Toronto Rocks!!
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Good Work If You Can Get It!
There are really two types of Blur songs and by extension, there are two kinds of Kaiser Chief songs. There is the full on, mad-fer-it rave-ups that not only predict riots but can also incite them. Then there are the sardonic long views chock full of pithy if somewhat fey insights into class, culture and such. This review is much like the two types of Blur/KC songs. I’m of two minds. Part of me wants to submit to the 13-year-old hormonally/socially challenged fanboy that I am and fall over myself to say good things. My higher brain functions want to subject the proceedings to the cold harsh mascara-less glare of the jaded "Barry from High Fidelity" bastard I secretly wish I was. Which side will prevail?
Prior to The Delany winning tickets to Saturday night’s invite-only KC show at Mod Club Theatre (and not being able to attend-sorry you missed a belter) I was a little skeptical.. NME fell over themselves, as I fully expected, to hype their UK chart-busting debut "Employment". Pitchfork was expectedly cooler and less enthusiastic. I once again found myself some where in the middle. "I Predict a Riot" has been rocking my office stereo for weeks. "Modern Way" coupled with recent computer upgrades at the SFB#1 compound have inspired countless themes for mix CD-R comps (the new mix tape). And yet it all feels a bit BLUR 2.0. I even thought, dare I say it, that they were the thinking man’s Menswear. I’ve been burned before by that white-hot next big thing. Anyone, aside from the NFLD contingent, remember Dodgy? Didn’t think so.
Come off you stupid microphone. Bloody Canadian sound techs.
Well tonight’s show put paid to a lot of that stinkin’ thinkin’. The lads from Leeds take the stage by way of the Camden High Street. This show brought to you by Fred Perry and Doctor Marten: the modern way indeed with their smart blazers and top oxblood 8-holes. Hardly a hand full of bars of "Na Na Na Na Naa" pass before front man Ricky Wilson is pogo-ing around the stage like a manic child who’s inadvertently sprinkled amphetamine sulfate over his sugar bombs. This certainly does move me and get me going. This young apprentice bounds around the stage the way a certain Brit Pop master used to. Whitey (guitarist) may have stolen his sartorial sense from Grand Dame Weller but his echo drenched surf-riffing is beyond reproach. The HHH show has me still ambivalent about scarves and curly tresses: thankfully Simon’s Hooky-esque bass undulations are spot on. Peanut may be shrouded in darkness, but his keyboard noodling shines. Nick looks like he could be the feckless child of one lusty Charlie Stubbs, but he keeps the beat and bangs like hell. Cor…
Does my bum look big in this?
When the student is ready the master will appear. Ricky welcomes a special guest on stage for "I Predict a Riot" and DAMON E-FFFIN’ ALBARN appears. Oh My God! A shot of adolescent adrenaline hits my cortex and rational thought shuts down. I bound forward at least three feet knocking women and children over to get closer. And yet I hold back. I can’t fully commit to fanboy-dom here. There are also two Damon Albarns. There's the arrogant ego of 95 that would have given Our Kid and that Borrel Lad a run for their money. Now there’s the chilled out dance-mad hipster who is out-Norman Cooking old Norm Cook in the Beats and Bevvies department. The hairline’s stronger than ever, though. I wonder who he uses and if he’s available. His slit-eyed gaze and visible body-stone seem to permit just enough range of motion to spray beer at us. Struggling for relevance? A desperate cry for the attention of Graham Coxon? Becoming a caricature of himself? Or should I say "cartoon". A little of column A… And Graham seems to be doing well enough on his own. Yet his star still shines brightly. By the chorus all my cynicism has evaporated. IT’S DAMON FREAKIN’ ALBARN. I predict a comeback, I predict a comeback.
Oasis, yer whot? I'll 'ave 'im.
I predict a, whot? Where's yer specs, Graham? Ricky who? Never heard of you, mate.
