I spent most of my year-long internship at the Star in a rush.
I rushed to work. Toward tragedy, when it struck. Toward my deadline. Then, home to feed my dog and scarf down dinner before doing it all again. As the urgency of my days grew, so did my impatience. I felt constantly behind, constantly irritated. It wasn’t a version of myself I recognized.
So when the Star challenged some of us to get into the community and try something new, I surprised myself by putting my hand up to learn, and eventually perform, a song on the banjo. I’d never played an instrument, never sung in front of a crowd.
I wasn’t quite sure where to start. That changed when I found the Tranzac. Tucked just off Bloor Street on Brunswick Avenue, it’s easy to miss. The two-storey, black stucco building, originally built as a laundromat in the 1950s, looks more like an office building or community centre than a venue. Still, the Tranzac hosts more than 1,400 events a year – from experimental sound shows to blue grass nights to crafting workshops and movie screenings.
It was here, a place as good as any for someone looking to slow down, that I decided to give my banjo performance.
I started making semi-frequent visits to the Tranzac over the summer. My first began at the Toronto Zine Library, tucked into a corner on the second floor. Entirely volunteer-run and funded by donations, the library offers thousands of independent print publications for visitors to flip through.
“It’s a really special place,” says Sylvia Nowak, an on-duty volunteer for drop-in hours. “There’s not a lot of spaces you can hangout any more that aren’t trying to make money.
“I really think that’s why people will volunteer so much time here – because we want it to stay alive,” she adds.
I spend the better part of an hour flipping through zines with Nowak before heading downstairs to catch a singer-songwriter night, hosted by local artist Justin Orok.
Orok, one of many local artists currently moving through the Tranzac’s residency program, which offers two-hour performance slots to recipients, free-of-charge, feels similarly to Nowak.
“Money-wise, do these shows make a lot of sense? No,” he says, but they afford him the freedom to experiment.
That kind of creative experimentation wasn’t exactly part of my daily routine at the time. There’s a certain muscle memory involved with writing a news story. The story changes, but the structure almost always remain the same. And when the subject matter so often veers to tragedy – infringing on others’ personal loss and grief – a fear of falling flat, of failing the person whose story you’ve been entrusted with, in an attempt to experiment in writing or structure so often outweighs the reward. Learning a new instrument required me to shed that fear of failure.
I’d always wanted to be able to play the banjo. I can’t say why exactly, other than that, when played well, I think it’s one of the most beautiful instruments out there. (Do yourself a favour and go listen to Noam Pilkeny’s “Waveland”.) When my family learned that I’d been harbouring a love for the banjo, they bought me a little five-string Gold Tone, which only served to gather dust in my one-bedroom apartment for the next year and a half.
For weeks before I even gained the courage to pick the thing up, I agonized over what song I might eventually play at the open mic night. I needed something simple enough to pull off, but not so dull it would lose the room. In the spirit of the industry and with a nod to myself, I landed on a (very) stripped-down version of John Prine’s “Dear Abby.”
At first, the pace of my practice felt almost cruel. Over and over, I played the same four chords. With no immediate payoff, I grew bored quickly. How was I and my ever-growing to-do list expected to accommodate such frivolity? And to what end? It’s not like I was actually going to get any good.
But as I pushed on, often performing to an audience of one (my senior chihuahua), I warmed to the process. Regardless of whatever the final product would sound like, the fact that I’d been forced to slow down, to be curious without reward, began to offer a reprieve from the daily hustle.
In August, I braved a summer thunderstorm to meet Linseed Toner-Calmusky; the Tranzac’s bartender-turned-gardener, who’s agreed to walk me through the native plant she tends to in front of the club.
The garden is clearly a point of pride for Toner-Calmusky, as it should be – she’s been at it for over nine years, bringing in more than 100 different species of plants along the way.
It’s not just the flora she’s proud of, though; her role behind the bar and in the garden has afforded her glimpses into the lives of countless community members over the years.
“There’s something really ephemeral about being in different communities, even just for periods of time,” she says. “Whether it’s working a wedding as a bartender, or running plant workshops outside, it’s always really special because I get to be included in this little world that I wouldn’t otherwise be included in.
“I really love the space for that.”
As I spent more evenings at the club, I realized how long it had been since I’d met someone new outside the confines of work. I meet new people every day on the job – so many, in fact, I can’t remember them all.
Outside of work, however, free time had grown scarce and the hours I could steal away were often spent trying to nurture my existing friendships. It dawned on me; since moving to Toronto from Vancouver Island five years ago, I’d only really met people through the industry. For someone whose job it is to inform people about the city, to embrace it, to shine light on what makes it great, I suddenly felt a bit like a fraud.
By the time open mic night arrived, my nerves were working overtime. I got to the Tranzac early to make sure I’d get a performance slot. A cast of regulars, who clearly knew the drill better than I, had already arrived and were milling around the front room, waiting for the bartender to bring out the sign-up sheet.
I managed to slot myself in sixth, before taking a seat at a table tucked into the corner of the room with a Star photographer and my mom. Hours before the show, I’d been so nervous I’d asked anyone I’d previously invited to the performance not to come. If it went poorly and I ended up embarrassing myself, at least there’d be fewer witnesses.
I chatted with a few performers ahead of the show, all of whom were consistent in offering support and assuring me that the show was low stakes – and that the audience, without fail, was a supportive one.
“If you’re going to try something new, this is the place to do it,” said one performer, a pianist who performed just a few slots prior.
With just a few acts to go, I closed my eyes and tried to visualize what lay ahead. I had the chords down — but barely. I could sing in tune, sure, but was it any good? Probably not.
The host called my name. I grabbed the banjo, walked toward the makeshift stage, and took a seat facing the audience. It hit me all at once: I’d never used a microphone before. But at that point, it was too late to care.
What came next is mostly a blur. I’m pretty sure I hit the right chords and sang (most of) the right notes, but adrenaline blurred the details. What I do remember is the overwhelming support from an audience that had shown up on a Monday night to take in the vulnerability, possibility — and occasional discomfort — that define an open mic.
Laughs erupted with each verse. People sang along. Some even cheered when I was done.
“See?” the pianist said as I took my spot at the table after the show. “There’s nothing to be scared of.”
I left that night feeling like I’d created something new for myself, like there was this new part of me that existed outside of the daily demands of my job and the city. After only a few weeks spent exploring the Tranzac, I knew it was a place I would be welcome to return; one where creativity and curiosity would always be prioritized.
At a time when cultural spaces are struggling to stay open and keep things affordable, these are exactly the kinds of places we need to protect.
It wouldn’t be honest to say that, in the weeks since, that sense of simplicity and connection hasn’t slipped. The minute I re-entered my daily routine, the rise-and-grind mindset crept back in.
But when I do remember to take a moment — to stop, take a breath, to do something without the expectation of excellence — I’ll always have a summer spent learning to play the banjo, meeting new people, and taking in the breadth of talent and community at the Tranzac to remind me to slow down again.
