Cancanon Fridays: Happy Glenn Danzig Day!

There’s an enormous amount of stress that comes with Halloween. For supremely non-creative people who are ambivalent towards Halloween, such as myself, there’s always a mad dash in the dying hours to find a suitable Halloween costume. And, by suitable, I mean that it must be a costume that:

a. Makes people visibly uncomfortable
b. Is a slutty man-something (see: slutty man-hippopotamus)
c. Is suitable for wooing Meghan McCain (or girls like Meghan McCain... actually, who am I kidding; I actually just mean Meghan McCain)

And, of course, these must, somehow, stand in contrast to standard costumes (and, I don’t mean standard as in a bedsheet with eyeholes, because those costumes are called timeless), which include:

a. One’s favourite, semi-obscure rock n’ roll personality (read: a costume that no one will understand – options include Jeff Tweedy or a member of Badfinger)
b. The personification of a common idiom (which always requires an explanation, and is never, ever clever)
c. A man going as a horrifying woman (which some might assume is actually a commentary on gender performance, although I rarely see women partaking in this activity)
d. A white guy going as a black guy (which some might assume is actually a commentary on racism, but I never seem to see black guys masquerading as honkies)

But, ultimately, after an estimated three hours of intense drinking – no matter where you go – these costumes end up just falling to the wayside. Costume accoutrements once primped and coddled end up in jacket piles, stuffed underneath seats. Crappy makeup runs down faces, prompting their users to simply wash it off. As Halloween practitioners tire of posturing, jackets and hooded sweatshirts are used to eventually conceal costumes.

Halloween isn’t a day. It’s three hours.

Unless, of course, you’re Glenn Danzig – then Halloween is every day. Oh, how I wish I was Glenn Danzig.

Anyhow, for today’s edition of the Cancanon Fridays, I’m not going to make the effort to actually post Halloween-themed videos. Halloween’s filthy lustre will eventually wear off, and then we’ll be left off with a few videos that only makes sense for a couple of hours every year.



Spookey Ruben – These Days Are Old
Yes, you might say that, based on his artist handle, that Spookey Ruben is quasi-Halloween themed. But, the truth of the matter is, there is nothing 'spookey' (sic) about Spookey Ruben. In fact, 'These Days are Old' is one of the most defining, iconic moments in Canadian film; Ruben’s intial foray into film-making combines the Russian Montage techniques of Sergei Eistenstein, the non-linguistic chorus of James' ‘Laid,’ and a liberal dusting of beaver-tail icing. ‘These Days are Old’ is often referenced as the Canadian version of that backwards Enya video (and I’m not quite sure what this assertion means, but I do know that that Enya video featured giraffes mating and othehr such tantric bizzarities).

Unknown – Log Driver's Waltz

An entire generation of Canadians was force-fed this video in intermissions between Saturday morning cartoons. So, it’s no surprise that Canadians, from Victoria BC, to Mount Pearl, NL, equate their national identity with a fierce defiance against the Hudson’s Bay Company, sprinting down log-filled rivers, and marrying coniferous Catholic babes.

Sloan - The Good in Everyone
Although One Chord to the Next wasn't necessarily the best Sloan album, it was certainly the most successful. And while there might have been better Sloan videos to post, sometimes it's worthwhile to cater to a portion of their fanbase; and, 'the Good in Everyone' was probably many-a Sloan fan's introduction to the Chris Murphy and Co. And open question: what, exactly, is the function of the jittery intro / outro to this song?



Thrush Hermit – From the Back of the Film
Once, while I was watching the remake of George Romero's Dawn of the Dead (which I have a few problems with, but that's another conversation for another time), there was a couple who were having constant dialogue; not with each other, but with the movie's characters. And while it was entertaining for about a split-second, I just wish I could've told them to 'shut up / or Joel Plaskett will shoot you.'



The Deadly Snakes – Gore Veil
Now, while the Deadly Snakes aren’t necessarily a current band, as they’ve disbanded recently (read: 2006), they get still the nod as today’s contemporary pick (as they're close enough to being contemporary, and a completely amazing band). One-time Polaris nominees, I'm assuming the Snakes are paying quasi-tribute to the Eastern-most border of Trinity Bellwoods Park (mostly because the lyrics make little sense to me). Which, being a Bellwoods devotee, is fine by me.

NO GODS NO MGMT

I spend a lot of time looking in the mirror. About 90% of the time, I use my ‘mirror-time’ to flex my pectorals and hurl confusingly encouraging invective at my be-towelled torso. The other 10% of the time is used to sculpt what I hope is a fairly accurate self-image. And, aside from the requisite physical observations ('You are stupid, stupid, STUPID! Look at your fat, stupid ugly, face, fatstupiduglyface!' is common one) , I’ve learned the following things about myself:

• Unlike the delectable philanthropists at Urban Outfitters, I am not a tastemaker. I don’t have particularly good tastes, and people never look to me to shape theirs; I have a terrible time identifying greatness (or even significance) in art.
• I absolutely, absolutely cannot think on my feet. Really, I function best when I have lots and lots of deliberation time.

These observations, as far as I can discern, are entirely true. Whenever I explain this to people, there is never a strategic pause: I am not baiting people for compliments. These just happen to be two of my irrefutable, immutable qualities.

And it’s really not so bad: my taste in music isn’t groundbreaking, or necessarily even conversation fodder, and I’ve always been at peace with it. I’ve never felt left out for misunderstanding great records or bands. In fact, I’m pretty convinced that I actively seek lacklustre bands.

For example, Her Space Holiday are a mundane band I absolutely adore. They’re not spectacular in any sense – they have sappy, melodramatic lyrics that border on embarrassing if read aloud without musical accompaniment; their music is fairly bland electronic indie rock; their primary songwriter, Marc Bianchi (see image below), was a member of proto-screamo band Indian Summer, whose discography tends to be more collected than appreciated. Her Space Holiday are, to most, a pleasant afterthought; inoffensive music that you’d feel equally comfortable playing in a pre-K nursery or an opium den.



Yet, still – I am completely drawn to them. And, I suspect that most people adore a least a few bands that are mundane by consensus – and it’s extremely difficult to explain why. But I suspect that mundane music serves a very specific purpose; which, ultimately, is how mundane music has survived musical natural selection (and is evident amongst all genres and eras).

See, mundane music can be entirely subversive. When music is suitable for all occasions, as inoffensive music typically is, it gets played during all occasions. And, when music is played often, it will, inevitably, seep into your subconscious. And, unknowingly, this mundane music will become a part of your daily life; it will quietly come to define a period of time in your life, and the events and emotions contained therein.

And this is why, after almost a half-decade, I still find Her Space Holiday irresistible. I certainly listen to them less than I did several years ago, but there’s still an emotional chord struck whenever I listen to them. And consequently, I listen to bands like Her Space Holiday more frequently than I listen to, well, current music or influential music (save Anal Cunt, who are both current and influential, and the soundtrack to every important moment in my life).

Which leads me to my next point: I am completely dim-witted. I absolutely cannot formulate ideas on my feet, and, instead, seem to come to realizations far after they’ve become evident to the general public.

One such realization, after being bombarded with MGMT’s ‘Time to Pretend’ in bars, was that is was a dead ringer for Her Space Holiday’s ‘Sleepy California.’ Feeling that I’d stumbled upon a truth hidden in plain sight, I lazily googled ‘Her Space Holiday’ and ‘MGMT’ within the same string. Turns out another blogger on the AM Music Blog had also came to this discovery – in February.

Anyhow, it’s still a comparison worthwhile knowing, and especially important to me; aside from plagiarizing Her Space Holiday, MGMT is effectively plagiarizing the soundtrack to an entire era of my life. MGMT must die.

Don't believe me? Listen for yourself. (Mp3s pilfered from AM Music Blog).

MGMT - Time to Pretend
Her Space Holiday - Sleepy California

Mambo Mixtapes (Meghan McCain edition)

Over the last several days, I've had the chance to creepily lurk Republi-babe (and potential soulmate) Meghan McCain's Blog, McCain Blogette. The blog, tactfully providing 'Musings and Pop Culture on the Political Trail,' gives us a little slice of Meghan's life on the road, presumably supporting her wonderfully geriatric father (who, incidentally, recently confirmed that Western Pennsylvania is full of white supremacist rednecks, and troublingly enough, equated this with patriotism).

And like the wonderful tastemaking illuminati at Urban Outfitters, what, exactly, McCain's blog playlist is actually packed full of wonderful listening recommendations. And I'm not even being tongue-in-cheek - they align quite well with the tastes of this blog.

Embarrassingly enough, McCain gives props to the Vampire Weekend, 'fellow Columbia grads.' Perhaps I'm just jealous, though, as if I were to reference my, er, alma mater, I'd probably have to blog about the Planet Smashers or Throwdown or something. And that's just simply not something that I'm willing to do.

So, what exactly do young, hip, urbane Republicans (what.) listen to on the campaign trail supporting their geriatric presidential candidate fathers? As a special treat this morning, I've distilled a Meghan McCain best-of Mixtape, broken down into several categories:

1. All things Ryan Adams-related

Ryan Adams - Wonderwall (Oasis cover)

Whiskeytown - Don't Wanna Know Why

2. All things Wilco-related

Son Volt - Tear-Stained Eye

Wilco - Please be Patient With Me

3. Suprising Canadiana (note: not a by-product of public health care)

The Guess Who - American Woman

Hot Hot Heat - You Owe me and IOU

Broken Social Scene - Time=Cause

New Pornographers - Electric Version

Stars - Take me to the Riot

Arcade Fire - Rebellion (Lies)

Wolf Parade - Shine a Light (It seems like Meghan McCain is impartial to Montreal)

4. Music that Features Black People (or: Yo! Meghan McCain Raps!)

Bad Brains - I against I (um, Meghan McCain listens to the fucking Bad Brains. Meghan McCain has listened to the music of HR. Meghan McCain's Ipod probably features Black Dots. Meghan McCain has played 'Pay to Cum' at dinner galas. Jah Bless Meghan McCain, for she's got that attitude, no doubt)

Damian Marley and Nas - Road to Zion

Jay-Z - La La La

2Pac and Dr. Dre - California Love

Kanye West - Stronger

Diddy feat. Keyshia Cole - Last Night

5. Druggy Music Featured on the Dig! Documentary

Dandy Warhols - Bohemian Like You

The Brian Jonestown Massacre - Anemone

6. Music Approved by the Urban Outfitters Illuminati

Gossip - Standing in the Way of Control
The Teenagers - Starlett Johansson

Asobi Seksu - Thursday

The Decemberists - O Valencia!

TV on the Radio - Staring at the Sun

Peter, Bjorn, and John - Young Folks

Ladytron - Sugar

Spoon - I Turn my Camera On

7. WTF WTF, Meghan McCain!

Dinosaur Jr. - Little Fury Things

My Bloody Valentine - Don't Ask Why

Sleater-Kinney - Modern Girl

XTC - Making Plans for Nigel

Fugazi - Cashout

Neutral Milk Hotel - In the Aeroplane Over the Sea

As demonstrated above, Meghan McCain has excellent taste in music. If she ever does take me up for my offer for a coffee-date, I'm definitely taking her record hunting for rare Elephant Six vinyl, to an Anal Cunt matinee show at CBGBs, and eventually out for coffee, where we will, no doubt, discuss the finer points of Dischord Records, DC's Revolution Summer (she will argue that Embrace was the crowning band of the movement; I will argue that it was Rites of Spring), and the guitar wizardry of J. Mascis.

