My Korean Name

Springtime in Iksan is the best time of year.

The otherwise non-descript town, about a half hour west of Chŏnju, South Korea, is beautified by the many cherry blossoms that line the highway between the two municipalities. As the petals on the blossoms fall, they do so with such intensity that they mimic a snow squall in Ottawa.

In 1997, DW and I attended a cherry blossom festival with some of the secretaries and teachers of our hagwon, or private learning institute. Iksan is also famous for its wholesale jewelry stores, where Korean jade could be found for a bargain.

It was also the closest town with an immigration office, from where we picked up our work visas.

Because we were still relatively new arrivals to the country, DW and I were trying to learn the language—both speaking and reading. Because Hangul is a phonetic language that is composed by syllables, reading the written word was pretty easy, and DW and I had mastered pronunciation after a couple of days' studying, before we left Canada.

Comprehension came much later and was much more difficult.

At the hagwon, we taught both children and adult classes. While we endeavored to learn the Korean names of the adult students, all of the children were given Western names: Laura, Stephen, Kenny, Fred...

One day, during some free time in a kids' class, I asked each student his and her Korean names, and then I would practice writing the name out in Hangul on the whiteboard. While I made a few mistakes, the kids were overall impressed with my efforts.

"Teacher," Tony said to me, "can we give you a Korean name?"

I smiled. It sounded like a fun thing to do, but I had to be careful: the kids were sometimes prone to playing pranks on me. "What name would you give me?"

The giggling and muttering in Korean began as they huddled and made their choice. Finally, when the majority nodded their heads, Tony responded.

"Kim Min-Shik."

I repeated the name and then wrote it out, in Hangul, on the board. I had it right. I then stepped out of the classroom and approached our secretary, Mrs. Jung.

"My students gave me a Korean name," I said. The last time I consulted Mrs. Jung like this, I had asked her for clarification on a so-called bad word that one of my troublesome students had called me: gae sae-gi.

Literally translated, it was dog-baby. The implication was son of a bitch.

"What is the name?" asked Mrs. Jung, who was also suspicious of these pranksters.

"Kim Min-Shik."

Her eyes widened and she smiled. "Kim Min-Shik is TV star. Good name."

That weekend, DW and I found ourselves in Iksan, at the cherry blossom festival, and the flower petals were blowing around in the gentle spring breeze. People were wandering the grounds around vendor booths, buying food, drink, and crafts.

We saw the do-jung vendor and I immediately went up to him. A do-jung is a custom-made, stylized name stamp, often applied over or next to your signature on a document. He had a briefcase full of stamps of all shapes and colours, each of the stamps blank. He would carve whatever name you gave him.

I fished through his collection and pulled out a small, red-handled stamp. I handed it to him and said, "Kim Min-Shik."

Away he went to work.

The next Monday, during my afternoon class, I set the kids to completing exercises in their lesson books. Often, when I walked around the room, checking on their work, I would assign stickers to pages that were well-done. The kids loved stickers—especially, stickers from Canada, and I had brought hundreds with me.

This time, I had something else for them.

As I went around the room, I applied a stamp to each child's worksheet. Small and round, and in stylized Hangul.

My Korean name.

I brought my do-jung back to Canada but, for the life of me, I can no longer find it. Still, I'll never forget the name that those kids gave to me. Nor, how to write it.

김 민 식

Face Dance

I could see stars racing across my vision. Sounds from the surrounding crowd were muffled, as though I was wearing noise-cancelling headphones. Things around me began to slow down and the light of the day seemed to dim toward night.

I had to stay on my feet, though the pressure in my head felt as though I was going to explode.

Then, for some inexplicable reason, the beating stopped.

And the main show hadn't even begun...

My friends and I were going to make this show, even though we hadn't worked out all of the details. We had waited for hours to purchase our tickets but getting from Ottawa to Toronto was another matter.

It was the fall of 1982, and The Who had announced that they were on their final tour. They were travelling across North America but only had three Canadian dates, all in Toronto. In fact, the two final shows, on December 16 and December 17, were to end the tour—the band's final farewell.

My friends and I chose to go to the first date, on October 9. We had just started grade 12 and the earlier date was better for us. In December, we would be into our midterm exams.

But it still came down to getting to Toronto, to the CNE Stadium. We looked at the price of round-trip tickets by bus, but the price was almost as much as the concert tickets. We asked parents, but no one was interested in driving the nearly five hours, waiting around for the show to end, and then driving another five hours to get home.

