Ron Leary Folk Trois, a sequel

I CAN'T RESIST popular demand (well, a few of you kind souls anyway!) for some account of my musical night out in Windsor. Last night, and I had a time.

Ron Leary professed to love the painting I carried to him in an envelope. Warm thanks to him, to Timarie (and her mother and brother), and to all the assembled company.

Things had truly got rolling earlier on.

“Meteor's the club. Doors at 9, music around 10,” Ron had texted, “they have to wait for the Sushi place downstairs to close. LOL.”

A veteran move was clearly in order. So, after an early bite to eat I took a preparatory nap.

Refreshed, I donned my Japanese overalls for their first outing in public, albeit beneath a corduroy vest. I then brushed my hair self-consciously, feeling somehow seventeen and fifty-nine years old all at once. Deciding there was only one direction of travel for one such as me, I topped off the ensemble with an electric blue toque, one of two knitted for me by my mother (and much cherished).

Middle-aged Historian Chic, I admitted to myself, checking the, er, ‘look’ in the mirror, slipping into my leather clogs and heading out the door. Ready to rock.

Clearly tempting fate, I had been congratulating myself at little too soon for fleeing the Cass Corridor in ‘midtown’ Detroit before the annual invasion of suburbanite culture vulturism and open-housiness that is Noel Night. Sure enough, I ran smack into the Canadian sister-city’s seasonal equivalent. The Santa Claus Parade.

Downtown Windsor was all about floats and inflated animals, Christmas carols, choirs, strollers and custom lawnchairs three rows deep.

I don't mean to come off the party-pooper or all dismissive of what others seem to enjoy, but, dear reader, how in the hell was I to rock with all this going on?

Feeling all Scroogey and Grinchy and once again out-of-place in my world —but just possibly dressed to kill— I sought refuge. What should appear but a venerable old favourite, the Phog Lounge.

I would have enjoyed my reunion with the place, my crisp local pilsner and the usual warm welcome of bartender Joe O'Brien a little more if the singer on stage (before his rapt audience) had not interrupted his between-songs patter to say “Hey guy in the blue hat!” I’m sure he meant to be welcoming. But you could have heard a pin drop as his devotees turned-as-one to stare at me and chuckle. As I began to rue my fashion decisions, I reflected on the fact that least the cord vest partially obscured my overalls.

THE FORD CITY Ramblers, a Windsor-based outfit, opened with a spirited set that no one wanted to end. It was old school, it was bluegrass. It was a cold, damp night on a stage above a sushi joint in Ontario, Canada, and yet they somehow created their own characters and an emotional landscape right out of the high desert of the Mexican American Southwest.

I won't soon forget the blend of original tunes and traditional classics rendered by Aleks Stoykovski (who seemed to answer to ‘Alejandro’ on stage), nor the crystalline voice and harmonies of ‘Rosalia’ (also, if I heard correctly), accompanying on acoustic guitar.

We were up, swaying wistfully, and there were dancers before this first band was through.

HAVING BEEN TALKING Adrian Lawryshyn’s ear off back by the bar, and thus forcing him to scramble in late for a sound-check, I was relieved to see the Ron Leary Sextet (“don't ya go countin’ musicians” Ron said) open the evening's second set without a hitch.

There was a special energy on tap last night, both in the slower-crooner numbers and in the folk-rockier crescendoes. It felt like “The Ballad of Bob Probert” —Ron's tune about a cursed and beloved ice hockey ‘enforcer’— might lift the roof off Meteor.

Ron loves playing Windsor, and last night he wasn’t fooling around.

Adrian, captivating as usual, seemed not so much to play his upright bass as go on a hunt. Pursuing the sounds he desired.

With Dean away, I detected an extra-attentiveness between the musicians, Ron, Derek and Adrian integrating a tastily talented James Anthony on electric guitar.

Ears, eyes, minds re-tuning to every song, we were back on our feet, the dancers just multiplied, and then it was over too soon.

By the time I headed back out into the night, clutching a prized new t-shirt for Heidi (a gift from Ron),

Santa and the lawn chairs had gone home to bed.

* photographs by Kenneth Mills, 2 December 2023.

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