Ozzy Osbourne, Finger Eleven and Voivod: June1, 2003, GM Place
My good friend Bob Sox came through with some comps for this show, charitably promoted by the Sun’s “Queue” section as a “white trash be-in.” This is in contrast, I presume, to the sophisticated events the Sun endorses, at which Malcolm Parry climbs a step stool and happily snaps away while the city’s intelligentsia mash their fake breasts together.

Anyway, after pre-show drinks at Dix (where Scum dropped a you-had-to-be-there reference to the blue Beatles double album), we headed to the rink. We had to be on time for this gig—no Trowering!—because Voivod were first on the bill.

Smash was hell bent on exchanging his comp ticket for a floor ticket, but the scalpers wouldn’t go for it, nor could he fool the folks inside GM Place giving out green wristband passes to people with floor tickets. Our seats turned out to be just fine—16 rows up on the left side of the stage.

When you’re facing a big unknown like a job interview or a major trip, you can mull it over for a long time, posit a scenario from all the variables and contingencies, and decide you’ve got a good handle on it. But oftentimes when the event arrives and you’re in the midst of it, you realize that you had no idea all along. This is what happened when the lights went down and Voivod came on stage.

Piggy struck up the crawling two-note intro to the Voivod theme song, the self-titled track that opened up their debut album—just like on Sabbath’s first record. “Ha-ha, a nice little teaser,” I thought. “Now they’ll go into something from the new album.” Snake played a little air violin for the crowd down front—the floor was about 1/3 full at this point, with a few hundred other people scattered around the lower tier of seats. Piggy finished the intro with a final note rising to full volume. Snake walked up to the mike…

“VOIVOD!”

Christ on a crutch! Away they went, thrashing like it was 1984, playing “Voivod” by Voivod in GM Place with an ex-member of Metallica on bass. Whoa. This wasn’t on the tickets or in the ads. There was no recent post on Blabbermouth saying, “Voivod to open set with ‘Voivod’”. I went a bit mental.

They didn’t peak with that molten oldie either. They maintained the mania through a stupendous seven-song set, which balanced the new—“Rebel Robot,” “We Are Not Alone,” “Gasmask Revival” and “We Carry On”—with the old, including a rock solid version of “Tribal Convictions,” the “hit single” (in South Burnaby or on Ganymede) from 1988’s Dimension Hatross (the tremolo guitar part near the end sounded huge in the hockey barn) and set closer “Astronomy Domine” where Piggy compensated for muffing up the solo by pulling out his toy laser gun for some spatial FX. A glorious half hour, which I’m still buzzing from.

After declaring a crushing victory for rock ’n’ roll, Smash took off for parts unknown while I waited for Finger Eleven to come on. When they did, F11 brought out the grumpy old man in me, with their overblown Percussion Institute of Technology-grad drummer and guitarists who thought they were in the Dillinger Escape Plan or Botch, spasming across the stage like electrified mice while playing F11’s heavily amplified campfire songs. The crowd didn’t take to it either, and started chanting, Ozzy, Ozzy… “He’ll be out here soon,” promised the singer, “but not soon enough, I guess.” I went for a walk after four songs.

Ozzy opened strong with “War Pigs” and paced himself through a nearly two-hour show. I’d been expecting an hour plus an encore at most. While I’m not a great fan of solo Ozzy, a lot of other people are, judging by the number of his tunes in Popoff’s top 500 book. The set list delivered the usual—“Mr. Crowley,” “Crazy Train,” “Suicide Solution,” “I Don’t Know,” “Flying High Again,” “Mama I’m Coming Home,” et cetera. To my relief, he busted out some excellent Sabbath surprises, like “The Wizard,” which kicked off a medley of “After Forever,” “Into the Void,” and “Fairies Wear Boots.” He also sang “NIB,” and sang it very well; better than he did in 1970, in fact (I have a videotape that can prove it!). He resorted to confused slurring at other points, especially the last part of “After Forever.”

As for the rest of the band, Jasonic was doing his best at being Geezer with a plectrum. I thought his tone suited Voivod better than it did Ozzy’s more bluesy material. Guitarist Zakk Wylde is like some genetically engineered, lab-tested rock star (yeah, and didn’t he play a rock star in Rock Star?), grimacing and sweating and soloing like a sumvabitch, and throwing in an excerpt from “Eruption” during his solo spot. When we compared notes after the show, Ken stated that he’s not a huge fan—“Zakk Wylde’s not a blues guy. I think Ozzy should hook up with Marino.”

Ozzy himself was quite low key, for Ozzy. Close-ups on the big screen showed his face screwed up in concentration while he sang, his gaze not connecting with anything except the teleprompter at his feet. He made an effort while away from the mike, attempting a few leapfrog jumps, getting the crowd to clap their hands, and throwing bucketfuls of water over the first few rows—don’t slip a disc there, Ozzy!

Near the end of the show, he abandoned his “go crazy!” and “I love you all!” mantras to give us an update on Sharon’s cancer (beaten) and Jack’s stay in rehab (going well), and a warning against drinking and driving on the way home. His current fame as a TV dad was reflected in the number of parents with kids in the audience. I won’t say much about the suitability of Ozzy on TV or in concert for impressionable 10-year-olds other than better Ozzy than Grand Theft Auto. I will say that I hope all the Billys in attendance got a wholesome dose of Voivod as well.

When the show was over, I waited for Smash to come back from the floor—he got down there using a wristband that Ken fashioned from excess green tape and dental floss—then we merged into the flow of people heading to the exits. We found Scum and Ken all right, but Sox never turned up. I didn’t get a chance to thank him for the ticket on the way home, so I’d like to do it here. Cheers, man. It was a great night.

I read the news today oh boy about parents using the Fraser Institute’s annual high school rankings to select the "best" schools for their kids. The Liberal government says parents are free to choose any school regardless of where they reside in the city. Choice is good, competition is good (the message goes), whether it's stereo equipment or your kid's education. Forget about your neighbourhood. The Fraser Institute says the school down the block sucks, so you might as well let it rot and join the queue of SUVs headed west every morning.

East Side high schools like John Oliver are below capacity, while West Side schools like Eric Hamber have to install portables to meet the demand for space. Stories like this make me want to smash stuff with a crowbar.

Lunch in the cafeteria at work still stresses me out. I had a good lunch yesterday, though, chatting about music and drumming with a few likeminded people. I think I managed to sell a couple more tickets to the Terry Bozzio clinic this Saturday, too.

I always seize up when someone asks me who my favourite drummers are. Yesterday my list included Billy Cobham, Tony Williams and, for Canadian content, NP. I forgot about Bill Bruford (you’ll be surprised to hear), as well as Phil Collins (who’ll I’ll always vouch for as a drummer), Ian Paice, John Bonham, and Bill Ward.

They’re all worthy, but lately I haven’t enjoyed a drummer as much as Ginger Baker on Sunrise on the Sufferbus. I should have mentioned him as well. I need to be more evangelical about that album when I have the chance.

Inspired by a raise at work and a 72-cent Canadian dollar, I went on a mail-order rampage earlier this month. Everything arrived intact and on time, so let’s inspect the ugliness:

JPT Scare Band – Sleeping Sickness (Monster Records)
I’ve mentioned this ’70s basement power trio here before. The album alternates between loose jams with endless soloing and shorter numbers that reside firmly in Robin Trower/Firebird territory. They manage to be many different things at once (depending, I guess, on your mood or perspective): grim/cheerful, lax/disciplined, hopeless/inspiring…

Manilla Road – Mark of the Beast (Monster Records)
I salute Monster Records for bringing stuff like this to light. This is burger-brained American progressive metal circa 1981, floundering without a template (save the remote and untouchable Rush and Priest), and hobbled like Script-era Marillion. Utterly doomed but ultimately interesting. This must be the missing link to something, and not just because of all the knuckle dragging on display.

Various – Sucking the 70s (Small Stone Records)
A good tribute album/novelty record here. This two-CD set has a bunch of bands covering hits and obscurities from the ’70s, respectfully for the most part, with good performances and tones from nearly everybody. Highlights: Clutch plowing through “Cross-Eyed Mary,” Throttlerod’s “Black Betty,” “Working Man” by Suplecs and a few others. Lowlights: Men of Porn butthole surfing through Neil Young’s “On the Weekend,” and The Glasspack covering “TV Eye”—an unimaginative choice of what is a tedious song in anyone but Iggy’s hands.

Acqua Fragile – S/T (Numero Uno/BMG)
Art rock bands sprouted up like giant hogweeds in mid-70s Italy, releasing a fanboy-friendly album or two before disappearing. This album dates from 76 and sounds a lot like Trespass-era Genesis, complete with a singer who yelps like Peter Gabriel (and a bit like Bryan Ferry). Too much to absorb after only a couple spins.

Museo Rosenbach – Zarathustra (BMG Italy)
As above, except much more evil. A bad trip from 1973. If listening to this didn’t make me feel like I should be cut off, then maybe it should have.

We rented FUBAR last weekend, a fine Canadian movie probably made for the price of one day’s catering on the Matrix Reloaded set. It’s got metal, pathos, plot twists, mass shotgunning of Styles, awesome stoner profundities, and some Gummo-style chair destruction. Big laughs throughout. At first I was wary of how the movie (which is presented as a mockumentary that strays into reality for a couple interesting scenes) regarded its lead characters—are the actors just a couple of classist thespians playing headbanger dressup? But as the movie progressed, the characters were fleshed out enough to see that yeah, the filmmakers actually understand and like their subjects.

It’s too bad that the mockumentary genre has only come of age lately. It would have been the perfect format for a McKenzie brothers movie. Instead we have Strange Brew, so we have to lump it. It has its moments, though.

We also saw Rock Star, with Mark Wahlberg as not-really-Ripper Owens. Phew. It had me at first—it seemed to be set in an alternate universe where rival local tribute bands rumble in parking lots and play in steel factories for hundreds of rabid fans, where heavy metal bands hold press conferences on live television, and where people at concerts can have heartfelt conversations without raising their voices. Just when I thought (and hoped) that this Farrelly-brothers-type absurdity would be the movie’s style, it tapered off and became all earnest, and then I didn’t know what to think. The last few minutes, though, featured a couple of plot cappers that were well worth the cheesy wait.

Tess and Casper down the hall once had a showing of this movie, which is a way better version of the Rock Star scenario. At least it knows what it wants to be, which is totally mental.

