Jenn is my co-pilot part 3
So, while I was in Edmonton, fancylady was in Calgary with Elise, seeing many fine sights that she’ll tell you about whenever she gets the time to update. (How about now?) On Tuesday afternoon she got a ride up to the City of Champions, and I left the Pohl compound for the first time in nearly three days to go pick her up across town. Thanks to Adam for driving the pace car and leading me there. Phew, it was sure good to see the belter again.

She was sad about leaving Elise, so I tried to cheer her up with a chorus of “Are You Ready For the Country?” as we approached Greg’s place. Where my Nearly Neil Young didn’t quite cut it, a bite to eat at Greg’s place certainly did, and she quickly returned to top belting form.

On Wednesday morning I called ahead to Golden to reserve a room for the night. We packed up and said goodbye to Greg, Barb, Amelia and Colin and hit the road about 11. I promptly got lost trying to find the highway, but it didn’t take long to get pointed in the right direction again.

We headed down highway #2 to Red Deer, stopped for gas and food, and took highway #11 west to Sylvan Lake (waterslides!) and Rocky Mountain House. The driving was fast but dull until after Rocky Mountain House, where the highway began winding gently through a slightly scrubby, stunted forest. From the road, it didn’t look like much went on in those parts, but the ATV trails along the highway and the number of logging trucks on the road indicated that the forest was a relatively busy place.

Lots of busy road crews, too, repaving big sections of the highway. They didn’t delay us for long, and we cruised into Banff National Park and onto the Icefields Parkway. The Parkway was an incredible drive, with new sights around nearly every corner, and all that olive-brown and yellow bilingual signage that gives the belter and I massive patriotic boners. National Parks are the best. We stopped for a bit at the Crowfoot Glacier, then headed to Lake Louise to mingle with the other tourists taking in the smoke-obscured vista from the shore. The effects of the forest fires were still evident.

From Lake Louise we drove to Field for a stop at the visitors’ centre and the Burgess Shale display, as recommended by Adam. I liked it so much I bought the t-shirt. The display was small but information-packed, with some representative fossils of trilobites, Hallucigenia, and the majestic Marrella (which has a DCR song named after it, I think). It’s interesting to consider these lowly creatures swimming around in Middle Cambrian waters only to be uncovered as fossils on a Canadian mountaintop half a billion years later.

We timed the Field visitors’ centre well, because it started raining pretty hard while we were inside. It was still wet for the drive to the Golden Rim Motor Inn. By the time we checked in the sky had cleared up and we had a nice view across a valley from the walkway outside our room. The Golden Rim was a bit sketchy (though very clean and comfortable) and its name suggested an unhygienic sexual practice, but the view was as good as advertised.

We went into town for dinner, and despite Elise’s warning that Golden is the place where bad things happen to good food (or bad food happens to good people), we ate really well. Then it was back to the Golden Rim for cable TV and some rest for the next day’s drive.

Woodfrog Studio Report
Greg’s drum set is so much fun to play. It’s like a baby version of Nick’s giant drum set from Freaks and Geeks. It’s assembled from pieces of at least three other kits, with their different colours and finishes and mounting methods. It’s an eight-piece kit (when I set it up anyway), with a single kick drum and six toms—very Peter Criss.

Because I had the car this year I packed my cymbals and stands in addition to the usual collection of mikes and cords. If Greg’s kit needs anything, it’s cymbal stands. His current ones have been fashioned from mike stands, pipes, and assorted nuts and bolts. Nothing wrong with the cymbals themselves, though. He’s got a great old Paiste 20-inch crash/ride that instantly turns any drummer into Keith Moon. I should have used it this year, but I brought my own cymbals for familiarity’s sake.

Sunday night I got a bit carried away and orchestrated the creation of an epic “Saucerful of Secrets” thing with an outro that tried to out-doom the end of VdGG’s “White Hammer.” By the end of my stay I’d played drums, bass, Moog, theremin, and guitar on it. I think Greg understood, though I’m sure Adam thought I was nuts.

On Monday night I added some fairly sketchy vocals to a rock song I’d recorded last summer with Adam, Greg, and Greg’s brother Wes on drums. On Tuesday afternoon, in the last stretch of studio time before I had to go pick up the belter across town, I recorded another tune, a sub-“Ticket to Ride” thing that Adam might have some vocal ideas for in the future.

So, taking those pieces and adding all the other songs we overdubbed or recorded afresh, it was another productive supersession. Considering my musical output over the last couple years, DCR is probably my main band now. Being immersed in music for a few consecutive days each year does my soul a lot of good, with the personal bonus of feeling useful and appreciated.

Greg gave me another new DCR release to take home with me, a collection of odds and ends entitled Total Bogus that I’ll review in the near future. He also has custody of tapes containing at least two albums’ worth of material—a concept album about the Burgess Shale (more on the shale later), and a collection of unrelated songs. Can’t wait to hear them. Next summer won’t come soon enough.

