Reno's Reckons Deb's a Winner Too...











Last week I played some songs for the diners and managers of Reno's restaraunt in Belfast. Got up there on a friend's encouragement... This is the same place that some of you may have heard me talk about over and over and over again. "Yeah, so there's this hot place that does live music in Belfast, right? Well, I totally want to play there."




So me and Julisa totally went up there last week. And I totally played there. And they totally offered me a weekly gig.


Whether I can take it or not is a different story... Time and transport and all. But. It's nice to have an official stamp on my caliber.

Pimpin' Padraig

We celebrated Padraig's 30th birthday this week end. He wanted to have a party where everyone looked hideous, so in his infanite wisdom, he concluded the best way to do this was to have an 80's theme.

In the words of Ani DiFranco:
"...I'm so perplexed.
What was I thinking?
What will I think of next?
Where can I hide?"

(I'll take my irony points for being ashamed and
STILL posting it on the internet. Thank you.)

Sufjan Stevens

Last Thursday night I went to Belfast with a few friends to see Sufjan Stevens, a nice American folk singer, I thought. However, I ended up at an Illinois High School pep rally. The local Belfast lass next to me said, "I don't even know what a pep rally IS."


Sufjan Stevens is not merely the mellow crooner he lets on to be. He is a quirky performer with a band that runs right along with him. The lot of them entered stage left wearing matching cheerleader outfits and had their routines down tight. Being a Torontonian, it was my first actual experience of the infamous Spirit Fingers, the close cousin to Jazz Hands.



Sufjan is a musical genius, composer and conductor. With a 3-piece band you can have a little more democracy; the sixsome he had on stage delivered a tight performance only achieved by the chronic expertise of their director. They sang like a choir and played like an orchestra. I've never felt so transported by the phrase "ba-da, ba-bop". And instrumentally, they took their sweet, quality time delivering sound. My friend Mike leaned over during a cacophonic and counted ending, saying, "They haven't decided how they were going to end this song." I think they knew exactly where they were going; only they were dancing instead of driving.

The band's use of dymnamic, interesting sounds and the relationship between folk, funk and alternative rock genres convinced a devoted crowd that we should've paid more than 12 pounds to see this show. Maybe it was a discounted price 'cause the venue was rubbish -the floor riddled with pillars and parts of the ceiling deflecting the sound (may I remind everyone that when you set up a space for a band, they typically will play music?). Or maybe the cheap ticket was foreshadowing to the people who decided to show up and deliver a discourse on their weeks with one another, in which case they overpaid to do it, and could've carried on outside for free.



Even now, days later, I'm jarred by the onslaught of extra-cheesed and cliche American culture of the show. But it just proves that good music is a spoonful of sugar; it'll help anything go down.

...Harvest...

So I'm tired of living in Northern Ireland with Americans, right? Like, no offense to my housemates, co-workers or even just to Americans, but it's like the friggin' 51st state out here in Closkelt.

And I'm getting antsy and... I miss singing on a regular basis and I'm not the kind of girl who's satisfied by singing worship songs 3 times a week. I need discipline -amazingly enough- when it comes to that sort of thing.

So I join the choir at the church across the street, for their Harvest Service. Closkelt is so rural... So they get big into the Harvest services. Like Thanksgiving, only without the natives. They're just Farmer's who know who to thank. Now, if you know me well, you'll realize how odd this is for me. To be living in the country, to be singing in a nice little farm community church choir. It's weird. After having been here for 2 and 1/2 years, you'd think the culture shock would be over. I would. But then I go to practice and Annette says "Vincent sends his apologies; he'll miss choir practice tonight because he's delivering a horse to the vet." BLINK. Back where I come from, that would be a cover-up.

But it was brilliant to sing a bit more regularly and in sweet sweet harmony. I miss classical style. And musical discipline. And even the challenge of reading music. I miss being corrected and watching myself improve. So it was awesome to have that for a bit.

Plus the folk in the church are a scream. One night, someone sat down while the rest of us were standing and was quickly and affectionately labled "Pensioner." That nickname flew around for the rest of rehearsal.

And the Service was gorgeous.







The thing I like about a British Harvest Service in the country is that the farmers in the congregation actually bring a portion of their harvest to decorate the church; offerings to honour God. What an incredible physical representation of worship. I loved being surrounded by the colours...



My Presbyterian friends across the street are more than meets the eye. That's for sure. Except Pearl. She's as cheeky as she looks.