You would think the show peaks here. Yet Damon’s presence seems to be enough to invest the album’s mid-tempo tracks with the sort of "1995 and at height of his power" energy to make the remaining songs truly memorable. "Oh My God" it’s a bloody brilliant show. A-Ranger and I have found the love again. It’s like an afternoon of drinks and the SFB#1 love mix on the Gloucester Jukebox. This is what shows should be about. It makes me nostalgic for an Engerland that, until recently, I’d never been to. A show should take you to that moment in your life when everything was right and show you that those experiences are not lost to the mists of time. Those times are right now. I lose no time telling Peanut this as he frantically tries to escape my stalker-ish behaviour. "I GOT THE ONE IN THE HAT! I GOT THE ONE IN THE HAT!!!!"
Here's me with Mr. Bean, er I mean Mr. Peanut.
We hang around after the show in vein hope that Ricky or Damon will do a DJ set. After countless songs from our record collection are played back to us and the place fills with the kind of guys that would have kicked the shite out of me in high school, we decide to bail to the Dance Cave to relive our own Brit Pop glory. DC has changed. Handbag girls hang out there, but that’s for another time. We are totally munted and feelin’ the love. Perfec!
Maybe I am only of one mind about this show after all. We all know which side wins out in the end. I am and forever will be Super Fanboy Number One.
PS. Nice coreography on the openers.
Ok Go are a part of the rhythm nation.
¶ 5:39 PM 2 comments 
Prior to The Delany winning tickets to Saturday night’s invite-only KC show at Mod Club Theatre (and not being able to attend-sorry you missed a belter) I was a little skeptical.. NME fell over themselves, as I fully expected, to hype their UK chart-busting debut "Employment". Pitchfork was expectedly cooler and less enthusiastic. I once again found myself some where in the middle. "I Predict a Riot" has been rocking my office stereo for weeks. "Modern Way" coupled with recent computer upgrades at the SFB#1 compound have inspired countless themes for mix CD-R comps (the new mix tape). And yet it all feels a bit BLUR 2.0. I even thought, dare I say it, that they were the thinking man’s Menswear. I’ve been burned before by that white-hot next big thing. Anyone, aside from the NFLD contingent, remember Dodgy? Didn’t think so.
Come off you stupid microphone. Bloody Canadian sound techs.
Well tonight’s show put paid to a lot of that stinkin’ thinkin’. The lads from Leeds take the stage by way of the Camden High Street. This show brought to you by Fred Perry and Doctor Marten: the modern way indeed with their smart blazers and top oxblood 8-holes. Hardly a hand full of bars of "Na Na Na Na Naa" pass before front man Ricky Wilson is pogo-ing around the stage like a manic child who’s inadvertently sprinkled amphetamine sulfate over his sugar bombs. This certainly does move me and get me going. This young apprentice bounds around the stage the way a certain Brit Pop master used to. Whitey (guitarist) may have stolen his sartorial sense from Grand Dame Weller but his echo drenched surf-riffing is beyond reproach. The HHH show has me still ambivalent about scarves and curly tresses: thankfully Simon’s Hooky-esque bass undulations are spot on. Peanut may be shrouded in darkness, but his keyboard noodling shines. Nick looks like he could be the feckless child of one lusty Charlie Stubbs, but he keeps the beat and bangs like hell. Cor…
Does my bum look big in this?
When the student is ready the master will appear. Ricky welcomes a special guest on stage for "I Predict a Riot" and DAMON E-FFFIN’ ALBARN appears. Oh My God! A shot of adolescent adrenaline hits my cortex and rational thought shuts down. I bound forward at least three feet knocking women and children over to get closer. And yet I hold back. I can’t fully commit to fanboy-dom here. There are also two Damon Albarns. There's the arrogant ego of 95 that would have given Our Kid and that Borrel Lad a run for their money. Now there’s the chilled out dance-mad hipster who is out-Norman Cooking old Norm Cook in the Beats and Bevvies department. The hairline’s stronger than ever, though. I wonder who he uses and if he’s available. His slit-eyed gaze and visible body-stone seem to permit just enough range of motion to spray beer at us. Struggling for relevance? A desperate cry for the attention of Graham Coxon? Becoming a caricature of himself? Or should I say "cartoon". A little of column A… And Graham seems to be doing well enough on his own. Yet his star still shines brightly. By the chorus all my cynicism has evaporated. IT’S DAMON FREAKIN’ ALBARN. I predict a comeback, I predict a comeback.