And then the solution came to us. A free solution.

A mutual friend, who had also purchased a ticket, had arranged passage on a chartered bus for people with disabilities. This friend had recently had a catastrophic accident and was confined to a wheelchair.

Her solution was simple: my other friends and I were to help the disabled people get on and off the handicap bus, and help get these folks to an area that was designated for them. By assisting these people, our passage was free.

Done.

It was a Magic Bus, of sorts.

As soon as we were on the highway to Toronto, the party began. A cooler full of ice-cold beer was opened. Joints were lit up. Music was cranked up. My friends and I were invited to partake. By the time we reached Toronto, we were feeling no pain at all.

That, for me, would come later.

We wheeled the disabled folk to their private area, and we were free to either stay or head down to general admission, as our tickets were designated. A couple of people stayed; a few others, like me, made our way down to the field of CNE Stadium, looking to get closer to the stage and to a better vantage to see The Who.

I was able to get quite close to the stage, just a little to the right. The tower of speakers was facing me, but I determined that they wouldn't block my view of the performers.

As the showtime drew close, more and more filled the ground around me. I could feel the heat off the other bodies, smell the sweat, mixed with booze and weed. Because I wasn't a tall person, I was worried that my view might soon become obstructed by other fans. Every time there was a surge in the crowd, I would inch my way a little closer to the stage.

It was at this point that I realized that I had lost my friends, that I was alone in a sea of humans.

Joe Jackson and his band were the opening act. His latest album, Night and Day, had been released earlier that year, and it was the album that really made me a fan. Before then, I liked "Fools In Love," but that was about it.

Jackson's performance was amazing, but unfortunately his act was badly matched for this audience. Despite the solid sound, many in the crowd were shouting for The Who, telling Jackson to get off the stage, and even began to boo.

I have never felt so ashamed of a crowd at a concert in all my days.

It was when some asshole in the crowd threw an empty bottle at the band that the music abruptly stopped. The guitarist screamed "That was fucking stupid, you cunt," and the band stormed offstage. Sadly, the mob mentality led to huge cheers at the vacated stage.

It also meant that we had more time to wait, without entertainment, before the main event.

The crowd packed tighter. I was sweating from the heat, realizing that I had no water to drink. This was going to be a long, brutal show.

And then things got worse.

He was jumping up and down, hooting at the stage as though the music had begun. His arms were raised above him and I realized that he was incredibly tall.

He was stoned, or drunk, or perhaps a little of both. But he sure seemed to be having a good time.

Just as quickly as I took notice of him, however, things changed. His left arm came down and wrapped itself around my neck, holding me in a grip that left me utterly immobile. His right arm also came down and proceeded to beat the right side of my face, between my ear and my cheek.

Surprisingly, no one else moved. No one intervened. The people directly in front of me, their backs to me, seemed oblivious to what was going on behind them.

He was hitting me over and over again, and I couldn't move. The right side of my face was becoming unbearably hot. Stars raced across my vision. Sounds from the surrounding crowd were fading, becoming muffled. All motion around me began to slow down and the daylight of that October afternoon seemed to dim toward nighttime.

I was beginning to lose consciousness. Another couple of hits and I would be hitting the ground. I had to stay on my feet, I told myself.

And then, as quickly as it started, it stopped. The punches, the arm around my neck.

My assailant had swung in front of me. Was he moving to the other side to work on the left side of my face? Had his right arm become sore and he wanted to switch to his left arm?

I looked at him, standing in front of me: blue denim overalls, a white t-shirt underneath. A massive head of brown curls. His eyes were a pale blue and seemed vacant, as though the drugs or booze were the only things keeping him conscious.

I had to act fast. My head was throbbing and couldn't take any more. As soon as he was directly in front of me, I swung a leg upward, as fast as I could and with as much force as I could muster. My foot landed squarely between his legs.

He sucked in air and began to double forward, but before he could completely bend down, I punched him straight in the throat. The force of the blow sent him falling backward, between the two people, in front of me, who until that moment had no idea that a fight had begun.

I didn't wait to see him hit the ground. I didn't wait to see how badly hurt he was. I spun around and dove into the crowd. I fell to the ground and crawled as best as I could, between the forest of legs. I made it as far as I could, until hands reached down and picked me up.

