11 April 2012
I was in the kitchen when Sonja walked through the door putting the finishing touches on supper. Homemade vegan mac 'n' cheese, spinach and strawberry salad, baked pork chop on the side for me. Had a record playing on the stereo.
"What the Hell are you listening to tonight?" Sonja asked as she watched me doing a wee jig on our scuffed as fuck linoleum floor.
"It's Rufus Guinchard," I told her. "Old time Newfoundland fiddling."
I am not one of those folk fuckers you see walking around in old work boots and a scruffy beard looking forward to fuck all except the summer festivals and some distant bloody revolution but, I tell you, some days it is only old Newfoundland music like Guinchard's that can put a smile on a tired sawmill hand's face.
Found the record in a thrift store. Rufus was seventy-seven when he recorded the nineteen songs on the album, his first recording.
I could go on about the old boy but that would take the fun out of googling him for yourself.