Thursday, January 13, 2005
A love letter to...
There's just something about skinny arsed guys in too tight jeans. I mean, c'mon. What are those size 24? I know its wrong. I know I should hate them, but if loving skinny arsed rock stars is wrong, I don't want to be right. Johnny Borrell is a rock star and I love and hate him for it. He puts on the show that I hope for every time I plunk down for tickets. It's all sweat, pulse pounding chords and sounds like every song I've ever loved. I hate him because I will never be a rock star, or a skinny arse for that matter.
Last night's gig at Lee's Palace was a love letter to staying up all night playing records trying to impress that girl. You remember that girl. She was goth when everyone was metal. She was mod when everyone was punk. She could hang out with the jocks and the skids. She was the first white girl to have dreads, but she never went granola. She knew all the boys in the band and if only a little of her cred could rub off on you, if only... Karen O is that girl. Brody Dalle is that girl. PJ Harvey is that girl. That girl from the Ravonettes is that girl. Every girl at the show last night was that girl. Half a dozen stores on Queen W. sell the kit now and it feels like we've come to the end of an era. Johnny knows who I'm talking about, he's been chasing her his whole life. The whole show was about that girl.
Sure, he wears his influences on his virtually non-existent sleeve and you know that shirt is coming off before the end of the night. We all know who he's cribbing from. I don't care. Yes, he's portrayed as a yappy arrogant loudmouth. What did you expect? He knows what that girl wants to hear and he's giving it to us. He's intent on keeping her and us up all night and we're all into it.
Okay, so there were a couple of bum notes. Johnny's climb over the wall at the side of the stage would have been better served with a spotlight. I don't think anyone knew what was going on with the coat rack during "Leave Me Alone." My friend suggested that the coat rack might represent the girl in the song. Sure, I guess I'll buy that. But minor stage theatrics aside, it was a great Efff'n' show. How good? Good enough to get a typically stoic Toronto crowd clapping almost half way through songs they've never heard on the radio. High praise indeed.
"Vice" was the obvious stand out in my mind. While spelling out a chorus brings the horror of Hall and Oates to mind, Mr. Borrell and company's method of modern rock is above reproach. The Patty Smith freakout ending of "In the City" is even better live. They closed with the triumphant "Into the Sea". The fading waves of feedback maee me wish that the good ship Albion chart a new course for the straights of Borrell. These songs embody that yearning for that girl we've all lost with the desperation of a teenage boy intent on not spending Stairway to Heaven or Somebody standing with the dorks at the side of the gym. Rip it up Johnny, Rip it up.
P.S. Thanks for the autograph, Johnny. I'll try to be a little less crap at talking to rock stars next time. ¶ 11:23 AM
Last night's gig at Lee's Palace was a love letter to staying up all night playing records trying to impress that girl. You remember that girl. She was goth when everyone was metal. She was mod when everyone was punk. She could hang out with the jocks and the skids. She was the first white girl to have dreads, but she never went granola. She knew all the boys in the band and if only a little of her cred could rub off on you, if only... Karen O is that girl. Brody Dalle is that girl. PJ Harvey is that girl. That girl from the Ravonettes is that girl. Every girl at the show last night was that girl. Half a dozen stores on Queen W. sell the kit now and it feels like we've come to the end of an era. Johnny knows who I'm talking about, he's been chasing her his whole life. The whole show was about that girl.
Sure, he wears his influences on his virtually non-existent sleeve and you know that shirt is coming off before the end of the night. We all know who he's cribbing from. I don't care. Yes, he's portrayed as a yappy arrogant loudmouth. What did you expect? He knows what that girl wants to hear and he's giving it to us. He's intent on keeping her and us up all night and we're all into it.
Okay, so there were a couple of bum notes. Johnny's climb over the wall at the side of the stage would have been better served with a spotlight. I don't think anyone knew what was going on with the coat rack during "Leave Me Alone." My friend suggested that the coat rack might represent the girl in the song. Sure, I guess I'll buy that. But minor stage theatrics aside, it was a great Efff'n' show. How good? Good enough to get a typically stoic Toronto crowd clapping almost half way through songs they've never heard on the radio. High praise indeed.
"Vice" was the obvious stand out in my mind. While spelling out a chorus brings the horror of Hall and Oates to mind, Mr. Borrell and company's method of modern rock is above reproach. The Patty Smith freakout ending of "In the City" is even better live. They closed with the triumphant "Into the Sea". The fading waves of feedback maee me wish that the good ship Albion chart a new course for the straights of Borrell. These songs embody that yearning for that girl we've all lost with the desperation of a teenage boy intent on not spending Stairway to Heaven or Somebody standing with the dorks at the side of the gym. Rip it up Johnny, Rip it up.
P.S. Thanks for the autograph, Johnny. I'll try to be a little less crap at talking to rock stars next time. ¶ 11:23 AM