I was afraid that it was my assailant, but it seemed to be caring hands that didn't wish to see me trampled. When I was on my feet, I saw the worried eyes, mostly looking at the right side of my face.

"All you all right?" I was asked. I looked around, trying to see if my attacker was coming after me, but he was nowhere in sight.

"I think so," I panted.

An ice-cold can of Molson Canadian was put in my hand. "Press that to your face," I heard, and did as I was told. I could feel that my face was swollen. The heat was reacting strongly to the cold. My head was pounding, the blood inside pulsing through my face, filling my ear with a whoosh... whoosh... whoosh...

A roar from the crowd made me look up. I was a little further back from the stage but more centered. I had a clear view as Kenney Jones, John Entwistle, Pete Townsend, and Roger Daltrey, took to the stage. "My Generation" was the first number.

I became lost in the show, catching my breath and being regenerated, though my head was sore. But I was at The Who's final tour, and I wasn't about to let a beating detract from the experience.

I still had the unopened can of beer when the show was over, when I made my way back to our bus home. I had made it back before my friends, because they were helping our disabled hosts back. The driver was sitting outside the bus on a folding chair. He had a cooler full of soda. I traded the beer for a cold can of Coke, again applying it to my face.

My best friend eventually found me, as he continued to help others. "What happened to your face?" he asked. I recounted the story as we pulled out of the stadium parking lot, on our trip back to Ottawa, until fatigue got the better of me and I drifted asleep.

Despite the loud music, sounds of beer cans cracking open, and the smell of weed wafting around me.

I had heard "Magic Bus" at the show. Now, another magic bus was bringing me home.

Photo Friday: Shakedown

With only two weeks to go before my trip to South Korea, I'm still vigorously testing my 360-degree camera.

And I still have a lot to learn.

Even though I haven't yet put together a definitive video of DW's and my trip, a month ago, to Mexico, I'm still making short videos and taking stills, so that when I'm in Korea, my videography skills are ready for the movie that I want to make.

Editing and stitching video takes an incredible amount of time.

This week, I wandered around Chaudière Falls, collecting more video and practicing with the post-processing functions. Before then, I was transferring the video from my Insta360 One X camera to my home computer and editing it with the camera's software program.

This time, I was using a cable to connect the camera to my smartphone, and editing with the Android app. I also transferred the video, by WiFi, to do the same thing.

Here's what I discovered in using my smartphone with the Insta360 One X:

• Connecting via cable drains my smartphone. When I made the connection and started the transfer, my phone was at 90-percent battery life. By the time I had downloaded a single, one minute and five second video, my phone was at 41 percent.
• Connecting via WiFi is slower, so the battery drains even faster. Fortunately, I could plug my phone into a power source, so I could preserve battery life.
• Both the video camera and smartphone become hot during the transfers. The manufacturer recommended a specific type of micro SD card—UHS-I V30 U3 A2, to be precise—one that can handle the type of speed and quality without overheating. Still, the Insta360 gets warm, and my phone gets downright hot.
• The editing app on my smartphone has more features than the laptop program, such as music and speed control, and with some practice can be a little easier to control. 

I'm running out of time, but I can still do some trial video. You can see some of the test videos on Instagram, where I'm just walking near the dam, with music and at double-time, walking through some archways, and pestering a goose. 

It's not the content: it's the angles and effects I was after.

Unintentionally, I also captured another selfie. On the editing app, as a video was playing, I saw a button and wondered what it did. It did this:

More testing is to come. I'm not sure whether I'll share it all.

Happy Friday!

When I Stumbled Upon The Who

Ever since I was a young boy, I've had a strong love of music.

At the tender age of 8, my step father took me to Sam the Record Man and let me pick my own album. He thought I would pick out a kids' album but I ended up walking out of the store with Led Zeppelin's Houses of the Holy in my hands. I shared that story in 2011, so I won't get into details here.

But as soon as I became hooked on rock music, I wanted more: Genesis, Alice Cooper, Pink Floyd, David Bowie, Yes. Over the years, I saved my allowance and as soon as I could afford some vinyl, I was back at the record store.

I also listened to the radio a lot, especially when my family moved from our Parkwood Hills neighbourhood to Kirk's Ferry, along the Gatineau River. Friends lived too far away to visit on foot, so I would spend a lot of free time, listening to AM radio, at home in my room.

