I was on my way to work and doing okay, until I heard the first chords of Racing in the Street. I’m not sure why it was that song at that time, but suddenly I was fighting an overwhelming urge to ditch the day job and head to the Shore. By the time Bruce started singing about his ’69 Chevy with a 396, I desperately wanted to turn around. I wanted to call Ginette and tell her to put her make up on and fix her hair up pretty. I wanted to coax that red Rogue south towards I-81. To be honest, I don’t think the car would’ve needed much convincing. I swear it could find its way to Asbury Park without anything more than the occasional combination of accelerator and brake and a stop or two at a toll booth along the way.

I stared up at the traffic lights forever. Beyond them, the four-lane blacktop was beckoning. An impatient driver behind me shattered my daydream with his horn. I took one last look up towards the 401, shook it off, finished my coffee and resumed my commute.

Missing the Light of Day Foundation’s annual fundraising weekend in Asbury Park would be so much easier if it was just about the music. We’ve missed concerts before. Hell, we’ve even missed surprise appearances by Bruce Springsteen before. It’s disappointing but it’s nowhere near the sense of detachment we’re both feeling since we decided not to attend Light of Day for the first time since 2008. For 14 years, Ginette and I have driven that dusty road from Kingston to Asbury to hear some great music and raise money for Parkinson’s research. It was one of the first things I wanted her to experience when we met. I talked endlessly about how I’d been along for the ride since the beginning when music manager Bob Benjamin, after being diagnosed with Parkinson’s at 38, decided to have a birthday party and instead of asking for presents he threw a party and asked for donations to Parkinson’s research. I talked about my friendship with Joe D’Urso; one of the few musicians who’s been at every single Light of Day show. Mostly I talked about being surrounded by a sense of community and purpose; all set to a Jersey Shore soundtrack. For that first trip, I put together a Jersey road trip playlist that included not just Bruce but Joe D’Urso, Joe Grushecky, John Eddie and Willie Nile. Springsteen – who so often jumped onstage with his buddy Joe Grushecky and the Houserockers - didn’t show up that first year but Ginette was hooked anyway. From that point forward, Light of Day in Asbury Park was permanently etched into our calendar. A few years later, we went to Light of Day Canada in Niagara Falls. Meeting Dave Rotella changed everything. His enthusiasm for the cause and his passionate love of music made it easy to say yes to volunteering. That weekend, we drove emcee Vincent Pastore of The Sopranos to Toronto for a TV interview. Over the next 48 hours, Vinnie became our friend and our “agent”. He told the powers that be in Jersey, “You have to bring Gord and Ginette down to Asbury”. With Vinnie’s endorsement we ended up working at the legendary Stone Pony. That added a different perspective to the weekend. We were volunteer stage managers. We lined up performers, made sure each band got on and got off at the assigned times and generally pitched in wherever we could. We started at 6pm and finished at 1am and never sat down for a minute but we loved it. Over the next few years, we put in the work and drank in the love. We had breakfast with Joel Plaskett, dinner with Dave Hodge and late-night drinks with Jamie, Danny, Peter, Joe, Hans, Willie, Jenn, Johnny, Jorgen, and Billy. By now, the weekend had morphed into four days but as the event grew, so did the connections. Charles and Kathy, Jake, Michele, Big Dee, J.R. – all people I now consider friends. And each year, that sense of community flourished. We were raising money and awareness and eventually we were going to beat Parkinson’s. In the words of the great Willie Nile, “Once we’re done with Parkinson’s we’ll move on to the next cause and we’ll kick ITS ass.”

After several years of this, it only made sense that we’d try running a Light of Day right here in our hometown. So, we did. Supported by our friends and artists like Joe D’Urso, Willie Nile, Miss Emily, Kent Nicholson, Steve Earle and Southside Johnny, we hosted Light of Day Kingston for five consecutive years. Laura and Candy came from Maryland and Florida, Frankie drove from Niagara, Tony and Bob came up from LOD headquarters in New Jersey, Bill came from Ottawa and Sammy came from Toronto. Vincent Pastore even made the trip up from NYC to host in our second year. I can close my eyes right now and access a looping film clip memory of Vinnie coming across the street from his hotel to the venue, walking through the doors of the BLUMartini and saying, “Gord, what a beautiful hotel! I opened the curtains and bam, I’m looking out at freakin’ Lake Ontario.” It still makes me laugh.