And, of course, if she's still unconvinced, I will personally perform her the following songs from the McCain Blogette playlist:

8. Window-Pebbling Songs Performed to Woo Meghan McCain

Bright Eyes - First Day of My Life (C-Em-Am-Dm)

Elliott Smith - Needle in the Hay (Em-C-Em-C-G)

Republican Fever!

I’m sure that you’ve experienced plenty of unlikely romantic couplings: tigers and lions; juggalos and PHD students; and Steve Earle and Condoleezza Rice (as mentioned in this heartwarming swamp-boogie tune). And though bizarre binary couples tend to cause much confusion on my part, every now and again, I can empathize: even I can develop bizarre fetishes.

And my bizarre fetish du jour is red-blooded Republicans. I’m not talking about simple ‘fiscal conservatives’ – these people bore me. I’m talking about snake-handling, tongue-twisters; those distrustful of the Jewish liberal media; global warming deniers; abortion clinic bombers; and those who have direct dialogue with God. Now, I’m partially attracted to the Republican-leaning due to curiousity – my sheltered existence has actually yielded very few Republicans (likely because I’m Canadian) – but mostly, it’s due to Meghan McCain.

Now, superficially, McCain and I share plenty of similarities. Taken from her Wikipedia entry, McCain is listed as

“Meghan Marguerite McCain (born October 23, 1984[2]) is an American blogger, aspiring fashion designer … McCain began to receive media attention in 2007 for her blog, McCain Blogette, on which she documents life on the campaign trail and muses about fashion, music, and pop culture.”

A blogger? On fashion, music, and pop culture? And, a rare blogger who doesn't possess poor posture and a dumpy complexion? I suppose we might have a few things in common (save being a looker; I actually resemble a bewildered baby panda, which, to some, is quite charming).

But, for every commonality, there are also contrasts, per her Wikipedia entry: she is a Republican. I am not (I am an ardent Rhinoceros Party supporter). She opposes stem-cell research. I am ambivalent, at best, to the welfare of human embryos, generally assuming that my lack of a soul is universal (as we’re all only a sum of our experiences, aren’t we?). She disputes global warming. Like the Postal Service’s Ben Gibbard, and probably Meghan McCain herself, I wish that there were “no concerns about the world getting warmer / [and] people thought that they were just being rewarded.” I realize, however, that this is unrealistic. And, most tellingly, she is the daughter of Senator John McCain; I am a daughter to no one, especially to John McCain.

However, I’m willing to overlook these differences. To Meghan McCain, I'm no Steve Earle, but I have the following question:



... Coffee?

Rival Schools: Reunited by Fate (and possibly monetary compensation)

If you’ve ever gone through middle school (and I hope that you have; it’s quite informative), you’ve inevitably run into people who completely, utterly defined cool - like Mr. Cool Ice above. These weren’t necessarily those who embodied trends, nor were they those who were incredibly popular (or even those who radically opposed popularity). Those deemed cool in middle school probably aren’t too far off of those who currently define cool; they were the people who intuitively knew where to be and when to be there. They’re those who just happened upon fantastic taste in music, literature, art, or whatever it is that middle schoolers value. And, in even in retrospect, those who embodied cool (and no, I’m not speaking of Lupe Fiasco, but he’s alright, I guess) stood the test of time: in the years since middle school, they might have gotten a job, accidentally impregnated someone, or they might have become frighteningly right wing; but, even in your ripe middle-age, you’d still respect the fact that, at age 12, these people were visionaries. And they probably continue to manufacture cool on a daily basis, much as Anal Cunt have been defining and re-defining cool in their 20-odd years of excellence.

I’m convinced that the most admirably cool people (and God, this is really embarrassing to write about) possessed intuition. I’m convinced that intuition is the absolute key to being cool. Effort and cool are polar opposites; I can’t think of a single person who has tried to be cool and has actually succeeded. I’m convinced that it’s just not possible.

That being said, I can’t think of a cooler genre than hardcore – and this truly, truly baffles me. Of course, I am entirely impartial to hardcore – it’s a genre that I grew up with, and still follow semi-closely to this day. But hardcore never really struck me as cool; rather, it just seems interesting. Hardcore, as a subculture, has chosen an interesting set of memes in its almost 40-year history: as a sampling, hardcore trending the 90s-2000s alone chose abstinence, animal rights, sneaker obsession, and fixed gear cycling. For most, there’s only a certain degree of cool allocated to each of these trends (and none to abstinence – really), but it’s simply just more interesting that a specific group of angry music listeners decided on these trends.

And, if we’re to examine the demographics of hardcore music fans, it strays even further from cool. Pockets of hardcore typically develop far outside of what most would consider centres of cultural production; hardcore thrives in places like Connecticut and Brockville, ON. Not exactly meccas of ‘cool’ (but, it should be stated: completely awesome places).

Yet, somehow, it seems like musicians coming from a hardcore background simply perform cool better than most. I’m of the belief that some of the best bands in rock n’ roll are graduates of hardcore. The Adored – an excellent new wave / brit-pop mashup, with an EP under their belts featuring Buzzcocks vocalist Pete Shelley – boasts members of LA straight edge band Carry On. Renee Heartfelt, who were a dreamy, almost shoe-gazy, post-punk band harbours ex-members of American Nightmare and Striking Distance. Ian Mackaye, following his days in Minor Threat, went on to change the face of indie rock with Fugazi, and still continues his strong musical career with the the Evens. Hell, even Moby was active in hardcore in the early 80s as a member of the Vatican Commandos (who I’ve never heard, but I can assume were a complete babe-magnet of a band).

Which brings us to Walter Schreifels – a man who I’ve personally anointed as the most underrated songwriter in rock n’ roll. Schreifels CV lists membership in Youth of Today and Gorilla Biscuits – two notable bands who were certainly popular in suburban Connecticut – but it’s entirely his post-hardcore career which is the most intriguing. From Quicksand, to Walking Concert, to Rival Schools, Schreifels' career has spanned from proto-metal to power pop; and while such genre-hopping is not usually advised for most musicians, Schreifels just isn’t most musicians. Each Schreifels-related project is drastically different from the previous without seeming contrived, and each is effortlessly amazing; I still can’t decide which is my favourite Schreifels project.

So, needless to say, I’m extremely pleased that Schreifels has decided to reunite his initial post-Quicksand project, Rival Schools. Brooklynvegan posted a recent interview with Rival Schools last week, and you can check that out here. Per the interview, it looks like they're going to be a band beyond playing reunion shows (unlike Gorilla Biscuits), original guitarist Ian Love is returning, and they are, indeed, playing a few shows in early November in the Northeast (does anyone want to drive me?).

So, in tribute to Walter Schreifels (and my giant man-crush on him), here are several videos I’ve mined detailing his career – including an incredible acoustic solo track that should console just about any bike theft victim. Enjoy!

Gorilla Biscuits - Stand Still

Quicksand - Dine Alone

Rival Schools - Used for Glue

Walking Concert - What's Your New Thing?

Walter Schreifels - The Bicycle Song

Cancanon Fridays: How to Lose a Fight with a Conservative

I suspect that many aspiring musicians are only aspiring musicians part of the time – really, they’re aspiring to be tastemakers. Musicians surely recognize their art as product, and this surely impacts the way that they produce and market music. Although albums are, as a sum of parts, a collection of songs, artwork, sometimes pieces of artwork, vinyl and plastic, and sometimes contain a loose narrative, they are marketed as lifestyle indicators. When record-purchasers listen to new records, there’s the implicit understanding that these records come with codes of conduct and peripheral lifestyle accessories.

Now, when I speak of lifestyle accessories, I am referencing a wide range of products and non-products, including (but not limited to) fashion, art, and most importantly to me, literature. While there are bands that are considered vaguely ‘literary’ – the Decemberists come to mind as a band that is constantly referenced as ‘literary,’ and bands such as Wilco and the Weakerthans are widely considered ‘bookish,’ whatever that means – there are also groups that specifically champion their literary tastes as part of their lifestyle packaging.

As an example, the Hold Steady include Jack Kerouac as a literary accompaniment (see: Boys and Girls in America). Modest Mouse champions Charles Bukowski. And, based on Panopticon, it would appear that Isis are Michel Foucault fans (though I’ve never really seen the connection). Each of these bands not only cites a different writer as a prime influence, but is also unknowingly selling literature as lifestyle decision – one that has already been made is listening to their records.

On my walk home from work yesterday, I noticed that Chuck Klosterman’s new (and first) novel, Downtown Owl, was featured prominently in their window display. Now, I’m a Klosterman fan – though not as huge a fan as some would have you believe – but I do feel like he’s an incredibly entertaining writer and a complete whiz at folk-psychology. So, I decided to stop in to pick up a copy; this might have made me this first person to ever purchase a book in Urban Outfitters.

And there’s a good reason for that: they had a terrible selection of books. Perhaps in an attempt to capture the literary consensus of basement-bachelor dwelling city-dwellers (such as myself), they did have a few Bukowski and Kerouac selections. But, more troublingly, they had a disturbingly large collection of post-ironic coffee table books and survival guides, including a personal favourite, How to Win a Fight with a Conservative.

Now, as a de-facto lifestyle marketplace, I’m puzzled at the type of a lifestyle Urban Outfitters is marketing. Now, while I’d made the (probably unfair) assumption that Urban Outfitters innocently touted the benefits of listening to MGMT, plagiarizing art for print-tees (see: to the left), and marking up plastic sunglasses, I’d never considered that they’d be promoting a political philosophy.

So, if there are indeed those who make lifestyle choices based on the records they listen to, what lifestyle choices are being offered by Urban Outfitters? Let’s look to the description of How Win a Fight with a Conservative, taken from the Urban Outfitters website:

How to Win a Fight With a Conservative is the ultimate survival guide to arguing politics, filled with cunning strategies and damning facts guaranteed to bait and baffle right-wing blowhards everywhere. With the presidential election approaching, this irreverent yet practical guide is essential reading for unpracticed neophytes and seasoned politicos alike - the perfect primer for anyone who's ever fantasized about smacking sense into a misguided conservative adversary. With the help of the tips and tricks in this book, we'll show you how to confidently tangle with conservatives in any situation - from surviving family sparring matches to engaging in Internet flame wars, or even what to do if you're sleeping with the enemy. If you're tired of right-wing nut jobs and their nonsense, it's time to do your part to defend America, one argument at a time. Imported. Wipe clean.

Now, correct me if I’m mistaken, but I’m of the understanding that a personal political philosophy is developed based on a mix of faith, research, and discourse. But, it’s good to know that as UO lifestyle patrons, unpractised neophytes can bait and baffle right-wing blowhards at will, fast-tracking the research and introspection. And, paired with your personal volume knob and an irreverent yet practical guide, there will be no mistaking the UO lifestyle patron for um, a blowhard.

I’m all for incorporating a political philosophy into a packaged lifestyle, and I am confident that a handy survival guide is the best introduction to the wide world of political debate or an Internet flame war (what’s that?). If the Hold Steady promote the merits of vagabond travelers and Modest Mouse promote the merits of lovable skids, Urban Outfitters promotes the benefits of the under-educated liberal (what?) lifestyle.

