A THOUSAND WORDS - Alex Waterhouse-Hayward's blog on pictures, plants, politics and whatever else is on his mind.


Oh How Much I Love Your Solitariness - John Dowland
Saturday, October 04, 2014

Helianthus annuus September 28, 2014

And when he saddest sits in homely cell,
He'll teach his swains this carol for a song:
Beauty, strength, youth are flowers but fading seen;
Duty, faith, and love are roots and ever green.
His Golden Locks, John Dowland.

Michael Slattery sings His Golden Locks with detailed view of shruti box being played!

My mother played the piano very well and was a good accompanist. Because she had been born in Manila, women did not become concert pianists and her mother a soprano coloratura only sang in churches. Opera singers were deemed ladies of the night.

In spite of all that I was raised in what was a musical household. I was taught a few things that in retrospect were a product of the times when recordings (40s and 50s) were limited. Research for facts involved going to public libraries. And so I learned that:

There was Renaissance music which was all about genteel French dancing while men ate with their hands and threw bones to the dogs. There was baroque music and classical music and in-between a God called Bach. I never asked my mother if Bach’s music was baroque. My mother liked the romantics so I heard a lot of Chopin, Rachmaninoff, Tchaikovsky and Grieg. I had no idea of the existence of anybody who had composed music beyond Debussy. I was never able to ascertain why my mother told me that the music of Mozart proved that he was impotent! 

Grégoire Jeay, Sylvain Bergeron, Amanda Keesmaat, Michael Slattery, Seán Dagher & Alex Kehler

My mother told me that Henry Purcell was the sole English composer of note. There was nobody before or after him of any note. I once told this to David Lemon (very English and who loves English music and has an extensive collection of William Blake etchings) this and he returned with a most sour expression.

My first exposure to baroque music was the German Archiv recordings of the early 60s. These recordings started a trend in authentic reproduction of baroque music. Modern violins were un-beefed and fitted with gut strings. The sound was less loud and more subtle.

That trend has resulted in a sort of niche placement of baroque music where a baroque violin virtuoso like Monica Huggett is unknown by a Vancouver crowd that might revel at listening to Anne-Sophie Mutter playing her violin with the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra.

Some of these baroque musicians and enthusiastic baroque concert goers may even show disdain at cellos with spikes and violins with chin rests and non gut strings.

It does not take too much thought to figure out that people who listen to “serious” music are snobs and are ready to lambast performances that do not meet their requirements for period accuracy.

I must admit that I have been a culprit of all the above and noticed how a baroque performance of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons was more satisfying to me than one by my friend, violinist Cory Cerovsek with the Vancouver Symphony. 

Michael Slattery's shruti box

This kind of personal foolishness has even made me think that beyond the inventive early baroque of the 17th century there was no room for that pseudo-hippie renaissance stuff with all those formal dances and handkerchiefs (not to mention the throwing of bones).

Al that is reference and proof of my late-in-life sudden appreciation that renaissance music was music of the Renaissance. Even a cursory knowledge of history tells us that the Dark Ages awoke in that period and brought us cathedrals and glorious art. I therefore had to re-think and abandon my mother’s sage advice.

My wife Rosemary and I went to the Orpheum Annex (they refuse to accept tips if you buy stuff a the bar) on Friday night to an Early Music Vancouver presentation of Dowland in Dublin with tenor Michael Slattery and Montreal’s La Nef headed by lutenist Sylvain Bergeron.

I coaxed my wife Rosemary to accompany me by telling her that Sylvain Bergeron was a matinee idol. I told this to Early Music Vancouver Artistic Director Matthew White who with a broad grin on his face told me, “Sylvain is too old to be one.” Here is the Wikipedia definition of a matinee idol:

Matinée idol is a term used mainly to describe film or theatre stars who are adored to the point of adulation by their fans.

The term almost exclusively refers to male actors. Invariably the adulation was fixated on the actor's looks rather than performance. It differs from "sex symbol" (and is also faintly derogatory) in that it suggests the star's popularity came from the afternoon matinée performances rather than the "big picture" evenings and, hence, a less discriminating audience.

During the 1920s, three actors Rudolph Valentino, Ramon Novarro and Ivor Novello were considered leading Matinée idols.

After the nights satisfying performance (more on that below) my wife told me that I was right about Bergeron (take that M. White!) and particularly was attracted to Bergeron’s elegance and his beautiful hands (take that again M. White!)

Now to the “critical” aspect of the concert with first a description by Bergeron of the concert’s goals:

To my loving Country-man, Mr. John Forster the younger, Merchant of Dublin, in Ireland.”

In thus dedicating the song ‘From Silent Night’ in his collection A Pilgrim’s Solace (1612), John Dowland reveals his possible Irish origins. Was Dowland, often considered the first great English composer, actually Irish? He may have belonged to an old Irish family, the O’Dolans, who settled in Dublin in the middle of the 16th century. The hypothesis that he was Irish seems strengthened by the fact that he was a Catholic, and had an honorary diploma from Trinity College in Dublin. And what makes the hypothesis seductive is the fact than many of his melodies, if stripped of their complex accompaniment and counterpoint are, in their simplicity and flavour, very Celtic. When an Irish flute, violin, cittern, and percussion join the lute in playing them, they sound indeed like real Irish airs.

Dowland is mainly known today for the expressiveness of his Ayres, and for the somber melancholy, even depressive, mood of his music. His motto, Semper Dowland, semper dolens (always Dowland, always down), seems to proclaim an aspect of his personality, but it may just be a cliché. We should not forget that, in his time, the time of Shakespeare, there was a cult of melancholy. Dowland, in actual fact, was a pleasant and cheerful chap who spent his days making jokes! He seems, as well, to have had very good relationships with women; the fact that a significant number of his dedications are to women testifies to this. In his music, and his choice of titles for it, Dowland clearly reveals himself as a split personality. On the one hand, he is a man of melancholy, the man who wrote so many weepy works: ‘Lachrimae’, ‘Flow my tears’, ‘I saw my Lady weep’, ‘Go Crystal tears’. On the other hand, he is a man of lightness, wit, and satire: ‘My Lady Hunsdon’s Puffe’, ‘Mistress Winter’s Jump’, ‘Mrs. White’s Thing’. In putting together tonight’s program, we have chosen to concentrate on the latter, light-hearted Dowland.