When I’m standing at the bus stop, I hate how people in cars look at me like I’m an animal at one of those drive-through wildlife safari parks. When I visited San Diego Zoo as a kid I saw a gorilla nail a guy with a clod of poo (highlight of the trip, maybe even my entire childhood). If only one of my fellow great apes at the bus stop could take similar action against one of those looky-loos.

There’s this really bad bus ad for Adidas SL footwear (which look like you’ve got casts on both feet or are wearing thick plastic socks). It’s got a picture of the shoe in the middle and it’s surrounded by fake notebook scrawl creepily obsessing about how great these shoes are and how the writer must buy them when they’re released on April 17—“When I wear them, people will worship me” “My life begins 04/17” and so on. It’s some ad exec’s idea of being down with the kids these days, when in reality they’re just associating the product with a shallow, pathetic personality type.

(Nothing against Adidas here. But I wear Stan Smiths relieved that they'll probably never be advertised that way, if they're ever advertised at all.)

As with the Creeps and Losers campaign, I’m glad I’m not the only who notices these things. Twice I’ve seen this Adidas ad defaced in a fairily clever way. In one case someone had stuck a “Hello, my name is SLAVE LABOR” sticker to it. Today I saw it with a sticker that read “these shoes are for posers.” This is what I like to see. Conversation.

With the belter at the Western Canadian Magazine Awards tonight, I had the place to myself. After she left, I looked out the peephole to make sure the coast was clear, then I locked the door. I turned on the TV, making sure the volume wasn’t too loud. Finally I kicked off my pants, flopped down on the chesterfield and watched a Queen concert on the CBC.

Well, it wasn’t really Queen—more like Roger Taylor and Brian May and Phil Collins out of Genesis and dozens of nobodies. It wasn’t really a concert either. It was some kind of outdoor fest adjacent to Buckingham Palace. They did four songs, then got off.

First up: “Radio Ga-Ga.” Not a good way to start. Roger Taylor sang this one. He wrote it, didn’t he? I wasn’t buying Queen albums when this came out, so I can’t check credits. The crowd did the obligatory Nuremberg rally hand-clap routine and that was that. If Roger had to do one of his songs, I would have preferred “Tenement Funster.”

“We Will Rock You” (May sang this one) and “We Are the Champions” followed. Someone named Will Young came on stage and took the mike for the latter tune. (I just had a look, and young Will actually battled Gareth Gates to take England’s Pop Idol competition.)

At some point during this double-shot, the stage was invaded by…what the hell was that? Some kind of mob swathed in torn denim and Danskin. The cast of Cats? Oh, right, it must be the cast of that Queen musical, the one Ben Elton ripped off the plotline of 2112 for.

Finally the money shot—“Bohemian Rhapsody.” I eyed the door nervously. What if the belter forgot her purse and came charging in? I picked up the remote, ready to change the channel at a split-second’s notice.

But what’s this? Some red-shirted weed from the Queen musical had the mike now, performing the song as a duet with a short blonde woman. This made no sense at all. Then, after the cast of dozens did the opera section, a black lady with a hairdo like the Heat Miser sang the heavy bit at the end. It was a far weirder scene than anything Freddie Mercury could have dreamt up.

“Anyway the wind blows…” As the final gong reverberated, so did the guilt and shame through my being.

The BC pulp and paper industry breathes a collective sigh of relief, one-industry towns rebound from years of recession, beleaguered workers vie for nightshift hours at the mill and start paying off their pickup trucks in droves. Our dour province brightens with the bracing economic domino effect.

Wha’ happen? Well, Martin Popoff has a new book out; another Farmer’s Almanac/Atlas Shrugged/Bible-sized treatise on heavy metal. Forests shudder in fear. The Top 500 Heavy Metal Songs of All Time is a workmanlike title for a workmanlike book, but Popoff’s knack for churning out the wordage has already blistered my fingertips from page flipping.

As the title says, this is a big MFing list of songs, each with a Popoff analysis and a quote by the artist in question from Martin’s archives. What really brings the book alive, though, is that this isn’t the author’s personal list. He has compiled (with some help from his dad) the top 500 from lists submitted by punters like you and me. I recall sending him my list—I can’t remember my final tally at all, but I’m positive it was a pretty hapless attempt to encapsulate everything metallically Mulish.

Luckily for the reader, Martin doesn’t necessarily approve of the results, and he expresses his dismay hilariously throughout (caveat: I’m only 1/3 of my way through the book, so maybe he calms down after a while…after all, it’s not really worth getting too worked up over #378). “Stairway to Heaven” (#35) “would have made a good b-side,” while (ugh) “You’ve Got Another Thing Comin'” (#29) is Judas Priest’s “Gene Simmons tribute, sweaty leathers, percussive retardation post-Peter Criss…” Heh-heh and amen.

Popoff punctuates the list at various points with top tens from musicians he’s talked to, which throw up the occasional surprise. Marty Friedman (ex-Megadeth) favours Cheap Trick, Mahogany Rush and The Donnas, while Paul Di’Anno gives credit to noted rivethead Gary Numan (“Cars”—didn’t Fear Factory cover this?) and Acmac’s former idoles Trust (“Antisocial”).

The quotes connected to the songs occasionally cough up some new behind-the-scenes info. I’d like to think Popoff has selected them with a keen sense of insight into exactly who his audience is. He knows we’ll get it when John Paul Jones says, “Robert, sometimes, just to get a song going, would use lyrics that he knew, and then he would change them; sometimes not.” He knows that we’ll roll our eyes at all the Metallica quotes, which seem to have been procured during the Load/Reload lean years, and which offer nothing but lame excuses as to why they’ll never pen anything as good as “Trapped Under Ice” ever again.

It’s adequately proofread—I’ve come across a few clunkers, and something goes very awry in the introduction. It’s one of Martin’s better-presented books once you get past the cover and dive into the guts of the thing.

Basically I’m having a riot reading it, and I have an overwhelming urge to get my records out and compile a 500-song CD-R of the tunes dissected within. If only I had some UFO albums, I’d be set.

If you'd like to know what number one is, you'd better buy the book.

My indiepop cred score is 42%. I wear lots of sweaters, but I need cooler glasses.

We did end up seeing A Mighty Wind on Saturday. If I could describe the movie in one word it’d be “comfortable.” It was also hilarious and gentle and…folksy. It’s not going to redefine the parameters of modern comedic cinema, but that’s not what I expected it to do. For me, it’s more than enough to see a movie populated by people (actors and characters) that I really, really, really like. I spent the whole 90 minutes just staring at the screen in admiration: “Wow, Catherine O’Hara and Eugene Levy are so good together. Gee, Harry Shearer’s bass playing is sure coming along. Can I take some of what Fred Willard’s been taking? Can Christopher Guest just make one of these every six months?” The movie left us obscenely cheery for the rest of the weekend. Even the Fifth Avenue Theatre didn’t seem like such an evil place afterward.

I can’t stop listening to “Nine Feet Underground” by Caravan. Twenty minute progressive rock epics get a bad rap for being 20-minute progressive rock epics, but Nine Feet… achieves the impossible by being light, breezy and subtle—a country drive in a Jaguar E-type rather than a lightspeed journey into the Horsehead Nebula. Although it’s dated as hell, it wears its stripey flares and sideburns with a slightly smirking dignity. The belter thinks it sounds like porno music (I'm not sure what porno music sounds like—I only watch G-rated movies like A Mighty Wind). To me it sounds like England and the soundtrack to an older generation’s perfect youth.

A conversation we had last weekend about Hollywood’s waste of John Candy’s talents led to the belter and me watching Uncle Buck last night. Although it’s pretty much John Hughes hitting his formulaic stride (cute kids, a dog, upper middle class family learning to love one another again), it’s a good showcase for Candy. I knew he’d be in fine form early in the movie, when Buck answers a 2 AM phone call from his brother. Before he can talk, he has a giant coughing fit to loosen the booze and nicotine gumming up his throat, then in a brief shot, he does the Stephan Seely of Pre-Teen World dry-mouth grimace. Magic.

On a similar SCTV, improv-related note, I think we’ll finally get to see A Mighty Wind on Saturday.

Saw a kid the other day with a Minor Threat patch and a pot leaf emblem sewn onto her backpack. This is either philosophical lethargy or an example of keeping all your options open.

In other news, I’m happy to see that ACM has posted another installment of blacknblues. He’s written a substantial and entertaining appreciation of the guitar solo that’s definitely worth a careful read. He uses yer basic top 20 list as a skeleton for the article, but there’s definitely meat on those bones. ACM’s healthy respect for musical history and command of the instrument means he’s the man for the job. Any list I’d attempt would alternate between May and Lifeson, inducing comas all around.

To further his discussion, though, here's a quote from a highly caffeinated Warrel Dane (of Nevermore) in the latest BW&BK: "People are getting sick of all the stuff they see on MTV. There's crunching heavy metal but there's no guitar solos in the shit. I know I'm tired of it. It's a sad, sad, state of affairs when one of the most popular bands that has guitar solos is Creed. Help me, help me, slit my wrists now for God's sakes."

The Dirty Three, May 3 at the Town Pump
The Dirty Three have an uncalculated, almost accidental quality that I like. They’re simply a violinist, guitarist and drummer who play the way they want to play, and fortunately they sound really good together. As an instrumental group, The Dirty Three are all about a sound. I find their songs to be fairly interchangeable to be honest, but it’s a privilege just to wallow in their vibe for a while. I enjoy their drummer too. He can extract more from three drums, a high-hat and two cymbals than any drummer I’ve seen. And when his basic kit isn’t enough, he’ll toss a small tambourine or wood block onto his snare and knock that around for a bit.

The Town Pump on Saturday night was much busier than Richards on Richards a couple years ago when I first saw The Dirty Three. To match the larger crowd, the band had grown in number too. They had the bass player from Low on this tour, making them the Dirty Four for about 3/4 of the set.

As you’d probably guess, I’ve got a soft spot for violins in rock music. Bands with violins are uniformly cool: Curved Air, Van der Graaf circa 77/78, Mahavishnu, Boud Deun, Godspeed You Black Emperor, My Dying Bride, etc. The Dirty Three’s Warren Ellis is more of an all-rounder than a fleet fingered prog scientist, combining soloist, conductor, and emcee in one slightly rumpled Aussie. Like his occasional employer Nick Cave, he’s got a black sense of humour that he exercises between songs, outlining the dire scenario that each selection illustrates. I think he’s a great frontman. The belter doesn’t agree. She has serious credibility issues with anyone who wears red pants.

