I just got back from Toronto, where Fancy and I manned the Anvil Press table at Word on the Street. I hadn't been to Toronto in nine years. I like the place; they seem to have their shit together, and a skim through the upcoming gig listings in NOW made me want to stay a while (at least until after the PJ Harvey show).

Thursday – We left Vancouver on WestJet around lunchtime. I read Traveling Music for the whole flight, finishing it just as the 737 pulled into the terminal at Pearson International. The kid next to me listened to his mixed CD-Rs for the whole flight. I played Name That Tune eavesdropping on his headphone leakage. Metallica, "Sad But True." Frank Black doing that Powerpuff Girls tune. Green Day. The guy across the aisle had a cool little DVD player. He watched five minutes of Rushmore before shutting it down. Maybe he'd run out of batteries. At YYZ we picked up the rental car (Dodge Neon SX) and hit the 401 to Adam and Rain's place near Eglinton and Mt. Pleasant. We couldn't have wished for a better home base for the weekend—comfy bed, parking spot for the car, quiet neighbourhood, beyond generous hospitality, and excellent company during our brief intervals of downtime. Adam and Rain rule.

Friday – The major errand for the day was to pick up our books for WOTS from the University of Toronto Press warehouse in North York. They had everything boxed up and ready to go, so no hassle there. We loaded up the trunk and drove back to Adam and Rain's. We had the rest of the afternoon to kill, so we took the subway downtown and shopped. I love the subway; it's so much cooler than the automated plaything that is SkyTrain. Fancy's primary destination was a big beauty supply store on Yonge, where she got a new wig (so effing cute) and I thrilled to the sight of an actual ladyboy browsing the selection of hair extensions. Alan Partridge would have loved it. We checked out Sam's and Eaton Centre, then went back "home" to get organized for going to the Bonstar Hotel (Anvil writer Bonnie Bowman's place) for the night. We partied with her and Fancy's cool high school friends Joan and Wendy and Wendy's brother Chris, who brought the house down with his impression of Sha Na Na in Festival Express. For a while the conversation centred on high school drug experiences, a topic to which I can contribute nothing. I was never a teenager. Late night; we hit the futon at 4 AM.

Saturday – We left the Bonstar and went for a hip & delicious breakfast at Aunties and Uncles with Wendy. Afterwards, Fancy walked me around Kensington Market before cutting me loose for my rendezvous with my boss at Unrestrained, Adrian "The Energizer" Bromley. Our original plan had been to have lunch. I was still full from breakfast, so I sat with him while he had a burger and spewed figures (sell-through rates, ad revenues, printing charges, etc.) at me until my head spun. He called Martin Popoff's place so I could meet him and buy his Top 500 Heavy Metal Albums book, but he wasn't home. Once The Energizer paid the cheque and dabbed his beard clean, we took the subway to Anjelic Records, "the ONLY international psych and prog rock store in Canada!!!" I found some good stuff (the second Cressida album, a couple Banco records, and the aforementioned Popoff book) and dropped a pile of money. Well worth the trip! The Energizer went back downtown to see Shaun of the Dead and I went back to Adam and Rain's. After Fancy showed up with some Kensington thrift store finds, we took the car to meet Wendy again. Our mission for the evening: go to Guelph and visit Fancy and Wendy's friend Ailsa. Guelph's about an hour of highway driving away. Thanks to Wendy's MapQuest skills, we found Ailsa's house with no problem and set out to find a place to have coffee. Guelph, birthplace of Canadian thrash legends Razor, is a pretty little college town. It reminded us of Victoria. Everything was good until the trip home. They'd closed two lanes of the 401 for construction. We crawled for miles and miles, and it took three hours to reach the outskirts of Toronto. With our long slog at WOTS on Sunday, we'd been looking forward to getting to bed at a decent hour, but that plan was out the window. We got home after 1 AM, completely beat. Adam and Rain were asleep already, but they'd set up our bed for us before retiring. That bed looked so good, Fancy and I nearly cried.

Sunday – Not enough sleep, as my coworker Allegra would say. I got us coffee, made some toast, and we dragged our asses out to the car. We still needed a float for the day's transactions, so finding a Money Mart was our first priority. That wasn't too hard; there was one on our way to Queen's Park, the new venue for WOTS in Toronto. We reached the site, set up our table, and were ready for business by the 11:00 start time. The next seven hours were pretty crazy, so some general observations follow. We sold enough books and mags to pay for Fancy's trip. Between the new "Dead Things"-themed issue of sub-Terrain (or "Subterranean," as people insist on calling it) and my anti-YinYang NoMeansNo shirt, I think we managed to offend a healthy number of festival-goers. Lots of people think that a book-selling stall is a good place to hand you their unsolicited manuscript. Fancy's shining moment came while talking to someone who'd inquired about the wage scale for authors publishing a book with a small press: "I can sum up how much money you can expect to make in two words—Fuck All." Everyone within earshot took a step back from our table. We sold three books to a girl in a Slayer shirt. I was very happy to spot Toronto celebrities such as Daniel Richler and Moe Berg. No Degrassi kids, though (boo). We were shattered by the end of the day, so we spent a quiet evening in with Adam and Rain.

Monday – Another road trip, this time to Fancy's parents' place. I have no idea what to call where they are. Every time I ask I get a different answer: Smithville, Grimsby, Fulton... It's surrounded by fields, anyway. This is not a dis, but I always think of the Rheostatics' "Ballad of Wendel Clark" when I'm there: "Somewhere in the cowshit county." We arrived for lunch, then went into Hamilton to visit Fancy's grandma in the hospital. Grandma's 94 years have finally caught up to her and she's not very mobile at the moment. She was overjoyed to see Jenni again and she even remembered me from my last visit two years ago. She's a very independent, self-sufficient woman, so it was sad to see her on a hospital ward with nothing but a tiny shared room and a hallway to explore. She's not happy there and I can't blame her. I hope the family finds somewhere better for her soon, and I hope that grandma will trust them enough to go there.

Tuesday – Not enough sleep. Drove to the airport, taking a sketchy unmapped toll highway to avoid rush-hour traffic. We took one wrong turn, but got pointed in the right direction quickly enough. After returning the car, we got lost in terminal 1 until we found out we had to take a shuttle bus to terminal 2. YYZ is big. Our flight left on schedule at 11:20. The trip was turbulent but we landed half an hour early. We took a cab home, depressurized on the couch, then had a four-hour nap.

While typing the above I listened to the pile of promos the Energizer laid on me, including:
Napalm Death – Leaders Not Followers: Part 2
grails – redlight
Lilitu – The Delores Lesion
Black Tape for a Blue Girl – Halo Star

Zombi – Cosmos (Relapse)
Zombi are an instrumental duo with a whole room full of old analog synthesizers along with the good old bass and drums. They play a kind of space rock/horror movie soundtrack music in the style of Italian masters Goblin or, at times, Pink Floyd circa Wish You Were Here. The first track, "Orion," is probably my favourite due to its driving Steve Harris-like bassline. The bass isn't as prominent in the following tracks. "Cetus" is the next track, a busy workout anchored by a pulsing, oddly timed synth pattern, with drums doing a valiant job at keeping up. The same basic elements are at play in "Cassiopea," a brief but disorienting interlude that fades away into a series of sweeping synthesizer hisses. "Side one" of the CD closes with "Serpens," which takes elements from the previous songs and stretches them out into a 9-minute epic jam. Driven along by a one-note pulse, the drums carefully build until they take over the rhythm themselves and start jousting with the lead synthesizer as it solos crazily until about the 7-minute mark, when the instruments return to a looser, wilder version of the opening theme.

Side two (the songs are divided into parts I. and II. in the CD booklet) opens with "Gemini," an 11-minute creepfest/jazz odyssey that reminds me a bit of Djam Karet with its busy rhythm section interplay. The melancholic keyboard interlude "Andromeda" is next, followed by "Taurus," a march-of-the-dead drone into which a chirping synth pattern intrudes, becoming increasingly reverb-laden and discordant—a sonic accompaniment to a time-lapse film of maggots consuming a carcass.

This is an enjoyable release, and it's great to see Relapse branch out into this sort of thing. The musicianship is of a high standard and the production is rich and deep. Though I prefer Morte Macabre's Symphonic Holocaust for Goblin-esque thrills, this album rules in its own way, offering an equally valid take on soundtracks for the undead.

Somebody'sgot to set an example. Paul Baker had a great, if dated in terms of character and plot references, essay on Coronation Street on his web site. In it, he made the point that Corrie is often quite instructional in its portrayal of public behaviour. For example, if a character rode a bicycle, she would always be seen wearing the full complement of protective gear—helmet, reflective vest, clips 'round the trouser cuffs, etc. North Americans like to think that the Street is an oasis of gritty social realism, especially compared to American soaps. In Britain, though, Corrie is just mass entertainment, and about as realistic as any country's mass entertainment is when compared to real life in that country.

I was reminded of the concept of Coronation Street characters as exemplars of proper behaviour last week during the eight-hour post-Olympic mega Corrie omnibus. There was a scene where Martin Platt's mobile starts ringing while he's driving through Manchester. Did he answer the phone and continue driving? Did he heck as like. No, he pulled the car into a convenient parking spot, then picked up the phone. One should always devote one's full attention to driving.

I was impressed. Martin, you're a role model to us all. Except for the fact that you've shacked up with a 16-year-old.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
I've been bookless on transit for the past few weeks. At least I have metal mags to get me through the drought. They make me paranoid though; they blow my cover. I don't want to upset my seatmate when they glance over and get an eyeful of the half page Cattle Decapitation ad in Terrorizer or whatever I'm hunched over.

Fancy came through for me today and scored me a promo copy of Neil Peart's new book, Traveling Music. It came with the unspoken agreement that I'll be reviewing it for sub-T, so I'd better take notes while I read it.

Smash called me this evening to tell me that his girlfriend Mai had found something interesting in the sale bin at the Edmonds branch of the Burnaby Public Library—a cassette entitled Every Form of Refuge Has Its Price. The cover featured a blurry photo of someone who looked a little like me.

I'm sure the artist is touched that his work was housed for a time in this respected institution, just as I bet he's miffed that his music ended up in the bargain bin, probably mixed in with albums by Bim, Luba, or Greg Hawkes. Still, since every copy of Refuge was given away for free (so I heard), its worth has appreciated incalculably.

