I’m looking forward to Vallican, near Nelson. Because I’ll be staying with Tamara and Misha. If memory serves me right, on their farm they have horses, chickens, dogs and many hummingbirds hang out. You wake up and a horse is staring at you. The last time I was there, everything seemed suspiciously well-adjusted. Most shows one rolls into town, plugs in, plays, smiles, and then you drive off toward the kind of night that smells like something forgotten at the bottom of the world. You never see the actual city or town too well. But staying with someone at their place, that’s where it’s at. Sitting at the kitchen table, listening to the wind hit the windows, talking about today and tomorrow and last year. You remember why you started doing this in the first place. Sometimes you meet people who’ve figured it out, living halfway to nowhere and pleased about it. Every now and then they’ll say, “Trade you. I’ll crash at your place in Toronto, you take the farm for a week.” Sure. Why not. The roosters don’t talk politics, and the dogs don’t care what key you play in.