I had an old tuner in my bedroom and the analog dial was set to CFGO 1440. Each week, the Argyle Avenue station would play its top 30 songs and I would make a list of my own favourites, which I would use for when my family and I made our trips into town and I could acquire another record album.

The station also allowed you to call in song requests and would sometimes even record you when you called in to place your song. I remember the first time I heard my voice on the radio: because I was young, between 10 and 12, my voice was high-pitched and squeaky as I asked for a song that was on the top 30 list.

That's probably why I hate to hear my voice in a recording to this date.

I asked the DJ to play "Pinball Wizard" and he duly granted that request, but when the song came over the airway, it was not what I expected.

You see, the "Pinball Wizard" that was on the charts was the cover that was performed by Elton John, but the DJ pulled up the original, from the soundtrack to the movie Tommy, performed by The Who.


I barely knew The Who. I was vaguely familiar with "Won't Get Fooled Again" and "My Generation," but this British band had never made my list of must-buy music.

And so, I was thrown for a loop when "Pinball Wizard" started slower than I expected, with more guitar and less piano. My initial reaction was to call CFGO again, to tell the DJ that he was playing the wrong song.

But then I listened to the song, and my disappointment turned to joy.

I loved the driving guitar, the power of Roger Daltrey's vocals, the rhythm of the bass and drums.

I decided to add Tommy to my list of vinyl but soon discovered that one of my friends was already a fan of The Who, and he introduced me to many other albums, which made their way to my own collection over the next few months:  Who's Next and Meaty Beaty Big and Bouncy, as well as Quadrophenia. In the years that followed, I added Who Are You, Face Dances, and It's Hard.

I loved that band throughout the 70s and into the 80s, and even after I thought I had heard the last of of them. Not even being beaten to near unconsciousness at a Who concert made my love of the band waver. (I'll tell that story some day.)

To this day, countless Who tracks are on my smartphone. As a cousin once told me, years after I got him hooked on The Who, the songs that started with a synthesizer were the best.

And the number of Elton John albums in my collection? The number of songs on my playlist?

Zero.

It's not that Elton John isn't a musical genius in his own right, but for me, he was eclipsed by The Who on that day, in the mid 1970s, when I called CFGO and requested a song without including the name of the artist.

It was one of the best misunderstandings that I've ever had.

Wordless Wednesday: Rain on Glass

Theme Music

In the final months of 2011, as I was finishing the final draft of Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary, I was continually listening to Land & Sea, by Sarah Slean. I had purchased the deluxe version of the album, which includes instrumental versions of the Sea tracks as a bonus.

In essence, Sarah's vocal tracks are removed and you're left with orchestral wonder. Of course, I love her voice, but when you're trying to concentrate on forming cohesive, literary passages, another voice, no matter how beautiful, can be distracting.

The instrumentals soothed me.

When I sent my last manuscript to the publisher for printing, my thoughts drifted to delusions of grandeur and I thought, what if my book becomes strangely popular and someone wants to turn it into a movie?

No one has ever approached me with that insane idea.

But if someone had, and I was allowed to participate in the project, I had some ideas.

Kate Kelton would play the role of Tanya. She and I discussed that fantasy, years ago, when I sent her a copy of my novel, and a few years later, when we actually chatted through FaceTime.

The soundtrack, though the book is set in 1997, would be written by Sarah Slean. I already had some tracks from Land & Sea that would work.

"Cosmic Ballet" would softly play throughout the film, from the beginning, where Roland Axam is watching out the window as his plane makes its final approach to Kimp'o International Airport, in Seoul. It would replay, throughout the film, as Roland remembered his tragic past and in other tender moments.

Other songs came to mind, as I recently read through my novel. "Napoleon," "You're Not Alone," "The One True Love," and "My Eyes & Your Eyes." It were as though this album was made for my story.

Today, as I prepare to return to South Korea, to work on the nearly forgotten sequel, Gyeosunim, I plan to also document my trip with video. To that end, I've even begun storyboarding segments of my journey back to The Land of the Morning Calm, to almost mimic the fictional journey of Roland, more than 20 years ago.

It would be nice to use some of the instrumental pieces from Sarah's album.

Sarah? There'd be a copy of my novel in it for you. What do you say?

Sarah?

Hunt

My kids are smarter than I am.

For many years, rather than hold a traditional Easter egg hunt, where our kids, each equipped with a bunny basket, would run around the living room, searching for hidden eggs, DW and I would challenge our daughters with a different sort of hunt.

