I've never felt so grown up in all my 27 years as I did registering at the front desk of the Royal Oaks Hotel last night. We have a band policy of couch surfing, camping, rooftop poaching, etc. In other words, we never pay for hotel rooms. Last night, however, exhausted after a long day of trying hard to get on the road and the previous week of homecoming shows, I made the decision to find the seediest hotel and sleep in it. Our choice was the Royal Oak Hotel with Tail Gaterz strip joint adjoining. A single room for $53. Well the problem with a single room is that there are four of us, but if I was going to pay for a hotel room, I certainly wasn't going to pay for four of us to stay in it. The other problem is that we are conspicuous. Within 4 hours of driving in Alberta I was asked 3 times whether we were hippies or tree planters. Trying to sneak three unkempt hippy-looking band mates into a hotel with quite possibly no other occupants, proved an exciting night in Whitecourt. We managed by finding back doors and fire escapes, flirting with the front desk girl, and pure cat-like agility. No, we're not hippies or tree planters, we're just smooth talkers and cheap like borscht. And poverty, folks, has a way of turning one into a sneaky criminal.
Very little excitement happened as we continued through Alberta on our way to Olds for the next show, that is until we reached Rocky Mountain House. Now, I've always thought Rocky Mountain House to be quite beautifully located and we pushed through our coffee cravings until we reached the town. We quickly found a cute little coffee shop and were excited to have some coffee to mix with our Baileys. Little did I know that in Rocky Mountain House, and at Novel Ideas Coffee Shop specifically, they like to assault their customers. Imagine my surprise at being everything but physically attacked by the menopausal, obviously unhappy, and sexually unsatisfied owner of the coffee shop all for ordering an Americano. Folks if you ever stop for a coffee in Rocky Mountain House, please don't order an Americano, it may be the last thing you ever do. I barely made it out alive. I left the shop quite shaken up, but with resolve to show that lady that I wouldn't stoop to her level, I wouldn't yell and threaten, I would show my social graces and educated upbringing and in a witty and intelligent fashion I would pay her back for her uncalled for behaviour. So, I walked back into her coffee shop, looked her in the eye and in front of all who cared to watch I raised my coffee mug high and poured it out onto the floor. “Oops, I tripped”, I said as I turned to walk away. However, walking was not an option. Oh no. The bitch was on me. She screamed like a rabid dog was chewing off her leg and she put on a chase, but I was faster and the green mini van was loaded and waiting, Tyler was at the wheel of my get away car. “Fuck You Rocky Mountain House!” was all I had to say as we pushed the mini van until we almost reached the speed limit on the way out of town, but don't think I didn't hear, and perhaps consider, the advice of one confused coffee shop patron when she called after me, “You need a therapist!” Well, lady, don't we all, and that Americano tasted like shit anyway.
Until next time,
Peace, Love, Moonshine and a touch of childish revenge,
Clean underwear. It's always an issue when one lives on the road. Now some of us who live in this van (I'm writing this as we roll down the highway in our green mini van. The very same green mini van that has the lyrics of Prairie Balladeer Scott Cook inscribed in dirt... “I live in my van, and it's a fine place to live...”). Anyway, as I was saying, some of us that live in this van are highly strategic about clean underwear. One of our more hygienic members, for example, washes hers when she showers. (She swears she doesn't wear them while she showers, just washes them while she washes herself. Genius, really.)
I, on the other hand, am a master procrastinator when it comes to laundry. I'm of the mindset that clothes clean themselves when they are put in a bag and left there for long periods of time. So, imagine my surprise on the first laundry day in a month to find my favourite pair of panties, call them my comfort, or perhaps my leisure panties, to be forever altered. Now before I go on, everyone has a pair of leisure underwear, they're full coverage, soft, never wedge themselves into uncomfortable places and they've been with you for more years than is healthy to admit. Well, I'm sure you could imagine my surprise when my leisure panties showed up after laundry day soft as always, clean and crotch-less. Yes, I said crotch-less. As in the crotch cut right out of them.
