What GQ Won't Tell You About Mens' Issues.

It's strange how certain issues - very broad, common issues that afflict most human beings - can mysteriously become taboos. Most of these taboos are related to, but not limited to, bodily functions. As an example, sharting (or as my resident etymologist explains, taken from Austronesian origins, 'shit-farting') is almost never discussed, as it's rather embarrassing to soil yourself; but it's safe to say that most hard-drinking young adults have done it at least once. One of my friends has sharted while she was figure skating; another discreetly performed the act at a packed house party - in which his underpants were tossed into a tree. As for myself, I've personally caught myself prior to a job interview. Per my discussions about sharting (discussion which don't occur nearly as often as they should), I've found that once the shart taboo is breached, floodgates open - stories come pouring in, social barriers crumble, genuine conversation ensues, and an authentic sense of community is formed amongst all involved.

Now, of course, sharting is one of many, many taboos. Maintaing a set of taboos can be dangerous and frustrating - it creates a constructed separation between your private and public life. In zones deemed private, you find relaxation - as you no longer have to expel the effort required to enshroud the taboo aspects of your lifestyle. But in return for creating a private / safe haven, your public life becomes an absolute nightmare: the instant you exit your private sphere, you are constantly an actor in a schizophrenic film noir nightmare; you are concealing an ugly secret that (you hope) no one is aware of; you are dodging questions and people that might expose your fraudulence; you are a fugitive on the run from authenticity. The paranoia becomes inescapable. And that's no way to live.

And as disappointing as a shattered public life might be, it's even more disappointing that a large bulk of men's issues are considered shameful and concealed to mens' private lives. Viagra commercials, for example, are only able to promote their product via implication; while not specifically mentioning erectile dysfunction, they promote the benefits of a fully-functioning penis: women skipping through the streets, men clicking their heels, people flying kites, petting random dogs in the streets, etc.

And most men, knowingly or unknowingly, are victimized by taboo mens' issues. There are no mens' support groups for what can be very, very alarming, upsetting mens' issues, which means that men must attack these issues on their own - making some very simple, common, issues appear to be daunting. Men are taught to revile and loathe their bodies and their bodily functions; I assume that this is why so many men religiously work out, as sculpting their muscles is one aspect of their bodies that they can control. But, men are still silently victimized by ever-growing hairlines, sagging spare-tire guts, pre-mature ejaculation, whiskey-dick, whiskey-dick-without-the-whiskey, genital warts, and, eventually, kidney stones and hemorrhoids. These are all run-of-the-mill health issues, but men are made to be ashamed of them. If women exist in a culture of self-loathing, men exist in a culture of fear.

And the scariest part of the man's culture of fear is that there is no support. Like Fight Club, the first rule of mens' issues is you never, ever, talk about them. This ensures that mens' issues remain obscured; men feel shamed, alone; problems are never addressed or rectified.

Until Sub Pop's Pissed Jeans released their sophomore LP, Hope For Men. And, with a decisive subtle, noisy-punk rock victory, Pissed Jeans reminded us that these is, indeed, hope for men.

Pissed Jeans tackles the covert authenticity of our private lives in 'Fantasy World,' where singer Matt Corvette frantically (almost desparately) screams that 'I'm a special guy in my fantasy world.' While meant to be pathetic or desparate, it's a hugely resonant lyric. In dealing with the daily shame, frustration, and the machinations of day-to-day living, Corvette turns his focus to ice cream on 'I've Always Got You (Ice Cream). 'Just a taste and all my troubles fall behind,' laments Corvette, 'Sweet bowl of sugar is there to ease my mind.' And, to give any further indication of the topical content covered by Pissed Jeans, Hope for Men features song titles such as 'People Person,' 'Secret Admirer,' 'A Bad Wind,' 'Caught Licking Leather,' and 'The Jogger.' Interpret those as you may.

It's irrelevant what these songs sound like, or what your particular preferences in music are; you don't even have to listen to this record to know that it's important.

And, I'll elaborate: there are good records, important records, and seminal records - records that, supposedly spawned like-minded offspring, but truthfully, are either good or important records that no one really listens to. Now, good records don't necessarily have to be important, and important records don't have to be good, and really, seminal records don't have to be either.

Good records are records that typically have singular appeal, but do not hold any broader significance - outside of being, perhaps, associated with very user-specific, particular memories, they have little impact on our collective psyche / memory, nor are they considered to memorable. These records these are records that people often defend by saying that they're 'fun,' but few actually hold any pretensions that the record will be memorable. Weezer's Maladroit is a good record.

Seminal records are records that, oftentimes, constitute the Credibility Records section of your album collection. By definition, or so my etymologist tells me, seminal records are the seed that spawned bands, conventions, movements. These are records that, while you may not ever listen to them, have had a hand in shaping genre-specific conventions of music. They don't have to be good, but a certain segment of musicians had to have noticed, emulated, and drawn success from seminal records. The Yardbirds are a seminal band, Black Flag's My War is a seminal record; the Beatles' 'Helter Skelter' is a seminal song.

But important records differ from both good records and seminal records. They're records that hold significance that often transcends music; they are the product of movements, they possess meaning in contexts that are both more broad and more specific than the contexts that we usually allot to musicians. In positing that Radiohead's Kid A is the unofficial soundscape of 9/11, I'm guessing that Chuck Klosterman, in Killing Yourself to Live, is arguing that it is an important record. Despite the fact that Oi! group Skrewdriver wrote white supremacist music, their racist catalogue is the most important part of their musical careers: they came to be the soundtrack to not only racist skinheads, but reflective of the modern neo-Nazi movement. These are albums, that, as Plato notes, are dangerous albums who give, in his words, 'sovereignty [to] the audience' from social norms: they are albums that infiltrate listeners, lowers their listeners' guard, and influences (or controls!) the very way in which they construct or de-construct reality. And make no mistake, Pissed Jeans created an absolute coup of an album.

I reiterate: Pissed Jeans' Hope for Men is an important record. They are Bikini Kill for disenfranchised, aging men; their sludgy punk rock is the new riot grrl!. They are the singular voice of the voiceless. Godspeed, Pissed Jeans.

EDIT: Arab Strap's 'There is No Ending,' from their excellent album The Last Romance, is also an excellent novice mens' issues song.

Really, Jay Reatard Doesn't Give a Fuck

I've been listening to a lot of Jay Reatard heavily for the last several weeks. Initially writing him off several years ago, I gave him a listen after discovering that he'd signed a record deal with Matador Records- which is kind of surprising, as I'd always felt that his earlier brand of filthy garage was... well, underwhelming.

Luckily, I'm often wrong.

Amidst all the fanfare given to Mr. Reatard, I think that I've finally understand his broad appeal. Unlike the bold, aggressive crotch-grabbing-while-rocking-on-your-heels-and-wincing-in-pain claims by certain white rappers that they 'just don't give a fuck,' it's become evident that Jay Reatard simply just does not give a fuck. He's probably the music world's most prominent current don'tgiveafucksman. For examples of Jay Reatard simply just not giving a fuck, here are a few videos of Jay Reatard not reliquishing a single ounce of fuck from his much-maligned visit to Toronto's Silver Dollar earlier this year.

Here are Jay's comments on the Silver Dollar incident. This is precisely why I'm insanely excited to see Reatard play on October 16th at Sneaky Dee's (which, sadly, still hasn't collapsed as earlier predicted), as if violence isn't exactly kosher, it's almost always entertaining.

Manufacturing Content

I am a first generation Canadian, and I suspect that this is a fairly common experience for many Torontonians; I'm guessing that first-generationers probably occupy a significant portion of the 'Canadian-Born' slice of pie (see above). As a first-generationer, my parents are immigrants. As such, I’ve got to quasi-witness the immigrant experience via my parents, which generally involved frustration, language barriers, and a whole lot of confusion.

Now, I’ve experienced culture-shock, having recently lived overseas – and believe me, it is frustrating. Not being able to read or understand a language – and being social creatures, the expectation to communicate with others – is an insanely frustrating experience. And, needless to say, I was not terribly happy most of the time; in fact, I wore a perma-scowl and adopted the manner of an indignant old British woman. Ordering meals were three hour ordeals, and fuck-ups were routine; and while this was no one’s fault but the language barrier’s, I didn’t manufacture content(ment).

Now, this attitude might have been fairly easy for me to adopt, as I had no intentions of being a Canadian ambassador overseas, nor did I intend on living overseas for the long-term. But I suspect that these attitudes are not necessarily shared by immigrants, my parents included. See, immigrants have the immediate – and immense – pressures of assimilating – understanding, embracing, and blending into a new culture (and I don’t care about the melting pot vs. cultural mosaic debate – assimilation occurs). Now, if my parents, after almost 40 years in Canada, still haven’t truly assimilated, I doubt if it’s truly possible. And, why should anyone care, unless you’re trying to preserve some sort of non-existent Canadian cultural hegemony (which is tantamount to defending the Narnian cultural hegemony)?

Now, I’m not sure where these pressures come from, but they certainly exist. And what boggles my mind, is that when many immigrants encounter cultural cognitive dissonance, they just feign happiness. Unfamiliar environs? Smile. Can’t communicate a simple task? Smile. Your son tazered to his death in a Vancouver airport? Smile. Why, exactly, must immigrants feel that it is their responsibility to be entirely at ease in a new, confusing, and oftentimes, hostile culture?

Now, this happened to me this morning on my bike commute, as a frustratingly-slow old Chinese man nearly swerved into my bike, driving me into free-flowing traffic. Of course, I had choice words for him – and believe me, I wasn’t happy. But he just smiled at me. Hey, even if didn’t understand reprimands from a surly, sleepy-eyed business casual cyclist, I wouldn’t pretend to be happy with him. I’m guessing that either he’d achieved zen-like inner peace or was just simply confused by the situation.

So why must immigrants feign happiness when we’re encountered with unusual, or incomprehensible, situations? Whenever I’m encountered with things I don’t understand, I’m generally pretty surly. Nothing gets me crankier than astro-physics and Noam Chomsky.

