The Cover-Judgment Dilemma

(Disclaimer: I have not heard any of the bands prominently mentioned in this entry, so no offense intended)

Consensus, among most reasonable folk, is that the act of judging a book by its cover is usually inadvisable. However, the key modifier in the opening sentence is usually - as there are times when snap, shallow judgments are not only functional, but even necessary (even if these judgments are wrong). And, believe it or not, these types of judgments are made routinely by music enthusiasts.

See: living in a city like Toronto, you can get absolutely bombarded by music-related stimuli (and, not that I know of it, but I can only assume that it's worse it music media epicentres like New York, L.A., and London). Comparable to the Neil Postman's information glut, living in large urban centres can cause sensory overload; its residents are surrounded by more music than they're capable of comprehending.

For one, urban centres like Toronto - both from possessing large populaces and migrant talent - are likely to have a large roster of quality local acts. Further, large urban centres are hot-spots for touring acts, as well, and there is likely a decent show occurring in the city on any given night featuring local or touring acts. And, accompanying the live shows are the media coverage surrounding them, with local tastemakers further attempting to vie for consumer attention. Complicating the musical information glut further is the music listener's particular taste in music. Needless to say, the urban centre's musical information glut makes it incredibly difficult to form informed decisions related to the consumption of music (whether in live or recorded form).

So, perhaps as a defense mechanism towards the musical information glut, music listeners have to judge a book by its cover.

Cover-judgment, however, often get a undeserved bad rep. I mean, shallow judgments - considering that they're shallow - can be incredibly complex. For a simple snap judgment of an unknown band, there is a whole confluence of factors colouring judgment: what is the band's name? Is their name potentially indicative of their style? Which bands are they playing - or touring - with? Where is the band from - and does their home region have a proven track record of success? Are they headlining or opening? Is it possible to gauge their success level versus their longevity as a band?

Cover-judgment, as you can tell, can sometimes be even more complex than judgment derived from listening or witnessing a band. In fact, that only reason that cover-judging is done at all is because it is an intellectual exercise that can be done remotely: it is the only type of judgment that can occur without actually having seen / heard to a band. And cover-judgment is befuddling to many, because it is simultaneously an art, science, and trade; method, madness and functionality. This is precisely why poorly-streamed ex-academians have trouble with cover-judgment.

So, cover-judgment is sometimes necessary (and almost always misguided - but that's not the point), and it's an action in which I partake in regularly; sometimes, these types of judgments prepare me to like a band, and sometimes they prepare me to dislike a band. Here is a sampling of four cover-judgments of upcoming acts playing Toronto (taken from NOW Magazine's concert directory):


The Rolling Tundra Revue
(Taken from The Weakerthans / Constantines show listing; March 31st at the Phoenix)

Okay, so I'm aware that Rolling Tundra Revue is actually the name of the Weakerthans / Constantines national tour. But were they an opener (and NOW Magazine's entry leads the viewer to believe that they actually might be), they would be a band I am personally ready to adore. With a name firmly referential of Canadian geography, and opening for two of Cancon's current torchbearers, Rolling Tundra Revue is a band who I'd make sure to catch; I know, even prior to seeing them, that I'd also purchase their t-shirt. Half disarming folk, half genteel orchestral pop, and most certainly consisting of young bearded dudes in flannel (and maybe a cute girl vying to be the next Julie Doiron), Rolling Tundra Revue, if they existed, could be, no, is my next favourite band.
With 6+ minute songs seamlessly juxtaposing stark troubador-folk with lush ochestral swells with a few quasi-country-ish licks thrown in for good measure, the fictional Rolling Tundra Review gets extra points if they play with an antique piano (who am I kidding - of course they play with one).


Sarah Blackwood (from the Creepshow)
(Taken from Sarah Blackwood with the Roman Line and Liquor Box; December 18th at Lee's Palace)

The name 'Sarah Blackwood,' if not followed by 'from the Creepshow,' doesn't give us much room for interpretation. I'd guess that, based on her vaguely Anglo Saxon name, that she'd either be charming pop-country songstress, or a Sarah McLachlan singer-songwriter type who played cafes in University districts; and this isn't necessarily a bad thing. However, my cover-judgment goes sour when I learn that she's 'from the Creepshow.' Assuming that the Creepshow are a local act, I'm guessing that they play a brand of watery-thin horror-punk / psychobilly; if she's the singer, which is more-than-fair-assumption, I'm guessing that she's more hand-tattoos-and-female-pompadour than talent. Further, she is also playing with The Roman Line and Liquor Box, bands whose names indicate that they'd won the opening slots from a battle-of-the-bands contest. Sorry, Sarah and co., unless specifically recommended from a trusted source, I will not be attending your concert.

