Toronto Rocks!!

Who said Kiefer...

2006-04-21T01:41:00.000-04:00

I know its only rock'n'roll hair,

but,

I like it...

Yes I do

A view from the Embassy Roof

2006-02-12T02:14:00.000-05:00

I apologize for not posting more regularly. The outrageous fortunes of your humble narrator have taken a decidedly animated turn.

Clearly, my views on the state of rock’and’or’roll have clearly offended some.

I fought the law and I won. I fought the law..

Yet, I will not recant my position.

I know its only rock and roll…
But I like it.
Yes I do.

For those about to rock,
We salute you.

Dear Ole Blighty…

God save the queen,
we mean it man…

And all that bollocks. Here's to growing old and pissing it all away at the end of the day when we drink to the good old days in the same bar where our great friendship/adventure started.

I only have twelve steps to go...

2005-12-30T06:12:00.000-05:00

Apparently , there are only twelve steps to sobriety.

My favorite are the two that I always trip on going up the stairs to the bed that I will, hopefully, pass out on.

28 days and 13 Grand. I like those odds.

brilliant

who invited a Deluise to the party?

I am so going to be late for my script conference today

2005-12-21T03:37:00.001-05:00

You know you are in trouble when:

a) you look like this and you are not Christopher Hitchens or have his budget for scotch...

b) The copy of A Christmas Carol you were supposed to read to your partner before going to sleep has been shoved in a conspicuous and less than comfortable place...

c) You realize that, I swear to God, I only had one chin when I left the house this morning.

d) This post has very little to do with rock and or roll or Toronto.

e) I look even worse in profile:

That's it, I'm going back to the beard.

Oh, remind me to tell you how I infiltrated the Scientologist and, sort of, got away.

This is where things start to get incoherent:

I love Art Brut and I don't (but I sort of do) care what Pitchforkmedia thinks of it.

God, I'm the lucky one,

came in at 3:15, again.

So happy christmas, I love ya baby.

What a surprise, I was right.

To you and yours at this time of year.

I simply wish you a very Scouser Christmas.

Brilliant

There comes a time in every man's life...

2005-12-14T03:41:00.000-05:00

When you think that you look like this,

and in reality you look like this...

but, in your head you are serpico and ready to right the wrongs of the world, and you look as cool as shit just like this...

but in reality you look exactly like this, when you try to do the righteous man, and end up looking more like a Village Person , and you think...

Jesus, I look just like my father. Oh apple why don't you fall father from the tree. And you think, I'm going to take on all the corruption in the world. And then you think, was Serpico a much better movie when it was Training Day, because Ethan Hawke was much less ethnic and that Denzel was badder than old king kong and meaner than a junk yard dog? Oh My God, I've turned into my parents and it wasn't just seeing myself in the moustache that triggered it.

It was the sunglasses.

I didn't even mention how the spirit of John Holmes was chasing me to show me the true spirit of Christmas or how History will prove me correct, or how I just shouldn't drink with other boys.

but that will have to wait until the morning

Roight Now. All 'ave ya!

2005-12-11T03:03:00.000-05:00

I was feelin' pretty pissed, both litterally and figuratively, earlier after I spent over two hours at the Gladstone and had my song passed over countless times. I'm sure it came up not five minutes after I delivered the finger as I exited.

I don't want this to be all, whoa is me, I went out with a specific objective in mind and didin't achieve it but I learned something and now I'm a better person because of it, because that's not what happend.

I'm still pissed that I didn't get to do my signature song "Total Eclips of the Heart" and I still feel that Furious P. Wanker, said karoke gatekeeper, is an authoritarian little berk who lords his power over the people who pay his sideline wage and give him the adulation that his punch-card-day-job doesn't deliver. I hold grudges and I don't forgive that easily.

Then I came home and thought about things a bit and looked at what happened in the world today and how far I've come and thought about it a bit...

And do you know what I came up with?

Fuck it. He's a prat and a fuckwit and it doesn't matter how nice they've made the new gladstone, he's not even a proper DJ and whatever...

...I seem to have fallen out of my chair and can only muster enought strength to his publish...

You can take the boy out of the trailer park...

2005-12-01T01:18:00.000-05:00

At some point you realize that you are still watching the SUPERSTARS OF COUNTRY info-mercial, no longer mesmerized by Kenny Rogers latest lift or have given up on finding his behind-the-ear-stubble (thinks for the tip Andy Richter) and you realize that you actually love the Country. This goes beyond the fact that John Cusack name-checks Charlie Rich in High Fidelity or Rose Garden is sampled in ConCan or "Damn Whalen Jennings was a handsome man before the beard..."

You can't out run your past. You can't deny your heritage. You become that which you most fear and hate

But, damn I look good in a cowboy hat!

And I'm in an Effen' PICK UP TRUCK with a beer for Christie's Sake!!!

How much more country could I be!

C'MON!!!!

To the blog!!!!

2005-11-17T00:42:00.000-05:00

I honestly don't know where to begin with this one.

Let's review the facts:

the cheapest tickets are $49
they're only on their 3rd album
no rehab jaunts with miraculous recoveries
they haven't split up and reformed in the last 20 years
Richard Ashcroft is supporting
they are not Radiohead
they are not U2
they are not Jesus, although they may appear more humble

Are Coldplay flying to close to the sun on wings of empathy.

When did we have to plunk down Paul MacCartney money to see SEXY TRAVIS? That's what I would like to know.

And how do I fit this obvious ploy for The Darkness to increase publicity for their new album?

Did I mention that Richard Ashcroft is supporting.

That faint sound you here is poor wee Fran Healy's heart breaking.

Et tu, Art Brut, Eh?

2005-11-14T21:58:00.000-05:00

First, a huge SFB#! shout out to Robo Kobo for grabbing tickets to Sunday's Lee's show. I am ashamed to admit that I was so consumed with matters of lesser import (finding gainful employment, pursuing literary ambitions, etc…) that I almost missed it.

