Endless rain, Sheepdogs, and more

It’s no secret it’s been a dreary summer on the South Shore this year. We had the burst of wildfires, and then the rains came…and didn’t stop. We’ve had roughly 800 mm of rain over the summer so far, and if it hasn’t been raining or drizzle, it’s just been grey.

With that monotone colour it’s been hard to generate enthusiasm of any kind. “Oh yeah…look. Still grey out.”

“Yup.”

“Look now. It’s grey. Still.”

“Uh-huh.”

And so forth.

More seriously, it’s been so damp that folks with horses are on the lookout for dry hay, which is in short supply this year.

However, I happened to take a spin down to Blockhouse and discovered a patch of colour at Chicory Blue General Store. They’ve grown a flower maze and amidst the bleakness have managed to inject some colour into an otherwise sober summer.

Local love: The Sheepdogs at The Shore Club

How is it I could have missed out on this for so long?

Just down the road from where we used to live in Upper Tantallon sat local iconic road house, The Shore Club.

Home to the Mellotones, home to Matt Mays, home to The Hopping Penguins, and home to more one night band stands than can be counted.

And did I once go?

Well, no. I did not.

So, I finally made it to the Shore Club, and it was well worth the trip. But how ironic that I lived further away than ever before I made my first trip.

Still, it was for a bucket list event, for me, at least.

I’m a huge Sheepdogs fan, and when I heard the pseudo-70s band was playing I had to book tickets, and the only way for me to actually see them was to convince friends they needed to see them as well. It didn’t take much to talk Vic and Ritchie into coming along for the ride (or the other way around, really, as Vic gave me the lift to and fro).

Shortly before the actual concert, the promoters added blues artist Garrett Mason to the bill as the opening act. Mason did a good job warming up the crowd, but from the word go the Sheepdogs rocked the house.

It just so happened we happened to be sitting stage left, and the band entered that way from the outdoors with more than a bit of swagger. It was a definitely a stage entrance to be remembered: “Oh yeah, well, just hold my beer!”

And they lived up to it. As much as I’m a fan I didn’t recognize many of the songs, but that was okay. I stood off to the left of the stage, and while I couldn’t see the drummer or keyboardist I had a great view of the rest of the band, and I couldn’t beat the sound.

I would have loved to have made it through the entire show, but I started to fade with likely about two songs to go. At that point I’d been waiting the entire evening for them to break into the almost mindless boogie of I Don’t Know with its laid-back, agreeable chorus of “I don’t know!”

Wouldn’t you know it. Just as we headed out the door, what did they begin to play? I hesitated outside the club in the cool night air and listened to the call and response. It was fine, a great way to beat the crowds before everyone let out for the night, and, memorably, as we headed to the car the notes of I Don’t Know drifted off into the evening air, bouncing off the gleaming hoods of the vehicles.

Fresh potatoes and heavy cream equal my frittata

“My frittata” is a bit of an inside joke around this household. It originates from Morning Glory, a 2010 comedy starring Harrison Ford across from Rachel MacAdams. MacAdams plays a New York City news producer who joins an ailing broadcast full of divas and whom is called upon to boost its ratings. Without giving anything away, “my frittata” is fairly central to the plot.

I love to cook. I’m not trained or anything like that. Like so many other people, I find pouring a glass of wine, putting on some music, and settling in to make dinner relaxing. It’s my idea of a great evening.

And while I love to cook, who knows what will catch my fancy? Well, the frittata did.

Duck egg version.

I’ve done a number of variations successfully, including using chicken eggs (not bad); duck eggs (wow, pretty good); and heavy cream (Oh my God, why did I not do this before?).

My advice: don’t skimp on the cream.

What I’m listening to

A native New Orleanian, Nicholas Payton and his incredibly accomplished band lay into a mix of classics, all the while swinging hard on them and giving them a contemporary burnish. They include When the Saints Go Marching In, Way Down Yonder in Near Orleans, and St. James Infirmary. Gumbo Nouveau indeed.

Pat Metheny Group’s We Live Here is a heavily layered synthetic wash, rhythmic but abstract at the same time. At times, it’s like Mark Rothko abandoned painting and took up music instead, with an insistent pulsing beat underlaying melancholoy piano lines, care-free guitar notes scattered as if planting future jazz melodies in preparation for a new musical garden. We Live Here is on the Geffen recording label, which brings the accusation from the Penguin Guide to Jazz that Metheny veers into “something of a light rock feel” when Metheny began recording for Geffen. I would argue no more than in the same way that Randy Brecker or the Yellowjackets rely on synthesizers to push their sonic boundaries.