Though he was admired throughout Europe as a composer and lutenist, Dowland was not engaged by the English court until very late in his life. This was probably because of his religion, and because of his forthright tongue — Queen Elizabeth could not tolerate plain speaking. So the virtuoso lutenist traveled all over Europe, playing for the great princely courts, and winning fame as the composer of the greatest international hit of the day: the pavane ‘Lachrimae’, which he turned into the song ‘Flow my tears’. After having been rejected several times by his sovereign, Dowland must have felt resentment and a deep sense of injustice. Finally, at the end of his life, a British sovereign, King James I, hired him. But this was but slight consolation; the great musician found himself in a lute ensemble with hacks of modest talent, who had obtained their jobs at court through schemes and flattery.

Tonight we celebrate the Irish Dowland by imagining how some of his tunes would have sounded if played by traditional instrumentalists and singers in a 16th-century pub.

An early music purist would have noted that Amanda Keesmaaat’s cello had a spike and Alex Kehler’s violin had a chin rest. This would alert the purist that the instruments were modern instruments. He would have been in doubt about Seán Dagher’s cittern but would have sighed in relief at the sight of Grégoire Jeay’s flutes (ignored his playing of a triangle) and Sylvain Bergeron’s tall lute.

That tenor, Michael Slattery also played an Indian origin shruti box (it looked like a multicoloured compact filing folder) would have left the purist in apoplexy. But it would have fascinated my friend sound man and piper Don Harder.

Fortunately for all of us (me at least) Bergeron’s explanation that he wanted his group with Slattery to sound like Irish airs in a pub (a 16th century one!) came to the rescue and I threw my purist political correctness out the window. But I must point out that a 16th century Irish pub and the 21st century Orpheum Annex both did not have any Guinness.

It is my feeling that Matthew White’s direction (being a less purist one) will open Early Music Vancouver to a new fan base as will Early Music Vancouver’s pairing with David Pay’s Music on Main to present intimate little concerts with a bar setting.

Since I am no music critic, I cannot go beyond writing here that the music was grand, intimate in the setting with cabaret-style tables (no Guinness!). I can add, though that it was not too hard to see where Irish folk music came from. At many points I wanted to dance. 

Watching Michael Slattery, smartly dressed with a narrow tie and patent leather dress shoes, he seemed to be someone you might run into in Silicon valley (Slattery sort of looks nerdish in a young and good looking way). His singing to this amateur was not effected in any way. I would almost say it was down-home pleasant and his diction meant I did not need to read the program lyrics.

The true moment “on the road to Damascus” was to realize that John Dowland the consummate lutenist and composer was a wonderful poet who perhaps as a contemporary to Shakespeare suffered for it. Or perhaps he was well known in his time (the Danish court paid him handsomely) and his Lachrimae Pavan was almost as popular as that Louie-Louie of his time, La Folia.

On Saturday morning I called up my friend Dublin-born and former Vancouver Poet Laureate George McWhirter to tell me more about Dowland’s poetry and the lack of a general awareness of his excellence. McWhirter angrily blurted out, “Don’t get me started on how music seems to trump lyrics…”

I was astounded by the repeated lines in Say Love If Ever Thou Didst Find:

She, she, she, and only she,

No, no, no, no, and only no,

So, so, so, so, and only so,

McWhirter called this a song repetition (even if it were only a poem and not also a song).

I inquired on the beauty of the word solitariness in O Sweet  Woods

O sweet woods the delight of solitariness,
O how much I love your solitariness

McWhirter tried to explain the difference between it and solitude. I could not understand so I have come to believe that had I taken any of McWhirter’s courses at UBC I would have failed!

Dowland in Dublin for me was a satisfying poetry reading that was accompanied by stupendous music played by musicians who define the old term Renaissance men (and women). They have their fingers in all sorts of pies (Slattery is a visual artist and a writer)and I cannot wait to see what they will do next.

And a hurrah for Early Music Vancouver’s awakening. 

I wondered about the meaning of that word in the instrumental work My Lady Hunsdon's Puffe. My only  conclusion is that he meaning of the word puffe is uncertain and the cause of much speculation.

Jack Palance - The Big Knife

Guest Blog 
Richard Staehling

Jack Palance circa early 50s

It only takes one film to remind us of an actor’s talents; to send us on a quick search through a forgotten filmography and confirm that, yes, he was that good. This happened recently to my friend Alex when he screened director Jean-Luc Godard’s Contempt (1962) and encountered Jack Palance. In fact he was so impressed with Palance he asked me to write a short appreciation. Thanks, Alex.

Jack Palance was born Volodymyr Jack Palahniuk in 1919. Like fellow tough guy Charles Bronson he grew up in mining towns in Pennsylvania, and like Bronson, Lee Marvin, Richard Boone and Lee Van Cleef, Palance fought in World War II. His career paralleled Marvin’s in many ways: both gained fame as villains (The Big Heat, Shane), played cops in series television (M-Squad, Bronk), and eventually mocked their personas in later-career comedies (Cat Ballou, City Slickers). But Palance’s sharp, oddly angular features and brooding screen presence parked him in exotic, often ethnic parts and unlike Marvin, he never quite became a star. He disappeared during most of the 1960s-70s in Euro-junk (The Mongols, The Barbarians, Sword of the Conqueror) and domestic VHS-fodder (Portrait of a Hitman and Hawk the Slayer).

Left, Jack Palance & Ida Lupino in The Big Knife, 1954 - Right, with Buddy Ebsen in Attack, 1955

But it only takes one film, and Jack Palance made more than one. Western enthusiasts admire Palance in The Professionals, Monte Walsh and Chato’s Land; film noir completists wisely cite his work in Sudden Fear! and I Died a Thousand Times. For me—and this is hardly an original observation—Palance was never better than in The Big Knife (1954) and Attack (1955) two films directed by Robert Aldrich with his ruthlessly blunt sense of outrage. He plays an arrogant actor in Knife, a tough WW II Platoon Leader in Attack, and unburdened by not having to play good guy or bad guy Palance is threatening but also tormented; haunted and oddly honorable.


I knew that my friend Rick Staehling would dig up stuff and put it succinctly as he has here. For years I had to listen, and thoroughly enjoyed him on CBC Radio as "Our Man of the Movies". I loved his identifiable Michigan accent which was almost deadpan but full of insight. 

My first knowledge of Jack Palance came from an awful film, The Silver Chalice (1954, Victor Saville) that almost killed Paul Newman's early career. The film was based on a novel, same title as film, by Thomas B. Costain a favourite of my mother's. She took me to see the film in 1954 explaining to me the revolutionary fact that in the novel Christ was described as not having a beard. Palance plays Simon the Magician who is out to prove that Christ and his miracles are all phony. He then tells Rome, and Nero that he, Simon the Magician, will fly. He arranges for a system of pulleys and wires to make it seem like he can indeed fly. At the last moment he believes his own words, that he is the Messiah and decides to fly without any of the paraphernalia. He jumps off a balcony and goes straight down. I think I can still remember the thud.