Those in the know will already be familiar with this band’s raison d’etre. Eddie Argos and his Brutish Gang draw their name from a late 40s French movement of outsider artists (are there any other kind?) named Compagnie de l'Art Brut . For the uninitiated (BITTER INDIE LIFESTYLE ED: those whose real jobs, investments, sporting clubs and families take valuable time away from reading every indie music mag in print and on-line) Art Brut, the movement, espoused "works that were in their ‘raw’ state, uncooked by cultural and artistic influences". While Art Brut, the band, certainly are raw and uncooked on record and on stage, it is debatable if they’ve escaped the all cultural and artistic influences given the impact Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers have had on the band. But I suppose where the musical flesh may be weak the creative spirit is very willing. Art Brut are outsiders within the current London ‘Scallywags and Rapscallions’ scene. To wit, one of my favourte stories about Eddie relates how he picked up an issue of NME on the strength of a headline screaming "THE NEXT JARVIS COCKER" only to find the magazine was declaring himself the new title holder.

With such with falutin’ (to use the technical term) artistic aims, one might think the band were a sullen group of fan-despising miscreants. And, so it was with great trepidation that your humble narrator approached the looming figure, who could easily pass for the bastard off-spring of Alan Cummings and John Cleese, with compact disc and Sharpie in hand. Robo sat poised with camera in true paparazzo stance. There I stood be-anoraked and teetering on the brink of full-blown-obsessional-adolescent-man-love-adulation when Eddie cheerfully started scribbling all over the liner notes. He proceeded to tell me how tired the band were since they’ve had no sleep since Manhattan; how he was de-shoed at La Guardia; and how he was up all night chatting with his on-line TO fans. This wasn’t the whinging of a self-entitled rock star. No, he was genuinely sorry he hadn’t spent more time talking to fans and watching the openers. I suspect he would have told me about the in flight meal and movie if I hadn’t interrupted and had Robo snap the picture. Eddie treated me like an old mate he met in the pub. He really is "talking for the kids" and don’t all of us 33-and-a-1/3 Rob Gordons know it. It definitely set the tone.

Moments later Art Brut take to the stage with the massive riff from "Back in Black". The show starts off on shaky ground. Lee’s is only 2/3rds full at most. Angus’ thunder gave way to a hesitant "Formed A Band". A haggard front man and typically standoffish crowd add up to a restrained version fading out with "Road Runner" tributes to their speak/sing forebear Richman. The sound isn’t great but we know every clever-clever lyric by heart-a fact that is proved by the post-first-song Q&A session that breaks the ice. "Yes, Emily Kane is a real person." "No I don’t hate the NME." The band find their momentum with "My little brother". Add a quick attack at an established star-"if Pete Doherty’s so great, why can’t he enjoy life straight?"-and they hit their stride. They are endearingly and unabashedly shambolic tonight. They continue to gain strength through the next two songs until the base amp catches fire. The recent ‘London’s Burning’ tradition of guerilla gigging has served them well and prepared them for any adversity. Eddie starts up another Q&A between calls for a base amp mechanic or fireman. Eddie seizes an opportunity for improv and admits to sabotaging all of the band’s gear then goes on to say that Art Brut will play until they are all on fire. Now that’s dedication. The fire has the unexpected effect of bringing band and audience closer together. The guitarists tear into the next song and by "Modern Art" the moderate crowd is on their feet and bouncing along. Eddie improves the Tate Modern lines with what I can only imagine is yesterday’s experience at Manhattan’s Museum of Modern Art. At this point the show really takes off. The riffs are massive. The drummer stands up. It’s like The Libertines show I’ve always hoped for without the fear of physical violence. Admitting he’s never been there as "My Girl" gives way to "Moving To LA", Eddie admits going there might inspire a song about why he won’t be moving there any time soon. "No, this next song is not about the Queen," he chides a petulant audience member before "Emily Kane". The bridge relates the recent reunion between the star-crossed lovers that gave way to a realization about the nature of first loves. Following "Bad Weekend", Eddie demands we all go out and form bands. More than one of us is in agreement. Before the last song Eddie the consummate showman takes a musical interlude to introduce his band and dub them with their Canadian counterparts’ names in honour of the underage fans that couldn’t get in.

They leave the stage long enough for Eddie to put his tie and pork pie back on before bashing through "Bang Bang Rock and Roll" and "18,000 Lira". Good night, their will be no second encore. Leave them wanting more. For all their outsider art posing they are true entertainers at heart. I suppose if we all formed a band there would no longer be an outside. We’d all be talking for the kids and wouldn’t the world be a better place for it. Probably not. Hail Art Brut

0. Back in Black Intro
1. Formed A Band
2. My Little Brother
3. New Song Written on Plane to Amercia (?)
4. Rusted Guns of Milan

Interval for ice cream and extinguishing base amp fire

5. Blame it on the trains
6. Modern Art
7. Moving To L.A.
8. Emily Kane
9. Bad Weekend
10. Good Weekend

Encore

11. Bang Bang Rock and Roll
12. 18,000 Lira

Fock, Shite!!!

2005-11-06T02:25:00.000-05:00

I continue to be disapointed with this new "internets"development. It thought it was the last preserve of the obsessive compulsive fetishist. Yet I have scoured the "world wide web", as they say, trying to find a slightly less than obscure Stereophonic B-side that was used as the theme song to the LONG WAY ROUND featuring Ewan MacGregor and Charlie Borman. I cannae find it anywhere. What the shite is up with that?

Of course I could go out and buy it, but that's hardly any fun these days, now is it.

MR. INTERNETS, I'm very disappointed in you.

And the bells are ringing out...

2005-11-04T23:57:00.000-05:00

Tis official.

It might not be Christmas eve, and I might not be in the drunk tank, but some arse played "Fairy Tale of New York at the Duke of G this evening so it must be the bloody holiday season.

Here's to getting drunk and telling your family what you really think of them.

Bless.

I believe in a thing called the record industry...

2005-11-04T23:46:00.000-05:00

Funny how all of the bands that have the biggest marketing push behind them also leak onto the internet weeks before their record is available.

Not that I am one to download music, but I wanted to test a pub-inspired theory. I tried to download the latest Darkness album that isn't out for another 24 days and it is no where to be found on the internet. Yet weeks before their release you couldn't google the likes of Franz and Kanye without tripping over downloads and bit torrent hits.

