Mambo About Masonry

Christina's pal cover ideas (but less smutty)

2010-03-22T11:00:00.000-07:00

Cowgirl

Librarian (with glasses)

Sailor

Bike

Aly cover shoot ideas (but less smutty)

2010-03-22T10:44:00.000-07:00

Telephone

The camera girl

Hula girl

The Devil

Guitar lassie

Umbrella girl

The Cover-Judgment Dilemma

2008-12-23T16:20:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Year in Lists

2008-12-23T15:10:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

Prior to sitting down to turkey...

2008-12-23T12:13:00.000-08:00

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

The Rural Alberta Advantage has taken over my life.

2008-12-09T14:28:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

Loveless Nation

2008-11-28T12:42:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-27T11:16:00.000-08:00

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?

2008-11-24T20:21:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-17T11:40:00.001-08:00

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)

2008-11-14T13:17:00.000-08:00

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]

2008-11-14T07:26:00.000-08:00

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!

2008-11-12T13:59:00.001-08:00

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

2008-11-12T06:57:00.001-08:00

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

2008-11-11T08:15:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-07T10:58:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-06T11:06:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-04T08:24:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-03T11:53:00.000-08:00

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.

Cancanon Fridays: Happy Glenn Danzig Day!

2008-10-31T09:48:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-30T12:00:00.000-07:00

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)

2008-10-29T06:33:00.000-07:00

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!

2008-10-27T11:45:00.000-07:00

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)

2008-10-27T08:25:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-24T10:57:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-24T08:10:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-22T13:21:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-20T12:56:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-17T07:18:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-16T13:18:00.000-07:00

‘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

2008-10-14T12:00:00.000-07:00

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!

2008-10-14T11:25:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-10T07:34:00.000-07:00

[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!

2008-10-08T08:20:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-06T12:00:00.000-07:00

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 C homsky’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)

2008-10-06T08:07:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-03T11:47:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-03T06:59:00.000-07:00

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!

2008-10-02T07:16:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-01T11:27:00.000-07:00

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.

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

2008-09-29T06:12:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Really, Jay Reatard Doesn't Give a Fuck

2008-09-26T11:51:00.000-07:00

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

Luckily, I'm often wrong.

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

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

Manufacturing Content

2008-09-25T08:41:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Painting the Town Orange and Green

2008-09-24T10:30:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

Schwarzenbach to the Future!

2008-09-24T08:05:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Reason I Can't Sleep at Night: Weezer

2008-09-23T08:47:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How to Lose Friends and Alienate People

2008-09-22T09:21:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More: PlanetHiltron.com

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

2008-09-19T13:06:00.000-07:00

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

The easy answer is 'yes.'

Earth Crises of Faith: Starbucks on Queen Street!

2008-09-19T08:16:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And they just happen to like Starbucks.

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

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

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

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

2008-09-18T08:26:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

Now open them. And scroll down.

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

Things Overheard at Patriots Games v.1

2008-09-17T06:57:00.000-07:00

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

I don't write fiction.