Saturday night was spent, after a day of meetings, at a bar in downtown Vancouver.
Soft drinks were had by all.
We were in attendance at this bar because Mr. Q had, several months ago, purchased tickets to see The Proclaimers. Why Mr. Q likes The Proclaimers is beyond me. He’s not even remotely Scottish [yes, and I married him anyway]. I like The Proclaimers. But, really, it fits more with my tastes in music than with Mr. Q’s collection of Beastie Boys, LLCoolJ and Shabba Ranks. We do have odd cross-over agreements in The Proclaimers, Spirit of the West, Chantal Kreviazuk, K-Os and weezer, but for the most part, our musical choices leave the other with only the choice of leaving the room.
Regardless, we were at the concert. We arrived late, due to massive parking issues [another story to be told later] and were relegated to the back of the narrow, dingy upstairs for the latter half of the opening act [they were okay, but I felt no sudden need to rush out and purchase their CD…can’t even remember the band’s name now].
Deciding that standing at the back of the balcony was just as good as listening to the CD in the car, we left our acquired corner and ventured down the already sticky stairs and onto the main floor – rudely staking a claim at the far end of the bar where people had, in all silliness, left space between them. However, once the opening act left the stage, there was a mini rush of bodies to the stage’s edge – Mr. Q included and, by default, me. We found ourselves standing at the front corner, stage right, next to a rather large, unavoidable box.
I noted to Mr. Q how much it looked rather like a giant speaker. One that came up to my neck.
Nah, he said, it wasn’t really the real speaker. It was only for the bass and drums…… the other speakers, he pointed out, were, in actuality, directly overhead. It’s a damn good thing I love bass and kick drum and that it was a very good show to see that close in that venue.
After successfully regaining my hearing, I now have approximately 7 1/2 months left to subject, unimpeded, cells-turning-into-baby-Q to the likes of U2, Green Day, Dave Matthews Band, Holly Cole, Sarah Slean, Sting, Hawksley Workman and many other fine musicians from all over the place.
I am, however, left with the feeling that he/she/they will undoubtedly utter the first cry with an unmistakable Scottish accent.
[okay, so Murphy’s Law is named after a Maj. Murphy from the US Air Force but, with a name like Murphy, there’s bound to have been some Scots in there somewhere…]