Small wonder

The temperature outside, according to my car, had dipped to -17 as we drove home late Friday evening. Knowing how cold it was outside made me shiver, even though it was plenty warm inside the car.

What were we doing out on this ridiculously cold night? We'd gone in search of music -- call it folk, or traditional or Celtic -- music that stirs our souls and gets our feet tapping.

It's also music that, in our part of the world, makes its home in small venues such as the one where we listened to two gifted sisters from Nova Scotia perform for the better part of two hours on Friday. It's a venue reminiscent of a '60s coffee house where you sit elbow to elbow with 50 or 60 like-minded people who know that what awaits you is worth the drive (an hour for us), even in the dead of winter.

I was as entertained by watching the sisters perform as I was by the joyful noise they were making. The fiddler's fingers flew at speeds I didn't think were humanly possible. The piano player's hands were like a kid at play -- fast, unpredictable and just plain fun to watch.

Watching is easy when you're no more than 10 feet away from the musicians. And that's the other thing about small venues: By the end of the evening, the performers are as familiar to you as the people with whom you've shared a tiny table.

A very long time ago I sat in a similar venue hundreds of miles away to listen to a folk singer who had recently quit a trio act to set out on his own. Back then, his name would never have filled any of that city's big auditoriums. It barely filled the coffee house where I sat a few feet from the small stage, hoping I hadn't wasted my money on a virtual unknown. By the end of his first song I knew I'd be getting my money's worth.

The next time I saw John Denver perform he was playing in a packed auditorium on a stage so far from where I sat I could barely see his face. Thank goodness for small venues.