When you’re shopping at thrift stores and putting a look together, there’s a fine line between Hipster and Children’s Entertainer. Those neon yellow clogs and that oversized plaid jacket might go great with your androgynous haircut, but don’t be surprised if children swarm you on the street, demanding balloon animals.

I took Bruce Robinson's Paranoia in the Launderette on the bus with me today. I read it twice; it's only a wee book. The climactic scene contains one of the classic lines of all time: "I'm not in here to hurt anyone. I'm a professional writer."

What makes me paranoid in the launderette is the extractor—that rattling aluminum centrifuge. I don't trust it. Right when it reaches maximum RPMs, I'm afraid it's going to fly apart and pierce me with shrapnel. How well is it maintained? Will that kill switch really work? Does the 50 cents I feed it save me more than 50 cents of drying time, and is that worth the apparent danger?

I had to look up "Fiji Mermaid" for a story on Mastodon I'm editing this morning. Here's one. Hott!

I think I'll go get the new Mastodon album today. The release date isn't for a few days, but I saw it in stores last weekend.

NP: Melvins – Stag

I witnessed a colossal car crash at Commercial and Broadway last Friday. I heard it first. I was on the bus, waiting for the light to cross Commercial. Everyone on the bus stood up and gasped. One guy even put down his cell phone in mid-conversation. I looked over in time to see a minivan roll over onto its side after being t-boned by a sporty sedan that (I think) had run the red light. Someone inside the minivan stuck his arm out the window as it came down to meet the pavement, like they thought they could hold the vehicle upright.

The sound of the crash really struck me. It wasn't just one huge "crash," it was two sounds. The initial impact made a loud popping noise, which was followed by a quick swishing sound of shattered glass hitting the road. POP-swish.

I hope everyone was okay. My bus waited for a minute at the intersection, then started on its route up Broadway. Near Fraser, we passed the ambulance heading to the scene.

Movies are an excellent way to feed your head when you've been cooped up too long. Fancylady and I went to Tinseltown Saturday afternoon to see Napoleon Dynamite, then decided to make it a “revenge-of-the-teenage-nerds” movie weekend by renting Elephant that night. We chose well; they’re both great movies. Napoleon fuses the underdog comedy of Freaks and Geeks with the Nowheresville, USA freakshow elements of Gummo and somehow gets everything right, with humour that isn’t crass or precious, just consistently, painfully hilarious. I’ll never grate cheese the same way again.

Elephant was completely different and just as good. It’s one of the most beautiful horror movies I’ve ever seen.

That was scary.

Almost as soon as I got fancylady home from Sage Hill, she landed in a pile of female trouble. I'd just logged on at work Friday when I heard that Mel was taking her to emergency. I shut down and went over to VGH. Jenn was laid out in an emergency room, where she stayed for the next nine hours while every doctor and student doctor in the place stopped by to ask her the same questions. They added morphine to her drip at regular intervals, but it wasn't doing the job. At 1:00 AM she went for an exploratory, where the surgeon found something really bad and cut it out.

Despite the aftereffects of surgery and enough morphine to knock out Keith Richards, she was back to her old self on Saturday. God, it was such a huge relief not to see her in pain anymore. The scariest events on Saturday were (for me) phoning fancy's mom, whose reaction was predictible ("This is the last thing I need"), and (for fancy) when her IV vein collapsed and her hand went all puffy. We can smile about it now, but at the time it was terrible.

I brought her back to our place on Sunday. She's mobile over short distances and eating lots of frozen yoghurt. Thanks to Mel for being a good, decisive friend, to Adam and Erin for also being so great, to Jimmy Pattison for his Pavilion, and nurses Trish and Lindsay for not being afraid to open the medicine cabinet and for taking such good care of the belter.

I've tuned my guitar down to B for my new gore-grind number, "Ovarian Torsion and Necrosis."

With Fancylady writing like mad in Sage Hill for ten days, I figured I might as well fly somewhere and do something creative too. So I WestJetted to Edmonton last Wednesday night to visit my friend Greg and the rest of the Pohl-Deneka clan. We had five days' worth of jamming and recording in Greg's garage studio, along with our Dead City Radio bandmate Adam. We got a lot done—overdubbing songs we'd recorded the previous two years and writing a half dozen new things. I think we've got enough material now for about three decent-length releases, including the highly anticipated Burgess Shale project due sometime in 2005.

Hanging out with the Pohl-Denekas is always fun. Their place is somewhere in the woods outside Sherwood Park. I lose all sense of direction when I'm out there. The road's out front and the trees are in the back; that's all I know. It's quieter and far more rural than Mayne Island. There, we get deer tiptoeing through the arbutus leaves, whereas Barb and Greg have moose plowing through their back forty, leaving piles of golfball-sized poops behind. We went for a walk through the backyard trails one afternoon, which is when I got most of my bug bites. The mosquitoes are vicious this year, swarming and aggressive, frantically injecting anticoagulants the second they land on you.

Back to the fun. You'd have a hard time finding a cooler family than the Pohl-Denekas. I could almost be persuaded that breeding in the 21st Century is a good idea based on the example they set. Greg and Barb's kids, Amelia (7) and Colin (4) are at a really enjoyable age. Amelia walks around with a habitual giggle that sounds like she's enjoying one of a large stash of private jokes. Colin's into performing whisper-to-a-scream versions of "This Old Man" daily, strumming the open strings of a guitar and stopping when the numbers get too high or he runs out of rhymes ("This old man, he played seven, he played knick-knack on his...Oh no."). They're both good, happy kids, and like their folks, there's nothing about the natural world that they don't know. Thanks to Amelia, I'll never mistake a damselfly for a dragonfly ever again.

So it goes without saying that the parenting is top-notch, but Greg and Barb are both maintaining their own scenes (and, ergo, their sanity)—Barb with her yoga training and Greg with the music. When the adult interests and the child-rearing clash, it's usually pretty funny, such as an incident last week when Greg had to pick a clump of Silly Putty off his reunion tour Pixies hoodie.

Yeah, everything's pretty harmonious out there in the woods, except for the noise we make out in the garage.

I had to break my boycott of the Five Point last weekend for a friend's surprise birthday party. I didn't let my lapsed principles give me too much angst; after all, I don't get to see this particular friend too often and it turned out to be a fun party.

I have another source of angst now—the party photos that were emailed around today. I've never taken a good photo (nor do I give good oil painting), but these ones take the cake. I'm a husk of a man. The rot has set in, and I haven't cracked 40. From the neck down, I've become Mr. Furley.

I need to get back on track and start reviewing albums again. In the meantime, here's a top 10:
1. Witchcraft – Witchcraft
2. Dead City Radio – rough mixes
3. Neurosis – The Eye of Every Storm
4. Sonic Youth – Sonic Nurse
5. IQ – Dark Matter
6. PJ Harvey – Uh Huh Her
7. Neurosis and Jarboe – Neurosis and Jarboe
8. Brian Eno – Taking Tiger Mountain (By Strategy)
9. Ayreon – The Human Equation
10. Voivod – War and Pain box set

You can take the boy out of Burnaby...
Robert "Rob" Feenie is a neighbourhood kid done good (not that Willingdon Black and I aren't holding our own), especially if one's status is based on accumulated appearances in Malcolm Parry's column. I had to laugh today when I read in the paper that he offers a gourmet hot dog called "Feenie's Weenie" at one of his establishments. I guess the rhymes that made the rounds of the Cascade Heights Elementary playground really left some scars.

I bought a couple of books from Continuum's 33 1/3 series on my last trip to Victoria. Number 3 in the series is about Neil Young's Harvest, and number 6 is everything you wanted to know about Piper at the Gates of Dawn. I thought they were both pretty useful. Sam Inglis's examination of Harvest not only lays out Young's early career succinctly (I've never had a good grasp of its chronology and the circumstances surrounding his involvement with CSNY), it includes an interesting discussion of the clash between popular success (represented by Harvest) and critical success (Tonight's the Night, for example). Plus it has lots of information about the recording sessions themselves—about non-guitarist Jack Nitzsche playing slide on "Are You Ready For the Country?" and forcing drummer Kenny Buttrey to play the title track with one hand, for example.

John Cavanagh's Pink Floyd book is more of a time capsule, concentrating on the extraordinary era that birthed the band. The historical material (a fair bit of it taken from a 1966/67 CBC Radio piece that I had a tape of for a while) is woven into a track-by-track dissection of Piper...—as with the Neil Young book, all the fine points of recording and songwriting are given plenty of attention. The discussion of The Floyd as musicians is quite funny and reassuring. Producer Norman Smith: "Nick Mason would be the first to admit that he was no kind of technical drummer. I remember recording a number—I can't now recall which one—and there had to be a drum roll, and he didn't have a clue what to do. So, I had to do that." Peter Jenner: "Nick, when all is said and done, was not a very good drummer, but he was a very good Pink Floyd drummer." Of course, a lot of words concern the short-lived genius of their guitarist and main songwriter, but the book avoids pandering to the cult of Barrett. If you want to know how to play "Astronomy Domine" and what the strange noises at the end of "Bike" are, put on your scarlet tunic and curl up with this.

Cypress was packing a CD wallet when she arrived on Saturday, so now we're listening to Let Go by young Avril, that rebellious thrower of the devil horns. This thing's like a mini-pops version of Jagged Little Pill. Alanis has a lot to answer for. I guess Cypress's choice of prefab teen idol could be worse. As Fancy puts it, at least Avril wears clothes.

My sister reports that Owen, my 4-year-old nephew, is turning into a guitar freak. He's having trouble with the lingo, though. According to Owen, an acoustic guitar is an "air guitar." My sister has explained to him what playing air guitar actually means, but he can't grasp the concept. Now he wants an air guitar for his birthday. Can anyone recommend an air luthier? Money's no object; only the finest air instrument will do for my nephew.

Fancy and I spent four excellent days at Mayne last weekend. We needed to go where it’s quiet and the nights are properly dark. We got some sun, barbecued every night, watched eagles and bats fly around, and listened to Harvest a lot. Grandad’s Volaré ran like a dream, and looked badass parked among the Audi SUVs at Miner’s Bay.