It seems to me that in this file sharing era the true measure of a superstar band is how quickly their subsequent album is leaked onto the old internets.

Makes you wonder who is actually doing all of this pre-release uploading.

hmm....

Sea Change

2005-10-03T00:20:00.000-04:00

It will come as no surprise to many of you that good ship SFB#1 has been cast upon the turbulent waves of a protracted and difficult labour disruption. This tempestuous time has turned your humble narrator’s thoughts inward, and begun a period of deep introspection. Thus, I have been sensitive to the portents abounding at the end of Rocktember. This past week SFB#1 and A-Ranger took in Interpol and Doves at Kool Haus and The Docks respectively. While these two bands share little stylistically or musically they both take lyrical inspiration from the briny deep. Significant that both shows took place on the City’s ersatz waterfront? Hard to say. Yet, symbols abound. My last book club selection was Last Orders, a bittersweet tale of four lads scattering their friend’s ashes at the seaside. I can’t help but think this all means something. A sea change is imminent; I can feel it in my bones.

The shows themselves couldn’t have been more different. Doves was an undulating river of sound and vision, roiling white water riffs and swelling bass lines carrying us out to the sea of rock. In stark contrast, Interpol performed their songs with the rigid precision of glacial forms, their angular riffs as jagged as Slartibartfast’s Norwegian fjords . Each performance was enjoyable for what it was. On Interpol’s web forum a fan commented that the band had perfectly replicated their album in the live set. Such a level of technical mastery is laudable. Yet there is something to be said for losing yourself in a stream of someone else’s consciousness. If we are comparing apples to oranges, I’ll take oranges, as there is less chance of scurvy.

Doves was definitely the highlight of the week. They took the stage with "Snowden", a standout from the new album. Quintessential Doves cinematic opening that swells to a crashing riffs. Jimi’s hangover cure, "let’s make it a fuckin’ blinder!". I’m inclined to agree. Their momentum quickly builds through "Sky is Falling" and "Pounding", which I find a bit surprising. I was expecting it as an encore. "Black and White Town" makes me think of my own escape from suburban high school hell to the anonymity of the big city. When Jimi mentions they spent the day in Niagara Falls, my own personal town called malice, things start falling into place. We sit in the eye of the storm by mid set when the band performs new number Eleven Miles Out an encouraging sign of things to come. Old and new songs are well represented in the set (see below for complete list). They close the night with their signature samba outro to There Goes the Fear.
Water is such a powerful symbol and rightly so. Waves often represent emotional states of placid calm or churning turmoil. Dreaming of water or the ocean can signify the coming of great opportunity, the transition from one state of consciousness to another. I have to admit that I have been feeling rudderless as if floating down a lazy river for some time. Yet tonight, as we cross back over the channel on to the mainland, I feel like I’m at the mouth of a tributary looking out to sea. We are on the cusp of a great change. It’s no small coincidence that we have recently purged the bilge tanks of our home and lightened our loads. "There Goes The Fear" echoes in my head as we head home. If I take anything away from tonight’s performance and the portents of this past month it is to let it go, all the fear and anxiety go and trust in our own abilities to weather this storm, find our bearings and sail on to more prosperous harbours. A sea change is imminent and it is not to be feared.

Doves – The Docks – Friday Sept. 30th

Snowden
Sky Starts Falling
Pounding
Black and White Town
Almost Forgot Myself
Sea Song
Eleven Miles Out
Ambition
Last Broadcast
Some Cities
Caught By The River
One of These Days
The Cedar Room
Encore
M62 Song
Here It Comes
Rise
There Goes The Fear

Interpol – Kool Haus – Wednesday Sept. 28th

Next Exit
Slow Hands
NARC
A Time to Be So Small
Say Hello to the Angels
Public Pervert
Not Even Jail
Leif Erikson
Evil
Obstacle #2
Take You on a Cruise
PDA – No Carlos Bass amp Solo stand
Encore
Untitled
Stella was a Diver and She Was Always Down
Roland

I figured it out...

2005-09-14T00:29:00.000-04:00

For those of us who never really got over high school, there are those moments in life when we feel we've stepped back in time. A song, a scent, a line of film dialogue can take us back to a simpler, dare I say, more nostalgic time. Then there are those other times when we feel our age bitterly as reality crashes in on our respective Peter Pan and Tinkerbell complexes. By now, I'm sure dear reader, you must realize that your humble narrator is filled with a mix of anxiety and anticipation, curious to see which of these feelings the evening will evoke.

If you've been reading this blog regularly, and I'm sure you have, you'll be familiar with my uncomfortable obsession with the latest crop of Britain's angular "yelp-rock" bands. So it is with bated breath that I accompany A-Ranger to the East Side to hook up with Robo Cobo and K-Roc for the Bloc Party show. Their jagged hooks and shimmering riffs have been fraying the nerves and speaker screens of the SFB#1 household for months.

A note about openers The Kills. Having seen a single video, I expected a delightfully nostalgic set of JMAC/Mazzy-esque drone rock to ease us into the show. Clearly, I'm leaning towards time travel tonight. Too bad their efficient German songwriting esthetic didn't extend to their set list. (Um, they're not German, they're a US/UK Hybrid - Geography ED / Whatever, he's riffing - Buzz Kill ED) All the pleasure of watching a soundtrack in the making, according to A-Ranger.

At the risk of digressing further… Now I'm no fan of the Docks in general. All the charm of having your Prom at the Falls View casino with bathroom attendants that always leave me feeling uncomfortable and without bus fare. A quick scan of the crowd suggests that that oh so important (semi-ironic?) T-shirt seems to be losing ground to the striped I-zod-esqe polo that Old Navy is flogging like its going out of style (counting down, 10, 9, 7, 6, 5…) My god, I have been transported back to St. Catharine's Prep Party Hell circa 1980-something. This is a John Hughes reunion in the making. It doesn't help that the bastard child of Jon Cryer and Matthew Broderick has just blocked my view. If Nerd is the new Black, then I think the Jocks are mounting a bloody coup.