So, maybe it’s best to leave the taste-making to tastemakers with taste: now, I’m no tastemaker, but the Rheostatics sure are. And, as part of their lifestyle package, they’ve included Paul Quarrington on their reading lists (while you’re gorging yourself on beaver tails, maple syrup, and Acadian poutine). And when I’m finished with reading How to Fight with a Conservative, sexing up Tories, and dominating Internet Flame Wars, maybe I’ll pick up Quarrington’s Galveston. And then, maybe, I’ll watch the Rheostatics video below. And maybe I’ll dig a little deeper into the Cancanon.



The Rheostatics - Legal Age Life at the Variety Store

See, it's difficult to determine which lifestyle decisions the Rheostatics promote. Aside from Paul Quarrington, my favourite Rheos song seems to imply that 'the things that make you roar' are the things that can be purchased at 'legal age... at the Variety store.' And, full-blooded Quebecois that I am, I can only assume that they're heavy proponents of skoal, Colt 45, and pornography. This is a lifestyle I can unabashedly support.



Econoline Crush - Nowhere Now

Econoline Crush are the forward-thinking futurists of the group of bands highlighted on this week Cancanon offering. When released in 1995, Econoline Crush were clearly dazzled by the limitless potential of virtual reality - to the point where they'd even envisioned combining virtual reality with their first love, motorcycles. By 2008, Trevor Hurst and co. probably envisioned virtual motorcycles, hoverboards, and escalators to the moon; instead, they're still performing this song in Durham Region basements.



Big Wreck - That Song

Now, if we're talking about the today's real visionaries, Big Wreck must be considered. I unabashedly enjoy this song, and wished better fortune for Big Wreck: if they'd released this song several years later, they might have been able to ride the post-grunge wave to Nickelback-ian heights.



The Tea Party - The Bazaar

It's a little easier to decipher the lifestyle package that the Tea Party are offering. It's called the Burning Man Festival.



The New Pornographers - My Slow Descent into Alcoholism

As this week's contemporary pick, it would appear that the New Pornos, much like Modest Mouse, are supporters of a Bukowski lifestyle. The very fact that they've named alcoholism in the title of the song indicates that they are fiercely defensive (and, maybe even proud) of their alcoholism. Add wonderful ginger Neko Case to the mix, and voila: one of my favourite songs in recent memory.

Excercises in Dignity

Note: This entry is the product of a lengthy debate. I understand the inaccuracies of this entry - as modern glass eyes are prosthetic shells fitted over implants. So suspend that disbelief momentarily.

This entry is, by no means, meants to belittle or mock of those with ocular prosthetics. This is the product of communal discourse. Dead Prez defend some of their questionable lyrics by stating that they're articulating the voice of a community, and that is how I am prefacing this entry. Except the community voices I'm articulating (and the very communities I'm involved in) might be very... crass. And I'm legitimately interested in the answer to the following question:

What are the market rates on your dignity?

An office-working acquaintance of mine has a manager with a glass eye. His boss isn’t shy or sensitive about it; in fact, he regularly references his glass eye (‘by my glass eye, that's a strong coffee’), probably to deflect the awkwardness that stems from having one particular standout feature. And it truly is a standout feature: whenever speaking directly to this man, it’s difficult to maintain eye contact or focus on anything else – the glass eye is so omnipresent that any efforts to ignore it become even more noticeable than simply acknowledging its glassy presence.

Now, imagine that this man is your manager, and I am your co-worker. We have never openly discussed our manager’s glass eye, but there is an unspoken understanding that it is at the centre of office discourse. It is perhaps the most silently debated and widely interpreted artifact in our office; you often consider its weight, density, and place of origin.

Our supervisor removes his glass eye occasionally; when it’s cold outside, the glass eye’s temperature drops significantly quicker than your body’s temperature. As you can imagine, this would cause significant discomfort in one’s eye socket; the flesh encasement surrounding your eyeball, typically, is not a region that is well-suited to the cold (and your boss is aware of this, as he does, after all, possess another eye). As it stands, his glass eye is perched carelessly on his mousepad, and he has gone to the bathroom; as we’re passing by, having returned from a lunch break, it begins to roll off the table. Being a responsible, caring co-worker, you’re not interested in seeing the glass eye shatter on the floor, nor are you looking forward to confronting your manager’s vacant eye socket for the remainder of the day.

You are sharp-reflexed; you catch the glass sphere as it tumbles from the edge of the table. You are now holding, between your thumb and index finger, your manager’s glass eye.

You are on the tail-end of a rent paycheque; credit card bills are mounting; and telemarketers have somehow obtained your cell phone number. I am the recent benefactor of a sizable inheritance – an inheritance large enough that I have recently submitted my two weeks’ notice; I am leaving the office for good. I have always been cruel and mean-spirited, and this inheritance has only exacerbated this problem – in fact, my sense of entitlement and self-worth has skyrocketed in recent weeks.

Most of our co-workers are still out for lunch or fixated on their computer screens; how much money would I have to pay you to lick the glass eye?

Mambo B-Sides: Cover-ups

Disclaimer: misguided bitterness to follow. This was written about a week ago, and I've decided, against better judgment, to post it.

In a previous post, I mentioned the Dakota Tavern’s house band, the Beauties. And while they are a formidable band – they’ve got an instantly catchy catalogue of originals, have guests who slide in admirably, and have three guitars, all of which entirely count – they’re also surprisingly a band that can pull off covers. They cover, to my knowledge, Lou Reed, Wilco / Billy Bragg’s ‘California Stars,’ and Ryan Adams’ ‘To be Young,’ and, quite surprisingly, cover them admirably.

Which leads me to the question – when, exactly, is it suitable for bands to introduce covers into their sets? And, what exactly makes for a suitable cover?

Really, the answers are never and nothing. As an almost fail-safe generalization, songs are usually performed best by those who penned them. And, as far as I’m concerned, the only two recorded covers I’ve actually enjoyed have been Lucero’s cover of Jawbreaker ‘Kiss the Bottle’ (because it’s a song that, per it’s lyrical content and tone, completely suits an alt-country song) and Dinosaur Jr.’s cover of the Cure’s ‘Just Like Heaven’ (because, I’m convinced, Dinosaur Jr. are just a flat-out better band than the Cure. See this video for evidence).

For the most part, covers are either entirely awkward or are a general disservice to the original song. But I’ll admit: I am entirely biased, as I am a product of the Napster generation and the free-flow of digital music. And while I generally feel that this is a good thing – it’s provided musicians worldwide an avenue for free distribution of their art – it’s also opened the doors for the widespread distribution of terrible punk covers.

When Napster first arrived, I hailed it as the messiah: I could download Smashing Pumpkins box sets, access music that wolud classify as risky purchases, and indulge in guilty pleasures that previously would not have been purchases at all. Napster was a fantastic application for the serious and not-so-serious music fan, but a particular moment nearly jeopardized P2P file sharing forever.

Ska-punk flash-in-the-pan Save Ferris released a cover of ‘Come on Eileen.’

Now, there have been plenty of bands who have released covers – some in tribute, others ironic, others as LP add-ons – but ‘Come on Eileen’ was a released as a single. And, it was released a single that Save Ferris rode to moderate success. And, it was a terrible song. But most importantly, the amateur punk world noticed.

Using Save Ferris’ success model, amateur punk bands globally rethought their operational model – temporarily ditching the Black Flag methodology of releasing demos, vinyl, petitioning labels, and touring, touring, touring. Instead, these amateur punk bands emulated Save Ferris, placing a poorly constructed cover at the forefront of their catalogue – which were usually contemporary or classic pop hits, sped up over 2/2 timing or given 3rd-wave ska upstrokes.

And these punk covers hit Napster with a bang. A once noble tool was inundated with mislabeled, bathroom 8-track quality recordings of songs that, otherwise, would be quarantined to oldies radio. And, in an unsuccessful last-ditch grasp at success, many of these bands would mislabel their covers, feigning as more established bands. Evidence of this mislabeling has damaged P2P file-sharing to this very day; and unsuspecting, first time-using victims are still being fooled into downloading and listening to mislabeled tracks.

No, Pennywise did not cover the Bee-Gees. Skankin’ Pickle did not cover LFO’s ‘Summer Girls.’ Billy Talent did not cover the Deftones’ ‘My Own Summer.’ And Mambo favourites Anal Cunt certainly did not cover ‘I’m a Slave (4 U).’ And even if they did, the world does not need to hear such abominations.

So, to aspiring amateur musicians, I offer the following advice: please do not record covers. But if you must, please follow the following guidelines:

1) Never cover an existing band, unless they’re in the unspoken canon (and no, the canon is not the Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame, or Pitchfork reviews). Keep in mind, most of your favourite bands aren’t part of the canon – you’ll know if a band is canon-worthy. And before my rationale gets criticized too harshly, Ryan Adams is entirely canon-worthy (see: Whiskeytown).

2) Observe a suitable period to cover a band’s song following their break-up. Now, if the band is not a canon band, I suggest waiting a solid decade before covering one of their songs. Anything else would appear to be corny, and your band will be assumed wearing your influences a little too proudly (even if you are).

3) Choose the song you’re covering wisely. This is a hard-and-fast rule: the more obscure your cover, the better. And this isn't just prentention; if the song is unrecognized by your audience, there are two possible (and positive) outcomes:

a. You will never be accused of pandering to your audience, thus giving your music a (maybe feigned) sense of artistic credibility
b. Your audience might actually confuse the song for an original, which is a compliment of the highest order

4) If you must ignore all the other guidelines, make sure that your songs are actually better than the song you’re covering (see the Dinosaur Jr. example). This, if anything, is covering as an act of charity: you bring exposure to a shittier musician. Note: I understand that critics of this point will point to subjective musical tastes. I call that an admission that you have terrible taste in music.

5) Don’t cover Bruce Springsteen. Ever.

And, in case it wasn’t apparent in the tone of this post, I actually do hate fun and also, keep in mind, ‘those who can’t, write.’

The Record Epiphany

For someone who spends as much time thinking, talking, and writing about music, I’m remarkably apprehensive about it (actually, maybe this isn’t remarkable at all). Maybe this is indicative of anyone who tries to analyze music critically – and I use the term critically very loosely – but my first instinct in listening to new music is to automatically dislike it. Maybe it’s a knee-jerk reaction to dealing with over-stimulation/over-saturation, a defense mechanism resulting from the information glut. Maybe apprehension is a fashion in which I attempt to project critical awareness, or credibility, or perhaps it is some trait that’s expected of veteran music listeners. Honestly, I’m too busy trying to dislike music that I often forget that I actually like music.

I’m not exactly sure where my apprehension stems from, but I do know that it’s become a gut instinct. Whenever confronted with new trends in music, I automatically write them off; I seem to believe that I can almost forecast their impending irrelevance. This is why I almost exclusively like to examine music retrospectively – I feel like most of my observations on new music are fatally flawed. Actually, my biases are generally why I try to stay away from stating any definitive opinions on music; I am far too used to having my opinions swayed over time.

But good records cannot be denied; there will always be a moment when you get music. Good songs, or good records, always find their way onto your playlist – it’s manifest destiny. You’ll find yourself repeatedly putting on written-off records in the background more frequently, or humming along a song in the shower, and then eventually, you’ll start hearing that record everywhere. And the moment you actually realize that you actually like a record is the moment that you’ve reached your Record Epiphany.

Record Epiphanies occur most frequently when you’re bumbling around with your headphones on. Record Epiphanies can blindside you, and there’s no precise formula dictating when they will occur, but from personal experience, they tend to occur during the most mundane moments in your life. They’ll infrequently occur prior to moments of significance; rather, they’ll occur when you’re loading up a shopping cart full of sour cream and onion dip; when you’re buying economy-sized tubs of mayonnaise you know you’ll finish promptly; when you’re purchasing condoms to give the illusion that you’re having sex regularly.