The inventory of things to do on Mayne is limited, and we were so hell-bent on relaxing that we let most of them slide. We’ve got the rest of the summer to ride bikes, hike up Mt. Parke, and throw the Frisbee onto
the roof.

We walked out to the point a couple hours before we had to leave on Sunday. The tide was really low—the bay looked like it was in danger of draining away completely—so we decided to go along the shore instead of
taking the overland trail. The beach gets rocky close to the point, and hopping from boulder to boulder is the only way to progress. Jumping down from one rock to another, I heard a little yelp and looked down. There was a little grey seal pup right at my feet, wedged into a crook where three rocks met. From what I could see, one of the seal’s flippers was pinned under its body, and it couldn’t climb out. Otherwise, it looked healthy (if a little dry) and nervous. When Fancy leaned in for a close look it snapped and hissed at her. Fierce. We weren’t equipped to just grab the pup and see if we could work the flipper loose—Fancy suggested an
elaborate system of ropes and pulleys would do the trick—so we walked on, enjoyed the view at the point for half a minute, then hurried home, where I called the vet’s office and asked them to notify the nearest Wildlife
Rescue crew. I hope the little blighter made out okay.

I stopped by my parents’ place on the way home yesterday and mowed their lawn. Lawn-mowing is good therapy. It’s an opportunity to think deep thoughts while leaving behind a satisfying expanse of well-manicured greenness. I used to write lots of songs while mowing the lawn.

Lately I’ve been thinking about the time I got kicked out of the band. In 1980 we had this band called Upstart, and we had a logo (our name shooting like a mortar shell out of a smoke cloud) and we had band meetings and we contributed to a band fund so we could buy band stuff. Everyone was expected to show up and pay up. In this respect, our band was similar to a golden agers’ Kraft Klub.

If I remember correctly, the guys wanted to get a Radio Shack strobe light for our basement concerts. I thought the idea was counter-productive to our musical progression. Surely we could save our money towards an item more directly related to rocking. I began contributing to the band fund under protest, preferring to spend my lawn-mowing earnings on Queen albums instead.

The band fund eventually split us apart. I stopped paying up and some slight occurred that I took to heart. I formed a grudge against my bandmates. I’m a little scared by my ability to hold a grudge. It’s an inherited trait, I’m afraid, and one that I’ve tried to suppress in recent years. But when I was 14 and I got a grudge on, look out.

Maintaining the grudge was a challenge though because of the concert we all had tickets for. It wasn’t just any concert, it was my first concert: Rush and Saga at the Pacific Coliseum. I was excited beyond belief about it, yet I’d be sitting in the same row as my self-estranged friends. My grudge was badly timed.

It seems that every rite of passage in my life has been complicated by some misjudgment or fuckup on my part. This evening was a good example. When I got to my seat, my friends (and one parent, the Jeff “Skunk” Baxter-like Mr. Sandquist) were already there. I remember them leaning over to say hi to me, and I ignored them. Mr. Sandquist offered me his seat so I could sit with my friends, but I turned him down. I was determined to be a prick.

The concert was amazing and changed my life, etc. My memories of Rush’s Permanent Waves tour are much more vivid than my recollection of the band squabbles at the time.

The day after the concert I got kicked out of the band.

I rolled with it pretty well. My parents had just bought the place on Mayne, so there was lots of work to do. I rode my bike a lot and hacked out some new trails in the bush.

A few months later, Alick and Mark came by and asked me if I wanted to join again. I don’t remember us negotiating any terms. I do remember saying yes, and that I was mowing my parents’ front lawn when they approached me.

Of all bands, I think Budgie come closest to embodying the DiffMusic spirit—eccentric, neglected, and downright heavy as they were. Amassing their catalogue was one of the most enjoyable record collecting quests I've ever embarked on. They made me work for each LP, but not too hard...and the music on every album made the effort well worth it. There's no "sell out" album, no half-assed change of direction that embittered me on first hearing. They did it right, stayed true, and I (along with thousands of other fans) salute them for it.

So I feel damn lucky to have been at the Brickyard last night to see the Pete Boot All-Stars. Pete Boot was Budgie's drummer on their best-selling album, 1974's brilliant In For the Kill. In the decades since, he's been cursed with Parkinson's disease and is now raising funds to fight it via his "Fill Your Head With Rock" campaign.

The gig started with Hooded Fang, a heavy trio with solid (if not stunning) musicianship and better-than-average songs. Good stuff; I wouldn't mind catching them again sometime.

During the break, a tall, balding gentleman set up a double-kick drum kit on stage. Could this be Mr. Boot? Yes. A few minutes later, he and the band (two guitarists—from local bands Sir Hedgehog and STREETS—playing Tony Bourge's parts, and a bass-playing Burke Shelley substitute courtesy of The Feminists) started to play "In For the Kill," which went into "Breadfan"! I've been to some unfathomable gigs in my time, but this one was quickly taking the cake.

Between songs, "Burke" explained that Mr. Boot had heard about some local gigs that had been organized in aid of his charity, and was in town to check things out for himself. Bearing in mind that the band couldn't have had much time to rehearse, the results were quite good. Budgie songs aren't exactly verse-chorus-verse constructions, but the players had obviously done their homework and got most of the change-ups right. And Pete's affliction didn't stop him from giving the kit a good thwacking.

From there they tackled "Hammer and Tongs," "Parents," and "Zoom Club," with a couple covers thrown in: "White Room" and "Moby Dick," closing out the show with a drum solo. At the end, Pete got out from behind the drums, took the mike, and said his bit for World Peace.

Ten Miles Wide, a cranky-sounding sludge trio, played last. Their crabby songs and delivery contrasted with some between-song jocularity. Were the band really as anti-social as they sounded? Their set was about the right length, filling my head with enough rock to tide me over for at least a couple days.

I went to Roadbed's album release gig at the Railway on Friday. Roger Dean Young and Tin Cup opened up with their laid-back deep woods music and In 3's played last, with a guest violinist and a set of mostly improvised tunes, punctuated with quotes from Radiohead, U2, and a whole Roadbed song.

I marked the Roadbed exam. Super gave me instructions to select the most unique scores for consideration. Well, there was only one perfect score (6/6) and one person who got zero (that would be Shockk), and a huge pile of fives and threes. A couple people had doodled all over their exams, so I decided it should be an art contest instead of a Roadbed trivia quiz, and submitted those to Super when it was time to pick a winner.

What I love about Roadbed is that they play a lot of unrecorded material, and one of the new songs inevitably becomes a new favourite. In the early days it was "Scarb Jacket," (which ended up on Knockout Hits) and lately it's been "King's Quest" (which I only got to hear a couple times live before it showed up on Last Dance @ the Shockcenter). Now my favourite Roadbed song is the one with this crazy Iron Maiden triplet part that comes out of nowhere. No idea what it's called. They played it about three songs in on Friday night.

All in all, a good ploy to keep me coming back for more.

I got one of these, so I can stink up the joint on the quiet.

My sister the tiny doctor got home from her round-the-world trip last week. She surfed in Costa Rica, Holidayed in Cambodia, fell down a crevasse in Nepal, and got swarmed by gypsies in Rome. It's good to have her back, and in one piece too.

Saturday night I hung out with Smash and his stereo. Checked out Motörhead's 156th record (it lives up to Smash's hype, based on the iron fistful of tracks I heard) and got reacquainted with the OSI album. I put on the new Monster Magnet and wished that it sounded like old Pentagram. It has some great songs that could carry a lot more impact if the production and musicianship weren't so faceless.

I spent most of Sunday at my parents' place, watching sport on the television. Michael trounced Ralf in Montreal, then England snatched defeat from the jaws of victory in Portugal. Demoralized, I left to go jam with the Kings of Patrick, but the compound was locked when I got there. I figured festivities had been cancelled, so I went home and listened to the new PJ Harvey instead. Turns out I should have lingered; I missed everyone by a couple of minutes, judging by the post-mortem emails that went around last night.

Fancylady returns from Toronto tomorrow, where she's been sleeping it off in non-luxury accommodations. I can't wait to see her, just as she can't wait to have a bedroom equipped with a clock radio again.

I took a long bath this morning and listened to the radio. Brent Bambury's Go had an interesting topic: the gap between classical and pop music and how we can bridge the gap between these two solitudes. With all the discussion of music past and present that had attempted to straddle both worlds, I didn't hear the "p" word mentioned once, even disparagingly. Radiohead got a mention, as did Warp Records and IDM. They interviewed Greg Sandow, a modern composer whose stuff sounded like the Dirty Three, but not as good.

I thought they missed a lot of opportunities to talk about music that's right under their noses, like Constellation Records, Godspeed You Black Emperor! & offshoots, and Do Make Say Think. They even could have interviewed me, I suppose, if not for the fact that I can't string two coherent sentences together.

I spent the beginning of the week in Victoria, where I roadied for Anvil Press. Fancylady and I staffed the book table at the launch for Charles Tidler's Going to New Orleans ("a spiritual book, as well as a dirty one"). It was a boozy good time in the Collard Room at Swan's Brew Pub.

As soon as we got home, Fancy had to take off again to Toronto for a week's worth of Book Expo. I'm missing her like crazy already. I spent most of last evening hiding in the bedroom while my landlord finished installing our stained glass windows. Of course, "finished" is a relative term when Max is involved. There's still some bits of trim that need replacing, but Max reassured me that he'll do them "some day."

At least I can contemplate the stained-glass viking ship in our kitchen window. In the morning light on an overcast day like this, it's a fine, fine thing.

Valhalla, I am coming...

It's a longstanding joke around the household that I have the whitest record collection in the world. It's a fair cop.

All I'll say is, can you imagine a black person getting teased by his black friends for listening to nothing but black music? Wouldn't the presence of, say, a Yes album cause more of an uproar, and be grounds for social ostracism (just as it is for thousands of white kids)?

Maybe not. NPR's Tom Terrell talks about where he and his friends found the funk.

My hair is getting long, approaching its David Sanborn/Pat Metheny apogee and requiring maintenance that I don't have time to give it. It's wavier than usual, too. I'm blaming The Dirt, the autobiography of Mötley Crüe, which Smash lent me last weekend. There's scenes in it that would curl Johnny Winter's hair.

