Tigre Benvie

I sang on this. Some moons ago. I happen to know that I told Mr. Benvie the low notes were a bit too low for me, but it turns out he didn't care if I was singing out of key. (it's his fault. see how I did that?). I've known Rob Benvie since the dawn of time; since he wore turtlenecks, and I wore either not enough clothing, or maybe baggy overalls and baseball hats, I can't remember, and we both ended up drunk at parties like this place called the "Ashtray". Ashtray was a large rock in the sort-of woods beside a water reservoir that suburban Halifax teenagers liked to frequent. Joel Plaskett named an album after it, but the truth is, Joel was more likely studying a few blocks away at his house in Clayton Park (sorry Joel!). At Ashtray, Sheila Murphy would hold court with her plastic two-litre bottle of Rockaberry coolers, and people would come and go as they pleased. It was a semi-hidden location, good enough for under-age drinking, but not so deep in the woods that if Terry Jeans got a deep cut on his knee from falling down drunk you would have to take off your prized Pro-Skates t-shirt and give it to him as a bandage because you thought he was cute and he was too far from the highway to get proper stitches. Ahem. Anyhow, the roots are deep. They go waaay back, and far-down, into the ground. Despite the vanity bias, I think Benvie has made a nice thing here.