Every year for the last 16 years or so, I’ve been driving to Asbury Park, N.J. in January.

Jersey in January. It’s not exactly a warm weather escape but it is home to an inspirational weekend called Light of Day Winterfest; a music-based charity that raises money to support Parkinson’s patients, to facilitate treatments, and hopefully to find a cure.  

This year, for the first time since COVID cancelled everything, I’m not going.
As Ginette and I drove home from Light of Day last year, we could feel the tide of darkness rising up in our wake. It was inauguration day, and as we listened to the news and got closer and closer to the Canadian border, I could hear the door creaking shut behind us. We were leaving a country that had, despite a preponderance of evidence, elected a corrupt criminal. How could we feel safe or valued in a country like that? We were filled with questions and contradictions.

Our friends, the musicians, and the men and women suffering from Parkinson’s, they all felt the same. Were we going to leave them to deal with it all by themselves? Would Light of Day survive without the international support that has meant so much to the cause throughout the years?
Over the next few months, we debated our return, but with each horrific action by Trump, the decision moved from uncertain to ironclad. We could not possibly support a country whose administration jailed children, invaded its own cities, and waged economic war on Canada.

From that point forward, we haven’t really wavered, except once, when our friend Emily reminded us to simply think of the people that surround and support this cause.

To say love is in the air during Light of Day sounds cliched or cheesy but it’s the truth. You can’t walk into a bar or restaurant in Asbury Park during that January weekend without running an affectionate gauntlet of hugs and I-love-you’s. This continues, day and night, over four days at dozens of venues. By Monday morning when we’re ready to go home, we are already committed to the next year, and the year after that, and to as many times as it takes, in the words of the great Willi Nile, “to kick Parkinson’s ass.”

In many respects, giving up those personal connections is the most soul-destroying side-effect of staying home but losing out on the music is a gut punch too. I’ve seen literally thousands of concerts and if I was to rank all the shows I’ve seen over the last 50 years, at least three of the top ten happened during Light of Day.
One would have to be Joe D’Urso’s runaway train performance of “Rockin’ in the Free World” in 2017. It was transformational. Less than a year removed from losing his friend and bandmate Lou “Mr. Lou” DeMartino, Joe flew out from behind the curtain with an international cast of supporting musicians and gave us all a moment to remember.
Two is Luca Guenna’s performance in 2014. He burst open the heart of everyone in the room that day. He started by apologizing for his Parkinson’s tremors while holding up a photo of Elvis, pointing to the photo, and asking if he could sing a song “by his teacher.”  What followed was a version of “My Way” that started in pin-drop silence and ended in an ovation that shook the rafters; a joyous noise that belied the tear-stained faces of every person in the audience. Luca’s voice was note-perfect from beginning to end, including reaching that Elvis-inspired high note at the end.
Third would be Bruce Springsteen singing Thunder Road with a theatre full of people as a birthday gift to his friend Bob Benjamin. Bob started Light of Day after he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s at 38 years old. On this particular night, he stood up from his wheelchair for the last time to sing beside Bruce. It was more than moving; it was awe-inspiring.

As I write these words and I relive these moments my heart breaks and the tears are relentless. To know that something as untouchable as Light of Day has been marred by the orange felon is devastating but every person has a breaking point. He attacked our country, he threatened our lives, our livelihood and our economic survival. He is openly racist and full of hate. He cozies up to the dictators and fascists that every other nation denounces. He acts without thought, without humanity and without a shred of decency. How can I spend thousands of dollars in a country that supports him and attacks me and mine? It’s as simple as it is tragic. I can’t.

In 1994, long before Facebook or Instagram would flood our timelines with RIP's for lost celebrities, John Candy died unexpectedly. I was inconsolable; in fact, I was shocked by just how emotional I was. I called my best friend Woody to talk to him about it. We'd grown up on John Candy; first in SCTV and later in movies like The Blues Brothers, Stripes and Splash. As we chatted and laughed about those cinematic mile markers in our life, I began to understand my response to his loss. John Candy had been with us - a buddy of sorts - through a very transitional time between those awkward teenaged years and our early adulthood. He made us laugh and cry, and laugh and think, and laugh and get mad. His death was the first real evidence that life was fragile.
Today, some 30 years after the world lost John Candy, I'm remembering that phone call with Woody. Tuesday, April 30th marks what would have been his 61st birthday. He's been gone for 8 years and I miss him every day. This blog was inspired by him and the acknowledgement that death is unpredictable and life doesn't come with any guarantees.