Oasis, yer whot? I'll 'ave 'im.
I predict a, whot? Where's yer specs, Graham? Ricky who? Never heard of you, mate.
You would think the show peaks here. Yet Damon’s presence seems to be enough to invest the album’s mid-tempo tracks with the sort of "1995 and at height of his power" energy to make the remaining songs truly memorable. "Oh My God" it’s a bloody brilliant show. A-Ranger and I have found the love again. It’s like an afternoon of drinks and the SFB#1 love mix on the Gloucester Jukebox. This is what shows should be about. It makes me nostalgic for an Engerland that, until recently, I’d never been to. A show should take you to that moment in your life when everything was right and show you that those experiences are not lost to the mists of time. Those times are right now. I lose no time telling Peanut this as he frantically tries to escape my stalker-ish behaviour. "I GOT THE ONE IN THE HAT! I GOT THE ONE IN THE HAT!!!!"
Here's me with Mr. Bean, er I mean Mr. Peanut.
We hang around after the show in vein hope that Ricky or Damon will do a DJ set. After countless songs from our record collection are played back to us and the place fills with the kind of guys that would have kicked the shite out of me in high school, we decide to bail to the Dance Cave to relive our own Brit Pop glory. DC has changed. Handbag girls hang out there, but that’s for another time. We are totally munted and feelin’ the love. Perfec!
Maybe I am only of one mind about this show after all. We all know which side wins out in the end. I am and forever will be Super Fanboy Number One.
PS. Nice coreography on the openers.
Ok Go are a part of the rhythm nation.
¶ 5:39 PM 2 comments
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
On the fookin' Joab!!!
That SFB#1, sound bloke. Sound as a pound!
So after all the mad gigging and scribbling, I've started to catch up on me reading. I take the first Enn-Emmm-Eeeee from me stack and what do I find in the pages within...
Clearly, I am doing me job.
FACT! Toronto does indeed ROCK! ¶ 9:45 PM 0 comments
That SFB#1, sound bloke. Sound as a pound!
So after all the mad gigging and scribbling, I've started to catch up on me reading. I take the first Enn-Emmm-Eeeee from me stack and what do I find in the pages within...
Clearly, I am doing me job.
FACT! Toronto does indeed ROCK! ¶ 9:45 PM 0 comments
Sunday, May 15, 2005
That's ENTERTAINMENT, indeed.
I’ve been looking in the mirror alot lately, I think I’m at that age. The bloom of youth is off this rose. My ever-expanding forehead is creasing in ways I couldn’t have predicted. Recently, I read a rock-journo comment that every man inherits the face he deserves by the age of fifty. (The man in question was Bono, his elfin features mirroring his evolution from rabble-rouser to distinguished elder statesman of rock. Okay, cards on the table. I’m never gonna be Lester Bangs, a fact I’m sure my girlfriend thanks her lucky stars for everyday. But that doesn’t mean I’m past my sell-by-date… yet.
The truth of that journo’s words hit me full force as Bladesy and I wade into a sea of the justly deserved faces inherited by middle-aged audience for tonight’s Gang of Four show at the Phoenix. Ooops, we arrive twenty minutes into the headliner’s set, original line up no less. (Bad form for a fanboy like myself I know, damn these early shows) These faces possess none of the cooler-than-thou record shop snobbery they once held. They have been softened and creased by the pressures of mortgage payments, tax bills, babysitters and life in general. What a drag it is getting old, et al. The show starts off with some plodding dirge-esque newer material. I miss some of the finer points of the songs as I jockey for position to snap off some shots. I scan the crowd. This is music with cred, as Bladesy points out, there are no kids in hoodies in sight. We are the youngest fans in the room. It’s quite refreshing.
