Bob Wiseman

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The gallery was small, near the Black Sheep Inn. Not much more than a room with windows, above a bakery in Wakefield, Quebec. Word had spread: a retrospective of Jay […]

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On the ferry to Salt Spring Island, with the gulls screaming like unpaid interns and the rain politely refusing to stop, Halid Frochill sat in the galley with a soy […]

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It is (or was) Robin Kuretsky’s birthday, thirty-first of the month, a number mirrored in my own thirteenth, like two cards from a fortune deck flipped in opposite hands. Inversions, […]

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In a city where musicians practiced day and night to impress the festival judges, there was a drummer named Hank who played only one beat. Every morning, he sat outside […]

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Reading through my novel for its first round of edits. So far, so good – no nervous breakdowns, no setting fire to the manuscript, metaphorical or otherwise. Thirty pages to […]

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They were loud and fast. Except for Stash, the drummer, who once spent six weeks in a monastery and now said things like, “The snare is the breath.” One night […]

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The band was called Patient Karma. They had a van with three working tires, and a bassist named Sage, who refused to play the root note. The others begged. Pleaded. […]

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Quillette magazine keeps making the most amusing music stories to me: HIS SATANIC MAJESTY RETIRES. “Ozzy Osbourne really was popular culture’s Prince of fucking Darkness. His songs have scored so many black-laced […]

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They need a driver and I’m the only one available even though I have to get to Guelph from Toronto. It’s worth it. As you age you see more meaning […]

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At one point, an older man in the audience, clearly moved by the music, got up and began to dance. The venue was packed, but he found a small pocket […]