It wasn’t the band’s fault, but the gig was a bit of an endurance test. The club was a sweatbox, so as soon as The Dirty Three finished their encore and waved goodbye, we headed for the exit to air ourselves out on the Water St. sidewalk.

I nearly fell out of my chair when I visited Head Heritage on Saturday. Top man Julian Cope, one of Difficult Music’s latter-day spiritual leaders despite the fact I’ve never heard one of his records, has given album of the month honours to one of my cornerstones of Western civilization— Pawn Hearts by Van der Graaf Generator. Cope’s lengthy assessment of this three-song barrage of existential crises almost glows with unhinged rockdog prose and affection for the unloved and unlovable: "This was rock’n’roll only because no other category would fit, and rock’n’roll was slack enough to accommodate this mongrel gang of weaners whose only common ground was that everyone hated them all."

It’s an album I’m underqualified/too chickenshit to write about, so read the review and consider it a guest entry in the next-to-nonexistent Difficult Music classic album series. Thanks, Mr. Cope.

I’m going to give everybody a break from my usual anti-female tirades and talk about grocery shopping.

Disaster at the IGA last night. I lost a loonie in a shopping cart because the cart wrangler had already locked the carts in their pen for the night. There were no other carts for my cart to mate with, thus the loonie-releasing mechanism couldn’t function. The belter eventually persuaded me to accept the situation and come home with her.

Enjoy your tip, cart wrangler.

The whole grocery store seethed with frustration last night. Our cashier buddy Aron had reached the end of his shift and the end of his tether. I received a lesson on how to place a dividing bar on the conveyor belt to separate my stuff from the stuff belonging to the person ahead of me. What he didn’t know is that I have issues with divider bars. I don’t use them. To me, they’re a symbol of urban paranoia and alienation. When someone slams one down between my groceries and theirs, I take it almost as an assault on my competence and good character. The gesture says “Get away from me and my stuff, which I haven’t actually paid for, but which I consider mine. What are you trying to pull, anyway?” Whereas I’ve taken care to place my stuff eight to ten inches away from theirs, I’m following it along the conveyor belt, I’m making sure that my fig newtons don’t get charged to someone else’s bill, and I’ll speak up if the cashier goes to scan the wrong item. I’m aware of what’s going on, and I’m in control of the situation.

I’m trying to apply a little cognizance and trust to what I do out in the world, but I shouldn’t expect anyone to understand that. What people understand are grimy plastic dividers separating their food as it glides towards the cashier.

New music around the place. I got a raise last week, so I dropped by Scrape and picked up the following:
Ulver: Lyckantropen Themes
I think the first Ulver album I bought was Nattens Madrigal, a deliberately perverse and unlistenable heap of black metal fuzz that was their one and only release on Century Media. The promo photos at that time showed the band in black suits and sunglasses, Reservoir Dogs style, with a big black American car in the background. These accessories, the story goes, are what they spent their advance on. Century Media made the best of a bad situation by claiming that Nattens’s “grimness of sound” was the result of it having been recorded live to four-track in the Norwegian woods. As such it was authentic, evil, and cult. Too bad it sounded like a miked-up sewing machine. I love Ulver. Lyckantropen Themes is the soundtrack to a short film by Steve Ericsson. The music extends the style they developed on Perdition City, their last full-length—it’s mostly ambient, wordless and beatless, flowing from one interlude to another. A chordal motif reappears at various points, but there’s nothing much to ground the listener. I’m pretty sure this will be one of those albums, like Boards of Canada’s Geogaddi, that sounds slightly different every time I play it. By the way, I bet my friend the Shockker could make an album like this in his sleep.

Katatonia: Viva Emptiness
Their previous album, Last Fair Deal Gone Down, was a great collection of death-pop and the soundtrack to my full-on summer of 2001. The sticker on the front of the new one has a quote from Chris Bruni (who writes for U! and Brave Words) declaring it “A masterpiece for the ages.” I’ll have to listen to it a few more times before deciding whether this is true or whether Chris was just overexcited at receiving the advance promo before everyone else.

Opeth: Damnation
So Opeth finally deliver the mellow prog album I’ve wanted from them since Morningrise. Am I wetting my pants? Is this a masterpiece for the ages? Well, at this point (having listened to it twice), it’s shaping up to be a fairly minor release in the Opeth catalogue. I expected more twists and turns…more drama. I hoped they’d bring the abrupt song structures of their heavy epics into a mellower arena. Although I’m struck by how low-key this album is, I can’t deny that the songs are memorable—I’ve got about eight different sections, lyrics and hooks bouncing around my head right now. My favourite tracks so far are the mellotron laden (both string and choir settings!) opener , “Windowpane” (an outstanding song), the middle piece, “Closure,” and “Weakness,” a surprising electric piano and voice duet that ends the album. Mikael Akerfeldt thanks his record collection for “making this album come true,” which is something I can relate to. From track to track, Damnation sounds like Porcupine Tree, Camel, and Nick Drake, all of whom Akerfeldt has namechecked in interviews over the years. Despite my semi-thwarted expectations, you know I’m loving this.

This is what the Internet looks like
I can't stop looking at this thing [NSFW, at times]. "Exterminate all rational thought" may be overstating its potential to blow your mind, but it's still pretty cool.

In my capacity as cub reporter for Unrestrained! magazine, I interviewed Jim Matheos of Fates Warning and OSI a couple weeks ago. When I asked him if he listened to his own music much, I found myself totally relating to his answer.

“No, not much at all, really. And that’s one thing that I find interesting about OSI is that it’s one of the only records that I’ve done that I can listen to for enjoyment. I still put it on occasionally just to listen to and I think that’s partly because I didn’t have total control over it, and there’s still a lot of surprises to me. So I can listen to it as something fresh and kind of enjoy it as a fan. Whereas something with Fates Warning, I’ve been through it so many times it’s absolutely impossible for me to listen to it objectively.”

What he said made me think of the last Dead City Radio (Roadway) album. I recorded it with Greg and Adam in Edmonton in March 1999, then forgot about it for a while. When I visited Greg last spring, he had just finished putting the album together. On my first night there we sat down and listened to the whole thing. Apart from being reminded of how productive our sessions were, and being highly amused by what the drummer was trying to do, I was really impressed by how well these half-forgotten jams worked as an album.

So when I got back home I listened to the album some more. And some more. It went into heavy rotation. I even felt comfortable playing it around the belter. I’ve listened to it more than anything else I’ve recorded, written, or played on. It could be because it’s a mostly instrumental album, and vocals are the number one “run away and hide” factor with my own stuff. It could be the lush, homegrown mix, as inviting as the smell of fresh-baked cookies. But I’m sure a little distance—time, geography, and personal perspective—has also helped me enjoy the CD as much as I have.

These days I’m looking at the calendar and exchanging emails with Greg, making plans to go back out this summer.

I was all set to take off to the D Room for some jamming today. Unfortunately I got an email from Sox in the morning that described circumstances that stopped me from going over. Sometimes the serious side of life intrudes on the Sunday scene.

For years and years at the D Room all we’d do was roll tape and jam. Taping everything is the way things are done there. The evidence is everywhere. Old cassettes spill out on to the floor. Dozens of unlabeled VHS tapes (from the days we recorded direct to stereo VCR) peek out from shelves and behind stacks of old LPs. The closet in Dogo’s old room is full of 1-inch reels. When I’m alone down there I like to sort through the cassettes on the floor, putting them back in drawers for safe keeping. I especially prize the tapes that date from before I knew the Logan boys. It does my heart good to find a tape from the mid-eighties labeled “Hellgrinder: Desecration of Surrey” or somesuch.

We’ve recorded hundreds of hours of jams, but no one listens to them. I’ve always thought it’d be a useful (but thankless) project to go through the tapes, extract the good bits, and put out a compilation of listenable material. I have no doubt we could scare a bunch of people silly with a release like that.

There must be hundreds of bands in hundreds of D Rooms across this continent. Look at the JPT Scare Band—three guys who recorded themselves with two mikes in their jam space in the mid seventies. Now they’re selling CDs of the stuff and recording new material for their newfound audience. I love finding out about bands like this, even if I’m underwhelmed when I inevitably fork out for their albums.

All you need to do is capture a certain musty mystique and sub-cult notoriety can be yours. And (this is the part I like best) you don’t even have to leave the basement.

During game five of the Canucks/St. Louis series last Friday, we were on the ferry to Mayne Island. The belter and I sat near the kids’ play area. My attention alternated between my magazine and Cypress, who was eight feet in the air, clinging to a pole with one hand and holding an Archie Double Digest open with the other, serenely reading while the other kids fought and screamed below her.

A voice came on over the PA. “Ladies and gentlemen, the score in the second period is the Canucks 4, St. Louis 1.”

I love it when that happens. I know it’s corny, but that kind of public hockey update makes me glad to be Canadian. People cheer and strangers talk to each other. Tourists roll their eyes or wonder what’s going on. It’s a rare moment of camaraderie in a country that actually seems to discourage bonding amongst its citizens. A lot of people around us probably wished they were watching the game right then—we were all in the same boat, so to speak, so a considerate BC Ferries employee took pity on us and told us the score. For a few seconds people enjoyed the fact that they had something in common…then they went back to separating their howling kids.

On Sunday night the belter and I joined the parade of white hair up Granville Street towards the Vogue Theatre for the SFU Pipe Band concert. Besides a lot of bagpipes, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Would they just stand there on stage for an hour and a half? Would they march in place? Would it be all bagpipes all the time? Well, it was more like a Scottish variety show than anything else, with a wisecracking host, audience participation, highland flingers, a tap-dancing fiddler, a drum corps solo, and uncountable bagpipers in every conceivable configuration. There was even a bass guitarist and regular drum kit on stage for some rockin' bagpipe numbers.

I think I was most impressed by the solo bagpipe tunes. Sometimes the piper would do some fancy trills or bend notes in a way I’d never heard before—like Yngwie McMalmsteen or something. The crowd (must have been a sellout) was pretty excited by it, and judging by the punches she was landing on my arm, the belter was too. I think I’m going to be taken out to be fitted for a kilt soon.