For this hunt, the bounty is held in one hidden location. On our kitchen island, a lone plastic egg rests with a simple sign: START HERE.

Opening the egg, our daughters would find a tiny, folded slip of paper. On it, a written message, in the form of a rhyme, that would cryptically hint at where the next egg can be found. Several such eggs would be concealed through out the house, from upstairs bedrooms and closets to corners in the basement, each containing a rhyming clue to the next egg.

The final egg would lead them to their jackpot, where Easter treats were won.

The first year that we held this treasure hunt, the kids puzzled over the clues, sometimes taking 10 to 15 minutes to crack before discovering the next egg. Though they complained when the clue was too hard, they wouldn't give up.

When the clue was found impossible to decipher, DW or I would verbally provide a hint to point them in the right direction.

This Easter hunt was a hit. The girls insisted that we do it again the next year.

Several years have passed and our daughters have not tired of this hunt. Except, this year, they showed some frustration. Not at any difficulty with the clues, but the exact opposite.

The night before this Easter's hunt, after the kids had gone to bed, DW and I worked to compose our clues. This is usually a painstaking process. First, we decide upon a hiding spot: inside the Instant Pot; behind the Nintendo Switch dock.

Next, we collaborate on a rhyme. Neither of us are poets: all we care about is that our lines rhyme. No rhythm is required.

As soon as each location and clue is created, we write the clues on tiny slips of paper and place them in plastic eggs. The trick is to remember which egg goes in which location.

We then place the chocolates and other treats in the final location.

The whole process takes us the better part of an hour; sometimes, longer.

My kids are smart as a whip.

This weekend, when DW and I composed our clues, we read them to each other and asked, "Do you think that'll be too hard for the girls?" You see, each year, we've tried to make the clues more challenging, as the kids have grown older.

This morning, I heard DD15 and DD18 start the hunt as I was getting out of bed. I went to the bathroom and then headed downstairs. DW had been baking bread and I was asked to cook bacon.

By the time I had the package of bacon on the counter, ready to cut open, maybe five minutes had elapsed since I hauled myself out from under the sheets.

And the hunt was over.

The girls had opened the first egg, read the clue, and immediately headed for the Instant Pot. The next clue was still being read by DD15 as DD18 was walking over to the next hiding place.

One clue eluded to beats: DD15 has two full drum kits but instead of going to them, the obvious choices, they went to where she also has two djembes. One is next to a drum kit, but they went to the second djembe, the furthest from the other percussion instruments, and lifted it up.

Underneath, was the egg with the next clue.

The final clue pointed to the treasure and, again, the girls were faced with no challenge. "Do I need your keys?" asked DD18.

"I'm not going outside," said DD15.

"I'm checking the garage first," answered DD18. The treats were in the back seat of our vehicle, in the garage.

Five minutes. That's all it took.

Next year, I'm writing the clues in Latin.

I Mourned Until I Stopped

Photo: Bloomberg, via Twitter

In the past few days, since news spread more quickly than the flames that took the roof and spire of Paris' Notre Dame Cathedral, more words have been shared about the colossal loss and the reconstruction of this jewel—not only the centrepiece of France but a monument of the world—that adding my meagre thoughts to the sea of opinion seems inconsequential.

And yet, I need a bit of a rant because, in the fourth day after, I'm over it.

The images that came through social media and in the news on April 15—the same day in which the Titanic sank to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean—were shocking. Flames surrounding the base of the 300-foot spire spread until they climbed higher, consumed the structure, and brought it down.

When I saw the video of the collapsing spire, I thought, that's it, she's done for. I thought the vaulted ceilings inside the cathedral had collapsed and that the fire would rage, below. As the fire spread toward the two towers, I had visions of the beams, which support the many bells, would burn until the iron would come crashing down, the stone towers with them.

I went to bed, that night, relieved that fire fighters had worked feverishly to douse the towers and prevent the fire from spreading to them. News was travelling about France's fashion tycoons who were pledging hundreds of millions of euros toward "Our Lady's" reconstruction.

I fell asleep, saddened by what happened but hopeful for the church's restoration.

Like so many, especially those, like me, who had been to Notre Dame, had been through her nave and up and down her towers, there is a connection, not just with the structure but with history. Our lives are finite, but to know that we have touched this piece of history, where so many have come before us and, hopefully, so many more will come after, somehow grounds us in that history and makes us, if only a little, infinitely more.

