Canadian Music Week: Part 1

If this hall burned down tonight, I wouldn’t care.

I stared up at the high ceiling of the Danforth Music Hall, looking at the old cracks in the paint through the dancing lights. I was swathed in a thick cloud of violin loops and rushing drums. It was almost the end of Canadian Music Week, and I was simultaneously alone and surrounded — a hall full of strangers here to see one of my favourite music idols. For some reason, when I dreamed about Canada, dreamed about my most favourite things about this country, I never pictured myself doing this. But here I was, seeing Owen Pallett live, in Toronto. It was a wonderful, simple culmination of my two great loves: his music, and his former hometown.

*´¯`*.¸¸.*´¯`*and in that moment, I swear I was infinitely Canadian*´¯`*.¸¸.*´¯`*

That was last night, Saturday night. It’s now Sunday and I’m sitting in my cafe, trying to stir a spoonful of honey into an glass of iced tea (it’s not going well… huh, chemistry…) — using ice and sugar to keep myself awake. I’m exhausted, but it’s ok. It’s 24 degrees, the small streets of Parkdale are lined with new leaves and magnolias, and I’ve just had the best week I could ever have had in Canada, so far. I can’t wait to tell you all about it. Let’s take it back to Wednesday…

Technically, this was the second day of the festival. I had picked up my CMW pass the day before and headed out with two of my intern pals, Sarah and Jason, to see some shows. I woke up the next morning at half past six, my body doing that whole “ohhh Godddd” thing before I managed to spring into action and catch a ride to CMW HQ: the Marriott hotel. I became super chipper because I was so excited about being in the middle of it all — I adore festival season. There’s something about it which brings everyone closer together, as if we’ve all been put in a hot pot with the lid placed over our heads (this was supposed to be a nice image but it turned a bit cannibalistic quite quickly. Woops. I'm gonna watch Hannibal).

Our team from work was separated into two camps — one upstairs at registration for the media, in a hub of constant activity, and one in the Simcoe Room down on the conference floor, which was mercifully quieter. The Simcoe Room was where we were to host interviews, use it as a base for our social media and conference team, and hide our increasing lack of sanity from the sharply dressed delegates.

I had been squaring up the room for the interviews that afternoon when I got a call from Kaitlyn, one of the publicity team who was working upstairs.

“Hey, are you busy?”

“uhh...”

“I need you to come to the lobby, now. Tell anyone you’re working with it can wait. Come here, now.”

I ran up the escalators to the hotel lobby to see Kaitlyn talking to intern Sarah, and I joined them. Kaitlyn laid it down: one of our other festival clients were hosting a lunch downtown to talk to media who were interested in covering their event later this summer. It was a pretty important client — some big names are playing — and Sacha, the publicity manager, was in charge of getting media to the lunch. She was currently freaking out because apparently some of the media guests she’d invited had cancelled. Sarah and I had been called upon to go to the restaurant where the event was happening, and pretend to be music bloggers, to fluff up the numbers a bit. While I was listening to Kaitlyn explain the whole thing, Sacha was texting me from the event with the details of what outlets we were supposed to be representing.

Everything in my body was screaming “I don’t want to do this,” and I’m sure Sarah was the same. I hate tricking people, I don’t like lying all that much at all. But we were interns, and this was our time to prove our dedication. Kaitlyn assured us that it we only had to turn up, have a glass of wine and stand in the background, and then leave after a toast. We wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. Ok, that sounded do-able.

Sarah and I dashed into a taxi and headed to the Italian restaurant several blocks away, swiping through our phones on the journey over, trying to get the low-down on the outlets we were representing. Turns out I was a blogger for what seemed to be the Nova Scotian equivalent of Sky TV, which made me gulp. I’d better not be talking to people, I thought, there’s no way I can pull this off.

Arriving at the rooftop restaurant, we saw a small crowd of somewhat professional-looking people, milling about with glasses of wine. I made eye contact with Sacha, who was giving us a smile riddled with apology and terror. We were handed a glass of wine each by one of the servers there. Cheers, Sarah and I clinked glasses, exchanging looks of worry. We were quietly talking to each other in the background when Sacha came up to us with one of the festival co-ordinators, and started to introduce us, under the title “music bloggers” from our respective outlets. I shook his hand, thinking well bloody thanks Sacha, what happened to not having to speak to anyone? and he began to pitch the festival to us, conversationally.

“So what kind of music are you looking to cover?” he asked. 

I think the best explanation of what was going on in my brain at the time can only be conveyed by a little hamster on a wheel, running at a frantic pace.

“…huh, up-and-coming bands, really,” I replied, trying to not sound like I had no clue what I was talking about, “yeah," I took a sip of wine, "I’m all about the new stuff, discovering people… yeah…” Festival Man nodded, sounding only marginally convinced, “yes, up-and-coming bands is… good.”