And Record Epiphanies, particularly when they occur with headphones, are immediately identifiable. When you finally connect with a record, bedroom dancing makes a public appearance: you’ll be passing the mic, stage-diving into display stands, dancing like no one’s watching, winking at pets chained outside of stores. Record epiphanies are glorious moments of unbridled enthusiasm; once you’ve finally achieved that kind of connection with an album, that album has, in all likelihood, entered your personal canon.

And record epiphanies occur to everyone all the time – simply scan the commuters on the transit system for further evidence. You’ll find commuters discovering that Bob Dylan isn’t just the music of their parents’ generation; discovering that Robert Johnson probably literally sold his soul to the devil at the crossroads; that Pinkerton is a good record; that Hall and Oates’ homoeroticism actually does make them a better band; that Christian rock rocks; discovering that Hoobastank’s ‘The Reason’ is the second greatest rock n’ roll song of our generation following Lifehouse’s ‘Hanging by a Moment’; that LFO’s ‘Summer Girls’ straddles the line between coherence and stream-of-consciousness that puts Virginia Woolf to shame (I mean, look at how ashen she appears in the picture to the left); and that ‘Everybody (Backstreet’s Back)’ actually has a harder riff than most Sabbath songs.

In case you’re having difficulty identifying Record Epiphanies in motion, look no further than the Ellen Degeneres Show. Ellen's studio audience might be the most strikingly authentic collection of people I've ever encountered; and their unbridled enthusiasm (both for Ellen's undeniable magnetism and song) both awes and terrifies. And, in case you were wondering, this is precisely how most appear whilst experiencing a Record Epiphany.

Now, while Record Epiphanies are liberating, one should also approach them with caution. The next time you encounter a headphone-Epiphany in public, always be aware that most by-standers probably feel like Zach Galifianakis awkwardly situated in the middle of Ellen's studio audience.

Cancanon Fridays: Giving Back to the Community

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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



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



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



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



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

This Week in Cats

‘Let’s enlist the cat in the impending class-war.’
- John K. Samson

Music listeners always have the strangest relationships with their favourite bands. There’s a balance to how fans approach their favourite bands: they either project their own unique values upon a band (and feel that as such, a band is a perfect representation of one’s desirable qualities), or feel that their favourite bands somehow found them (and, as such, that they are uniquely suited to the band in question). Both perspectives are valid, and I’m positive that both perspectives are at play in the process of discovering new favourite bands.

The image that we project upon our favourite bands – images that are representative of ourselves, our personalities, our values – is one of the fashions in which we can reconcile having a diverse taste in music. If anyone ever questions how and why you listen to a little bit of everything, your self-projection onto certain types of music is a perfectly valid answer: you see different elements of your world-view in different genres, artists, albums, songs. This is how I can listen to Son Volt and the Dandy Warhols in tandem. It’s also how I can reconcile my love of Leonard Cohen and Anal Cunt.

And, just as we project values onto our music, we project our values on other things – most commonly inanimate objects and pets. The anthropomorphization of inanimate objects and food items has resulted in the California Raisin and plenty of hilarious sports teams’ logos. This, presumably, is an advertising ploy; it enables human beings to physically identify with inanimate objects. However, the anthropomorphization of pets in entirely more sophisticated; seeing as how we are the daily caregivers and companions to our pets (and the fact that pets and pet owners share more physical similarities), we are allowed to construct a far more complex systems of projections onto our pets.

Anthropomorphized cats, as a result of their owners, have rapidly been appearing everywhere. The LOLcats internet meme, for example, is based entirely constructing humour based around assigning cats human qualities. Catbook, a popular Facebook application, allows Facebook users (n.b.: the users are not cats) to create a Facebook page for their cats, designed to mirror the profiles of their companions.

In a sense, these are some of the few instances where cat-owners can exert influence over their an aspect of their lives. As many feel that their working, living, and creative situations are beyond their direct control, being able to sculpt a little soul to their specification provides a modicum of relief. It’s a similar rationale to that used by pregnant teenaged mothers on Maury Povich – they just want to exert their influence on a loved one, and be loved back. In a sense, being an anthropomorphized cat owner is a little slice of divinity – in God-less times, being a cat-owner offers a rare chance to pinch-hit for Him.

So how, exactly, do cat-owners sculpt the personas of their beloved? It’s typically a mixture of personal traits, desirable traits (often comparable to the features of celebrities or fictional characters), and always, always, human traits. John K. Samson, of the Weakerthans, off-handedly paints his cat as a Marxist revolutionary. But, what kind of projections are painted upon the cats within my own backyard? Take a look:

Guillaume-Francois ‘Ari’ Katz
Don’t be fooled by the French name, or the reference to Lifetime’s lead singer. Guillaume, though resembling Richard Parker in Life of Pi, is a surly bastard, equal parts Charles Bukowski and uninmpressed record store clerk (the type encountered in your teen years). He generally won’t attack unless provoked, and once you’ve proven your love for Wire records, he’ll probably even grudgingly befriend you. Like Bukowski, he rarely rises before noon and is probably surly due to mind-shattering hangovers; gold-hearted, he'll only really bother you if he's seeking out another drink. His choice of attire would most likely be ill-fitting pants and a vomit-stained white t-shirt. Reflective of his embittered-yet-sensitive nature, his favourite song is most likely the Pogues' ‘Fairytale of New York’. Summarized in a single adjective, Guillaume is rascally.

Frankenstein
A chubby, adorable, misconstrued free spirit, Frankenstein is the feline embodiment of Wilco’s ‘Misunderstood.’ Generally adored by most, socializing with Frankie isn’t always easy: it’s like talking to an acquaintance who speaks in a different rhythm. While you’d certainly like to get to know them better, your conversations are marred with unintentional interruptions and awkward pauses. Like Lindsay Weir from Freaks and Geeks, she’s content to be by her lonesome, but generally makes for rewarding company (and, possesses surprising depth). Her attire also closely follows a Freaks and Geeks aesthetic, and she’s most likely a fan over oversized green army jackets. Musically, Frankie is lands somewhere in between Belle, Sebastian, Tegan, or Sara. Summarized in an adjective, Frankie is non-plussed.

Penelope
Penelope’s pretty righteous – she’s probably a mix between Blake and Fletcher of the popular webcomic Nothing Nice to Say. She generally sticks to her type, and her type probably consists of freegans, Aaron Cometbus readers, and fans of East Bay punk rock like Discount (however, she finds Jawbreaker a little too 'arty' for her tastes). Her clothing generally consists of merchandise from the No Idea catalogue held together by pins; no one’s quite sure where she obtained her pants. She’s generally happy-go-lucky, be she was certainly happy-go-luckier before Against Me! signed to a major label. She’ll talk your ear off all night about the merits of particular Dillinger 4 records, but she’ll be dead wrong (because, really, Versus God is clearly their best). Her favourite bands are signed to Fat Wreck Chords, but she’d never admit to it. Summarized in an adjective, Penelope is HOTWATERMUSIC'SNODIVISON (which, I realize isn't a word).

Gov. General (or Lieutenant, pronounced ‘Leftenant’) Gord Ferguson
Gord Ferguson, pictured here as a scant kitten, has since developed into a robust cat, gorged on maple bacon and beaver tails. He’s eccentric in a completely accessible way, and tends to be comparable to your friend who is just a little too into Canadian music. He finds the Rheostatics’ glee club vocals palatable, owns a ‘Barenaked’ hat (which is standard issue Canadiana), and knows a hell of a lot about Julie Doiron’s career following Eric’s Trip. He’s also a strange songwriter – probably sounding like Sudbury, ON’s answer to Tom Waits – and likes to make esoteric metaphors, frequently referencing ‘railway teeth’ and ‘conifer eyes.’ These types of metaphors didn’t work for Stephen Malkmus, but they certainly work for Gord. Summarized in an adjective, Gord Ferguson is Canadian.

Submissions for the next edition of This Week in Cats are welcome!

Power Metal 101: Edguy plays Toronto

Fixed-gear bicycles (like the Crass-themed fixed gear above) are absolutely everywhere these days, and this isn’t a surprise: every few years, the urbane population grips onto a new fad in cycling. For example, during the 1970s and 80s, road bikes were ubiquitous; a quick scan of Craigslist’s used bike section displays that most of the road bikes for sale are from that era. The 1990s brought mountain bikes to roads, and in the late 1990s, BMXes made a major comeback (due to, I’m convinced, this Bouncing Souls video). And, with the mid-2000s, fixed-gear / track bikes are set to claim set their island in the swift current of cycling trends.

Whenever a sub-culture starts gaining broader appeal, they will inevitably be flooded by an influx of media coverage. The articles that surround growing sub-cultures tend to be introductory: they focus on the most readily identifiable aspects, such as the sub-culture’s aesthetic and demographic. For the average reader, these articles serve as introductions, but for participants within that particular sub-culture, this media coverage tends to be considered shallow, crass, and misinformed (see: this article on fixed-gear bikes and this article on straight edge in Salt Lake City, Utah).

And, after several long years of toiling, I’ve finally found my opportunity to contribute to the flow of misinformation. Last Saturday, I’d gotten the chance to see Edguy – a popular German power-metal band. Though they’re seemingly a fairly popular band – playing Toronto’s Opera House – I know next to nothing regarding Edguy or power metal; in fact, despite the fact that I’ve seen a Serbian folk band perform live, I’ve never seen a single power metal performance. The combination of the relative popularity of power metal with lack of knowledge could potentially resulting in blogging gold (or coal, whichever way you look at it). Also, an Edguy concert could be a very legitimate learning opportunity - I could very well discover a new genre of music that I'll grow to adore.

See, my particular approach to acquiring knowledge (and the appreciation thereof) mirrors the teachings of Jean Piaget – a developmental theorist who argued that effective learning occurred via a structure resembling a scaffolding. In education, the role of teachers was to present their students with an information scaffolding – that is, a climbable skeletal structure. Students, as they progress with their knowledge, will fill in the empty spaces in the scaffolding and ascend to higher, more complex stages of knowledge. Really, it's quite an interesting way to learn - provided with a bare structure of knowledge, students are encouraged to discover more information themselves, via research, play, or whatever techniques best suit the student.

So, prior to the concert, I needed to build my power metal scaffolding.

First, I evaluated my assumptions about power metal. Based on my knowledge of pop-power band Dragonforce, power metal seemed to be an athletic form of music, combining technical wizardry with the conventions of pop music. Based on epic-rock champions Blind Guardian, I’d come to expect fantasy themes – wizards, dragons, battles, and Tolkien. Based on my rudimentary knowledge of metal in general, I’d expected a demographic that was young, white, and male, draped in an aesthetic centred around the colour black.

A quick browse of Wikipedia provided me with the following blurb:

“Power metal (Epic Metal) is today associated with an epic sound tempered by characteristics of speed metal, power metal's musical forerunner. Power metal's lyrical themes, though as varied as metal itself, typically focus on fantasy and mythology (eg. Rhapsody of Fire, Blind Guardian, Falconer), comradeship and hope (eg. Hammerfall, Lost Horizon, Highland Glory, Sabaton, Iced Earth), personal struggles and emotions (eg. X Japan, Sonata Arctica, Evergrey) war and death (eg. Manowar) or combinations of the listed themes. Many typical metal themes such as anti-religion and politics are comparatively rare but not unheard of.”