White Cowbell Oklahoma
(Taken from White Cowbell Oklahoma, with Grimskunk and Diemonds; December 19th at Lee's Palace)

White Cowbell Oklahoma; now, I've never seen them, but they seem to be playing Toronto quite frequently, which leads me to believe that they're locals. Now, with this assumption in mind, I am going to focus on their band name: White; Cowbell; Oklahoma. Neither word is particularly reflective of Toronto (especially 'Oklahoma') which leads me believe that this band is not only interesting, but exotic. The words 'white,' 'cowbell,' and 'Oklahoma,' however, are signifiers that they are probably a country band; and while Toronto harbours plenty of good country acts, I'd guess that they differentiate themselves from the pack. I'm guessing that, unlike 100 Dollars or the Beauties, WCO probably play a fire-brand slice of jaunty cow-punk; half Jayhawks, half Replacements, they also probably have a schtick, like fire-swallowing, snake-charming, or a vaguely ethnic band member.
While they are playing with Grimskunk - a band most popularized for their marijuana-leaf themed merchandise - it's not a significant enough deterrent to mar the good name of White Cowbell Oklahoma. Good band; good dudes; I would likely attend this concert unprompted.


Boys Who Say No
(Taken from Boys Who Say No with Invasions and Elwins; December 22nd, Horseshoe)

Their name is meant to be nerdy, charming, and bashful. And while I'm 'a boy' and I've definitely 'said no' before, it's not something that I necessarily like to advertise prominently, especially in a band name. And, truthfully, if the Boys are angling at being nerdy, there is a certain consistency with bands with 'nerdy' names (read: Nerf Herder, Up Up Down Down Left Left Down A Start Select Wii Fit) - they're all grating and terrible. And, nerds are nerds for a reason: they smell like pee and have musch narrower shoulders than the average person. So, I'm inclined to believe that this band sounds like DC Talk at their evangelical height fused with Weezer's red album.
Which, believe it or not, is a fail.
Sorry, guys.

My Year in Lists

Maybe it's the sign of my tastes refining or maturing - or more aptly, 'succumbing' - but is it just me, or did Pitchfork do a bang-up job on their top 50 releases of 2008?

I mean, I know that Pitchfork are rather easy targets - typically, I'd always associated their reviews with try-hard undergrad Cultural Studies essays or long-winded masturbatory pieces meant to celebrate the writer more than the album reviewed - but per my judgment, it seriously looks like Pitchfork are coming into their own as tastemakers. Although I've historically been less-than-critical of Pitchfork in the past, I have to serve them up a compliment this year - they've done well.

And, of course, the list runs into the typical pitfalls of most year-end reviews: they've omitted a few of my favourites (with, per Pitchfork's audience, Deer Tick's excellent War Elephant LP or Jay Reatard's singles collection not charting at all), I'd dispute the ordering of the albums (perhaps with The Tallest Man on Earth scoring a little too low and Crystal Castles scoring a little high for my tastes), and they've served up a few headscratchers (with Kanye's 808 not being a terribly great album and Santogold being an utter piece of crap).

But these are all niggling details - truthfully, no two music reviewers are going to agree on best-of lists (lists being, of course, the chosen hobby of music enthusiasts). As a general guide to excellent music in 2008 - and it's been a great year for music - Pitchfork has offered up a pretty diligent list. It's easy to pick apart Pitchfork's flaws, but they're seldom praised when they succeed. Kudos to them.

P.S. For the less-artist-support-inclined of us, check here for a Mediafire list of Pitchfork's top 50. If anyone asks, I didn't refer you.

Prior to sitting down to turkey...

... Envision Youth of Today's Ray Cappo laying a gentle - yet firm - hand on your shoulder. "No more," he'd remind you. "No more."

The Rural Alberta Advantage has taken over my life.

Generally, I go through phases with records. I'll go through long dry spells without finding a single record I like; typically, during these periods, I'll continually try to understand the purpose of everything Weezer has written post-Pinkerton or why Wire is still a band.

Thankfully, these dry spells are punctuated with near-obsessions with the first really good records I find. And even more thankfully, I've also discovered the Rural Alberta Advantage, who might have released not only the best local record of the year, but potentially the best record of the year period.

