Tuesday night I went to Guelph on a whim.  Wax Mannequin and The Kettle Black were playing at The Family Thrift Store there and it seemed like the perfect opportunity to catch some great music and visit friends at the same time (Jenny Omnichord’s dad owns the store).  Borrowing my folks’ clunky old minivan Laura and I hit the road…right into late rush hour traffic.  Slowed down, but not dissuaded, we got there just in time to surprise Jenny and overhear that Wax Mannequin had canceled.

I was slightly dissapointed, but the mysterious floor to ceiling thrift-store inventory immediately stole my attention.  Everywhere I looked there was something else that caught my eye—either out of want or sheer curiosity.  You could treasure hunt for hours on end in a place like that and on this particular evening I was after old pieces of luggage to use as a case for a pedal board.

Only seconds in to my search Jenny snapped me back to earth with a proposition: since Wax had canceled maybe I could open for Kettle Black.

Huh? Sorry…what? Me!?!

Before I could even comprehend what was being proposed I had already agreed.  Borrowing a guitar I did my best to hide my nervousness by playing scales, tuning and de-tuning the strings and just generally walking around the store. Clinging to the instrument like my life depended on it, I tried desperately to prove to the people around—and myself—that I was, in fact, a musician.

Trying for comedic irony, I asked that the small crowd not compare me to the absentee Wax Mannequin and then kicked things off with a cover of one of his songs (“End of Me” —a new one coming out soon). I was nervous, unprepared and generally untested, but made it through a half hour or so before handing the floor over to The Kettle Black.

Our sets couldn’t have been more different. While I was playing folk ditties on an acoustic guitar, Kettle Black was a one-man-band of pure sonic ferocity.  He employed loop pedals, a synth, a huge array of rack-mounted machines, a kick drum and alternated between bass and guitar (sometimes in the same song). While I fumbled awkwardly with attempts at banter, he was closed-lipped and segued between songs mercilessly. Like a boxer throwing combos, he teased with the occasional low-key acoustic number before exploding into cacophonous rage. I was sitting right in front of a wind chime that he repeatedly kicked for both impressive dramatic and sonic affect. He was relentless.

In retrospect my short set must have seemed like the calm before the storm, as when Kettle Black took the stage we were all in the eye of a one-man hurricane.

After the show the crowd quickly dissipated while I continued rummaging through the thrift-store. Finding just what I’d been looking for I went to pay, but Jenny’s dad wouldn’t let me.  He insisted that I take what I wanted as compensation for having played.

I left my first real gig with payment in tow: two perfect pieces of luggage.

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The Kettle Black - All Work and No Play