So, I'm posting this blog with the intention of sleuthing out who did it. Who, I ask, cut the crotch out of my leisure panties?? I urge you, whomever you may be, to come forward. I promise there will be no repercussions, I ask only for my soft cotton, breathable, comfortable leisure panties to be replaced. You may remain anonymous, I'm OK with that, I don't need to know why you went into my suitcase with your scissors, but please send a new pair of size medium leisure panties to:
Well, it seems like a good while ago now that we holed up in my cabin in the deep dark northern winter to lay down this record, and now, finally, it's time to release it. Today, June 15th, is the digital release date. That means you can go to itunes and download a copy. Of course downloading doesn't allow you to caress the album in your hands, let it get coffee stained in the car, or mix up in your CD case, so if you want a real live physical copy, you can get ahold of one of them from my website store, or, of course, one of my shows (here's my always-up-to-date show schedule).
So, the big news is that it's digital release day, aside from that, the news I have to offer is about the weather, about the rain and the crops. I am in Saskatchewan after all. And, as a catch up of where the green mini van has driven us on this whirlwind Canadian tour here's a very brief update.
We jammed in every park in Montreal, curbside garage-saled until our suitcases almost exploded and tried to feel as french as a Western Canadian can.
Ontario was the biggest place I ever saw.
Fell in love with Winnipeg and the fine people that live there.
A strong prairie wind blew us into Bruno, Saskatchewan, and we're discovering how even a grain elevator looks beautiful on the wide Saskatchewan horizon.
And we'll keep heading west.
Please come and see us when we roll through your town.
Cheers until next time,
Miss Quincy
www.missquincy.net
ps. Just because it is release day, I've included a free track from Your Mama Don't Like Me with this post, here it is... Record Store. If you like it, you know where to get the rest of the songs!
"Your Mama Don't Like Me" is released on itunes today!
I was looking my best this morning as I hauled my 5 bags from platform to platform trying to get to my train (I seriously have 5 bags - back pack, guitar case, computer case, bag of CDs and merch and a large near-to-bursting carry-all hippy bag). I generally look like a laden mule in pain when I'm carrying all these bags and the only thing I feel happy about is that I decided against bringing 2 guitars. So, I knew that touring solo would be a learning experience, but I wasn't aware that the biggest lesson I would learn would be: hire a fucking car. You know, I thought it would be quite easy, I packed light - I only have 3 sets of clothes with me - but I also have guitar pedals and chords, a pharmacy of herbal anti-cold medicine, a computer, harmonicas in 6 different keys, tuner, metronome, etc. etc. Lesson learned, next time the car rental agencies will love me.
Aside from the drudgery of hauling around a car load of gear without a car, I've had a few first time experiences since my last blog entry. Such as bee keeping. Seriously, I've started thinking that a life of bee keeping could suit me just fine. What started out as a nice walk in the country turned into a whole apiary workshop. As you can see here the outfit of an apiarist suits me just fine as well.
Back to the shows, last night I was in Leeds. Now if Brighton was all about the jazz/funk/gypsy/ska, Leeds is all about ... Blues. It seems as though the musical tastes and trends change as fast as the accents in this country. Brighton was full of stylish hippies speaking with soft rounded vowels and Leeds was fast paced, a bit dirty, a bit rough, and really fun. I managed to hit the Live at Leeds festival, and the entire city was a thriving mass of musicians and heavy drinking Loiners (Loiner being the Leeds demonym). After my show I took part in the festival by playing in a musicathon for ELFM radio that went on all night long. I played my set at midnight and in the next few hours watched almost every Leeds band cycle through the church where we were broadcasting from. And this is where I realized that Leeds is obsessed with the blues. And not a convoluted english style blues, no they're really into the old school American blues. So American actually, that I heard not just one but many bands impose an American-ish accent on their between song banter. It was a wonderful moment the first time I heard a lead singer introduce his band sounding very much like a Loiner and by the end of the set he was a Chicagoan. Magic really. The whole radio show is podcasted at www.elfm.co.uk, if you'd like to check out 24 hours of non-stop music from Leeds.