It's a good-looking book, though, and edited extremely well by Neil Strauss. The classy presentation bolsters the shock value of its scum-laden, decadent content. Compare it to Paul Dianno's The Beast (which, granted, I've just leafed through at the Sox house) and the Maiden singer's chronicle of violence & sex seems decidedly ho-hum.

Back to the hair. Here's the gospel according to Nikki Sixx: "If there's one genetic trait that automatically disqualifies a man from being able to rock, it's curly hair. Nobody cool has curly hair; people like Richard Simmons, the guy from Greatest American Hero, and the singer from REO Speedwagon have curls. The only exceptions are Ian Hunter from Mott the Hoople, whose hair is more tangled than curly, and Slash, but his hair is fuzzy and that's cool."

See, this is why I retired from the stage. If only Sammy Hagar would take my cue.

Did you hear that thin, atonal whine last night? That was me, practising the world’s smallest violin. I got inspired by Rex Murphy’s report about Western Alienation on The National. Sharrup and join the country already.

Iced Earth with Children of Bodom and Evergrey at the Commodore May 14
Evergrey went over well despite some sludgy warmup act sound. CoB were just okay—the set was a carbon copy of their opening slot on the Nevermore tour. Their act carried a lot more impact on my first exposure. The guitar/keyboard “metalvishnu” duels were still entertaining, especially when you see how the crowd laps it up. Everyone loves solos, and the mania that CoB injects them with is worth experiencing. In between sets everyone made their own fun by singing along to Iron Maiden on the P.A. (Nearly every second person had a Maiden shirt on.) I expected Iced Earth to be a Nevermore-style disappointment, but they delivered surprisingly well. It helps that they’ve got Ripper Owens on board. He’s a proper heavy metal singer, just as Iced Earth are a proper heavy metal band. Despite their skill at fusing the key metal influences of the past 20 years (the epic heaviness of early Metallica, the speedy riffing of Slayer and Iron Maiden’s narrative songwriting and conceptual tendencies) their material becomes generic and indistinguishable after a while, much like a mixture of primary colours that produces a sludgy brown or black. Iced Earth don’t really have enough great songs scattered amongst their umpteen albums to sustain a 2-hour set. For a casual fan like me, their decision to “encore” with their 30-plus-minute Battle of Gettysburg piece was unfortunate, as they’d really run out of songs by that point. Playing what was essentially a second set was a bad move. It was all in one ear and out the other.

Avenged Sevenfold at Richard’s on Richards May 16
A gig for the hell of it, because I didn’t know any of the bands. Openers Noise Ratchet were terrible. I’d hope that kids these days would set their sights higher than Soul Asylum and the Goo Goo Dolls. Apparently not. A7x were ferocious all right, but they didn’t connect with me. Certain elements appealed—the twin leads, their self-assurance on stage, the dry ice. A7x are a crack outfit, no question. But it was a little pat, and as Smash noted, the kids in the band looked too clean and healthy to generate any true scum intrigue. It didn't matter how much ink they had or how much eyeliner they caked on. The pit loved A7x’s whole deal, singing along with every chorus. As Smash said to me later, "I can definitely see the appeal if you knew the tunes and lyrics." As it was, I just felt like a wallflower at a very loud party hosted by friends of a friend of a friend.

With fancylady in Winnipeg, I was on my own all weekend. I kept my spirits up by reading her guestbook (more devastating zingers from Nelson’s Lululem*n coven) and hanging out with Smash on Saturday night. We got into some USA Is a Monster (an amazing Henry Cow-core duo we saw opening for Vialka and Raking Bombs at the Brickyard a month or two ago) and Guapo and Voivod and Neurosis. That kind of sustained heaviness is good for what ails you.

Sunday bloody Sunday. I had a rough morning. Caution: this is gross. I hadn’t slept well and I’d worked up a sizable blood blister inside my mouth overnight. I thought it was a lesion on first inspection. Great. They'd have to amputate my face to stop it spreading. Then I poked at it some more and brought on a small haemorrhage. Sure it looked cool, like Gene Simmons chomping on his blood capsules before “God of Thunder,” but in the context of my medical emergency I couldn’t appreciate the effect to its fullest. I also had a phone interview to do with a guy from Finland in 10 minutes, and I couldn’t face it. “Sorry, dude, I’d love to discuss your musical influences, but I’m drooling blood onto the handset.”

I got stood up for my interview and the blister situation sorted itself out before I lost consciousness. I described the incident to my mum, certified teethgrinder and sleep disorder authority, when I went over for Sunday dinner with the folks. It was old hat to her, which was comforting...yet not comforting.

What's in my bag?

Since Christmas I've been taking music to work. It helps me manage my time. This is what I'm hauling around this week:

Knuckletracks LXXVIII
What is that, 78?Not a lot of good stuff on this. Listening to it, I realized there's a lot of unnecessary metalcore out there. Martin Popoff deserves some kinda prize for the blurbs he generates for the sleevenotes for the Knuckletracks every month. "If you wish to peer into the crinkled crease of goth metal's future, then look no deeper than this insanely intellectually electronically textured Italian cabal." Sold.

Cryonic Temple: Blood, Guts and Glory
I got this promo in the mail, and I'm still so naive that I feel I must listen carefully to everything I get for free. This is power metal, with song titles containing the words "sword" (twice), "steel," "thunder," "warriors," and “metal.” This doesn’t really float my (long)boat.

Gothic Knights: Up From the Ashes
Another power metal promo. Songs include the words “warrior” (twice), “flames,” “ashes,” and “vampyre.” The first tune is called “Power and the Glory,” but it’s not a Saxon cover. Dammit. Again, not my thing. I own Walls of Jericho already.

Tiles: Window Dressing
The new Tiles album is great. I need to review this in full soon.

TOC: Loss Angeles
An interesting “Let’s throw it against the wall and see what sticks” kind of album. Sentenced/Amorphis metal, a power ballad, Entombed-type death metal, and “Smoke on the Water.” I’m going to interview these guys next week.

Roadbed: Last Dance @ the Shockcenter
This one cheers me up quite a bit. Another one I have to review in full when I get the time.

Spring: s/t
I’ve been seeking this for a while, and found it at A&B last weekend. Spring’s one album must have sold in the dozens in 1971, and here it is with three bonus tracks. Very cool mellow/dark early prog featuring Pat Moran (who went on to record Rush, Van der Graaf, and others at Rockfield Studios) and original Dire Straits drummer Pick Withers.

Saturday morning we walked over to Trout Lake for the first farmers’ market of the season. We got some groovy vegetables, some groovy grains, and some groovy meat (if meat can be groovy). I also got a Hershey’s Kiss and a maple leaf pin from Libby Davies. My friend Brian from work was there, busking with his pal Dave and one of the smallest dogs in the world. It was a good way to begin Fancylady’s cancer walk training. The round trip must have been around 8K.

Speaking of meat and its preparation, I became obsessed with liquid smoke a couple weeks ago. What the hell is liquid smoke? What’s in it? It can’t be good to pour smoke on food, can it? I picked up a bottle I found in the IGA's BBQ sauce section and scanned the ingredients. I regretted it immediately.

“Ingredients: Liquid smoke.”

"'Cold Gin', too, deserves special analysis. Drinking straight gin is no one's idea of fun, and it's hard to imagine how the song could refer to it being 'Cold gin time again' when it's so unlikely that there ever would have been a first time."

An excellent appreciation of Kiss: Alive!. Takes me back to the days when we suspected Paul Stanley was black.

I need to step away from the news for a while. I’m increasingly unable to deal with what’s going on. Every week brings a new nadir. Even though I think it’s my responsibility to find out what’s happening in the world, all I’m feeling is frustration to the point of dementia. Everything starts to feed into that state of mind. Freelance prison guards in Iraq are the same as drivers running the red at my crosswalk are the same as Ralph Klein presenting his plagiarized essay is the same as the woman who chides the paraplegic for hogging the sidewalk in his wheelchair is the same as a hooded guerilla with a machete…and so on. It’s not good.

So I’ll consider turning off the news until I hear suicide bombers detonating down the block, but I don't think I can. Rumsfeld's the one who's stopped reading the papers.

While I’m in this buoyant mood, the belter’s mom calls tonight with the following story. A segment of the extended family—some cousins or other from Saskatchewan—cash in their Air Miles and go to California for a “last hurrah,” as the old woman puts it. At an amusement park, the eldest daughter goes on a ride that fuses her contact lenses to her eyes. The high G-forces did it, apparently. Back at the hotel, she tries to remove her contacts and rips out her corneas. Post-surgery, she may get some of her sight back. But according to fancylady’s mom, “She screamed night and day. There was nothing they could give her for the pain.”

Always a treat to talk to Debbie Downer.

Tonight I’m going to read some more of my new library book. I'm up for it.

Hey, fancylady is getting fitted for a fanny pack in preparation for the Weekend to End Breast Cancer 60 K walk, so I urge all five of you to cash in yer empties and give.

I think one of you may have already.

I just got back from the Sanctuary, where I was returning a mike & stand to Super Robertson. Super's always got plans, though I never fully understand what they are. Tonight it was something about the Robertson Chronicles and the Canada Lynx site. Before we left he directed my attention to the centrally located four-track and played me a storming new song. God, I wish I had a storming new song.

Oh boy, a new PJ Harvey album! Out in early June.

Urge Overkill May 3, Richard’s on Richards
I’m one of those grumpy people who didn’t get on board with the Pixies reunion. If I had to succumb to early '90s nostalgia, then a show by the 2/3 reunited Urge Overkill would do it, mostly because I never saw them during their eight months of glory. Besides, their low-key emergence from the “where are they now?” file had a sketchy underdog appeal that I felt like supporting.

Openers The Last Vegas wore Kiss and Motley Crue shirts and did their best to rock properly. Too bad they were mired in Goddo-like mediocrity, playing an overlong set of originals that I wished had been covers. The muddy sound didn’t help their cause.

Urge’s set didn’t sound much better, but at least they had the songs. As I expected, most of the tunes were pulled from the Geffen albums. The band consisted of Nash and King fronting a rhythm section that included the drummer from The Last Vegas. Although some of the songs’ finer points got lost in the ruckus, it was easy to get caught up in the good-natured Cheap Trickery on display. King worked hard, sweating through his suit while Nash kept cool in a white tank top/satin trousers ensemble, completing the dishevelled bar-band glam look with a silver Paul Stanley guitar.