The next day, news told us that the damage was not as bad as it could have been. Sacred, irreplaceable artifacts had been saved. French President Emmanuel Macron had publicly vowed to have Notre Dame rebuilt. Even though reports estimated that restoration could take decades, Macron insisted that he wanted it done in five years.

The Washington Post shared before and after photos of the cathedral, both inside and out. The damage was considerable, but not catastrophic. It's not so bad, I told myself.

On the third day, nearly a billion euro had been raised toward the cause, and that's when I stopped being sad. In less than 48 hours, hundreds of millions of dollars was waiting to be spent on a building. Granted, not just any building, but a building.

A building that belongs to one of the richest organizations in the world: the Catholic Church.

Meanwhile, poverty still exists. Even in Paris.

Meanwhile, cancer hasn't been beaten. Hospitals are overcrowded and underfunded.

Meanwhile, education isn't available to everyone.

I looked further into the Notre Dame Cathedral. Over its history, it hasn't escaped pillaging and vandalism. During the French Revolution, for example, many of its valuables were either destroyed or stolen. Some 28 statues of biblical kings who were mistaken for statues of French kings were beheaded. Toward the end of the revolution, Notre Dame was no longer used as a place of worship but as a place in which to store food.

It was made into a warehouse.

None of these facts makes this jewel of Paris less spectacular. What it does say that in the building's 856-year history, it has endured. Even the spire that fell is not the original. The first flèche, built in the 13th century, became weakened over the centuries by wind and was removed in 1786. The spire that toppled in Monday's fire had only been there since the 19th century.

Notre Dame will survive. Her story will go on with or without the emotional reaction from the rich, from the politicians.

From 2014: my last visit to Paris.

I mourned her possible loss, but Our Lady will live on. I've stopped worrying.

It's time to get back to worrying about the poor, the sick, and the quality and availability of good education. You know, the things that really matter.

Wordless Wednesday: Open Dam

 

 

 

 

 

 

No Words

Blues on Sunday

It's hard to believe that these kids, for the most part, have never met. It's even harder to believe that they've never rehearsed together.

But on a rainy Sunday afternoon, 12 kids, aged 12 to 18, came together with Billboard Top 10 Blues Artist, IBC Winner and JUNO Nominee, Canadian singer/guitarist JW Jones and his band (bass, Jacob Clarke; drums, Will Laurin) for some outstanding music.

This is the third year that DD15 has participated in #613FUTUREBLUES (yes, she was only 13 the first time she played with JW). It's amazing to see her confidence grow, especially under the pressure of performing a new song in front of a live audience.

Last Tuesday evening, DD15 received two YouTube links to songs that she needed to listen to and practice for Sunday's show: "Boom Boom," by John Lee Hooker and "Snatch It Back and Hold It," by Junior Wells. In 2017, DD15 played the Junior Wells song at her first #613FUTUREBLUES event, so she was somewhat relieved: she liked the song and because she was familiar with it, practice wasn't going to be as stressful.

JW Jones and his band

DD15 takes her turn at the drums

You see, this weekend, her school band had a competition and she was busy rehearsing for it. She only had time on Saturday evening and Sunday morning to prepare for JW.

There were a couple of other familiar faces at the show. Another drummer who is younger than my daughter and a guitar player who oozes with talent.

This year, the event was held at Lone Star Texas Grill, across from the St. Laurent Shopping Centre (where the old IP Loony's used to be). The venue has a large opening for plenty of tables and a dance floor, but I have to say that the stage is a tad disappointing because a supporting beam stands front and centre. It was hard to see all players on the stage at one glance.

JW let me set my 360-degree camera on the stage, but because of the beam, it was impossible to find an angle where I could capture everyone clearly. My focus was to record DD15, so every time JW went up to his microphone, I didn't have a clear view of him.

Sorry, JW.

But with the benefit of the 360-degree camera, I could just run it and then walk around with my D-SLR to capture the show from other angles.

I recorded the first two songs of the set with just JW and his band, and then DD15's numbers. I have them below.

Thanks again to JW and his band for taking their time to host such talented young musicians and singers, to the Ottawa Blues Society for sponsoring the event, and to the Lone Star for supplying the venue.

I can't wait to see this show again, next year, and to see how the returning kids improve.