Lately, people have been coming to me for shoots. Artists, parents, musicians. I offer: how about York Redoubt? The north end? That beach? But they say Nah, no worries—I'll come to you. And so it becomes a day. You know. A Day. I go out in the morning to light the woodstove—Old Bess, my darling dragon— and the smoke permeates the wood on the walls and the shed smells clean and fragrant and delicious. And somehow there's always sun or mist or otherwise fabulous light beaming through the birch trees and we open fancy grapefruit and nutmeg pops and eat my mom's shortbread and it feels nice for both of us—nice enough, I hope, to ward off the jitters that you're going to have to stand there and figure out what to do with your hands.
I am using you, Kev Corbett. Just so you know. Just like all the others. This one and that one and that one too and also these guys and there have been more. The pretense is that I'm taking your picture and that we might sip fancy pop and chat about our Ghomeshi-acquittal rage and what happened to the NDP and the apparent charm of Trudeau and the roofline-high snowbanks of last winter. But I'm taking something else, too. The music juju. The faith and company that you're out there too, writing grant applications and pitching media and booking, booking, booking, headed out cross-country fuelled with Timmy's double-doubles and gas station banana bread.
It means something to me, your gas station banana bread. The lack of glamour in trying to make this life work. The effort it takes. The ego steeplechase that ensues: the self-generated ditches and hedges made of concentrated insecurity and bullshit and you've got to cultivate a horse of self that's capable of jumping without throwing you. I've got it, you've got it. Writer, musician, whichever. The shed chimney poofs cheerful smoke into the tree canopy and it doesn't matter that we're talking about Trudeau. You're here, making a go of it, like I am. I'm taking notes.
I shouted DIMPLES at him and he went ??? I swear he'd never really thought about the fact that he's got them. Which is totally messed up. He could have been robbing banks all this time. He never knew.
An artist of uncommon depth, breadth, experience and instinct, Corbett's name is known and respected across Canada as a songwriter of the highest order, an award-winning utility man, an early adopter, and a touring machine. A classic Boy Scout who knows how to rock, and tell a heck of a story around the fire. —CBC Music
Follow along for tour dates on Kev's Facebook, if you hang out there. He's got a brand new album out and will be all over everywhere, hustling. Go go go, dimples.