Dear Nelly,
I hope this letter finds you well and grounded in the truth, even when the world tries to spin you off course. I’ve been watching from afar, and I need to tell you something straight, no filters.
Take it home to Victoria.
Munich is not the place. I’ve been there. The air’s heavy—not with weather, but with a weight that hasn’t lifted. There’s a quiet arrogance there, a hush-hush sense that Hitler “Did nothing wrong” But you and I both know: some chapters should never be normalized. And the artists? The poets? They whisper what should be shouted. That place can’t hold you, Nelly. You’re too full of soul, of contradiction, of Canada.
Victoria, though—that’s different.
Reverse Psalm 45. The way I see it, why should the bride always have to leave her home and follow the groom? This time, let the groom come to the bride’s house. Let the king learn to dwell in her courts. Let the music rise from familiar soil.
You sing in Victoria—just once—and watch what happens. All your old Gladstone High School friends from Vancouver will hop the ferry just to be there. It’s not just nostalgia. It’s roots. It’s memory. It’s a revival.
And me? I’ll come too. I’m done waiting for respect in my own hometown. In Victoria, they’ll see me for who I really am. Not just some guy talking big. They’ll feel it. And they’ll know I meant every word.
So if you ever decide to go back, to sing with that west coast wind in your lungs and that old-school fire in your eyes, I’ll be there.
Because home isn’t just where you were born. It’s where they still believe in you.
With loyalty and truth,
Joe Jukic
