Loveless Nation

Have you ever fallen in love with a friend?

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

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

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

And… You get it! You get it!

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

“What?” she asks you playfully.

You do not reply.

“What? Quit being an ass.”

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

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

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

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

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

Of course, none of this ever happens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Case for Daltrey v. Townshend

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

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

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

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


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

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

Cancanon... Mondays?

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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



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



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



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



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



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

When Life Gives You Lemons, Start Lemon-Fights

Minneapolis rap group Atmosphere has suggested that ‘when life gives you lemons, paint that shit gold.’ The more common lemon-related piece of advice, however, is that one should produce lemonade when handed lemons. I find both suggestions problematic.

For one, these all require additional tools and manpower. I ask of Atmosphere: how are we to paint lemons gold without expensive gold paint? And how does this impact your happiness, sense of self-worth, or your actualization? It doesn’t; and this is why no one takes Atmosphere seriously.

The recommendation that one produce life-lemonade seems to make more sense – at first glance. Lemonade can be thirst-quenching, and furthermore, it is often a frequent tool used in my-first-capitalist-ventures. For the aspiring entrepreneur, lemonade signifies the first logical step towards creating a Rockefellan empire. There is resale value for lemonade, and the capitalist, in adding sugar, water, and manpower to lemons, can produce a sometimes-astounding markup on their simple raw materials: lemons.

But of course, in lemonade production, there will always start-up costs – and one must make a much more significant initial investment in lemonade than most fruit juices (such as orange juice, which often needs not be strained, sweetened, or diluted). The aspiring lemonade vendor cannot manufacture his product without sugar, water, receptacles (to store and to distribute servings), or a colander of sorts. Where is one to obtain these additional materials? Hint: the answer is not God.

See: the life-lemon problem is much more complex than initially assumed. The lemon is a fruit – while not devoid of nutritional properties – that is too tart for stand-alone consumption. Unless you already have the means, producing lemonade is not a viable option; and similarly, using lemon for other purposes – such as a garnish (for fish) or as a dressing / marinade – also requires start-up costs. This is where the life-lemonade advice fails.

REAL TALK: If life gives you lemons, start lemon-fights with other lemon proprietors. That is the only thing that one can do solely with lemons, but maybe there is a strange utility derived from lemon-fights. And always count yourself as fortunate – some aren’t even afforded lemons.

I am beginning to understand Elliott Smith’s motives.

Cancanon Fridays: Toronto Grey (Red: 135, Green: 131, Blue:110)

I’m not a huge fan of Toronto. I mean, it’s the city I was born and raised in, and it’s the city that I’ve returned to in my adult life, but I’m still less-than-impressed with it.

I have a variety of reasons to dislike the city – some of them personal, other not-so-much – and I know that there are people who absolutely adore it and would jump at a chance to criticize my dislike for it. Simply put, I’m more-or-less disappointed that some of my favourite areas in Toronto are boutique strip-malls – yet, they’re still some of my favourite areas. Maybe it’s more my problem than the city’s.

That, and I’ve been petitioning for a new shade (or several new shades) of Laurentian colour pencil named Toronto grey – I mean, if you live here, have you looked outside recently?

Following last week’s Cancanon posting extoling the virtues of Montreal's music, I should also note that Toronto fares almost, almost just as well. No matter where my travels have led me, and no matter how long I’d been gone for, I’ve always kept a close eye on Toronto music – mostly because it’s one of the single most fascinating cities for music in the world.

I have several theories as to why this might be. Firstly, Toronto and the GTA is Canada’s most populous city, and, simply based on statistics, that should probably yield a fairly decent output of talented musicians. Furthermore, the suburbs – or cities in Southern Ontario not named Toronto or Hamilton – often have their talent allocated to Toronto.

This is roughly equivalent of meeting a declared Torontonian whilst traveling far away – only to learn that they’re from Orillia.

Anyhow, bands such as Oshawa’s Cuff the Duke and the Niagara region’s Attack in Black are often associated with Toronto’s musical circles. Good for Toronto’s reputation, I suppose, and terrible for Oshawa and Niagara’s.

Secondly, much like Montreal, Toronto has big-city appeal, much like Montreal, Vancouver, L.A., or New York. And, owning the distinction of being one of Canada’s cultural capitals, it will attract talent from both near and far. Much as Neil Young moved to L.A., artists are now flocking to Toronto from greater distances – as Joel Plaskett puts it, “all of my friends / where did they go / Montreal, Toronto.”

And this, for me, is an even greater shame: Toronto is importing talent from other regions, robbing other cities of their natural resources. I mean, Halifax’s Matt Murphy – of the Superfriendz – currently resides in Toronto, as does/did Winnipeg’s Greg McPherson. Which is a cryin’ shame, as I associate both Winnipeg and Halifax with their respective voices.