The faces of the men on stage look more like the kind of hard men-bit players that would arrive in Weatherfield just to make Danny Baldwin’s life that much harder. However, tonight’s performance is living testament to the fact that getting old doesn’t have to suck. Jon King is in fine form. His Ian Curtis-inspired Morris dancing is strangely entrancing. Sure, his baseball bat cannot keep time on "He’d Send in the Army" and he forgets lyrics to "Natural’s Not In It" but the unbridled intensity with which he unleashes his inner twenty-something rock star is awe inspiring. I’ve seen 19-year-olds who don’t bring this much fire to the stage. Days of speed and slow time Monday’s, indeed. Andy Gill’s guitar is, to crib from Cameron Crowe by way of Almost Famous, incendiary. Gill’s inspired everyone from The Edge to Alex Kapranos. It is not lost on your humble correspondent that he produced The Futureheads eponymous debut. The rhythm section should not to be forgotton. Dave Allen’s supercharged-drivetrain base and Hugo Burnham’s martial drumming propel us forward 25 years to the world’s indie disco dancefloors. This is seminal work here. Entertainment, like Television’s Marquee Moon released two years before, created a template for today’s crop of angular punk-funk bands. I suspect Andy intentionally misfiled the template in the wake of The Red Hot Chili Peppers’ post-grunge star ascension. Rightly so.
The floor shakes for "At Home He’s A Tourist" and the show really takes off. Beer sales look pretty brisk, so I guess (on the disco floor) they really are making their profits. They run through all of the hits off of Entertainment. King doesn’t have the yelp of a twenty-year-old anymore, but the rough burr of his voice gives an intriguing new subtext to "This heaven gives me migraine". The three pronged vocal attack is in full effect. The shirts are fully open by this point, which is unfortunate but we happily forgive this indulgence. Bladesy and I are shocked and astounded to witness an unprecedented third encore. This proves to be rather controversial as they cover "Sweet Jane" but after the show they’ve put on you have to cut them some slack and anyways they must have run out of material by now. As Bladesy put it, "King could have come out and farted into the mic at this point and I would die happy."
Bladesy and I cap the night off watching Toronto’s International Bright Young Things engage in a tawdry affair at new Kensington Market hot spot Neutral. FACT! On the disco floor, they make their profits playing the likes of Franz Ferdinand, Bloc Party, The Futureheads, The Kaiser Chiefs and countless other fresh-faced young bands that wouldn’t exist if Entertainment hadn’t been released. I wonder what faces these kids will inherit in 25 years. ¶ 3:18 AM 0 comments
The truth of that journo’s words hit me full force as Bladesy and I wade into a sea of the justly deserved faces inherited by middle-aged audience for tonight’s Gang of Four show at the Phoenix. Ooops, we arrive twenty minutes into the headliner’s set, original line up no less. (Bad form for a fanboy like myself I know, damn these early shows) These faces possess none of the cooler-than-thou record shop snobbery they once held. They have been softened and creased by the pressures of mortgage payments, tax bills, babysitters and life in general. What a drag it is getting old, et al. The show starts off with some plodding dirge-esque newer material. I miss some of the finer points of the songs as I jockey for position to snap off some shots. I scan the crowd. This is music with cred, as Bladesy points out, there are no kids in hoodies in sight. We are the youngest fans in the room. It’s quite refreshing.
The faces of the men on stage look more like the kind of hard men-bit players that would arrive in Weatherfield just to make Danny Baldwin’s life that much harder. However, tonight’s performance is living testament to the fact that getting old doesn’t have to suck. Jon King is in fine form. His Ian Curtis-inspired Morris dancing is strangely entrancing. Sure, his baseball bat cannot keep time on "He’d Send in the Army" and he forgets lyrics to "Natural’s Not In It" but the unbridled intensity with which he unleashes his inner twenty-something rock star is awe inspiring. I’ve seen 19-year-olds who don’t bring this much fire to the stage. Days of speed and slow time Monday’s, indeed. Andy Gill’s guitar is, to crib from Cameron Crowe by way of Almost Famous, incendiary. Gill’s inspired everyone from The Edge to Alex Kapranos. It is not lost on your humble correspondent that he produced The Futureheads eponymous debut. The rhythm section should not to be forgotton. Dave Allen’s supercharged-drivetrain base and Hugo Burnham’s martial drumming propel us forward 25 years to the world’s indie disco dancefloors. This is seminal work here. Entertainment, like Television’s Marquee Moon released two years before, created a template for today’s crop of angular punk-funk bands. I suspect Andy intentionally misfiled the template in the wake of The Red Hot Chili Peppers’ post-grunge star ascension. Rightly so.