A few days ago, I referenced an old feature I’d written yesterday about Christian Rock for the college newspaper I’d written for, the McGill Daily. To my dismay, upon rereading it, it’s fucking terrible. But – I did bring up a fairly good point that I still stand by, and that’s the classifications in which we order our record collections. Without getting too deeply into the matters, the breakdown of the general music aficionado’s record collection, like the one below, typically breaks down into the following categories (numbers have been revised since):

- Your predictable record collection (60%)
- Guilty Pleasures (20%)
- Credibility Records (20%)

Now, I’m not going to address the standard portion of your record collection, nor the guilty pleasures: today, I will address the Credibility portion. Seemingly, whenever a music fan undertakes a new musical project, or enters a new musical community (or scene, or whatever it is the kids call it these days), those 20% of credibility records you own become the most important segment of your record collection. Much like the newly landed immigrant, entry-level participants in a new genre are expected to assimilate: and they’re expected to smile along with their credibility records.

Credibility records (or, really, canon records) are bizarre for several reasons – within a community of music listeners, you’re expected to have them, and you’re expected to reference them heavily. Bizarrely enough, though, you’re not actually required to listen to them. For example, if you’re a newly-converted hardcore fan, you’re expected to possess, depending on your particular stream of hardcore, Minor Threat’s discography (or the Out of Step LP), the Cro-Mags Age of Quarrel, Bad Brains’ I Against I, Agnostic Front’s Victim in Pain (but probably not United Blood, and definitely not Gotta Go) and a for the lighthearted, maybe a few early Walter Schreifels produced goods – Gorilla Biscuits, Youth of Today, Moondog, and maybe Quicksand. Now, while these are all good records, there are definitely some that uniquely appeal to particular music listeners – I, for one, favour Gorilla Biscuits’ Start Today (actually, I'm always pretty well in a Schreifels mood) and Age of Quarrel – but for most, not all of those records will be appealing. I don’t really listen to Agnostic Front, and I go in and out of Bad Brains moods. I’m always impressed with Minor Threat, but I’m rarely compelled to listen to them.

But, as these are all canon records, new listeners are compelled to possess all these records, and maintain a certain requisite amount of knowledge about them. Needless to say, criticism of canon records is strictly forbidden. And, why exactly, is that? To maintain a sense of history and continuity? To be able to bridge gaps between contemporary music and their ancestors? These are all aspects that grizzled veterans with well-honed tastes can appreciate, but it’s an unreasonable expectation for those who are just getting familiarized with uncharted musical territories.

For the new music fan, it’s understandable to be dazzled by current events, by bands they can actually witness in person, and music that is reflective of contexts that they can understand. Why are they bound to the pre-determined social contracts of particular communities, and when did they agree to do so? Why is the non-existant 13-year old Teen Idles fan expected to possess feign knowledge when it’s clearly not there?

I’m not really sure, but to the new music fan: feigning knowledge on bands you’ve never personally witnessed and referencing songs you’re not familiar with isn’t impressive. It’s not even innately worthwhile. It just makes you look like a newly-landed immigrant, smiling, nodding, and compliantly toasting marshmallows on a burning cross planted in their front lawn.

Enjoying music is hardly academic – deconstruction and archival knowledge aren’t exactly necessary (and really, people who enjoy these activities too much are flat-out irritating), just as immigration shouldn’t be centred around assimilation. Even if the immigrant cyclist didn't understand me that morning, I just wished he would have unleashed a string of invective in my general direction.

Painting the Town Orange and Green

Every now again - it seems like a bi-annual occurence - everyone has an appreciation night. Apreciation nights typically involve being unpredictably revered for a night, and they are a most pleasant surprise and confidence booster. For example, my most recent appreciation night inolved having several drinks bought for me at the bar, compliments from strangers on my smile and wardrobe (which, I assure you, are dumpy at best), and a complimentary bottle of Jagermeister for the walk home. They're magical nights where you are temporarily tranformed into a Dandy Warhol, where everyone seems to want to talk to you, and where conversations are never mundane (but you probably have to ride your pumpkin carriage home before last call).

And it appears that NDP leader Jack Layton has had an appreciation night.

Layton, earlier this week, had been anointed by Quebecois rag Journal de Montreal as the election's sexiest candidate. And, this, seemingly, was a message that Layton took to heart: a few scant days later, Layton, Bloc leader Gilles Duceppe, Quebecois Liberal MP Dennis Coderre were spotted clubbing at Montreal's Club Soda. Though labelled as an anti-Conservative rally, there's no doubt that the boys were just being boys: unbuttoning shirts three full buttons down (as Layton reportedly had) and aggressively thrusting their crotches as adversaries and suitors alike.

Following Stephen Harper's claim, in defense of his proposed culture cuts, that culture and the arts were unimportant to 'ordinary people,' the boys defiantly bucked Harper's claim with style. Though Harper boldly claims that culture subsidies are padding the coffers of wealthy artists (quite the oxymoron) and funding elaborate wine and cheeses, Layton, Duceppe, and Coderre responded in solidarity with 'youth culture': a wonderous land of vowel-free band names, kissing girls (and liking it), and partaking in rousing, updated interpretations of 'Sweet Home Alabama.' I'd let Layton buy me a drank any day of the week.

Schwarzenbach to the Future!

A few days ago, I though I’d lost my wallet on my commute home. As I bike-commute to business casual-hell every day, I was able to retrace my steps: I’d went back to work, went though the motions of the last half-hour of my work day, and then frustratingly crawled home on my bike, searching every nook and cranny on the way. By the time I’d returned home, wallet-less, I was completely broke and despondent, probably like the fella in the picture above.

Since this week is pay week – and for me, that means that the payout occurs at the end of the week – I’ve been living in abject poverty. Pay week poverty is some intense shit – it’s like the poverty of college intensified, as loans, part-time jobs, and sympathetic parents simply are no longer an option. With pay-day poverty, you stare death directly in the face: you’re dealing with five abrasive work days with your spare-change mug as the only lubricant. You come to understand how those pay-day advance places survive: when you’re dealing with pay-week poverty, you even begin to empathize with dogs eating from litterboxes. Diets consist of the contents of your fridge, resulting in ketchup sandwiches made with bread ends. I’ve debated eating the eggs that came with the apartment. Pay week vividly reminds me that I am, indeed, a starving artist – I mean, without the art.

But aside from losing the little money that I had, I was a lot more upset that I’d lost my archive of (notable) ex-girlfriend photos that I’d stored in my wallet. Now, before I’m labeled a creep or an overly melodramatic Livejournal poster, I wasn’t even aware that I possessed this archive until a few months ago. As I never really clean out my wallet, it’s perpetually stuffed with old baseball tickets, receipts, and laughably expired condoms. As it turns out – as I found out during a rare wallet cleansing – that, in the murky depths of my wallet, I’ve also amassed a memento to failed relationships as well.

This to me was a revelation, and upon reviewing the several photos, I’d had thoroughly mixed reactions. It was tantamount to examining decade-old records you’ve owned but had packed away in storage; you’re always surprised at what you once listened to, bought, or considered favourites. Like, why did I own a Victor record – a miscarriage of a side project featuring I Mother Earth’s / Tattoo Rock Parlour bartender’s Edwin and Rush’s Alex Lifeson? How did I discover Dinosaur Jr.’s You’re Living all Over Me at such an early age, and why do I listen to it more now than I did a decade ago? How did I gain possession of an INXS record, and why does MuchMusic's Big Shiny Tunes 2 reside in its jewel case? Does anyone remember Salmonblaster, or their Geocities fansite? Why did I adore Bush X’s Sixteen Stone with full knowledge that Gavin Rossdale once penned the lyric ‘Mickey Mouse has grown up a cow?’

Anyhow, my archive of ex-girlfriend photos – seen in retrospect – brought up a lot of similar questions. Having the power of retrospection cast an entirely different shade on the photos; because although everyone is caught smiling in the photos, I’m entirely sure about how all those relationships ended (though they didn’t all end terribly). Some photos are looked upon fondly, and some make me want to plunge a steak knife to my sternum; and this is precisely why I’ve kept them around. Since they were able to trigger such a wide range of emotions, I decided to keep them in my wallet to keep me level-headed. Anytime I experience serotonin-rushing highs or sobbing-in-fetal-position-in-shower lows, I always can rely on these photos to mediate my moods. They can either remind me that I’m a founding member of the Dandy Warhols, or that Mickey Mouse has, indeed, grown up a cow.

Music associated with particular relationships – or with certain periods of our lives – can often trigger the same emotions. And while I won’t delve into the role of music in memories or devolve this posting into sentimental yap, there certainly are triggers that occur upon listening to certain songs or records. As an example, the Empire Records soundtrack – in particular, the Gin Blossoms' ‘Hear it From You,’ triggers a rush of middle school memories that never actually occurred. A Grade Eight dance I probably loathed, dancing with a girl with my fists tensely balled up against her hips, her sweaty palms grasping my shoulders, the unlikely 3 metre chasm between our torsos, and a terse, unenjoyable kiss to top it off. See, these things never actually happened, and this is why I’m positive that ‘Hear it From You’ is a trigger for my generation’s collective memory (whether or not that event specifically occurred to anyone).

And, as music can trigger collective or specific memories, most music fans are familiar with the phenomenon of ruined records. These records were, typically, some of your favourite records; however, due to an unbreakable association with a traumatic event, these records (or sometimes even bands) are ruined forever. There is a stipulation, though: these records actually have to be some of your favourites: overly-dramatic records by goofs such as Elliott Smith don’t actually count, because they’re ruined by the time you’ve first listened to them.

My particular ruined record is Jawbreaker’s Dear You – a partially pre-ruined record, for sure, but not necessarily an obvious choice. See, like many Jawbreaker fans, I’d written the album off years earlier, then rediscovered it – unfortunately, it happened during a time I like to refer to as the Summer of Self-Loathing. I’d spent the entire summer working in Montreal, living out the (possibly) most melodramatic, hyper-exaggerated Schwarzenbach-esque lifestyle possible, basking in my crushed psyche. And, for some reason, I seemed to believe that my life consisted of being funny like a funeral, creating ashtray monuments, and keeping rooms at hospitals – none of which even remotely occurred, I mostly just drank more than average. This didn’t seem unnatural for me at the time.