In January of 2020 we went back to Jersey for the 13^th time as a couple. It felt familiar and fresh, new and comforting all at the same time. The world was whispering in the background about some strange virus but we were focused on using the power of music to end an incurable, progressive disease. As ever, the drive home was filled with new music, new stories and old love. We had no idea that the 2020 show would be a reference point for the next two years.
“I haven’t seen a concert since Light of Day,” became a refrain as we ZOOMED or livestreamed or Facetimed. We talked about how good it would feel once we could finally get together again and we hoped for a break in the COVID isolation. And then it happened. Sort of.  We could travel again. Kind of.
In early September I booked the Berkeley Hotel for January and I crossed my fingers, but Omicron moved Light of Day to March and moved the potential of a soul-saving trip to the Shore from an almost sure thing to a near impossible thing.

Knowing the very distinct possibility that a positive test could either strand us in Watertown or cost us a border-imposed fine of $5,000 each, we pulled the plug.
Since then, we’ve gone about our daily routines and we’ve waited for spring and we’ve tried to ignore the impending sense of missing out; until Racing in the Street.

I guess I do know why it was that song at that time after all. Road trips are what Ginette and I do best and of all the road trips we’ve taken, 401 to 81 to 380 to 80 to the Garden State Parkway feels almost like the road home. From the minute we pull up to the hotel, to the minute we leave, we’re surrounded by people we love and people who love us. We can walk into the Stone Pony or the Wonderbar or Asbury Roastery or McCloone’s and see as many smiling, familiar faces as we can in downtown Kingston. That feeling is irreplaceable and this weekend, that feeling will be temporarily missing.
For those of you that do make it to the Shore, have a Jameson’s at the back bar in the Pony for us and take a minute or two to remember just how Goddamned lucky we are to be part of this community.  Where else can you be surrounded by people who travel hundreds or thousands of miles to sing arm-in-arm and put a little money in the kitty for a good cause?
To paraphrase that guy from Jersey:
Tonight, tonight the highway's bright
Out of our way, mister, you best keep
'Cause Light of Day’s here and the time is right
For racin' in the street.

Lately I’ve been thinking about a particular Steve Earle lyric.

“There are those that break and bend, I’m the other kind.”

On March 1^st of 2022 Miss Emily was nominated for a Juno in the Blues Album of the Year category.

For the first time in three years, I missed the live announcement; my friend Chris, a Toronto news reporter, messaged me about it so I immediately pulled up the livestream. I fast-forwarded through the categories until I found the right one. When I saw it, the emotions rose to the surface; not because Emily was getting national recognition or realizing a dream. Not even because it was about damn time. No, I got emotional because, despite everything that’s happened, Emily’s stubborn refusal to accept defeat had been vindicated.
The last two years has been a tough road.
It started with so much promise. On the evening of February 2^nd, 2020, Miss Emily won two Maple Blues Awards: Female Vocalist of the Year and New Artist of the Year as well as the Sapphire Blues Video Award for “Hold Back the River”. The celebration went well into the following morning. We toasted, we laughed, we cried and we hugged a thousand people. Over the next few days, we were inundated with media requests and offers to play. Interviews, phone calls, meetings, even some label interest. It was all happening the way it was supposed to when a 20-year overnight sensation finally gets recognized for her immense talent and her unparalleled work ethic. Anticipation and excitement coloured every conversation.

