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| Art Bergmann at the Rickshaw - 26 July 2024 |
My Rosemary, when she was alive, never accompanied me to rock concerts especially those that were local punk or alternative scene bands. But she always asked me when I arrived home how it was, after telling me to take a bath as I reeked of tobacco smoke.
Last night I went to listen to Art Bergman and his band
at the Rickshaw Theatre. I will make believe that I am talking to Rosemary when
I write this blog. She would have appreciated that I did not smell of smoke.
Some of you might not like my slow shutter photographs. I enjoy doing them as they represent a new focus on what I do. I have inspiration from two men who never rest on the laurels. These are Joey Shithead (Keithley) and Art Bergmann. I champion the idea that Art refuses to play Hawaii. That was then. Bergmann is now.
The title of this blog might puzzle some. Because I am Argentine I am a lifelong fan of Jorge Luís Borges. He has written several poems about his obsession of not knowing if when he opens a door it will be the last time or if his image reflected in a mirror will be the final one.
The Borges poem about the door and the mirror is below (after the 32photographs) in both English and in Spanish.
A month ago I went to a performance of the last 2 of Bach’s sonatas and partitas for solo violin (BWV 1001–1006) played by my friend Marc Destrubé. I was able to listen to the other four that Destrubé played at St. Anselm’s Anglican church near UBC.
The most famous of the six is number 4 called Bach Chaconne. I heard that one played before by Monica Huggett. These works are extremely difficult and are rarely played. It says something of Vancouver that Destrube’s performances were not well attended while anywhere else in the world there would have been line-ups.
I am a believer in statistics and statistically since I am about to be 82 my chances of ever hearing any of them live again are next to none in Borgesian terms.
Because I first saw, heard and photographed Art Bergmann at the Smilin’ Buddha in 1979 and Adam Drake and Stephen Drake in that same year, I find that my possibility of listening to Art Bergmann and his band again are Borgesian slim.
That was one of the reasons why I was keen to go to the Bergmann concert last night. I was rewarded in spades. Bergmann’s band is tight and fabulous. Is there a better rock band anywhere in Canada?
Somehow Bergmann has smartly navigated from his early punk period to where he is now. Many of his songs are protest songs. But they cannot be defined as folk/rock. A few years ago I went to the Vancouver Folk Festival where there was a lot of middle-of-the-road world music. Bergmann was the only folk singer. One of his songs was about building cluster bombs in some town in New Jersey.
Bergmann’s band is nice and loud and yet in some of the songs he deftly manoeuvres to the point where he sings barely in whispers. Who else can do that?
And then there is the presence of the Drake brothers. Adam Drake is solid at the drums and Stephen Drake I believe must now be the best electric guitarist in Canada.
I must add here that I am warming up to the bass played Bradley Ferguson who can also sing.
The women in the band were superb, too,Aidan Farrell,Leo D.E. Johnson and Sara Wazani who in a shimmering dress sang in Arabic Bergmann’s Gazacide.
The song list can be found in the link below and I believe that because you can play the songs they must have been previously recorded. My fave is always Remember Her Name, a Bergmann song about Marianne Faithful.
I had a great time. I talked to all the security guys, they all smiled when I told them that they were king to the photographers as they gave us access to anywhere we wanted to go.
What I cannot understand, just like Destrube’s poorly attended Bach Suites, why was it that I saw no Vancouver musicians in the audience. They might have been inspired. I was.
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| Stephen Drake & Bradley Ferguson |
Limits –Jorge Luís Borges
Of all the streets that blur in to the sunset,
There must be one (which, I am not sure)
That I by now have walked for the last time
Without guessing it, the pawn of that Someone
Who fixes in advance omnipotent laws,
Sets up a secret and unwavering scale
for all the shadows, dreams, and forms
Woven into the texture of this life.
If there is a limit to all things and a measure
And a last time and nothing more and forgetfulness,
Who will tell us to whom in this house
We without knowing it have said farewell?