If all of this weren't enough to make me miss my mullet and ball point graffiti-ed Chuck Taylors, I turn around and come face to face with the one and only AD-AD-NUT-HOUSE, my best-est, skate-rat, O.G. (Original GeekRock) buddy from, er, um, high school. A round of introductions SFB#1 - Stamford Girl I Never Met. A-Ranger - Ad Ad, Robo - Ad Ad, K-Roc - and so on…

Oh right, so the show. We are in a total dead zone for sound, but we have managed to avoid being hemmed in by genetically modified (and freakishly tall) teenaged goat-boys. Kele Bloc and his Party-ers take the stage and steam into "Like Eating Glass" and "Positive Tension". Is "So fucking USELESS!" the next anthem of our, er, they’re, er someone’s generation? By the time "Banquet" whirls forth the dance floor is a sea of bouncing trucker hats and turned up polo collars. You kids ARE so underrated, so negated. There is an admirable level of banter from Kele and the lads. It’s enough to show the band appreciate our fandom, but not so much that they forget they are here to rock us not try out new stand up material. Little Known FACT - Kele is moving to Canada. Or so he claims. They graciously play some B-sides (pandering to us snobby rockists and we love every minute of it) but you can see the confusion in the faces of the obvious EDGE Listeners every time they don’t recognize "This Modern Love" or "Helicopter". But that's neither here nor there. These lads came to play and we love them for it. And it's obvious why they are such a hit. Kele's charm and smile evoke the spirit of a youthful Tom Jones as bras and knickers pelt the stage. Russel’s jagged guitars give the Indie Boys something they don't totally have to disdain. They rhythm section is so tight you can bounce coins off them, so much so that a couple of yobs almost spoil the show by flinging loonies at the band. Their songs of youthful angst and ennui shimmer with hooks big enough to snag the most jaded music fan. They've got the look down. Skinny, falling off their arse jeans, Supergrass is Ten-esque guitar strap badges, vision-obscuring fringe. This is everything a rock show should be, bar the atrocious venue and sound.

However, something nags at the back of my mind. Yes, I feel the nostalgia. Yes, dancing horses and lips like sugar come to mind. Yes, echoes of transmissions distort my reception. All of the accepted references have come to mind. So what in bloody hell is bugging me so much? The second song of the encore is "So Here We Are" and everything falls into place. "Tenderness" by General Public. That's it. I'm Michael Anthony Hall in Weird Science and while I hope I'm in the shower with Kelly Le Brock I know I'm actually about to be pants-ed by Robert Downey Jr. and Robert Rusler. The Jocks have overthrown the Nerds.

They close (or so we think) with a shimmer of the YYY's "Maps" that evolves into "Pioneers". Then the reality of our age crashes in. There is no rock’n’roll transcendence for us. We slip out the side to beat the crowds so we can be ferried off to sleep to rise again to process goods for sale, sell processed goods or whatever grown up thing it is we do. I find out later that we missed two more songs. (Thanks Bloc Forum) I won't make the same mistake at Interpol. I am nothing, if I am not Super Fan Boy #1.

Set List
Like Eating Glass
Positive Tension
Banquet – So underrated
Bluest Light
She’s Hearing Voices
The Marshals Are Dead
This Modern Love
New Song
Luno
New Song
Helicopter

Encore
New Song or – Dub Reggae Vibe & "Time is a Healer" corus
So Here We Are
Price of Gas
Pioneers

Second Encore Regrettably missed by SFB#1
Skeleton
The Answer

The disparity between management and labour is not philosophical...

2005-09-01T01:45:00.001-04:00

And I have evidence...

This letter arrived at the house of one of my loved ones who is on their staff.

I really want to curse, but I'll refrain...

I don't care which side of this you are on.

A - People are out of work.

and

B - these are people our Sisters, Brothers, Mothers, Fathers, Daughters, Sons and Cousins who want to do a good job and have a career. These people are not prima donnas, they are just people who want to work and have had that right taken away from them by the above mentioned gentlemen and ladies.

But mostly I think the fact that they mailed this propaganda to one of their own employees, please bear in mind that this was not addressed to yours truly, demonstrates just how out of touch they are with their own work force. Frankly, I find it offensive. Hence the post.

What galls me the most is this quote from the letter:

Because we believe the proposals we have put forward are important if CBC is to continue to provide Canadians with quality programming in a changing environment. They give us the ability to put the right people in the right jobs at the right time - something that we feel is essential for our networks and our services to succeed in the future.

By the right people I assume they do not mean my friend and the 5,499 colleagues that are locked out.

Shame on you RICHARD STURSBERG.

You can read more about the letter in the second story of the CMG's latest newsletter on this site.

This is the sound of Cash, Jennings & Jones (er he's not dead yet. Dead C/W Star Ed. - Oh, sorry) rolling over in their graves

2005-08-27T01:31:00.000-04:00

This is precisely why country music has gone pussy. If Gretchen were really rock and roll she'd say F.U. to the man and shove the Skoal straight up her arse.

What happened to the good old days when a man could go out, get drunk, and roll his tractor over his self and the town paster in a fit of rage. I long for a simpler life.

PUSSY!

Some one like you...

2005-08-01T01:48:00.000-04:00

...makes it hard to laugh at someone like me

I cannot believe that I don't own and other ROD STEWART than HANDBAGS AND GLADRAGS. And, I only own this because of THE OFFICE.

FUCK!

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME!!!

Mandolin Wind

Every Picture Tells a Story.

MAGGIE MAY, for christs' sake.

And, I'm bloody SCOTTISH, too boot.

Do the Scotch say "too boot"? Doesn't matter. What does, is that I don't own any Rod Stewart.

I'll set that to rights. Fuckin' Hell

...but what the hell

2005-07-15T02:47:00.000-04:00

This is why I still believe in a thing called rock and/or roll -

I was ****loading the new B.M.R.C.( and attempting to hide my shame) when I thought of all the bands that would sound good beside them. So with only seven and an half minutes left on this particular CD-R, LUSH (Ron, you'll dig this) obviously came to mind (actually a total lie - it was a bit of a stretch to get here and I'm not sure of our route, but bless AllMusic all the same) and I came up with the following listing when I tried to find them on the torrent sites:

RARE!!!

Early demo's from Camden shoegazers Lush
4 songs with Meriel Barham on vocals, (lead singer before Miki took her place).