I went solo to the record sale at the Croatian Cultural Centre on Sunday. Sox wasn’t in the market for anything (ensuring more ELO LPs for everyone else), and neither was Scum… Even the Pantleg Guy skipped this one, I think. I wasn’t in a big buying mood but I had two or three really specific items I was looking for. I couldn’t find any of them. I overheard lots of kids asking for Iron Maiden albums. What’s up with that? Granted, Maiden are a quality outfit, but I’d think they had limited cross-generational appeal aside from possible irony/humour value. Maybe it’s because Sum 41 are always namechecking metal bands (these kids looked too hip to be Sum 41 fans, though) or maybe the twin-lead action of bands like Converge is inspiring youngsters to check out the forefathers.

I also overheard some amusing prog conversations. I could have jumped in if my need for anonymity didn’t override everything else. I also fear my own kind. I wasn’t there to make friends. One guy came up beside me at a table and asked the dealer, “Do you have any European prog? I’m looking for a Belgian band—they used to be Univers Zero, but now they’re called Present.” Now Present happen to be a favourite of mine, and a band that I’d never let a loved one hear in a million years. To have a stranger mention them within earshot was a little unnerving. I had to slowly back away.

At another table a guy started telling his dealer friend about the Baja Prog Festival. PFM were there and so were Focus, but Thijs Van Leer couldn’t play flute because his face was all paralyzed from a stroke, which was a drag. Apparently Ange, from France, blew everyone away and sold mass merch. Man, it’s painful enough reading about these fests on mailing lists and newsgroups, but to hear about it in person? I clenched my jaw and kept rifling through the bins. The other option was to yell “bastard!” and brain him with the nearest Bruce Springsteen live box set.

I left with a copy of The Toyko Tapes (Scorpions with Uli!), an old Alice Cooper album, and a severe acute case of album finger.

Traffic up Main Street picks up after the hockey games. Tonight drivers are honking their horns and shouting a bit. Spirits are high. Apparently somebody let the dogs out.

Mike Watt at the Pic, April 5, 2003
I can never get comfortable at the Pic. The people who look comfortable at the Pic make me uncomfortable. The place is narrow, there’s seating room for about 12 people (and if you’ve got a seat, then you probably can’t see the stage), you’re always standing in someone’s way, and you can’t find anywhere to hide. At least they give you in/out privileges, which can save your bacon during a three-band bill like Smash and I saw last Saturday night.

First band was Esperanto, who alternated between brief instrumentals and acoustic-guitar-led rap numbers. I liked how their singer just sat off to the side during the instrumentals. The highlight of their set came at the end, when their guitarist led the crowd in a call-and-response rap tribute to the Career of Watt. “I say Minute, you say Men… I say Fire, you say Hose…” et cetera. It was cool, not to mention well-researched.

Next band up was The DT's, a three-piece (drums, guitar, keyboards) plus singer from Bellingham. Very impressive trad-kinda-MC5 rock with wailing female vocals. The keyboards drifted in and out of the mix, but the drummer was extremely killer and the guitarist had impressive chops in both the playing and the facial hair sense. Their effort to “stretch things out a bit” caused their last number to outstay its welcome, but a good showing all in all.

Mike Watt slept out in the van while all this was going on. Smash. Smash, who braved the rain to greet the groggy indie veteran, reports that Watt was pretty slow getting to his feet. Apparently his illness, an illness that’s both sapped his energy and fuelled his new material, has returned, and he was this close to calling off the tour. He certainly looked tired as he pushed through the crowd, got on stage, and unpacked his bass. When the gig started he gave it 100% instrumentally and vocally, but when he talked between songs, he sounded exhausted. He played with a drummer (another good drummer! Just once I’d like to see a drummer who totally sucks. It would make me feel better) and a guy on Hammond organ. Apparently they’re both from Pedro. I’m not sure how to describe the band’s sound…maybe ropey and muscular? The lyrics seemed to deal with assorted medical horrors: piss bags and catheters and so on. The off-kilter music occasionally induced as much discomfort as the subject matter. The songs got more streamlined as the set progressed, until by the end they were tearing through “The Red and the Black” (the BOC song that figures prominently in Watt/D Boon folklore) and “Sister Ray.” It was a good show, but I was left wondering whether Mike Watt can keep this up for much longer.

Greg Howard at the Jazz Cellar April 2, 2003
Smash and I went to the Jazz Cellar last Wednesday night. Chapman Stick maestro Greg Howard was in town for a one-off gig en route to a Stick workshop/retreat on Saltspring Island. A number of the workshoppers (from California, Chicago and elsewhere) were also there to see their guru in action. These kinds of freak scenes don’t happen every day, so Smash and I had to take full advantage. Dave, Hannah, Toshi, and Melissa braved it out, too.

The Cellar, whose colour scheme matches the Difficult Music template, was still filling up when Howard started his first set. As a Stick player he was impressive enough—I spent the first few minutes trying to work out where the backing tapes were coming from before deciding that, oh, it’s just one guy playing all those parts—but the drummer he was playing with took the show over the top.

The drummer’s name was Kyle. He was a big dozer in a slablike shortsleeved black shirt with a ninja motif. He looked like a drink-bubba-keg-then-paint-face-for-the-hockey game kind of kid. Well, maybe that’s what he gets up to when he’s not practicing, but he’s also the best drummer ever. From what we gathered, he was just some local guy the organizers floated in for the show, which made his playing even more impressive. A couple bare-bones charts, a few head cues and count-ins from Howard, and he was good to go.

The set list featured a handful of Latiny, fusiony originals, some jazz standards and some pop tunes. Howard covered a lot of ground. He devoted a fair bit of the first set to The Beatles: First, a nice arrangement of “Here There and Everywhere,” then a “Tomorrow Never Knows/Norwegian Wood” medley. I was liking it. The second set summoned Mingus (“Goodbye Porkpie Hat”), Herbie Hancock, and Dylan by way of Hendrix (“All Along the Watchtower”).

If it all sounds kinda lite and safe, at various points he switched on a digital delay and ventured into the world of loops and space rock. I definitely felt the room levitate a few times, which is a desirable effect. When you’re playing the high-tech musical instrument of The Future, there’s little point in using it to simply rehash old hippie shit. You should go nuts with the thing.

The Saltspring Stick workshop people were at a table behind me. I couldn’t spy on them or eavesdrop effectively, although I met one of them, Smash’s email buddy Winston from California, during the intermission. On our way out after the show, Smash wished him well for the rest of the weekend. We shook Mr. Howard’s hand and thanked him for the music, and had much to discuss on the way home.

Both Bruno and David noted separately that Stick players and D&D types have a lot in common. It’s an insular nerd culture—music for nerds played on a nerd instrument for other nerds. I guess we were honourary nerds by being there. That’s the kind of guilt by association I can happily accept.

Letting some web site autogenerate my blog entry was a resounding flop. Let’s see if I can do any better.

“Eighties music.” I bristle whenever I hear some ponytailed, puff-jacketed whelp use the phrase. “It’s got cheesy synthesizers, like eighties music.” The cadence of the phrase, with the accent on the first syllable—“EIGHTies music.” God, I want to start swinging a machete.

I’m a little disturbed by how intensely it grates me. I’m also perplexed. Because I know what music they’re referring to, and I don’t like it either. I didn’t like it when it was brand new, when I was the target audience. The synthesizers were cheesy, the production values grotesque, the hair styles…structurally unsound. Everything on the radio made me cranky. I latched onto anything I could find, from metal to the abortive progressive revival of '82–'83, to avoid it.

So why am I now stung when I hear kids implying that Glass Tiger, Kajagoogoo, et al are the quaintest thing ever? Why do I feel compelled to defend Platinum Blonde from the gentle mocking of Daryns and Vanessas? I guess it’s because I have a small slice of ownership in that decade by dint of alive and aware at the time. I don’t like it when people tar whole decades with the same brush. They always get it wrong.

I just finished a superb book about eighties music, Michael Azerrad’s Our Band Could Be Your Life. The book profiles 13 influential bands from the eighties, from Black Flag to Beat Happening—the bands who basically did the grunt work that enabled Nirvana to break big in 1991.

The book doesn’t advertise this fact, but almost every band profile is accompanied by the story of a record label, a subplot that I found as appealing as the main narrative. Bands and labels helped strengthen each other’s identities, strained each other’s loyalties, bickered and became estranged from each other with the same regularity as the individuals within the bands themselves. The Black Flag story is also the story of SST Records, The Replacements had Twin Tone, Minor Threat and Fugazi were synonymous with Dischord, Big Black and the Butthole Surfers kept Touch & Go afloat. Nearly every chapter ends with the band’s defection to the majors and their “inevitable” artistic decline.

I laughed out loud through the entire thing. Azerrad gets some priceless stuff from his subjects. There’s debauchery: several eyewitnesses gleefully recall Gibby Haynes’ drunken, violent (and naked) rampage at a Dutch Festival. There’s introversion: the Dinosaur Jr chapter is a hilarious litany of passive aggression, pettiness and insecurity. Even Henry “Garfield” Rollins and Ian MacKaye raise an eyebrow with their confessions of an arena rockin’ youth—“We would read about the Nuge and the thing that really rubbed off on us was the fact that he didn’t drink or smoke or do drugs… We thought that was so impressive.”

I admit I wasn’t a fan of most of these bands when they were around. I now wish I had been one of the eight other people in the club during one of their early tours. Most of these bands played Vancouver regularly. I found out about them too late, when they had already finished, or were within an album or two of breaking up. Maybe I was too busy hating stuff in the eighties to find out anything good (and truly contemporary) for myself. Maybe I wasn’t cool enough.

It’s easy to decide how good something was after it’s run its course. It’s often harder to objectively assess something in the present, to take a stand and decide what you like, really like, now. I think that’s what bugs me about the kids and their “eighties music.” It takes very little effort to deride the past, just as it’s very easy for them to glibly accept what TV and radio spoonfeeds them in 2003. You own your present. I owned the eighties when I was teenaged, somewhat sentient, and looking for cultural sustenance, but I was too chickenshit to try to improve the situation. I just hated it. Those kids own today. They’re the audience, they’re as responsible for all the mainstream crap we have to endure as anyone else. If people used their imagination and looked at what they have today with the perspective they’ll have five years from now, I’d hope to see riots in the street. But that’s just misguided old me, expecting people to care.

Maybe tomorrow
Pretty much nothing notable going on today. Pfft. I've basically been doing nothing worth mentioning. My mind is like a void, but that's how it is. Today was a loss. I haven't gotten much done these days.

