Tosh's Tails 2009
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Great Big Sean
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
It's happening. It's finally happening. After 11 months and several major surgeries, McCann's baby is ready to be born. The long awaited "Lullabies for Bloodshot Eyes" will hit the streets (and iTunes) on february 23rd 2010, the same week the lads go for gold at the Vancouver Olympics. www.greatbigsean.com will be launched today (with songs to hear) and completed after the holidays.The road was long and rough but reaching the end is its own reward. Closure.
The evil genius that is Hawksley Workman had a profound effect on McCann during the construction of Fortune's Favour. He lit a candle under his slack songwriter's arse and, for better or worse, he's been farting out soliloquies ever since. Scarred by the collaborative ordeal, Workman has vowed never to play again and spends his time in Nunavut knitting sweaters.
These Lullabies are a direct response to the many monumental changes through which our protagonist evolved over the past 4 years, not least of which being the birth of his two boys (Thing 1 and Thing 2) and the subsequent abandonment of his former best friend (your humble hydrant obsessed servant). But I harbour no resentment. No ill will. McCann may be an inconsiderate self obsessed bastard, but he's my bastard.....and I know "Peace Among the Bones" is really all about me.
and you.
Tosh
En Flagrante
Monday, December 14, 2009
It's that time again fellow bumlickers.....and I'm not talking about Christmas.The wild ride that was Fortune's Favour is over and it's time for the boys to get back in the studio and reinvent the Great Big wheel...for the 10th time. The gloves are off.
When Dan Hill wrote "Sometimes when we touch, the honesty's too much" he wasn't longing for a lover, he was looking for a way out of the isolation booth.
Live performance comes with many risks and uncertainties. That's what makes it so exciting. The studio, however, can be a very lonely and and unforgiving place where a man's imperfections are brutally magnified under the microphone. For fellow recovering catholics, the experience is not unlike that of the confessional. You walk into the booth seeking compassion and spill your guts but instead of absolution you get "too fast" or "flat" or simply "again". Penance is exacted on the spot and it aint just a pocketful of Hail Mary's.
The tape tells no lies. We are left naked and exposed. Like a teenager enduring puberty only without all the wet dreams. Vulnerable.
But as the saying goes, " what doesn't kill you....". I'm sure the lads will all come out of this as stronger human beings in the end. Or broken shells of their former selves.
Either way.
It's on.
tosh
In and Out
Friday, November 13, 2009
7:07 am Santa Ana CA. and I just made the mistake of reading the responses to my last volley (Valley Songs). In future I will leave such obligations until later in the day when my heart is a little less delicate and my skin a lot thicker.
First and foremost, my sincere gratitude to all who peruse my puppy prose and take it for what it is.....a grain of salt. I do enjoy being the dog on the wall and try to provide you, my loyal readers, with an insider's perspective on what's really going on out here in bandland.
It is never my intention to offend.
To the unfortunate and very aptly monikered "metermaid", I extend my sincere condolences and hope that you will be feeling better soon.......
When you grow up.
Tosh
Long Road Lead Me On
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
We just traversed the continent in a metal tube. Ten men and a dog sealed off in our own little 65 MPH world. Fighting, writing, reasoning, and wanting. A Microcosm if you will. A living, breathing organism whose life span is exactly how long it takes to get from the first show to the last. Fragile.
Our much awaited return to the road did not go off without its hitches. Definitions were misinterpreted. Lines were blurred. Exposed toes mistakenly tread upon. Drama (sometimes the subplots make the movie) and ultimately (albeit imperfectly) democracy. Only the strongest stone can feed the forge and we are stainless steel.
Every tour is a revolution. A beautiful fight to the death..... and then to the airport where our velocity must be reigned in to match that of the real world. Time stands still and wounds repair. We console ourselves in the love of families who have waited too long for our return. We rest.
and then we go back to the war.