Soundquality isn't top notch, but what the hell.

the bold is my own emphasis. Long live the hot chicks of rock and roll...

Gowan + Maestro = Law & Order?

2005-06-28T23:45:00.000-04:00

The Maestro and the Criminal Mind in the Big Hiz-ous, apparently. Kinda redundant, criminally speaking.

The Fresh Wes has a new protoge with aging faux-glam country man in tow on backing vocals. Just saw the video and realized that, at some point, men who started wearing eyeliner should really stop. (make-up ed: Brendan Killer, if your four wives won't say it to you, I will. Full Stop.)

Is it just me or are we so creatively bankrupt that is bringing back a 2nd rate ~~Non~~wannabe-gangsta MC (thought we'd forgot about the third "east coast" album, didn't you Wesley) a 3rd rate pseudo prog-rocker (thought we'd forget about your tryst with Jon Anderson, huh Larry) and setting it against the backdrop of one of mainstream television's biggest franchises is the height of country's Music and Video powers. Where's my passport? Oh, er, did one of my friends direct it? Eeesh! I take it all back. Brilliant.

So if David Usher is the new Gowan does that mean K-0S is the new Maestro? What does this make this project? More than a bit shit, I'd say.

I'm still waiting for The Darkness meets Goldie Lookin' Chain doing Walk This Way.

Why is everthing Canadian so, I dunno, Canadian?

Come around to my way of thinkin'...

2005-06-28T22:36:00.000-04:00

Is it just me or are QUOTSA, like a, the new heavier of UO (acronym ed: Queens of the Stone Age & Urge Overkill respectively) sans medalians and 70's couture, plus de evil?!?

Okay, maybe not.

But, Medicine (Lullabies To Paralyze) sounds almost exactly like Sister Havana (Saturation) or Jaywalking (Exit The Dragon) or...

Oh, never mind. Back to the garage I go...

Is it any WUUNNDAAAAHHHH!!!!

2005-06-18T17:29:00.000-04:00

“Bound with all the weight of all the words he tried to say…”

I know the feeling. Finally an Oasis show to blog. I don’t even know where to begin…

Begin at the beginning, I suppose.

What is it that keeps a relationship going? Is it personality, as Sickboy so eloquently put it in Trainspotting? Is it trust, respect, admiration, obsession, faith, love, or simply sheer bloody-mindedness? The later, definitely. Maybe?

It’s been almost ten years to the day that (What's The Story) Morning Glory? was recorded. In the parlance of on Liam Gallagher, “That’s a long fookin’ time, in't it?” A long time, indeed. In that time, bands have come and gone. Fall out of fashion, fall in again. Make no mistake, I have a long-standing, often torturous relationship with the Gallagher brothers. If Definitely Maybe dug a shallow grave for Grunge then Morning Glory? nailed the coffin shut. I haven’t bought a Pearl Jam record since Versus, fact! (Record Collection ED: er, you bought Vitology as well – SFB#1 Get the fook out me review) I still can’t entirely wrap my head around the fact that it has been ten years since Glory. I still measure my highs and lows against the yard stick that was 1995. I’m not the man I was ten years ago and neither are Oasis. However, two things remain constant: the Gallagher brothers will brawl and beatle away at music and I will continue to shell out unconscionable amounts of money see them do it. (Continuity ED: Contradicting previous rants against unconscionable ticket prices.) My faith is unshakable in the clan Gallagher.

With four Union Jacks stamped on my Lancashire Bomber – okay, okay my concert-going satchel - was there any doubt that I would pony up* almost 30 quid for last night’s premier whistle stop on the Gallagher Brothers Magical Mystery Travelling Oasis Revue tour? Hardly.

So the four Concert-teers (yours truly, A-Ranger and ~~Wibling Rivalry~~ Banger Sisters: MmmBop and Ali-G) ventured forth to yon Amphitheatre on the lake. I’ve been going to club shows for so long that I’d forgotten how much I love that ‘Exhibition Stadium’ feel you get at big shows. Parents to busy fretting about the effects of pot smoke and foul mouthed rock stars on their children to notice their kids cursing and smoking pot. Said kids passing out during Jet - not that you could really blame them. Good Samaritans hydrating said passed out teen, out of their own pocket no less. It's that whole Who Reunion XXIV at the CNE vibe.

I’ve come to realize that Oasis represent everything I love and hate about music. The highest highs and the lowest lows, all a part of life’s rich tapestry. Love: Working class heroes, proper rock star attitude and antics, “We mean it, man! It’s mega.” Hate: Over produced soulless cokehead music, drawing a crowd of jocks and frat boys that would have made life hell for geeks like me in high school. I almost feel like I’m behind enemy lines standing in line for the bogs. Well except for the guy who kept shouting “Paul Weller”, waiting for a urinal. “Mate, it’s lost on this crowd.” The atmosphere inside the bogs drains the nostalgia away faster than my bladder. The horrors are not fit for retelling here, dear readers.

How such a seasoned concert goer like your humble narrator could so tragically underestimate the duration of the set change over is frankly beyond me. Of course I’m in the beer line when the tattoo of "F**kin’ in the Bushes" drum beat calls us forth. I collect my two vats of Scouse Piss (Canadian) and fly back to my seats without spilling a drop, a professional to the end. Liam stalks around stage like the King Monkey he is, having long since dethroned Ian “Stone Roses” Brown. His short leather jacket does little to hide the pot belly he has developed. (Clearly enjoying Betty’s hotpot a little too often.) I’m prepared for Liam’s audience baiting-behaviour but he is positively genial. Well, as genial as he ever gets. His voice is as strong as ever, the Silk Cuts must be treating him well. Noel's face is betraying his age and the strain of minding our kid. The years of battling and chasing songs down blind alleys lends a subtext to his set. This month’s MOJO alludes to Liam’s attitude being born from the fact that he never struggled. He moved out of his mum’s flat into Knebworth while Noel toiled in obscurity for years. You know he’s been on the brink of a life of quiet desperation. Now that he’s made it, no knobhead brother is going to take it away from him. To that end, he’s stacked his band with the sort of musicians that can keep his dream alive. Gem and Andy have reputable fringes and Brit Rock pedigrees that are above reproach. The Oasis Mk II V.3 is rounded out - a Ringo ate my baby** - by Zach Starkey on drums. Is Stella far behind?