Sadly, we all know how the rest of this story goes. Six weeks later the world shut down. The cancellations didn’t happen immediately. Tentative dates and might-happen promises kept us hanging on for a month or two. At one point, I was so weary of fielding and responding to cancelled shows, that I just broke down. I couldn’t call Emily one more time to tell her yet another festival was cancelled. I waited a day or two and then broke the news. Her response was resolute and surprising. “I knew it was coming but COVID is not going to stop us. It’s just going to delay us for a bit.”
Hearing her steadfast resolve reminded me of a different challenge we’d faced in 2017, just prior to announcing the CD release shows at the Isabel. Em was in Newfoundland and she called me in tears. Another big local show had announced that they were going on sale, putting the successful launch of our show in jeopardy. These CD release shows weren’t just any concerts. We were promoting them ourselves which meant the costs were born by Emily and if they didn’t sell well, she would end up on the hook for a significant amount of money. I offered up several solutions. We hadn’t announced the shows to the public yet so we could pare it down to a single show and sell the hell out of that. Maybe we could move to a different date or even a different city. Belleville? Picton? We still had some flexibility. Em listened and absorbed and, as she often does, she took a little time to think about it. The next morning, she called me back. The tears had been replaced by determination. The shaky voice was now strong and clear. “We’re doing this and we’re going to sell out both shows.” How could I argue? This woman who had every right to be upset or concerned had simply decided she would persevere. And she did. We sold out both shows. We sold a ton of CD’s and we turned what could’ve been defeat into the foundation for an appearance at the Blues Summit in Toronto, which turned into our best summer ever, which resulted in Female Vocalist of the Year, New Artist of the Year and the inaugural Sapphire Blues Video Award.
So after telling her about yet another cancelled show and then hearing, “this won’t stop us,” I believed it. But make no mistake COVID continued to destroy our plans. It turned a new studio album into a live album. It turned festivals into livestreams and it turned band rehearsal into group-texts and email threads. We were battling a hurricane of bad timing. Even a brief ray of hope for summer shows in 2021 gave way to more cancellations, more maybe-next-years and more disappointment. Still, as much as COVID pushed her backwards, Emily just kept putting one foot in front of the other. Then came the personal bombshell. Em’s relationship was ending. We talked a lot during this time and despite the devastation and shock, she never failed to finish every conversation with some version of, “This will only make me stronger.”

Her words and her attitude inspired me. Each time I felt as if COVID was a burden, or my own life was a bit less than stellar, I thought of the woman who had stared down and overcome more challenges in two years, than most of us face in a decade. So, when we decided to submit “LIVE at the Isabel” for Juno consideration I was hopeful. Her resolve was undeniable. Even if the Junos didn’t come knocking this time, they would come eventually…and they did. That’s the thing about Emily; she builds belief and confidence, which turns into positive action, which inevitably becomes success.

We all go through difficult times.

We’re all confronted with obstacles.

We all react differently as the world appears to crumble around us.

In the face of relentless misfortune, it’s hard to fault those who break or bend.

That’s why I marvel at Miss Emily.

She’s the other kind.

Remember when you first realized the stark reality of COVID? For me it was a video, shared by my friend Johnny Pisano. The video was taken by a kid on a BMX bike rolling through an eerily quiet New York City. The streets were empty and as he passed a hospital, you could see refrigerated trucks that were being used to store hundreds of dead bodies. The video was posted to Youtube on April 15, 2020 and Johnny sent it to me shortly afterwards. It hit me like an 18-wheeler. The city that never sleeps was a ghost town and bodies were piled so high, their hospitals and morgues couldn’t hold them. From that point forward, I vowed to do my part to find an end to COVID. What could I do? It was simple really. Wear a mask, stay home and take the vaccine when it became available. Sure it was monotonous and yes I missed my family, and my friends. But never once did I say, “I want my freedom and I don’t care about the rest of the world.” Who would?