I took this time to discover that Blake Schwarzenbach was an excellent wordsmith, and that Dear You might actually be one the best records in the pop-punk canon. But, due to my rudimentary associative abilities, I simply can’t listen to it anymore lest I become a soiled-diapered, bawling tot. And, of course, there are times when I need to ground myself – anytime I get a new job, anytime I get off work early, anytime someone buys me a coffee – and these are times I put on Dear You. During good times, you need the subtle reminder that, as (my current favourite blogger) BikesnobNYC states, you can’t get high on life: life isn't a drug, it's a corrosive.

As for Dear You, and the Summer of Self-Loathing, I’m personally glad that that particular era is over.

And, maybe it’s time to actually clean out my wallet.

The Reason I Can't Sleep at Night: Weezer

Who the hell is this new tattooed guy in Weezer? Forgive me if I don't know it; I haven't really pondered the aesthetic, or membership, of Weezer for quite a while. And I wonder this, of course, because I actually do think an inordinate amount about Weezer (I just don't pore over their press kits). Too much, probably, but I feel like this is justified: aside from the heavyweights, Weezer are as close a thing to a generational musical talent that I've witnessed. There's a can't-fail rubric for assessing the quality of a band’s career and their greatness – and it doesn’t necessarily have to do with the volume of their released material – and it is as follows:

1 Great Record = Good Bands (see: the Exploding Hearts, Thin Lizzy, My Bloody Valentine, Neutral Milk Hotel, etc.)
2 Great Records = Great Bands (see: Jawbreaker, arguably Pavement, Husker Du, etc.)
3+ Great Records = Generational Talent (see: Radiohead, Springsteen, Neil Young, the Clash, etc. None of these bands need links)

Note: This particular piece doesn’t involve the strength of particular tracks, and it is for this reason that I’ll exclude particular bands such as Ryan Adams, who seems to produce several good tracks per album, but still has yet to produce a cohesively great record. These are bands, whom, as my friend Gary just pointed out over our embarrassingly business-casual lunch, whose greatest hits albums trump any one particular album. Current bands such as Anoraak and Snowden are, in their young careers, greatest hits bands, that is: good bands led on the strength of singles – ‘Night Drive with You’ and ‘Anti-Anti,’ respectively. The above guidelines also don’t include bands who have been consistently successful and interesting throughout their careers, but lack real tour-de-force albums: bands such as Wilco and Built to Spill come to mind.

Now, while I understand that the above formula seems a wee reductionist – and you might disagree with some of the examples I’ve cited – I feel that the formula works no matter how you define great bands. Plenty of bands reach the 1-or-2 great record plateau, but very few have 3 great records. Most bands who have 3 defining records are, typically, both wildly successful and wildly popular; these are bands that can bridge the gap between populist support and critical acclaim. The interstitial bands – those who straddle the spaces between 1, 2, or 3 great records – tend to be cult bands who appeal to very specific audiences; these bands are disqualified, as there is no real way to argue their specific value.

But the reason that Weezer are so interesting is that not only have they released two great, great records (and have remained relatively prolific since), but they’ve hinted that a third might be on its way. Of course, Weezer’s third album – the Green Album – was a complete flop. And, as they haven’t released a great album since Pinkerton (although they’ve come close), they’re continually stalled at second base – they’re a perennially a great band on the cusp of becoming a generational band.

If I remember correctly, I was in my first year of post-secondary when Green was released, and I listened to it a lot. In fact, at the time, I’m sure that I almost believed that it cemented Weezer’s entry into the (unofficial) rock n’ roll hall of fame. But, my initial impressions of Green were entirely misguided – as it turns out, I was just hungry for some new Weezer material after a 5-year layoff. And, my hunger was most likely exacerbated by the fact that it was the album directly following Pinkerton, which roughly 60% of Weezer fans agree is their best album, despite having potentially the worst lead single of their entire career in ‘El Scorcho.’

(Aside: El Scorcho sounds like a circus jaunty for toddlers, and people seem to forget that it includes the lyrics: ‘I asked you to go to a Green Day concert / You said you’d never heard of them / How cool is that? / So I went home and read your diary.’ There is no way that these lyrics achieve being precious, or self-aware, or tongue-in-cheek, or whatever it is that the band aimed for. They are just terrible, abominations of words that probably should never, ever, have been strung up alongside each other. I repeat: abomination. The amateurish sped-up/half-time breakdown bridge is taken from the playbook of bands comprised strictly of perpetual younger siblings. Based on the strength of the single, I’m a lot more understanding of the initial critical disowning of this record.)

Anyhow: the only memorable track on Green – ‘Island in the Sun’ – is actually one of Weezer’s best tracks period, but the rest of the album is completely forgettable. While the Blue Album fused 50s pop with the perfect 90s fuzzed out guitar tone, and Pinkerton fused veiled pedophilia (see the creepy picture to the left) with blistering guitar solos, the Green Album offers nearly nothing of value. Kitschy, toddler-penned lyrics (see: Hash Pipe or Simple Pages), verse-chorus-bridge-chorus-chorus structures, and solos that mirrored the chorus melodies. Following Pinkerton, and as the culmination of a half-decade of silence, Green just seemed… lazy and uninspired.

Some Weezer fans liked to demonize Rivers Cuomo for expunging Matt Sharp from the band. Gone with Sharp, they’d argue, were the noisy guitar solos (though Sharp played the bass), perfect falsetto harmonies; and, these Weezer fans would be right, except for the fact that they’re completely wrong. Not only has Sharp’s work with his current band, the Rentals, been lacklustre, but these fans ignore the fact that Cuomo was, is, and probably always will be Weezer’s primary songwriter. Weezer’s talent lies precisely within him, and Weezer’s continual flirtation with generational status relies on Cuomo and Cuomo alone. As the Red Album and Make Believe (and it's laughable 0.4 Pitchfork rating - if anyone take Pitchfork seriously) have demonstrated, Weezer cannot handle shared songwriting duties. And, if Cuomo’s singular talents wasn’t immediately evident, then look no further than Weezer’s 4th album, Maladroit, the perennially forgotten but most criminally underrated Weezer album (and yes, Pinkerton no longer qualifies as underrated).


While Maladroit doesn’t necessarily shed the amateurish lyrics of Green (which, after some thought, have always been present in their catalog), it does have some extremely good songs. By my calculations, the first eight songs are better-than-average arena bangers: evidence that Weezer have, in fact, resuscitated the riff, which had made a brief disappearance. As well, the solo made a triumphant return – with solos on such tracks such as ‘Gone Fishin’ rivaling the discordant triumph of Pinkerton. While it was an reiteration of previous, and successful, Weezer memes, Maladroit is a good album; and while not great, it is probably only the 3rd fully enjoyable album in their entire career. And, I’m inclined to believe that if it hadn’t existed, Maldroit would be Pinkerton.

I owe much of my Maladroit observations to my friend Rob, who writes for the excellent Action and Action. And, truth be told, if it weren’t for Maladroit, I would have left Weezer for dead (case in point: I hadn’t heard Maladroit in its entirety until well over a year after its release). But, what Maladroit proves to me is that Weezer, or more specifically, an incarnation minus Matt Sharp, is still a capable band. If, by some burst of inspiration, they can even recreate another Maladroit, they’d still be a band listening to. But, more importantly, they’d be a band, once again, pushing on the generational status.

How to Lose Friends and Alienate People

One of my best friends in the world is from Cleveland, Ohio. Now, although I have several 'best friends' (most of them are imaginary or animated), he is of a particular best friend stock – he is also my mortal enemy. Though he understands my inner workings better than those with whom I share a last name, he also knows what makes me tick; and, as such, every time I see him, we spend about 15 minutes on pleasantries prior to going straight for the jugular.

Now, this isn’t to necessarily indicate that we are savages – but I’d say that our relationship compares favourably to a particularly resonant Irvine Welsh short story entitled 'The Two Philospohers' (featured in his compilation, the Acid House). The short story begins unassumingly – with two university professors, one a classical economist, the other a bleeding heart socialist, meeting at a pub for drinks. This is fairly standard fare amongst colleagues, and their discussion is civil and academic; but, as drinks begin to flow, their differences become more glaring. Verbal barbs turn to fisticuffs, and, as Welsh novels tend to conclude, broken glass and bloodshed soon ensue (though, per this particular short story, there is a notable lack of heroin and transvestites). And most debates between my friend and I tend to escalate in such a manner.

Predictably, in the last several years, our lives have had divergent paths. He’s nursed a burgeoning interest in electronic music; I’ve learned to play the ukulele. He’s learned to eat a KFC Chicken bowl hands-free; I’ve become a vegetarian. He’s relocated to Dubai with his beautiful Korean girlfriend, accumulating exorbitant amounts of money; I’ve relocated back to my hometown, scraping by on rent in a mouldy basement apartment, doomed to neverending bachelorhood.

If we are songwriters, we’re most likely an early model of Propagandhi: if he is Chris Hannah, I’m most likely John K. Sampson. While he is full of vitriol, anger, and snappy, reactionary ideology, I’m probably milder, quieter, and more prone to writing country music in the mid-tempos. While he is impassioned, more succintly intelligent, and more popular with the teenage set, I am disgruntled, embittered, but still probably the better songwriter (and also, more emaciated).

Anyhow, we would frequently butt heads over our choices in music. To outsiders, most assumed that we listened to exactly the same type of music – and for the most part, we did. But, being argumentative, stubborn types, we found disagreements in the details. Our disagreement was for sport, and this is the typical behaviour of arch-nemeses.

Now, we each had our particular methods of disagreement; mine tended to take a nemesis’ musical recommendation, half-listen listen to it, and fabricate blind, scathing criticism. It’s a surprisingly effective tactic to antagonize someone; and, unfortunately, I discovered (the hard way), that he actually listened to some pretty decent music. In fact, he tended to discover great bands far earlier than I did, and I owe the discovery of some of my favourite bands - the Weakerthans included - to my frien-nesis.

While stretching out feigned antagonism is a fun mental exercise, being flat-out, completely wrong can be quite embarrassing.