The floor shakes for "At Home He’s A Tourist" and the show really takes off. Beer sales look pretty brisk, so I guess (on the disco floor) they really are making their profits. They run through all of the hits off of Entertainment. King doesn’t have the yelp of a twenty-year-old anymore, but the rough burr of his voice gives an intriguing new subtext to "This heaven gives me migraine". The three pronged vocal attack is in full effect. The shirts are fully open by this point, which is unfortunate but we happily forgive this indulgence. Bladesy and I are shocked and astounded to witness an unprecedented third encore. This proves to be rather controversial as they cover "Sweet Jane" but after the show they’ve put on you have to cut them some slack and anyways they must have run out of material by now. As Bladesy put it, "King could have come out and farted into the mic at this point and I would die happy."
Bladesy and I cap the night off watching Toronto’s International Bright Young Things engage in a tawdry affair at new Kensington Market hot spot Neutral. FACT! On the disco floor, they make their profits playing the likes of Franz Ferdinand, Bloc Party, The Futureheads, The Kaiser Chiefs and countless other fresh-faced young bands that wouldn’t exist if Entertainment hadn’t been released. I wonder what faces these kids will inherit in 25 years. ¶ 3:18 AM 0 comments
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Band on the Run...
...from the Taxman?
It was not long ago that I railed against a close friend who asked if I wanted $60 Green Day tickets. I went on at length about "the record industry" and "selling out" and how generally outrageous it was that bands could expect fans to shell out that much money for three guys hammering out nearly as many chords. And anyways, I hadn't bought an album since Dookie. It was one of those rare occasions where I voiced my opinion.
Then I bought the American Idiot.
Then I wished I had tickets to the Green Day show.
Then I shelled out as much money for the best possible tickets to see Oasis.
Then I heard the new single...
But I have to say, that when the tickets start at $60 I have a problem with the whole system.
No show on earth is worth over $300. I say this knowing full well it’s only about 4 shillings and a hay-penny relatively speaking. But it's still out and out wrong. Isn't Sir Paul the wealthiest musician in the history of time. I would pay this to see - insert your own MJ or JC or Pope joke here - and I certainly won't be seeing this. That is unless the NME write something good about it, but I'll go under protest.
Oh, and the beer at the ACC is sheee-iiiiittteeee!
I used to have fond affection, largely inspired by the British Music Press-like so much else in my life, for Macca but I think this is a bridge too far. Sure I'll still look back fondly on my walk across the Abbey Road Zebra (pronounced Zeb-rhhaaa!) crossing , only slightly less.
The long and winding road indeed...
Paul McCartney wants you at the ACC ¶ 2:00 AM 0 comments
It was not long ago that I railed against a close friend who asked if I wanted $60 Green Day tickets. I went on at length about "the record industry" and "selling out" and how generally outrageous it was that bands could expect fans to shell out that much money for three guys hammering out nearly as many chords. And anyways, I hadn't bought an album since Dookie. It was one of those rare occasions where I voiced my opinion.
Then I bought the American Idiot.
Then I wished I had tickets to the Green Day show.
Then I shelled out as much money for the best possible tickets to see Oasis.
Then I heard the new single...
But I have to say, that when the tickets start at $60 I have a problem with the whole system.
No show on earth is worth over $300. I say this knowing full well it’s only about 4 shillings and a hay-penny relatively speaking. But it's still out and out wrong. Isn't Sir Paul the wealthiest musician in the history of time. I would pay this to see - insert your own MJ or JC or Pope joke here - and I certainly won't be seeing this. That is unless the NME write something good about it, but I'll go under protest.
Oh, and the beer at the ACC is sheee-iiiiittteeee!
I used to have fond affection, largely inspired by the British Music Press-like so much else in my life, for Macca but I think this is a bridge too far. Sure I'll still look back fondly on my walk across the Abbey Road Zebra (pronounced Zeb-rhhaaa!) crossing , only slightly less.
The long and winding road indeed...
Paul McCartney wants you at the ACC ¶ 2:00 AM 0 comments
