Clotho

There are times that cold rainfall on a Saturday night is not only perfectly apt, but seems almost essential. The heat has been hard on me lately - my rather ample belly isn't cut out for this kind of weather.

There's no air conditioner in my apartment so Rita and I keep the fans trained on us all night and day. Even so, it feels like we are being baked slowly in a clay oven.

Saturday night, though, I walked from the James Joyce pub on Bathurst and Bloor to Grossman's Tavern in the rain. The falling droplets provided more than just tactile sensations that night. Cool as they were, the visual effect was remarkable. They were small gems dropping from black silk skies, splashing and pooling on the streets and sidewalks. The wet buildings and ground were lit up by the streetlights reflecting from the water rolling down sheer surfaces, streaming towards the street drains.

Even the air smelled wet and clean, a rare treat for this small-town Maritime boy, already 12 years far from home.

Already in a fair and fine mood (and once more flirting with one drink too many), the not-quite-midnight walk was doing me a world of good. Brilliant colors and cool air enhanced the profound excitement that I was feeling - that I always feel on these nights - just as the rain water and longish walk were edging me a little closer to sobriety and perhaps a longer night of things.

This is what it's like for me on these blues nights, when I travel alone to the various live music venues in search of the perfect band for 'tonight.'

Everything is heightened and magnified in a way that never happens when I go out with friends. My thoughts seem so much clearer, more creative.

Sometimes I bring a sketchpad or a notepad. Always I bring my tattered little All-Music Guide to the Blues (note to self: get the 2003 edition!) and some sort of portable music player.

Often I hit as many places as possible, looking for that perfect sound.

The Silver Dollar Room and Healey's are favorites, and I've been known to start off with a shot of Jack Daniels ("John, to his friends") and a beer or two at Blues on Bellair or Chicago's. Wherever I go, every one of these nights ends at Grossman's Tavern, that historic and arcane little dive at College and Spadina. When the band is playing, when it's nighttime, Grossman's is my favorite place in the entire world.

I haven't the words to explain the appeal of Grossman's Tavern. Yellowed and fading photographs of regular patrons, some dating back 30+ years barely cover wallpaper images of nude hippies, even more yellow, even more faded. The tables are ancient - some flat copper plates framed in wood, others thick glass covering photographs from motion pictures no more recent than 25 years old. The floor is dirty, the bar staff's eccentricity only exceeded by bar's patrons. The bathroom frightens those with weak will, courage and stomachs. I'm told the food is excellent, but I'll never know.

What I do know is that, even when the place is near empty, as long as the skies are dark and there's music playing, the place is packed standing-room-only with the ghosts of a million parties and a million good times. One of them is Hock Walsh and in this bar he is Dionysus. Flip, flop and fly, I don't care if I die. Don't ever leave me, don't ever say goodbye.

I turned the corner, passing the Burger King and walked down Spadina.