But, at the end of the day – as can be argued with most Canadian cities – Toronto has a fantastic great-band-per capita ratio. And I suppose one of the reasons that I’ve followed Toronto music so closely over the years is because I flat out like it; there’s no doubt that the city’s collective musical taste has played a huge role in the formation of my personal tastes. I mean, for me, Toronto will always be garagey-rootsy-country city (where, oddly enough, I could’ve sworn the Hellacopters played with Teen Crud Combo on a weekly basis, despite the fact that they’re Swedish). And as much as I meander into different genres and eras, I suspect that I’m always going to be a garagey-rootsy-country kind of person.

So, as much as I can dislike Toronto, there’s no denying that I am a Toronto person. And, for this week in the Cancanon, I submit to you exclusively Torontonian bands.


The Sadies – Flash
Shit, the Sadies are one of those bands who seemed to be all over NOW magazine's 19-page concert listing spread whenever you didn’t want to see them. And, lo and behold, once you realize that you have an amazing surf-country band right in your backyard, they’re never available. A perennially underrated band with a solid discography, through-and-though.


Marvelous Darlings – I Don’t Wanna Go to the Party
Normally, I don’t trust supergroups. However, the Marvelous Darlings are a mishmash of Toronto hardcore all-stars, featuring members of Fucked Up, No Warning, Career Suicide, and just about every noteworthy Toronto hardcore band of the last half-decade or so. And while those are all excellent bands, I’m of the belief that the Darlings’ vocalist Ben Cook – he resembling the lesbian from Haute Tension – is one of the single most talented rock n’ roll songwriters in Toronto. Every single project he’s been involved in – from No Warning, to Surplus Sons, to the Darlings, and currently, Fucked Up – has not only been solid, but exceptional. Kudos to Cook for silently defining Toronto music (for myself, at least).


Owen Pallett – the Power of Love
Speaking of the Midas Touch – how about Owen Pallett? Here’s dude making a Celine Dion song sound amazing – despite the fact that it could have been a complete Cancon disaster. And aside from Final Fantasy, Pallett has a truly amazing indie-rock resume, appearing on Fucked Up, Grizzly Bear, the Hidden Cameras, Beirut, and Jim Guthrie albums. And, surprisingly, he makes those named better.


The Bicycles – Gotta Get Out
Now, here’s a band who’s currently getting a lot of hype – and they’re also a band completely deserving of it. Though NOW magazine painted them as a bit of a Sloan-ish band, I don’t necessarily see it - they’re far more jittery, joyous; and what Sloan had in inter-member vocal interplay, the Bicycles have in boy-girl vocals. Personally, per quirky pop, I’d liken them more to the New Pornos, although I bristle when comparing bands, as these comparisons tend to falsify the more familiar I get with a band. Anyhow, their newest album, Oh No, It’s Love, has been getting heavy rotation this week, and deservingly so.


Jim Guthrie – ALS Commercial
See, I’m a huge fan of Jimmy Three-Gut’s work throughout his career – particularly Now, More than Ever for it’s bizarrely listenable quirky charm, and it was the first Guthrie album I’d actually listened to – but I’m saying: doesn’t this ALS commercial (or Lou Gehrig’s disease, you ass) make you want to hug someone? It makes the ‘Free Hugs’ campaign look flat-out insincere.

[Title Edited: Too Soon]

Following my morning bicycle commute, I generally check the local headlines prior to getting to work. I just happened upon this cautionary tale of taxi-drivers, cyclists, hit-and-runs, and involuntary amputations:

'Was it a hit-and-run? An attempted robbery?

Police are still trying to iron out the details of a bizarre incident early Friday morning. A cyclist was taken to hospital after his leg was reportedly severed in a collision with a cab near the intersection of Dovercourt Rd. and Dundas St. It's believed the cab backed into the man, hit a pole, and took off at about 2:30am.

"We got a call at 2:27 this morning from witnesses that reported hearing two males arguing, quite a heated argument from our understanding," revealed Sgt. Tim Burrows of Toronto Police Traffic Services. "The next sounds that were brought to their attention was the sound of a collision that occurred."

The injured man was taken to hospital where doctors worked to reattach his leg.'

See the rest of the story here.

Now, this story is particularly resonant with me, as a. I am a semi-avid cyclist, and b. this occurred only several blocks away from my house. Anyhow, it's a super-disturbing story, and it'll be interesting to see how it unfolds, but I can't help but feel a little bit biased against the cabbie in question.

While it may not be true that the cyclist tried to, ahem, rob the cabbie, it's the hit-and-run which disturbs me the most. As a cyclist, I'm half-way terrified of cab drivers as is, but the very fact that he fled from the scene of the crime, leaving a one-legged man to bleed to death, only exacerbated my mistrust - which probably isn't justified in the first place.

While I'm admittedly not the most cautious of cyclists, this seems like a little bit of an extreme reaction of road rage. Cyclists will decry the lack of bike lanes and the lack of respect from motorists; motorists will decry the recklessness of urban cyclists - but, really, I would have never guessed that the situation would have escalated into severed-limb territory. Here's to wishing the best of luck to the cyclist - even if he was at fault - as the universe needs more Def Leppards and fewer Def Leppard drummers.