His method, on the other hand, was a complex reductionist (huh?) formula. In antagonizing my music tastes, my nemesis would take my musical choices, reduce them to their base elements, and degrade them through a network of less-than-favourable comparisons. Here was his formula, as best described by myself:

(Artifact) Criticism = Influential band comparison + Ridiculing of a Base Element

So, if I, for example, championed Hot Water Music’s Forever and Counting, he’d conclude that they are a ‘weak Fugazi, with half-assed beard-rock harmonies.’ So, broken down:

(Hot Water Music)Criticism = Fugazi + Beard-rock Harmonies

If I enjoyed mid-90s Boston Straight Edge band Fastbreak, he’d conclude that they sound like ‘Lifetime DPing the exhumed corpse of how Ian MacKaye initially perceived straight edge when he wrote Out of Step in the 1980s.’ Black Mountain, without a doubt, are ‘Black Flag’s My War era covered by granola-munching Vancouver toddlers.’ And Allen Iverson's CD is no doubt 'Shaquille O'Neal, for the teen pregnancy set (or: Shaq Diesel, if by Shaq, you mean AI, and if by diesel, you mean Crystal Meth).'

Now, he wasn't often wrong with his comparisons; in fact, most of the time, his critical formula actually proved to be both humorous and, oftentimes, exposed actual truths about my musical tastes. Through my friend, I came to the realization that listening to music isn't meant to be fun; it's not a hobby; knitting quilts is a hobby. Underwater basket-weaving is a hobby.

Listening to music is labour, and thankless labour at that; to the frontal-lobe impaired, maybe listening to music is about what you like. But for the grizzled veterans, those who experienced music via cassette, music is never about what you like - music is about what you dislike. And in order to dislike music, you have to develop a certain amount of critical acumen, which can only be developed with years and years of drudging through boring records and defining why it is, exactly, what you dislike others' taste in music. It is a critical trade, and music listeners define, develop, and fine-tune their criticism. I suspect that most seasoned music listeners don't even like music. Which is why so many of us choose to engage in submerged basket-weaving in our spare time.

Anyhow, it's been brought up to my attention that my nemesis' critical formula has been co-opted via PlanetHiltron.com. So, in tribute to my friend and nemesis, I present to you one of the finest Internet memes to grace the InterWorld (or, at least, the best one since the O RLY owl), Celebrities if they were from Cleveland. These images are particularly confusing, as it's somewhat difficult to determine whether they're intended as a criticism of Ohio or the celebrities in question. Decide yourself:

(Ohio)Criticism = Celebrity + Cleveland-based physical attributes

OR

(Celebrity)Criticism = Celebrity + Cleveland-based physical attributes

More: PlanetHiltron.com

Everything Zen, Everything Zen (I don't think so)

Why, exactly, do people update their Facebook statuses as '[Insert Name] is.', as if it's meant to be some sort of groundbreaking, existential discovery? Is this intended to bring enlightenment to the Facebook feeds of your closest associates? Moreover, is '.' the apex of your self-actualization - a profound discovery that you simply just 'is.', will only 'is.', and nevermore? Does 'is.'-ing bring you personal satisfaction or joy, anguish or hardship? Will Facebook friends be impressed with this dazzling display of Zen and the Art of Mundane Facebook Status Maintenance?

The easy answer is 'yes.'

Earth Crises of Faith: Starbucks on Queen Street!

I usually start my blog posts with assertive, controversial statements. And today's post will be no different. Save for the modifier 'usually,' I'd argue that the opening sentence of this posting was very assertive. Alright, alright – I'll try again.

I catch a lot of flak for openly proclaiming that the best rock n' roll song of the last decade was (and is) Lifehouse's Hanging by a Moment. Most disaffected music fans tend to assume that I'm trying to be overly controversial. Those who mistakenly allot me with intellectual credibility seem to assume that I'm running some sort of a social experiment, or that there is a punch-line to follow. And some believe that the statement is meant to be pure kitsch. But it's not. I am dead serious.

Like most critical interpretations of music, I'm not able to properly articulate exactly why I feel this way. I do know, however, that I prefer the Hanging by a Moment's opening bass riff to anything Kim Gordon has ever written. I know that the perfectly-executed, uber-dramatic pause prior the final chorus (where the song settles, deceiving the listener into believing that the song is over, then wham! The chorus is back tenfold, but the short pause has allowed the drummer to regain his breath, and he is now banging his kit with newfound conviction. It gets me every time. But I digress) sends shivers down my spine. And while authenticity is always difficult to define, there is no doubt that frontman Jason Wade is falling even more in love with, if not you, then someone.

A quick browse of Lifehouse's Wikipedia entry reveals that they initially formed as a Christian rock group. For many, this is the kiss of death: rock n' roll, as Iron Maiden and Robert Johnson, is built upon Satanic foundations. But such attitudes are not for this secular blogger. While writing for the McGill Daily several years ago, I made an assertion that I stand by to this day: Christian Rock rocks. I mean: Jesus, look at the motherfucker windmill!

But why won't anyone take Lifehouse – or my adoration of their first single – seriously? Why, exactly, must appreciation of Lifehouse (or music like Lifehouse) be perpetually drained through a colander of irony? What, precisely, makes Lifehouse kitschy?

Lifehouse critics - we call them 'delusional' -might, perhaps, point at the fact that the band rode the final, dying waves of neo-grunge to moderate success. Lifehouse, admittedly, could be classified as derivative and un-threatening. And, as usual, there will always be a segment of music fans who distrust pop music or anything played on FM radio waves. All these criticisms are ridiculous. All these criticisms are wrong.

The distrust with pop music seems to stem from the unlikely merger of commercialism and art - the very combination that Andy Warhol critiqued and rode to fame. For art-quakers, the fear is that art is tainted, unpure, and inauthentic when combined with any ulterior motives - motives that concern themselves with anything other than the creation (read: production) of art. This was an attitude spearheaded by the Frankfurt School, which has, in recent years, manifested itself in amateur punk-rock tweens (and, seemingly, their squirrely friends). Pop music, argues Theodor Adorno and his black-and-pink, wristbanded minions – caters to our most base desires, group mentalities, and animalistic instincts – or, specifically, pop art caters exclusively to runny-nosed, mouth-breathing, hyper- impressionable masses.

Now, here we run into problems. Merging commercial interests with art isn't anything particularly new, nor is it necessarily troubling, nor does it necessarily denigrate the value of art. In local/Toronto terms, while it's fine-and-dandy to protest Starbucks' entry into the (supposedly bohemian) West Queen West neighbourhood, residents simply cannot protest the emerald coffee chain's success. Starbucks, despite not possessing artistic credibility (insofar as a coffee shop can), is massively popular – and that is because people, residents included – enjoy it.

West Queen West, despite their impotent protests, such as denial scrawled on walls, has taken a vote: they oppose consumerist iconography in their neighbourhood, but they enjoy (and will consume) Starbucks. They oppose the intrusion big business in their neighbourhoods, but don't oppose Venti half-sweet black teas (no water). As I've mentioned earlier in this blog, Leslieville will soon follow.

This isn't a matter of group mentalities, availability, or convenience; while West Queen West offers countless alternatives, three Starbucks locations positioned scant blocks apart (on Bathurst, Claremont, and Dovercourt) continue to strive despite their close proximity to each other. Are we to believe that Queen West's many art-patrons are succumbing to dark, swirling, corporate forces? Caving into the consensus? I'm not buying it: if there's a neighbourhood who could resist the allure of overpriced coffee, it's West Queen West.

And they just happen to like Starbucks.

Just like crust-punks enjoy McDonalds and iPhones. Just like vegan hardcore kids wear Nike Dunks. There may be insidious, unseen forces at play here, certainly; but I'm not willing to reduce the complexity of the consumer choices that West Queen West residents, crust-punks, or Earth Crisis enthusiast, such as the amiable fellow to the left, have made. And I'm not willing to assume that they're marionettes to their heavily-socialized consumerist impulses; they've voted with their dollars, and it's clear that they've voted for particular products. Yes, they've chosen these products due to availability, cost, and convenience, but they've also made decisions based on aesthetics and personal taste as well – there are a myriad of factors that percolate prior to the commitment of a consumer choice.

So, why aren't music listeners willing to apply this logic to pop music? True, almost all pop music irrefutably merges commercial interest with art. But successful pop music, such as Hanging by a Moment, completes the merger successfully and seamlessly. The consumption of pop music might be consumer choice, but these choices can be amazing complex – and they can also be correct. There's no binary Pavlovian instinctual trigger that compels us to love Lifehouse and spend-spend-spend; the (very reductionist, admittedly) reason that Hanging by a Moment was elected the most listened to song in 2001 is because it's an incredible execution of pop magic.
Really, millions of listeners can be wrong; but let's at least give them some credit.

Edit: For some fine slice of pop music blogging, check out Action and Action.

I know what I want, and I want it now...

Over the last several years, I've devoted an inordinate amount of time listening to Tommy Boy's Jock Jams compilations. These might be, along with the Stax, Dischord, and Stiff Records box sets, the finest collections of pop music ever assembled. Aside from giving me a testorone rush - and giving me the motivation to one day become on of the game's finest rearguards - these compilations are filled with great songs, with some made greater, enhanced by the clips of baseball-stadium organs and soundbites of roaring crowds.

They've given me a glimpse of forgotten dance music which, I can only assume, are an accurate reflection of dance-pop from an era I'd never gotten to witness firsthand. See, I missed seeing Black Box, Reel 2 Real, 2 Unlimited, Technotronic, and C&C Music Factory firsthand; I'm assuming that such names are the bedrock of the early-90s cultural lexicon. And why not? The drums in Gary Glitter's 'Rock n' Roll 2' nod to classic greatness (see: Thin Lizzy's 'The Boys are Back in Town') and K7's 'Come Baby Come' possesses stronger call-and-response gang-vocals than most Madball songs (and with more fury than most Judge songs).

But, admittedly, my understanding of the particular artists of the Jock Jam realm is actually quite thin. And, with the amount that I contemplate Ce-Ce Peniston (and the fact that she played Toronto a few, scant months ago), it was actually quite alarming that I didn't actually know what she looked like.