Hometowns, which to my knowledge, is their only release, and it showcases sub-3:00 folk-pop gems, ranging in subject matter from Alberta to well, Alberta, and might be the best Jeff Mangum influenced album I've heard since Deer Tick's War Elephant.

Anyhow, the Rural Alberta Advantage perform tonight with Still Life Still at Sneaky Dees, and chances are, all of my friends (and all of your friends) are going to be there. Which may not be true, but it's my own particular method of strong-arming you into coming (you know - that advertising method that banks of the fear of being left behind).

Of course, don't let the very fact that this band has taken over every aspect of my being sway your opinion; here's a video of them performing at what looks to be a picnic.

Loveless Nation

Have you ever fallen in love with a friend?

You know the drill: you’ve met someone new, and your friendship escalates quickly. All of your shared acquaintances seem to think that you both would make for a great couple: you both share a similar sense of humour, similar tastes in film and music, you both enjoy reading Dostoevsky, you’re both passably good-looking, and most importantly, you’re both inexplicably single. Your lack of attachment, or so your friends would have you believe, is astounding: you’re good looking, charming, but you’re inexplicably awkward around members of the opposite (or same) sex. So, your friends wonder, how are these two enigmatic singles still single?

Personally, you don’t actually have an answer. You acknowledge that your nominally good-looking ‘BFF’ (whatever that means) is also single, and you can kind of see her attractive qualities. But there simply isn’t a spark. But you still remain great pals: you’ve had plenty of fantastic discussions and debates over favourite movies, though you both disagree on which your favourite actually is (your favourite movie is her second favourite, and vice versa). You both appreciate Wilco, but agree that their career ended with Yankee Hotel Foxtrot – though she’ll argue that A.M. is their best work. You have had plenty of playful dust-ups and slap-boxing matches over your respective favourite Wilco albums; this doesn’t seem unnatural.

Then, one day, her roommates are out, and you’re sitting on her futon waiting to start watching the Office (U.S.). Your friend has left the room, presumably to get another can of Labatt Genuine Honey; she re-enters the room wearing say, a funny hat.

And… You get it! You get it!

This simple signifier makes you realize, makes you notice – that your friend is adorable, and so would be your offspring. And you are now able to identify that you are perfect for each other. All the recommendations from peripheral acquaintances – well, they were right! While you’re making doe-eyes at her, she hands you the beer, and you’re awestruck, slack-jawed.

“What?” she asks you playfully.

You do not reply.

“What? Quit being an ass.”

And you have nothing to say. Though initially perplexed by your reaction, she catches on quickly. She is your best friend, after all, and she can read you like an Ikea instruction manual (that is to say, adequately). And she’s overjoyed – because secretly, she feels the same way too.

I reiterate: have you ever fallen in love with a friend?

I haven’t. You know why? Because the above scenario is impossible. Im-poss-ible. The above story – a common narrative in modern film and literature – is a construct; it is our new religion. It’s a myth fabricated by the liberal media, pharmaceutical companies, and slave-trading employment agencies to keep the loveless satiated. If, according to Marx, religion was the opiate of pre-industrial masses, then Chasing Amy is the opiate for the post-modern unrequited romantic.

Now, why do these narratives exist? Quite simply, because the disenfranchised, the alienated, the loveless number in the hundreds of millions (note: fact). And if unappeased, the loveless - like My Bloody Valentine's flagship release - will embark on the greatest, bloodiest revolution in human history. The loveless have no families, no attachments, no God; the revolution of the loveless will be the non-fiction zombie apocalypse. The loveless cross ethnic, national, and class boundaries – and fictitious romance narratives are their single beacon of hope.

These narratives played the role that God once did; they are imaginative stories that offer redemption. If the loveless are to identify with such narratives – to place their faith in them – it offers hope for a better future. For the loveless, it’s the promise of far-off love; that your crushes will soon develop and reciprocate your love; that your exes will call you back after realizing their errors.

Of course, none of this ever happens.

Because, truthfully, that’s just not how love works. Love cannot be developed or nurtured; while most issues require shades of grey, love works in absolutes. You’re never unsure – you know if you’re in love (or if you’re not). You can’t be convinced of a crush – love is like an Anal Cunt song: quick, efficient, hard-hitting, and fantastic.

And this is why I am distrustful of friends who begin romantic relationships. Sometimes friends fight, sometimes friends fuck, but never do friends fall in love. They are not in love – they are settling.