We countered his enquiries with our own questions, bombarding him with them so he didn’t have a chance to investigate us any further. Eventually another festival co-ordinator came up and initiated conversation, and she was even worse. “I’m sorry,” she laughed, “I like to ask a lot of questions!” She asked me about myself. I started talking:

“Well, I actually moved over here about six months ago -“ Lie, I moved here four months ago. “- and stayed on the East Coast in Halifax for two months-“ total lie. never been to Halifax. “- and started to freelance for my outlet over there -“ lies! so many lies! “- before moving to Toronto to continue work as a music blogger… before I came here I got a journalism degree in Scotland -“ I’m sorry, what!? “- and worked for a few years in radio -“ somewhat of a truth, I guess “- with an independent radio production company in Glasgow -“ again, LIESSS!

I put myself in way too deep, creating a wonderful alternate history for myself. Sarah kept relatively quiet, I could tell that she was relieved that I’d come up with such a motor-mouth under the pressure. The lady listened intently, and then said that it was time for a toast. She clinked her glass and welcomed us all, inviting us to consider covering their festival this summer. I inwardly sighed with relief — we could leave soon. “Now, If you would all like to take a seat, we are having some lunch brought out…” No, no, no, no, NO, I thought, as I reluctantly took a seat. I caught Sacha’s eye and she smiled a smile that said, “Thank you. I am so sorry.” As we all got seated and started to tuck in to the exquisite food that had been placed before us, I started to relax a little. It was probably also the three glasses of wine I’d had on a near-empty stomach, as well, maybe.

We were sat across from an Australian blogger, who, to my horror, had seen me earlier that day with my work lanyard on in the Simcoe Room. He asked me if I worked for Audio Blood, to which I fervently shook my head: “no, no, no, no, no,” I asserted, “I was just in there for an interview myself earlier today.” Phew, nice save! People seemed to take my story on — at one point I had someone recognise my outlet with an “Ah! That’s Joe Blogg’s project, isn’t it?” “Yes! Yes it is,” I agreed, “Yeah, Joe’s great. Joe’s doing just great.” Another hearty sip of wine.

After what seemed like an eternity of spinning a web of sticky lies to surround myself with, it was time to depart back to the hotel. By this point, my Music Blogger character was in full swing, and I gave the festival co-ordinators handshakes and European kisses on the cheek — “It was so lovely to meet you! I will be in touch soon! Love to cover your festival! Wonderful stuff!” — all very luvvy and dahhling, working the media trope.

Sarah and I laughed our way back to the hotel, where I then hastily ran to the Amanda Palmer interview that was taking place in one of the main rooms on the conference floor. I was feeling great — a delicious Italian lunch and several glasses of wine was enough payment for the acting session I’d just come from.

Amanda Palmer is always someone I’ve wanted to see speak, and I was determined that day that I was going to meet her and speak to her, I just didn’t know when or how. At the end of her talk she sang a song on a uke, and they offered to give away a signed one to someone who could name all the tracks on one of her albums. I well knew that I couldn’t, and one girl just about leapt off her chair with excitement. She got the ukelele, and her and Amanda disappeared backstage. Two people at the front followed up the stage steps in the centre of the room and headed to the wings as well, so I thought, what the hell, and followed suit.

As soon as I got backstage I realised that I very probably was not supposed to be there. The two people I’d followed were with the next panel, and I was just a excited hanger-on trying to meet Amanda Palmer. She was packing up her uke in a little suitcase when I said hi. I talked to her about her development as an artist in the music business, and how her story made me feel like I could do what she could do, she made music seem so accessible. We talked for a couple of minutes, and she was lovely. “Do you have a Twitter?” she asked, “you should send me your stuff.” I raised my eyebrows, fumbling in my bag. “Well, actually,” I said pulling out one of my cards, “I have a card — sorry this is kind of schmoozy — you can find me here.” She turned it over in her hand, “INKA, huh,” and tucked it away. I thanked her and she asked me my name. We shook hands.

I turned and went to exit the way I came. I stepped back on to the stage to only realise that I was now a feature in the new panel which was starting, as I was met with a sea of faces and several people on cushy chairs, stage left, introducing themselves. I held my head high and walked right down to the steps in the middle of the stage, and made my exit. I didn’t care. I’d just given Amanda Palmer my contact details, because she’s asked for it.

CMW was creating these weird, hilarious and magical moments for me — this is why I love festivals, I thought, as later on in the afternoon I passed Amanda on her way out of the hotel, and she gave me a little salute.

I still have so much to tell you, but let’s save it for CMW, part two.

fig 1. free wine scarfed from an awards ceremony helps the pr go down

fig 2. Beau at Cameron House