Now: before you continue, try to envision the chanteuse of 'Finally,' 'Keep on Walkin,' and 'Crazy Love.' Or, if you are significantly younger than I, you might be familiar with 'My Boo (the things you do).' Take a moment. Take a deep breath. Close your eyes. And focus your imaginative energies on creating a mental image of Ce-Ce Peniston.

Now open them. And scroll down.

















Never have I ever so successfully judged a book by its cover.

Things Overheard at Patriots Games v.1

"I slept with my Aunt Bernice. That's right - incest!"

I don't write fiction.

Friday-a-Go-Go!

It’s Friday! Friday! And I don’t care about how much of a weekend warrior this makes me sound like, but I love Fridays! I get to give my trusty Garfield cube-calendar a rest, giving me not one, not four, but three disposable sheets of Garfieldian pleasure on Monday. I also get several chances to soothe the pangs of working alienation with a variety of intoxicants.

Now, the very reason we use any sort of intoxicant is to alter our perception of reality. And don’t even try to argue otherwise. While alcohol might place a pair of deceptively large sunglasses on moderately attractive women, and PCP might convince us that we have silverfish scuttling away underneath our skin, the point of consuming both is obvious: we wish to use them as escapism.

And as such, we use intoxication as a crutch to defend regrettable actions.
‘See,’ I’d tell you, ‘It's been a rough morning. Last night, I fed my arm, from the elbow down, to a ravenous trash compactor; me and a couple of the dudes smoked a bunch of angel dust behind a dumpster. It got rid of the silverfish infestation. It made sense at the time – you’d have to see it in context.’

And Fridays always remind me: reality – and art – must always be understood within a specific context. My actions on PCP can’t be understood through a veil of reality; from the perspective a Catholic nun; from the perspective of a small child; or from the perspective of a housepet. I am Keith Morris of the Circle Jerks, dammit, and I smoke PCP behind dumpsters with my squadron of feral dogs – and it if you want to understand my actions, you’ll have to empathize with that little slice of reality.

And in appreciating art, we must always take context in consideration. The context in which an artifact was created, and the context in which an artifact is being consumed. As an example, Bruce’s Springsteen’s lyric in the Born in the USA,

‘I got in a little hometown jam / So they jammed a rifle in my hand / Send me off to Vietnam / To go and kill the yellow man.’

… actually sounds a smidge racist sans perspective. Without the context of the song, it’s not exactly charged with any meaning. If the song had been written yesterday, it would most certainly appear racist; however, if we are to understand that it was written by Bruce Springsteen, Democrat populist-rock savant in the scant years following the Vietnam War, the lyric is definitively tongue-in-cheek (which, incidentally, flew right over the heads of Reagan’s Republicans in 1984, being interpreted as an imperialist booty-shaker).

Similarly, Mungo Jerry’s excellent patio-rock song, ‘In the Summertime’ contains the following lyric:

‘Have a drink have a drive / Go and see what you can find … If her daddy’s rich, take her out for a meal / If her daddy’s poor the just do as you feel’

Which, if we are to take context into consideration, these lyrics …make no fucking sense at all. Those are atrocious lyrics.

As meaning is highly dependent on context, it’s understandable that as the context changes, meaning does as well. So, as a Friday-morning experiment, I’ve decided to do a little bit of lyrical-play; I will be examining song lyrics through a word-filter, replacing commonly occurring words totally unrelated (read: out of context) ones. It's a little word-game that, per my research, can actually not only uncover new and hidden meanings in song, but sometimes expose actual and more accurate, song meanings. Read on.

Disclaimer: Line-crossing to ensue.

The operative words today will be words commonly used to enrage perenially sour, old British women and portly, bearded Hot Water Music fans. While the word cunt formerly was the catalyst to a punch in the face, I’m going to suggest that currently, the most abrasive words in the English language are fucking faggot.

Don’t believe me? Take a look to the right: you will see an image of Anaheim Ducks defenceman and perenially middle school bully, Chris Pronger. Stare deep into his eyes, and envision him pronouncing those two words like so:
‘FUH-king fay-GIT!’

So, let’s see what new meaning are created if we replace the words ‘girl’ and ‘women’ with ‘fucking faggots.’ Shaggy club banger, ‘That Girl,’ becomes a playfully husky, coquettish, almost endearing ode:

The fucking faggot has got the Bum
Whoo-wh-wh-whoo, la la la
What (s)he got is a little something, oh yeah
That kind of fucking faggot
Maxi Priest just make them know, La la la

No matter who you are or what you do
(S)he knows hot to click in everything you do
(S)he can make you hot when it's cold outside
Take you on a high, even make you fly, that fucking faggot, ooh
That kind of fucking faggot
That's the kind of lover, that fucking faggot, ooh
That kind of fucking faggot!

By contrast, let’s take a look at the aforementioned ‘In the Summertime,’ whose tone turns from breezy summer anthem into an ominous, violent, threat. This song, I’m convinced, is the soundtrack to crosses burning on front lawns.

When the weather’s fine
You got fucking faggots (fucking faggots) on your mind
Take a drink take a drive
Go and see what you can find

Now, let’s try the inverse: let’s replace ‘faggot’ and ‘gays’ with the word ‘women.’ The results, perhaps predictably, are frighteningly misogynistic. Quasi-juggalo MC Necro’s ‘Bury You With Satan,’ paints him as an imbalanced, woman-hating, John Wayne Gacy-styled repressed homosexual:

"Become a slave I got nuns depraved
Under my cave I got a hundred ways to murder all of you women
I'm ambitious for leavin you in stitches
I won't give up hope, seeing you hang from a rope - achieve my goal.’

Similarly, Vybz Kartel’s lyrics to ragga-smash ‘Faggot Correction (Spragga Dis)’ paints a terrifyingly schizophrenic image of Kartel. He frighteningly seems to oppose suffrage, and displays a paranoia of women organizing; he suggests that a new Liberia-styled nation of women be formed (Fomalia, perhaps?):

Yo don (Ehhh)
Dis a da settlement ta all confrontation (Woman Correction)
Cause from dem rise against the alliance send the federation (with)
Woman allegation, Teflon send dem head to another nation (Right away)
So mi are say

And of course, Masonry favourites, Anal Cunt, in paint a gleefully fun portrait of female athletes in their song, released on their childrens' album, ‘You Rollerblading Faggot.’ Of course, I’m at a loss: I don’t exactly think the meaning of these song lyrics are altered or clarified at all:

I saw you riding down the street on your rollerblades drinking a frappucino
You're totally fucking gay
You got a korn shirt, and tribal tattoos
You rollerblading woman, I fucking hate you.
You're a rollerblading, rollerblading, rollerblading woman.

Semantics are fun!

Missing Connections with Greig Nori

I have a friend who is addicted to Craigslist’s Missed Connections.

If you’re unfamiliar with Missed Connections, it’s a portion of the wildly popular online classifieds site that deals with romance sparked (then lost). Ideally, they involve encounters within large cities between to individuals who’d like to reconnect: strangers making conversations in coffee shops, one-time make-out partners who lose each other in a loud club, gay strangers who have had sex in Holt Renfrew dressing rooms. Missed Connections, in my opinion, are a fantastic idea: in large, dense, often impersonal cities, Craig (and his List) has carved a niche community based on the economy of hope (and the currency of dreams!).

Functionally, the effectiveness of Missed Connections degrade significantly: they’ve become a vessel for the desperate and perverse. Most Missed Connections were never even connections to begin with; they’ve become an online medium for the thoughts that occur while undressing strangers on the street. Most postings simply detail a few minor details of complete strangers: ‘red hair,’ ‘blue dresses,’ ‘bikes.’ They never seem to imply that so much as words were exchanged – most just admit to a good eye-fuck. Non-descript locations, such as the ever popular ‘Starbucks’ or ‘the subway during rush hour’ are revealed, and the posts generally end with coy questions such as, ‘coffee?’ Below is a pie chart, taken from Brooklyn Ramblings, breaking down the most frequent locales for Missed Connections.




Though I check them daily – in vain, mostly for girls I've met at Moby concerts – for postings that match my description, is much of a surprise that many of these postings fail their intended purpose?

Now: of my friend. He, much like myself, was a long-time passive observer to Missed Connections; and, this is not a problem, as it’s certainly nice to seek an oasis of recognition in sterile, overcrowded urban areas. I became particularly concerned, however, when he started becoming an active participant.

As stated previously, I have no problems with writing in Missed Connections if connections were truthfully forged. However, when you start actively posting, several times a week, I start to become concerned. If you’re posting about every conversation, every time a flirtatious glance returned, or every attractive passerby, you are entering into the cyclical Culture of Futility.

Wayne Gretzky one said, in perhaps his best-renowned quote, that “you miss 100% of the shots that you don’t take.” And Gretz isn’t wrong – most of the time. But in the game of romance, you simply cannot jump at every perceived opportunity. Once you’ve posted a Missed Connection, and experienced the joy of anonymity, it just encourages you to post more. And more. And more. Eventually, your criteria for posting a Missed Connection loosen; standards are lost. And you will keep on posting. And posting. About your neighbours. About your friends. About the vaguely attractive girls who work at fast-food chains. You are taking 100% of your shots. But you aren’t achieving success. But, you keep throwing shit on the wall in the hopes that it will stick. It’s bound to stick sometime, right?

Wrong. In greedily searching – and posting – for forced connections, you are creating both a psycho-social roadblock and an aura of desperation. This, as previously mentioned, is what defines the Culture of Futility. Despite the fact that you are continually putting in effort into your romantic life, there is very little to show for it. You become more desperate. You start to sweat harder. You begin to clam up around members of the opposite sex. It becomes noticeable in your posture. In the way you eat a sandwich. In the angle of your hat. And, ultimately, you are becoming more sentient of fact that your efforts are not bearing any rewards.

Isn’t this beginning to sound just a tad bit like Marxist alienation?