This long night of music was almost fully responsible for my exceptionally haggard appearance on the train this morning with my large and heavy load. In a packed train I had 2 seats all to myself... next show, Stamford.
Having lived in Nelson BC, I feel quite at home in Brighton. Dread Locks, Anarchists, peace and love abounding, if it weren't for that tell tale south British accent, I may just forget that I'm not at home. However there are a few noticeable differences. One is that when I mention blues as a genre of music, I'm met with confused looks. Jazz, gypsy, ska, fat horn sections and dance beats - they've got it, but blues - not so much. And, whereas the genre "folk" can come pretty close to a swear word where I come from, folk seems to be held in high esteem, a tradition, a right of passage, a rich and treasured heritage (and really what is folk music if it's not all of that?). However, despite these small differences, as always, good music is good music and musicians seem to be a welcoming breed the world over. I've had the great fortune of playing and jamming with some great musicians and bands since I've been here. And it seems as though the late night and later mornings tour schedule has settled in to stay.
Here are some sweet acts to check out:
For one, The Mountain Fireworks Company. An all-man brute of a bluegrass band that sings of lost loves and sorrows. There really isn't anything more beautiful than hearing five big men lament in harmony together. (as an aside, I would like nothing more than to see these boys playing in Canada next summer, so if you feel so inclined, please email CBC radio and request to hear more songs from them. And, check out at www.mountainfireworkcompany.com)
Another lady I was excited to meet was Alice Russell, soul singer extraordinaire. Having heard her tunes before and been thoroughly impressed, it was most fun to drink too much wine with her after my show.
The skies are strangely quiet in Europe this week. Children with asthma have been literally jumping up and down. Just today, the latest buzz is that the British Navy will be rescuing people from France and Spain, I've heard of rubber dingy fleets coming across the channel and of severe fresh produce shortages in the UK. Open any newspaper you'll only hear of stranded holiday-ers. Poor unfortunate souls spending an extra week on the beach where sun burn injuries have sky rocketed. Crowds of Brits are having impromptu get togethers in order to voice their story, which sounds just like the next, which is - we're not getting home anytime soon.
I myself have been unfortunate enough to have my flight cancelled, so I am stuck in a large stone house overlooking craggy cliffs falling into the Atlantic ocean. I have the annoyance of sea spay misting my face every morning as I stroll just above the crashing waves. And, it looks as though it's going to continue for another week. Why? Because I can't get out of Portugal until Thursday. And Thursday at the very earliest, and only because I'm traveling solo, and only because I booked my train ticket two days ago (Sunday).
Now, I'm sure that Iceland is full of wonderful, shiny and talented people, but that little country seems to be fucking with the rest of the world right now. Not that I'm complaining because I quite like being stranded in Portugal, but if only they would reimburse my £306 I would be a very happy and sunburnt holiday-er.
As you are probably aware, if you are reading this blog, I am supposed to be playing music and on tour in the UK, not sunbathing in Portugal. And, by April 24th, which is my first gig in Brighton, barring any more unforeseen disasters, I will be in there and reunited with my beloved guitar (who took her own holiday trying to make it to the UK) to play the show.
The following is a short blurb that I wrote for a few British papers, as they are uninterested in promoting my show at the moment and very interested in my travel troubles.
May the winds change soon,
xo
Miss Quincy
Travel Tales by Miss Quincy
Miss Quincy, a Canadian Singer Songwriter, tells of her travel trials and tribulations while embarking on her UK album release tour. www.missquincy.net
I am an experienced traveller, in fact, before I started playing music full time (which often entails living in a van on the road) I travelled the world with long dread locks and a dirty rucksack. I've spent countless days and nights on airport benches and all night bus rides, and I've never so much as had a flight take a major delay. This trip, however...