Jenn is My Co-Pilot part 2
I couldn’t stay long in Calgary because I had to make the final push north to Edmonton—three long hours of cruise-control numbness. I said a sad goodbye to the belter and left about quarter to five. The trip sapped my will to live. With the weekend traffic on Highway #2, I couldn’t even use the cruise control that much. I fueled up at an Esso station in the middle of nowhere, popped in my Max Webster tape, and drove.

A note on Esso’s pay-at-the-pump Spanish inquisition: When I inserted my credit card, the display screen on the pump asked “Insert Esso card?” Well, no, I don’t have an Esso card. I wanna use my credit card. I press the “no” button. Next question: “Car wash?” No, thanks, I wanna get out of here and see my friends in Edmonton. So many questions. What next? “Briefs or boxers?” “Fries with that?” It finally relented and let me begin filling my tank.

I turned off Highway #2 just before the Edmonton airport and headed east, following Greg’s letter-perfect directions along freshly oiled and graveled rural roads to his and Barb’s place in Sherwood Park. When I arrived, they (and DCR bassist Adam) greeted me, put a beer in my hand and propped me up on the couch to unwind for a bit. I needed that.

As darkness set in, we went out to their back forty and started a bonfire. With Kamloops still fresh in my mind, I wondered if having a fire in a secluded woodland was such a good idea, but they assured me that they’d been having regular thunderstorms and that our surroundings were quite moist. Okay then. The bonfire was a fine thing. Kept the mosquitoes away too.

Sunday we got down to serious DCR business in Wood Frog Studio, miking everything up, soundchecking, and plotting stuff to record. I warmed up by adding real drums to some nearly finished songs, replacing the drum machine tracks they’d used until then. This is always fun. Greg and Adam always seem pleased with the results, and I feel this alone justifies my trips to Edmonton. The new material we generate is kind of a bonus.

Jenn is My Co-Pilot part 1
I worked half a day Friday, then drove back home to pick up the belter. I phoned ahead to the Travelodge in Salmon Arm (where we’d be staying) to make sure that it hadn’t gone up in flames yet. It hadn’t. We left about 1:30.

I had to wonder about the fires, though, because driving up the Coquilhalla we could see this huge plume of smoke over the mountains. It wasn’t wispy smoke either. It was solid, like a column of volcanic ash. I wondered if we’d have to dodge burning embers, and crash, thrill-show style, through curtains of flame when we reached Kamloops. We didn’t. The fires were really close, though. We saw one or two hillsides burning beyond the city.

The smoke followed us all the way out of the city towards Sorrento, blocking out the sun nuclear winter-style. Although it was only late afternoon, the sky got very dark and the landscape took on a red hue. You could stare directly at the sun. I made the belter take some pictures.

The sky cleared during the drive to Salmon Arm. We checked into the Travelodge around 7:00 then headed into town for dinner. The belter wanted somewhere dark, and the HPB (“Something Pub/Bistro”) was the place. They had Keno, pull tabs, 800 TVs (Speedvision was within eyeshot) and a wicked satellite radio station, on which I heard “Matte Kudasai” by King Crimson, followed by “Dust in the Wind.” The belter rolled her eyes as I considered moving to the Arm.

After dinner we picked up tomorrow’s breakfast at Tim Horton’s, then went back to the Travelodge where the belter had a swim while I explored the 50-channel universe in our room.

We left Salmon Arm at 8:30 on Saturday morning. Our destination was Calgary, where I’d drop the belter off at Elise and Rob’s place, and I’d continue to Edmonton. We did what sightseeing we could from the car, and I made some notes on where to stop on the way back. Jenn saw some bighorn sheep on the descent out of Golden. I only made out one sheep bum in the rearview mirror. That’s a piece of road you have to devote your whole attention to. We stopped at the Spiral Tunnels after Rogers Pass and waited to see if a train would come through. No luck. When a tour bus pulled up and started unloading, we retreated back to the car.

After the turnoff to Lake Louise in Banff National Park, the forest fire smoke got really bad again, bad enough that we had to roll up the windows and turn off the fan.

We got to Rob and Elise’s about quarter to 4. They weren’t home, but they turned up soon enough, back from dragon boat races at the reservoir. We hung out for a bit and checked out their new house. Ah, Albertan friends and their exotic home-owning ways.

My good man Shockk called on the weekend to invite me and the belter out to a solo show he was putting on at the Starry Dynamo. I feel badly that we couldn’t make it due to various factors, because I’ve never seen Shockk solo. The few times I’ve gone to see him, he’s always cancelled and been replaced by the Motorcycle Man. In such situations I usually manage to salvage the evening, and maybe even score a free LP or two during MM’s usual set of audience abuse and ironic irony metal.

