie on my way to the concert. So I was in a very good mood when I got there. Whatever had been lurking in my pancreas, it felt like a huge relief to be rid of it. I felt lighter, happier, and more alive than I had in a long time. All of which may or may not help to explain why I was unexpectedly given a free ticket at the door by one of the bouncers, and a free drink at the bar by one of the bartenders. It was my lucky night.
My friends had come to hear New Monsoon. They kept bemoaning the absence of the band's tabla player -- which may or may not have explained the band's somewhat lackluster performance. My personal theory is that they just weren't in the same league as Los Amigos -- who have a well-deserved international following but are relative unknowns here in the Great White North. (I later decided that every Venezuelan in Vancouver must have been at the Commodore. Luckily for me and my friends, Venezuela is not well-represented here and the ballroom was barely a third full.) In any event, we all kind of swayed and grooved in a docile, appreciative, Canadian sort of way while New Monsoon did their thing, but everything changed when the Amigos hit the stage.
I'm not going to do their music, or their show, any kind of justice here. Just check out their website, buy one of their CDs, and for gods sake, if they're playing anywhere near you, go see them. They are consummate performers, and would make a doorpost want to shimmy. My only regret of the evening was my lack of a dance partner. Nik was fast asleep in bed, a mile away, recovering from a long and miserable week of work and shoring up for the inevitable 7:15am wake-up call from Elliot. (I should also give Nik a big shout-out for not only letting me 'sleep in' -- i.e. huddle under the blankets until 8:30 or 9am, pretending to be asleep -- but also for refraining from berating me for my lack of maternal effort the following day. Bless his heart.)
As the first official posting in my spanky new blog, I'm going to point out that most of Vancouver missed one kick-ass concert last Saturday night, which I had the good fortune to witness up close from the dance floor of the Commodore Ballroom. The concert was actually two concerts: the first being a decent show by the alternative mellow jam band New Monsoon -- but following them being the Venezuelan funkedelic funsters better known as Los Amigos Invisibles.
I should perhaps start by saying that I started last Saturday having my pancreas worked on by an energy-balancing massage therapist. (When you go for a massage in Vancouver you never know what's going to happen.) I should also probably mention that I had consumed a substantial amount of a particularly delicious (and low-sugar, I'm quite certain) cannabis cookie on my way to the concert. So I was in a very good mood when I got there. Whatever had been lurking in my pancreas, it felt like a huge relief to be rid of it. I felt lighter, happier, and more alive than I had in a long time. All of which may or may not help to explain why I was unexpectedly given a free ticket at the door by one of the bouncers, and a free drink at the bar by one of the bartenders. It was my lucky night.
My friends had come to hear New Monsoon. They kept bemoaning the absence of the band's tabla player -- which may or may not have explained the band's somewhat lackluster performance. My personal theory is that they just weren't in the same league as Los Amigos -- who have a well-deserved international following but are relative unknowns here in the Great White North. (I later decided that every Venezuelan in Vancouver must have been at the Commodore. Luckily for me and my friends, Venezuela is not well-represented here and the ballroom was barely a third full.) In any event, we all kind of swayed and grooved in a docile, appreciative, Canadian sort of way while New Monsoon did their thing, but everything changed when the Amigos hit the stage.
I'm not going to do their music, or their show, any kind of justice here. Just check out their website, buy one of their CDs, and for gods sake, if they're playing anywhere near you, go see them. They are consummate performers, and would make a doorpost want to shimmy. My only regret of the evening was my lack of a dance partner. Nik was fast asleep in bed, a mile away, recovering from a long and miserable week of work and shoring up for the inevitable 7:15am wake-up call from Elliot. (I should also give Nik a big shout-out for not only letting me 'sleep in' -- i.e. huddle under the blankets until 8:30 or 9am, pretending to be asleep -- but also for refraining from berating me for my lack of maternal effort the following day. Bless his heart.)
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