See, for most endeavours we undertake in life, we can expect an effort to reward ratio; and that’s a fairly logical attitude to adopt. But the pursuit of love is completely irrational, and one of the few instances where effort has absolutely no relationship to success (despite protests from that goofy, top-hat wearing dude from The Pickup Artist has to say - I mean, look at the guy. This is why The Game is the only, and I mean only, embarrassing book one can possibly own).

As the wonderful Exploding Hearts jubilantly proclaim, the more you pretend, the more you are ‘a pretender at the game called love.’

Similarly, for musicians, commercial success and widespread popularity are not directly related to effort. Many musicians try – and do they ever try – to hop musical trends until one of them yields them success, fame, and groupies. By trying different genres, it is assumed that they’ll somehow snag onto collective playlists.

Treble Charger, a once highly respected, but middlingly-successful, Southern Ontarian indie rock outfit (who, at one point, released an Electronic Press Kit with a zine directory – can you get cooler than that?), rode the coin-operated rodeo horse of trend-hopping straight into oblivion. Seeking success, Treble Charger, led by an eyelined, egotistical, pineapple-coiffed hobbit named Greig Nori, morphed their earlier psychedic noodling into a more polished, post-grunge pop style (evidenced, notably, in their single ‘American Psycho’). And, truthfully, their new style half-suited them.

But Nori wasn’t finished. Following the adoption-and-success of then-protégés Sum 41, Nori began hearing the second hand of his musical career, and biological clock, ticking down. In an embarrassing moment of sheer panic, Nori then charted Treble Charger closer and closer to Sum 41’s style and aesthetic, functionally making his largest influence a band half his age (and a band that he coddled to success).

In re-inventing Treble Charger three times in a half decade, Nori essentially ruined his band’s legacy, tarnishing any hope for future success. In fact, in his continual reincarnation within the music industry, he even managed to adopt, and destroy, Toronto’s second best hardcore band of all the modern era – No Warning.** Nori’s relentless, kamikaze approach to musical glory had no bearing on his, or Treble Charger’s, success; his efforts completely undermined his authority and artistic legitimacy.

To Wayne Gretzky, I offer the following advice: in love and music, sometimes you miss a full 100% of the shots you take; the impact of effort is negligible. And to my Missed Connections-addicted friend, I offer the following advice: please do not become Greig Nori.

** Of note: Apparently Nori manages Broken Social Scene. What?

From Parkdale to Leslieville: The Axis of Evolution

It’s funny how things change when you get older. Aside from the change in obvious physical characteristics, there’s also a change in behaviour. For example, in my less-then-beautiful city, Toronto, maturity is defined by a shift from West-to-East: the dreaded move along the Parkdale-Leslieville axis. Leslieville, despite the community’s admirable Starbucks-protesting, is the metaphorical infirmary: like clockwork, child-rearing, child-launching, empty nesting, disease-acquiring, and death soon follow.

There’s also a noticeable change in social interactions. Associates, for one, ditch fierce battles with boxed wine in favour of dinner parties. Now, people don’t get any less drunk at dinner parties; they just seem to extend their drinking time triple-fold and include food into the mix.

And finally, maturity has even affected even canned conversations. When I was attending post-secondary in beautiful Montreal, QC, the operative conversation-starter at a social gathering was ‘where are you from?,’ followed by ‘where do you go to school / what do you take?’ At least amongst the Anglo community, these were fair questions: most of us were imports, and most of us (outside of the telemarketing community, which most of us would eventually join) were in school.

As I joined the workforce, those questions began to change ever-so-slowly. Now that I’ve chosen a (more or less) permanent city to inhabit, ‘where are you from?’ has become more or less irrelevant; the only question people use to spark conversation is ‘what do you do?”

And I respond by telling people that I’m a writer, like the one pictured to the left.

Now, this isn’t entirely accurate; I am a writer, but I always hope that there are no follow-up questions. And this is because I do know writers, and some of them have great, if not glorious jobs. As an example, I have a friend who writes scripts for popular porn site (I mean, not that I’d know or anything, but you know… I’d guess it’s popular… like, amongst, you know… like, the perverse, or something) Brazzers.com. He is an excellent creative mind, as well: a sample assortment of his NSFW film titles include Big Butt Massage, Big Butt Contest, and Never-ending Erection (in which stethoscope is applied penis - resulting in perhaps the most transcendentally hilarious moment in film... ever). This is the best writing gig I can possibly think of, and my friend excels at it.

See, this friend of mine assumes full creative control in the scripting of people fucking. And, he gets to see his labour bear fruit: it is filmed, distributed, enjoyed, and deconstructed by a huge audience. This would be completely unimaginable for our grandparents’ generation: my script-writing friend has penetrated a couple’s private locale (the bedroom, or shower, or bus shelter, behind dumpsters, etc.) and is given license to dictate their most private act (having sex in a variety of manners).

Essentially, my script-writing friend dictates an attractive fictional couple’s most private act and makes it public. In the post-Nietszche era, this strikes me as the Godliest act one could perform. And he gets paid for it. Needless to say, I admire him deeply. But I am not that type of writer. If prodded, I’ll eventually reveal that I perform the most mundane job in the writing spectrum: I am a proposal writer.

What the position entails: answering prospective clients’ questions, on behalf of my employer, and compiling them in exhaustively long, written documents. It’s perhaps the most mundane, and least creative, writing job one could perform; it mostly involves researching answers (that no one could possibly care about) and mashing them into a pre-defined template.

It is not glorious. It is not conversation-fodder at the bar. I doubt that I could persuade anyone to sleep with me based on my profession (unlike, say, a professional puppy-hugger).

Anyhow, I’ve noticed that many actually write from templates by choice. Amateur online record reviewers, for one, seem to love writing from templates; perhaps it’s based on convenience, ease, or a complete lack of creativity. Anyhow, by my observations, the definitive template for an online review is as follows:

1. Introduce the review with an irrelevant personal anecdote

2. Make a dubious, yet very obvious, link to

3. The band, who is then introduced by

• Their name


• The number of members in the band


• Their geographic place of origin

4. Introduce the record, by

• It’s title


• It’s producer

5. List three songs, which includes the opening track (unless the opening track is a quiet or atmospheric track, as determined by listening to the first 0:10 of the song; otherwise, choose the second track) and two songs picked at random in order to

• Give the impression that you’ve listened to the entire album

6. Take these three songs, and use them as a generalization in which to describe the band’s sound, which should be

• A comparison of two other bands


• A comparison of two oblique metaphors

7. Make a value-based, assertive judgment (good / bad / great)

8. And, for continuity’s sake, conclude the review sloppily with a reference to the initial anecdote (see 1.).


So, for the entertainment of my readers (if there are any), this is precisely how I am going to proceed with my next five record reviews – I will be mirroring the procedures of proposal writing in record reviews. Yes, if I didn’t complete enough templates by day, I will also be doing so by night – I’m bringing work home with me, working-for-the-weekend-work. You’ve gotta suffer for your art, right?

Stay tuned.

Electro Clash: Give 'Em Enough Rope

I once dated a girl with beautiful eyes.

And I maintain, several years after the fact, that she truly had exceptional eyes. As I’m not currently dating her, she isn't subject to the (natural) over-exaggeration of a current lover’s features. I have certainly been historically guilty of this, as I believe that I’ve told nearly every woman I’ve slept with that she had great eyes - whether or not this was true. It’s fairly common knowledge – if you’re even mildly in love with someone, you’re much more susceptible to overlooking their flaws: we’re willing to ignore tragically-placed moles, an oatmeal-grey pallour, chemical imbalances, bums with the texture and appearance of cottage cheese, and bizarre affinities for John Mellencamp.

Now, before you criticize me of being overly harsh on my ex-lovers, I am not overlooking my own myriad of mens’ issues: my ever-growing, deep-V widow’s peak, my Grover body-type and posture (in which my innards inexplicably swell only above my belt-line, giving my torso the appearance of a vertical parabola), my bathroom-mould reminiscent facial hair, unfortunate tattoos, my tendency to bring dairy products into bed with me prior to falling asleep, my laughable micro-penis, my inability to maintain an erection during the most intimate and opportune moments, and my bizarre affinity for John Mellencamp.

Back to the point: this particular ex-girlfriend of mine had truly striking eyes. And, I harbor no ill-will against Girl with Beautiful Eyes (henceforth referred to as ‘Eyes’). As far as I’ve been informed via Facebook feeds, Eyes is leading an exceptionally successful and interesting life, and she seems to be fulfilling most of goals she’d aspired to achieve in the time that I knew her. Her life is, and probably will be, far more notable than mine; she’s exponentially more likely to appear in the New Yorker than I ever will be. And truthfully, I’m silently happy for her – I don’t hold any grudges or jealousy.

There is, however, one issue of contention with Eyes – the one thing that I resent about her.

She ruined sunglasses for me.

See, Eyes, like many fashionable women of her time, had an affinity for large, bug-eyed sunglasses (as pictured on ginger cat). Rain or shine, she would wear her sunglasses – and she made them look good. She’s probably wearing them as we speak. But, however, the real problem with Eyes’ sunglasses is that she set me up with completely debilitating, unfair expectations.

When Eyes’ would remove her sunglasses, she’d inevitably be unveiling her most striking feature. In my short time dating her, it was something that I took for granted; I’d eventually come to assume that any good-looking girl with a pair of large sunglasses were simply hiding a set of striking eyes. Thus, whenever I see a moderately attractive woman with sunglasses, I’ve come to project an unfair, deceitful image behind them.

And it’s ruined moderately attractive women for me. If they aren’t harbouring doe eyes, when they remove their sunglasses – no matter how average their eyes might appear – their eyes will resemble crow-footed, honey-glazed, Toronto-grey, peeled grapes. And for that, I’m indignant. If leagues truly exist, I am nowway over my head – I can now only really pursue relationship with women who, based on their appearances, would have absolutely no interest in sharing ice cream cones with me (sadly proving, in my case, the wretched Ladder Theory). See below for a diagram depicting the awfully, awfully misguided Ladder Theory; the belief that you wish only 'climb' a superficial lovers' ladder.

Now, seeing that I have the complete inability to compartmentalize the universe without using music as a tool, (like clockwork) there has to be a musical comparison to be made. I’d argue that exceptional bands riding generic trends – especially trends that we deem as passable – serve the same purpose that sunglasses do on moderately attractive people.