Rita: Did you bugger the Bursar? Frank: Metaphorically.
Friday, October 03, 2014

You see a very good play, A Midsummer Night’s Dream at Bard on the Beach in early summer. You are wowed by the actor playing Nick Bottom, complete with buck teeth and a donkey mask. It is almost impossible to recognize the man behind the getup but you are still amazed by the performance. He steals the show. You read in your program the man in question is Scott Bellis. You store the info in your head for future reference. Future reference happens quickly.

Scott Bellis as Nick Bottom- Bard On The Beach June 2014

What are the chances that not too long after, in fact on Wednesday, October 1, on the opening night performance of Willy Russell’s Educating Rita at the Arts Club Theatre Company’s Granville Island Stage you might be wowed again by the same man? And this time, Scott Bellis playing the professorial Open University Frank was wearing no masks.  In fact with his longish gray hair and refined British accent there were shades there of Colin Firth.

From the horse’s mouth, the un horsy and dashing redhead director Sarah Rodgers and with Vancouver Courier theatre critic Jo Ledingham asking the relevant question (I found myself between them on the theatre aisle during the intermission) it would seem that this play went through four Franks (no connection but I cannot ignore from my mind the knowledge of having seen a local alternative band called the Frank Frink 5!).
Allan Morgan & Sarah Rodgers
On this opening night of wonder we find out that Scott Bellis is Frank only until October 3. He will then be rehearsing for the George Bernard Shaw play St. Joan (directed by Kim Collier and with Meg Roe, Shannon Chan-Kent, Bob Frazer, Dean Paul Gibson, Daren Herbert, Tom McBeath, Kevin MacDonald, Gerard Plunkett, Christine Quintana, Haig Sutherland, John Emmet Tracy, Nigel Shawn Williams opening on October 23. Bellis will be replaced by Ted Cole. Cole’s performance is bound to be excellent but surely it will be different.

Like many others (with the exception of those who saw a production with Bellis produced by Western Canada Theatre Company in Kamloops last year) my introduction to the play came via the Lewis Gilbert 1983 film with Michael Caine and Julie Walters. Of the film I remembered next to nothing, not even that in back of one of the books in Frank’s university sudy there was booze. In this modernized version (brought to date by Willy Russell himself) the booze is there behind Dickens, E.M. Forster and Chekov. But according to my NY Times film review in the film there was booze behind Charles R. Jackson’s novel The Lost Weekend.

Few in 2014 might remember the 1945 film version of  The Lost Weekend directed by Billy Wilder and starring Ray Milland. But without having to know about Milland’s commanding performance (getting on a stool to look for forgotten hidden booze in the chandelier) Bellis’s going from sobriety to not, was convincing, too.

Holly Lewis, playing the married hairdresser Rita, wanting more from life at age 26 than boozing with husband at the pub has a thick low-class accent that had my wife lost now and then. We were wondering if we were watching the North American BBC news channel where the British Empire is still on judging by the multiple accents, uttered by anchors of every race known to us and sometimes all but undecipherable. It was Holly Lewis coming from that not yet oiled (and then well oiled door) were we were pleasantly subjected to one costume change to another. We even noticed that her level of sophistication rose to the point where the raccoon eye make-up disappeared.

Lewis’ costume changes contrasted (but were equally as exciting) with Bellis’s costume changes (a sweater on or off, a jacket on, or off, etc) all done on this side of that door and from a clothes rack stand.

What was special with these manly costume changes is the way Bellis would swivel here to there or raise his shoe just so. I remember the 2010 Kevin Kerr play Studies in Motion: The Hauntings of Eadweard Muybridge where every move was choreographed by Crystal Pite.

Bellis’s moves looked wonderfully choreographed. And when he succumbs to the evil alcohol his moves degenerate convincingly. Director Sarah Rodgers explains the process of at the bottom of this blog.

What I particularly enjoyed about this play was in the way both actors made it patently obvious that there were no intimations of any hanky panky. Bellis’s Frank tried to keep Holly Lewis’s Rita authentic without wanting to (at first) changing her from the subjective and emotional woman that she is to a cool, objective woman who would then not be the Rita of the play.

Soon the Rita of the play converts herself to the Susan of the play, without abandoning the Rita of yore thanks to Frank’s deft teaching.

Rodgers brought music from (and I quote her), “Today’s current strong British female bands – the many Ritas speaking today.” Except for the occasional deep voiced mezzos they all seemed to be women indeed.

I expected a play that would be one of those “feel good"(ugh!) plays of the year with nothing to teach me and nothing to challenge me. I was wrong.

Having the unpleasant experience of having to deal at this moment with a 17 year-old teenage granddaughter from hell, Educating Rita (this modern version of the play) gave me hope that soon enough that granddaughter will be ready for a change. While I may not have all the moves, accents, and hair of Scott Bellis’s Frank I hope that with my lessons learned I will be around to help. 

As Rosemary and I were driving home I thought to myself that it was coincidentally interesting that Educating Rita is really a variation of George Bernard Shaw's Pygmalion. In Rita there is no wager made by Professor Higgins. The wager becomes Rita's ability to pass her examination. If anything Educating Rita is a delicious hors d'oeuvre which will be followed by Shaw’s St. June on October 23.

In spite of the Four Frank Affair and a busy schedule director Sarah Rodgers did comply on late Thursday evening with my request to some words on Frank's clothing transitions. Here it is:

Here I am ~ first chance I have had as I rehearsed all day then was at a Tuts Gala tonight. 

The transitions started from a practical place where we needed the character Frank to change his costumes on stage.  We created an interesting path for each scene and once the music was added my actor Scott Bellis instinctively started to time the business and movement to the musical phrases.  As we worked through Act 2 I suddenly realized that my actor couldn't drop out of character ~ if he had been playing drunk in one scene then it was strange to have him drop out of character to move through the scene change.  Scott Bellis as Frank stays in his current place of emotion and drunkenness throughout the  transitions ~ the gift of this is that Frank's journey is even more vivid and heartbreaking as we follow his every moment in between the scenes. 

Cheers ~ always great to see you.


Sent from my iPhone

The Clematis, The Clitoris, An Ostrich & The Spotted Hyena
Thursday, October 02, 2014

Clematis ternata, October 1, 2014

Just this past week I listened to poet Alastair Reid, who died this past September 21 read his beautiful poem on cats (and dogs) Curiosity. I listened to how he pronounced idyll in the line below:

where living is an idyll

It was as surprising to me as many years ago when I was listening to the BBC as young man in Mexico City and the announcer uttered Himaaleeas. It seemed that he was talking about a chain of mountains bordering Tibet, Nepal and Bhutan.

