One of my favorite concert experiences in the early 1990's,
considering Mr. George Benson gave me a backstage lesson in 1970.
I was living in Queenston Heights with my girlfriend, house-sitting for her parents until they retired,
looking out the front window to see the Brock Memorial at Queenston Heights Park. Yeah, all historic.
I was walking her dog, half Collie and half Golden Labrador, a friend at first meeting, a polite animal.
Sitting under an apple tree along the Niagara River, down from the Queenston-Lewiston Generating Station,
I could hear Art Park start to fire up, and the announcer said to welcome George Benson.
Sandy and I sat there, listening to every note, hearing the entire show, reflected across the water.
The Niagara Gorge added it's own, soft echo, the breeze of the moving water skirled it a little,
adding Hendrixian effects, and my heart was at peace.
When Sandy put her paw up on my leg, looking at me, we both had the same look in our eyes.
That's not a ticket anyone can buy.
Too bad you don't live in the big city, for one good reason.
I've stood outside venues to listen to bands far more times than I've paid to get in,
and sometimes that meant hanging out with other musicians who want to jam.