And, this was all the information regarding power metal that I needed to flesh out my scaffolding. I had to be careful about gaining too much information – how else could I maintain my misinformation?

With my scaffolding firmly in place, I set out along the Queen Streetcar, heading East towards the Opera House. I trembled with excitement.

9:45 PM: Arrival at the Opera House
Not knowing what to expect, I arrived at the Opera House prior to the opening act, Into Eternity. Using this time to collect rudimentary demographic and aesthetic information, I ventured outside into the smoking area. Surprisingly, the group outside is very diverse; there’s a fair representation of various ethnicities, an estimated 70:30 ratio of males to females (which was entirely unexpected), and, surprisingly, an age range of an estimated 30 years. There were grey, balding types and tweens. Of note, the fashion choices of showgoers was also diverse: though black was a prominent motif, I’ve also noticed pylon orange and various shades of camouflage. This might have actually been the most diverse concert-going crowd I’ve ever seen.

10:00 PM: Conversations with the Coat Check Girl
I’d decided to accumulate information from the Opera House staff; and, seeing as how the coat check folk observe the entirety of the concert-going populace, I’d decided that the lovely coat check girl would be an excellent place to start. It appears that most show-goers are here to see the headliners, and, bizarrely enough, there are a lot of people wearing Edguy shirts at the show (and not even just recently bought shirts, but shirts from other tours!). It appears that the ‘that guy’ convention – the principle that you never wear a band’s shirt at their own concert – is a convention not applicable to power metal shows. A survey of the crowd size reveals about 200 showgoers; a good-sized crowd, but nowhere close to the venue’s capacity.

10:15 PM: The Openers - Ash Lee Blade
The openers, Toronto’s Ash Lee Blade, warm up the crowd; they are excellent. Though they don’t conform to my expectations of a power-metal band, these guys laid down some excellent cock-rock sleaze. They’re nowhere near as athletic or technical as I’d expected, and their subject matter is sleazy, as evidenced by songs entitled ‘Naked And Proud’ and ‘Live for Heavy Metal / Die for Rock n’ Roll.’ Their singer rocks a feathery head of strawberry-blonde hair, red tights, and a cock-piece, his Southern half vaguely resembling the shimmering crotch of Superman.

10:20n PM: The Cock-Piece
I’ve come to the conclusion that possessing a cock-piece would make in infinitely easier to get out of bed in the morning. I make a mental note to purchase a cock-piece.

10:30: Ruminations with The Bartender
After a quick scan of my appearance and demeanour, I realize that I’m entirely not dressed for the show. I’m wearing a nearly-fully denim outfit and a colourful Western shirt; I’m nodding my head appeciatively, though it’s apparent that I'm not familiarized with the opener. Things are rapidly becoming awkward; I am grasping for any sort of social lubricant. I decide to start drinking.

Beginning with the many drinks that I’d consume that night, I decide to chat up the bartender. Dressed in a zebra-print tank top and colourful tights, it’s immediate that she’s not dressed the part of a power-metal fan; an introductory conversation with her proves my assumption correct. Much like myself, I hope that she will be able to provide me with more misinformed perspective regarding power metal.

She informs me that power metal showgoers aren’t the biggest drinkers nor the greatest tippers. I silently wonder if she’s wishing that the Dirtbombs or CPC Gangbangs were playing instead. Anyhow, the bartender and I attempt to guess the day jobs of each member of the opening band; the drummer is a hot-shot graphic designer, the lead guitarist a kindergarten teacher, the rhythm guitarist a snack-truck operator, the bassist an executive assistant, and the singer is a 6-figure actuary.

10:40 PM: Notes on Ash Lee Blade
Following their set, a showgoer informs me that he has recently visited Ash Lee Blade's shared household. Apparently, their apartment is littered with dildos, and the band was projecting overweight-pornography onto a blank wall to entertain their visitors. This strikes me as the most authentic act a rock n' roll band can perform. I am awed.

11:00 PM: Edguy
As 11:00 reaches, the lights dim and Edguy arrives on stage. Their entrance isn’t necessarily grandiose – they do possess a mid-sized banner, but there is surprisingly a lack of a light show. The crowd is rhythmically pumping their fists and chanting the band’s name to a rhythm you’d expect of AC/DC’s TNT. Surprisingly, all band members sport enthusiastic, irrefutably genuine grins in appreciation of their crowd; the band members wear collared shirts and skinny jeans – certainly not the standard-issue metal aesthetic. Their lead singer is diminutive but energetic; their guitar player, with a high hairline and flowing hair, resembles a Klingon.

11:20 PM: New songs?
The initially-churning audience has come to more of a stand-still. Edguy’s first few songs are mid-tempo, almost verging on Bon-Jovi-esque balladry. The band’s enthusiasm is still at a high, though the crowd doesn’t match it. I’m told that Edguy began their set with new songs; and, apparently, the fashion in which power metal bands sell out is that they start emulating Bon Jovi. I secretly wish that power metal bands emulated Lifehouse.

Regardless, the songs are powerful (mind the pun) and, were I more familiar with them, probably even moving. Sonically, they're packed full of positivity and glory; any hints of aggression in the songs don't seem to be directed towards anyone specific, but rather at unseen / unmentioned antagonistic forces. Hammerfall proclaims that 'they will prevail,' but prevail over what, or whom? It's my understanding that these forces are left deliberately obscured. I suspect that power metal's positivity is half of its attraction: as listeners, we are playing with the band (or for their team), and together, power metal bands will help us prevail against whatever obstacles impede us.
Power metal: I think I get it.

11:30 PM: Power Metal (for real, this time)
Edguy triumphantly announce that they will commence playing some ‘power metal.’ The crowd immediately perks up, as does the band’s the speed. The next few songs are incredibly fast – fulfilling the speed metal component of power metal – and the technicality is quickly becoming evident. There are blazing solos, and the guitarists never have problems keeping up with the rhythm section of the band. However, despite the overwhelming speed of the music, it’s quite evident that Edguy still perform pop music – most of their songs are in major scales, and Edguy’s singer has an excellent, soaring, operatic voice.

Edguy’s lyrical themes also don’t conform to my earlier assumption that they’d be fantasy themed – in fact, there’s a distinct lack of wizardry in their lyrics. I’d later discover, via their Wikipedia page, that Edguy lyrics ‘are often metaphorical, alluding to metaphysical or social themes: conformity, dictation by the church , and dangers of modern civilization.’
At this point, I've noticed that Ash Lee Blade and Edguy have mentioned metal several times, both in song and during in-between song banter. It occurs to me that metal might actually be the most self-aware musical genre in the universe. The performers are perfectly aware that they're performing; they're also always perfectly aware what type of music they're playing. Metal is perhaps the most post-modern musical form.

12:00 AM – The Encore
With the increased tempo of the songs, the set seems to fly by – the previous half hour feels like ten minutes. The music comes to an abrupt halt, with the band members waving to the audience as they depart the stage. There will be an encore, however, as the house lights are still shut off and Edguy’s stage crew don’t begin disassembling their equipment.
Edguy, seemingly, are not a self-aggrandizing band and don’t need convincing to come back on stage. They play three songs, ending off with ‘Avantasia,’ a mid-tempo (relatively speaking) song, and Edguy’s most popular song. And, the song is great – it’s got memorable lead melodies that are never repetitive; the solo sounds like the wind in your hair. It’s an excellent closer, and the crowd is appreciative.

12:30 AM: The End of the Voyage
At this point, I’ve drank quite a bit, but stumble next door into a sports bar to play some foosball. I’m not totally coherent, and I’m not quite sure how much I’ve filled in my learning-scaffolding, but learning is supposed to be transparent, isn't it? And, does anyone know where I can purchase a cock-piece?

VOTE!

Though I'm never one to try to influence anyone's voting decision, here's a videoclip of Broken Social Scene's Jason Collett performing at an NDP rally. I don't hold hatred towards any of the party leaders (although I do harbour more than a little resentment towards Stephen Harper's proposed cuts to arts funding) - I always hope that parties and their leaders attempt to be reflective of the needs and desires of specific communities (as optimistic as that might sound). And plus, this is mostly a music blog, so I will nary be talking about politics.

So, enjoy a little slice of Canadiana with Jason Collett and go out and vote, if you haven't already. During the song, Collett mentions putting on a sweater to brace for the oncoming cold; I'm not exactly sure if it's meant to be metaphoric or if he's making mention of a particular leader's choice of garment.

We'll be returning to regularly scheduled programming later today.

Cancanon Fridays: morale is low, the weather's good

[NOTE: If you'd like to scroll past the long-winded intro, the videos are at the bottom of this post.]

I do a lot of misguided tween-bashing on this blog. I’m not exactly really sure why, but it’s probably the classic case of bullying to overcompensate for insecurities. Though I don’t remember much of time as tween due to my decade-long alcoholic haze, I do remember it being awkward and, at times, difficult – and this is why I feel that my criticism is just a tad unwarranted. It, like just about every phase in the grand race to death (read: life), was a transition phase in the midst of even more transition phases.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but the tween phase, by definition, was the transition between childhood and early adolescence. It was a time to shed the interests and philosophies of childhood, and to embrace the new, and often frightening, conventions of adolescence. And what a revolution it was – gone were the childhood shows, but we you weren’t necessarily ready for 90210 or Oz. Gone was Raffi and the Muppets (or a genuine ambivalence towards music in general); but, instead of immediately transitioning to Anal Cunt, you eased your way into the music world with top 10, 20, and 30 countdowns on FM radio. Advertisers began to recognize the tween’s purchasing power, and ever-so-slowly, the tween found goods and services marketed directly to them instead of at them. And oh, there was lubricant to ease the transition: we watched Tarzan Dan, PJ Phil, and Snit, listened to lighter Nirvana songs, and shopped at Claire’s (or something).

Of course, let’s not get too wistful about childhood: it returned with faux-irony during late adolescence, when teens embraced Curious George t-shirts, and played drunken Guess Who, and had sex on Twister mats (see Minus the Bear tune 'Crisco Twister'). Of course, this is when teens embraced all elements of their childhood in reaction to their earlier dismissal as tweens. At this point, it didn’t matter if you actually liked Inspector Gadget: you liked Inspector Gadget.

And finally, a return to childrens' culture returned in earnest once settled into adulthood. This is the period that occurs when you are able to selectively discern the appealing portions of your childhood: this is when you decide that you didn’t like Inspector Gadget, but you did like the Muppets; you didn’t like Guess Who, but you loved Operation. It's also during this time that we embrace artists like Sufjan Stevens and the Decemberists, who sounds like childrens' music anyhow.

All of these changes occur in the name of transition. Each transition is a notch in a personal coming-of-age story, where you test new limits and boundaries before settling in on your comfort zone. And, contrary to popular belief, these changes don’t halt once you emerge from adolescence; there’s the Post-Academic Void, the existentialist warzone where you configure your place in the working (and otherwise) world and examine your actual skills and abilities.

Once you’ve emerged from the Post-Academic void, you also must deal with the existential dilemma brought forth by restructuring your demographic identity. Most young-ish adults have spent over a decade being the apple of the advertiser’s eye – being in the 18-25, or 18-30 demographic – and once pushed out of that demographic, the young-ish adult feels remarkably… lonely. The focus of the advertiser’s attention on you is subtler, more subversive; the advertiser's gaze is now diverted to a newer, younger, emerging demographic. Cell phone companies don’t care about you – you already have a cell phone and a plan. Ipods are no longer marketed towards you; pricey Ipod accessories are.

