Marty Hopkins: Tales of the Twelve, Right at Home

Every so often, an unexpected message arrives in the Niagara Arts Review inbox.

This particular one came from a reader named Bob, who had enjoyed my recent review of Steve Goldberger & The Gentle Spirits. Bob and his wife Carol were hosting a private concert featuring Marty Hopkins and his Tales of the Twelve project, and wondered whether I'd be interested in attending.

I'd never been to a house concert before.

I was intrigued.

Of course I said yes.

Wednesday evening, I found myself walking into the home of two people I'd never met, about to spend the evening with thirty other guests and four musicians in somebody's living room.

As I approached the front door, someone arriving at the same time cheerfully informed me there was no need to knock. Just walk in.

Well, all right then.

Bob greeted me warmly and began introducing me to people, which was rather amusing considering we'd only just met ourselves, in his front hall.

Bob and his wife Carol had clearly put considerable effort into the evening. Their garage had been transformed into a welcoming gathering space, with food, drinks and guests mingling before the performance. The musicians were right there among us, chatting and helping themselves to refreshments.

It felt more like arriving at a neighbourhood party than a concert.

Inside, the dining area had been converted into a performance space. No raised stage, no curtain, no backstage. Just four musicians, their instruments and two rows of folding chairs between them and the household furniture pushed back against the far wall.

According to Bob, there were thirty-one people in the room.

I claimed a seat at the end of the front row beside the kitchen island. 

This turned out to be an unexpectedly luxurious arrangement. I had somewhere to put my drink and plate, a privilege not enjoyed by most of the audience.

Sometimes it's the little things.

Unfortunately, it also meant I was practically sitting in the band. Taking out my phone to make notes would have been painfully obvious.

Once again, I'd have to rely on my memory.

Fortunately, Marty Hopkins gave me plenty to remember.

Hopkins is a songwriter, singer, guitarist and, perhaps most importantly, a storyteller — a chronicler of the people and characters who shaped his life.

His Tales of the Twelve project draws inspiration from St. Catharines and the Twelve Mile Creek, weaving together local history, familiar places, colourful personalities and personal memories.

His songs are filled with humour, clever lyrics, unexpected turns of phrase and characters who sound as though they could have stepped straight out of an old neighbourhood conversation.

Because, in fact, they did.

These stories are rooted in real people, familiar places and memories of a St. Catharines that has changed considerably over the years. Hopkins may embellish a detail here and there for the sake of a rhyme or a laugh, but there's a genuine story behind each song.

Musically, this was probably as close as I'll ever come to attending a country music concert.

Not that it was really country music.

It was folk, with country, honky-tonk, blues, Cajun and zydeco influences woven through it. Interestingly, Hopkins' recordings lean considerably further into country territory than Wednesday's performance, with pedal steel guitar prominent throughout.

And I say this as someone who isn't generally a country music fan: I thoroughly enjoyed what I heard.

Hopkins on vocals, storytelling and guitar, was joined by Steve Goldberger, Dave Tufford and Sandra Marynissen.

I'd seen Goldberger with his eleven-piece Gentle Spirits band less than two weeks earlier, so it was interesting to hear him in a much smaller setting. His bass sound was clean and subtle and suited the night perfectly. His backing vocals almost didn't need a mic in this room. 

Tufford contributed some tasty guitar and squeezebox — and I do mean squeezebox in the rootsy, Cajun-flavoured sense, not the sort of enormous accordion you might associate with a polka band.

Marynissen added mandolin and percussion, working with a variety of instruments that brought colour and rhythm without overwhelming the relatively small room. Although one instrument briefly had other ideas.

The slap-vibe.

Think of that distinctive percussive sound at the beginning of Aerosmith's “Sweet Emotion.”

The first time she struck it, the thing practically announced itself to the entire house.

I suspect she approached it a little more cautiously afterward.

The band sounded good, the volume was comfortable, and nobody seemed interested in competing for attention. They understood that the evening was as much about the stories as the songs.

And there were plenty of stories.

“The Lincoln” recalled the old St. Catharines movie theatres, although Hopkins acknowledged that the most personally significant memory involved a different theatre. The Lincoln apparently suited the song better.

Sometimes songwriting demands a little creative licence.

Other songs revisited neighbourhood landmarks, local characters and institutions, including “Port Dalhousie Blues,” “Corner Store” and “Legal Weed.”

But Hopkins didn't simply sing these stories.

He talked about them.

A lot.

In the best possible way.

Between songs, he'd explain the people and circumstances behind the lyrics, recall some long-gone business or neighbourhood character, and turn to the audience to see who remembered.

Somebody almost always did.

This was where the house-concert setting really came into its own. Hopkins could look practically anyone in the room directly in the eye, ask a question and hear the answer.

Including me.

More than once.

The trouble with encouraging people to reminisce is that some of us don't require much encouragement.

I may have contributed a little more than my allotted share of memories on one or two occasions.

Apparently I wasn't alone.

At least one other guest seemed quite prepared to take over the storytelling duties, but Hopkins kept the conversation moving without making anyone feel shut down.

The entire room was in on the joke.

While introducing “Corner Store,” Hopkins picked up a bowl of old-fashioned candy from the kitchen island and began passing treats around, recalling childhood visits to the neighbourhood store.

Among the goodies were those enormous red wax lips that apparently somebody once decided children should put in their mouths.

At some point later in the evening, Marynissen put on a pair.

The audience noticed immediately.

Hopkins, however, had his back to her.

For a little while, we were all enjoying the joke without him.

Then he turned around.

The sight of his percussionist wearing those ridiculous lips caught him completely off guard, and his reaction set the entire room laughing.

It was one of those moments you couldn't have planned nearly as well as it happened.

And then there was Steve Goldberger.

Late in the evening, Hopkins began reminiscing about everything we'd discussed: old stores, familiar people, theatres and other bits of St. Catharines history.

He was working his way through the memories when Goldberger quietly contributed a single word.

“Jail.”

Deadpan.

There had been earlier discussion about the old jail that became a bar, referenced in “Port Dalhousie Blues.”

Goldberger's perfectly timed contribution brought the house down.

Sometimes a single word is all you need.

I've been to plenty of performances in small bars and intimate venues.

This was different.

Even in a small bar, there's a distinction between the musicians and the audience. Wednesday night, that separation barely existed.

We were guests in somebody's home, listening to musicians sharing stories about the very community many of us had spent our lives in.

The audience wasn't simply listening.

We were remembering.

And laughing.

And occasionally contributing something that probably hadn't been part of Hopkins' original plan.

He seemed perfectly happy with that.

When the music ended, there was no rush for the exits. Many stayed to chat with one another and the musicians, and the evening simply returned to being a gathering of friends and neighbours.

Bob mentioned afterward that he and Carol had hosted concerts before and hoped to do more. He also suggested he might show my review to other musicians as an example of what performing in their home is like.

No pressure there, Bob.

Marty Hopkins and his fellow musicians gave us an entertaining evening of music, humour and local history. But it was the setting, and the way everyone became part of the storytelling, that made it memorable.

His songs celebrate people, places and stories that deserve to be remembered, and there was something particularly appropriate about hearing them in a room full of people who could contribute a few memories of their own.

You can listen to the recordings and appreciate the songwriting.

But hearing the stories from the man who wrote them, sitting only a few feet away?

That's something else.

And I owe Bob and Carol a sincere thank-you for opening their home to a complete stranger with a music publication and a habit of writing about things.

I'd happily come back.

Especially if I can get that seat beside the kitchen island again.

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