Shaping the Crazy

Some memories begin with a sensible decision.

This one began with me spending money I did not really have on concert tickets in a city hours away from home.

I have been a fan of @officialjackwhite for most of his career. His music has followed me through different versions of myself—through long drives, hard seasons, creative seasons and ordinary days when a loud guitar was exactly what I needed.

Because of that, my son grew up listening to him too.

Jack White’s music became part of the background of our lives without either of us consciously choosing it. It played in the car, throughout the house and during the countless small moments that quietly become childhood.

So when my son heard that Jack White was performing in Toronto, he did not casually ask whether we could go.

He begged.

The concert was not in my budget. Toronto was not close to home. Going would involve train tickets, transportation, food and navigating a city I did not know particularly well.

The practical part of my brain had a long list of reasons to say no.

But underneath all those reasons was another thought:

This may be one of those moments we will remember forever.

My children are growing up. The years when I can still gather them beside me and offer them an experience that feels enormous are becoming fewer. I knew there would always be bills, responsibilities and reasons to wait for a better time.

I also knew that sometimes the better time is the moment standing directly in front of you.

So, on the morning the tickets went on sale, I joined the online queue.

I watched the little progress bar move slowly across the screen, questioning my judgment the entire time.

Then my turn arrived.

I bought the tickets.

The Journey to the Music

The kids and I took the train to Toronto together, carrying that particular kind of excitement that makes even the journey feel like part of the event.

Once we arrived, they introduced me to the subway system. I followed behind them as they confidently figured out routes, platforms and stops, suddenly aware that the children who had once held my hand everywhere were now leading me through a city.

It was a small moment, but it stayed with me.

Eventually, my son and I made our way to the amphitheatre.

The heat was intense—somewhere around 45 degrees with the humidity. The sun seemed to press down on the crowd as we stood near the merchandise tables, surrounded by people wearing black concert shirts and trying not to melt into the pavement.

My son stood in front of the artist merchandise booth, smiling and giving me two thumbs up. His excitement made the heat feel less important.

I noticed the merchandise for the opening band, @AnginedePoitrine. Their designs were strange, bold and unlike anything else at the table. I did not know what to make of them.

I remember thinking, Keep an open mind.

Soon afterward, our phones were placed inside locked pouches.

For the next several hours, there would be no taking pictures, no recording songs and no watching the concert through a screen.

At first, it felt strange to surrender our phones. Then it felt like freedom.

There was nothing left to do but be present.

We found our seats almost an hour before the show began. The stage stood empty in front of us, filled with instruments, cables and possibilities.

Around us, the amphitheatre slowly came alive. Conversations grew louder. Seats filled. People shifted restlessly every time someone appeared near the stage.

My son and I kept looking at each other.

We are really here.

Then Everything Made Sense

When Angine de Poitrine walked onto the stage, I was curious but completely unprepared for what followed.

The music began, and suddenly the unusual branding I had seen at the merchandise table made perfect sense.

Their sound was wild, loud and completely unpredictable. It felt like rock and roll colliding with electronic music—something raw and theatrical meeting the pulsing energy of Fatboy Slim.

It surrounded us.

They did not ease the audience into their world. They pulled us straight into it.

Within moments, they had our complete attention.

I had never seen anything quite like them. Their performance was bold, bizarre, funny, brilliant and completely unapologetic. They were not trying to fit into a familiar idea of what a band should look or sound like.

They were not asking anyone for permission.

They had created their own rules, their own language and their own universe—and then invited thousands of strangers into it.

I could not look away.

There is something extraordinary about watching artists who are completely committed to what they have created. Even when the audience does not yet understand, they do.

They trust their work enough to stand inside it fully.

By the end of their performance, I was speechless.

And Jack White had not even walked onto the stage yet.

Watching My Son Disappear into the Music

Then the lights changed.

The energy in the amphitheatre shifted.

Jack White stepped onto the stage, and the crowd erupted.

For the next two hours, it felt as though we had been pulled into a rock-and-roll trance.

The sound was not merely loud. It was alive.

The guitars cracked through the air. The drums moved through my chest. Every song carried the urgency and imperfection that first made me love his music so many years ago.