Anyways, back to scheduled programming.

Edit: From an updated Toronto Star article;

'The cyclist was taken to St. Michael's Hospital in serious condition, where doctors worked to reattach the severed limb.

The surgery was unsuccessful, and the victim remains in the critical care unit of the hospital, said Burrows. "Right now we're just hoping he'll survive his injuries."'

Check out the rest here.

Best of luck to the cyclist; despite my oft-snarky-bordering-on-insolent tone, it's a terrible thing to happen and cabs represent one of my biggest fears as a cyclist. Hopefully, if anything, this story leads to heightened awareness of cyclists on the road.

Punk Houses!

In one of my most interesting jobs – potentially ever – I once used to work on a boat moored in Toronto, moored at Spadina and Queen’s Quay. There used to be tons of idling around, whereby we’d sit upon the deck of the boat, smoke cigarettes, and get drunk – in retrospect, it was actually a pretty decent job. And, during these extended periods of inactivity, my co-workers and I, well, we’d fantasize about exploring the decrepit (and very abandoned) Canada Malting building that heads up this posting.

Urban exploration’s something that I’ve always wanted to pursue – I’m not really sure about the anatomy or the going-ons in abandoned buildings; I’d always guessed that abandoned buildings were secret hobo casinos or something – kind of like an upscale version of the now-defunct Tent City. And until I actually get to witness the interior of Canada Malting or Leaside’s defunct Canada Wire graveyard, I’ll assume this to be correct.

But, lo and behold, an intrepid blogger from BlogTO took the time to explore the burnt-out building at Queen and Beverley, the lesser of two Queen West fire sites (the other, of course, being just east of Queen and Bathurst). This site is particularly interesting to me for several reasons, as it’s figuratively in my back yard. Seeing as how I pass this region several times daily during my daily commute, I’d expect that there would be visible reconstruction efforts; sadly, nothing has been visibly changed in months. Anyhow, BlogTO decided to explore the site, and came back with some truly amazing photos:

(All photos taken from BlogTO. Click here to see the rest of the photos and the accompanying posting)

And while it’s completely disappointing that the city has made little efforts to revamp a supposed historic space (I mean, after all, there's an HMV there), I’m personally disappointed in the emotions evoked after seeing the following photos. Perhaps this speaks to how disaffected or insensitive I’ve become, or perhaps this speaks to how much of a music-writer’s mindset I've adopted; but how cool would it be to see a band play there? The interior of the abandoned buildings look exactly as I’d expect a Euro-punk-squatter house to look. That being said, here are the top 5 bands I’d love to see play Queen and Beverley:

5. Integrity (also, Ringworm would suffice)

4. Crass

3. Tragedy

2. Motorhead

1. Mates of State

(Pop) Punk's Not Dead

Is it plagiarism week here, or what?

Taking a cue from Bobbo at Down for Whatever, I’m a grown man and I listen to a whole lot of music that is, ostensibly, directed towards toddlers. For one, I absolutely adore pop-punk, and I’m not terribly discriminating about the type of pop-punk I listen to.

And sure, for credibility’s sake, I might say that I enjoy arty, tortured pop-punk like Jawbreaker. Or, perhaps, I enjoy classic pop-infused punk like, say, the Buzzcocks. Or glammy pop-punk like the New York Dolls. Or drunken-quasi-cerebral pop punk like Dillinger 4. Or snotty contemporary pop-punk like the Ergs. I really tend to enjoy pop-punk created by hardcore bands like Lifetime (or their contemporaries, such as Fireworks). And this is all true.

But I also enjoy true toddler music, as well: I’ll always give new New Found Glory - they of the iconic long-shorts - albums a shake or seven. I enjoy standard new-school pop-punk conventions: calling breakdowns with a celebratory ‘whoo!,’ slowing down choruses to half time, and stop-start verses.

Suffice to say, I’m not terribly picky about the pop-punk I listen to – it doesn’t need to be credible, or even good. I’m positive that pop-punk flicks on an instinctual Pavlovian fun-switch. So needless to say, I’m biased when I say that 2008 was a fantastic year for pop-punk.