So, as a tribute to the Shockker, I wanna talk about a CD he put out recently: White Plastic Deer by Mongoose. On the CD, Mongoose consists of Shockk and RC, and I gather they’ve recruited a couple more players for live shows. I don’t know much about Mr. C except that he’s part of the Roadbed circle of friends that I can never keep track of. If I wanted to keep tabs on them all I’d never find time to feed myself.

Mongoose recorded the album at ye olde Shockk Center by sticking to a “one song per session” work ethic, which I admire and endorse. That doesn’t mean the album sounds like a hastily executed compilation of unformed ideas. It’s a very polished piece of work, in fact. The rapid recording process only energized the songs in a way that a more leisurely approach wouldn’t have.

The 14 songs that Mongoose laid down are short and tight, mostly of the melodic pop/punk variety, says the budding music reviewer. None of them break three minutes, and the album races by in less than 25. You’d never know this was recorded on cassette—it sounds enormous. It’s a tribute to Shockk’s mixing abilities, as well as the ace mastering of JLS.

The straight-edge anthem “Last Party” starts the album and from there on in you’d better pay attention because there are plenty of golden moments to be enjoyed. “Ego Feed” sounds like Superchunk. Shockk’s voice (especially as heard on “Get On”) has always reminded me of Mac’s from that band. “Heet of the Moment” has a very commercial, Fox-rockin’ feel—too much for personal comfort. There’s some all-out speedpunk on “Redtailed Hawk,” which takes some interesting turns during its comparatively epic two and a half minutes. Trumping them all is “Let’s All Go to the Restaurant,” a song so catchy that I laughed out loud the first time I heard it.

I don’t have a problem with the fact that most of the songs are drum-machined, because Shockk is an excellent programmer. His real drumming is spot on as always. He and RC must have had a blast recording this album. I know that whenever I’ve been involved in a project that jelled quickly and produced something over a short period, I’ve always looked back on it as a special time in my life. I hope the Mongoose boys feel the same way, and that they’re proud of what they‘ve done.

Another amazing artifact from another amazing friend.

In Flames, Chimaira, and Soilwork, Commodore Ballroom, July 21
It was nice to see a big turnout last night. Smash and I mulled over the fact that 10 years ago a show like this might have filled up the Starfish Room, but here we were wading through the crowd in the Commodore, which is three times the size. It seems that Starfish audience is still around, along with a newer, equally well-informed, wave of fans. Quality metal tours that make it up here are as rare as ever, so the local metalheads showed up in force.

Soilwork came on first, for some unknown reason—maybe the opening acts swapped positions from gig to gig. Soilwork are extremely popular, no doubt about it. The floor filled up, and the band had people’s attention all the way to the back. Dressed in matching In Flames tour shirts (3/4-sleeved baseball tees in Swedish national colours), they charged into “The Flameout” from Natural Born Chaos (I believe), battled through some sound problems, and delivered a really strong set culled mainly from their last two albums. New drummer Richard Evensand had a great relaxed style. Some drummers are able to assert absolute authority over their kit without being dicks about it, and this guy was one of them. The bassist was trying too hard to be the life of the party, but at least his playing was bang-on. Big bald singer Speed worked the crowd well—as I said, people were well into it right to the back. Soilwork’s main songwriting strength—catchy, cleanly sung choruses—suffered a bit in concert. It came off well half the time and got lost in the muddy opening-act sound on other occasions.

Chimaira were up next. They were ten shades heavier than Soilwork, they tuned about ten steps lower, and they were ten times worse. Take Fear Factory and Sepultura, remove all personality and songcraft, and you’ve got Chimaira—an utterly unnecessary band. I couldn’t pick out a single worthwhile fragment of music—just heavy, heavy, heavy, boring, boring, boring. Lots of junting on “E” (or was it “B”?), and guitar solos that made Kerry King sound like Jeff Beck. I took to watching my plastic beer cup vibrate across the table. I’ll admit that some of their slow bits sounded promising, and I appreciated the fact that their frontman talked to the crowd like a human being, but otherwise…that’s 45 minutes of my life I’m not getting back.

Did I hear Radiohead on the P.A. between sets? Smash and I agreed that it’s wise to play music from outside the genre between sets at metal shows. It’s so much better for priming the senses. And as Smash says, what’s the point of playing, say, Sabbath over the P.A.? It’s not like the band that’s about to come on is going to deliver anything better than that.