Another favourite of mine is the strange aroid, Arisaema which we might pronounce A-ree-sa-ee-maw. But then I listened to an English botanical judge say: Arí-si (as in Sicily) –maw. If you pronounce it that way while lifting your nose up into the air, the plant sounds so much more exotic. This particular aroid has family members that can raise the temperature of their spadix (aroid flowers are called inflorescences) from the surrounding atmospheric temperature, so they can disseminate its often foul odor and attract insects like flies. So much for some vertebrates being the only warm blooded specimens in nature.

I will now persist in my narrative involving sexual organs. My fave (in reference to its history and nothing else!) is the clitoris via the clematis. More on that somewhere at the bottom.

My wife Rosemary and I both garden. We each have favourite plants. Most of the time we keep civility in check when her plant or my plant becomes invasive or is a pain in the neck in some way.

Rosemary loves the clematis which is given the botanical epithet “Queen of the Vines”. When you think of the beauty of the passion flower (Passiflora) I would in less diplomatic inclination to argue that point.

The clematis is a fragile vine; its stems have to be treated with extreme care. If you bend the stems, like folding a  paper, you cannot unbend them and they will die. But that is where fragile side of the plant ends and in many varieties you have an invasive variety that in some cases, like that other thug, the wisteria, can bring down a house.

To keep them in check and to have them properly bloom there are three (perhaps more and I don’t want to dwell on that) types that require pruning at different times of the year. Many of these Rosemary faves do not have any scent (but some ,yes!, and do so quite sweetly). Like many camellias and hibiscus their beauty fools you. You get close to the wonderful flowers and you get nothing.

But right now, October 1, there is a wonderful, white and fragrant clematis, Clematis ternata blooming on our boulevard fence. It has managed to climb up the very large Thuya plicatta (Western Red Cedar) and if I don’t prune it, it could possibly drag down the tree (not really, I am only exaggerating).

Scanning the flowers is an almost impossible job. If you place them on the scanner glass the white flowers over-expose. If you hang them over the glass then only the closest will look as they do on the vine.

I will have to admit here that Rosemary’s clematis (no idea of the plural form) have their moments.

Now to the connection between clematis and clitoris. The connection is that both words have etymological routes in Greek and both words in Greek are accented on the first syllable. Thus:

Clém – atis and Clít- toris (clídoris)

I love going to the desks of elderly master gardeners ready to answer your questions at garden centers during the growing season. I like to ask them, “How do you pronounce c, l, e, m, a, t, i, s?” If they pronounce it the non Greek way, I then ask them, “How do you pronounce c, l, i, t, o, r, i, s?” I am usually sent packing.

I cannot resist here to quote that handy Wikipedia on a hitherto known fact about the clitoris, the ostrich and the spotted hyena. Here it is:

The clitoris is a female sex organ present in mammals, ostriches and a limited number of other animals. In humans, the visible button-like portion is near the front junction of the labia minora (inner lips), above the opening of the urethra. Unlike the penis, the male homologue (equivalent) to the clitoris, it usually does not contain the distal portion (or opening) of the urethra and is therefore not used for urination. While few animals urinate through the clitoris, the spotted hyena, which has an especially well-developed clitoris, urinates, mates and gives birth via the organ. Some other carnivorous animals, or mammals in particular, such as lemurs and spider monkeys, also have a well-developed clitoris.

In Search Of A Style With Siouxsie & Budgie
Wednesday, October 01, 2014

Siouxsie & Budgie - circa 1981

When Colt introduced its single action Colt Army Peacemaker in 1873 it revolutionized the “art” of killing. If you had the money to buy one (and many did) you could compete with anybody and more so if you knew how to use it. I see that gun having a parallel with the proliferation in the 21st century of good digital cameras. I believe that the Colt evened out the playing field in the 19th century and now in the 21st century the same has happened with cameras and how they affected photographers who use them.

When I began to work for Vancouver Magazine in the late 70s and Les Wiseman (the writer) and yours truly (the photographer) started covering rock concerts (local and from abroad) for the In One Ear column, we discussed how we could do it differently.

Our experimentation happened at the Commodore Ballroom, the Smilin’ Buddha, Gary Taylor’s and UBC’s Sub Ballroom.

We quickly figured out that even though we were given access to shoot in what we called the media pit (right next to the stage floor) my pictures looked like anybody else’s or not as good.

At the time there were two choices. You either used what we called a head-on flash (like the one in the picture here) or you shot very fast film that was pushed to higher ratings.

The problem with the above is that the methods used to place photographs in a magazine or newspaper was photo-mechanical and not digital. If there was no separation between a musician’s head and the black background the picture could not be used. In fact pictures surrounded by black were editorial no-nos. Art directors loved low contrast.

The flash up close minimized the dark background. But it was difficult to impose a personal style. The only style involved was how important your magazine was so that access became the style. I attempted to use slow shutters (1/8, ¼ and slower) when using the flash so that I would get some sharpness but some ghosting blurs at the same time.

Les Wiseman & Siouxsie Sioux

Soon even that was passé and Wiseman and I narrowed our approach to personal interviews with the band members or the lead member either in their hotel or at sound check in their dressing rooms. I would bring a very heavy studio flash (it was a QC-I000) and a couple of heads. This plus the light stands and a seamless paper were all heavy and Wiseman had to help.

At the time the record companies were all powerful and one had to kowtow to the “Record Rep”. We were nice to them and they soon liked our exclusive coverage which involved Wiseman’s exceptional writing style. Wiseman believed in doing copious research (an in an era before Google) this meant many trips to the library. Soon we were sort of able to call the shots. We would, “If we cannot get access back stage or at the hotel, forget it!”

The bands that Wiseman picked were all based on his extremely snobbish (thank God) tastes. Many times nobody knew about them and after the In One Ear Column was out we garnered lots of hip prestige in knowing before anybody else a band’s rising fame.

The pictures you see here of Siouxie Sioux I believe I took in 1981. Wiseman says the hotel shots were taken in the concrete one on the corner of Granville and Helmcken which I believe is now called the Chateau Granville. He reminded me that somehow we had to go up stairs with my heavy equipment.

The lights were expensive but the camera I used was the one you see here and or a more modern one called a Pentax Spotmatic-F. At the time I liked to use extreme wide angles and got close to my subjects. I particularly liked a 20mm. The film was Kodak Technical Pan which was slow (25 ISO).

For the concert shots I still used the slow film and a slow shutter. My lens would have been the 55mm here or an 80mm Komura.

