prime time deliverance

Darkness had been interrupted by a shy artificial glow as Canadian Rock Artist Matt Good had granted a somewhat romantic aura of intimacy to the loneliness of the Alumni Theatre, in the Ottawa Carleton University yesterday night. Having reached the mid-way point of his solo acoustic tour and still as fiery as ever, for the entirety of the night he glided through hidden passages between lights of numerous shape shifts as they streamed and poured onto him playing his guitar in the greatness of our shared lodgings.

I had included myself amongst the audience of fans. In what was one of plenty of his concerts I’ve attended during his tenure. Again, I wasn’t surprised I found that state of awe-inspire to the indiscernible edifice that stood at first silent in the fog of atmospheric deliverance. Between melodic escapades Matt shared his frame of mind intermittently with his defined occasional restlessness. A pale shadow erratically ventured through his quite disturbing although magnetic sight, his limbs at times stretched out as if to capture essence in his shared tales of tragic to the sanity of rock and roll after The Muppet Show disruption. With or without props that included a discovery guide to many things Paris Hilton or confessions of a Barbie doll for our democracy, it was all animated for amusement without, as he’d say, the bull-shit.

The stage in his presence was a perfect circumference dotted by pale lamps shining dimly as if speaking in sinuous language to each and everyone without being afraid of the towering obelisk, rising brave from the ground in the pivot of that immense space, surrounded by the endless sounds of ambience. In personal dedication, his song ‘Fated’ had his voice breathlessly stimulated, lunged for refuge behind an aged tree of adopted method, there upon at times he timidly peeked to discover a rare sight: in a bright but soothing light reverberated from the sheer ivory marble of his eyes; we overlooked our surfaces.

His shadow agilely skimped through, craving that mythical scenery: the dawning air was defining shapes and colors, pale reds, ashen grays, and those unmemorable whites, the brick of culture from the imperial time, through his renaissance, the modern and contemporary era, ages revealed by such a well assorted variety of urban drama entwined in emerald greens surfacing from historical ground. That night we indulged in perfection craving its embrace, oblivious to the rising sun; inexorably it disappeared in a breathless gaze.

What makes Matt Good a crazy good artist is not that special capacity for being creative, thinking outside the box, spending too much time alone (although all strong traits of his), etc. It's none of that romantic lore that has us believing that craziness is a prerequisite of artistic talent. What makes a person in pursuit of the truth in an art form crazy is the relentless noise of the necessary unreality that encloses our humanity.

Every time a singer has to stop singing the way he has been singing, every time a musician has to stop playing the way he has been playing, and makes a journey back into what we call "real life", some element in the psyche suffers a jolt. A shock if you will. And what is felt is the returning to what matters most. Whatever it may be. The sounds of today that are not music are not worth listening to. In the world of telephones, cars, high-pitched whininess of the person next to you, computers, people arguing and preaching, people asking for money or things--these sounds are considered a part of reality, when in fact, they are not. They are a rouse; the only sounds you can trust to be honest expressions of reality are made with the intent of listening. That was what made this a good night to remember.