Current Mood: dispassionate

Some strange happenings at the Guggenheim Museum next week: blast beats, blimps, sidecars, and the Isle of Man TT. These are a few of my favourite things. I recall Jones writing something about this, but I can't find it in her archive.

King Crimson 23/03/03
I knew I was in for it as soon as I joined the lineup to get into the Commodore. A guy in green rugby pants was getting way too excited, actually vibrating as he made a prog-related point to someone beside him. When I heard the word “clinical” I knew I had already heard too much. Commodore staffers patrolled the lineup, telling us that the band wanted no smoking, no recording, and no photographs. No problem. I would have preferred “thanks for coming!” but never mind.

Up the stairs, through the mandatory bloody coat check, and we were in. Lots of people there already—fancy people, hippies, nerds, kids in Rage Against the Machine hoodies. It looked like all seats were taken, so we hung out on the floor by the mixing desk. I think Smash remarked that he enjoyed talking and people watching more than the average opening act. It’s true. Despite the coat check, despite the goons with headsets, despite the non-bouncy floor, I still like being inside the Commodore.

The lights went down and the onslaught began. I had to hang on to my beer glass for dear life. To my left, looking like a ’60s test pilot, Trey Gunn tapped his Warr guitar…sometimes two of them at once. At the back, a bearish and grimacing Pat Mastelotto smacked his drum kit. On stage right, obscured in blue light, Robert Fripp sat, played, and presided. And up front, looking like Martin Short’s impression of Pierre Trudeau, Adrian Belew tossed off freaky leads on his Stratocaster, sang and smiled a lot.

The set drew mostly from the new album, which I don’t own as yet. I didn’t recognize any songs until they played “ProzaKc Blues” from the ConstruKction of Light. They aired a handful of other numbers from that album during the evening. The tour for that album never came here, so it was good to finally hear those songs live. Some people tried to groove along to the polyrhythmic weirdness of KC, successfully for the most part. It’s not easy to do, but if you stay with the beat you’ll come back on the “one” eventually.

The concert wasn’t filled with “hits”—no “21st Century Schizoid Man” or “Indiscipline” or “Sleepless.” I heard an extremely delusional person yell out for “The Court of the Crimson King.” Towards the end they did play a couple toe-tappers in the form of the Beatles-esque “Dinosaur” and “Red” from the highly regarded Wetton/Fripp/Bruford years. After two encores, the house PA came on, but the crowd wouldn’t simmer down. The band eventually filed out again and played some kind of mutant blues number that may have been a work in progress.

I remember ACM’s comment about a Concrete Blonde show to the effect of “the audience seemed starved for this kind of thing.” I’ll apply it to Sunday’s show as well. I had the feeling that these weren’t people who normally went downtown on a Sunday night, but they came, they had fun, and they saw some great musicians play some great music. The band, I think, sensed that the audience were determined to wring maximum enjoyment from the event and responded in kind.

As for me, I’d had a day that varied between extreme fun (starting in the morning with the belter and continuing with Smash and various friends) and extreme dismay about the ugly state of the world. The whole evening steered me well away from the latter feeling for a few hours, so I’m grateful for that.

I hate to say it, but I’m feeling marginalized right now. I hate to say it because (a) “marginalized” is such a touchy-feely new-speak kind of word and (b) I can’t think of a better term.

How about two words: “pissed off”? Yeah, that’ll do. You see, on page 86 of this week’s Georgia Straight, there’s an ad for the Chevrolet Cavalier. It’s a huge ad, about 7/8 of the page. The main picture is a city bus coming towards us on a dark rainy day. The destination sign above the front windshield reads “CREEPS & WEIRDOS.” Below that there’s an inset with the tag line “Luckily, there’s an affordable alternative,” along with a picture of the four-wheeled piece of shit in question and the fine print which the dealer will use to anally violate you when you close the deal.

“Creeps and weirdos.” That’s who rides Vancouver buses. Not regular folks who just want to get to work. No, people on transit are all weirdos who don’t drive cars; they’re all creeps who like to sit next to strangers because it probably gets them off. People who use public transit in other cities must all be perverts too. The fast, efficient mass transit in Toronto, Montreal, London, and New York must exist merely to serve the retarded, the schizophrenic, the gropers, the droolers, the frottage enthusiasts, and the smelly. It’s a wonder anyone uses it.

In the bottom left-hand corner of the ad there’s a little 2010 Community Contributor insignia. I’m so glad to see that the Chevrolet/Oldsmobile Dealers of BC are presenting our world-class city in the best possible light. I bet the citizens of Salzburg think their buses are just fine.

This one's for ACM: Space Ace, revisited and reconsidered.

I believe "Rip It Out" was the first song we ever performed in front of an audience.

I’m looking forward to seeing King Crimson at the Commodore this weekend. I’m amused by the fact that I’m going with about five other people. How did that happen? I remember the days when I didn’t have anyone to go to shows with. I’d pass up bills like Metallica/Exodus/Metal Church at the New York Theatre because none of my friends liked what I liked. Eventually I got up the nerve to go to shows by myself, but it was never any fun. After walking out of a particularly depressing Pixies gig I decided the solo thing wasn’t for me, although I’ve had a couple relapses since then.

I've never had a problem with going to movies by myself. Once the lights go out, everyone's alone, I guess.

I’ve seen KC before, as well as gigs by related projects and personnel. Here are my predictions for the show:
1. Robert Fripp will play sitting down.
2. Someone will say that they found the concert boring because of this.
3. At various points I’ll have no idea which instrument is producing what sound.
4. I’ll get a good whiff of someone’s B.O.
5. A guy in a sheepskin vest will go bonkers when they play anything pre-’74.
6. I’ll overhear conversations about music that I’ve only had in my head before.
7. After the show lets out, we'll laugh nervously whenever it is mentioned again.
8. No lineup for the ladies’ room.

I wonder if I can grow an eggy beard (^tm Glitzy Cape) in time for the gig?

Every weekend needs at least one big, satisfying, stomach-walloping dinner. Last Saturday we hit the Windjammer for fish and chips. The place has it all—model ships and pictures of olde English villages hanging overhead, fish-shaped glass plates, beer, HNIC on the TV… I think I prefer the tea towels and seventies soccer posters theme of the Pennyfarthing (not to mention the Caffrey’s on tap), but sometimes you just wanna stay in the neighbourhood. When you’re done eating, you’ve only got a couple blocks to stagger home.

Note to Francophobic Americans: “chips” works better than “freedom fries.”

Concrete proof that the mullet thing is over. It's totally been co-opted by The Man.

This album earns a point for featuring "Black Betty," though. The belter and I tuned in to KISM while driving to the airport Friday night to pick up her mom, and we heard these exact same songs.

Cheers to Cy "Didn't know your name was Ciaran" Meeks for his letter in this week's Georgia Straight. The letter basically upbraids Mike Usinger and the Straight for their ignorant-yet-disdainful attitude towards metal. I'm glad the editors published it in the Letters section and not in Payback Time, which is the most worthless, mean-spirited 20 square inches of newsprint I've ever had the displeasure of compulsively reading week in, week out. So good going, Cy. I miss his letters in Metal Maniacs, so I'm glad he's still getting his licks in when he sees an opportunity. He's a Print Futures grad, you know.

The other night I listened to The Shadowthrone, the second album by Norwegian Grammy winners Satyricon. It’s really primitive, but it hasn’t aged that badly. It manages to take black metal’s penchant for “grimness of sound” and make it very listenable. The drums ring out naturally (though Frost’s playing has improved immeasurably since then) and the guitars have a nice buzz to them. A lot of the material sounds like the Storm album, a Satyricon side project where they added powerchords to a bunch of old Norse folk tunes. I think both albums were recorded around the same time, so it figures.

Where are they now? Like I said, they won a Norwegian Grammy for their last album and they’ve made a fancy video co-starring a naked booby lady and a snake—available for download on the Web site. I always thought Satyricon was a two-man project—just Satyr Wongraven and Frost—so I don’t know who all those other guys are (oh, the site says they’re Steinar Gundersen - Lead Guitar, Lars Norberg – Bass, and A.O Gronbech - Rhythm Guitar). The song, "Fuel For Hatred," is catchy as hell, so watch out. For black metal, it’s quite a toe tapper.

I’d say last weekend was pretty amusing. On Friday the belter and I went to the Pearls launch at Douglas College. The vibe was a little different this year because they moved it up to the fourth floor art gallery, where we had our portfolio show last April. I guess the highlight, aside from Calvin Wharton’s fine emceeing style, was when our man Adam Honsinger received the Maurice Hodgson Memorial Award for Creative Writing. He’d kept it a secret, the cad, so it was an excellent surprise.

Saturday, with the high-rollin’ belter down south, I went to Kevin’s birthday party in PoCo with Smash, Mai and Christian Scum (who I hadn’t seen in way too long). Wow, did they ever lay on a spread. We ate ourselves silly and had a nice relaxing time. I’ll confess I have two major regrets—that I didn’t go back for seconds and that I didn’t stay long enough for cake…I’m sure there must have been cake.

A quick blast across the Lower Mainland and we arrived in time for the second half of the Carl Fatman show, which was taping in the art gallery/party room at Super Robertson’s building. We caught most of the Motorcycle Man’s set, which consisted of the usual stream of babble interrupted by one-man heavy metal songlets. My best moment came when he spotted me during his audience poll of favourite metal bands. I got to say “Celtic Frost!” from the back of a crowded room, which was very satisfying. Judging by their reactions, some people thought I was joking.

My tasks for Sunday were to write a review of the stellar OSI album and to monitor the belter’s whereabouts in case she needed a lift in from Maple Ridge. When everything appeared to be sorted out, I took off up the street to visit Neptoon Records’ new location. Their racks of $2 LPs contained a few gems (well, gems to me), so I picked up some things. I also got the first Hatfield and the North LP, which made the Neptoon guy pretty excited because, as he told me, their keyboardist was Dave Stewart (not Annie Lennox’s partner) who played on Bruford’s One of a Kind, which also featured Allan Holdsworth, who played with Bruford on the first UK album, who became a trio with Terry Bozzio on drums after Bruford and Holdsworth left to make One of a Kind, which was going to be the second UK album… Heh-heh. I walked home in a good mood.