While some might argue about semantics, I'm going to argue that all of the following albums contain a little pop and and a little punk rock. Los Campesinos! – who always sounded Buzzcocks-esque to me – released two excellent albums in Hold on Now Youngster and We Are Beautiful, We are Doomed. Johnny Foreigner – the subject of the maiden post of this blog – released Waited Up Until Light, which, in my humble opinion, was the noisiest, speediest piece of pop-punk virtuosity I’ve heard all year. Japanther released Scuffed up My Huffy, which is uber-noisy, but was probably the least noisy Japanther release to date. Dillinger 4 released the fairly weak Civil War, but fairly weak for Dillinger 4 equates to pretty good for most bands. The Nice Boys - featuring the only living member of the Exploding Hearts - put out a self-titled release, which isn't quite the Exploding Hearts, but it comes close enough. Vancougar released Canadian Tuxedo, which was a release that, by my estimates, was part Cub, part Go-Gos – which, coming from me, is a compliment of the highest order. Jay Reatard released a pop-garage singles collection with Matador Records, and probably wrote my favourite song of the year (‘Hammer, I Miss You’). And, of course, Times New Viking - who play tonight, with Deerhunter, at Lee's Palace in Toronto - released Rip it Off.

Now, I’ve recorded plenty (embarrassing) songs in the bathroom, hoping that the lo-fi charm would override my lack of songwriting talent. Times New Viking’s Rip it Off, however, pulls off lo-fi admirably - probably because they actually write good songs. Rip it Off sounds like it was recorded with blown-out tube amps in a kitchen; it’s also wildly exuberant, anthemic, and, well – incredible. It’s an album full of perfect pop songs, shouty boy-girl vocals, and somehow – no matter how quietly you’re playing the album – it always seems to be on full volume.

Now, I seriously, seriously hate describing music particularly. I’m never truly articulate enough to describe music without making comparisons, and comparisons are never quite descriptive enough (and are laughable when inaccurate). So, if you want an accurate portrayal of what Times New Viking sounds like, check the following videos:

Times New Viking - My Head

Times New Viking - Thing with a Hook

Times New Viking - The End of All Things

Words from the Wyze: Pandora vs. Mambo About Masonry

Note: although I try to keep content as original as possible for my blog, I can’t take credit for today’s posting. The idea behind this posting was plagiarized from Metalinquisition – a hilarious metal blog I discovered yesterday. And while there isn’t as much Project Wyze or Farmclub discussion on Metalinquisition (or even Slaves on Dope – get with the times, guy) as I’d like, it’s a hilarious, informative metal-blog that, much to my surprise, has actually mentioned Crazy Town and Anal Cunt in tandem. Which, basically, makes Metalinquisition the perfect accompaniment to Mambo About Masonry. Anyhow, on with the show:

A few years ago, I’d discovered a crappy little website named Pandora: The Music Genome Project. Now, like you, I’d initially assumed that Pandora the Music Genome Project was the name of a funk-jazz-experimental-IDM-deep house band (which is what occurs when shaggy-afroed, Zeppelin-fan-bassists grow up and discover Birkenstocks, and the Kama Sutra). But this isn’t so – it’s a site which, like last.fm, attempts to be predictive of your musical tastes.

So, what, exactly, is a music genome? Well, Wikipedia’s definition of a genome is as follows:

“In classical genetics, the genome of a diploid organism including eukarya refers to a full set of chromosomes or genes in a gamete; thereby, a regular somatic cell contains two full sets of genomes. In a haploid organism, including bacteria, archaea, virus, and mitochondria, a cell contains only a single set of genome, usually in a single circular or contiguous linear DNA (or RNA for some viruses). In modern molecular biology the genome of an organism is its hereditary information encoded in DNA (or, for some viruses, RNA).”

Um… yeah. So, I’ll take a gander: Pandora’s base assumption is that there is some sort of hereditary-generic traits that can be deduced from particular songs. It appears that the Pandora project is attempting to specifically isolate these traits/genes in order to provide us with musical recommendations. Per the Pandora Wikipedia entry:

“A given song is represented by a vector containing approximately 150 'genes' (analagous to the characteristics of organisms in the field of genetics). Each gene corresponds to a characteristic of the music, for example, gender of lead vocalist, level of distortion on the electric guitar, type of background vocals, etc. Rock and pop songs have 150 genes, rap songs have 350, and jazz songs have approximately 400. Other genres of music, such as world and classical, have 300–500 genes.”

As this blog is mainly rock n’ roll / pop / Meghan McCain oriented, I find it interesting that pop n’ roll has the least amount of traits assigned to it. Which leads us to conclude that rock n’ roll fans are typically the missing-chromosome / thalidomide babies of music fans. Maybe they’re on to something.

Anyhow, Pandora's line of reasoning should be familiar to music fans and critics. To varying degrees, most music fans like to play associative games: they’ll classify their favourite musicians by genres, sub-genres, eras, geographic boundaries, and band lineage. These associative activities are actually quite useful in acquiring background information and forming tastes; as an example, Lifetime fans can usually appreciate Paint it Black, and Wilco fans can generally appreciate Son Volt. In fact, the activity of music-association is so common that torrent powerhouse what.cd has actually set up user-generated brainstorms such as the one below:

So, clearly, these associative games can work in determining, to some degree, musical tastes. For the average music listener, there are probably musical traits one appreciates above others.