We wander through this world, unwinding the days with work and family and friends. Sometimes we do a great job of balancing all three and sometimes we fail, but we do what we can.
And time goes by.
We create families of our own and we work through the idea of what it means to be a good parent or a good partner or a good colleague. We buy things. Waccumulate stuff.
And time goes by
Families grow or move or change. In my case I tunnelled out from under depression and into another life by necessity. I honestly think if I'd continued down the road I was on 16 years ago, I wouldn't be here writing about this now. Unfortunately, that decision cost me a connection to my grown children. I've tried to reconnect with them over the years but so far, my attempts have been met with silence or anger. Truthfully, I think I failed them in a haze of sadness and despair. Their silence and absence are my karma, or maybe that's too harsh. It could be either, or both.
And time goes by.
Throughout most of my life I've been lucky to have other family members at my side. My mom outlived the 10-year lifespan of her 1990 bypass surgery by two decades. My dad has had serious medical issues but he still lives in my childhood home, golfs three times a week and, although he misses my mom intensely, he has a pretty good life. My sisters are healthy and happy and contribute significantly to the communities they live in. My wife is an amazing woman who has an all-encompassing heart. In the 16 years since I met her, life has been better than I could have hoped for.
And time goes by.
I've learned a few things as all that time has passed and I keep trying to learn more but one recurring lesson has become impossible to ignore; we're not guaranteed anything.
I've never subscribed to the concept of a supreme being but I do believe we all are part of something much larger. My comfort - my faith - comes from the backbeat, the power chord, the pocket, and the groove. It comes from Rock and Roll. Time moves more slowly when I'm immersed in a song or a concert or a performance, but it still moves.
And time goes by.
Each time Woody's birthday rolls around on the calendar, I'm reminded of the lesson I learned from John Candy. We're brought into the world and after that. all bets are off. If we're lucky we live a long life surrounded by a loving family and the friends we've collected along the way. We assume those friends and family will always be with us; until they're not. And when they're not, we often look back and wonder, "Did I do enough?" "Did they know I loved them?"
Once in a while the universe gives us a not-so-gentle nudge in the right direction: John Candy, Matthew Perry, David Bowie, Prince. We share collective memories of their art and its effect on us, but the connection isn't substantial. We didn't hold their hand at a wedding or sit with them when a child was sick. The loss of a cultural or artistic icon will subside but if you're open to it, you can take that momentary celebrity loss and use it to affect the people you are connected to. You don't have to be married to someone to let them know you love them. I have so many friends through music and hockey and just plain living, and I have love for all of them. Some make me laugh every time I see them. Some make me feel stronger. Some just surround and infuse me with an incredible level of contentment. All of them make my life better and I'm pledging right here that if you do, if you did, if you might, I'll let you know. And here's a little unsolicited advice; you should do the same. You never want to be standing beside a friend at the end of their life wondering if you said or did enough to let them know that their life made your life great.
Ultimately, you can only control what you say and what you do to let others know you love them. The one thing you can't control is.....
Time goes by.

Nobody gets through this world alone. We can try. We can be "strong" or "tough it out" but over time - and more than once - we're going to need to reach out for help. That concept is the heart and soul of Light of Day's Winterfest in Asbury Park.  When Bob Benjamin was first diagnosed with Parkinson's, he threw a rock and roll birthday party and told everyone to bring money for Parkinson's research. Bob's friends - many of them musicians - showed up to let Bob know they had his back. They tore the roof off and raised a few thousand dollars. 24 years later, led by Joe D'Urso, Joe Grushecky and Willie Nile, those friends are now raising millions and still tearing off the roof. Another musician who has been part of Light of Day for many years is Jesse Malin. Born in Queen's and raised on broken radios in the Bowery of New York City, Jesse's punk rock attitude and relentless energy shot through every one of his performances in support of Light of Day. He would blast out from behind the curtain, grab the mic stand by the scruff and take the audience on a out-of-control subway ride of social commentary, political rants and uncompromising, unparalleled rock and roll. When he finally stopped to take a breath, he wouldn't plead for donations. He'd INSIST on them. That's Jesse. He understood the reason for the party. It wasn't hedonistic revelry. It was music for a cause. He prowled the stage with a beat-up acoustic guitar and a band of like-minded rockers and he wouldn't quit until your pockets were empty and your heart was full.