To tell of all the trials and tribulations of one seemingly simple trans-Atlantic flight would keep us all here until next week, so let me suffice to say that, while the volcano was still peacefully sleeping, I experienced re-routed flights, over-booked flights and delayed flights. I was waist deep in budget travel hell before I even left Canada. By the time my newly assigned and delayed flight arrived in Manchester (many hours after I was scheduled to arrive in London Gatwick on a direct flight from Canada I might add), my esteemed budget airline had lost my guitar. No sign of the instrument that is worth far more than my car, my antique hat collection, or any other asset I posses in both monetary and sentimental value. I almost cancelled my week long holiday in Portugal's Algarve to stay and wait and worry about my guitar, but decided that I could phone Global Baggage Services every hour from Portugal just as easy as from Manchester (seeing as how I wasn't even sure how I ended up in Manchester to start with). So, bad choice number two (I'm counting booking a budget flight from a terrible budget company as bad choice number one), I flew to Portugal. Who knew flying could be so easy. Board the plane and a few hours later I was in southern Europe. Apparently to stay for much longer than I intended.
I flew to Portugal on Monday, the volcano erupted on Wednesday. I didn't personally blame Iceland for all the ill's of the world until my flight was officially cancelled and I had to buy a train ticket worth 306.00 GBP that arrives into the UK five days later than I intended.
Usually I would be ecstatic to stay an extra week in Portugal, however, I am a Canadian musician on my first tour in the UK and am very much looking forward to playing my shows. I have had two strokes of unbelievable luck in this ordeal. One is that my guitar made it safely into the loving arms of a friend in Brighton on Tuesday, and two is that I am scheduled to arrive in Brighton the day of my first gig.
To fund these extra days in Portugal and an outrageous train fare, I will be busking my way through the trains of Europe back to my beloved guitar. I've managed to acquire an embarrassingly small travel guitar that looks and plays like a cross between a lute and a ukelele and will be video blogging my travels. Please join me on my journey at www.missquincy.net as I will be updating my progress often.
Yesterday was a rough day. It started early and ended, well, early. I had one of those relentless hangovers that reared his ugly head every time I smelled the clam chowder that was the soup special in my cafe, every time I bent down to put a plate of food on someone's table, every time I even looked in the direction of that damn clam chowder. And I love clam chowder, but my hangover didn't. Monday mornings are busy in the cafe, even busier when you arrive slightly drunk and smelling distilled. One might wonder why one would drink to a point of absolute intoxication on a Sunday, the Lord's day of rest, when one had to work the early shift at the cafe where they're serving clam chowder the next morning. The problem with my judgement was quite simple; moonshine. I didn't know I was drunk until I was completely loaded and by then a mere shift at the cafe was far from important. What cafe?
Anyway, spending the day with my hangover made me remember that I never want to do it again. So, I am putting out a call to all and any who will share their wisdom. What is the cure for the common hangover?
Last summer a local apiarist gave me a jar of unpasteurized honey and swore that if I would just take a spoonful before drinking I couldn't get a hangover if I tried.
A Mexican friend of mine swears by cow stomach soup after a night of hard drinking.
There must be other cures, and I want to learn them all. Next time I will be prepared to face the clam chowder.
I was recently asked to play a Valentine's Day show for singles. I immediately knew exactly what I wanted to do. There are just so many classic blues songs sung by ladies who know how to sing about pain, love and heartache, and I knew that I wanted to do it too. I choose songs written and performed by Nina Simone, Koko Taylor, and Bessie Smith to name a few. I was awed by these songs at first. It's one thing to take someone else's song and sing it like it's your own, it's another thing to take a well-known classic, a pain-infused, heartbroken song and sing it like it's your own to an audience of hopeful lovers on Valentine's Day.
Performing these songs was like a history lesson for me. Of course Bessie Smith could sing about pain and grief, her and her brother had to busk on the streets to bring home money after their parents died. Of course Nina Simone's voice is deep and resonates with passion, at twelve years old, during her first recital, her black parents were forced to move to the back of the room so that the white patrons could have the front seats. At twelve she refused to play until her parents were allowed back in the front row. These experiences show in their music, in their interpretations, in their song writing.