Now, I do have a problem with the philosophy of applications like Pandora – they tend to be reductionist. There are way too many factors – some that, I’d argue, are so particular that they are nearly inobservable – that go into determining musical tastes. There are songs associated with personal experience – the Empire Records soundtrack gets a huge personal vote – that have little to do with musical tastes; and, one of the most entertaining, and gratifying, things about discovering new music is discovering things that sound nothing like (or are completely unrelated to) music you’ve previously enjoyed.

Truthfully, there’s nothing better than being wrong in your musical assessments. Being wrong help you to re-evaluate your tastes and assumptions about music; it enables you to research, discover, and eventually, enjoy different types of music.

And Pandora simply doesn’t allow room for your musical tastes to be wrong.

But I digress: perhaps Pandora is more about finding similarities in songs than finding differences. And, plus, I'm just curious to see how they'd analyze my taste in music. So, based on the four musical pillars of Mambo About Masonry – LFO, Anal Cunt, Crazy Town, and Ian MacKaye’s Teen Idles – we will be determining the genetic make-up of my musical tastes. So, let’s see how Pandora analyzed each band:

LFO – based on “Summer Girls”

• rap influences
• pop rock influences
• a subtle use of vocal harmony
• mild rhythmic syncopation
• repetitive melodic phrasing
• extensive vamping
• a vocal-centric aesthetic
• major key tonality
• acoustic rhythm guitars
• subtle use of fender rhodes

Anal Cunt – based on “Living Colour is my Favourite Death Metal Band”

• punk influences
• the use of experimental sounds
• extensive vamping
• thru composed melodic style
• a vocal-centric aesthetic
• minor key tonality
• gravelly male vocalist
• an aggressive male vocalist

Crazy Town – based on “Butterfly”

• east coast rap influences
• rock influences
• sparse beats
• chill rhymin'
• lyrics with heavy erotic content
• a tight kick sound
• a slow moving bass line
• layered electric guitar riffs
• a dry recording sound
• radio friendly stylings
• thin orchestration
• dominant use of riffs

Teen Idles – based on “Sneakers”

• repetitive melodic phrasing
• extensive vamping
• a vocal-centric aesthetic
• major key tonality
• electric rhythm guitars

Hmm. So, can anyone recommend me any music prominently featuring a vocal-centric aesthetic, chill rhymin,' lyrics with heavily erotic content, a gravelly male vocalist, a subtle use of fender rhodes, and extensive vamping (a tight kick sound also couldn't hurt)?

... or should I just be listening to more Project Wyze?

Cancanon Fridays: Welcoming the Working Weekend

First: I’d like to thank the multi-talented Matt and Attackoftheswank for designing the new header for my blog – hopefully, my significance of my blog title becomes a little clearer. Matt is far more visual-arts oriented and talented than I’ll ever be, so I left the job for the pros. He is also unnecessarily single, which is as much a mystery to anyone as Stonehenge. Matt enjoys fun music, vomiting into cups, and ‘reading’ ‘books’ (what’s that?). Lady-readers of my blog unite! Back to scheduled programming.

I hate work.

Well, that’s not true; I don’t hate work. I feel that work is an essential component of human existence, a biological impulse like nourishment, reproduction, and self-preservation – it’s the need to be contributing member of a social organization. Of course, how we define work and contribution varies on a case-by-case basis; but, if you’ve ever spent any actual time seriously idling, you’d no doubt understand the importance and fulfillment that work can bring.

So, I don’t hate work. I hate my work today.

And here’s why: I’m in the process of getting laid off, and I have about two and a half weeks left in my current position (ostensibly, they kept me on because they’re still ‘busy,’ but apparently not ‘busy’ enough to keep me hired indefinitely). And they are right. It’s busy here today. And because of that, my hatred for my soon-to-be-former job is growing exponentially.

I hate my job, mostly, because at this point, I’m not going to be able to tangibly see the fruits of my labour. Any gratification I’d receive from a job successfully completed would be evidenced in a few months (when I’m gone, potentially street-ridden), as I’m a proposal writer. Further, I don’t have the motivation to help my company succeed; despite my ethical qualms with the place I work, I also – and very understandably, I might add – have very few loyalties to an employer who deemed me expendable.

I'm not as bitter as it sounds.

But, regardless, I’m still here at my desk, and I’m still working. And it dawned on me that a must be at an all-time low for productivity; I’m insanely de-motivated, aside from a few twinges of personal pride, I now have no vested interest in the quality of the work that I produce. I must be an absolutely horrid worker today, and my current working conditions, from both an employer and employee perspective, benefit absolutely no one. Aside from monetary compensation, my work is without purpose – this is work completed by workers at a complete disconnect with the product of their labour. And I’m no expert, but this sounds like alienation to me.

And while music isn’t work in the strictest definition of term, I feel that the concept of alienation can also be applied to musicians. I’ve always felt that, as a band, if you’re neither producing songs that are different or artistically stimulating, then it’s probably just time to give up – you’re experiencing alienation, labour minus purpose. Truthfully, producing albums that are distinctly different (from an artist's previous work) or artistically stimulating are completely unrelated to the quality of a record, but I’ve always suspected that music listeners have been able to discern the purpose (and subsequently, the authenticity) of a musician’s output.