And although I can’t profess to have witnessed any further transitions beyond this point, I can only assume that more transitions will continue to occur. Pressures as a home-owner, a portion of a married couple, pressures as an aging single person, dying parents, ruined economies, failing bodies, disease, cultural insignificance, and eventually death are phases that many / most eventually have to go through.

If you want a preview of – or a companion for – this process, look no further than Neil Diamond’s excellent 2005 LP, 12 Songs.

Anyhow, this Friday’s Cancanon video collection is dedicated to Canadian transitional KY-Jelly. Enjoy, and soak in the awkwardness.

Rusty – Misogyny

Without a doubt, Toronto’s Rusty were my absolute favourite band in my tween period – and, I had absolutely no idea how they’d shape my life-long musical tastes. Formed with members of Halifax’s One Free Fall, original Doughboy Scott McCullough, and topped off with dreadlocked gargoyle Ken McNeil, Rusty produced an excellent, excellent alt-rock LP, Fluke. And they were absolutely visionary, encapsulating a sound that I will forever define with Toronto rock n’ roll; beyond their initial alt-rock leanings, they followed with the country-flavoured Sophomoric and the garage-tinged Out of Their Heads. And beyond that, the above video, Misogyny, was directed by Canadian gay porn star Bruce LaBruce. I didn’t exactly understand the importance of it at age thirteen, but I’ll reiterate it: Rusty were way, way, ahead of their time.

Treble Charger – Morale

Watching Treble Charger’s career progression was like watching a loved one progress into a terminal state. As evidenced via singles like 'Morale,' 'Even Grable,' and 'Red,' Treble Charger wrote a completely Can-specific brand of indie rock – slightly druggy, slightly boring, and quietly fantastic. Another visionary video, Morale predicted the emo explosion that would occur scant years later; not only did Treble Charger’s Self=Title EP include a zine directory, but the ‘Morale’ video featured a horn-rimmed nerd romance that became the fantasy of a generation. With ‘Morale’, the second-wave emo-kid aesthetic was born: they released a video about suburban kids from Oakville, ON or New Haven, CT, Saetia and Indian Summer vinyl slung in their tightly-bound knapsacks, and romances that never occurred because people were to awkward or ugly.

Hayden – Bad as They Seem

Another MuchMusic video classic, and perhaps the crowning jewel of the Sonic Unyon stable, ‘Bad as they Seem’ is still one of Hayden’s most popular songs. And, like ‘Morale’ and ‘Misogyny,’ this song is intensely visionary in retrospect: though it was a song introduced to me in my early adolescence, it’s a song that is most resonant in early adulthood. Though the lyric ‘she’s only sixteen / that’s why she’s only a dream’ is vaguely creepy, especially when sung in Hayden’s disaffected monotone, it’s a sentiment familiar to many fellas, not necessarily in a pedophiliac sense, but it echoes the horror of discovering that an attractive girl is inappropriately underaged. But the lyric ‘go down to the grocery store / meet someone that I’ll adore’ is entirely resonant: for the single, young-ish adult, grocery stores are literal and figurative meat markets. Need proof? Check the amount of locked eyes and silent flirtation occurring at my local grocer – Little Italy’s Dominion/Metro – or the amount of Craigslist Missed Connections that occur at grocery stores. Hayden is called Thornhill’s Nostradamus for a reason.

The Killjoys – Today I Hate Everyone

The Killjoys might have been the perfect band for tweens. With sugary energy and nods to 60s pop, they are immediately accessible for first-time pop culture consumers and hardened Anal Cunt fans. However, their willingness to fuse childish imagery with adolescent malaise make for a perfect bridge for the soon-to-be Anal Cunt afiocionado: they have a song dedicated to party-food, ‘Perfect Pizza,’ videos featuring tiny band members in oversized environs (note: a brilliant metaphor for teens venturing into high school, or transitioning to unfamiliar territories), and a little girl on a tricycle who emulates teenage disillusionment without actually being a teenager (read: hating everyone).

Great Lakes Swimmers - Your Rocky Spine

I perpetually sleep on bands, even if they’re in my own backyard. As this week’s contemporary pick, the Great Lakes Swimmers sound like a Toronto-cized Iron and Wine: whispery, intimate, and fascinatingly down-tempo. And if Iron and Wine serve as an example, the Great Lake Swimmers should appeal from everyone to bubbly, Thornhill International Development students to bearded courier punks. Check out their record Ongiara, it's excellent.
Have a good weekend, we’ll see you next week!

For those about to Valk, we salute you!

Most of my adulthood and late adolescence are awash in a boozy haze; a defense mechanism, really, to keep those repressed memories down in the dank, cold cellar of my psyche (where they belong!). However, every now and again, there’s little slivers of memory that emerge from the druggy ether, like the inky messages contained in Magic 8-balls; one such memory was a quote from a high school geography teacher, arguing that Canadian identity is organized around two central tenets: beer, and the fact that Canadians aren’t Americans.

Now, I can’t exactly remember whether or not the argument was supposed to be facetious (I vaguely remember it being dead serious), but it’s a incredibly reductionist understanding of Canada’s national identity and by extension, Canadian culture. I’m no Canadian cultural imperialist, but I’m pretty positive that there’s more to Canada than beer and proprietorship to the 49th parallel. However, I could certainly understand how and why this particular geography teacher made such an argument: Canadian culture has an inferiority complex. And we indulge in it.

The Canadian inferiority complex, and the uniquely Canadian celebration of the underdog, is especially evident in hockey. See, like most good Toronto boys, I’m a Maple Leafs fan; and, in my years, I’ve seen plenty of talent pass through Toronto. Including, but not limited to, former elegant former captain Mats Sundin, to the arthritic dangler Alexander Mogilny, to hard-shooting Bryan McCabe, smooth-skating Hall-of-Fame defenceman Larry Murphy, and even 29-goal scorer Jonas Hoglund, the Maple Leafs have possessed no shortage of legitimate hockey talent. But every single one of these players has, at some point, drawn the ire of Toronto sports fans – in some cases, such as those of Murphy and McCabe, they were chased right out of town.

However, Toronto has also had a truly bizarre love-love relationship with certain bit players – players who haven’t quite possessed the talent, but had certainly possessed the drive. Garry Valk, Mark Osborne, and current Leaf Dominic Moore are all players who have been, at times, the apple of Leaf-land’s eye. And what’s astounding is that these players are journeymen, ham-n-eggers, lunchpailers – players with only the requisite minimum amount of talent to stick around in professional sports.

And I suspect that this phenomena isn’t limited to the Toronto Maple Leafs. Don Cherry, seems to love ham-n-eggers, and, for better or for worse, when Cherry speaks, Canadian hockey fans listen. So why do Cherry, and Canadian hockey fans, love marginal players? Perhaps it’s because fans can project their own images upon these players, perhaps these players are representative of regional alliances, and perhaps fans associate with their workman-like ethic. Perhaps each ham-n-egger presents a palatable allegory for hockey fans: though most can’t carve their niche via talent alone, a certain degree of success can be achieved via hard work. It’s the American dream packed in cork-board flooring with the unmistakable aroma of hockey bags.

And through this allegory, perhaps Canadians relate to ham-n-eggers due to a perceived common experience, in the same way that Canadians can associate with Joel Plaskett’s description of taking ‘the Dartmouth Ferry into the town’ – even if they’ve never been to Nova Scotia.



Speaking of Don Cherry, I recently stumbled across the above interview with hockey’s Voltaire, and Vogue Magazine intern, Sean Avery, taken from CBC’s the Hour. When George Stroumboulopoulos prods Avery about his ongoing feud with Cherry, he retorts that Cherry "knows nothing about hockey... he knows, like, unnecessary facts about putting Sears catalogues on your shin pads.”

And while Avery’s critique is both truthful and hilarious, Cherry’s shinpad-advice is still strikingly Canadian. As a culture, Cherry is indicating that Canadians don’t advocate pharmaceuticals for cures, but celebrate folk-remedies. And truthfully, Cherry doesn’t need to know anything about hockey because he isn’t specifically addressing hockey. His popularity isn’t as a hockey commentator, as he’s xenophobic and misinformed; as a cultural commentator, he’s expressive of perspectives shared by many Canadians.

And, if Canadians actually do celebrate working-class values in their hockey players, such logic is also extended to Canadian cultural products. While Canadians have certainly had their fair share of successful cultural exports – Broken Social Scene / Arts and Crafts, Feist, and Fucked Up (who, oddly, have performed for 12 consecutive hours in NYC with the help of Russell Simmons, David Cross, the Edge, and others) come to mind – some of our most celebrated products aren’t heralded at all at the international level; and, judging by some of Canada’s most successful exports, success cannot be equated to talent.

The Tragically Hip’s struggles for recognition abroad have been well-documented. But one of Canadian Indie Rock’s most celebrated acts – the Rheostatics – are also so criminally underappreciated that it seems like the only person documenting their legacy is excellent hockey/music writer Dave Bidini – who, it should be noted, is also the Rheos former guitarist. They are the band that, amongst other things, have championed Canadian author Paul Quarrington (author of Whale Music, a title which the Rheos reference as an album title, and King Leary, the On the Road of hockey-lit) and coaxed Stompin’ Tom out retirement (he who penned ‘the Good Ole Hockey Game’ and the oddly disturbing ‘Believe in Your Country,’ which feature the lyrics “If you don't believe your country should come before yourself / Ya can better serve your country, by living somewhere else”).

Of course, that’s not to say that the Rheos are entirely unappreciated. Last year, fans from across the country packed Massey Hall, in Toronto, for their emotional farewell shows. Within that year, a tribute album to the Rheos has emerged, featuring classic Cancon artists ranging from the Barenaked Ladies to the Weakerthans. The Rheostatics have proved that Canadian music fans, like their hockey counterparts, appreciate underappreciation.

It’s a bizarre paradox; though Canadian culture has produced some truly exceptional artists, there seems to be a bizarre propensity towards keeping Canadian talent underappreciated. It’s not that the talent isn’t there – it’s simply that we’ve decided not to advertise it. As such, Canadian talent seems to thrive on the under-dog label and a workman’s ethic, despite the clear abundance of talent in our backyards.

And it’s time to start appreciating our unappreciated; there is an abundance of diverse talent in Toronto alone aching for recognition. There are visual artists, such as the stoically patriotic Charles Pachter and the morbidly hilarious Jimmy Limit. There are bands such as lo-fi mope Hayden (still probably best known for decade old singles ‘Bad as they Seem’ and ‘Trees Lounge’) and surf-country act the Sadies, who have been quietly building up solid discographies for over a decade. Ben Cook – formerly of hardcore band No Warning, and more recently, the brainchild behind the Marvelous Darlings, Surplus Sons, Young Governor, and Fucked Up – has quietly developed into one of the city’s most talented and prolific songwriters. One of my favourite bands in the city, the Beauties, is unsigned and occupies a role as the Dakota Tavern’s house act – where they’ve been playing weekly for over a year, without any formal recorded material. And if you need more proof on exactly how good the Beauties are, see the below video:

There’s a lot more to Canadiana than beer and borders; it’s just a matter of recognizing it.

