I started thinking about all the times I’ve played Regina. This very club, back in the ’90s, when everything felt slightly more urgent and slightly less documented. I must have played it five times. Probably more, depending on how generously one defines memory and survival. Both rooms. The front one, the back one, whatever configuration they were experimenting with then. And, against all reasonable odds, here we are, still standing. That alone a minor miracle. Clubs don’t usually age this well. Mutate, disappear, get replaced by something with worse branding. But this kept going. Refusing extinction.

Regina’s Exchange teaches you not to trust parking lots. We pulled up and the outside was mud and uncertainty. Not many cars. The kind of arrival that makes you quietly prepare your emotional fallback plan. “Well, maybe it’ll be intimate,” which is musician code for “no one is here.” I assumed no crowd. I was wrong. About fifty. And enthusiasm. The kind that fills in the gaps a larger audience might leave empty. Felt immediately. The room decided to be there. Paul and Lena came along with their tenth child. Two weeks old. I think her name is Laura? Or something close to that. Something surreal about a baby that new at a show. Life arriving while other parts of life are already in motion. It felt like the room had expanded to include a future.

A woman in the corner was a huge fan of John in Toronto. Every joke landed with her at full volume. Not polite but committed laughter. Maybe I’m funnier than I thought? Or maybe she just really loves John. The bartender at the end of the night was excited in a specific way. She used to work at a high-end fly-in lodge up north where, apparently, everyone is a hardcore Blue Rodeo fan. She insisted I offer our show up there. “You have to,” she said, like this is an obvious next step in my life.

Ok, why not. I don’t mind being flown into a remote luxury lodge for a family vacation disguised as a gig. I wrote the next day fully believing this woman knew all about what she was talking about. No word back. Not even a polite no. The north remains north. Silence. The bartender was also a physiotherapist. At one point she just dropped to the floor and started showing me exercises for my psoas and hamstring. No ceremony. Just practical knowledge demonstrated on the dirty bar floor. She had that kind of energy. Direct, helpful, unconcerned with transitions.

Mike and I went to an Ethiopian restaurant for dinner. Injera. Its been a while. The spongy bread that turns a meal into something communal. Tear, dip, share space differently. Mud, empty parking lot, low expectations. Regina fills the room.