New musical finds always risk being semi-attractive people adorned with sunglasses. Once we’ve discovered a truly amazing band riding the crest of a popular trend, they are precisely like Eyes in a pair of D&G bug-eyes: they set up unfair expectations for the rest.

Case in point: I am not a fan of electronic music. I’ve never really had a critical discussion of music with ‘drum n’ bass heads,’ ‘junglists,’ ‘beat freekers,’ or ‘that nerd from Boards of Canada.’ But last year, I heard Justice’s † LP (I know, mundane) – and I completely loved the album, and still do. If there’s a rubric to my musical tastes, † fulfilled each column: it was loud, discordant, filthy, noisy, aggressive, dangerous. From the first time that I’d heard the rapid-fire hi-hat and the atonal drone-screeching in ‘Let There Be Light,’ I knew I loved Justice. Hearing that song, incidentally, was comparable to hearing Integrity’s ‘Vocal Test’ for the first time. Justice was, if anything, a non-linguistic expression of the emotions most hardcore bands strive to convey but struggle to capture – and if you need anymore proof, see Toronto hardcore band Fucked Up’s amazing cover of ‘Stress.’

And I became completely obsessed with Justice. I downloaded packages of their remixes – and the songs they’d remixed. For a short period, I listened to a lot of comparable DJs – they were a gateway into many bands I’d previously never given a chance. And truly, I’ve discovered tons of great, unheralded musicians who fall into the genre – Le Castlevania, Boys Noize, et al. still capture much of the essence of what I’d found so attractive about Justice.

But then the sunglasses came off.

After spending hundreds of hours poring for new music via word-of-mouth, missingtoof.com, iheartcomix.com, etc. – I was across the world, thousands of kilometres away from where said artists performed – I’d realized that outside of a few selected DJs, I didn’t particularly like much of the music I’d been listening to. Old prejudices started to creep in on my consciousness; I’d realized that a large bulk of the music I’d been listening to was already-popular songs recycled with a prominent 4/4 house beat (though,‘Don’t Stop Believin’ / Donnis and ‘Sexyback’ / Skee-Lo’s ‘I Wish’ mash-ups remain completely awesome) or vapid, 8-minute long songs with repetitive, obvious, 3-note melodies. As much as I admired the genre-hopping of Girl Talk, I’d realized that critically, it could not sustain my attention.


Not to say that there’s aren’t great things happening within the genre; or that there aren’t interesting bands for electro fans. Maybe I hadn’t delved deeply enough in the genre. But I suspect that I just realized that I wasn’t really an electro fan to begin with.
And this is the problem with great bands like Justice: they set up unfair expectations for any bands they are comparable to, that they play with, or that even share the same trend-space.

Justice is the sunglass-sporting ex-girlfriend with beautiful eyes – when we exalt their most attractive features and try to project these features onto comparables, all others will fail to meet their grandeur. They’ve created false, nearly-unattainable expectations.
Which, perhaps, is a strong reason why we should maybe learn to be wearier of trends. Perhaps we should narrow our critical scope – and look for great bands rather than great movements. Or perhaps we’re all doomed.

Maybe there is more than one thing that I resent about Eyes: she not only ruined sunglasses for me, but ruined my appreciation of music (much like Ian MacKaye ruined my ability to shop peacefully). And maybe I resent her more than I let on.

The Decline of Western Civilization and its Discontents

So, to my disappointment, I currently possess a job. Now, while I feel like, comparatively, my job isn’t exactly the belle of the ball, it does enable me to upkeep a modest shelter (furnished with a bloodstained, soiled single mattress, pictured above), replenish my body’s spent energy, and keep on drinking (to keep the darkness away).

Anyhow, what’s somewhat surprising is that I do get paid to write. Who’d believe that? Which, by my calculations, positions me as one of several hundred people worldwide in such a position. Anyhow, as I’m not terribly pleased with current work situation, I allot a certain time every day into searching for a new job; this includes both other positions (I’ve applied for a position as a fantasy novel editor – sadly, rejected), and positions which are entirely identical to mine but would allow me to gain more luxurious shelter, larger soiled mattresses, body fat, and a nastier drinking habit.

So, as I checked my e-mail this morning, I found two job descriptions which mirror exactly what I do for a living. Lifted from those two postings:

• Must be able to translate technical/operational descriptions to sales language without changing the meaning.
• Must possess superior written communications skills, with the ability to absorb technical information and present it in a clear, concise manner.

Now, I’m not sure if these are skills I possess or perform on a regular basis, but I think that these are the most punk-rock aspects of my job. And everything I’ve learned in life I’ve learned from punk rock; that’s no exaggeration.

I suspect that I’ve read all 127 pages of Sigmund Freud’s Civilization and Its Discontents’ at least three times in my academic career. I didn’t particularly enjoy it. However, I did enjoy media theorist Neil Postman’s Technopoly, in which the Postman argues, amongst other things, that humanity has only recently adapted to technological advancements of over a century ago (read: we’ve only recently learned the true implications of using a telephone. Go Postman!). Anyhow, the following Freud-via-Postman quote came to me from Technopoly.

"What good to us is a long life if it is difficult and barren of joys, and if it is so full of misery that we can only welcome death as the deliverer?"
- Freud, Civilization and Its Discontents

Hurrah, Freud! In thirty-three words, the OG orgasm addict (sorry, Buzzcocks and David Duchovny) gives us yet another reason to listen to Elliott Smith. But, for those of us who don’t have the time to get consume large amount of cocaine and psychoanalyze test subjects, punk rock has provided us, in four words, a succinct, populist summary:

"Live fast. Die Young. Livefastdieyoung!"
- Circle Jerks, Group Sex


As previously stated, everything I’ve learned has been through the music that I discovered through ages of 13 to 16. I’ve also learned that my job description requires me to be Keith Morris. Here I am, pictured to the left, pondering today's Garfield entry on my cube calendar / contemplating more efficient ways to communicate Marshall McLuhan to the unwashed masses.

Punk rock will save your life. Listen to more Anti-Cimex!

Caulking Nachos: Japanther Plays Toronto

Now, rarely will I actually post a legitimate music news item, but I feel like this is worthy: Japanther, the noisiest (and potentially, the best) pop-punk band on the East Coast, are playing Toronto this weekend - on Saturday, September 6th. They've apparently already made it into the country, and will be performing at quaint Toronto late-night eatery, Sneaky Dee's.

Now, the second floor of Sneaky Dee's is a fantastic place to see a show. It's generally small enough to always feel full, but large enough to contain a hundred people and change; the beer is cheap; the walls sweat; the floors are rickety enough to always give the illusion of impending doom. Evidence: see the below video of Hasidic Hairmongers Monotonix's performance at Sneaky Dees during the tail end of NXNE.



However, I'm convinced that Japanther will complete the job that Monotonix could not. They, along with help of, perhaps, their special guests, will easily cave in the second floor of Sneaky Dee's once and for all. And, they'll do it with grace and style. Not to fret, downstairs late-night eaters: rotting wood and plaster chips won't change the edibility of your vegan nachos.

See below for the non-stop delight that Japanther brings:

I'm Not Scott Stevens, and No One Cares About Keith Richards

When I was young (read: last year), I'd spent a year living and teaching English in Seoul, South Korea. It was an interesting experience, to be certain: I was responsible for the safety and education of Kindergarten kids, set in a locale where I couldn't speak the native language (much less read it), and even the tiniest morsels of food were wrapped in several layers of plastic packaging. Needless to say, it was initially a very confusing experience. However, perhaps the most interesting aspect of my year abroad were the people that I'd met: alongside Koreans, I'd met a colourful tapestry of characters, ranging from fugitives from English speaking countries, to illegal Nigerian immigrants, to American GIs.

Travelling is one thing, but living in a foreign place for a year facilitates you to behave in fashions normally unfathomable. The ex-pat community was an awesomely irreverent bunch, and we were littered with tales of rampant STD swapping and drug busts. And, the reason for this behaviour was the very fact that:

a) We were traveling away from home, and knew absolutely no one, and;

b) Because of this, we were not held responsible for our actions. Personal accountability was half a world away.

After all, Korea was the land of opportunity: with no past, you could sculpt yourself a past, present, and future – and there were infrequently people around who could verify your authenticity. No one was responsible for upholding an image: you could have created a new one every single day.

So, as I became more accustomed – or more bored – with the ex-pat bar scene, I became a recreational liar. To Koreans, I was a NASCAR racer who was collecting outstanding debts from Jacques Villeneuve. To Nigerians, an American-worshipping 50 Cent aficionado. And to American GIs, I was a hard-hitting, puck-moving, Norris Trophy-winning young NHL retiree whose career succumbed prematurely to dirty money, easy women, and rampant drug use. For all they knew, I was Scott Stevens, pictured to the left, laying the Carolina Hurricanes' weak-sauce captain Sami Kapanen out to dry.

You'd be surprised at how effective, and easy, it was.

Now, aside from the well-documented activity of making lists, I'd argue that the serious music listener creates similar such false histories to reinforce their credibility. Case in point: no one, and I mean no one listens to Rolling Stones.

Now, music fan, I can hear your protests: of course, people listen to these bands! They're on car commercials! And I can assure you – I'm not simply trying to be controversial here. The Stones are one of the most hastily referenced bands in the rock n' roll canon; no matter what subgenre a particular rock n' roll fan concerns herself with, the Stones, along with a handful of others, are the bedrock – they are huge influences, and undermining their influence is akin to bludgeoning your mother's head in with a fire extinguisher. See below:

But really – does anyone actually listen to them? Can we point out to a singular album – or albums – that define their career, which have claimed their rightful piece of the Western zeitgeist pie?