Urge deserved more hits than they had...or if not more hits, then different hits. I’m still annoyed that most people remember the band because of that lame Neil Diamond cover. They dispensed with it during the first encore, then brought the show to a power-pop saturation point with “Crack Babies,” “Sister Havana,” and (finally!) “Stalker.” That's all I needed to leave happy.

I saw Roadbed last Friday at Café Deux Soleils. They played a short set of mostly new songs, along with old numbers like "Gibbering Fool" and "Scarb Jacket" (played at 2x speed). I was curious to see how they were making out with their new drummer, SIMIAN. He's acquired the requisite Roadbed nickname, now how does he compare to the departed Two-Sticks Hobbs? Well, he's a different primate entirely. While Hobbs had a relaxed presence and light touch (both qualities that I admired), SIM is a more boisterous musical entity, putting an authoritative stamp on the old material and injecting lots of his own ideas into the new stuff (as far as I could tell). He's also a seriously versatile singer. Quite a find.

I will try to review the new album, Last Dance at the Shockk Centre, soon. It's a belter.

I hope everyone enjoyed BC Book and Magazine Week. Fancylady and I managed to do a lot. I also made time for some rock.

Monday: Readings at Cuppa Joe on 4th for a joint subTerrain/Event magazine launch. The subTerrain readers covered stuff from the previous issue of the mag, including the latest Lush Triumphant contest winner and runner up. On the Event side, Jeremiah Aherne entertained us with his tales of rampant alcohol abuse. He tells a good story. It was good to see WB and the closer there, along with my old captioning colleague Wayne, husband of Cathy from Event. Small world.

Wednesday: headed straight to Vibes Lounge after work for an Anvil/Talonbooks/New Star reading. The scary-smart and very cool Mary Lou Rowley read from her brand-new Anvil collection, Viral Suite. I like her poems; they incorporate a lot of hard science that she’s adapted from the medical reportage she’s done. I became a bigger fan after meeting her and learning that she’s already picked out which Viral Suite poem would work best for Poetry in Transit. With fancy’s help, “Casual Mythology IV” could be enlightening commuters next season. (Thanks to SR for lending the mic + stand.)

Later on Wednesday I went to The Drink with Smash and Mai to see 24Unity and “support the resurgence of arena rock.” That’s how MMO from 24U put it in his pre-show emails, anyway, and how could I not heed his call to arms? The opening bands blew, so we played Ted Nugent pinball as the mediocrity raged behind us. Judging by my scores, the Nuge could obviously sense that a commie peacenik was working the flippers. Yet he smiled upon Smash, who doesn’t have a loincloth or crossbow to his name (as far as I know), but who does have a couple decades of pinball wizardry behind him. 24U redeemed the evening with their quality songs and MMO’s frankly amazing guitar playing. Hooray for arena rock (even when it’s played in front of 20 people in a dance club).

Thursday: The BCAMP Cabaret at the Five Point on Main, presented by CBC Radio and hosted by Sheryl MacKay. A lot of folks from Monday night were there, along with the excellent Adam and Rain and John Vigna, whose friend Nancy Lee read a story from Dead Girls during the first half of the evening. It might have been a great event if it weren’t for the venue. Apparently at the last minute the Five Point backed out of its agreement to host the cabaret exclusively that night, and so we had to endure the farce of one half of the room watching the hockey game and raising a ruckus while the other half of the room strained to hear the readers. It was awful for the readers, audience, and organizers, who got rogered soundly by the idiot who runs the Five Point. By the time the final reader got on stage, the place had been fully invaded by gel monkeys and assorted Shannons and the grossest kind of pod people slumming it on Main Street. Boycott the Five Point; they’re the enemy.

Drift, Saturday, April 17 at the Ridge
The theatre was about 2/3 full, and the atmosphere was strange. Were we here for a concert? Were we here for a film? Two 16-mm projectors and a sound board were set up in the middle of the theatre. A chair, a guitar and an amplifier sat on stage left. Lee Ranaldo came up, sat down, and shuffled papers around for a minute or two. He fiddled with a box to his right and got some ambient sounds going. Two images appeared side by side on the screen behind him—leaves in sunlight. The pictures changed like slides at various rates on each side. I could hear the projectors go tick…tick…tick, tick-tick-tick, tickticktick as their speed altered. They provided the beat, audibly and visually.

Lee picked up his guitar (Fender Mustang or equivalent) and added to the soundscape. It had a very Sonic tuning, and little fragments of SY songs came into my head at times (isn’t that “Teenage Riot”?). He leaned it into the amp, scraped the headstock along the floor, tapped it with a drumstick, and (this was cool) spun the tremolo arm around so that it sounded like a single empty train car going past. On the screen, an antique doll came apart and reassembled itself, while a firework pinwheel spun forwards and backwards sending out, then sucking in, smoke and sparks. At various points, Lee put down his guitar and read some poetry or what sounded like diary entries. The centrepiece of the show was a section about Lee’s impressions of the days after 9/11 as a citizen of NYC. It went from worrying about the air quality, to a bike ride through surreal Manhattan streets, and finally to finding, near the WTC site, several piles of office workers’ shoes on the sidewalk. It was one of those rare 9/11 pieces that did not suck.

“Drift” was a suitable name for this show. All the elements flowed without interruption for 70 minutes or so. I’m sure the show changes a lot from night to night, with different “happy accidents” that only the performers would be aware of during each performance. I think describing it like I’ve tried to here doesn’t really capture Drift’s more ephemeral qualities. Maybe if I got to see it again…

I had a good chat with Henrik, guitarist for Evergrey, yesterday for the next Unrestrained! mag. I still don't think I'm the most scintillating interviewer yet, but I felt pretty good about the whole thing. So far I've lucked out by talking to people who know how the game works and who are well used to talking to inarticulate metal geeks. You can just steer them around to a general topic, and away they go. Of course I have higher goals as an interviewer than that, but I'll take whatever works for now.

The new Evergrey album, The Inner Circle, is really strong. I took the promo disk to work and after half a dozen listens or so, it grew on me quite a bit. The songs are catchy yet complex, and don't adhere to the Dream Theater/Helloween template that kills most prog-metal dead for me. For a concept album it's well-executed. It has a good flow and seems to be split into two halves like albums of yore...and it's a relatively restrained 48 minutes long. It's also very dark and Euro-melodramatic, with samples of different voices popping up at various points to bolster the storyline. There's a good balance of elements, and it's obvious they put a lot of hard work into it. I respect that it took me a few tries to get into, and that it's not the easiest pill to swallow. A concept album about religious cults and infanticide shouldn't be an effortlessly digestable confection.
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This morning I overheard Fancy and Cypress talking about music. Cypress claimed that the Swiffer song is one of the catchiest songs ever. We need some Devo in this house, but I'm afraid it's too late. "She's deliberately trying to make me feel a thousand years old," says Fancy.

No Limit Cat Burn With Fruit
part thumb at taste science though edge knowledge only left kiss he through then number broken tail almost name roll

I'm getting this sort of magnetic poetry/Melvins lyrics-style spam these days. It would be cool if it wasn't so evil and annoying.

shoe belief machine degree natural neck right cheap blow small tail bridge book for with doubt potato quiet rest position nerve not almost kiss kick organization wing female angry violent jump sneeze advertisement twist jump no limit cat burn with fruit humorice milk system see tree bright harbor other detail judge normal snake

Empire Games
On a side trip this morning to Benwell-Atkins, I walked down Glen Street past the VCC King Edward Campus. There's a little historical plaque at Glen and 8th that I've never noticed before. It pays homage to the Empire Oval, the velodrome built for the 1954 British Empire Games and demolished in 1980 to make way for the college.

The plaque features a tranquil and mysterious B&W photo of the empty racetrack, with its banked corners shining in the sunlight. I remember driving by it as a kid, but I never saw it up close. The velodrome was clearly a beautiful thing and I'm sure a lot of people were sad to see it join the other obsolete and dismantled sports facilities that litter this city.

I have the feeling that British Empire Games defined Vancouver in a way that Expo didn't and that the 2010 Olympics won't. Everybody knows about Landy and Bannister, but the games must have generated a lot of other compelling stories. Perhaps ACM can point me to the appropriate resources.

Other than stories, is there anything left of the 1954 Games? I think Empire Games Pool is still a going concern. There's the Miracle Mile Statue on the PNE grounds near Empire Stadium, which itself is long gone, bulldozed and trucked to the landfills like most of Vancouver's history.

And I guess the British Empire became the less Imperialist-sounding British Commonwealth. The task of modern-day empire building, as we're seeing, has been taken on by a bunch of amateurs.

Pentagram – First Daze Here (The Vintage Collection) (Relapse)
Relapse unearthed and compiled this collection of doom/punk bong rattlers from the legendary Pentagram, a Virginia outfit who recorded sporadically from 1971 to 1976 (and who continue today in revived form). Julian Cope, in turn, made it his album of the month for March. Good on him, for this is a righteous band, a cauldron of Sabbath and Stooges, or Kiss sans the bubblegum.

Their tunes are short with blunt power chords and vocals sung to the riff just like Sabbath or maybe Tull, whom “Walk in the Blue Light” brings to mind. The unassuming nature of the songs is their most outstanding quality, as if the riffs just sprang fully formed from the guitarist’s hands and spontaneously morphed into songs with no worry or elaboration. Pentagram sounds committed to these songs, giving them that intangible something that goes beyond the actual chords and rhythms and words.

Like any heavy 70s band worth its salt, there is some hippie Christian moralizing (“Review Your Choices”) and two songs with “Lady” in the title (the mighty fine pairing of “Starlady” and “Lazylady”). The collection ends with a fairly lo-fi rehearsal room recording of “Last Days Here” a dirge worthy of the Stooges and the Velvets.

I’ve always maintained that bands in the 70s had it easy, with major labels snapping up anything that had hip, if not hit, potential. I mean, how else do you explain Gentle Giant on Capitol or Magma on A&M? The fact that Pentagram never got a shot at the big time, though, tells me that the business has always been cutthroat and unjust.