Tosh
Politically Incorrect
Thursday, October 01, 2009
These days a dog really gotta watch what he says. One wrong word can instantly reel an innocent conversation into the realm of the inappropriate and otherwise unsullied reputations right into the dirt. Our tender egos, it seems, have gone to eggshells; our once thick hides to eider down. We now live in an easily offended world and its hard for an old mutt to keep up with all the new rules (and his mouth shut).
And since when did "Bitch" become a bad word anyway?
What's so bad about referring to someone as a female dog.....especially if they are a female dog? Apparently it all depends on the "context" which, as far as I can figure, has something to do with the amount of red wine consumed over the course of a date. Now I am a simple creature of low beginnings. Born in a barn to a reluctant mother with no father in site, I am, by definition, a Bastard : the progeny of lust and loose morals. I know what I am and there ain't no fancy way of saying it that will make me feel any better. "Abandoned", "Unwanted", "Orphan"?
No thanks Bitch.
I'd rather be a Bastard.
Tosh
Smoked Meat
Saturday, September 26, 2009
It was the smell that hit me first. An irresistable mixture of of brisket and mustard and black pepper smothered in swiss cheese laid on a loaf of rye. I would have wet myself if I could. Had I tear ducts, I'd have wept. Young troubador Jeremy Fisher had just strolled nonchalantly aboard the great big bus with no less than 10 lbs of prime smoked meat all the way from Schwarz's famous deli in montreal. Had I lips, he most certainly would have been kissed. I have no idea if Mr. Fisher is a religious man, but I have vowed to embrace the Kaballah.
Half way through my third sandwich, it struck me just how potent this simple satisfying gift could be if given on a global scale. Got a problem with the Taliban? Air drop a plane load of montreal's finest on their asses. That will wipe the snarls off their surly faces. Hard to fire a rocket launcher when yer hove off on the couch watching the Habs. And how bout those big cement walls in the Gaza strip? Would they not fall to the powerful flavour as well? Throw in a vat of poutine and that conflict is over. Pirates off the African horn? Give their machete blades something truly worthy of fine slicing....and some pickles. Drug cartels would crumble the world over if we offered their customers an alternate form of consumable bliss. Kim Jong ill might even crack a smile.
Life is short.
Why spend it making weapons when you can make sandwiches?
Tosh
Money for Nothing
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
The first day of any gbs tour is always met with a very early and annoying flight usually to Pierson (how can I not help you today) International to meet the bus. Aside from the occasional whining bitch, I have yet to see anything quite so pathetic as a musician before dawn. Swollen tongued and bleary eyed, they stagger up to the check in counter with their hopes high and flys at half mast, telltale signs of a hasty retreat from a too late called cab. Sleepus Interruptus.
After being told once again that buisness class is full (as always) our catatonic heros stumble through security and onto the Fort Mac express. For those of you who don't know, this is the means by which newfoundlanders with "real" jobs commute to work in the morning.....to the tar sands of northern alberta.
Large of hand and big of heart these iron horses have become the real engines of the ever expanding alberta oil industry. Roughnecks and welders, boilermakers and operators of all variety of heavy equipment, they are known the world over for their hard work ethic and even tougher humour. They get the job done.
After 17 years on the road, I still feel like an apprentice compared to these chronic 8 week turnaround nomads. How do they do it? Why do they stay? As I look around at the weathered faces and weary eyes on this oversold slave trader, I recognize the relative comfort of my own lot and vow not to complain.
At least until tomorrow.
Let the tour be damned.
Tosh
664 The Neighbour of The Beast
Sunday, September 06, 2009
"Sometimes things go wrong. Things went drastically wrong. But at least there was a tour for it to go wrong on..."
Lips Kudlow
So it's the night after Buffalo and all hungover hands are sitting backstage at the Rhode Island Rythm and Roots Festival watching a great documentary tribute to the kings of canadian metal. A strange setting, you might think, to embrace my inner antichrist but "The Story of Anvil" was not made exclusively for metalheads. It is a classic tale of triumph and despair, pain and hope, dignity and redemption.This movie speaks directly to the heart of the human condition and how hard it can be to do what makes you really happy even if it doesn't make any sense.