Well, unfortunately a small number of Canadians are unwilling to make that simple sacrifice of isolation and vaccination for the greater good. Led by idiot politicians like Randy Hillier, Maxime Bernier and Derek Sloan these people are claiming that their own personal freedoms override the health of their neighbours, their friends and their family. They want the “freedom” to make others sick, to prolong COVID and to refuse the vaccine.
Here’s a quick lesson in community and global health, your freedom of choice ends when it directly impacts the health and wellbeing of others. You don’t get to say “no” to lockdowns or stay-at-home orders and you damn sure don’t get to say “no” to the vaccine.
Every generation born in Canada from the 1946 to 1979 got the smallpox vaccine. They didn’t ask for it and they didn’t say no to it. They just got it. It saved millions and it ended smallpox. ENDED IT. Smallpox no longer exists and we have the scars to prove it. Mine is on my right arm. It’s an ugly bump full of irregular ridges, but when I look at it, I don’t wave my fist in anger at the government that insisted upon it; I’m proud of it. I helped to wipe out a disease that could have decimated the world.

If you were born in the late seventies or later, you probably don’t have the scar. Your arm might be pristine and unmarked.  You know why? Because we took one for the team. You owe those of us that came before a debt and it’s time to pay up. Get your COVID vaccine. Don’t wonder if you should, don’t “research” the internet for reasons to avoid it. The work’s been done by men and women who have dedicated their lives to science. Men and women who went to school and studied virology, epidemiology, medicine and public health. They spent tens of thousands of hours and hundreds of thousands of dollars becoming experts in how a virus spreads and how to stop it. They didn’t get a meme from the third cousin of a friend and decide they knew everything they needed to know about vaccines. They read books, went to labs, experimented, studied, took exams, tests and sacrificed time so that when COVID arrived on our shores, they could stop it.

In February of 2020, experts at the World Health Organization theorized it would take a year and a half to effect a vaccine. Instead, we had one in 10 months. Now all you have to do is take it. You can’t refuse this. You can’t claim that you know more than the scientists because you don’t. You know much LESS than the scientists. You’ve got one job. Roll up your sleeve and let the doctor, the pharmacist or the med student insert a needle into your deltoid and deliver this miracle of science. You won’t even have a scar to point to when future generations ask, “How did you help to stop COVID?” Instead, you will have the knowledge that you did something to save others. This is your chance to save the world – literally – and all you have to do is roll up your sleeve.
Be a hero to millions.
Save the world.
Get the vaccine.
You don’t get to say “no”.

He remembered a time when he and the road was his friend. A time when the sound of his shoes against the pavement was the backbeat to his favourite song; when the wind and the cars and the sounds of the city combined into the white noise background of a novel he was writing in his head.
Those days were gone; disappeared into the vortex of youth and “time served”.
Now the road was a bully that taunted him. He slapped it, and it slapped back twice as hard. He looked for the end and saw only an oily, menacing scar that stretched past the horizon. And still, he ran.
He ran because it was the shortcut to self-esteem. He ran because despite the fear and the pain, he knew when he found the finish line, he would feel better. He ran because he felt like he was losing everything else – his wife, his friends, his cat, his family, himself.
So when he passed the woman at the 5 km mark, he had no idea how her words would affect him. He had no idea that two simple words would lift him up and remind him he was on the right path and heading in the right direction.
“Good job,” she said.

It wasn’t patronizing or exaggerated. It wasn’t overt encouragement or sarcasm. It was just acknowledgement of his effort.
“Thanks,” he said with a mixture of exhaustion and gratitude.

His posture changed imperceptibly and his pace increased slightly; not because she was attractive and he was vain. She was and he was – but it was something else. He thought about it for a moment and then he realized that for months now, he’d been carrying the burden of questionable health and pharmaceutical side-effects on his own. He’d been walking or skating or running with a lead-weighted belt of pills and uncertainty wrapped around his waist and it had slowed him down to a standstill.
And yet, this stranger on Union St. had temporarily lifted the weight and revealed a truth. He wasn’t alone. He had chosen to deal with things on his own but even people he’d never met could help if he let them in. Maybe his fear of the road and his weakness of will had made him more open to suggestion. Maybe the warmth of a spring morning had exposed him to a different mindset. Or maybe just a kind word from a passing citizen was enough. Whatever the reason, he finished his run with a smile; much lighter than when he’d started.
“Note to self,” he thought, “stay open to kindness and it’s much more likely to find you.”
Maybe he could renew that friendship with the road afterall.