So I’m back after four days of no phone, no ADSL, no connection to the outside world save Jetbot and Mr. Sweets’ phone and yelling really loud out the window. Timeline: first we stopped receiving incoming calls. We summoned Telus, only to have the landlord shoo the serviceperson away lest there be some kind of charge for the visit. Then we waited for three days while the landlord routed wire, drilled holes, tore a gash into our wall, trod grit into our floor, and left us with…no dial tone. I called the landlord for a progress report: “You’re gonna have to call Telus now.” They came Tuesday and put everything right again.

While all the drilling and plaster gouging went on, Fancy and I were in Victoria, spending the money we won on a pull-tab ticket a few weeks ago and living the good life. We stayed over Friday and Saturday nights, walked around tourist town, went to the museum, tried to find where Fancy and Jetbot had their store, ate a breakfast of pure holocaust at rebar, and shopped.

Downtown Victoria is only about four blocks by four blocks, but it’s an action-packed patch of land. While Fancy was at Value Village, I checked out Lyle’s Place, having been amused by their homegrown TV ads that ran on CHEK 6 for years. It’s a pretty decent store, with tons of metal at sub-Scrape prices. I was hoping to find mass vinyl, but they only had a couple of sad, neglected bins in the back. Their classification system was dubious as well—who put Bif Naked in the punk/alternative section?

After that, Fancy took me down Fantan alley to The Turntable. This was more like it—a total prog/psych freakshow of rare vinyl and obscure CDs. Finding a JPT Scare Band album was the first clue that I was in friendly territory. The second clue was the copy of VdGG’s H to He tacked up on the wall. Clearly I’d have to be on my game in this place. Those bins could be hiding anything. I didn’t have all day to rifle through everything, so I tried to recall some titles I might find. When I flip through LPs I inevitably get distracted and forget things as quickly as I remember them. Luckily Fancy was there to back me up, scoring me a copy of Portrait of the Artist as a Young Ram. Holy jeez. Have I mentioned lately how much I love that woman?

We even managed to live the good life on BC Ferries (as impossible as that sounds), eating at the Pacific Buffet and avoiding the riff-raff on the trip home. It beats choking down chicken strips and taco salad on the Queen of Nanaimo to Mayne Island. While gazing past my hillock of mashed potatoes at the scenery through Active Pass, I began to hope that everything would be fine when we got home, that we’d have a dial tone and no longer be at the mercy of other people’s cock-ups. Then I got home and picked up the phone…

A guilty pleasure from an existence defined by guilty pleasures: The Pursuit of Happiness. I mean, come on. They’re like one step up from The Odds. They had one hit, a novelty tune that no one ever wants to hear again. Every aging Shannon and Gary probably has a copy of Love Junk languishing in the depths of their CD wallet, sandwiched between Bootsauce and Len.

But TPOH were a top pop group, and so much better than that one hit. Moe Berg seemed like an unpretentious guy, a songwriter who took his craft, if not himself, seriously. I’ve always imagined that the humour in his songs—directed at himself as often at those who've wronged him—rubs people the wrong way. Trying to be funny isn’t very cool. I’m a staunch defender of humour in music (two words that settle the debate: The Beatles), but I’ll admit that the humour gambit can go very very wrong. There’s no way I can excuse Moxy Fruvous, for instance (what’s worse, they also unleashed Jean Ghomeshi on the Mother Corp). For me TPOH get away with it because they deliver their punchlines via some good old Telecaster crunch.

My favourite TPOH album is Where’s the Bone from 1995. The band had hit their twilight years. They had bounced from Chrysalis to Mercury to Iron Music, where they released their final albums, Where’s the Bone and The Wonderful World of… (1996). Both of these records are probably the best of the catalogue: tightly constructed and filled with short, bitter, hilarious songs.

Where’s the Bone has a full quota of novelty tunes, of which “White Man” is the most problematic— it strays too close to The Odds’ misunderstood but still execrable “Heterosexual Man”. Still, Moe gets in a few good couplets (“We like funk and rap and Marley and the Wailers/but when we hit 30 it’s Kenny G and James Taylor”) and musically it’s an action-packed two and a half minutes.

“Gretzky Rocks” is a more successful example, if only because it’s the right and privilege of every Canadian band to write a hockey song. It’s a corny little faux-country number, but I can’t help but feel a bit of secondhand civic pride with a lyric like “When I lived in Edmonton/he made us the City of Champions.” This one can confidently share the bench with The Rheostatics’ “Ballad of Wendel Clark” in the annals of rink rock.

And the rest—hit after hit, pretty much, from the opener “Kalendar” to the penultimate blast “Falling In” (closer “Blowing Bubbles” drags a bit, though it’s pretty and nice). You can’t tell me “Completely Conspicuous” isn’t better than half the tunes on Candy Apple Grey. These are quality songs, and despite my love of everything bloated and bombastic, they’re all the stronger for being under four minutes long.

Where’s the Bone is one of the great Canadian pop-rock albums, up there with Max Webster’s High Class in Borrowed Shoes, The Rheostatics’ Melville, and Forever Again by Erics Trip.

Removal at The Brickyard, March 5
It seems like half a decade since I’ve been to the Brickyard, but it hasn’t changed much. They must have done some soundproofing as a courtesy to the neighbourhood, because out on the sidewalk I couldn’t hear a thing even though Dollar Store Jesus, a three-piece with a debilitating Nirvana hangover, were going full bore inside. Smash and I heard DSJ’s last few songs – meh. I was more interested in Smash’s new futuristic microelectronic MP3 recording thing, which is the size of a Bic lighter. I might have to get one. If I can hook it up to my phone call recording device it’ll be perfect for interviews.

Who’s that on stage now? Chi Pig? It has to be; no one else is that damn wiry. As soon as he started hollering, I knew for sure. I don’t think I’ve seen him since I caught The Wongs opening for The Screaming Trees at the Commodore a helluva long time ago. His new band is called Slaveco, and they were pretty entertaining. Musically they weren’t too different from SNFU, and Chi’s antics—climbing on and off the stage, getting in people’s faces, playing with an assortment of masks, hand puppets and other props—haven’t changed much. Even if the songs weren’t immediately memorable, catching Slaveco’s set was a nice bonus to the evening.

I need a handy catchphrase to describe Removal, but I can’t come up with one. They’re a trio and they play instrumentals that sound like Rush or Metallica strained through a punk rock filter to remove the fatty verses and solos. Tonight they posted a sign behind the drums that read, “Sorry, the projector is broken” to explain the lack of the traditional slide show during their set. The music had to do even more of the talking than usual. Removal rejects the tyranny of song titles, so I can only say that they played the fast one, the faster one, a few new ones, that really tricky one, and that really catchy one. And also “Frankenstein.” If I can suggest a cover tune for the future, I’d like to see them do “Hocus Pocus.” They could sample the yodelling same as they sample the synth bits in “Frankenstein.” The band was super tight and heavy, and more people should have been there to see them.

After the show, their drummer, spotting Smash’s Voivod shirt, mentioned that they’ve recorded a song with Snake for their guest vocalist 7-inch series. They’re just trying to collect enough funds to press and release it. Smash and I did our bit for the cause, loading up on mass merch.

Puppet Show

I saw Deep Purple last Friday night on the Mike Bullard show, where they performed "Highway Star" and a new song (as the end credits rolled). The guest before them was an elderly yo-yo champion. I'm sorry, but I couldn't stop thinking "PUPPET SHOW and Spinal Tap."
Purple were great anyway.

Anekdoten—Gravity (Virta 004)
Anekdoten produce a beautiful but suffocating din. Their sound is defined by Jan Erik Liljestrom’s throaty Rickenbacker bass and by the mellotron, played primarily by Anna Sofi Dahlberg. Between those two extremes sits the alternately chiming and grinding guitar work of Nicklas Barker and Peter Nordins’ loose, relaxed drumming. According to their bio, the band started out playing King Crimson covers, and this influence remains, mainly in the dark mood that they conjure with that bass and mellotron churning away. However, Anekdoten’s style is much less angular and more propulsive than Crimson's. Once they get up a head of steam (usually in 3/8), they’re unstoppable. Gravity is their latest album, and it’s really doing it for me. If certain discussion group posts are to be believed, Anekdoten are getting more commercial with each release. This is laughable. They’re not exactly Nickelback. “Ricochet” is probably the most user-friendly song on here. I can’t pin down who it reminds me of—maybe early Simple Minds. It’s got an unapologetically big, sweeping chorus, but just when you think the song’s edging closer to the mainstream they blow their cover with a crazy Farfisa organ solo before the final verse. Brilliant. The next song, “The War is Over” is obscured by the same psychedelic haze as Sabbath's “Planet Caravan,” though it's a more fully fleshed-out composition. (There’s a strange little video for this song on the official Web site.) The remaining tracks all produce varying degrees of menace; “SW4” being particularly malevolent, featuring a bass line for the ages and a male/female vocal approach. About the vocals: many feel they’re Anekdoten’s weak point, and I’d agree that they are an acquired taste. They’re not exactly typical of the genre—instead of cloning Gabriel, Anderson or Hammill, Barker’s voice is more akin to David Byrne attempting to channel Bryan Ferry. I appreciate its individuality, though, and the occasional Swedish accent intrusion (“A blue whippoorwill sings/on the udder side of the rain”) adds a bit of charm. Anekdoten are playing down in Baja this weekend with IQ and Deus Ex Machina, and the fact that I’m not going has me a bit depressed.

Burst—Prey on Life (Relapse)
My first couple listens to this Swedish band’s latest album left me non-committal, but Prey on Life has grown on me tremendously since then. Burst’s sound isn’t very welcoming. It’s an interesting blend of styles—art-damaged hardcore like Neurosis and their brethren Isis, mixed with some Swedish speed metal in the vein of At the Gates. The vocals rarely vary from a hardcore scream with the panic meter constantly in the red. I prefer to hear vocalists mix it up a little. I guess it’s an appropriate style to deliver lines like “rolling waves of nausea/seeping through/my mind/darkest abyss of conscience/time will swallow/all.” Not until the seventh track, “Crystal Asunder,” does that voice make way for some more melodic singing, plaintive and processed. All in all I considered it a bleak listen that didn't distinguish itself from many other hardcore bands I’ve heard. “Undoing (Prey on Life)” is an intriguing little opener, moving as it does through powerchord bombast and cacophony to a brief acoustic guitar break, more cacophony, with a percussion fusillade at the finish. But the true genius of the album emerges by the fourth track, “Rain,” where the intricacy of the song structures and the tight playing really becomes apparent. Burst doesn’t emphasize atmosphere and repetition like Neurosis and their ilk. The songs on Prey on Life are relatively short, and never stay in one place for too long. Nor does Burst revel in disorientation and randomness. The transitions between sections are so smooth that they don’t call attention to themselves, unlike the exercises in cut-and-paste that dozens of other noisecore bands consider songwriting. This is a very clever album that fully deserved its place near the top of many “best-of-2003” lists last December.