Until a recent past I taught at Focal Point and did two years at VanArts, downtown. The former closed its doors three years ago and VanArts fired me as they said that I was not a good fit for their school.

I remember once when I told my students that it was virtually impossible to shoot band at concerts in an original way. One particular female student was extremely aggressive and told me I knew nothing and had no experience. She told me that my rock swirls (the slow shutter ones) were simply bad photography.

I tried to stress that the single most important aspect in personal photography was to develop a personal style. I called the personal style the Holy Grail of photography. But it was to no avail and I see now, more than ever pictures of performing bands (sharp, well exposed, bright colours, etc) that are boring, banal and all pretty well look the same. In fact if you are in front of a band at a concert with a very good camera I guarantee that the pictures you will take will look like somebody else’s. In 1982 having the pictures "turn out" was not a sure thing. It is now a sure thing but that does not necessarily include style.

In the group of pictures here you can see the descent from the interesting (Siouxie playing the devil with her hands) to the sofa shot with her drummer Budgie to the ordinary concert pictures I took at the Commodore. You might note that I had access to one side of the stage so I got profiles. To me the only saving grace of these pictures is Siouxie’s fishnets.

A Goth Banshie

The Western Canon, The Travails Of ESL & Money Laundering In Real Estate
Tuesday, September 30, 2014

The Western Canon

Sometime around October of 2008 veteran journalist and editor, Paul Sullivan, while not coining the expression citizen journalism, wrote and spoke of its new found virtues and hired (at no or little pay) professionally unqualified (and thus qualified) people, including two “ladies of the night” to write (subjectivity not objectivity was their mantra) about city events, in particular about the women who had been terrorized and brutally murdered by Robert Pickton. The website was called Orato.

Sullivan was vaunting the virtues of everyman (person) journalism.

I have never been inclined to seek the opinion of the woman or man on the street as I grew up listening to Walter Cronkite or laughing at the acute humour of Nicholas von Hoffman.  I prefer to listen and to watch on MSNBC the likes of Rachel Maddow who is smart, articulate and has the credentials to match those rare qualities in this day and age.

Perhaps my views are to be expected, they come from someone who was born in the first half of the now terribly defunct 20th century.

The wonders of this century have brought citizen journalism and opinion to the on-line versions of paper magazines and newspapers. These unadulterated comments in articles and essays often bring the worst and most caustic side of human beings. In fact I was finally turned off from the many pleasures of  reading The Tyee, were those citizens, with time in their hands, and with agendas to chew on, ranted with no tact or diplomacy and spoiled my experience.

The alternative (I am reluctant to pluralize that word) to that excellent web news magazine The Tyee with its liberal tendencies (and I am a liberal) is slowly decaying into redundancy (a fave Brit word for what ails so many of us in this modern world).

Not too many weeks ago I read one of the best essays I had read in years in my city newspaper, the Vancouver Sun. It was written by Rick Ouston and I blogged about it here. To my dismay I ran into two former Sun Staffers and one active one recently. None had read it. If you consider that in the essay in question Ouston writes about a blundered suicide attempt a year ago you wonder what happens in the Vancouver newsroom in this age of communication.

I talked to a staffer today and told him, “I went to the Sun newsroom on Saturday and I saw a paper tacked to the newsroom door. It said, ‘Please do not declare WWIII or if you are a famous person don’t succumb until Monday. We are closed on weekends.’”

When from a facebook posting (note it must be written in lower case) I found out on late Sunday that Drew Burns had died on Saturday I was not able to confirm his death by any media mention. I do know that the Vancouver Sun will have a hard copy obituary on the Tuesday edition written by perhaps the only man working at the Sun who knew Burns and dealt with him as John Mackie was a punk band manager at one time when phone booths were a dime a dozen.

Consider that the Vancouver Sun staffer to whom I told about the newsroom-door-pinned-bulletin seemed to believe my statement. Surely he did not believe it to be more than a a prank. Perhaps it is true and our only real city newspaper is out to lunch on weekends. Obituaries have to wait for Tuesdays.

By now many reading this will think, “When is this idiot going to get to the point?” 

Remember I am one of those Paul Sullivan citizen journalists. 

I have not been trained to get to the point or to write well. I am one of those former photographers that in those days, in that other century, were collectively thought to be stupid. What follows will have to do. And what follows I hope nobody considers to be a “The-Tyee-comment-ranter” particularly those who imitated coyotes and other vermin of the hinterland of our province.

In the last couple of months well regarded columnists of the Vancouver Sun have written prominent articles on the expensive state of our real estate, the ruining (by the influx of people unwilling to speak English) of ESL (English as a Second Language) in our public school system, and how:

Asian grip on the Western Canon – Musical arts: Caucasian students playing piano at a high level are few and far between.

This last opinion article published in the Sun on Saturday September 20 and written by Pete McMartin was followed by another by him on Saturday September 27:

Too much of a good thing? Theory: Vancouver’s attractiveness could one day be its undoing.

The crux of this latter essay drew from a NY Times Sunday Magazine (two Sundays ago) that was about how people in the US want to go to live in Portland because of its beauty, weather and social milieu. McMartin finds that the so-called Amenity Paradox (people go to Portland but find few jobs and real estate is becoming more dear) has parallels with our Vancouver. In Portland we have a gravitational pull of young college graduates. Who gravitates to our Vancouver is left blurry. In this article McMartin quoted the noted urban planner Lance Berelowitz.  My beef is that I want to read in a  newspaper essays that address in a fair manner how the growth of Vancouver can be explained and how solutions to perceived problems by our city rapid expansion can be found.

When an article (the one on the Western Canon) prominently uses large type on the word Caucasian there is some sort of weird reverse racism involved. Somehow when McMartin uses Asian that term seems milder in my view than Caucasian. When the “red Indian” ruled the plains in the 19th century (and before) the term Caucasian was probably not used. Except for the Chinese (not called Asian then) were building railroads, people in our neck of the woods were either white or were not. Only now is that NFL team, the Washington Redskins trying to navigate what really is a losing battle of the insult their name represents to Aboriginal Americans. Can any future team be called the Dallas Caucasians?

Somehow Caucasian has a troublesome ring to my ears. I hear it more often from the lips of Chinese people that I know. They never say, “white”. Caucasian is the politically correct epithet but to me it grinds and almost offends.

Few know that not too long ago the inhabitants of the Indian Subcontinent were listed as Caucasians by scientific journals. Caucasian had nothing to do with skin colour but with facial features. As far as I can tell India, Pakistan and Bangladesh are South Asian countries.

Those Asians who are not tickling the ivories in our local music schools, are they Filipino, Indonesian, Indian, Bangladeshi, Borneans, or even Japanese or Korean? Could Mr. McMartin be skirting the fact that many of them are Chinese? To write that they could be Chinese, would that be offensive? Would it be racist?