This may be Toronto where our audiences stand stock still like the concert-zombies Blow Up but this is clearly a 905 crowd. They don’t care for the big smoke’s airs and graces and they shake their asses in defiance of us. You don’t have to shout “PLAY THE HIT” tonight. Lyla induces mad fits of what I can only describe as Uncle-Dancing. Pints a loft for Morning Glory? Cigarettes and Alcohol, thank you very much. Champagne Supernova gets me a bit misty over friends who have come and gone (Travel ED: cheers Maz and Laz, God speed you back when you grow weary of your adventures and home beckons). Maybe I should get away for the summer. Again, I’m in the bogs for my personal favourite, Live Forever. Cursed vats of over priced lager. Encore with Don’t Look Back in Anger. I AM SUPER FANBOY #1 and I couldn’t ask for more. I’m sorry but I have put my life in the hands of a rock and roll band and I don’t care if they throw it all away. As long as they continue to make me feel this way.

Spliffs may have be passed tonight, but torches certainly were not. Younger bands will have to try and pry it from Liam’s cold dead hand. I’ve never been all that reflective about my obsession, it’s a sort of relationship, with Oasis. They don’t lend themselves to introspection. And yet, “I’ll confess all of my sins after several large gins.”*** Blowasis have soundtracked my life. Definitely Maybe‘s unbridled arrogance showed me it was okay, nay, essential to believe in yourself. It introduced me to swagger. "Don’t Look Back In Anger" carried me through some dark times. Be Here Now and Standing on the Shoulder of Giants taught me to brazen it out - a skill that would served me well as I, in true Gallagher fashion, strutted past lairy lads waiting in line for the bogs. But I never gave up on them. For every clanging title and half-arsed single there was a chorus that struck a chord. I wouldn’t say the last two records are a return to form so much as Noel and Liam rediscovering their strengths and finding the love, for the music that is. Tonight, I feel my devotion has been rewarded.

It all ends with a cover of the Who’s "My Generation". I’m drunk and more than a little maudlin. Is it really all over? Should I drive to Detroit to see it all again? Will it feel the same? Will there be another time? What have I done with the last ten years of my life? Maybe I should just move on. Take up golf or summat, like grown ups. Should I, by heck! Yep, sheer bloody mindedness it is.

As I face the setting sun, do I cast a shadow? I don’t know about that, but I’m determined to live forever.

* Much respect to G-Unit for flexin’ the Amex and getting us the pre-pre-sale hook up.
** Bon-mot by A-Ranger, cheers babe.
*** Cheers Pete Libertine, I couldn’t have said it better myself.

Time after time...

2005-06-18T01:02:00.000-04:00

... this is only a 12:55 a.m. blog. This feels way more like a 4:55 a.m. blog...

How did I get so old...

honestly, this felt way, way later...

2005-06-18T00:09:00.000-04:00

Al-roight.

'ere's the set list...

commentary to follow...

1. F**kin' in the bushes - intro

2. Turn up the sun - nice one Andy

3. Lyla - Play the hit. admitedly a bit of a stomper...

4. Love like a bomb...

5. Bring it on Down

6. Whats the Story? (Morning Glory)

7. Cigarettes And Alcohol

8. The Importance of Being Idle

9. Little By Little

10. A Bell Will Ring

11. Live Forever - Why am I always in the bogs for my favourite songs...

12. The Meaning of Soul

13.Champagne Supernova

14. Mucky Fingers

15.Rock and/or Roll Star

16.Song Bird (more about the good samaritan...)

17.Wonderwall - "a Ringo ate my baby..."

18. Dont Look Back in Anger

19. My Generation...

is it really over...

did they really end on a cover?

Is this the best, or worst, Oasis show ever?

How to keep an Oasis Fan in Suspense...

I'll tell you tomorrow.

Songbirds at um, er Songbird

2005-06-17T10:58:00.000-04:00

A little bird, well actually cyclist, told me that her roommate saw Noel Gallagher and one of the other members of the Gallagher Brothers' traveling Oasis Revue were seen at Songbird Music on Queen St. W. yesterday. As retold to yours truly, they were checking out vintage instruments including, surprisingly (Font Ed. Italics denotes sarkiness) a Paul McCartney bass. My source didn't approach them and didn't recognize the other member. Since they were checking out bass guitars I suspect it was Andy Bell, of Ride and Oasis tribute Band #1, er, I mean Hurricane #1.

Sounds like he's in a good mood. All bodes well for tonight's sold out show.

Curses, to my civil servant job that has kept me desk bound and prevented me from stalking the band for that all important NME snap shot.

Good Work If You Can Get It!

2005-05-29T17:39:00.000-04:00

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.

This is too easy...

2005-05-19T00:15:00.000-04:00

I mean, C'MON!!!!!!

I'm not even going to comment.

On the fookin' Joab!!!

2005-05-17T21:45:00.000-04:00

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!

2005-05-17T21:43:00.000-04:00

I'm not a fookin' monkey... Er, okay, so I am a fookin' monkey!

2005-05-17T21:42:00.000-04:00

Get yer kit off, mate!

That's ENTERTAINMENT...

2005-05-15T03:23:00.000-04:00

Who says we lack focus?

2005-05-15T03:22:00.000-04:00

This high five, gives me migrane!

2005-05-15T03:21:00.000-04:00

Top of the Pops? Who needs 'em. Not us, mate.

That's ENTERTAINMENT, indeed.

2005-05-15T03:18:00.000-04:00

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.

2005-05-15T03:17:00.000-04:00

The phrase "MAD FER IT!" comes to mind.

Band on the Run...

2005-05-05T02:00:00.000-04:00

...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

2005-05-05T01:56:00.000-04:00

Am I buggin' you? Ah don't mean ta bug you!

Get In Or Get Out? Just Get Out.

