Last time I checked in with you, I had an interview to shake my butt over to. Well, well, well! *foreshadowing eyebrow wiggle* I must admit, the night before and the day of, I was shaking in my little Hello Kitty socks with nerves. I had spent so much time going over my resume, my skills and answers to potential questions, making notes, talking and pretending that I knew exactly what I was doing, but I still felt totally lost. This was my first big-person, real-job interview!*
When the time came, I silently thanked the universe for making their offices only a ten minute walk from my flat, which, if you think about the size of Toronto, is a major lucky strike. Arriving at reception, I had a familiar feeling: don’t you just hate it when you have a very important and frightening appointment, and it’s taking place somewhere that requires you to climb about several dozen stairs, so you arrive with a heartbeat doubled, and you’re trying to say hello and talk to the receptionist without apologetically gasping for air? That’s what happened to me, but I held it together. I made conversation with the receptionist and then after a few minutes I was called in for the interview.
Somehow, somehow I managed to say all the right things. Somehow I came away from the 40-minute sit-down feeling like I had a chance. On my way home I decided to do a little something that might push me forward to be considered more seriously, and sent an e-mail to each of my interviewers thanking them for taking the time. About four hours later, I was on my phone in my bedroom, and saw that I had received an e-mail… this was it. I want to open it! I don’t want to open it! I struggled for about a second before tapping the screen and my eyes were drawn straight to the words, “we would like to offer you the position.” I squeaked, and then ran down the stairs and proceeded to do laps around the kitchen and living room, punching my arms in the air. I GOT THE JOB! I GOT THE JOB!
Now for the next objective of the day: Robert had invited me out with some others to come along to an event happening at the Art Gallery of Ontario, called the Fancy Videogame Party. This was basically a big gathering of people at the AGO, all attending to play some new games by indie developers in the Toronto area. My favourite one was called Johann Sebastian Joust, which was on the PS4 platform. It was the perfect ice-breaker. The rules of the game: each player is given a controller which lights up with a coloured light, corresponding with a baroque musician on the screen. As the musicians play in unison, the players have to hold their light steady, like a candle, or else the light will flicker and go out. While all this is going on, you’ve got to then sabotage other players by pushing them, shoving them, doing anything you can to get their light to extinguish, while maintaining your own. Cue complete strangers slapping each other on the arms and some not-so-gentle shoving. As I was spectating, this tall, handsome guy approached me and asked what the rules of the game were. I happily explained, glad that one of the many cute hipsters at the event (and, oh boy, were there cute hipsters here) had taken an interest in little ol’, normal me. A game or two later we were both playing, and, after a couple of dangerous shoves, it was down to me and Cute Gamer Boy. We circled each other, knees bent and hands tentatively reaching out, prepared to strike. It was a lot like fencing. I could hear cheers, as this was such a fantastic game to spectate - everyone chose favourites each round. I reached out to snap at his light, but in the process, accidentally shook my own controller too much, and I was out - he had won.
The atmosphere at the event was fantastic - everyone was excited about getting involved and just playing. It was fun. Unfortunately I lost Cute Gamer Boy… but I shall cherish the memories of us, surrounded by a cheering crowd, locking eyes in the art gallery to Bach’s chamber music.
The next day I was meeting up with Mr. Swipey again. We had considered going for a drink or a bite to eat somewhere, so after his lectures he met me on my turf and we started walking. What turned into a short walk to a local cafe developed into the longest walk ever. This was partly down to him not being very hungry and my complete inability to make a decision of which cafe/bar to stop at (a crippling character trait of mine). After about two hours we stopped for dinner at a small joint, and I exasperatedly tried to teach Swipey the differences between brown sauce, Edinburgh sauce, and HP sauce, to no avail, because I am the Master Complicator of Things. We both agreed that I had a habit of tripping over my words which we coined a term for: “Rob Ford-ing it,” after our grand Mayor of Toronto, who is particularly inept at careful public speaking and easily flustered. After our pitstop, we continued the extremely long trek across the West End, and ended up at his house. We came in the door and were greeted by the dogs and his family: his eight-year-old little sister coming up to me and murmuring hello. I didn’t quite remember how to greet children that I’d just met, so I stuck out my hand for her to shake, which she gingerly took and shook mildly, bowing her head from shyness. Do people shake eight-year-olds’ hands? Did I do the right thing or does it just make me a super-formal weirdo, completely out of touch with children? I panicked, ok?
Anyway, Swipey and I sat down with the black lab in front of the TV to catch up on some Olympics. The figure skaters that had placed on the podium were doing an exhibition of dances to celebrate the end of the games. I told Mr. Swipey that I could have been a figure skater in another life. He put a condescending hand on my shoulder: “of course you could have.” His younger sister came in to the living room to say goodnight as she was going to bed. Eyes to the floor again, this time she outstretched her left hand for another handshake: “it was nice to meet you.” I laughed gently as I took her hand and returned the sentiment.
As the evening wore on, we decided to head out for a couple of drinks with one of Swipey’s friends. We stopped off at his pal’s house in The Annex, and sat in his kitchen, drinking and having a very heavy discussion about philosophy and the End of Times and Native America and a whole host of other things. We finished our beers and headed out to a local pub, full of university freshmen, with walls stacked with expressionist paintings.