Not too many weeks ago a local architect of Chinese origin told us at an Abraham Rogatnick memorial lunch that a full time project of actively trying to keep the flavour, spirit and look of Vancouver’s China Town alive was most difficult. I could not tell the noted architect (age is making me polite) that our Chinatown, and many more in other cities are former ghettos. The inhabitants of those ghettos were not allowed or could not afford to live anywhere else. Now we have different China Towns. And they are not ghettos by the old definition.

I would like to read in the Vancouver Sun balanced articles in which experts such as Vancouver urban planner Lance Berelowitz (note Vancouver Sun fact checkers that there is a second e in that surname) and others tell us about our urban problems and offer solutions. I have been told by two prominent real estate agents that many houses that change hands in Vancouver are all about money laundering. Why not bring back the unflinching David Baines to explore that topic? Rick Ouston, a professional and qualified journalist could write with objectivity about this Caucasian/Chinese thing we are so reluctant to discuss. I wonder about those small signs stapled to posts on Granville, Cambie, etc that say, "Quick cash for your home."

To be fair I do believe that Pete McMartin's efforts are laudable in that they are indeed an effort to tackle the issues of our city. I remember with warmth, affection and respect the scion of the Southam newspaper empire, Harvey Southam how in his sorely missed (at least by yours truly) his business monthly Equity Magazine in which he featured two prominent city columnists on adjacent pages (left and right!). One was called From the Left and the other From the Right. They always wrote about the same issue but from a different point of view. I want balanced objective reporting without forgetting what one of the sailors on board Thor Heyerdahl's expeditions Ra I and Ra II, Santiago Genovés once said at a lecture I attended in Mexico City in the early 70s:

 "We must remember that objectivity is a subjective invention by man."

If we persist in this reluctant direction the flames of racism will surely be fanned. I might just decide to move to Portland. Or as a friend of mine likes to remind me of something I said to him some years ago, “Let’s go to White Town. Let’s see how we maneuver around our food with one of those forks and knives.”

Drew Burns' Commodore Ballroom
Monday, September 29, 2014

Drew Burns

Not too long ago I had to photograph a couple of composers for the Georgia Straight. I decided that taking the picture on Granville by the Orpheum and the Commodore Ballroom was the right place. I was prevented from taking my photograph by some tough guys who said that the Commodore Ballroom had all rights to pictures not only taken inside but outside on the street. I sort of sweet talked them into inquiring about getting permission from those involved in running the Commodore. The permission came and I took my picture days later.

This would not have happened in times gone by; the times when Drew Burns was in charge. In the 70s and 80s when I took many pictures of bands performing there Burns always accommodated my needs which sometimes were requests to take photographs backstage. Burns always invited me into his office (a messy kind of office) and I remember he had a penchant for shirts with polka-dots.

Such was my reputation, courtesy of Vancouver Magazine, that the security staff played protective wall for me from punks (the punk band punk variety punks)  who liked to push and shove for fun but my cameras were more fragile than I was. These security guys would stand in front of me and marched to wherever I wanted to take my shots. One security man, while walking on Granville (he may have been involved with some motorcycle gang. His last name was Paisely.) was shot in the stomach. In spite of the pain he ran after the gunman and wrestled him to the ground.

Les Wiseman who wrote his crafty words for Vancouver Magazine’s In One Ear was a snob. This meant that we sometimes skipped the warm-up acts. In some rare occasions we skipped the headliners (probably Images in Vogue) and left after the warm-up bands finished.

In one special evening that I remember vividly we left for a cheap beer at the Dufferin before the headliners were to be on. We ran into one of my fave exotic dancers, Miss Mew, AKA Fleen. We told her where we were going. She warned us, “The place has changed.”

I never really imbibed but I sort of enjoyed the second-string lineups of exotic dancers of the bar. One of my fave sights was a waiter who looked like Laurence Harvey.

We sat down and Wiseman ordered his beer. I ordered my coke. I noticed two men holding hands at another table. “Les, I believe this bar has gone gay.” It had. In one of those strange, unexplainable events of our city of the time someone had decided from one day to the next for the change, as if there were a switch that went from straight to gay. The owner flicked the switch and that was it.

To me the Commodore that was will never again be that Commodore. It ceased being so when Burns, a gentleman, retired 15 years ago. Some sort of mafia has taken over.

Somehow my memory of the Commodore Ballroom had something to do with the many chandeliers and the tacky and elaborate red wall paper going up on the stairs.

Cras! Cras!
Sunday, September 28, 2014

Helianthus annuus September 28, 2014

Today Sunday after a night of insomnia I went finally asleep and woke up with deep melancholia.

My female cat, Plata is now 16 years old and she is obsessed in wanting to eat all day. She nags me constantly. She may have some version of feline dementia as many times there is still food in her dish. I pick up the dish and stir the contents around with a spoon. Plata eats. Sometimes, I have to admit I get very angry at her nagging and I say (sometimes in a raised voice) to her, “Plata, if you want more food ask your mistress. I’ve had it with your constant begging.”

This morning Rosemary said something close to this, “Our cats are two faithful remnants of our life and we should appreciate and care for them. They really don’t expect nothing and give all.”

Rosemary left for a Master Gardener clinic at Garden Works in Lougheed Highway. It is a sunny day and I must finish pruning and shaping our very long laurel hedge.

I decided to postpone that to perhaps later in the afternoon. I made my breakfast and brought the tray to bed where I finished the last of yesterday’s (the Sunday Times is delivered on Saturday night) Sunday Review. I prevaricated (that sounds better than that term dithering now associated to Obama even by his followers). I procrastinated.

With me, by my side was Plata stretched out so elegantly as only cats can, having learned in their past from the dancers in the courts of the ancient Egyptian pharaohs.

My mother and grandmother, two very Roman Catholic women prayed to the many saints connected with problems encountered. St Anthony of Padua was promised funds for charity should he help them find a lost earring or other trinket. When things became desperate they turned to St. Jude Apostle, the patron saint of impossible things (and situations).

One day my mother whose name was Filomena arrived from school desperate. “Alex, the pope has de-listed St. Philomena. She never existed. I no longer have a patron saint.” Years later, no scandal in England as far as I can tell, the Roman Catholic Church asserted that St. George, had never existed so he could never have slain that dragon.

With no internet and Google to check out useless facts my mother and grandmother never knew of an Armenian centurion Expeditus who was martyred when he converted to Christianity in 303 AD.  It seems that while pondering on his decision a crow appeared and squawked “Cras, cras,” Latin for tomorrow. Expeditus not only ignored the bird but he stomped him and promptly converted.