2005-04-23T02:04:00.000-04:00

What is it about us Canadians that wants to make us eat our own? Tonight, A-Ranger, K-Roc, Robo Cobo and your humble narrator took in the Hot Hot Heats with guests The Futureheads and Louis XIV. I know I should support more Canadian music (I guess owning two copies of every Sloan album is not enough these days) and these guys apparently have more alt street-cred than all the Avrils and Idols put together, but I just can’t do it. They are to the current crop of 80’s post-punk-funk bands what OLP were to the late nineties post-punk-grunge bands. I want to like them. I don’t want to attack them for their Hives-Meets-Interpol Red White and Black coordinates. Three songs in and they are putting on a good show in spite of frontman Justin Guarini, er, I mean Leo Sayer, er, I mean Steve Bays’ one handed keyboard solos. Then his jacket comes off revealing a black sequined scarf and my gloves are effin’ off. I mean c’mon. Their chorus says it all. They are just “trying too hard.” Maybe it’s the EDGE’s fault for playing Bandages and No, Not Now infinitely. Maybe Nikki Sixx is right when he says, "curly haired-motherf**kers cannot rock". All I know is they lost me when they started aping The Modern Lovers with a worn retread of Roadrunner. Did I mention that the drummer looked like the bastard child of British actor Michael York and Snake from Degrassi, or am I being petty?

Thankfully, the night was saved by the stalwart performance of the supporting acts. Louis XIV are horny and I don’t think anyone is safe tonight. If they did spend all of their Illegal Tender finding out True Love is Blind, you’d never now it. Tongue planted firmly in cheek - whose is anyone’s guess but I imagine it belongs to a drop dead gorgeous suicide blonde - they swagger into their jeepster of love and roar on down the highway to hell. They even got panties thrown on stage for their troubles. Mission accomplished. If you took two Bon Scotts and affixed them to the arms of a third Bon Scott and stuck a Handbags-and-Gladrags-era Rod Stewart on the first Bon’s shoulders then wrapped them all up in a very forgiving waist coat you’d have something approaching front man Jason Hill, only with less vomit. *** Hill’s a big hunk-a-hunk-a-burnin’ love, a whole lotta love. It gives those of us stricken with the terrible affliction of “fat-mug-syndrome” hope that we too can one-day ponce around stage and right into a limo of Band-Aids. Add a two-pronged vocal attack and you have a rock show to remember. Return to us Louis, do not forsake us.

The road has clearly been good to The Futureheads. Pray it doesn’t get too good for them. Here’s to hoping they don’t grow up to become Steve Cradock’s house band for The Modfather, The Jam/Style Council musical that Ben Elton must be penning as we speak. Tube Stations, Tower Blocks, Eton Rifles, and That's Entertainment. One new track allays fears that the lads will be easing the pace on the next album. Three-part vocal harmonies, martial drumming and blistering chords make for an impossible act to follow. They are rock’s journeymen who bring beautiful craftsmanship to their musical contradictions. I think these guys just get faster and tighter each time they blast through town. The best Kate Bush cover you’ll hear outside of yours truly doing Wuthering Heights down the karaoke. A nod to openers with a really big pair of Y-fronts magically appearing on stage. So they don’t play up the rock cliches and fill tabloid pages. They get their results where they count. Sometimes less is more.

The special guests have something HHH will never find, that romantically intangible other-ness of being from anywhere other than Canada. If HHH weren’t Canadian would I try harder to like them? Prolly, but it just seems like too much work. I’d say it isn’t their fault, but they know the rules as well as every one of us who grew up in the wake of Goin’ Down the Road. Succeed at your own peril.

*** thanks to dearly departed Douglas Adams for giving me the words.

Coincidence

2005-04-18T02:28:00.000-04:00

Here I am at the Boogaloo (inspiration for the Shaun of the Dead's Winchester Arms) just days before a it played host to the reunion of Pete and Carlos Libertine. Coincidence? Hardly.

2005-04-07T10:30:00.000-04:00

Who says I don't have rock credentials?

A Bloc Party In You're Neighbourhood

2005-03-25T04:05:00.000-05:00

Book them now.

I seldom get excited about recorded music, but I downloaded an entire album (albeit the Japanese import) by this rock combo Bloc Party and if I weren't so blind with joy, I'd trample people to get the domestic release of the album. Walk, do not run to your local record shop to PURCHASE this long player. Your life will only be slightly less the same after listening...

There may be incriminating pictures after this.

There will be no snacks in the living room tonight

2005-03-25T02:54:00.000-05:00

Oscar Wilde is on the 50 pound note, no good can come of this

The Killers are the Duran Duran of..

wait a second,

if I'm in my thirties,

and I'm into this,

I'm clearly not over my first semi-gay-crush

on

INSERT YOUR'RE FAVOURITE DURAN DURAN JOKE HERE

For all these things I've said and haven't done...

I'm in the fetal position again...

with the exception of this picture (which I will post when I have figured out how to do so, er, uhm...) where I promise that I am not a perv..

LOSERS of the world unite and, well, we're never going to take over, but at the very least we'll make a more coherent and cohesive movie than Zach Braff. No one should ever be a triple threat.

Romance Isn't Dead, Apparently...

2005-03-14T14:30:00.000-05:00

I'd be lying if I were to say that the old Lenn-Unn household hasn't been rocking to that endearingly jagged post-post-punk sound. Franz, Futureheads, Killers, and Bloc Party have been shredding speakers and gumming up the hard drive of the old SuperFan3000. So making good on my commitment to increase my ToROCKS output, we decided to take in northern upstarts, Maxïmo Park, at Lees last night.

Thinking we were clever, clever, we came late and caught the tail end of first openers who were earnest Joy Divisioners. Little did we know there were was a second opener, some disingenuous alt-country folksters who had lost their piano player that morning and after the set we witnessed I can't say as I blame him. I passably pass time preoccupied with thoughts of the folks sitting on the west ledge looking like a row of Little Hipster Dolls. Hmm, something there, consider as a title for my next script. Regretting this Sunday night show. Longing to be somewhere, far away...

