Garnet Rogers

“The smell of wood smoke, September stars, and the autumn air so chill and sweet…”

Like his lyrics, Garnet Rogers’ performance at the club on Friday night was a mixture of improbable, sometimes contradictory elements. Like the autumn air he describes in his song, “Soul Kiss,” Garnet seemed to be, at various times, both chill and sweet. For lifelong fans of his work (and I count myself among this number) the opposing elements of Garnet’s music and character were thrown into sharper relief during these two sets than in any other venue at which I have seen him.

He was brooding and funny, distant, almost lost in his music at times and, at others, intently committed to sharing his life. He told stories that uplifted – the tale of his reunion with Archie Fisher was particularly moving. However, for every current of joy in his performance there seemed to be darker tides underneath.

The instrumental songs he chose to play were long and haunting. His lyrical songs seemed to unlock, in unerring detail, the tragedies of everyday life: A fading country star dies alone in a motel room before being mysteriously carried off by fireflies in “Empty Glass”; a proud race horse is saved just in time from becoming dog food in “Small Victory”; and in “Archie’s Song” the joy of reunion with an old friend is almost overshadowed by the beautiful lines that tell of why so many people become separated from their loved ones in the first place: “Hard words, too much pride, and a dark frozen lake lay between us.”

Darkness and complexity have always been hallmarks of Rogers’ unique style. On this night, however, they seemed to take centre stage a little more forcefully than usual. He closed the evening with a combination of two songs, “Night Drive” and “Northwest Passage.” In the first, the ornamental instrumentation was mysterious and echoing; Rogers actually seemed to become the driver of this song’s title, a traveler on an isolated highway, surrounded by his drifting guitar licks like the flickering of street lights or of distant stars. In the second, the familiar a capella song penned by his brother became an electrified, almost angry shout out at those same stars; Rogers, as an explorer of uncharted musical territory, seemed to be defying critics or anyone who may begrudge him a musical legacy so distinct from his brother’s.

Like wood smoke, this performance was elusive but alluring. Underneath the smoke, a closer look revealed a fire that stills burns with intense passion, tremendous sensitivity and unparalleled artistry. It was a show of contradictions but also one of great paradoxical beauty.