While flipping through the bargain bins at Neptoon today, I realized that 65% of albums released between 1972 and 1979 were by Jean-Luc Ponty.

I got

and

Love those covers.

Deep Purple and Thin Lizzy, Feb. 8, 2004 at the Orpheum Theatre
Thin Lizzy came on with lights flashing and sirens wailing—tonight there would be a jailbreak, apparently. The sound was shatteringly loud, and the kick drums were distorting a bit. Thin Lizzy were basically a cover band, albeit one with a pedigree. John Sykes, who handled guitar and vocals (sounding not unlike Phil Lynott), was only with Lizzy for one album in ’83. Scott Gorham, the other guitarist, hailed from the band’s glory days. The bass player was a generic Richie Sambora type. The drummer, Michael Lee, had double bass drums just like Brian Downey, and a big cooling fan blowing in his face. Very rock. The set list was basically one half of the Live and Dangerous album (“Don’t Believe a Word,” “Rosalie,” “The Cowboy Song”, “Still in Love With You,” and so on), with a couple songs from the ’80s thrown in, like “Chinatown” and “Cold Sweat.” They didn’t play “Emerald,” unfortunately, which is one of those songs I’m always in the mood to hear. The set was over in a flash, way too short to do justice to the Lizzy back catalogue. After 45 minutes, they gave the crowd the beer-commercial-tainted “The Boys Are Back in Town” (cue Fancylady’s dash for a slash) then left the stage.

Intermission and time to survey the crowd. Lots of normal folks, and more aging rockers than you can shake a Thai stick at. Families occupied whole rows, the dads anxious to show Puddle of Mudd-loving offspring how the guitar ought to be played. And a lone hipster in a trucker hat featuring the word “BUDGIE” chicken-scratched above the brim with a Sharpie. Sure, he may like one of the most rocking bands in history, but he wasn’t going to shuck off the irony and expend some effort replicating their logo. Come on, Roger Dean designed it—it’s nearly as cool as the Yes logo!

Deep Purple were everything I expected them to be—poised, well seasoned, and masterful. They make it look so easy. After opening with a new song off Bananas, they went into “Woman From Tokyo,” and the gig took flight. I’ve always thought this was a semi-silly song, but man, did it ever work on stage. Purple are masters of the sustaining tension and delaying the payoff, and the long, trippy “So far away” section in "Woman From Tokyo" was a perfect example. Then they crashed into the main riff again and Don Airey raced through that piano solo and it doesn’t get any better than that. The first half of the set was 50/50 old/new, and included “Strange Kind of Woman” (I like a shuffle), “Perfect Strangers,” and “Knockin’ at Your Back Door”. The new songs from Bananas were all very classy, tight, a little busy and proggish. I get the impression that they can toss this stuff off effortlessly after all these years. Having Steve Morse in the band must help, because that guy is a music machine. He probably writes 15 riffs before breakfast.

Ian Gillan looked comfortable in baggy white togs and bare feet. His voice is a well-worn instrument these days, upper range mostly gone, but everything else hanging in there. Ian Paice (hero!) played like Ian Paice behind his Ian Paice drum kit. Looks like fun. Roger Glover (wearing the aging rocker head scarf favoured by Ian Anderson and most of Fleetwood Mac) is hard to pin down as a bassist. He’s not an introverted genius virtuoso like John Paul Jones or Entwistle, nor is he the embodiment of low-end simplicity like a Cliff Williams. Not to slight him, but Glover just does the job, and he sounds great.

They devoted the last half of the show to Machine Head, playing all tracks in order, slipping “When a Blind Man Cries” (a b-side you’ll find on the CD reissue) between “Lazy” and “Space Truckin’.” Gillan had some serious trouble with the album's opening and closing tunes, but handled the rest of the songs okay. During this segment of the show, the bananas backdrop disappeared in favour of film clips related to the early seventies—Janis and Jimi, Nixon and ’Nam, protesters and pot leaves. This was a bit forced, distracting and unnecessary. The songs didn’t need that kind of visual buttressing, and Deep Purple's music, to me at least, stands apart from that sort of clichéd nostalgia. Machine Head certainly still holds up today—I play it several times a year. It’s a helluva lot more than a period piece.

After a short break, they came back and played “Hush” and “Black Night” for the encore. It was all good, though I was hankering for something from In Rock. However, Sox tells me that “Child in Time” hasn’t been in the set since ’87, and most of the other songs on that album are probably out of Gillan’s range, too. Whatever—the crowd did a soccer chant along with the “Black Night” riff, the Gimli-like figure of Gerald the Rattlehead was bouncing up and down the aisle, and even though the gig would end in a couple minutes, everything was just about perfect.

I've become obsessed with Strangers With Candy. Jerri Blank is the best comic invention since Alan Partridge. Like old "Cook Pass" Partridge, Jerri is sometimes difficult to watch, and her general ookiness makes me squirm. On the other hand, I'm rooting for her unequivocally, the same as I do with Alan. I don't know how Amy Sedaris is able to pull this off, but she does it. Genius.

I'm heading into the last third of season one, and season two awaits.
-------------------------
A Deep Purple concert review is in the works. I'll put it up after I massage most of the gayness out of it. That takes some doing.

Everyone at the Sox house on Sunday was impressed with the cover of the Georgia Straight this week: a recreation of the cover photo of The Subhumans' Incorrect Thoughts for a feature story on Nardwuar and The Evaporators.

Rebecca Blissett did an amazing job of duplicating the composition and look of the original picture. It’s a well-crafted, clever nod to Vancouver's punk past and to Nardwuar's obsession with the history of Canadian rock 'n' roll.

And I’m pretty sure that's all we're to infer from the picture. You can't compare the two bands, really. Subhumans bassist Gerry Hannah used to help firebomb Red Hot Video stores, whereas Nardwuar merrily interrogates Ron Jeremy every time he rolls into town. Different strokes...

Low-carb beer eats a dick. Big Rock, I used to respect you.

I went to a dinner party last weekend at Robert Strandquist’s place. All the invitees, including Fancy lady, had helped him with his new novel, The Dreamlife of Bridges (Anvil Press, $18). During a stupendous meal, one of the guests began reminiscing about the Commodore, listing all the shows he’d seen there. “…and I saw Renaissance.” What, with Annie Haslam? That Renaissance? Yes, and apparently they were big on CKLG FM back in the day. I missed out on everything.

Then he mentioned seeing Jethro Tull on the Passion Play tour at the Agrodome for seven bucks. Oh man, cut it out. You’re killing me here.

I filled some gaps in the collection and caught up with some old classics in 2003. Here’s a partial rundown.
Neil Young On the Beach
What took you so long?
I always got it mixed up with Landing on Water, and what I’d heard from LoW didn’t sound so great. I found this cheap reissue on the Reprise “Digital Masterpiece Series” while Christmas shopping.
Was it worth the wait?
Definitely. It’s Neil down in the dumps in 1974, dressing down Lynyrd Skynyrd (or perhaps Crosby, Stills and Nash) one more time (“Walk On”) then embarking on a series of more stripped-down numbers, some of which are quite beautiful. “See the Sky About to Rain” and the title track are two of my favourites right now.

John Lennon Plastic Ono Band
What took you so long?
General distrust of Beatles solo albums, and of John Lennon himself. Face it, he was a bit of a monster. My friend Christian Scum recommended this album after checking it out from the library. Then I read in Bill Martin’s Avant Rock that John and Yoko each released an album called Plastic Ono Band in 1970, and I thought that was pretty cool.
Was it worth the wait?
For sure. Like On the Beach, this is a bare bones singer-songwriter kinda album. I knew of songs like “Mother” and “Working Class Hero” by reputation only. I’d never actually heard them. They’re both tortured and brilliant. “Mother,” especially, is not all that easy to listen to. I can imagine Cobain cocking an ear to Lennon’s primal scream therapy and taking notes. Ringo’s on drums for this, so you get two Beatles for the price of one. Now that I’ve popped my solo Beatles cherry, I’ll probably own the entire Wings catalogue before 2004 is done.

Angel self-titled
What took you so long?
Martin Popoff gave this a 10 in his first book, and I’m always up for some early American metal. It took a few years, but I finally found this in the Sally Ann basement for 50 cents.
Was it worth the wait?
Oh yeah. Despite being revolted after getting some of Popoff’s picks (such as a Ronnie Montrose Gamma album that I had to toss after a single listen), this album fully delivers. It’s spectacularly pompous U.S. arena rock, delusionally grand just like early Styx and Kansas, with the odd Zep or Budgie moment thrown in. This also has enough synth leads, mellotrons, acoustic guitars and flutes to induce the required DiffMusic prog coma. There’s party rock in the shape of “Rock & Rollers”—hear this and you’re instantly in some roller rink making the scene with your feathered hair and piping-trimmed shorts. The vocals sound disturbingly like Rik Emmet at times, although they carry much more emotion than that Muppet ever could. This rocks so hard, it’s a mystery that Angel didn’t hit it as big as labelmates Kiss. This album decimates, say, Dressed to Kill. Along with Riot’s Fire Down Under, it’s one of the great unsung American hard rock albums.

The Moody Blues Days of Future Passed
What took you so long?
I always had more challenging assignments than this easy-listening example of proto-prog. Besides, I’d heard all the best parts dozens of times on the radio.
Was it worth the wait?
Sure, why not? It’s a charming period piece, with the Wonderful World of Disney orchestral bits linking the pop songs and “poetry.” I’ve got a huge tolerance for all things twee. The only song that lapses into total pre-Smell the Glove Spinal Tapness is “Another Morning”: “Balloons flying, children sighing, what a day to go kite-flying/Breeze is cool, away from school, cowboys fighting out a duel.” That’s okay, because the brilliant flash of uptempo psychedelia that is “Peak Hour” follows it. I’d never heard this song before, and it rules, as do “Forever Afternoon (Tuesday?)” and fancy’s karaoke favourite “Nights in White Satin.” This album helped point the way to most of the music I care about.

