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Yea Stratford, thy time is nigh. Presenter of the Bard himself, Stratford is without a soul of its own. Nash tells me this is a long-lost quote from The Man:
I don't know about this guy Shakespeare, but there are plenty of tourists here to check him out. Nash isn't so well appreciated. Busloads of Japanese, American, and German tourists arrive in this hamlet to be Macbeth'd to death while the locals have less activated culture than low-fat yogurt. This place is so phony they even named all the surrounding towns like it was England. Just to the south is the large metropolis (oh yeah) of London, Ontario on the Thames River. Here we are in Stratford on the Avon River. I'm surprised they haven't come up with a look-alike Lady Di Memorial. At least London has a great University and a cultural community. Stratford's more suited to a Queen Victoria Mourning and Dark Clothes Day Remembrance. All the frickin' flowers didn't fool me. Urine burn, anyone? On to the reality of the music biz. Backstage is a wonderful club in the wrong town. A total paying audience of six people enjoy the film Nosferatu. All six are from out of town, two from Woodstock and four from Kitchener. The yin and yang of this gig: The owner Nevin is great. The club is beautiful. The weather was nice all day and I got to swim in the Avon River (just like in Merry Old but without the culture) The park lawns are so well-kept, Nash can pick up my dump in one neat swoop. The show ended early so we got home at a decent hour. Six people showed up. None were from Stratford. Thanks to Mike, Chris, and the others who were in attendance. We didn't make any money. We won't be coming back for a long time. (insert your favorite ironic Shakespeare soliloquy here.) Digger |