”You are what you think about”
I’m reading Devil’s Knot, which covers the same material as the HBO documentary “Paradise Lost: The Child Murders At Robin Hood Hills.” It goes into much more detail than the movie did, and as a result it’s that much more frightening. It’s the scariest book I’ve read since Linda McQuaig’s All You Can Eat. Devil’s Knot makes it even more clear how biased the trial’s judge was, how shoddy the police work was, how clearly Mark Byers should have been the prime suspect, and how little evidence it takes to convict someone of murder and send them to death row. It looks like the last third of the book is what happened after the convictions, so I’m looking forward to it. Because I haven’t seen the sequel to the movie, this should all be new information to me.

If listening to Metallica and wearing black can get you the death penalty, what would happen if the cops found your Akercocke albums? I’d better watch myself.

At one point in the book the author inaccurately transcribes the title of a Metallica album as Injustice For All. With the twang in Damien’s voice, that’s how it probably sounded when he testified. Mistake or not, it’s a pretty excellent title for an album. It would have been appropriate for Load.

I know it’s not good for me, but at work I like to sit by myself at lunch. I like to read The Sun, or read the writin’ under the pitchers in The Province, or read another chapter in whatever book I’ve got going. Sometimes I’ll sit at a table with people I’ve talked to before. More often than not it goes okay. I get in a couple audible comments and people acknowledge them. Yippee. As someone whose job it is to pry information out of people, I need to talk to them more. But I’d rather do it for the job, not socially. Anyway, today I sat down with a couple folks who, I realized too late, were already deep into a conversation about spirituality and living and doing and being and loving and all that jazz. One of them is drawing up tables and diagrams on a piece of paper. “Look at this straight line. What does that mean to you?” “Let’s divide life into positives and negatives.” They’re talking about human beings as meaning-making machines, and Landmark Education (which Neal Morse of Spock’s Beard was into, the God-fearing freak) and The Four Agreements. I just sat there gnawing on my giant oatmeal-raisin cookie and listened, hoping they would not acknowledge my presence and not ask me what I thought that straight line meant. I made it back to my desk unscathed.

Around the house
I rearranged the LPs last week, taking the significant step of integrating the belter’s records with mine. I liked the results—Sleater Kinney is now sandwiched between Slayer and Slint, Janis Joplin mingles with Jethro Tull and Joy Division. It’s a healthy situation.

Last night I borrowed a drill and put up shelves, which we bought Sunday at Ikea with the help of the invaluable Tess. By the way, here’s a tip for you Ikea shoppers. If you’d like cheerful service, don’t walk up to one of the yellow-and-blue garbed floor staff and ask, “Do you work here?”

Anyway, I got the shelves up without drilling into any major wiring conduits, so I was pleased. They’re actually level, too. I’m like friggin’ Schneider.

I’ve always enjoyed a little black humour in the wake of a major tragedy, but I’m hesitant to joke about the Great White thing. I’ve been grossed out by it. I mean, you go to the local club to rock out to some has-been band, and suddenly you’re incinerated. That could have been me. And I think about what future awaits those club owners and old Jack Russell, and I get an anxiety attack. They’re just fucked. Occasionally I’m tempted to sign the Stoke guestbook and advise them to lay off the pyro, but that’s lame and in bad taste. I can’t laugh about any aspect of the situation.

Until today.

Freddie, four-tracking, and free food
Jetbot noted recently how much she hates that car commercial where people sing along to the Barenaked Ladies. Well, I always want to hide behind the couch whenever the “We Are the Champions” Viagra commercial comes on. As a Queen fan who’s been embarrassed by that song ever since it became a sports arena anthem, hearing it as the soundtrack to a Viagra ad doesn’t exactly give me a boner. I honestly hope that the estate of Freddie Mercury is donating all that dirty pharmaceutical company cash to a worthy cause. If Roger Taylor’s getting a cut to buy a new carburetor for his Ferrari, I’ll be pissed.

I should inquire about licensing “Another One Bites the Dust” for my mouse-trapping services. Except that song sucks, too.

I was back in the basement for some more four tracking on Saturday. I’m still floundering around for quality ideas, so I decided to rerecord a Jackass Has Haybreath song from scratch.

I started with drums. I didn’t mess around with getting good sounds. I just took my two PZMs, hung one high, hung another low. That setup always makes the drums sound brittle and small, but still very listenable. I like it. However, I wasn’t sure it would cut through the din of overdubs to come, so I stuck my SM57 on the snare. Voila—the kit sounded killer.

I tore everything down after the first complete take and moved on to bass. Again, I wasn’t too fussy about sounds. I tuned up, plugged in, dialled in the SansAmp and hit “record.” Boom—three tracks of sketchy Odometer rock for future reduction, with no blisters, no knocks on the door from Flanders, some lunch, and a shower. I’d call that a good afternoon’s Muling.

After that, the belter and I took off to Maple Ridge for a private Catholic school fundraising trivia night. I tell ya, the Catholics can put on a show. The school gym was packed with over 300 people, there was free smokies, potato salad, dessert, beer (not free), a silent auction…all kinds of wholesome charitable whatnots. A friend recruited us to be on her team, so we did what we could. The belter nearly won the True or False round, while I contributed the correct answer to our final Jeopardy question (we’d wagered our entire point total, so I was shitting bricks about that one). We still were only good enough to finish eighth (out of 30 teams). I think that the “Sunday School” category was our undoing. We’ll get some Bible tutoring and kick ass next year.

Boys and their stuff.
The belter and I had a nice dinner at JR and Rob’s last night. They’ve been busy acquiring a lot of nice things—a space-age mountain bike, an IMAX-sized computer monitor, a sleek grey cat (Gypsy, named for the Fleetwood Mac song, natch), 8 gazillion DVDs… While I pondered where I could possibly sit down, I was happy to see the ever-present domino stack of new vinyl creeping across the floor at the foot of the stereo cabinet.

I also remarked that the flashing red LED on the spine of Pink Floyd’s Pulse live CD was still going after all these years…since ’95, in fact. Impressive longevity for what must have been a small, disposable battery. Then JR admitted he’d been feeding it fresh AAs every once in a while, so as not to lose the “pulse.” Wow, that’s dedication. JR, you’re a freak and I love you.

(Christ on a crutch, he’s not alone.)

Drippy Hippy

The latest issue of Mojo contains a nice profile of Kate Bush. It really says something about the musical climate of the late seventies that Kate was considered a lightweight when she first hit the scene. “[The press] mocked her as a drippy-hippy purveyor of ‘wow’ and ‘amazing’” says the article. I also have a Not the Nine O’Clock News record from 1980 that features a Kate Bush parody song called “England My Leotard” (sample lyrics: “People buy my latest hits/because they like my latex tits”). I suppose a mixture of sexism and musical snobbery was at play. She took a nice photograph, and she didn’t downplay the whole soft-focus, raven-haired, ruby-lipped schtick at the time. For the highminded and skeptical, it must have looked like wank fodder for schoolboys. But everyone knew she wrote her own songs, and had been for a long time (she composed “The Man With The Child In His Eyes” when she was 13). She also, the article reveals, called all the creative shots behind the scenes, picking singles and collaborators from her first album onwards.

And I expect the flights of fancy and romantic yearning that her songs evoked clashed with the post-punk, spartan sensibilities of the day. It's interesting to note that one of her earliest champions was David Gilmour of the Pink Floyd. By the turn of the decade the world had loosened up enough to accept her subject matter on its own terms, having become used to the psycho/political mini-dramas of Peter Gabriel and the earnest stylings of the New Romantics in the meantime. Mainstream pop branched off in some strange directions in those days.

If a young Kate Bush emerged today, might her handlers quickly shuffle her off to that “serious” female artist ghetto, and pigeonhole her as Bjork and Tori's polite English cousin? The parodists these days have their hands more than full with Christina, Shakira, B****y, et cetera. She’d be the merest blip on the cultural radar, and I doubt she’d make the cover of Mojo or its equivalent in 20 years.

But I'm just saying. I need a copy of Hounds of Love now.

The Tastebot's Top 30
The little droid that monitors my activity on Amazon recommended the following 30 titles. Am I 50 years old? Am I 25? Am I, as Acmac once put it, singular yet catholic? I already own the titles in bold, so you can see how accurately they've profiled my musical "taste." Crazy. Is this my future?

National Health: Complete
Blue Cheer: Outsideinside
Transatlantic: Bridge Across Forever
Happy the Man: Happy the Man
Captain Beyond: Sufficiently Breathless
Happy the Man: Crafty Hands
Fu Manchu: California Crossing
Moby Grape: High Sign
The Brought Low: s/t
White Stripes: de Stihl
United by Fate: Rival Schools
The Soft Machine: Fourth/Fifth
…And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead: Source Tags and Codes
Spock’s Beard: Snow
Cactus: Cactology—the Cactus Collection
Blue Cheer: Megaforce Years
Atomic Rooster: Death Walks Behind You
Vanilla Fudge: s/t
Porcupine Tree: In Absentia
Montrose: Montrose (early Sammy Hagar!)
Cactus: s/t
Leaves: Leaves are Happening!
The Flower Kings: Stardust We Are
Budgie: In For the Kill
Nick Gravenites and Mike Bloomfield: My Labors and More
Savoy Brown: Hellbound Train
Shadows of Night: Oh Yeah (best of)
Steve Hillage: Fish Rising
Gentle Giant: In a Glass House
Hawkwind: Hall of the Mountain Grill

Stop it. Put that down.
I spent Saturday afternoon in my parents’ basement, hunched over the long-dormant four-track. I thought I’d ease myself back into recording by doing some overdubs on a couple things I’ve had laying around for a while. I dork-fingered my way through them, re-establishing my status as king of the punch-ins. Actually, I was pretty happy with the addition I made to one song, a horrible blob I’ve built from the drums up, with no idea what might come next. I stuck some piano on there, and I think it might really become something soon.

Before I left for Burnaby on Saturday morning, I searched through my old tapes for some ideas I could work on that day. I found a thing I’d totally forgotten about—The Doomtown Overture, an instrumental I wrote and hastily recorded four years ago. I’d intended it for Doom Town, a Jack Chick/King Diamond-inspired rock opera that Smash and I were going to write. The patented (and interminable) Mule one-finger guitar solo (complete with thin direct-injection sound) mars it somewhat, but I think I’ll keep it as is. It made me laugh, and that’s my main test for whether one of my songs is worthy.

If I do some homework this week, I might be more productive when I return to the basement next weekend. I can already tell lyrics will be a problem. I have nothing to say for myself right now.