I spent countless hours listening to these ladies, learning about them, their lives and music. I did not know, for example, that after suffering the effects of racism all her life, Nina Simone became a strong supporter of the black power movement, and her music was often used as anthems for the civil rights movement in America. Learning about these ladies and their extraordinary lives was as important as learning the notes in each of their songs. It was intimidating at times to sing songs with so much history, so much feeling, so much hurt, loss and love behind them, especially to a crowd of well dressed singles who were more interested in the sexy single sitting opposite than a history lesson.
However, music is a language. A language that I speak, that Nina Simone spoke, that Bessie and Koko spoke. And it is through music that they channelled their emotions, that are, after all common to the human experience. So, although I was singing to a group of singles at a Valentine's Day show, and Nina Simone was writing anthems for the civil rights movement, I sang and felt the music as they intended their music to be felt. And there it was. Music the universal language, as always speaking so relevantly, whether to singles on Valentine's Day or racial protests in the civil rights movement.
To see more photos from "A Short Study of Love and Heartache" check out jodieponto.com/photoblog
Last night I accidentally witnessed one of the greatest shows I've ever seen. It was a fluke really, I went to have a quick dinner at a friends, and, lucky for my good fortune, I stumbled into a stellar performance. In the context of the show, I wasn't sure it was polite to take notes, but god knows, I could learn a thing or two about performance from this master showman. It was an improptu show, as often the best are, put on by none other than the Kirby Vacuum salesman. From 7pm until 10pm we witnessed a great display of theatre and performance art as Max the vacuum salesman put his machine through it's paces. Now, we were all sold on the machine instantly, it seemed to work better than the average vacuum, that wasn't the issue, it was the $3000 price tag. Of course he avoided all mention of price and payments until he had put the old vacuum to shame and banished it to the snowbank outside (it wasn't what this fine young family deserved), until he had vacuumed a handful of "dust mite feces" from their relatively new mattress, until he had vacuumed up a box of salt which the old vacuum had missed. All the while he had a steady stream of banter that was not only charming and full of sexist comments geared towards a happy young couple finding their roles within a new and budding family, but hypnotizing and spellbinding.
And, when the couple looked at each other and knew that it was more important to save money for their baby on the way, than to "invest" in this new vacuum, Max stepped up his pitch. He made false phone calls to head office painstakingly describing the financial situaiton of this young and hard working couple who "deserved a vaccuum that would keep their soon to be born child safe". There was no one on the other end of the phone line, but the dialgue was convincing, and each time he called the price dropped, and each time he hung up he congratulated the happy young couple on joining the Kirby Vacuum family. They said, "sorry, no" four times and the price went down four times. He threw in a 10 day all inclusive trip to Mexico (flights not included), free vaccuum bags, extra shampoo. He was there for three hours for gods sake, trying to sell them something they never intended to buy. He almost had them when he started weaving a spell of words and payment options, pitting husband and wife against each other, and pleading the health of their unborn. All the while shampooing "the wife's" carpet so it shone as white as her wedding dress that she wore only a few months before. It was almost a religious experience and if he was trying to get them to part with their souls rather than their hard earned cash, he would have succeeded without a doubt. The night ended in a sparkling square of carpet placed so it contrasted the high traffic area of carpet like an insult, it ended with the Kirby vacuum being packed away by a sad and defeated Max who only wanted what was best for this hardworking family, it ended with the couple feeling terrible that they couldn't afford what they really needed to keep their unborn safe.
And then, the auxillary salesman showed up. Just like that. And we heard yet another pitch on how the investment of this life time warranty, super-dooper, do-everything-but-procreate machine would change the life of an expecting house wife who worked so hard. We were all exhausted and a little confused by the time that vacuum left the scene, at first we weren't sure if we'd even experienced it - but there was that gleaming white square of carpet smiling back at us. The happiest fucking carpet around.
If it were even possible for me to become half as convincing as that salesman, I would be the most successful independent musician of all time. But even I wouldn't set my sights that high...
This winter has been all about getting my shit together. And, unfortunetly, that means i've had to work a "real job". At first i was OK with this prospect, it has been a few years since i've worked a normal 9-5. (excluding a 4 shift stint at the road-side fruit stand last summer which i quit/was fired at exactly the same moment). Now, however, it seems that working at my day job takes up more time than the rest of my life - which is exactly why I'm opposed to "real jobs". Chronic Jobs - they're bad for your health.