That being said, the friendship-romance myth is an attractive one; I often wonder how it would feel to successfully fall in love with a slept-upon friend. I’m pretty positive that I know how it feels, because I sleep on music I love all the time.

There are tons of bands recommended to me by like-minded friends; they fulfill the ‘average band I like’ quota successfully, but for reasons unknown, I have never actually given these bands the time of day. See, these days, I’m particularly enraptured by twangy rock n’ roll with a penchant for the experimental; and I’ve been hearing loads about Blitzen Trapper and Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy. They’ve both garnered a decent amount of hype, and I’ve been assured that these bands would be perfect for me.

And then I gave them a listen. And you know what? Both bands are great. I’ve been playing Blitzen Trapper's Wild Mountain Nation and Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy's Lie Down in the Light all week. Both bands speak to my musical tastes, both tweak their respective formulas enough to distinguish themselves as musicians. As far as I can gather, the feeling I get from listening to them is probably the feeling that people presumably get when they fall in love with old friends.

Maybe love and the Pursuit of Happiness’ Moe Berg aren’t so compatible after all.

The Case for Daltrey v. Townshend

Platonic love is incredibly complex. Platonic love, as expressed in pop-culture buddy-narratives, presents itself in three distinct incarnations. If it's demonstrated with a male and a female, one is inevitably in love with the other; male-female buddy narratives conclude in romance. If demonstrated between male and canine, the male-canine relationship is relatively simple, indicating that beastly platonic relationships are heavily loyalty-based and anthropomorphic. But the most complex - and perhaps most common - buddy-narrative occurs with two males. These fraternal relationships are wrought with binaries: are the protagonists friends, or homosexual lovers? Associates, or competitors?

If one is to take the above two questions seriously, then there's always a power dynamic within fraternal relationships. If we're to examine the homosexual undertones, which friend is (excuse the terminology) the pitcher, and which the catcher? If we're to understand their relationship as competition, which friend is the alpha?

Excellent Californian artist Brandon Bird addresses such tensions excellently, and I haven't seen a better depiction of buddy-love (and the tensions held therein) than this sketch of the Who's Roger Daltrey giving Pete Townshend a noogie.

Are they lovers? Competitors? Both? (Okay, the answer is clearly both)


I'm eagerly awaiting Bird's sketch of Axl pushing Slash around on a tire-swing.

And: for a fantastic sketch of a Henry Rollins potato-sack race or Jerry Seinfeld amiably feeding a four-legged friend, please visit BrandonBird.com.

Cancanon... Mondays?

The cheesiest tattoos are those based around one's nationality or ethnicity. I mean, I admittedly do have a few cheesy tattoos, but there are some absolute horror-show tattoos that people have based around where they’re from. They probably rank somewhere below tribal pieces (which everyone knows are pretty cheesy at this point – targeting them is like shooting fish in a barrel) and perhaps Looney Tunes characters (unless in a nationality-themed Marvin the Martian, which, admittedly, is pretty cool).

Anyhow, over the years, I’ve seen some doozies – angular maple leaves designed around the Toronto Maple Leafs logo, beavers playing lacrosse, etc. To a certain point, I’d wondered what exactly was the purpose of getting these tattoos – aren’t Canadians supposed to be mild and self-effacing? Since when were we supposed to be so proud of where we’re from? I mean, it’s understandable to wear the flag whilst travelling (lest everyone think that you’re Canadian), but I mean, to etch it in your skin? It never really made sense to me.


But, little by little, my opinion has been changing. If you’re a regular reader of this blog, you’d recognize that I generally support Canadian music – past and present. And I don’t even necessarily support good Canadian music – I’m just kind of charmed by Canadian music in general. Cancanon Fridays, after all, are generally my weekly tribute to Canadian music, past and present, across generic lines; I’d like to hope that there’s no real illusion of every video I post being good.

And this is actually kind of bizarre to me. I mean, aren’t bloggers semi-tastemakers in their own right? Aren’t blogs supposed to be reflective of a particular blogger’s voice? And don’t bloggers tend to write about what they like? And don’t most bloggers seem to believe that what they like is good?

So it dawned on me – I don’t like everything I post here, or even all of the music that I write about – typically, I can actually just associate with it. And sometimes, that's even better than liking music.