...11:30 and we are tired and punchy. Things are looking grim. The techs are still futzing with cables. A lone drummer appears starts tapping out a beat as someone who looks like one of Dev Alahan's cornershop managers takes up the bass. The tech is away as frontman, Paul Smith, and the rest of the crew take the stage. We are swept away on a wave of angular riffs, jittery movements, skinny ties and fine tailoring. We have entered Maxïmo Park where the romance of the rock show isn't lost. Paul silently counts off 1..2..3.. and they expertly rip through a succinct set including "The Coast is Always Changing"*, "I Want You to Stay" "Graffiti", "All Over the Shop" and a sissor kick and pressure drop as they elevate the crowd with Top 20 single "Apply Some Pressure".

It is Paul's birthday tonight and in addition to a copy of Umlaut-Mate Motley Cruë's bio The Dirt the typically stoic Toronto crowd's upbeat reaction has to be a much-deserved gift. He's an engaging performer with the uncanny ability to walk that finest of lines between witty inter-song banter, and I-have-the-Mic-and-you-will-listen-to-everything-I-have-to- say-egotism.

"This next song is our penultimate song," and I get it. It's there second last song, barring an encore that isn't necessarily assumed. "The Night I Lost My Head" is launched and you get the agony and ecstasy of being the most literate person in small(minded) town. I can relate. I doubt you'l hear words like penultimate or riposte (fencing imagery seems fitting considering the rapier wit of their songs) thrown around at any other show this year. Not since Pearl Jam dropped indicative in "Why Go Home" has a band made vocabulary so much fun.

Maxïmo Park sing songs of escape to the sea sides and greener pastures of being yourself and getting out of your hum-drum life. It's a love affair with somewhere other than where you are. It something many of us can relate to. I'm ready to go with them. Romance never dies in Maxïmo Park.

*Personal Favourite

A lament of sorts

2005-02-20T05:09:00.000-05:00

Here's something that I thought I wrote after the Franz show at the Docks, but the dates in my notebook (04/14/04) don't match up with my remembrances, so I can't actually remeber when I wrote this but it doesn't matter because I was drunk at the time and after review and rewriting I don't think I actually feel any different.

I think I'm still drunk...

To say that Bliz-Blahz is the next Flin-Flan is so reductive that it is out and out lazy. Where is the skill or craft in that? It is so easy to say why you
shouldn't like something. It seems to me that we have so few words to express
why something is good. It is not enough to say that The Libertines are the
Strokes UK or that Interlope is Joy Division 2004. Why should people listen to
these bands?

A) Admittedly, the easiest answer is because they sound 'Efffing good -
production values, lyrics, voice, riffs, etc...

B) The harder answer, because they matter (more on this later)

I think there is a reductive, cynical form of criticism at work that is doing a
disservice to the music, literature, film and art that shapes and influences our
lives. I say this knowing full well that I'm as guilty of it as the next person.
I can't describe a band I like without comparing them to several other bands I
also like. Maybe it is a sign of the times we live in. There is too much out
their and not enough time or energy to enjoy it all. Are we lazy or overwrought?
I'd say a little of column A, a little of column B. We are over worked, over
tired, over stimulated, over saturated, over indulged, under staffed,
unmotivated, etc...

And, what have you.

At the end of the day, I just think we don't try hard enough. There is so
much good music, film, literature, art and culture out there that there is no
excuse. Why we can't find it?

What do we do?

We listen to voices that boil it all down to a clever "sound bite" or "pull
quote", because we don't have the time or inclination to figure it out for
ourselves.

An example, if you will indulge:

Interpol's "Say Hello to the Angles" is on the stereo. To me, this is
the sound of so many University parties where I drank too much and didn't stop.
So much so, that I came close to something meaningful but drank it way. This
is the sound of climbing stairs up to cramped apartments above another Bank
Street shop, and, drinking beer that was not my first choice, but, that I was
thankful of. I was hoping for at least one meaningful encounter but, at the same
time, I was just happy if the music didn't suck and that I got home in at least
one piece, because there was always the safety of our bed and the reassurance
that the pleasure of MY own company was all I had left, and that was the most
self-indulgent of all poetry. But then we put that song on the stereo and fill
the room with...

This I why music matters, because without it we have no language with which
to expresses that part of ourselves which we hid.

But why should we invest the time in these discs and films and books.
Because they show us that we are not alone, we are not disconnected. They hook
us up to something that is bigger than all of us. Believe me when I say, that
this is something that we need now more than ever. There is something out there that
is more than we are. There has to be. Otherwise, why the hell are we here and
why are we bothering? Because society would crumble. The social contract would
forfeit. All would be lost. But then again, nothing would change.

But this isn't the case. Someone shares our hopes and dreams, we just have
to find them. This is why people turn to religion and/or politics. This is why
these things matter. This is what criticism cannot tell us. This is why we
should care. This is why we should try harder. It may not be enough, but it is a
good start.

We have to try or the black dog wins. We have to try or all is lost. We
have to try or nothing new will ever be good. We have to try or it will all be
sad. We have to try because trying is all we have.

But this was supposed to be about the music and the music is good. It must
continue and it will.

It's like tonight. For all intents and purposes, there was nothing wrong
with the club, and yet there was everything wrong with it. The music was right.
The lights were right. The set dressing was right. Even the first couple of
bands were right, even the crowd was right. The were all pretty young things.
But it was all so wrong. They were so young they didn't know half of the songs
and they didn't care to learn. How can everything seem so right and be so
wrong.

How could I have gone for so many years with out owning The Clash's
London Calling and Combat Rock. I wrote a bloody 5th Grade essay about Rock the
Casbah. Not that I remember it, but Karen Scott made a point of reminding me. So now I make it a point of honour. No wonder I have chip on my shoulder.

How can I be so full of these feelings and not get them out?

Why do beautiful people have to die?

Why do people like this have to leave us?

***more on this later, I'm sure

Efffen' Rock'n'Roll

2005-02-19T16:57:00.000-05:00

Just a quick post to say that I got a new efffen' computer that's efffen' fast and efffen' rocks so I plan to be posting a lot more often. High speed's bloody brilliant too.

Prepare for a critique on how the Trailer Park Boys are bigger than Metallica and what I really think of all y'all.

Bloody Brilliant.

2005-01-13T16:25:00.000-05:00

Johnny's John Hancock

A love letter to...

2005-01-13T11:23:00.000-05:00

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.