But as much as I wanted to watch the stage, I kept looking at my son.

I watched him mouth the words.

I watched his hands move across an invisible guitar.

I watched him lean forward, completely absorbed, as though the rest of the amphitheatre had disappeared.

For those two hours, he was not worried about anything waiting for him outside the venue. He was not thinking about school, the future or the thousand pressures that follow young people everywhere.

He was simply inside the music.

His whole soul seemed to rise into it.

And while I watched him, something inside me became very still.

I thought about all the years Jack White’s music had played in our home. I thought about my son hearing those songs as a child, perhaps without knowing who was playing or how deeply the music had already become tied to his memories.

Now we were sitting together in Toronto, watching that music come alive in front of us.

The soundtrack of part of my life had become part of his.

That was the full-circle moment.

Not the train ride. Not the merchandise. Not even seeing an artist I had admired for decades.

It was watching my son experience the music for himself.

I knew, as I sat beside him, that we were creating a core memory.

One that belonged to both of us.

What We Feel When an Artist Gives Everything

I have replayed that evening many times since returning home.

I keep seeing my son playing air guitar beside me.

I keep hearing the opening notes of songs I have loved for years.

I keep remembering the shock of seeing Angine de Poitrine for the first time.

Having followed Jack White throughout his career, I felt an unexpected sense of pride watching him perform. Not because I had anything to do with the artist he became, but because I had witnessed so much of the journey.

He continued experimenting.

He refused to become a softer or safer version of himself.

He kept pushing his work forward while holding onto the rawness that made it recognizable.

Then I thought about Angine de Poitrine, stepping onto that enormous stage and taking a creative risk in front of thousands of people.

What we saw that night did not happen by accident.

Behind those performances were years of work.

Years of practising when no one was watching.

Years of learning, failing, refining and beginning again.

Years of taking something that lived inside them and finding a way to make strangers feel it too.

That is what struck me most deeply.

They did not simply share their skills.

They shared their heart, their energy, their courage and their complete belief in what they had created.

The audience could feel it.

Anyone who was inside that amphitheatre knows exactly what I mean.

We were not simply entertained.

We were moved.

Something Shifted

I walked into that concert wanting to give my son an unforgettable night.

I walked out feeling as though something inside me had been cracked open.

The performance made me think about my own artwork, my writing and the stories I still want to tell.

It made me question where I have been holding back.

Have I sometimes made my work beautiful when it needed to be uncomfortable?

Have I softened stories that needed sharper edges?

Have I hidden behind colour and symbolism when the truth was asking to be seen?

I do not want to create work that simply looks nice on a wall.

I want to create work that makes someone stop.

I want it to reach the person who has felt something deeply but has never known how to explain it.

I want to explore the full range of what it means to be human—the rage, pain, grief, fear, love, tenderness, confusion and strength.

I want to put my heart and soul into the work and trust that honesty will find the people who need it.

I want to break some of my own rules.

I want to experiment.

I want to create things I do not completely understand yet.

I want to take the strange ideas that appear at the edges of my imagination and stop dismissing them before they have the chance to become something.

I want to be brave enough to make work that will not appeal to everyone.

Because the artists who affected me most that evening were not trying to be everything to everyone.

They were entirely themselves.

What Comes Next

Perhaps this is what Shaping the Crazy has always been leading toward.

Not turning chaos into something perfectly polished, but finding the courage to look directly at it.

To take the beautiful and the brutal, the softness and the anger, the breaking and the becoming—and shape them into something honest.

That evening began as a gift to my son.

Despite the cost, the distance and the heat, I wanted to give him the chance to see an artist whose music had been woven into his childhood.

I never expected the night to give something back to me.

But it did.

It reminded me why art matters.

It reminded me what can happen when an artist stops asking permission and gives everything they have to the work.

And it reminded me that the greatest experiences are not always the sensible ones.

Sometimes they begin with buying the tickets.

Sometimes they take you far from home.

Sometimes they leave you sitting beside your son, watching his soul disappear into the music.

And sometimes, long after the final note has faded, they change something in you.

Something changed in me that night.

Now it is time to see what I create from it.

-Christine Brazeau