Not clear in my investigation of Expeditus is my confusion of exactly what he intercedes with God for us. Does he help us not to dither? Does he justify our act of prevarication? Is he the long lost saint of that 60s mantra that we were going to be showered with leisure time?  Obviously St Expeditus could have never predicted the rise of the iPhone and how that gadget keeps us from true, substantial, melancholy, a meandering of thought, inspirational and even artistic daydreaming.

I believe that St. Expeditus and St. Jude should get together and decide with precision and without delay to intercede for us and help us achieve true procrastination.

While I have been scanning my garden roses now for some ten years, this year I have become enamoured with my Lillooet daughter’s sun flowers. In early spring she brings these plants in big black pots. I help Rosemary plant them in our back lane garden and wherever else we can find a sunny spot. I have been delighted with the long span of this annual. From beginning when I can note their buds to the end of the cycle when the plants droop and the flowers become untidy I have noted a beauty that while not competing with my roses, have an elegance, an ordinary elegance that can almost, as today, almost wipe out my late summer melancholy.

Rosemary is right. I shall attend to Plata and give her more love and less shouting. I will try to ignore her nagging and just feed her. With so many of my human friends disappearing (do they dither?) it is comforting to have a friendly allegiance.


Previous Posts
F-Stop Fitzgerald

The Snowstorm & My LensBaby - Ready for Venice

Joani Taylor Salute - Jazz @ The Pat this Saturday...

The Stuff that Dreams Were Made Of

Medium, Jeff Bezos, Barack Obama & Me

MacLeod Books - Librería de Viejo Supreme

Arts Umbrella Dance - Sunday Feb 3, 2019

What the Dickens Is one to do?

8EAST - Petit Avant-Garde

Introducing Rebecca to Gary Trudeau's Sad!