And this is precisely why U2’s Pop isn’t an abomination of a record. While probably the worst record of U2’s career, Bono and co. were at least experimenting with new sounds. And while Wilco’s Sky Blue Sky also isn’t the best in their discography, there is still the sense that Jeff Tweedy and co. still find artistic stimulation in creating new music. And, yes, experimentation and stimulation can be mutually exclusive.

And, of course, there are artists like Tom Gabel – of Against Me! – who have had led musical careers. While not all of Against Me!’s albums are good – I’ll point to Searching for a Former Clarity as a clunker – each successive album demonstrates Gabel’s growth and experimentation. Gabel has recently released a very solid solo EP, one that consists mostly an acoustic guitar accompanied by a drum machine. It’s maybe the best collection of songs since Reinventing Axl Rose; and while it’s certainly a testament to his progression as a songwriter, it’s also refreshing that it’s barely comparable to anything that Against Me! has released in the past. Gabel has, as far as I’m concerned, has completely avoided placidity throughout his musical career, and resultingly, he’s never allowed himself to get alienated from his craft.

And it’s Gabel’s authenticity that is so compelling. While his lyrical authenticity on his earlier works (Reinventing, Vivida Vis, etc.) was Gabel’s initial appeal, in the latter stages of his career, it’s simply just impressive that he is he hasn’t soured on the creative process and is still clearly focused on experimenting with his music. And this, precisely, is the type of authenticity that is resonant with Gabel and Against Me! fans.

And, every now and again, like Against Me!, an entire city catches lightning in a bottle. Every now and again, a city will develop loosely defined groups of musicians, at the apex of their creativity, and whose raison d’etre stems simply from the necessity of their existence. Seattle in the early 1990s was such a scene; Halifax in the mid 1990s was similar; and, around the turn of the century, Montreal experienced such magic, as well. And while I was never able to witness Seattle or Halifax first hand, but I was lucky enough to experience life in Montreal.

So, this week’s edition of the Cancanon Fridays commemorates a few new Montreal-ais members into Cancon’s storied coffers. I know that Montreal has been beaten to death in music mags worldwide, and I apologize if today’s posting is old news; but truthfully, it was (and is) something exceptional. To alienation (or a lack thereof)!


The Adam Brown - Big Rocker
I'm not sure what's since happened to Adam Brown, but he had one of the best voices in Montreal. Backed by a completely destructive backing band and live show, I was convinced that Brown was Canada's next Springteen - and, honestly, I'm disappointed that he's not.



The Arcade Fire - Wake Up
Yes, I know this band is beaten to death, and everyone's aware of this song. But 'Wake Up,' to me, is probably the most defining songs of the Montreal explosion. It's my favourite song from Funeral, an album which certainly captured the essence of early-2000s Montreal; and though it's a good album, Neon Bible doesn't even come close.



The Stills - In the Beginning
Unlike the Arcade Fire, my choice of Stills songs comes from their second album, Without Feathers. And while it's not even the better songs in their catalogue, I did get to hear the fantastic snare-hit-into-bridge portion of the song while watching a sunset dip behind a hill (this story may, or may not, involve drugs). Which, truthfully, is one of my favourite music-related memories.




Malcolm Bauld - Goodnight Amarillo
While Bauld is still typically defined by his work with the Frenetics, I'm convinced that his solo work is a lot better. He's a far better troubadour than a front-man; give a listen.



Bad Flirt - Hiroshima, Mon Frere
Seriously, is there anything more adorable than bad flirts? The body language is awkward and conversation is choppy, but bad flirts are always redeemable and always adorable, because hey - they're putting in the effort to talk to you, aren't they? And yes, Bad Flirt, the band, is also adorable.

The Death of the American Dream

Hello, Chicago. Today is the end of an era.

And, no, I'm not pointing to the long-awaited conclusion of the Bush Administration's second term. Depending on how you'd define it, that either occurred yesterday, or it will occur in January, when president-elect Obama is sworn in. And no, I'm not talking about the passing of famed Dino-lit mastermind Michael Crichton. And no, I'm not talking about the tragic conclusion to the man-hunt for missing Barrie teen, Brandon Crisp.

It's Meghan McCain. My arduous, now-unfruitful courtship has now, sadly, concluded.

Now, this doesn't have anything to do with the results of the U.S. Election (since which Meggers has been curiously silent... don't do anything you might regret, Megs).

As is the problem with many men in relationships, I simply wasn't listening to what Meghan was telling me. Yes, we are fellow blogging Bad Brains enthusiasts. Yes, her blog hints at a fascination with sleeping Asians (an activity that, coincidentally, I do all of the time). But how, exactly, does she describe her taste in men? Taken for an interview with GQ:

"I like bad boys for the most part,” Meghan adds. “In the past, I have liked tattooed guys who wear Converse.... I have also dated... D.C.-looking guys... Journalist, yuppie, metrosexual guys. How’s that? You’re metro.”

