Gimli, floor-to-ceiling windows behind us, and beyond them the lake, frozen, vast. You expect stillness from a frozen lake. What you don’t expect are cars driving across it like it’s a parking lot. That never sits right. Each time I looked out, same thought – this is a terrible idea that people are treating as normal. A car through the ice.

The room was full. Properly. People leaning, you could feel it. We moved the piano before the show. Sight lines matter. One shift and suddenly room sees itself properly. It’s a good metaphor, probably, but also just practical. At one point I noticed in attendance at least four people under thirty. Four! It feels statistically significant. How did they get in? Smuggling operation? Accompanied by adults then quietly released? Encouraging, whatever the explanation.

Scott promoting the show. A large man physically and otherwise. Kind of presence that suggests he’s lived parallel lives. Last time He spends a lot of time in Mexico, I believe it. That transnational energy, like belonging to more than one climate. He hired a photographer, which added another layer. Mike gave the poor guy a dirty look during the first song. He didn’t know it was planned. Suddenly moments that would normally dissolve were being captured, archived, given a future audience. We stocked large and extra large t-shirts. It was based on the advice from the t-shirt store. That woman seemed confident in her demographic analysis. And to be fair, they did move. But this is now the fourth time I’ve realized other sizes would have been nice to have on hand. Larger than large. Smaller than small. And often in cuts that don’t resemble a standard rectangle. It’s for Scott the promoter after all and I can’t help him. Will have to redouble my efforts to locate an old 8X10 which is all he ever asked for in the first place.

It’s interesting how often, on tour, the music ends up happening in places built for seniors. Halls with good lighting, practical chairs, coffee machines that have seen decades of service. Spaces designed for meetings, dances, quiet gatherings. And then, for a night, repurposed into concert venues. Something very Canadian about that. We don’t always build grand temples for art. We adapt. We borrow. We make do with what’s already there and, in doing so, create something less official but more human. The seniors’ hall becomes a listening room. The bingo space the stage. Where people once gathered to mark time now hosts people trying to suspend it. Outside, cars continued to drive across the frozen lake, defying my sense of physics.