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10/21/12 - 10/28/12

10/28/12 - 11/4/12

11/4/12 - 11/11/12

11/11/12 - 11/18/12

11/18/12 - 11/25/12

11/25/12 - 12/2/12

12/2/12 - 12/9/12

12/9/12 - 12/16/12

12/16/12 - 12/23/12

12/23/12 - 12/30/12

12/30/12 - 1/6/13

1/6/13 - 1/13/13

1/13/13 - 1/20/13

1/20/13 - 1/27/13

1/27/13 - 2/3/13

2/3/13 - 2/10/13

2/10/13 - 2/17/13

2/17/13 - 2/24/13

2/24/13 - 3/3/13

3/3/13 - 3/10/13

3/10/13 - 3/17/13

3/17/13 - 3/24/13

3/24/13 - 3/31/13

3/31/13 - 4/7/13

4/7/13 - 4/14/13

4/14/13 - 4/21/13

4/21/13 - 4/28/13

4/28/13 - 5/5/13

5/5/13 - 5/12/13

5/12/13 - 5/19/13

5/19/13 - 5/26/13

5/26/13 - 6/2/13

6/2/13 - 6/9/13

6/9/13 - 6/16/13

6/16/13 - 6/23/13

6/23/13 - 6/30/13

6/30/13 - 7/7/13

7/7/13 - 7/14/13

7/14/13 - 7/21/13

7/21/13 - 7/28/13

7/28/13 - 8/4/13

8/4/13 - 8/11/13

8/11/13 - 8/18/13

8/18/13 - 8/25/13

8/25/13 - 9/1/13

9/1/13 - 9/8/13

9/8/13 - 9/15/13

9/15/13 - 9/22/13

9/22/13 - 9/29/13

9/29/13 - 10/6/13

10/6/13 - 10/13/13

10/13/13 - 10/20/13

10/20/13 - 10/27/13

10/27/13 - 11/3/13

11/3/13 - 11/10/13

11/10/13 - 11/17/13

11/17/13 - 11/24/13

11/24/13 - 12/1/13

12/1/13 - 12/8/13

12/8/13 - 12/15/13

12/15/13 - 12/22/13

12/22/13 - 12/29/13

12/29/13 - 1/5/14

1/5/14 - 1/12/14

1/12/14 - 1/19/14

1/19/14 - 1/26/14

1/26/14 - 2/2/14

2/2/14 - 2/9/14

2/9/14 - 2/16/14

2/16/14 - 2/23/14

2/23/14 - 3/2/14

3/2/14 - 3/9/14

3/9/14 - 3/16/14

3/16/14 - 3/23/14

3/23/14 - 3/30/14

3/30/14 - 4/6/14

4/6/14 - 4/13/14

4/13/14 - 4/20/14

4/20/14 - 4/27/14

4/27/14 - 5/4/14

5/4/14 - 5/11/14

5/11/14 - 5/18/14

5/18/14 - 5/25/14

5/25/14 - 6/1/14

6/1/14 - 6/8/14

6/8/14 - 6/15/14

6/15/14 - 6/22/14

6/22/14 - 6/29/14

6/29/14 - 7/6/14

7/6/14 - 7/13/14

7/13/14 - 7/20/14

7/20/14 - 7/27/14

7/27/14 - 8/3/14

8/3/14 - 8/10/14

8/10/14 - 8/17/14

8/17/14 - 8/24/14

8/24/14 - 8/31/14

8/31/14 - 9/7/14

9/7/14 - 9/14/14

9/14/14 - 9/21/14

9/21/14 - 9/28/14

9/28/14 - 10/5/14

10/5/14 - 10/12/14

10/12/14 - 10/19/14

10/19/14 - 10/26/14

10/26/14 - 11/2/14

11/2/14 - 11/9/14

11/9/14 - 11/16/14

11/16/14 - 11/23/14

11/23/14 - 11/30/14

11/30/14 - 12/7/14

12/7/14 - 12/14/14

12/14/14 - 12/21/14

12/21/14 - 12/28/14

12/28/14 - 1/4/15

1/4/15 - 1/11/15

1/11/15 - 1/18/15

1/18/15 - 1/25/15

1/25/15 - 2/1/15

2/1/15 - 2/8/15

2/8/15 - 2/15/15

2/15/15 - 2/22/15

2/22/15 - 3/1/15

3/1/15 - 3/8/15

3/8/15 - 3/15/15

3/15/15 - 3/22/15

3/22/15 - 3/29/15

3/29/15 - 4/5/15

4/5/15 - 4/12/15

4/12/15 - 4/19/15

4/19/15 - 4/26/15

4/26/15 - 5/3/15

5/3/15 - 5/10/15

5/10/15 - 5/17/15

5/17/15 - 5/24/15

5/24/15 - 5/31/15

5/31/15 - 6/7/15

6/7/15 - 6/14/15

6/14/15 - 6/21/15

6/21/15 - 6/28/15

6/28/15 - 7/5/15

7/5/15 - 7/12/15

7/12/15 - 7/19/15

7/19/15 - 7/26/15

7/26/15 - 8/2/15

8/2/15 - 8/9/15

8/9/15 - 8/16/15

8/16/15 - 8/23/15

8/23/15 - 8/30/15

8/30/15 - 9/6/15

9/6/15 - 9/13/15

9/13/15 - 9/20/15

9/20/15 - 9/27/15

9/27/15 - 10/4/15

10/4/15 - 10/11/15

10/18/15 - 10/25/15

10/25/15 - 11/1/15

11/1/15 - 11/8/15

11/8/15 - 11/15/15

11/15/15 - 11/22/15

11/22/15 - 11/29/15

11/29/15 - 12/6/15

12/6/15 - 12/13/15

12/13/15 - 12/20/15

12/20/15 - 12/27/15

12/27/15 - 1/3/16

1/3/16 - 1/10/16

1/10/16 - 1/17/16

1/31/16 - 2/7/16

2/7/16 - 2/14/16

2/14/16 - 2/21/16

2/21/16 - 2/28/16

2/28/16 - 3/6/16

3/6/16 - 3/13/16

3/13/16 - 3/20/16

3/20/16 - 3/27/16

3/27/16 - 4/3/16

4/3/16 - 4/10/16

4/10/16 - 4/17/16

4/17/16 - 4/24/16

4/24/16 - 5/1/16

5/1/16 - 5/8/16

5/8/16 - 5/15/16

5/15/16 - 5/22/16

5/22/16 - 5/29/16

5/29/16 - 6/5/16

6/5/16 - 6/12/16

6/12/16 - 6/19/16

6/19/16 - 6/26/16

6/26/16 - 7/3/16

7/3/16 - 7/10/16

7/10/16 - 7/17/16

7/17/16 - 7/24/16

7/24/16 - 7/31/16

7/31/16 - 8/7/16

8/7/16 - 8/14/16

8/14/16 - 8/21/16

8/21/16 - 8/28/16

8/28/16 - 9/4/16

9/4/16 - 9/11/16

9/11/16 - 9/18/16

9/18/16 - 9/25/16

9/25/16 - 10/2/16

10/2/16 - 10/9/16

10/9/16 - 10/16/16

10/16/16 - 10/23/16

10/23/16 - 10/30/16

10/30/16 - 11/6/16

11/6/16 - 11/13/16

11/13/16 - 11/20/16

11/20/16 - 11/27/16

11/27/16 - 12/4/16

12/4/16 - 12/11/16

12/11/16 - 12/18/16

12/18/16 - 12/25/16

12/25/16 - 1/1/17

1/1/17 - 1/8/17

1/8/17 - 1/15/17

1/15/17 - 1/22/17

1/22/17 - 1/29/17

1/29/17 - 2/5/17

2/5/17 - 2/12/17

2/12/17 - 2/19/17

2/19/17 - 2/26/17

2/26/17 - 3/5/17

3/5/17 - 3/12/17

3/12/17 - 3/19/17

3/19/17 - 3/26/17

3/26/17 - 4/2/17

4/2/17 - 4/9/17

4/9/17 - 4/16/17

4/16/17 - 4/23/17

4/23/17 - 4/30/17

4/30/17 - 5/7/17

5/7/17 - 5/14/17

5/14/17 - 5/21/17

5/21/17 - 5/28/17

5/28/17 - 6/4/17

6/4/17 - 6/11/17

6/11/17 - 6/18/17

6/18/17 - 6/25/17

6/25/17 - 7/2/17

7/2/17 - 7/9/17

7/9/17 - 7/16/17

7/16/17 - 7/23/17

7/23/17 - 7/30/17

7/30/17 - 8/6/17

8/6/17 - 8/13/17

8/13/17 - 8/20/17

8/20/17 - 8/27/17

8/27/17 - 9/3/17

9/3/17 - 9/10/17

9/10/17 - 9/17/17

9/17/17 - 9/24/17

9/24/17 - 10/1/17

10/1/17 - 10/8/17

10/8/17 - 10/15/17

10/15/17 - 10/22/17

10/22/17 - 10/29/17

10/29/17 - 11/5/17

11/5/17 - 11/12/17

11/12/17 - 11/19/17

11/19/17 - 11/26/17

11/26/17 - 12/3/17

12/3/17 - 12/10/17

12/10/17 - 12/17/17

12/17/17 - 12/24/17

12/24/17 - 12/31/17

12/31/17 - 1/7/18

1/7/18 - 1/14/18

1/14/18 - 1/21/18

1/21/18 - 1/28/18

1/28/18 - 2/4/18

2/4/18 - 2/11/18

2/11/18 - 2/18/18

2/18/18 - 2/25/18

2/25/18 - 3/4/18

3/4/18 - 3/11/18

3/11/18 - 3/18/18

3/18/18 - 3/25/18

3/25/18 - 4/1/18

4/1/18 - 4/8/18

4/8/18 - 4/15/18

4/15/18 - 4/22/18

4/22/18 - 4/29/18

4/29/18 - 5/6/18

5/6/18 - 5/13/18

5/13/18 - 5/20/18

5/20/18 - 5/27/18

5/27/18 - 6/3/18

6/3/18 - 6/10/18

6/10/18 - 6/17/18

6/17/18 - 6/24/18

6/24/18 - 7/1/18

7/1/18 - 7/8/18

7/8/18 - 7/15/18

7/15/18 - 7/22/18

7/22/18 - 7/29/18

7/29/18 - 8/5/18

8/5/18 - 8/12/18

8/12/18 - 8/19/18

8/19/18 - 8/26/18

8/26/18 - 9/2/18

9/2/18 - 9/9/18

9/9/18 - 9/16/18

9/16/18 - 9/23/18

9/23/18 - 9/30/18

9/30/18 - 10/7/18

10/7/18 - 10/14/18

10/14/18 - 10/21/18

10/21/18 - 10/28/18

10/28/18 - 11/4/18

11/4/18 - 11/11/18

11/11/18 - 11/18/18

11/18/18 - 11/25/18

11/25/18 - 12/2/18

12/2/18 - 12/9/18

12/9/18 - 12/16/18

12/16/18 - 12/23/18

12/23/18 - 12/30/18

12/30/18 - 1/6/19

1/6/19 - 1/13/19

1/13/19 - 1/20/19

1/20/19 - 1/27/19

1/27/19 - 2/3/19

2/3/19 - 2/10/19

2/10/19 - 2/17/19