IMMEDIATELY before my departure for Edmonton, Alberta, a massive double-whammy of writer’s block and self-doubt settled in. Traveling always provides inspiration, but when the muse just isn’t presenting herself, the author wonders where the ideas will eventually come from.
Such was the case with Edmonton, where I recently infiltrated the world-renowned Folk Festival. Going into the trip, I was rather scared that the muse might not show up. Despite the nagging self-doubt, I tried to remain confident. Before leaving, I posted a note on Facebook saying I was off to Canada and that the muse would somehow emerge. I hoped.
At least to some extent, San Jose is now calling itself a festival city, so it made sense to look for the muse in Edmonton, whose official brand is “Festival City.” More than 30 major festivals take place each year, with plenty of smaller ones in-between.
The Folk Festival occurs over a few days in a natural-grass amphitheater at Gallagher Park and more than 2,000 volunteers help make it happen. Two people have even volunteered for 30 of the 31 years the festival has existed.
Upon arriving, I spent the afternoon catching up on some email before heading off to experience Van Morrison, who played a benefit for the festival. After all my complexes about finding the muse, by sheer coincidence, the first tune he played was “Northern Muse.” I started laughing out loud and definitely felt more in tune with, well, something. Honestly, these types of occurrences happen to me so often that I just take them to be part of nature.
And the Edmonton Folk Festival provides a natural setting, to say the least. The view is gorgeous: From the top of the hill, I saw nothing but greenery across the entire horizon, as Gallagher Park is part of Edmonton’s “ribbon of green,” a.k.a. Capital City Recreation Park. The skyline of downtown Edmonton sprouted up in the background, right above it all, along with the setting sun. I stood there, looking down on 12,000 people, all relaxed on the grass of the amphitheater while Van Morrison transcendentally evolved through a 90-minute set.
Bred from the Celtic realms of Northern Ireland, the astrally lyrical Morrison operates in a musical league all by himself. Clad entirely in black, he began at the piano for “Northern Muse” and moved to guitar, sax and harmonica for the rest. He played a few of the “classics” long since beaten to death by cover bands, i.e., “Brown Eyed Girl” and “Gloria,” which were never, ever his best songs, but they captivated the crowd nevertheless.
The show flowered more at other moments, in particular the instrumental “Celtic Excavation” segueing into Van’s opus, “Into the Mystic.” Naturally, Van tends to reinvent his songs altogether when playing them live. He’s not one of those insipid bores who present them exactly as they appear on the studio recordings.
So, “Into the Mystic” became a profound overarching almost-noir-pointillist jazzy islandlike séance of an experience featuring vocals somewhere between soul and Sufi. Also naturally, he followed it with “The Healing Has Begun.” One can make a stretch, suggesting that song is likewise about someone’s muse, and I definitely felt healed.
And about 11pm, just after writing in my word processor about how the northern muse had emerged, I checked email, noticing that the most recent message was from a mailing list by Ken Shapiro of Travel Age West titled “Ken’s Daily Muse.” The address was: dailymuse@northstartravelmedia. Hmmm. More seemingly related weirdness.
There in Edmonton—Canada’s “Festival City”—I experienced the mystery and intrigue of Van Morrison. I then knew what I would write about, and I felt organically restored. My life was better now that the muse had presented herself. Thanks to Edmonton, I am on solid ground.