As usual, a peruse of the always-fantastic private torrent site what.cd shall provide us answers. By simply examining the seeders seeding an album, we can generally deduce the album's popularity – both in relation to other artists, and within the scope of a particular artist's catalogue. So, let's run an experiment. As of now, here are the most popular, best-seeded Stones albums:

The Rolling Stones - Exile on Main St. (118 seeders)

The Rolling Stones - Sticky Fingers (107 seeders)

The Rolling Stones - Beggars Banquet (100 seeders)

Now, of note: there is only a difference of 18 seeders between the Stones most popular album and their third most popular. The rest of the albums listed on what.cd similarly display a downward gradient in seeders, but the gradient does not drop off steeply. What this displays is the fact that, though people own these albums, there isn't a clear consensus between which is the definitive Stones album. Now, let's take another band:

Weezer - Weezer (Blue Album) (344 seeders)

Weezer - Maladroit (120 seeders)

Now, the above albums represent Weezer's second and third best album – and the Blue album has over double the amount of seeders that Maladroit has. This points to the fact that, for Weezer fans, the Blue Album is in fact a definitive album in their musical careers. It is simply more popular, and has more seeders, simply because people are listening to it more.

Now, back to the point: no one actually listens to Rolling Stones albums.

"But!" you exclaim. "I own all of those albums, and people are clearly seeding them – so people obviously listen to them!"

No; you are lying to yourself; you are delusional. You might own those albums, but you don't listen to them. These are credibility albums, albums that people own as citations to their assertions that they listen to Stones albums. You know the singles, and of that I have no doubt; but if people actually listened to these albums, decided on a definitive one to play their children, and actually discussed each critically – why isn't there a consensus favourite? Jesus, a post-Pinkerton era Weezer album has more seeders than Exile on Main Street!

I'm no conspiracy theorist. But I'm starting to suspect that very reasons critics and music fans glorify the Stones are the same very reasons I'd tell GIs that I was an NHL player. Perhaps they represent a link to historically significant era. Perhaps this represents the challenge of creating a false identity. All I know is that, despite the legions of American GIs in Seoul who might believe otherwise, I am not Scott Stevens.

***note: I am entirely aware at how incredibly unscientific this post is.

Blog Metal

Forget wolf bands. Bands named after wolves are part of a meme that will most likely be a footnote in the encyclopedia entry for turn-of-the-century indie rock. If critics really want to illustrate mundane band names, let’s examine musicians’ several-decade-long fetishization of death. Off the top of my head, here are the first 10 bands I thought who use the word 'death' as part of their moniker:

1. Death
2. Christian Death
3. Napalm Death
4. The Death Set
5. Death Cab for Cutie
6. A Death for Every Sin (who, by the way, were a fantastic Montreal band)
7. Dead Meadow
8. Dethklok
9. Payable on Death (P.O.D)
10. Death Threat / Deathreat

What, exactly, is so appealing about death? There’s not a single person, save for perhaps celebrated death-survivor Jesus Christ (R.I.P), who has returned from death to give us an accurate account of what exactly occurs during the moment of death (or after death). Mysterious? Certainly. Worthy of discussion? Absolutely. Deserving of reverence? Absolutely not. We don’t know a thing about it!

So, being the man of science that I am, let’s take a look at what we DO know about death. It can be brought forth by disease, old age, internal bleeding, and blunt-force head trauma. It appears to be the ultimate muscle-relaxant: upon death, our hard-working, over-stressed friend from down under, the sphincter, takes its first (and last) cigarette break, forcing you to shit the bed.

Of all functions the human body can perform – orgasms, spooning, serotonin rushes – the only function our body can do following death is involuntarily relieve itself of its waste. Death simply reminds us of a simple fact of life: from the moment of birth to the moment of death, we are constantly full of shit.

Death is not glamorous.

Ian Mackaye: The Reason I Hate White-Zippered American Apparel Hoodies

I have phobia of clothes shopping, and Ian MacKaye’s Teen Idles are the reason why. Now, this is a completely irrational fear: it’s an act that I partake in regularly, and I’m certainly not above providing money to the Gap, Wal-Mart, H&M, or any other such big-boxed retailers. But I have a problem with people knowing this about me, and I'm blaming my ennervating idiosyncracies squarely on the narrow, balding shoulders of Mr. Mackaye.

Let me explain: my shopping trips tend to be solo, though not always based on need – as is the case with most consumers, I’m driven by marketing ploys, irrational fears surrounding non-conformity, and advertisment-created false desires – and there’s a reason for this.

Basically, I tend to shop solo because I don’t like others knowing that I’m susceptible to consumerist impulses – something that, by my twisted logic, are the only non-biological impulses that are comparably base (and crass).

My attitudes even extends to my behaviour during shopping trips; I tend to carry a bag in which to place my purchased articles so that I don’t have to carry shopping bags emblazoned with the names of retailers. If I must carry a shopping bag, I’ll turn it inside out. And, when I actually do buy anything, it tends to be extremely bland and non-descript, so that others cannot ascertain its source.

Now, I know that a lot of other, err, consumers, have displayed a propensity towards logo-free purchases. American Apparel, in particular, comes to mind in targeting this particular brand of consumer: labour practises aside, they’re an enterprise that’s built upon unbranded branding. Which is a complete myth, as American Apparel not only brand, but are exceptionally good at it: though their garments are plain, they are immediately identifiable - with extra-large, 70s porno collars on their golf shirts, neon-bright leggings, and, most notably, the subtle-yet-noticeable addition of white zippers to all their hoodies (see image to the right).

American Apparel aside, wearing plain, logo-free clothes, as well as thrifting, can perhaps be perceived a personal protest against traditional consumerist tendencies: by omitting logos, plain clothing subverts any signifiers which logos may carry. In recycling clothes, a consumer can subvert the traditional waste-cycle produced by the faster-better-newer-shinier fashion world – and also promote innovate personal styles.

And these are all valid points. But this isn’t why I wear non-descript, unbranded clothing and turn shopping bags inside out.

I do this because I don’t like people knowing or understanding my shopping practises – that is, where I shop, how much I spend, or what I buy. And, somehow, I believe that my affinity for mystery (or, perhaps, anonymity) comes based on the fact that I am, in fact, a fan of music – as hard as that might be to believe.

See, as young, malleable music fans, we’re susceptible into falling deeply, passionately, in love with genres. This, particularly, is because we’re stupid when we’re young.

But anyhow, whenever discovering a new genre, there’s a learning curve. If, say, a music fan is getting into alt-country, most of us begin our progression with, say, the new Jessica Simpson country singles, move on to Lucero, then maybe kind of get into the quasi-boring Wilco-Loose Fur scene, and then eventually settle in on listening to Townes Van Zandt (or something). But, for some reason, music fans don’t like to admit to any such learning curve: we’d all like to give the impression that our musical knowledge is innate: we were born with an understanding of the structure, conventions, and history of a particular genre. This, of course, is all smoke and mirrors; by the time most music fans emerge from adolescence, we’re very good at feigning knowledge.

This is why punk rock fans will tell you that ‘they’ve been listening to that shit since Grade 3.’ This assertion is never true, as if my experience is in the least universal, I’d barely learned to walk by Grade 3.

But, there are 13-year old Teen Idles fans. But, as suspected, 13-year old Teen Idles fans don’t exist.

However, the supposed 13-year old Teen Idles fan will, such as the one pictured to the left air-guitaring along to some early Dischord Records, validates her credibility by enshrouding her past. How does the 13-year old hardcore impresario hear of the Teen Idles? How does she defend her (considerable) knowledge of the band, their roots, their side projects? She develops a complex system of lies regarding her musical heritage. So: the Idles was in the tape deck the morning of her birth. Or, perhaps, an influential older sibling was a founding member of the band before dying in a shipwreck. Anyhow: this is what matters; as a 13-year old Teen Idle fan, she has always listened to the Teen Idles. She always will. Though you’ll never understand how she has heard of them (read: via Sendspace), she has been a fan longer than you and the most credible authority on all Idles-related trivia in the Midwest.

Now, as most of us develop swelling guts and darker grooves underneath our eyes, the aging music fan tends to worry less about credibility. We’re become more willing to admit that we enjoy bands that might make straight people appear homosexual (read: legion of Hall and Oates fans). Some unabashedly embrace pop.

"We're all heading for the Adult Crash," claims Ian MacKaye.

Still, the ever burning-desire for credibility and authenticity never truly dissipates.

And the remnant of this desire still manifests itself in how I shop; and, obscuring my sources of information, or clothing, validates my credibility. So, where did I buy my shirt? Truthfully, at an overpriced vintage store. But, I will tell you that is a family heirloom, passed down from my great grandfather, Canadian-Asian railroad pioneer, and one of the first Asian Cowboys in the Pacific Northwest. Where did I buy my pants? Truthfully, Urban Outfitters. But I will tell you that I found them soiled with a hobo's refuse, wrapped tightly around a fire hydrant.

And this is because I am ashamed to shop. And because I don’t want you to know where I bought my pants. And, because Ian MacKaye ruined my life.

An Ode to Moby

See:

http://toronto.en.craigslist.ca/tor/mis/826064847.html

I am now part of Toronto's ever-vibrant Craigslist Missed Connections community. And, we have Moby to thank.

See, all of my most passionate, intense, long-lasting, and memorable relationships have began at Moby concerts (most likely because he's the recording artist I've seen the most, after having followed him through his 13-date midwest tour, his 31-date European tour culminating with a mind-expanding, body-buzzing set at the Reading Festival, and his 8-date Japanese tour ending on a pier in Fukuoka... and that was only 2005!). It just seems fitting that I'd write a Craigslist Missed Connection for a lovely lady I'd met at a Moby Show. Believe me when I say that for the particular lady in question, the 'natural drugs' referenced would be enough for an ethereal experience... or it could've just been Moby.

Needless to say, most of these relationships also ended at Moby concerts as well. Which means really, that every significant moment of my life has been experienced alongside a Mobian soundscape. As a fully functional adult, it's fairly safe to say that I'm incapable of viewing life without Moby-tinted shades.You don't just listen to Moby; you feel Moby. You don't just enjoy Moby; Moby is an extra-corporeal experience / experienced / experiencing. As you can tell via the conjugation of that last sentence, Moby does not function along the traditional space-time continuum; Moby is, isn't, and was, and if you've actually listened, and I mean REALLY LISTENED, to Moby, you'd understand.

Listen to PLAY; love life.