Whether you appreciate their music or not, Anvil have been faithfully slogging it out for thirty years and a lot of bad things have happened along the way but they refused to give up. If "the power of positive thinking" were an official religion, the surely Lips Kudlow would be its messiah. I can see him now nailed to an upside down cross with a big smile on his face.....just happy to have a show to do.
Now those of you who know me realize that I have never been one to naturally go looking "on the bright side". In fact, I am sometimes tempted to bite those that do (sorry Alan). But something about these metalheaded misfits got to me and I am left feeling strangely uplifted and filled with hope.
I am doing what I love again and that makes me very happy.
And that's all that matters.
Now if someone would just please rub my belly.....
Tosh
What i did on my summer vacation
Sunday, August 16, 2009
I guess some form of accounting is in order. A dog can't just fall off the face of the planet for 6 months and expect the search party to be still out there looking for his remains. You may be wondering what fate has befallen your bonged-out beagle buddy. Does he lie dead in a ditch, the victim of a heinous canine crime....whacked by some Dog Boss for spilling his guts to Animal Control? Or has he blown himself apart in some Puppy Mill jihad and now enjoying the pleasures afforded by 72 virgin bitches? His eternal reward.
The Truth, I fear, is far less fantastic.
"The Break" got off to a flying start with the completion of McCann's "Bloodshot Lullabies". Hopes ran high until the powers that be all politely passed. Can't blame them really. I mean what 42 year old folker would be foolish enough to make a record in this day and age. He'd have more luck trying to grow a set of tits. Never one to admit defeat though, McCann has taken to wearing a training bra and is more determined than ever to let the soundtrack of his dark heart be heard. So please stay tuned.....
Though disappointing, this temporary setback pales in comparison to the
disasterous dichotomy we like to call a "family vacation". As if living with children weren't punishment enough, dragging them all over the continent under the guise of relaxation is pure masochism. I would rather feel the bite of the Flagellants whip than sit through another tearsoaked takeoff. It's enough to make the sacrifice of the Castrati seem like a mere inconvenience. Christ himself chose the cross over an RV outing with Magdalene and his holy brats. The distance between bonding and bondage is one errant sperm.
Occasionally there was a flash of light in the oily blackness. A match struck in hope......of fire. Many new songs were completed (art thrives in adversity). The session with Paul Lamb in late june was particularly fruitfull and genuine fun. A new partnership with brother Kevin was forged and shows much promise. I drank from Lord Stanley's mug (some clear yellow liquid i hope was beer). I found a new friend (cheers Mike) and Finnegan learned to walk.
Not all bad I spose.
And now? What indignities and uncertainties might have befallen my former co-conspirators? Where will we all find ourselves come next weekend? Together again?
I hope so.
Tosh
Origin of the Species
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
"An American monkey, after getting drunk on brandy, would never touch it again, and thus is much wiser than most men." Charles Darwin
"Daddy, why is the water so brown?" were the last words Thing One said before he was unceremoniously evacuated from the polluted bathtub. Thing Two, had apparently just had an evacuation of his own and now stood knee deep in the fruits of his labour. The sole occupant and supreme ruler of a frequently contested aqueous territory. Satisfied.
It is an awful thing to walk through the waters of life with a buttnugget dangling from your bum. Most people will wisely avoid you and any expectation of social invitations should be lowered accordingly. Launching a fully armed poo torpedo at close range is more akin to an act of war. In a global context, Thing Two might be described as North Korea.
Darwin's Theory of Natural Selection or "Survival of the Shittest" has become a kind of axiom here at the McCann household. But watching these human babies develop, I often wonder if good old Charlie might have been wrong about the source from whence they sprang. Surely their DNA must more closely resemble that of the Yahoos than the far less brazen baboon. What other species has been known to practice this extreme form of defecacious isolationism? But that would make them the stuff of fiction and this, my friends, is all too real.