He’d probably give me a slap upside the head for thinking this, but I want to take some cues from Super Robertson. He sent me a couple new solo tracks a few days ago. The man’s spontaneity and productivity have always inspired me. With my recording time these days coming in short bursts, I need to adopt his methods. Before I can do that, I need to learn to play guitar well enough to get through an entire song without disaster striking. By the way, I’ll be distributing unauthorized two-song SR CD-Rs at the next Roadbed gig.

The belter and I went downtown on Sunday. Highlights included some gross people dry-humping in the video section of Chapters, learning about the “click factor” so carefully engineered by leading lipstick manufacturers, thumbing through an awesome Kiss book at Virgin, and picking up an Opeth 7-inch at Scratch (one new song from Damnation and one remake, both with a heavy Nick Drake vibe). I wanted to get the new Dirty Three album, too, but I can’t buy everything. I should just listen to Ocean Songs some more.

Weapons of Musical Destruction
Being cable-free hostages of the CBC, we sometimes see unfortunate things on television. One weekend we caught Steve Burgess’s opening monologue on The End. We reacted as if the couch had been electrified—we sprung up and started pacing around the apartment. “What the fuck was that?” “Were those jokes?” “I think they were supposed to be.” “The hell?” “Did that just happen?” Having just seen a man die on television, we couldn’t sit back down. Our night was done.

Yesterday we saw a few minutes of The Great Canadian Music Dream, which plunged our home into madness and despair once again. First of all, that Moxy Fruvous guy hosts it. Hasn’t he already got a show on the CBC? For that matter, doesn’t he have a band? Maybe he should get back together with them and write wacky love songs about Ann Medina or something. Since the Barenaked Ladies went serious, there’s a novelty tune market niche to fill. And he can take solace in knowing that nobody will devote more airtime to his new material than the CBC.

Then there’s the eerily still, not-about-to-rock audience—I didn’t see any close-ups, so I suspect they could just be cardboard cutouts.

Then there’s the acts. I’ve got nothing against homegrown talent. Probably a good quarter of my all-time favourite bands are Canadian. Still, I’d like to say something to all the young musicians out there: Stop it. Put that down. Take a break, go to school, get a trade. Make yourself useful. There’s way too much music out there in the world already. It’s all I think about, and I can’t keep up with it. While I respect your need to spread your “message,” please keep it to yourself. I know it’s fun strumming that guitar you bought last year, I know it makes you happy to sing that song about your funny friends, but believe me, the enjoyment of your mediocre outpourings begins and ends with you. Can’t that be enough?

I won’t discuss my feelings about musicians competing against each other. I’ll get into a digression about Shindig and start crying.

The term “stoner rock” is pretty lame, but it’ll have to do. I’m pretty stoked on stoner rock not because of its “bong-rattling grooves” and the whole pot angle (boring) but because of its stubborn adherence to old-fashioned musical and production values. Just plug in your guitar and play, man. Unfortunately this scene has produced a lot of cookie cutter bands content to set their sights no higher than producing barely passable facsimiles of Kyuss, early Monster Magnet, or even the mediocre Fu Manchu. There’s a lot of slop clogging up the trough (or resin gumming up the screen).

I keep coming back for more though. Don’t ask me how I ended up with two Electric Wizard albums. I’m not even sure I like them—they’re sloppy, incoherent, and their riffs are completely retarded. They clearly don’t give a fuck, and that’s kind of what keeps me listening, hoping that one day I’ll believe. Plus they’re British, which counts for something with me. They’re the sound of ruination…abysmal in the true sense of the word. Remember Trainspotting, when McGregor tries to retrieve his suppositories down the worst toilet in Scotland? That’s what listening to Electric Wizard reminds me of.

Sweden’s Mammoth Volume are the complete opposite. They can sing, they can play, they’ve got songs that twist and turn, eat their own tails, send out tendrils into your brain. They’re like Yes and Purple and Santana, maybe even the Beatles. If you consider Half Man, Spiritual Beggars, Grand Magus, Abramis Brama and The Quill (the latter two I have yet to check out beyond some MP3s), then it’s apparent that Sweden is mecca for hard rockers worldwide. Mammoth Volume! Rule!

The States sometimes coughs up some interesting bands. I’ve gone on about fuzzular circlenauts Dead Meadow before. Suffice to say I want to be in a band that sounds just like them. I picked up Graveyard Poetry by Abdullah on the weekend, after seeing their name on various year-end lists and hearing the awesome “Black Helicopters.” I have to give them credit for standing out from the crowd, too. Their massed powerchords remind me of Sheavy, but I like Abdullah’s vocalist (Jeff Shirilla, who also writes the majority of the material) better. Sure, they take some cues from Sabbath, but they also incorporate a distinct NWOBHM vibe. Bands like Witchfinder General, Holocaust and Diamond Head come to mind throughout the album. In fact, one song, “Strange Benedictions,” sounds exactly like the latter band’s “Sucking My Love.” I also admire the album for shaking things up tempo-wise, avoiding the sludge-rut that most stoner bands fall into. “Deprogrammed” speeds along like early Metallica before hitting its mid-tempo stride, while the album ends with the punkish “They, The Tyrants.” A fine release from the folks at Meteor City.

I covered a lot of ground on Saturday. I got my hair cut, dropped by to say hi/bye to my folks (packing up to leave for Cuba), picked up King Crimson tickets, had a cup of coffee with Smash, tried to keep Cypress amused, and went to the video store. We bombarded ourselves with videos this weekend—About a Boy (okay, but the bits where it deviated from the book were dodgy, and it suffered from voiceover overkill), Kiki’s Delivery Service (which Cypress watched on Saturday morning), The Crocodile Hunter movie (whatever it was called—I thought they did a good job of constructing a movie around that lunatic), and Top Secret! (hadn’t seen it in a long time—it’s still solid gold).

We went to Chinatown on Sunday. Cypress bought some pretty things with her Christmas money, while we bought a stainless steel flipper at Ming Wo and fantasized about owning a kitchen scale. Turns out that weed stores aren’t the only places that stock precision-weighing devices.

We had a late lunch at the Waterfront Centre food court before delivering Cypress to the good folks at Harbour Air. Whenever I’m at a food court nowadays I feel like a sleazy businessman in a red light district (not that I really know what that feels like, but, uh…). I made the rounds to survey what’s on offer—all those glistening, steaming entrees beaming from backlit signage. The people behind each counter were all so eager to catch my eye and secure my custom. When did food courts become such competitive places? Every time I'm at one it seems really cutthroat. I nodded nonchalantly as I zeroed in on my choice.

I ended up having a hot date with a chicken souvlaki. It did the trick.

The belter could derail a lecture with a single remark. She’d see an opening, label that fucker and let it fly. Boom—bottom corner, stick-hand side. Class would resume after the laughter dissipated.

She also liked the first Roxy Music album.

So she’s quick witted and cool, and I’m deliberate and somewhat embarrassed to exist. I decided to show no fear.

An early encounter went like this: I was talking with classmates in the Douglas College atrium. The belter approached our circle and started pestering me, like a wasp investigating a picnicker’s sandwich. She was obviously overcaffeinated and giddy. I turned around and said in my best vice-principal’s tone, “This is neither the time, nor the place.” I shut her down pretty good, she told me much later.

We eventually found the time and the place—the night of September 6, 2001 on a bench by the upper pond in Central Park. It took a little patience, bravery, and imagination, but there we were.

And here we are. Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetie.

The Supertramp revival begins here. I even heard "Fool's Overture" coming out of someone's Walkman on the SkyTrain yesterday. I remember discovering FM radio back in the late Cretaceous Period and being frightened by that song. I wasn't creeped out as much as when I first heard Dark Side of the Moon, but it was spooky enough to leave an impression. Believe you me.

I recently saw a Classic Albums show about the making of Deep Purple's Machine Head. Besides the good stuff you usually get in a typical CA episode (washed-out old film footage, band members listening to the master tapes and marvelling at how good they used to be), you also got Ritchie Blackmore in full Three Musketeers mode being interviewed in some kind of medieval grotto, complete with candelabra and suits of armor in the background. Gillan, Paice, Glover and Lord were more down to earth. Glover sported a balding rocker bandana, Lord seemed quite the country gentleman, and Gillan and Paice looked like they’d come in from a backyard barbecue.

The band as a whole were remarkably soft spoken. They had a few good stories about the perilous circumstances surrounding the recording of Machine Head, but I got the impression that they directed most of their attention towards the music back in the day. (I expect they enjoyed a drink or twelve as well.)

Roger Glover delivered what I thought was the best quote of the show, while discussing "Pictures of Home": "We never had a formula, but it's always good to have a shuffle on an album." I totally agree.

Actually, Machine Head features two shuffles. They didn't talk about "Lazy" on the show, and that's the shufflingest shuffle of all possible shuffles.

Machine Head always takes me back to our late-summer visits to the Sarrell family home in Oliver, B.C. The Sarrells were teacher friends of my parents. We’d drive out there in the VW van and load up on fruit. Their son Michael was the epitome of cool to me. He had the big seventies afro (what my hair will become if I don’t get it cut NOW), the sketchy peach-fuzz moustache, and the first collection of serious rock music I’d ever checked out—he had all the Kiss, Purple, and Heep albums. Mike was also a budding naturalist, so his room was full of dead things that he’d found out on the Okanagan bluffs—sheep skulls and snake skins, very large bugs. When he was out, I’d sneak in there and just be in awe. Anyway, it was through him that I first heard “Highway Star,” “Maybe I’m a Leo,” and “Lazy” (not to mention “Detroit Rock City”).

I think Michael now works as a wildlife biologist in the area. He pops up in the media occasionally whenever some strange faunal phenomena occurs. I remember him being interviewed on CBC radio when a massive colony of bats was discovered in a church attic.

After returning from one of those trips to Oliver, I joined forces with the men of Huxley Ave. They had also seen the light, and my life was set.

We were talking last night about Karen Black and how her wonky eye alignment drives some men wild. This led the belter to speculate that small deformities in women can be attractive. For example, look at the Web sites out there that cater to men’s predilection for women in casts and bandages. I mentioned my well-known fondness for women in glasses. Perhaps that was the same sort of thing.

No, said the belter, that’s different. That's making a fetish out of the object or accessory, not the actual medical condition. If someone was simply nearsighted, I wouldn’t give them a second look. I wouldn’t necessarily regard a woman with cataracts as sexy.