Museo Rosenbach Zarathustra
What took you so long?
Reputed to be one of the finest of all Italian prog albums (“dark” prog at that), I had to finally give in and mail order a CD copy of this 1973 release.
Was it worth the wait?
Yes indeed. It took me a while to get into, but after listening to it about four times through at work today, I’ve decided this is a classic. And forget the prog label; Zarathustra is simply crazy, ambitious rock music. The first “side” is a 20-minute, five-part epic, with three more songs on the flip. Like most Italian bands, they have a strident, declamatory vocalist. The lyrics are all in Italian, so I have no idea what’s going on. I do understand rocking, which is what the rest of the group does. They’re not virtuosos, and the music is mostly keyboard-led with well-composed parts that don’t leave room for solos. I hear an amalgam of symph-rock icons in their music—Genesis, ELP, Tull, with a nod to Van der Graaf at their heaviest. I’m probably nuts, but I hear a bit of Air during “Della Natura,” too. Maybe it’s just the mass Mellotron both bands use. Anyway, add this to the top 20 of 1973, the year before rock attained perfection.

Opeth, Moonspell and DevilDriver, January 23 at the Commodore Ballroom
I was really looking forward to this show. Opeth have been my favourite currently active metal band for about eight years now, and finally they were coming to town. Circumstances intervened, however, and I didn't quite get the show I was expecting.

Devildriver's frontman had an American flag hanging out his back pocket and played up the working class hero angle with the crowd. I didn't hear any songs, though.

The singer for Portugal's Moonspell had a really peculiar accent and looked like a gangly cross between Nick Cave and Hugo Weaving. He faced down a patch of raised middle fingers sprouting from the pit and helped his band gradually win over a fair portion of the crowd. Their midtempo goth metal isn't really my bag anymore (bands like Tiamat and Samael released classic albums in this style, back when we hadn't heard it all before), but their songs came across pretty well. "Opium" is a pretty decent stomper.

With drummer Martin Lopez having flown home, apparently panic stricken over the thought of touring in the land of donut shops and Don Cherry (or more specifically, the land of Ralph Klein and Gordon Campbell), Opeth were in a tight spot. Their drum roadie was behind the kit when they began the concert with a set from Damnation (opening with “In My Time of Need”) and a Deep Purple cover—“Soldier of Fortune” (from the Coverdale-era Stormbringer). Singer/guitarist Mikael Akerfeldt explained the situation well, and the crowd was very forgiving. He joked at one point that they had tried to teach “Black Rose Immortal” (the Morningrise album's nearly 20-minute centrepiece) to the drum tech, but they only had half an hour to do it. Despite the focus on the exclusively mellow new album, I was more than happy. Damnation contained some of the finest songs I heard last year.

After a set of “softies,” as Mikael described them, transplanted local boy Gene Hoglan came on and they did two more songs: “The Drapery Falls” and “Demon of the Fall.” This is what the crowd had been waiting for—some proper Opeth epics. Everyone was well into it, and Mikael's first death vox got a huge cheer. Mikael commented that Gene had nailed the first song in one take during soundcheck; he got the other song in two takes. Come showtime, Gene was bang on.

And that was it—half a set from 3/4 of the band. They appeared as upset about the situation as the crowd was, but overall the gig had a good vibe, truncated as it was. They held an autograph session at the merch table afterwards, but I didn’t stick around for that. I guess I’ll get a more complete impression of what Opeth can do live when I get my hands on the Lamentations DVD. I finally got to see them in the flesh, though, and that counts for a lot.

Refund, please! Disappointing gig stories: Progressive Ears has a ton of them in the OT Forum. I tried to link directly to the topic, but it kept going all pear-shaped.

This mighty fine thread gets off to a roaring start with a story about Miles Davis executing the exact opposite of a roaring start in '74.

Speaking of things (such as LotR) that occupy the mystical border between prog and metal:
"Santas' [sic] cloaks provide unique 'canvasses,' flawlessly showcasing Mr. Agnew's dramatic wolf art."

We’ve been on a Twin Peaks kick lately, plowing through a bunch of episodes that I taped when it originally aired. Fancylady never watched the show—she was too busy getting a life at the time.

I can imagine a lot of people still holding a grudge against Twin Peaks. I bet people have bitter memories of inane water cooler conversations about who killed Laura Palmer, or of Halloween parties where four people came as the Log Lady. Even I got tired of “damn good coffee!” and other catchphrasery, the same way that I want to clobber anyone who says “yada yada yada” within earshot these days.

But I won’t question the fact that Twin Peaks is/was quality television. It was probably the first time that an American network produced anything that you could compare favourably to Denis Potter’s The Singing Detective or Lars von Trier’s The Kingdom. It did pretty well in the ratings, too, until, like most American shows, it lost its original spark and outstayed its welcome.

Aside from the occasional mullet on display, Twin Peaks hasn’t dated too badly. Because I already know what’s going to happen plot-wise, I’m finding a lot of other things to enjoy about the show.

* The opening credit sequence of automated saw blade sharpening is really soothing and beautiful.

* The relationship between Major Briggs and his son Bobby is both hilarious and touching. It’s easy to chuckle at the Major (who is always in uniform and speaks in a grave tone that never wavers) and his heartfelt efforts to connect emotionally with his son. Yet it’s hard not to feel for him, because he never gives up or shows any irritability in the face of his son’s utter indifference and contempt.

* There was a time when Lara Flynn Boyle looked like a healthy human being.

* Invitation to Love. This is Twin Peaks’ show within a show, a ridiculous soap opera that’s on TV in the background of many scenes. I guess Invitation to Love is Lynch reminding us, not very subtly, that we’re watching a soap opera ourselves. Anyway, I like that Invitation to Love is always on, day or night, and that all the characters, regardless of age and gender, watch it.

* Jerry Horne and his obsession with exotic food.

* My all-time favourite Twin Peaks scene. Near the end of episode 10 we find ourselves at a singalong (or a recording session?) on the floor of the Palmers’ living room. James, Donna and Maddie sit around some 50s-style microphones. James says, “That was really good. Let’s try it again.” They begin singing a simple ballad whose lyrics mainly consist of “Just you and I/Together forever in love.” James plays a hollow-body electric guitar and sings in an unearthly falsetto. As the song progresses, bass and drums join in. All three kids seem entranced by the sounds they’re making. Donna and Maddie, who’ve come to resemble each other during the episode, sing backup. Donna looks at Maddie looking at James, then at James looking at Maddie, then becomes upset and runs off. James gets up to console her and the music stops abruptly, like the tape was cut. As James and Donna kiss, Maddie, alone and perplexed on the floor, has a frightening vision of BOB.

I love this scene for its randomness. Aside from the romantic tension and Maddie’s vision, it doesn’t have anything to do with the plot. None of the characters have shown any musical inclinations before, and what’s the deal with those microphones and James’s voice? I also love it because of the creepy song they sing. I assume that David Lynch wrote it, because the phrasing is similar to his “Heaven (Lady in the Radiator)” song from Eraserhead. The mysterious James song isn’t on the soundtrack album, unfortunately, so the only way to enjoy it is to watch this scene over and over—which I have.

We’re also watching the Ben Stiller Show these days. I only have a 10-minute scrap of it on tape as evidence of its brief lifespan, but fancy got me the whole works on DVD for my birthday. There’s a definite early 90s slant to our entertainment intake right now. Where will it end? I invite you to break down our door and berate us if we start listening to The Spin Doctors.

I had a good birthday week. I'm the last of the family line in Vancouver right now (everyone's flown to New Zealand), but fancy and friends kept me entertained over the weekend. The belter and I saw LoTR RotK on Friday night. Jetbot posted this first, but Lord of the Rings is very metal...and extremely prog, I should add. Hobbits and elves = prog. Orcs and men = metal. All the talk of Minas Morgul in the movie made me want to slap on the namesake album by Summoning, who are probably the most Tolkienesque metal band ever, aside from Isildur's Bane, Amon Amarth, Isengard, Nazgul, Cirith Ungol, Gorgoroth, and (Sil)Marillion.

On Saturday we ate Greek with Mel and Adam (thanks!). It was so good I had to deploy the hollow leg. Back home, there was nothing but figure skating on TV, but I got to see this one skater who'd selected "Dust in the Wind" for her long program. We decided she must have been from Quebec. No artistically timid Anglophone athlete would invite spectators to contemplate their own mortality at a figure skating competition.

Fancylady's been sick for a while, and she finally succumbed to laryngitis later that night. The next morning, her voice approximated Deirdre Barlow's oxygen-starved wheeze. It felt like the Drear herself was next to me on the couch for Sunday morning Corrie. She tried out a quick impression—"Oh, Ken!"—and it was stunning. I asked her to give me a "Tracy luv," but she'd finished channelling Deirdre for the day. Oh, well, if I want Corrie impressions, I can always enjoy my favourite—Glen Campbell as Roy Cropper.

Greetings from Vancouver, where severe winter weather doesn't stop people from wearing yoga pants.

On days like today, I can almost believe that this city won't look completely idiotic when it hosts the Winter Olympics.

“No more groceries—only DVDs.”
This is the new household credo, thanks to a present from the awesomely generous Fraylors. We may go hungry…but we’ll never be starved for entertainment (boom-ching).

I’ve been having concert dreams lately. Last night I dreamt that I went to see Djam Karet at the Pacific Coliseum. About eight people were there, and my friend Smash was a no-show. I’m always alone in concert dreams. I also had a dream about the Deep Purple/Thin Lizzy show coming to the Orpheum this February. I was walking up the aisle trying to find my seat when I came upon a feisty Cloris Leachman, who insulted both my gender and my economic status during our brief exchange. My seat, it turned out, was in the last row and faced the back wall. Concerts bring out the worrier in me.

Fancylady and I will be going to the Purple/Lizzy gig. My concert dream-cycle may be over by then, but fancy will have to face her worst nightmare—witnessing a performance of “The Boys Are Back in Town.”