St. Viateur Street Festival
June 1, 2007
Montreal

Mr. fingers

Patrick Watson played at the St. Viateur Street Festival but I missed the entire show because I was waiting by the main stage for him to play. I therefore do not have a review for Patrick Watson, but I will say this. Patrick Watson is good. Go see him. His music is dreamy. Intelligent. Original. Wise. In lieu of a review for Patrick Watson I would like to take this opportunity to review the machine responsible for keeping Patrick Watson off the main stage, away from throngs of would-be admirers and I am not talking about the kind and wonderful organizers of the St. Viateur Street Festival. You see, Patrick Watson is slated to play a rather large and famous music festival in Montreal where big bands play big band songs and sultry women sing sultry songs. Much like a corporate exclusivity contract, certain peeps did not want too many peeps to actually hear Patrick Watson for fear they may not go to this much larger festival involving a whole shitload of corporate banners, a bevy of jazz, and only one mediocre beer (see: corporate exclusivity contracts). You people are douche-bags, and by people I mean those who do not want an artist they are purporting to “promote” to be seen by anyone who is not at their event. A quick lesson: if you want people to buy Patrick Watson records and if you want people to attend events which feature Patrick Watson, they need to hear his music. Whatever. Maybe I’m a novice at this music biz thing. What the effing hell do I know? But I suppose it never occurred to these socalled promoters that people who may actually have heard Patrick Watson had he played the main, and the only real stage for that matter, might have said, “Hey, that guy was good. We should see when he’s playing again, and we should bring our friends.”

Final Score

Fans 1
Exclusivity 0

Dandy Glover

Once I was told that holding a dying creature in hand during childhood will give the offender trembling hands for life. My hands didn’t tremble a lick while I stood next to the stage, putting cigarettes out on my arms, awaiting Patrick Watson. And it’s not cause I never held a dead thing in my hands. It was a long time before I got wise that Patrick Watson had been playing while I burned smoking cylinders into the soft skin on the underside of my forearms. Where? I thought. Nunavut? No. Up the street. I had missed the show. Later, I realized that putting out cigarettes on my person while Patrick Watson played was actually a type of inter-spatial duet. Even though I enjoyed jamming with the man, I still would have liked to see the show but was foolishly anticipating his appearance at the main stage. Apparently he can bring dead birds back to life with only a few chords and a tin whistle heart. I am sure the show was good. I am sure it was like being in North Africa during The Great War. Or am I? Who’s to say? I wouldn’t know. All I can say is: Mr. Watson, now that I have missed your show, my hands tremble.

Garth, a haiku:
Burning cigarettes
While Patrick Watson played on
I didn’t notice