Six Degrees of Specifications

Introducing my own personal avatar. I’ve named this scrappy little fella Mark-Buddy, because, by my estimates, he’s the perfect union of myself and the underrated pop-up application (and generally delightful everything-aide), Bonzi-Buddy. See, Bonzi-Buddy was one of my favourite internet memes; he was a little ray-of-sunshine of an application/sidekick that sang and danced, help refer you to sponsored webpages and products, organize your busy schedule, and voiced anything you ordered him to say. He was the digital love-child of Teddy Ruxpin and a pop-up window.

And, well, Mark-Buddy doesn’t really do any of these things – he doesn’t sing any classic Americana tunes, he won’t recite NWA lyrics on command, and he isn’t really advertising anything, save perhaps the suspicion that he’s vaguely hung over. In fact, he doesn’t really do anything at all except glare contemptuously at you; I suppose that he’s only comparable to Bonzi-Buddy in that he’s an approximation of something else (Bonzi-Buddy as a purplish approximation of the original talking ape, Amy, from the underrated Michael Crichton tear-jerking action flick Congo; Mark-Buddy as an approximation of, uh… me).


Faceyourmanga.com, the website responsible for my digital abomination, was referred to me by Matt at Attack of the Swank. It’s a website where you create your own avatar, where you get to create a pixilated, cartoon, vaguely better-looking version of yourself. Aside from the fact that hare-lips, goiters, oversized protruding moles, and snaggle-teeth aren’t decorative features that can be assigned to your mini-you, I’m also guessing that the reason that your avatar is so appealing is because you get to play God. See, with your avatar, you get to create yourself in your own image – which means that your avatar will be created exactly to your specifications. You get to overlook your body-image issues and project your favoured features onto a cartoon; this means that you can either a. create yourself as you see yourself in the mirror (and how you always wish you looked in photographs, but never really do), or b. create a self-deprecatingly realistic image of yourself, where insecurities and imperfections are magnified. I can’t think of a more self-centred, Godly act that one can perform in front of your computer.

In creating your personal avatar, you get to choose from a fairly narrow pool of physical characteristics: face shapes, nose shapes, eyes, facial hair, haircuts, clothing, random accoutrements, etc. And, for the most part, it would seem as if you can create a reasonably accurate portrait of yourself. This is both comforting and vaguely disconcerting.

It’s liberating to know that a somewhat-random assembly of a finite amount of physical characteristics can produce a reasonably accurate image of yourself; in a sense, it’s a re-affirmation of our humanity. It reminds us that, across generational, ethnic, and national boundaries, that human beings are a stock assembly of a finite amount of characteristics. It’s a stark reminder that many of the perceived differences between human being are actually constructs. Your avatar has the same social implications of Noam Chomsky’s language organ: Chomsky’s entire socio-political belief system is based on the foundation that human beings possess a unique trait – the language organ – the capacity for human beings to learn any language (given exposure during the proper formative period). At its very most reductionist, it’s an understanding that human beings have as many commonalities as differences.

On the flip-side, it’s also mildly upsetting to know that our most unique features are entirely predictable – in fact, most of our physical features can be whittled down to, according to Faceyourmanga.com, about 60 different physical features. It doesn’t exactly matter if you’re the world’s top ping-pong player, or a merciless puppy murderer; truthfully, both are degrees of resemblance apart. Strictly based on appearance, it’s a humbling, but necessary, realization that no matter how much we try, we do not – and cannot – actually project uniqueness. There are simply a physical limitations. Which means that, ultimately, despite your earnest teenaged attempts to amplify and alter your physical appearance, your parents were actually always right (and it’s always terrible when they are).

But, I’ve decided to embrace the good with the bad. My surly avatar, which displays a world-weary irritance, a dishevelled haircut, and a tendency towards semi-regular PCP usage, is less than six degrees of manipulation from:

A dream-weaving, whispery, Rolling Stone songwriter of the year, Conor Oberst;

A goiter-free Lenny Kilmister, of Motorhead;

A smoking, doo-ragged cat;

Or, an extremely pretty Tom Selleck.

I'll always love you though, Toronto (Toronto, Toronto)

I've been recently notified that I’m featured in the Style Scout portion of Toronto fashion blog Shedoesthecity. This is a huge personal victory for me; not only because I’ve been vying for the fashion world’s waifish gaze for years, but because this represents the first step in what will undoubtedly be my rapid ascension to the top of the blogosphere.

See, much like everything else that matters, most seasoned bloggers will tell you that the most important part about blogging is being seen. Yes, there is a neat little benefit package that comes with blogging: voicing your unique opinions in an unmoderated forum, gaining a readership via a completely democratic medium, providing news and opinions that wouldn’t normally be accessible via traditional media, and of course, the limousine pedicures, and mountains of free vice / dirty money that flow in every time you hit that magical ‘publish post’ button.

Yes, these are all nice, peripheral benefits to blogging; but the true raison d’etre for the serious, career-minded blogger is visibility. As bloggers, we don’t do it for the money, and we certainly don’t do it to contribute to the relentless flow of information; we do it for the recognition. We blog to be revered, to be imitated, to be scorned, and to be recognized – not for our writing or expository talents – but we want our faces stenciled onto public monuments, our names on protest banners, and we want the fearful respect of children. We want pets to act strange around us. We want a slimy, buttery escargot-wake of slander and paparazzi to trail every step and mis-step.

We do this to be seen. And, heavens, I have finally been seen. In case you haven’t heard, I am now officially a man-about town; I am basically Toronto’s Ryan Adams. No, scratch that: I am Ryan Adams.

And, now that I’ve been recognized, this basically means that my days of self-deprecation and self-loathing are now indexed in history books. See, I love Ryan Adams, and it’s very exciting to realize that I’ve finally become him. Now, you see, I’m the former singer of acclaimed country-punk band Whiskeytown, and I 'm taking artistic credit for their discography. I’m sleeping with Winona Ryder; or, if we’re going to get local, possibly FeFe Dobson. Greig Nori wants to manage me. I will unrepentantly hush rooms with drug-fuelled blowups. And, I will start off my solo career with a bang, opening my first two solo records with bangers like ‘To be Young’ and ‘New York (New York).’ In fact, here are recorded proofs of me performing the aforementioned songs near my beach house / yacht dry-dock in St.Maarten (I'm the guy with the guitar).

Thank you, Style Scout of Shedoesthecity, for noticing this humble blogger's Heartbreaking Gold. I’ll always love you, Toronto.

Everybody's Working for the Weekend: A Cancon Compendium

The pasta salad at the Kingston, ON, bus station is completely unparalleled. It’s not simply the best pasta salad in the 1000 Islands Region, or Southeastern Ontario, or even Canada – it is the best pasta salad in the universe. See, I’ve made plenty of grueling, 9-hour bus trips along Highway 401, – having lived in Montreal with family in Toronto – and I can confidently say that the pasta salad was the only good thing about making the trip.

And it’s comforting to know that the pasta salad will always be there for me. Though my trips to Montreal have been increasingly infrequent, I traveled there last month, and I’m glad to say that the quality of their pasta salad has been uncompromised despite the ravage of the years. No; Kingston’s pasta salad is beyond the mere sum of tricolore rotini, chopped celery and carrots, and fresh garlic; it’s the last vestige of God, his eulogy, since he was proclaimed dead in 1882. And it will always be there for weary Coach Canada travelers.

And as Kingston’s pasta salad will always provide support despite life’s staggering lows, so will Cancon. Rarely understood by outsiders, there’s a unifying element to Cancon that’s unidentifiable to non-Canadians; the music that’s produced and distributed in Canada is both quietly spectacular and comforting.

Now, while there’s a lot occurring in the present in my very city – this weekend brings Nuit Blanche to Toronto nights, Dillinger 4 secretively announces show at Sneaky Dees (October 9th, 12:00 AM, $10), and we’re fresh off the heels of the Canadian Electoral debates and the plummeting popularity of Stephane Dion's Liberal Party - this Friday’s post will focus on pop-Canadiana, both past and present; this Friday (and maybe next), we’ll be scraping the resin from the Cancon canon (henceforth referred to as the Cancanon). And I hope you find these five videos as reassuring as the 401’s oasis of starchy hope.

Age of Electric – Enya



Age of Electric’s first video, Enya, came prior to their top 30 success (that disntinction belongs to Big Shiny Tune ‘Remote Control’), and is far, far less tantric than the song title suggests. Of note, one of the Dahle brothers – not the soul-patched, bowling-jacket toting one, but the one who resembles an abused puppy – has since participated in a number of mind-bogglingly good Vanocuver-based projects, including the New Pornographers, Limblifter, the Awkward Stage, and Vancouver Nights.

The Doughboys – Fix Me



Though I initially – and unsuccessfully – tried to find a clip for ‘Shine,’ the lead-single from the Doughboys’ excellent 1993 album Crush and theme song for the Sook Yin Lee hosted Muchmusic show the Wedge, this song will have to do. Crush is one of my favourite Cancon releases of all time, and if you look past dreadlocked Asexual John Kastner, you can spot a young Jonathan Cummins in this video. Cummins is currently best known as Montreal’s finest uber-embittered, scraggly, ginger-goateed rock critic; he’s also contributed to a few excellent bands, including Bionic and an early incarnation of the Besnard Lakes.

The Mission District – Youth Games



As the only contemporary band listed amongst these videos, the Mission District are in some pretty distinguished company. They have emerged from Montreal’s Anglo call-centre community, and in their short existence, they’ve managed to release a delightful record (also entitled Youth Games), secure a spot on an upcoming edition of Big Shiny Tunes (a fixture in every young Canadian’s record collection), work with Big Wreck’s producer, and threaten to unload their collective semen on Perez Hilton’s face on national television. However, they are still Perez favourites, and I suspect that they’re vying for a spot in the Cancanon, as well.

Gob – Soda



Ah, the irreverence of youth. The song features the lyrics ‘but it’s so cool / that we’re together / and we’re smiling, drinking soda / I want to jump in a lake / sun shining down on the beach in the summer.’ The video features BMXes, spiders, and, quite surprisingly, people jumping in lakes. Created prior to Gob’s renaissance as a snowboard ensemble, this is precisely the song that, during early adolescence, was the soundtrack to waiting in line to see an acquaintance’s band play in an overpriced battle-of-the-bands. Note: Gob’s Theo, he harbouring a mouth full of spiders, would entirely be an average-looking dude if he didn’t make Quasimodo faces in their videos.

Blue Rodeo – Hasn’t Hit Me Yet



Alright, I lied – Mission District weren’t the only contemporary band on the list. Though Jim Cuddy and Blue Rodeo still perform, ‘Hasn’t Hit Me Yet,’ released in 1993, might be themost memorable song in their surprisingly solid career. If ‘Soda’ is the soundtrack to queuing at amateur punk rock shows, ‘Hasn’t Hit Me Yet’ is the equivalent song given three years of maturity – it’s the soundtrack to eating mushrooms in Muskoka, going wakeboarding in otter shit, and making out with questionable girls from Gravenhurst, ON.

**Note: The image heading this post is the second painting I've stolen from the Torontoist, alongside the fantastic painting of Igor Kenk; they deserve some credit.

http://www.livejournal.com

Despite the vast amount of time I spend think about music (I’m an abrasive, severe, lonely individual), I don’t actually think that I have a favourite band. I have favoured records and genres, and I have favoured bands over certain time periods, but I don’t actually have a band whose catalogue I entirely revere; really, the best I can do is appreciate a band’s catalogue.