You see, I work at the Cafe. I make a mean pannini, but play guitar less. I can froth a steamy latte, but spend less time out on the farm. I get up at 6:30 am. Enough said. That sucks.
Musicians develop a very specific skill set, and once we've honed the skills of staying up very very late, perfected the art of drinking while performing all activities, and can make sweet sweet music with every waking hour - It's really hard to go back to, "Order Up! Vanilla low fat and no onions for that lady there that looks expensive".
I don't hate my job, I just hate that I have a job.
That said, here's how to make a sweet pannini:
It's really just a glorified grilled cheese sandwich, so butter both sides of your bread and stuff it full of all sorts of good things and put it in the ..... pannini grill (or fry it like a grilled cheese in disguise). But don't forget that everything tastes better with lots of butter.
hotel rooms. Last night, however, exhausted after a long day of trying hard to get on the road and the previous week of homecoming shows, I made the decision to find the seediest hotel and sleep in it. Our choice was the Royal Oak Hotel with Tail Gaterz strip joint adjoining. A single room for $53. Well the problem with a single room is that there are four of us, but if I was going to pay for a hotel room, I certainly wasn't going to pay for four of us to stay in it. The other problem is that we are conspicuous. Within 4 hours of driving in Alberta I was asked 3 times whether we were hippies or tree planters. Trying to sneak three unkempt hippy-looking band mates into a hotel with quite possibly no other occupants, proved an exciting night in Whitecourt. We managed by finding back doors and fire escapes, flirting with the front desk girl, and pure cat-like agility. No, we're not hippies or tree planters, we're just smooth talkers and cheap like borscht. And poverty, folks, has a way of turning one into a sneaky criminal.
copy, you can get ahold of one of them from my 
I was looking my best this morning as I hauled my 5 bags from platform to platform trying to get to my train (I seriously have 5 bags - back pack, guitar case, computer case, bag of CDs and merch and a large near-to-bursting carry-all hippy bag). I generally look like a laden mule in pain when I'm carrying all these bags and the only thing I feel happy about is that I decided against bringing 2 guitars. So, I knew that touring solo would be a learning experience, but I wasn't aware that the biggest lesson I would learn would be: hire a fucking car. You know, I thought it would be quite easy, I packed light - I only have 3 sets of clothes with me - but I also have guitar pedals and chords, a pharmacy of herbal anti-cold medicine, a computer, harmonicas in 6 different keys, tuner, metronome, etc. etc. Lesson learned, next time the car rental agencies will love me.
Having lived in Nelson BC, I feel quite at home in Brighton. Dread Locks, Anarchists, peace and love abounding, if it weren't for that tell tale south British accent, I may just forget that I'm not at home. However there are a few noticeable differences. One is that when I mention blues as a genre of music, I'm met with confused looks. Jazz, gypsy, ska, fat horn sections and dance beats - they've got it, but blues - not so much. And, whereas the genre "folk" can come pretty close to a swear word where I come from, folk seems to be held in high esteem, a tradition, a right of passage, a rich and treasured heritage (and really what is folk music if it's not all of that?). However, despite these small differences, as always, good music is good music and musicians seem to be a welcoming breed the world over. I've had the great fortune of playing and jamming with some great musicians and bands since I've been here. And it seems as though the late night and later mornings tour schedule has settled in to stay.
The skies are strangely quiet in Europe this week. Children with asthma have been literally jumping up and down. Just today, the latest buzz is that the British Navy will be rescuing people from France and Spain, I've heard of rubber dingy fleets coming across the channel and of severe fresh produce shortages in the UK. Open any newspaper you'll only hear of stranded holiday-ers. Poor unfortunate souls spending an extra week on the beach where sun burn injuries have sky rocketed. Crowds of Brits are having impromptu get togethers in order to voice their story, which sounds just like the next, which is - we're not getting home anytime soon.