Hmmm. I hadn't considered the role of physical attraction in courtship, mating, child-rearing, child-launching, and death. And while the characteristics I'd define as attractive typically begin with Meghan and end with McCain, hers seems to be far more particular. Here are some Google image results for the traits deemed attractive for McCain suitors:

Bad boys;

Tattooed guys wearing Converse;

D.C looking guys;

Journalists;


Yuppies;

and Metrosexuals.

And, while I am extraordinarily good-looking, I am not Dallas Winston (or even Dallas Green), nor a member of rap-rock powerhouse Crazy Town (I was, however, the silent fourth member of Canadian pop-icons B4-4), nor Ian Mackaye, nor do I hang out with the Hell's Angels (but I do sometimes drink at their bars), nor am I an aspiring loft-owner. No comment on fellating people in bathroom stalls.

No, I am simply a boy with I dream. Or, I was a boy with a dream ("Yes, we can").

I don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows. It's not me - it's Meghan McCain.

Meghan was a Punk Rocker

Well, in the United States, today is Election Day. And while this is a landmark day globally, it’s especially pertinent to me, as it marks the final destination for my favourite blog, McCain Blogette. While I’m going to miss the Blogette, I take comfort in knowing that Meghan McCain’s legendary playlists will live on forever in my Itunes library (with all tracks purchased legally, of course, from the Itunes store).

After tearfully reviewing the last several days of McCain blogging, it’s been brought to my attention, recently, that Meghan McCain is a devoted punk rocker. Per McCain Blogette, she possesses an intuitive understanding of punk rock– indicating that she is a long-standing enthusiast and a student of the punk rock form:

'Their ... was ground-breaking, as was their loud, fast-paced music. We might not have the "Guitar Hero" sensation of today were it not for The Ramones.'

And Meghan McCain, it appears, is quite the Ramones fan (writing that, in fact, her first kiss was to the backdrop of the Ramones; I am jealous, as my first kiss was a. not with Meghan McCain, and b. to the soundtrack of the Jonas Brothers' 'Lovebug'). She had spent the last week on the campaign trail with Linda Ramone, who, by my foggy recollection, was a member of the Ramones, the Buzzcocks, the Go-Gos, and 7 Seconds (being the primary songwriter on their iconic pro-lassie tune, 'Not Just Boys Fun'). And, it might surprise you to know that, in fact, both Linda Ramone and the affable Meghan McCain are, in fact, Republicans, campaigning for John McCain.

Now, due to punk rock’s ‘supposed’ longstanding liberal tradition, it might seem inconsistant that Meghan McCain can be both a punk rocker and a Republican. Embittered record store clerks, aging-yet-still-struggling musicians employed by music stores, those who have committed to neck tattoos at a much-too-tender age, and unemployed Liberal Arts graduates have long identified with the latent anger of punk rock; but, aside from perhaps the latter point, Meghan McCain is none of these things. But this nary matters.

The punk rock canon boasts plenty of notable conservatives – such as Dave Smalley of DYS, Dag Nasty, and Down by Law, Michale Graves, a notable mis-fitted Danzig-replacement, Johnny Ramone, and a deceased member of Cleveland punk-pioneers the Dead Boys.

N.B. Unfortunately, George Burdi, formerly of right-wing punk rock powerhouse Racial Holy War (Rahowa), can no longer be included on the list of notable punk rock convervatives. He has abandoned his conservative roots, espousing them for the logical end-result of liberal media inundation: inter-racial marriage and tantric sex. He now plays in a band called Novocosm, or Ubiquitous Synergy Syndrome, or some other such tantric band.

But Meghan, Meghan McCain, she is the future. She is the future of not just conservative punk rock, but punk rock period. She possesses the education, being a Columbia graduate, to step toe-to-toe in academic discourse with punk rock professor Greg Graffin (of Bad Religion) Dr. Milo Aukerman (of the Descendents), or Ph.D wannabe Dexter Holland (of the Offspring); media acumen that would make anarcho-performance artists Crass jealous; and she is better looking than Exene Cervenka.

I repeat: Meghan McCain is the future.

In the topsy-turvy world where heralded Obama supporter Common’s ‘daughter found emo (and him, the new Primo),’ it seems that McCain’s daughter has found freeganism, dumpster-diving, PCP, and the benefits of having as many mangy dogs as you have friends. On Election Day 2008, if Meghan McCain and her fellow Republicans march into the homeland of Ian MacKaye and the Revolution Summer, I fully trust that, like Rites of Spring, the ‘world will be their fuse’.

And, on that note, I leave you a video of Rites of Spring's 'Deeper than Inside.'