And I’m really jealous of people who actually do have favourite bands – and I suspect that most people actually do. My good friend, excellent blogger, and all-around swell guy Matt, has a favourite band in Green Day, and I’m always awed at his enthusiasm for them (and, truthfully, they don’t exactly have any weak releases). I wonder if I was born without the capacity to actually associate with a band long enough to actually deem them my favourite; I oftentimes wonder if I’m missing a chromosome. Most music fans – and critics – seem to possess a soft spot for a particular band, though, and can see value in their every release. This must be a great feeling, because every time a favoured band releases a new record, it’s like receiving a birthday gift: though you’re unsure of the contents, you know that you’ll probably like it and somehow feel like it’s specifically tailored to you.

I’ve spent years attempting to determine what it’s like to be completely devoted to a band. From my observations, in the wake of each release, a band’s devotee becomes an amnesiac; they forget just exactly how much they enjoy the band. Upon the delivery of a new album, however, they are simultaneously reminded of their love for the band – and, with new material in hand, their affection returns with renewed vigour.

Of course, these are strictly observations: I’ve never really experienced these feelings. I’d guess that it’s comparable to the feeling you get when you wake up in the middle of the night, knowing you have three more hours of sleep before you wake up for the day. Since you can’t exactly enjoy sleep whilst alseep, being jolted into consciousness reminds you of your good fortune; you fall back asleep with a newfound appreciation for slumber.

Aside from my tenuous sleep analogy, I think that I have other approximations for these sentiments.

This week, I got laid off from work. Or, more accurately, I’ve been ‘restructured’ from the company from whom I work. Now, while this isn’t exactly terrible – as I don’t exactly like my job – being unemployed is one of the worst things in the world. Many champion the benefits of being unemployed – waking up in the PM, solo-drinking tetra-packs of wine in full daylight, and not having to use bibs while eating – unemployment is a unique type of stress. It brings forth the very omnipresent reality that I’m about a paycheque-and-a-half away from the streets, and that I’m not as employable as I’d like to think I am.

Though I’m not quite there – I have about month left at my current job – I’m already anticipating the hardships of being unemployed. The constant interviewing – either by phone, or in person – is completely taxing, as you have to method-act and lie your face off to strangers. You come to the realization that you very well might not secure a position as a puppy-hugger, kite-flyer, or with a well-intentioned NGO; you might have to settle with positions as a temporary worker, hired on an as-needed basis, enabling companies to ignore candidates seeking careers and benefits; a go-go dancer in Yorkville; a baby-seal clubber; an administrative assistant at a pharmaceutical company.

And during periods of employment, I always, always forget how terrible unemployment feels.

I suspect that each successive round of unemployment is like hearing a new record from your favourite band; although instead of your favourite band, you’re experiencing the complusion to listen to the worst album you’ve ever heard, released by a super-group comprised of your mortal enemies, rival sports teams, exes, and annoying co-workers for the very first time.

Pink Triangle, Honestly!

DISCLAIMER: For the post below, I make a whole bunch of assertions from perspectives that I'm entirely not authorized to convey. If I'm completely off the mark, I apologize in advance.

One of the worst things about being the first Internet-generation is the impact that pornography has made on our generation's collective worldview. Or, more specifically, the bedroom-expectations that my generation has developed with the omnipresence and accessibility of pornography.

Now, I’m no puritan, and I’m not ignoring the benefits of pornography – it satiates a biological function, has driven technology to new levels, and allows you to see people undress for you who, under any other normal circumstance, would recoil in doing so. Even within the very specific context of pornography, there are vagabond personalities in pornography, like Chris Hogan at Brazzers.com, who are pushing the creativity and hilarity frontiers to levels surpassing the Western and Space (read: not the final) frontiers. We owe a great debt to this particular brand of porn auteur for ‘funny-sex,’ a liberating activity that has replaced ‘awkward sex’ and has opened doors for ‘out-of-league partners.’

But certain brands of Internet pornography have raised expectations to unrealistic levels. The cliché that ‘anything can be found on the Internet’ has proven to be true, and has led to an overblown specialization, a highly-specific branding of sexual our desires. We’ve placed our excessive boredom and the resulting need to compartmentalize into our bedrooms – and the results have been horrific. For example, those who decide that they’ve fetishized clown-on-nun sex have no shortage of jerk-fodder online; but when it comes to the expectations they place on someone once they’ve convinced them behind closed doors, will their partner willingly consent to toting a clown wig or bible?

This is most evident by those who fetishize lesbians. Due to the wide-spread presence of lesbian porn – and the silent voyeurism of those who watch it – we’re dealing with a full generation of men who not only innately desire lesbians, but somehow feel that they are entitled to either participate with or view lesbian sex. Don’t believe me? Stop a random fellow in the street and ask him what he thinks of lesbians. I’d be willing to bet that the average fella loves lesbians.

I don’t love lesbians. I’m more or less ambivalent to lesbians. If I am to fall in love, it's with individuals whom, hopefully, would return my non-platonic affection. But, however, I can’t expect amorous returns from lesbians because, well, they are simply not interested in non-platonic relationships with heterosexual males. End of story. And I’ve chased my fair share of lesbians (one), and really – I'd never expected ‘conversion’ (and yes, I've met people who really believe it possible); it’s simply apples and oranges. Once determined that she was indeed gay, there an understanding that no amount of effort any single heterosexual male can put into it that will change her mind. Expecting 'conversion' implies that sexual orientation is a choice (and always a choice), and is insulting to both parties; for the 'convertee' it's just a flat-out derision of her sexual orientation, and for the 'converter,' it makes you look like a lobotomized Jesuit missionary.

Even Rivers Cuomo questioned, to of the apple of his lesbian eye, "everyone's a little queer, why can't you be a little straight?"

But her sexual orientation is not a choice and not a matter of persuasion, and no, she will not let you watch. And anyways, if she did let you watch, what would you even be doing? Do people honestly think that two lesbians in the act would consent to an errant penis entering the fray? Since when were people nonchalant about non-consensual sex?

Today’s rant has led me to two conclusions: one, pornography breeds ludicrous expectations; two, I am basically Rivers Cuomo.

Fashionable People: Paris, Tokyo, Milan, and Bay Street

What, exactly, does Joel Plaskett mean when he sings about ‘fashionable people doing questionable things?’

‘Fashionable People,’ of course, was released as the second single of his excellent 2007 LP, Ashtray Rock. Examining the song sonically, it’s a complete pop-epic: it possesses four choruses, several pre-choruses hookey enough to be choruses, Van Halen keyboards, and Plaskett verbally dictates the song's progressions in true Justin Timerberlake-meets-Motown-meets-Babe Ruth form. It’s a standout track on Ashtray Rock, but it’s also the most paint-by-numbers pop track on the album.

But Ashtray Rock, which most reviewers failed to identify, is a complete post-modern triumph: it might be the most self-aware album I’ve ever listened to. As a part-concept album (a genre that, notoriously, is noted for epic failure), and part autobiography, Ashtray Rock details the formation, apex, and eventual failure of a fictional rock band. And while not an immediately interesting topic – especially for listeners who don’t participate in the production of rock music – it’s Plaskett's immense songwriting talents that keeps my attention. Plaskett intertwines several concurrent narratives throughout the album: alongside the development of his fictional band, Plaskett’s lyrics and song-writing (very intentionally) improve; musically, each track on Ashtray Rock documents a stage in his band's progression, beginning as a loud roots-rock band, evolving into commercially-viable pop, and finally settling into more introspective, acoustic fare.

Though Ashtray Rock's concept is challenging and ambitious in scope, Plaskett's intentions are clear from the commencement of the album. For example, the lyric ‘Drunk Teenagers / Let’s start a fight / I’m getting wasted on a Saturday night,’ is amateurish at best, and flat-out embarrassing at worst; this is atypical Plaskett. However, when we consider that the lyric is taken from the second track of the album – a point in Plaskett’s fictional band’s infancy – the lyric becomes absolute genius. In his mid-thirties, Plaskett has created a lyrical equivalent of something a teen-aged Ben Kweller wrote for Radish; it’s precisely the sentiment Daniel Johns of Silverchair expressed when he wrote that ‘the water out of the tap is very… hard to drink.’

However, despite Plaskett’s success as a fiction-songwriter, Ashtray Rock is still partially autobiographical. The first single, ‘Snowed In,’ was originally a b-side taken from Plaskett’s former band, Thrush Hermit (see below for their video for 'The Day We Hit the Coast'). As such, it’s the only song that exists outside the album’s narrative; it was written years ago with a completely different group of musicians. Placed directly in the middle of the album, ‘Snowed In’ is an completely unpretentious reminder that, despite Plaskett’s considerable talent, he is familiar with the processes and machinations young bands (and, by extension, writing embarrassing songs).



Having considered Ashtray Rock in its totality, I’m not exactly sure who Plaskett is defining as ‘fashionable people doing questionable things.’ Whether or not the lyrics are intentionally tongue-in-cheek, he could be referring to any wide variety of people, from weekend-warrior clubland patrons to runway-devotees ‘just like magazines.’ And, there is the expectation, whether or not true, that these fashionable people do ‘questionable things.’

And Plaskett has a point: no matter how highly we value it, we certainly don’t look to fashion for moral or ethical codes; whatever the role of fashion, we don’t look towards fashion for principles.

This assertion became very evident to me this morning. See, I work in Toronto’s Financial District, a region occupied by roughly 100,000 day-time workers for roughly 40 hours every week. The region’s working-hours demographic is made up of salespeople, executives, administrative assistants, and service-industry workers, from restaurant workers to cleaners. The service industry workers are those hired to maintain the region’s aesthetic: not only are they hired to wipe down offices, but they also cater to the needs of the district’s ‘fashionable people.’

Now, in the morning, there is no shortage of solicitors jostling for the attention of business-folk: from homeless people selling copies of Outreach Magazine, to promotional reps giving away free samples of new products, to students fundraising for Greenpeace and Sick Kids Hospital. This morning, however, there were a new set of campaigners posted at the corner of King and Yonge, handing out flyers titled ‘Justice for Janitors.’ A quick scan of the flyers revealed that they are targeting a specific company – IMPACT Cleaning – and accusing them of a myriad of workers rights issues, from the absence of vacation pay and employment insurance, WSIB coverage, and substandard working conditions and wages. And while I can’t verify the truth to their claims, they certainly didn’t seem to be participants in a smear campaign.

More interestingly, they seemed to target very specific demographics for their flyering; the campaigners almost unanimously avoided the ‘fashionable people’ of the Financial District – well-dressed salespeople and hurried execs, favouring the more casual-dressed instead. They, in fact, neglected to pass me a flyer – I had to double back to retrieve one – despite the fact that based on appearances, I’d rate myself somewhere between barely passable and laughably dumpy. This struck me as curious, as these salespeople, executives, and VPs, probably carry sizeable decision-making influence over the hiring decisions (of cleaners or otherwise) of their respective offices.

Now, seeing as how I’d not been targeted with a flyer, I am guessing that I’m assumed to belong to the ‘fashionable people,’ though I hope that I’m not guilty of ‘questionable things’ (although I clearly am). If I am indeed a ‘fashionable person’ of King Street, I’m extending my support to the campaigners; if you are employed in the Financial District, or read my blog, or are just generally curious, please visit the ‘Justice for Janitors’ website:

http://www.negative-impact.com/

I hope that, when Joel Plaskett sings that “everybody at this party’s got their fingers in the till,” that he’s not referring to me.