Jesse Winchester, and my Weekend of Music Circa 1970

I’ve had a most lovely weekend of music, peaking with Jesse Winchester’s mesmerizing performance last night at Café Campus.

To Anglo Montrealers over 50, Jesse is a legend. He’s up there on the legend-o-meter with Nick Auf de Maur, the McGarrigle sisters, maybe even Leonard Cohen. The draft-dodger from Tennessee made a name for himself as a prolific songwriter back in the 70s; he was a regular at the Yellow Door, and one of the artists responsible for making that tiny basement space the historic, dearly-loved and ongoingly-popular folk venue it is today.

I discovered Jesse Winchester in high school, when my mom put two-and-two together that my friend and classmate Marcus Winchester was the son of the Winchester. She hauled out all her vinyl recordings of Jesse and played them for me. I embarrassed Marcus the next day at school by referring to all the lude sexual innuendos in his father’s lyrics. Later that year, our Mass Media teacher found out that Marcus was Jesse Winchester’s son. I’ll never forget how her face transformed from the work-day-glaze to youthful euphoria as she gasped, “Marcus, I’m in LOVE with your father!!!”

So when my mom emailed me a few weeks ago that Jesse was playing a show on the 12th, I didn’t hesitate to suggest I be her date.

Last night was an INTENSE night to be a Montrealer. While most of the city was tucked away in living rooms or bars watching the hockey game, the entire Anglo population over 50 was gathered Café Campus, ecstatic to hear their beloved Jesse on his homecoming tour (he lives in Tennessee now again). I met my mom for a pre-show dinner at Mazurka, and listened obediently to her stories of how, when she was in her 20s, eating at the Mazurka was cheaper than doing your own groceries (”I haven’t been here in 30 years, and the borscht is just as delicious!!”). When we got to the box-office to pick up our tickets (amazing how our generation compulsively shows up for shows at least an hour late, whereas the line for this show had started forming for ticket-pickups an hour early - I was bombarded by a chorus of “Helloooooo!!!”s. My mom seemed to know everyone. I shook so many hands, and smiled at so many “this is my daughter Sarah”s - her old neighbour, her friend from McGill, a former co-worker, her secretary, her current neighbour. I saw my roommate’s parents there, and they were the first ones to say it: “aren’t you a little…young to be here?”

It had indeed been a weekend for me of draft-dodger folk. The night before, on Friday, I played a solo set at the Yellow Door, that magical and historic spot so much a part of Jesse’s musical past. I ran into Holly Fleming, the Yellow Door coordinator, at the Jesse concert (of COURSE I ran into her!!!), and she began introducing me to all of these 50+ folk singers as “Sarah who played at the Yellow Door last night…she’s AMAZING!!” (Holly is infinitely gracious and generous with her compliments) I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a strong sense of being a torch-carrier, an ambassador for my generation at this nostalgic gathering of aging folk-music lovers. If playing the “next-generation-of-musicians” role was what was being imposed upon me, I was happy to oblige.

However, I spotted my first generational compatriot when the Echo Hunters, the opening act, took to the stage. Ben Griffin, singer-songwriter and organizer of the Singer-Songwriter Wednesdays at Ye Olde Orchard, plays bass for this band of guys my parents’ age. They played a KILLER set, mixing influences of roots, blues, celtic with a wiff of Enya-inspired new-age-edge. It was one of the most rockin sets I’d seen in a while - I wonder if my enjoyment was partly because the audience was just far better behaved than the quarterlifer crowds I’m used to hangin’ with.

Then the energy shifted, and Jesse took to the stage for a quiet, intimate solo set. The performance was hushed and implicitly meaningful - his sweet southern drawl trickled out in soft vocal lines, and the audience hung at his every breath. His poetry is masterful. He seemed to just whisper songs - barely touching his guitar strings at times, barely voicing certain lines but always, always communicating. He chooses his bold strokes wisely - raising his voice above the lullaby-decibel sparingly, breaking out into full-out blues picking only when he knew it would drive his audience mad with delight. It was an amazing set, and no doubt worth every anglo Montrealer over 50 missing the hockey game for.

So it’s been a joy to live in this draft-dodger folk-world for the past 48 hours. I’ve learned a lot about good songwriting, good communities, and about a generation that is starting to feel old. I was proud to represent the young crowd, and humbled at the tremendous legacy this city has under it’s belt - fellow quarterlifers, let’s not forget that.