*** Despite the snarkiness, DYS and Dag Nasty are still some of the best hardcore bands ever.

The Monday Morning Ant Parade

Over the last week or so, I’ve been enraptured by tastemakers. Now, let’s get this clear: I am not a tastemaker, and if you’ve been reading my blog looking for expert opinion, you’re probably looking in the wrong place. Now, I haven’t personally met a tastemaker (though I’ve shopped at Urban Outfitters, so I’m sure that I’ve had brush-ups with them). But as far as I'm concerned, there are three qualities which define impactful tastemakers:

a. You must be intellectually credible;
b. Intellectually credible communities must give you credence; this is generally achieved by ensconcing yourself in intellectually credible communities and having ‘good taste’ (whatever that is);
c. You must be incredibly good-looking.

Now, of the three above traits, I can only lay claim to trait c. Yes, most (nay: all) people who meet are completely blown away by my good looks; it’s a beauty, like the sun, that can only be observed peripherally, as staring too long will leave my likeness burned onto you retina. My good looks, of course, are of a particular brand: I am not rugged, nor handsome, nor frail; I am striking.

Those who are strikingly beautiful typically carry a set of at least two incongruent physical characteristics. Case in point: the mulatto with celeste-blue eyes is striking. I carry a glut of contrasting characteristics: my pelvis boasts a deep, granite-carved V structure, but is crowned with a glutinous midsection; I possess the crank-addict’s complexion, grayish and speckled with scabs and craters, but this is paired with delicate, high cheekbones. And, much like Ghostface Killah, I have a single, muscular bicep contrasting with a fake arm (‘lost it; before rap’); this is likely why I associate with his music.

Despite my incredible beauty, my appointment as a Style Scout on fashion blog Shedoesthecity, and my status as a male model (like this one, and this one), I am still not a legitimate tastemaker. However, there are a few pockets of culture where I feel that my tastes count; one such pocket is hangover music. As I am frequently hung over, especially after the double-whammy of Halloween weekends, and, I’ve refined the elements in music required to nurse one from Sunday-sickness.

It being a double-header of a Halloween – with Halloween festivities on Friday and Saturday – this past weekend, I had to deal with two separate, universe-shattering hangovers. And, as such, I had ample time to explore some new hangover music to nurse me out of my post-boozy haze.

First, I’d gotten Times New Viking’s Rip it Off. Now, while I absolutely love exuberant lo-fi, this was far too abrasive for me; it made my eye sockets pulsate. Next, I tried out The Tallest Man on Earth’s Shallow Graves; right off the bat, I’d noticed that their singer’s voice resembled a cross between Highway 61 era Bob Dylan and Neutral Milk Hotel’s Jeff Mangum. And while this is typically bang-on with my musical taste, in a hung over state, Dylan and Mangum’s voices sound like warbly bandsaws at the best of times. Next, I’d put on AA Bondy’s American Hearts – and I was probably missing the point, but this album references God way too much. And if there’s a time when the absence of God is most pronounced, it’s whilst hung over. And, finally, on a whim, I took a listen to Bon Iver’s For Emma, Forever Ago.

And it became the soundtrack to my weekend. This is perfect hangover music.

Now, I will not write a full record review. Rather, I’d like to gather any tastemaking clout I might possess to endorse ‘Lump Sum,’ the second – and strongest – track on the For Emma. Now, Bon Iver typically plays a delicate brand of folk – which makes the rest of the album gentle enough to deal with the most raucous of hangovers. But ‘Lump Sum’ is a complete triumph, and, currently, might be one of the year’s strongest tracks. For proof, see the below video:



What makes ‘Lump Sum’ a particular standout is its combination of two unlikely genres – and the song does so with much more sophistication than most genre hoppers (they did not, for example, crudely combine ska and punk, like Skankin Pickle, or hip-hop and adult contemporary, like Crazy Town or LFO). The stripped down percussion, which I’ve deduced is a simple bass drum, plays at hyper speeds, droning in and out of the track. It’s slightly muffled, recalling techno songs heard outside of a club - a common, almost comforting, experience for many. And though it's clearly a techno beat, it’s indistinct to the point that it could be every techno song or any techno song.

Over the muffled club beat, Bon Iver continues as usual; it’s all whispery folk and Iron and Wine intimacy. The song gives the impression that, upon wandering out from anyclub on John Street, you just happened to drunkenly stumble upon an extremely talented troubadour. And while the muffled club-land cacophony provides a nod to the previous night (read: hair of the dog), the folk nurses you into your Sunday morning reality: the hangover. And, when hung over, Bon Iver are like Pepto Bismol for your cerebral cortex (I have no clue what that means, but I can only assume that it's a feeling roughly comparable to being toe-fed grapes by Meghan McCain - and then having her blog about it. Which, I'm positive, is completely awesome).

So, while my tastes are rarely to be trusted, in one of the few moments of lucidity I will ever have, here is my one, single recommendation: listen to Bon Iver the next time you’re hung over.