Cancanon Fridays: Giving Back to the Community

I’m not a morning person. And it’s not pleasant, nor can it be trained, like I’d initially expected; and this is disappointing to me, as I’m forever doomed to have an internal clock that’s inconsistent with the universe’s schedule. During periods of intense drinking, I’d attributed my lack of morn-enthusiasm to hangovers; however, it’s not gotten better in periods where I’ve slowed my drinking down. My ineptitude in the mornings is something that I thought I’d outgrow or phase out with a full-time job, but that’s not been the case – the awful, cold, blue dawn light coming through my windows, the jackhammering alarm, and the prospect of functioning within the world of the living is just as terrifying as it’s ever been. In my semi-awake state, I’ll always construct a bomb-proof rationale to stay in bed for an extra five minutes; and as twisted as these rationales might seem, they’ll always be right.

There’s a single thing that brightens my pre-coffee mornings – my commute to work. It’s not the prospect of getting on my bike and willing myself closer to death/work, but it’s the act of commuting itself (although, by about half-way through my ride, it does become enjoyable). Most of my bike ride is along West Queen West – along Dundas, south on Manning or Gorevale, following Queen until Yonge, then Yonge until King, for those who’d like to say hi in the mornings – and, on this stretch, there’s a small community of Queen West cyclists who I’m proud to be a part of.

Now, I’ve never actually spoken to these people, but I feel an immense solidarity with them. I generally bike along Queen during the same twenty minute window every day. There’s probably about fifteen of us, and we go on a mini-group ride every morning. The characters aren’t always consistent, but I can generally count on seeing at least five familiar faces every day: there’s the tie-clad businessman on a mountain bike, a clownish-looking messenger with on a Bianchi with gold rims, an afro, and a cycling hat restraining it, there’s the single speed fashionista on a mauve Miele bike, an older cyclist with a purple bike, matching tights, and orange rims, and a girl with bug-eyed glasses who I’ve always intended to talk to. I’ve probably only actually spoken to one of these characters (a messenger, who gave me a supportive whoop while speeding through a yellow light), and I’ve never seen them anywhere else, but these people make my morning commute worth it. I frequently wonder if they notice me as much as I notice them.

And this group is ever-changing. Admittedly, there are more people who emerge during warm days or in the summertime and disappear in cold weather; but if I don’t see a familiar face for several weeks, I start to question where they’ve gone. It’s actually quite disappointing, as I’ve developed projected personas for most of these people, and having them suddenly disappear is like arriving for a single drink before last call – their presence felt like a teaser. Have they relocated? Gotten fired? Gotten crushed by a car? I’m probably more concerned for these commuters than I am for members of my extended family.

I’ve clearly constructed a delusional community with these cyclists, just as I’ve constructed a very similar faux-community with Canadian musicians. It’s almost impossible not to after having spent the majority of my life listening to their records, attending their concerts, and, well, writing about it. And, there are way too many good musicians and good records that simply vanish after several years.

(Note: This photo of the Adam Brown performing at the Horseshoe Tavern is one of the most Canadian photos ever taken)

In some cases, it’s easier to track to the happenings of Canadian musicians once the spotlight has chosen to shine elsewhere. Some, like Matt Murphy of the Superfriendz, Kurt Dahle of Age of Electric, and Julie Doiron of Eric’s Trip continue their careers in underrated bands. Ian Blurton, of Change of Heart, has restructured his career towards music production. The midget-fronted Econoline Crush is targeting a revival; mid-30 year old women in leopard print tights continue to dance. Robin Black, of the Intergalactic Rock Stars, is perennially walking his dog on Ossington; he is still PVC-clad. Edwin, of I Mother Earth, now serves up drinks to nouveau-riche frat-boys at Tattoo Rock Parlour. It’s rumoured that the gargoyle-ish Ken MacNeil of Rusty bartends in Vancouver and the drummer of Treble Charger is now a dishwasher.

But these are only the notable names: how many Canadian musicians simply fade into obscurity? How many become embittered music-store workers before their looks fail them? And are we providing our valued musicians with a safety-net?

I’m not exactly sure, but this Cancanon Friday, I’d like to extend my appreciation to the community of Canadian musicians. Because, justified or not, I also care about them more than my extended family (but maybe not as much as the Queen street cyclists).



Pluto – Paste
Vancouver’s Pluto were the type of band that I infrequently listen to; but, whenever I put on their records, I’d always regret my neglect. Paste is driven by one of the most excellent, simple basslines in Canadian song; it also contains the hyper-authentic lyric of being able to ‘taste the glue / holding the smile upon my face.’ I’ve never seen Pluto live, and this has contributed to my long-standing belief that Vancouver is the universe’s power-pop Mecca (harbouring bands such as the New Pornographers, Vancougar, the Pointed Sticks, and of course, Mint Records).



Rascalz – Northern Touch
Initially meant to be an expose for Rascalz and some of the brightest up-coming Canadian hip-hop talent, Northern Touch is an essential banger for all late-90s Canadian hip hop playlists. And while it’s entirely encouraging that Kardinal Offishall has achieved success since then, it’s entirely disappointing that few of the other MCs featured in the video didn’t achieve similar heights (save for, perhaps, Thrust, who appeared on a SoulDecision song).



Salmonblaster – Freeway
Freeway was a bizarre semi-hit; though Salmonblaster were even a marginal band during the mid-90s Canadian alt-rock explosion, they achieved modest fame due to repeated tongue-lashings from tragic Muchmusic VJ Ed the Sock (who justifiably ridiculed their band name). Much like Ed the Sock, this is a video that could have only occurred in the 1990s.



Tom Cochrane – I Wish You Well
‘I Wish You Well’ – Tom Cochrane’s best song, and the black sheep of his singles collection, is a notable song only for the mid-20s set; it’s probably not remembered at all by others. This song – much like the entirety of the Empire Records soundtrack – perfectly defines wistfulness for a generation; for me, this was the song that sent me off into high school, and it’s equivalent to (or better then) anything the Gin Blossoms ever produced. Which is strange, because I don’t even like Tom Cochrane. He’s often labeled as Canada’s ‘thinking man’s rocker,’ but it should also be noted that John Mellencamp has also been labeled as the ‘poet laureate of the Midwest.’ Clearly, these designations don’t carry much weight.



King Khan and the Shrines – I Want to be a Girl (live)
I’ll admit it – today’s contemporary pick is only quasi-Canadian. Though King Khan typically describes himself as being Berlin-based, he’d also spent his formative years in Montreal, QC. ‘I Want to be a Girl’ is a completely special song; though its title hints at the clichéd gender-bending approach adopted by countless bands, Khan actually inquisitively tries to understand a female perspective. It’s completely refreshing, unironic, and… masculine. Though, viewers beware: this video features mangina, which doesn’t actually involve chest pains (note: that’s angina), but the rough approximation of a penis-vagina.