Last year, not long after Jesse's 2023 performance at Light of Day's main event, he experienced a rare and life-threatening spinal stroke. This force of rock and roll nature, this crusader for a cause, was suddenly facing almost insurmountable odds. Within days of Jesse's stroke, the same community that stepped up for Bob Benjamin, stepped up for Jesse. Fans, friends and strangers reached out in support, raising thousands to assist in his recovery and rehabilitation.
On Saturday, January 20, 2024 at the Count Basie Theatre in Red Bank, right before the last song of the night, we all watched through a curtain of tears as Jesse's peers let him know that the organization he's supported for so long, was supporting him.

Over the years, I've been lucky enough to witness some incredibly soulful performances in support of Light of Day. Bruce Springsteen sharing the mic with Bob Benjamin on "Thunder Road" was a moment of beauty. Watching Jesse's long-time bandmate Derek Cruz lead all the musicians in a sing along of Jesse's song "Brooklyn" now resides right beside that. Joe D'Urso sang a verse, so did Willie Nile and Johnny Pisano. James Maddock took a stanza alongside John Easdale and Amanda Cross. Joe Grushecky threw in a poignant guitar solo; all of them playing and singing for Jesse. At a time and place in our world where screeching hatred and vitriol seems to drown out everything righteous, this one performance reaffirmed my faith in the power of music and in the best of our humanity.

When people ask my religious beliefs, I always say, "I don't believe in religion, I believe in rock and roll." It's not a flippant response. It's the truth. I've seen more kindness and compassion from musicians than I've ever witnessed from preachers. I've experienced epiphanies backed by Telecaster guitars and raptures that resounded with the thunder of a Black Beauty snare drum on the two and the four. If the church of rock and roll exists, hearing 40 musicians sing and play for their injured comrade was our version of high mass. It was a hymn of healing and a communion of spirit. It was exactly what we all needed and maybe, just maybe, it was exactly what Jesse needed too; a gift in return all for he's given to Light of Day. Jesse always finished his Light of Day set by saying, "God bless Bob Benjamin and God bless Light of Day." I don't know about God but on Saturday January 20^th, we were all blessed to hear a choir of musicians reaching out to let Jesse and Bob know they weren't alone, and they never would be.

Last week, as thousands of Springsteen fans sat staring in astonishment at "dynamic prices" on computer screens wondering how Bruce could let this happen, it felt as if a promise was broken.  I'll return to that theme in a moment. First a question. How is dynamic pricing even a thing? It's a term that sadly, most Springsteen fans have become intimately familiar with as we tried to buy tickets to his 2023 tour. In short, Ticketmaster the ticket-selling monopoly, put a process in place that increases the price of tickets based on demand. As thousands of people logged on to buy tickets and waded through the electronic queue, they were presented with tickets that were outrageously overpriced. The examples are too numerous to count: $10,419 for section 130, Row L at Amalie Arena in Tampa, $5113 for rear standing room in Minnesota or $1968 for rear floor seats in Boston. These are not reseller prices. These are jacked-up, overvalued tickets being sold by the company that has partnered with Bruce Springsteen to sell his shows.

Ticketmaster's defense is that they instituted this process to eliminate third party resales. They're painting themselves as our concert-going saviour but they're the devil incarnate.  As for Springsteen's defense? Crickets. The deafening silence coming from Bruce and his management team has fans fuming and feeling betrayed but again, more on that later.

Let's talk about dynamic pricing. I'm sure Ticketmaster employed a high-priced marketing team to brainstorm that particular euphemism but this is price gouging plain and simple. Price gouging is a practice that is outlawed in a majority of jurisdictions in North America and around the world. It's usually seen and prosecuted by law enforcement, after natural disasters when demand for essential goods or accommodations far exceeds the supply. I can almost hear the executroids in the TM offices now:
We're just capitalizing on demand.
It 's a market-driven economy.
Concerts aren't essential.
Nope.
Nope.
And hell no.

