An Ode to Moose and Sheep Dogs

I love Canada.  They’re playing Neil Young at an uncomfortable volume in the Vault coffeeshop here in Nanaimo and I enjoyed a moose stew for lunch.  The coffee’s strong, the sun’s out and I’m going fishing in an hour.  

We haven’t played in Canada for over a year and it felt great entertaining the fine folks at the Philips Backyard Weekender in Victoria a few days ago.  What a cool festival- small, accessible and fun.  We played right after a Canadian mariachi band which, while buzzed on local Pilsner, is just about the most delightful thing there is.  Later that evening, in a misguided effort to combat my dad bod, I find myself in a hipster vegetarian establishment.  I recognize a harmonized guitar line from one of my favorite Canadian bands, the Sheep Dogs, buzzing through the cafe’s underpowered speakers- they opened for us for a week last year, sweet hearted road warriors to a man, unknown in the States and down to log some serious van miles.  Just a few kilometers across the imaginary line, the Sheep Dogs are everywhere, more popular here than we are in the US.  The world’s a big place.  Good music always finds a home.

Tomorrow I hop on a sea plane over to Vancouver then back stateside for a show with Swatkins and the Positive Agenda.  I’m thankful for this quick trip into the Great White North.  I’ve been hunkered down in Music City for a while, slowly growing innocuously more bizarre, and it feels good getting my travel legs back.  Travel reminds me that monotony equals creative atrophy.  Spending nothing but time and taking nothing but pictures makes me happy.  I’ll always grow more bizarre, and I’m content doing so fueled on moose ass and Kokanee.