Through the dawning window night withdraws
And among the stacked books which throw
Irregular shadows on the dim table,
There must be one which I will never read.
There is in the South more than one worn gate,
With its cement urns and planted cactus,
Which is already forbidden to my entry,
Inaccessible, as in a lithograph.
There is a door you have closed forever
And some mirror is expecting you in vain;
To you the crossroads seem wide open,
Yet watching you, four-faced, is a Janus.
There is among all your memories one
Which has now been lost beyond recall.
You will not be seen going down to that fountain
Neither by white sun nor by yellow moon.
You will never recapture what the Persian
Said in his language woven with birds and roses,
When, in the sunset, before the light disperses,
You wish to give words to unforgettable things.
And the steadily flowing Rhone and the lake,
All that vast yesterday over which today I bend?
They will be as lost as Carthage,
Scourged by the Romans with fire and salt.
At dawn I seem to hear the turbulent
Murmur of crowds milling and fading away;
They are all I have been loved by, forgotten by;
Space, time, and Borges now are leaving me.
Version 2.
Of these streets that deepen the sunset,
There must be one (but which) that I’ve walked
Already one last time, indifferently
And without knowing it, submitting
To One who sets up omnipotent laws
And a secret and a rigid measure
For the shadows, the dreams, and forms
That work the warp and weft of this life.
If all things have a limit and a value
A last time nothing more and oblivion
Who can say to whom in this house
Unknowingly, we have said goodbye?
Already through the grey glass night ebbs
And among the stack of books that throws
A broken shadow on the unlit table,
There must be one I will never read.
In the South there’s more than one worn gate
With its masonry urns and prickly pear
Where my entrance is forbidden
As it were within a lithograph.
Forever there’s a door you have closed,
And a mirror that waits for you in vain;
The crossroad seems wide open to you
And there a four-faced Janus watches.
There is, amongst your memories, one
That has now been lost irreparably;
You’ll not be seen to visit that well
Under white sun or yellow moon.
Your voice cannot recapture what the Persian
Sang in his tongue of birds and roses,
When at sunset, as the light disperses,
You long to speak imperishable things.
And the incessant Rhone and the lake,
All that yesterday on which today I lean?
They will be as lost as that Carthage
The Romans erased with fire and salt.
At dawn I seem to hear a turbulent
Murmur of multitudes who slip away;
All who have loved me and forgotten;
Space, time and Borges now leaving me.
Límites – Jorge Luís Borges
De estas calles que ahondan el poniente,
una habrá (no sé cuál) que he recorrido
ya por última vez, indiferente
y sin adivinarlo, sometido
a quien prefija omnipotentes normas
y una secreta y rígida medida
a las sombras, los sueños y las formas
que destejen y tejen esta vida.
Si para todo hay término y hay tasa
y última vez y nunca más y olvido
¿Quién nos dirá de quién, en esta casa,
sin saberlo, nos hemos despedido?
Tras el cristal ya gris la noche cesa
y del alto de libros que una trunca
sombra dilata por la vaga mesa,
alguno habrá que no leeremos nunca.
Hay en el Sur más de un portón gastado
con sus jarrones de mampostería
y tunas, que a mi paso está vedado
como si fuera una litografía.
Para siempre cerraste alguna puerta
y hay un espejo que te aguarda en vano;
la encrucijada te parece abierta
y la vigila, cuadrifronte, Jano*.
Hay, entre todas tus memorias, una
que se ha perdido irreparablemente;
no te verán bajar a aquella fuente
ni el blanco sol ni la amarilla luna.
No volverá tu voz a lo que el persa
dijo en su lengua de aves y de rosas,
cuando al ocaso, ante la luz dispersa,
quieras decir inolvidables cosas.
¿Y el incesante Ródano y el lago,
todo ese ayer sobre el cual hoy me inclino?
Tan perdido estará como Cartago
que con fuego y con sal borró el latino*.
Creo en el alba oír un atareado
rumor de multitudes que se alejan;
son lo que me ha querido y olvidado;
espacio, tiempo y Borges ya me dejan.