They 're profiteering on the backs of a global community who, for the last 28 months, has been denied a soul-enriching, life-affirming activity. I used to love the way Bruce himself explained the concert-going experience. He said that in the hours before and after a show, nothing exists inside the venue but for those two and half hours when the band is on stage and the crowd is in place, a kind of alchemy occurs in which the artist and the fans come together to make something ethereal and magical. You 'll note that I said I used to love this description. Lately it feels phony. It 's an antiquated notion miles removed from the days when he would hire a "man in black" to wander the upper reaches of every stadium, finding people with the worst tickets in the house, and upgrading them to the front row. It seems he 's become so detached from his fan base that he either doesn't care or can 't be bothered. The financial exploitation that Ticketmaster is imposing and that Springsteen is tacitly permitting verges on criminal. It 's foolish to think he is unaware. He's a well-read man. His manager Jon Landau is too. His recent induction to the rock and roll hall of fame -  a significant accomplishment for a manager - wasn't achieved by ignoring public reaction. They both have significant culpability for what 's been happening. Last year when Bruce re-opened Broadway, he told his audience, "I am here tonight to provide proof of life." Well Bruce, where is your proof of compassion, your proof that you understand our sense of betrayal, your proof that you 're not just another artist trying to capitalize on the people that gave you a career?

When I first saw Springsteen in 1984, he was so good, I bought a ticket for the next night 's show too. The price of those tickets was $18.00 each.
In 1999 when the reunion tour happened, I took my 9-year-old son to Continental Airlines arena in Jersey. The price of those tickets was $67.50 each.
In 2009, I took my beautiful Ginette to her first Springsteen show. The tickets were £55.00 ($102.00 CAD). No price gouging, no profiteering and each show was transcendent and reassuring somehow; as if the troubles of the world could be solved in one place by one guy singing about the Promised Land. It 's a naive concept but we all need that type of reassurance from time to time; never more than during the height of COVID. Like many I struggled with the loss and the isolation as the pandemic raged on, but one day in May, as I was travelling the empty streets back and forth to the office, I felt hope rise up inside me. I was listening to Bruce Springsteen 's show "From My Home to Yours" on E Street Radio. In one of the early episodes, he said something that changed my outlook, "When this experience is over, I am gonna throw the wildest party you have ever seen, and you, my friends, are all invited."
My emotions rose to the surface as I heard those words. Live music is a vital part of who I am and COVID had snatched it away without notice and with no indication it would ever return. Then, here comes the icon of my rock and roll heart assuring me that someday soon, the pounding backbeat that has nourished my soul for 50 years would resume and that he would lead the charge. I imagined that first show and how he would step to the microphone with a smile three stages wide and that familiar Fender Esquire strapped across his hips. I could hear the crowd rising to meet him in sheer joy and exhilaration. I could literally feel the pre-show anticipation rising up within me. On that day, with those words, Bruce made a promise to me and to the rest of E Street Nation.
I sincerely hope that during this relentless silence, he 's taking his time and formulating a plan to make it right. The logistics are complex but not impossible and the first show doesn't happen until February of 2023; plenty of time to reset things and get it right. Plenty of time to bring that train back into the station, re-load all the saints and sinners, the losers and winners, and move on down the tracks to the Land of Hope and Dreams. The longer the silence rages, the more likely we are to feel as if that promise he made on the radio has been broken and if that happens, we'll just have to cash in a few of our rock and roll dreams and find our redemption someplace else.

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".

I wish I could recite the details of the first time I heard the thunderous snare crack of "The Ties That Bind", the song that introduces Springsteen's 1980 album, "The River". I wish I could still recall my primal reaction to the joyful crowd noise that enticed me into the car with "Sherry Darling". I know them now like I know everything and nothing else. I know the anguished sighs of "Drive All Night" and the undaunted pursuit of "Two Hearts", but that first River experience is a blur of cellophane, black vinyl and the spinning red label of Columbia Records.

