SnowGhost Music

Velvet ropes, wrapping paper, 10-digit price tags, burglar alarms, media coverage, and flashing signs. Sometimes we have to be told that something is special. A child will stare blankly at the work of an impressionist and ask his mother why a painting that looks like something his pre-school buddies collaborated on during recess is special. The child's mother, also staring blankly at the masterpiece, might reply, 'Because it is.'

Sometimes the experience is very personal. Maybe you've just seen a movie that will forever change the way you think about life. You leave the theater and immediately find out that everyone else thought the movie sucked and they can't wait to get the taste out of their mouths. Your companions' opinions might even be strong enough to deaden your own appreciation, so that in a few months time when the movie comes out on DVD and a friend who hasn't seen it asks if you liked it, you say it's not that great.

But sometimes something is special enough that everyone in the room knows it. One by one they feel it. One by one they fall silent until they are all doing the same thing; appreciating that they are in the presence of something special.

If you have ever been to a concert where the music is not meant to assault your ear drums and adult refreshments are served, then you've probably been annoyed at the chatter competing with the performer you came to see, or maybe you've even contributed to the jibber jabber when you didn't care for the music.

The crowd at the Luke Temple snowghost session at the Great Northern Brewery last Saturday was no different. After enjoyable warm-up sets by Brett Allen and Greg McGrath and two hours of free beer, the crowd of 50 or so was quite sociable, and in stark contrast to the music of Luke Temple, they were quite loud. But a funny thing happened as Luke worked his way through his elegant set. With each song, his nuances and flourishes became more apparent. You could hear him inhale, his fingers slide along the strings, and his weight shift on the tiny, makeshift stage.

He was not playing louder. In fact he was playing more softly, and by the end of the set, you could've heard a pin drop. There were no flashing signs demanding silence, no ushers with white-gloved fingers to their lips, and no security guards removing unruly patrons, or any other early departures. It was simply a matter of something special happening on stage, and the 50 people standing and watching understood it. There may have been more people in the hall or around the corner, but you couldn't hear them either.