And why should I care? Being of Canine kind, I am free to poo wherever and whenever I like. I guess in a global context that would make me America.
Now please excuse me while I lick my own arse.
Tosh
Hard Karma
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
So I'm sitting on the couch licking my balls when all of a sudden I lose my balance and roll off the cushion and onto the sleeping cat who immediately let's fly with fangs and claws and all things feline. When the fur finally settles I start checking myself for holes. Everything seems fine except for my tongue which smells like ass. But then I look on the coffee table and my canine heart collapses. McCann's laptop has taken a direct hit and bleeds shiraz while the light slowly drains from its screen. A civillian casualty. Collateral damage.
Of course McCann is pissed. "That was a $60 bottle of The Dead Arm....a D'arenberg classic. What a friggin waste." Then a look of sad revelation crawls across his face. His Garageband, his iTunes, the new songs he just finished recording......all gone.
Devastated.
Needless to say, I will be in the doghouse until long after I'm dead. A moldering pile of beagle bones; abandoned and despised. No more wild romps thru the Newfoundland woods. No more tossing of the stick. No more scratches on the belly. No more food....
Worse than the obvious and profound guilt, is the nagging feeling that I probably had it coming. For weeks now I have been fostering a mean spirited attitude towards my friends and relations. As if I were somehow above it all. Better. My head has been full of negative thoughts and pessimisim and it has worn me down.
I believe in Karma......and she is a total bitch. If you scald your arse, you better learn how to sit on the blisters. I also believe that everything happens for a reason.
Maybe the cost of a laptop is little for the sake of a sympathetic soul.
Or maybe you should never lick your balls on the couch.
Tosh
Red Carpet
Sunday, March 08, 2009
It's official. St. John's worst kept secret is out. Alan Doyle's long flirtation with hollywood has finally born fruit and he will be starring in a remake of Robin Hood. The next time many of you might see him will be prancing around on a pony ready to skewer the nobility with his crossbow. He will rob from the rich and give to the poor and then retreat into the forest to make merry with his fellow men.....and he will go down in legend.
We mere bus dwellers, of course, support Doyle in his current endeavour. How could you blame the guy for wanting to run around in tights stabbing other dudes. It's the opportunity of a lifetime. But at the risk of sounding selfish or small (and i am....and i am), what about the rest of us? What the *** are we supposed to do for the next 6 months? Yoga?......Sudoku? I think not.
We are road dogs. We were born to roam. Leaving us in the backyard for half a year could prove dangerous....and very dirty. Among the rank and file, there is much confusion and concern. Will we all be OK? When we do eventually reconvene in Washington on august 21st, will we still feel the momentum afforded by Fortune's Favour?
Will you still be with us?
Far too much for this beagle brain to handle. I need to find me a job for the summer. Anyone looking for a best friend?
Will work for bones and belly rubs.
Tosh
Relapse
Saturday, February 07, 2009
I managed to skate thru christmas drinking nothing but turkey gravy and eggnog. No amount of temptation could coax me into the darkness. Not even the Universal Theory of Inlaw Avoidance*. I was fine.
Until I pulled my big hairy ass onto that freaking floating megabar known as The Norwegian Jewel and tossed my liver over the side. Now I could sit here and blame Gaelic Storm (a bigger bunch of liquor pigs you will find nowhere) or point the finger at my close friends who came along this year to "look after" me and then promptly crawled into a bottle of vodka on disembarkation. But that would be just making excuses. I need to take responsibility for my actions and place the blame squarely where it belongs.
On Bob.
Let's face it. The fiddler is a demerara demon. A rum rifle cocked and pointed directly at my beagle brain. Resistance was futile.
Luckily damage was minimal and I am sitting here at the gate relatively unscathed. It could have been much worse. I could be passing thru customs with a bright orange mohawk.
Tosh
*anything it takes to get u thru it
