An Afternoon with Tomson Highway
The call comes as a voicemail message from Tomson Highway himself. On it, he says
- I don't know if you remember me.
He proceeds to leave a cryptic message about the possibility of an upcoming opportunity, which he is not at liberty to discuss, and would I please return his call at the earliest convenience?
I do. We meet by phone then in person at his cottage in the Northern Wood. He invites me into his studio where an unassuming electric piano waits patiently, juxtaposed against an awesome library of books - the most fitting backdrop to what happens next. On this stormy Saturday afternoon, I am about to be treated to a private solo performance of 12 songs, the foundation of his latest work The (Post) Mistress.
He explains that I should not expect the best sound quality from the electric piano, but he strokes the piano keys soothingly, as if to assuage hurt feelings, and in the same breath maintains that it meets his needs.
I am to record the entire event, and I fiddle with my husband's recording device, trying to look like I know what I'm doing while silently invoking the tech gods, praying that I will not be called upon to troubleshoot any glitch with the gadget. Tomson waits patiently as I turn it on and wait for the new file code to appear. 'Ready?' he asks and I tell myself I do not hear perturbation in his voice. 'Open the page' he says, referring to the sheet music for the first song. I have time to press the red record button before he repeats his instruction 'Open the page' and I hurriedly do, replying 'yup, it's on', and cringe at our lack of synchronicity.
The feeling is instantly replaced with wonderment and he begins the playful refrain for 'Hey Good Lookin' - the song he prefers I learn first. He plays with gusto and he sings words written for his partner of many years, Raymond and I am touched to my heart at once by the cheeky lyrics and the earnest, beguiling voice that is Tomson Highway.
We have barely begun before the lights go out. A bright flash of light and simultaneous deafening thunder clap leave us without power after only the second song. He jokes about the absurdity of the moment saying, 'How ironic - you come all this way and the power goes out... we can't record anything without the electric piano...' and we both laugh nervously. Seconds begin to feel like minutes. We listen to the uncomfortable silence establish itself in the room. Two timorous artists at the mercy of the weather, with nothing much else to do and very little to talk about too.
© 2011 Pandora Topp