And I’m beginning to understand why people get Canadian-themed tattoos – it’s probably for the exact same reasons that I continue to keep writing about Canadian music. Those with Canadian tattoos aren’t necessarily ardent nationalists, or particularly slow – really, they’re just indicating that they associate with Canadian iconography. And it’s actually quite resonant that Canadian iconography, coast to coast, consists of lacrosse rackets, tournaments of hearts, or, um, Molson Canadian beer (okay, maybe not Molson Canadian beer).

Anyhow, it’s interesting that this bland set of shared signifiers can be as resonant for someone in Victoria B.C. as they might be to someone in Labrador. And I’m not sure why we’ve chosen such a diverse, redundant set of metaphors, but it’s intriguing that we've developed and maintained them.

And the same rationale applies to Canadian music. I tend to feel that I associate with Canadian music more than music from, say, Botswana; this is, I am guessing, because the music produced in Canada was created under specific circumstances more-or-less similar to my own.

But the odd thing is that I can still identify with Canadian product created of completely dissimilar circumstances – and I’m not exactly sure why it is. For example, I’ve long admired and identified with the music coming from Vancouver, and there’s no plausible reason why. Vancouver, for all intents and purposes, is located as far away from my house as Botswana.


See, Vancouver’s a huge mystery to me. I know all of about ten people who live there – with maybe three I’d describe as ‘close friends’ – which, on the acquaintances-living-in-different-cities scale, places Vancouver slightly above Regina, SK. I’ve only really been there once, and I recall being impressed with the union of ocean and mountains; but I can’t say I got a great read on the city. My initial assumptions about the city involve bourgeois mushroom-growing snowboarders; witness account have indicated that it’s a city packed full of junkies with a overinflated rent prices. I am guessing that Vancouver’s reality lies somewhere in between both accounts.

But that being said, Vancouver is – and has always been a fantastic contributor to the Cancanon; from team Black Mountain, to the classic power-meets-ancestral-twee pop of Mint Records, Vancouver is a neck-to-neck competitor with Toronto and Montreal’s music scenes. And for this week in the Cancanon, Vancouver gets the spotlight.



Ladyhawk – My Old Jackknife
I’ve seen Ladyhawk three or four times now, and to be quite honest – I don’t understand the hype. They should be – based on the country twang, sweaty fat-dude content, and ZZ-Top bearding, the template for a band that I enjoy. They should be my favourite band, but they are not. That being said, one of my best friends from Vancouver absolutely adores them; personally, they will always be compared to frequent tour mates Attack in Black, who I deem to be the far superior band (but maybe that’s just my Eastern bias). Anyhow, I felt that any posting about Vancouver wouldn’t be complete without Ladyhawk, and ‘My Old Jackknife’ is one of my favourite Ladyhawk tracks; with rustic handclaps and a sugary-sweet chorus, I can – for a moment – believe that I love this band.



The Pointed Sticks – Lies
In my (frequently misguided) opinion, the Pointed Sticks – who have recently disbanded – are one of the most perennially underrated Canadian bands. They are, essentially, Vancouver’s answer to the incredibly strong power-pop scene in Seattle; and they can go toe to toe with (and were very much the precursor to) the Exploding Hearts. And, coming from me, that’s a compliment of the highest order. While D.O.A. tend to be the most lauded of Vancouver punk rock bands, I'll argue that the Pointed Sticks were better.



Vancougar – Distance
I’ll always be sucker for dirty, synth-heavy girl rock. Aside from having one of the best names in music, Vancougar continue in the tradition of classic Mint Records bands: sugary, gritty, verging on twee pop, and, uh, fucking great.



The Awkward Stage – The Sun Goes Down on Girlsville
I’m also not exactly sure how the Awkward Stage are forever overlooked; they possess celebrity links (with New Porno affiliation), music industry veteran savvy (possessing former members of Limblifter), and play power pop akin to mid-90s radio alt-rock. The Awkward Stage, for me, are the template BC power pop band; if Halifax is defined by Matt Murphy and Joel Plaskett, then Vancougar is defined by the Dahle brothers.



Zumpano – The Party Rages On
Zumpano entirely sounds like the New Pornographers, and rightly so – New Pornos frontman Carl Newman cut his vocal wares with Zumpano. If it hasn’t been apparent yet, Vancougar’s music, to me, is very much about power pop, and Carl Newman, much like the Dahles, is an important piece to Vancouver’s power pop voice. ‘The Party Rages On’ gets extra Canadiana points for beginning this video with Canada’s favourite surly migratory bird (read: not pigeons).