Mambo About Masonry

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.

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."

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.

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

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.

[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.

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.

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

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.

(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?

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.

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 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.

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 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.’

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

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?