By 1979, I was 16, I hated my Dad, I was struggling to be a mediocre student and I was two years into my fascination with Jersey's Boss. I had raised my fist in defiance with Born to Run. I had listened in a dimly lit bedroom as Darkness on the Edge of Town blasted out a black and white movie full of vengeance, passion and misdirected rage. Those records were new and challenging and otherworldly, but they belonged to friends - they weren't really mine. I was still reaching, searching for something of my own.

I finally found it in the fall of 1980, on the pages of the Rolling Stone magazine. The article about Springsteen and his new double-album spoke to the person I was and the man I wanted to be. I vividly remember finishing the story and running to my mom with some weak excuse about going to the mall. I drove that '75 Plymouth Fury like a Stolen Car to the local record store. Half an hour later, I was sitting on the floor of my bedroom with the album on my lap like some ancient, holy tome. The excitement of ownership and discovery attached to that day and to "The River" remains unsurpassed.

The songs reached into the best and worst parts of me. They ripped out my story in pieces; the ponderous love of "Point Blank", the fractious father-son struggle of "Independence Day", the raucous beer-fuelled parties of "Ramrod". It was a time-capsuled, fortune-teller's crib sheet of my life.

Like many friends from those days, The River faded into the misty world of epic teenage adventures and youthful crushes. Once in a while characters like Dirty Annie would wave to me from the Jackson Cage in a scratchy home-movie flicker but my return was fleeting and lonely. The River, the album that spoke to me when I was surrounded by a crowded future, was mine and mine alone.

In August of 1999 I was reunited with this album by my nine-year-old son. He travelled with me to the Continental Airlines Arena. We camped at Cheesequake State park. We tailgated with the rest of New Jersey in the Meadowlands parking lot and we saw something that changed us both.

"Play Cadillac Ranch Bruce! Play Cadillac Ranch!"

His voice was strong and passionate and belied his age. I fully expected him to crash halfway through the three-hour performance. Instead, he was on his feet or on my shoulders for the entire show; pointing at Little Steven, waving to Clarence and singing along with Two Hearts. Daniel Hunter - whose birth date of April 9, 1990 came 17 years after the release of Greetings from Asbury Park and one year after the break-up of the E Street Band - had given me back the River. Sadly, like the album itself, this story ends on a somber note.

Boys become teens and they grapple with fathers and rules and just plain growin' up. Fathers used to be teens and they struggle to find the balance between friendship and guidance; support and sympathy. Through all the arguments, the rules, the pain and the tears, we both owned the River.

It was the slim thread that tied and bound us together. It connected me to him when nothing else would. I'm sure the songs spoke to Daniel like an older brother; without the weight and substance of a father's words. I smiled when I would hear him listening to "The Price You Pay" or "Wreck on the Highway" but when I tried to talk to him about it, the words came back to me in grunts and syllables. One night when the stars were aligned and the winter moon broke down the barriers, he let me into his River.

"You used to love Cadillac Ranch," I said in passing.

"Yeah....still do. But there's something about those quiet songs."

"Something sad," I asked?

"Yeah. Something.....more"

I nodded. I had worn those 17 year-old shoes. I had strained to find the person I was beneath my insecurity and monumental teenage anxiety and I recognized that struggle in my son. I understood at that precise moment, how a great record can be truly timeless.

A year after that conversation, I split up with his mom. It hadn't worked for a long time and we both needed to find our paths. Dan blamed me. Still does. I write to him almost every day but I haven't seen him in a year and half. When we spoke it was awkward and stilted.

I miss him every day.

I maintain a kind of minimal ownership in the River but I've given most of my share to Daniel. It's his now but I cling to it sometimes. Not the sad songs - they carry too much of him and too many of my failures. But when Two Hearts rolls around on my iPOD, I sing along with him; belting out the words and drowning out the pain of his absence.

Today as tickets for the 35th anniversary tour of The River go on sale, this song is on an endless loop in my head.

"You sit and wonder just who's gonna stop the rain
Who'll ease the sadness, who's gonna quiet the pain
It's a long dark highway and a thin white line
Connecting baby, your heart to mine
We're runnin' now but darlin' we will stand in time
To face the ties that bind
The ties that bind
Now you can't break the ties that bind
You can't forsake the ties that bind"

- Bruce Springsteen, "The Ties That Bind" from The River