The bar staff started to prepare for close as half two in the morning rolled around, so we finished our drinks and headed back out. Swipey’s friend bid us goodbye, and then Mr. Swipey proceeded to tell me which bus stop and transfer I should get home. I listened intently, and as he finished, he turned to me and said, “you got it?” The first thing that came out of my mouth was, “so… you want me to cross the road diagonally,” to which he put his head in his hands and laughed. In Toronto, you can’t even cross the road diagonally, unless you have a deathwish. So he walked with me to the bus stop, and told me that after a few drinks I become gullible and over-sensitive (to which I replied with an indignant high squeak, “no!”, thus proving his point). As we waited I asked if there would be any weird people on public transport at this time of night. Yes, of course there would be, he said - everyone is drunk and going home. And apparently they were going to want to speak to me because I seemed normal and rather charming, in his words. “You bet I’m charming!” I laughed. The bus pulled up and we hugged goodbye, and I hopped on with about a dozen other people, all on their way home.
The next evening, we were possibly going to meet up at a bar called Supermarket, where I was going to play my first open mic in Canada. Unfortunately, he had family commitments, so I went by myself. I had heard that the sign-up was very busy and popular, so I had to get there on time. My time management, as ever, is always about cutting it fine, and this night was no exception. I had started cooking my dinner when I realised that I’d have just enough time to cook it, and then I’d have to leave without eating. Classic Olivia. I took two bites and shoved the rest of the salad into a tupperware, where it would wait for me (until when? the salad is still pending…). I dashed around the house getting organised and jumped into a taxi.
At the venue, I chatted a bit to the sound guy, and soon enough I had signed up and now had the whole evening to watch and learn what a real, Canadian open mic was like. I was worried - what if everyone was amazing? Surely because this is a big city, there are more impressive singer-songwriters? I took a look around the room and noticed that everyone playing that night - apart from me - was a dude. Well, that’s one thing that doesn’t change over the Atlantic, I mused. As the night started my fears were only multiplied, as the first two acts smashed their sets. And then as things progressed, I started to recognise the open mic tropes of back home: male dominated, they sing songs which are often quite drab, a couple of nice gems but nothing mind-blowing, simple lyrics and guitar-heavy talent… it was gonna be easy! Maybe I would have a chance at proving myself, I thought.
And then, one of the most incredible things I have ever witnessed at an open mic came to pass.
Two men came up on stage, both middle-aged, one looking a wee bit like Slash and the other with hair down past his jaw in a hoodie. They called themselves The Emotional Rollercoaster, and were going to play us a couple of their own songs tonight. Slash sat down at the electric piano, and Hoodieman gripped the microphone with both hands, wrapping some of the excess cord around his knuckles. What then ensued was incredible, and a little bit Meatloaf-y. If you know me, and know the kind of songs that I make up for fun (not my songs as INKA, but wonderful, personal, cheesy titles such as Reflection of the Light, Why Do I Cry and As Long As You Know, which are all incredible power-ballads with terrible lyrics and predictable melodies, which should only be sung in a stylistic combination of musical leading-man and club-singer), then you’ll know that this was right up my alley.
After rollercoaster number one, we got another song, introduced as a “theatrical, cool, flower girl song,” which was a really, really strange piece with a creepy, unsettling Jekyll and Hyde vibe to it. I thanked myself for sitting in the darkest corner of the bar, so that they couldn’t see me trying to hold it together.
I must admit that I’ve listened to this excerpt so many times I’ve started to learn the lyrics: Poooison iiivy, that stings me at dusk…
Soon it was my turn to stand up and play. I was feeling pretty good, because I was going on just after this guy:
I said hello, and told everyone that this was my first open mic in Canada, as I’m from Scotland. I got a little cheer from everyone in the room. I then played them two INKA songs: The Cool Kid and Toronto. Playing Toronto actually in Toronto was an experience which I had dreamed about for months and months, so it was amazing to be finally be playing it up there. At the end of my two-song set, two guys at the front stood up and gave me a standing ovation. Everyone cheered, and I felt great. When I sat down a man approached me and gave me the details of a music night in town which might be interested in booking me, as I seemed to be “of their standard.” Does this happen at every open mic night in Toronto? I thought.
I left after a couple of other acts, including one ridiculously upbeat Japanese guy who had everyone clapping along to his bouncy rendition of Maroon 5’s Sunday Morning. On the walk down Spadina to my streetcar stop I passed a guy sitting outside a shop: “ey, lil darlin’, you playin’ tonight?”
“I did,” I replied, not stopping.
“You playin’ tomorrow night?”
“Maybe,” I laughed. I knew that I probably was going to be - my new goal was to play at least two open mics a week, so I could keep my hand in and get a real start at the whole music thing. My real plan, my real goal for being here.
Speaking of the music thing - I start at work tomorrow. I am slightly terrified - that terror which comes with starting any new job: will I be good? will I be able to do everything they ask of me? what if I make a mistake? what if I’m really, really stupid? what if they realise I’m completely incompetent!?
At least I am safe in the knowledge that people here, some of them complete strangers, think I write good songs, that I’m of a certain standard, and that I am charming.
*well, almost real job. It is an internship, but even though I don't get a wage, I still get responsibility!
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