She was right. But a woman with cataracts might be more likely to find me sexy.

I read an article in the Sun today about the fights at the monster truck Motor Spectacular last weekend (which sounded like a ton of fun anyway—check it out here and here). Around 200 (The Courier sez it was 75) people were ejected from BC Place during this "family event," and fights spilled out onto the plaza surrounding the venue. Apparently Vancouver is the only city on the monster truck circuit where this happens, and stadium officials aren't sure they want the show to return next year.

Fighting at a monster truck show seems strange. I've been to dozens of motorsports events, and the sights and sounds of powerful vehicles have never made me want to sock someone. "Wow, 1200 horsepower!"—boof! Maybe it's just me.

So, how do we explain this? "Vancouver doesn't have many public events," said one official, citing the cancellation of First Night, the Sea Festival, et cetera. "So people don't know how to behave at them."

Which came first—the chicken or the egg?

I need to commend Coronation Street for its use of music. It doesn’t use canned background music like American soap operas do. String sections don’t swell during the romantic bits, synthesizers don’t sustain low pedal notes while the villain plans his next move.

The only music on Coronation Street is music that the characters can hear themselves, in real space and real time. It comes out of the radio while Sally fixes breakfast for the gurls, it’s playing on a boom box while SarahLou2 and Candeeeece bemoan their lot in life, it’s danced to at Steve and Karen’s flatwarming party. Music is an important part of life on the Street, and an integral component of many characters’ histories and personalities.

Rita, for example, once enjoyed a career as a nightclub singer. While her air of tragic glamour is subsumed by her daily grind at the Kabin, on very special occasions she’ll take mic in hand and serenade some lucky patrons at the Rovers. Then there was the time she disappeared after Alan Bradley terrorized her into psychosis. Alec Gilroy found her in Blackpool, where she had returned to her old life as an entertainer. For Rita, music ties her to the past, her youth, and another life. The same could be said for many of us.

Then there’s Les, with his fondness for all things denim and leather. Music for him is a good time, part of a weekend afternoon out in the sun with a few cans. If someone wants to join him, all the better. Even through his tastes make everyone on the Street cringe, he’s always eager to share. When someone’s throwing a shindig, he’ll plump for being the DJ. Les gets more excited about music than any other character on the show. I always picture a milk crate stuffed with well-worn and well-loved vinyl on the floor of the Battersby abode. He probably doesn’t have many records, but he’ll lug the ones he does have around with him until his pasty, ginger-furred legs give out. Les’s past is the present, his youth is but a Quo song away. I can relate.

In a way, I started watching Corrie in earnest because of music. It was 1986, and a young Martin Platt was going out with Jenny Bradley (daughter of the aforementioned baddie Alan). One episode featured a scene where they were getting hot and heavy on Rita’s couch to the strains of Peter Gabriel and Kate Bush singing “Don’t Give Up.” Wow. I’d always had certain yearnings, and that scene captured a kind of romantic ideal for me—a girl, some nice music, some grappling. It flipped a breaker in my head, and I was hooked on the show from then on. (That particular plotline unfurled in gripping fashion—a car crash, Martin in a coma, lies and deceit…)

The musical aspect of Coronation Street sometimes spills over into the real world. Actors from the show have recorded singles and albums, and toured internationally. You’d sometimes see ads for Bill “Jack Duckworth” Tarmey albums during Corrie commercial breaks. Kevin Kennedy (Curly Watts) once played in a band with the pre-Smiths Johnny Marr and Andy Rourke. I can remember the British contingent on Usenet’s rec.arts.television.uk.coronation.street (RATUCS) falling about themselves with mirth when both Adam Rickett (Nick Tilsley) and Tracy Shaw (Maxine Heavey/Peacock) took to the airwaves with “hit” singles. But so far no Corrie thespian has managed to escape the novelty act ghetto and seriously challenge Kylie, the queen of singing soap stars.

One episode last week provided the perfect example of how Coronation Street weaves music into the fabric of the plot (blargh). Peter Barlow’s army buddy Ciaran installed himself at Peter’s place. Ciaran took note of Peter’s living arrangements. “Pete and Shelley,” he said. “Pete Shelley!” Shelley didn’t see what the joke was, so Ciaran pointed it out. “You know--The Buzzcocks?” Later in the episode, the Buzzcocks’ hit “Ever Fallen in Love?” served as the soundtrack to sexual tension, playing in the background as Ciaran watched a pre-coital Peter and Shelley disappear into the bedroom. Cut to Maria, crying on the sofa, having just learned that Nick had a girlfriend in Vancouver. The Buzzcocks are still playing, and the effect is still taunting and ironic. Continuing the music across two different scenes bent the “real space/real time” rule I described above, but it worked well. Mike Plowman, I found out today, felt the same way.

When you mention Coronation Street and music, most people will probably think of Eric Spear’s theme song. It’s probably one of the most famous pieces of music in the world. Even non-CS fans must recognize that loping horn melody. As far as I know, the theme song--the recording, the arrangement--has never changed. ITV has never commissioned a Fatboy Slim remix or any such nonsense (although an unreleased version by Stock/Aitken apparently exists). Even if the producers have remastered it for the digital age, its nostalgic essence has remained intact. No one dares mess with it. The endurance of the Coronation Street theme reflects the show’s approach to music as a whole. The writers and producers recognize music’s allure, its power to evoke feelings and memories, and they give it the respect it deserves.

It was nice to hang out for a couple hours in front of Smash’s stereo yesterday.
Playlist
Sheavy – Celestial HiFi
Anathema – A Fine Day to Exit
Clutch – Jam Room
Wicked Innocence – Worship
Klagg – This is Klagg
Voivod – Voivod
Tendonitis – s/t
Joe Satriani – Strange Beautiful Music
Bozzio Levin Stevens – Situation Dangerous
Herbie Hancock – Thrust (best album cover ever…sorry it’s so small here)
Ruins – Tzomborgha
Masters of Reality – Live at the Viper Room
Garaj Mahal – Live at the Backstage Lounge

I finally finished my SYL article this morning. I was surprised by how much interview material I had to leave out. I’d been planning a sidebar containing Mr. Townsend’s thoughts about the Vancouver metal scene (yawn), but the main body of the article reached the word count by itself. It’s not a great loss. Maybe I can spin this extra material into a shorter article for some other mag.

I emailed the thing to the Energizer this morning. He’s pleased with it, so I’m pleased with it. Not the greatest thing I’ve done, but it’ll suffice. Frank Zappa once said that music journalists are people who can’t write interviewing people who can’t talk for people who can’t read. I don’t agree with him, but in Unrestrained’s case it often holds true.

“One In Their Pride” (for the astronauts)

Come to Grief
Not a good day today. The details about my contract renewal at work came through, and they're lame. A whole three months' extension, with no pay increase. It's not what my immediate supervisor was saying I'd probably get.

The company didn't have a good year last year, and held a two-hour pep rally (complete with PowerPoint presentation on a 20 x 20 screen and snacks during intermission) yesterday to announce this fact. I also learned that if the product I'm currently documenting hadn't tanked so spectacularly on its initial release, we'd all be swimming in money. The whole event was a tiresome little preview of the massive bumming-out I'd suffer today.

If the company has a good first quarter this year, they might offer me a better deal. The other project I'm working on is going until July, so keeping me on would be to their advantage.

This new Grief album I got today is sounding good.

From Christmas to Valentine’s Day to Halloween, the belter’s mom marks the occasion by buying holiday-themed junk, packing it in boxes, and sending it out west to her daughter and granddaughter. The size and punctuality of these deliveries leads me to believe that doing this makes old Barb very happy. Maybe a little too happy. I think she sees sending stuff to Jenni and Cypress as her main purpose in life. She’s quite a lonely woman—lonely but not alone, as they say. Giving gifts keeps her connected.

The Valentine’s Day stuff—four boxes worth—arrived Monday and Tuesday. Everything inside is either heart-shaped or pink, except for my present, which was one of those mini R/C cars (pretty cool, really). I’m practicing my driving so I’ll be able to run over mice with it.

Barb’s big on toys. Sometimes in these boxes Cypress gets little plastic wind-up animals that walk along and drop lumps of “poo” (actually jelly beans) out of their spring-loaded butts. I got one last Christmas, too. I’m glad we’re spared these on Valentine’s Day.

There’s always one or two items that make us go “what the hell?” with their randomness. They send us into analytical overdrive as we try to trace Barb’s line of thought while she purchased, packed and sent them to us. What did Jenn say to her last month? What did Barb say to Jenn? Was this on sale? Is this a joke?

This time the randomness prize went to a pink ceramic pitcher in the shape of a pig—a sitting pig, with neck outstretched and mouth agape. Your beverage of choice comes streaming from its maw into your glass. That mouth…it was disturbing and flared. It looked more like a receptacle than a spigot. My first thought was to place the pig by the bedside in case I needed to take a leak at night. The belter ended up putting a flower in its mouth and taking it down to the “free stuff” table by the mailboxes in our building—“Look, everybody—novelty vase!” Miraculously, it was gone the next morning.

I don’t want to sound ungrateful, because sometimes Jenni’s mom sends us nice stuff. The box of assorted cheddar we got was nice, as were the brownies. The cutting boards that Uncle Gord made are great. Anything we can eat or store conveniently is welcome.

Same goes for the set of dishes we got a couple months ago. They belonged to Jenn’s grandmother, and they’re almost too good for sketchies like us. You’d expect to see them on the Antiques Roadshow—good Staffordshire quality, with an olde English country scene motif that reminds me of an early Genesis album cover. Hey, Supper’s Ready!

But the nice thoughts generated by those gifts quickly go away when the next onslaught arrives, and we have to borrow hand carts, friends, and vehicles to bring the boxes home, and our living room floor disappears under drifts of bubble wrap, wadded newspaper, and stryrofoam peanuts, and we resign ourselves to throwing away 90 per cent of the junk we’ve unwrapped. That’s when I have to agree with the belter: “she must be stopped.”

A Pretty Boy's Vancouver
Because of Nick Tilsley's remarks on Coronation Street last week, people around the world now believe that if you live in Vancouver you can scuba dive in the morning and ski in the afternoon, that the beach at Spanish Banks has golden sand that stretches for miles and miles, and that we Vancouverites enjoy nothing better than a mess o' waffles for lunch.

He might as well have claimed we'd be an ideal host city for the Winter Olympics, too.