In Flames were very pro, with their own light show and huge Swedish flag backdrop. They delivered a similar product to Soilwork—melodic Swedish speed metal—but with tons of harmony guitar lines and some mysteriously deployed technology to augment the sound. I wondered if the drummer was playing to a click track because sequenced synth sounds and canned background vocals popped up during various songs. Soilwork could have used some of that trickery to bolster their vocal parts, too. In Flames also had the best sound of the night— headliner privileges again. They played a good cross-section of material from 10 years’ worth of albums (where does the time go?), and didn’t seem to favour the new stuff too heavily. Singer Anders Fridén, sporting some HM dreads, thanked the opening bands, thanked the crew, thanked us for being the best crowd of the entire tour (hmm, yeah) and threw the horns a lot, and everyone answered with gestures in kind. I’ve personally stopped throwing the horns because of this. There was no encore, which I didn’t mind. I was pretty metalled out by the end of the set. It was also the last show of the tour, so maybe the band was anxious to get back on the bus and head home.

I got an invitation from Super Robertson last Thursday to go into the studio and add some background vocals to an ex-Jackass Has Haybreath song. Willingdon Black was there too. He got pressed into service first, singing the entire tune four or five times before Super and I went into the booth to perform some hasty disharmony vocals in the Haybreath spirit. Two Sticks manned the console and the Protools, piling up more tracks than is reasonable for a 1:45 four-chorder. I’m pretty sure my contribution will be dragged and dropped into the Trash, so that should simplify the mixdown for him.

Super complimented me on my full jeansuit as we wrapped things up. Hey, it was a Roadbed recording session and I wasn’t going to deliver anything less. Sometimes you gotta Cliff ’Em All.

I dropped into the Three Als on the weekend to get my hair cut. It was getting out of hand, and there’s no way I can pull off the ironic afro. I took a hint from Ken Logan, who asked me last week if I was thinking about joining Boston. Things are pretty dire when I start getting style advice from someone who mostly wears sweatpants.

Post-haircut, the belter and the stinker and I went by my parents’ house, where my sister is holed up while Clive and Sally are away. I did the dad thing—cut the lawn, fired up the barbeque...just generally created manly amounts of smoke and noise all evening.

My dad’s really outdone himself with the lawn this year. It’s even more perfectly green and carpet-like than usual. His new automatic underground watering system seems to be working a treat.

However, now more than ever, the lawn is there to be admired rather than enjoyed. We were in the backyard, polishing off dinner and shooting the shit—couldn’t ask for a more pleasant ambience—when sprinkler nozzles shot up from under the grass and started spritzing us down. Party over.

“I am a C, I am an H…”
I found the first May Blitz album at Neptoon last weekend, but they wanted $30 for it, which was a little rich for my blood. Thirty bucks is just the wrong side of expensive for a fairly beat-up copy of an album I’ve never heard before.

When I was a kid I’d need to hear an album half a dozen times at somebody else’s place before I’d commit to buying it. But after a few years of music consumption I discovered the allure of the unknown, bolstered by the self-formulated fanboy logic that if the Queen album that depicted the band being killed by a gigantic robot was cool, then the Queen album that pictured them all dead of (sheer) heart attacks must be cool also. And the logic was sound.

With Neptoon having priced May Blitz into oblivion, my attention has turned instead another local band from the seventies: The New Creation. I read an article about them in the Sun on Monday that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about. It had all the components of a compelling story: family dynamics and drama, salvation through music, steadfast creative determination, struggles against indifference and disdain, a random rise from obscurity and a possible creative renaissance. And it all began in a wood-paneled basement in Coquitlam.

If you’re curious, you can find out more here.

I guess the immediate appeal for this sort of thing is “ha-ha, they’re so bad they’re good.” The same appeal that the Shaggs have, although the New Creation were nowhere near as otherworldly and shocking as the Wiggins sisters were.

There’s also the earnest flipside, as we wonder at the beauty of their naivete and guilelessness. I favour this point of view, but I think it’s good to make an effort to appreciate the hard evidence. From what I can tell, the songs are witty. The New Creation aren’t stuck up their own pious arseholes; they’re trying hard to entertain. And the playing is firmly in accidental Velvet Underground mode—not bad at all. If you think the singing needs a little work, well, I’d like to see you try to record your first album in six hours. Black Sabbath did it, but they had Satan on their side.

They also had the stripped-down guitar/drums configuration that’s mandatory for hip bands nowadays.

The New Creation's chosen means of expressing their spirituality predates Pedro the Lion, Moby, Living Sacrifice, and Stryper... And from a local standpoint, Thee Crusaders, Carl Newman’s somewhat creepy genre exercise from a while back, have met their match. Can a split EP be in the works?

Jeff Littrell from the JPT Scare Band was kind enough to get in touch with me after I wrote a short review of his band’s Sleeping Sickness retrospective on Monster Records. What’s more, he sent along a couple new releases, Past is Prologue (another retrospective, but with more recent material), and their new single, “Wino,” which, in true Scare Band fashion, is nine minutes long.

Past is Prologue
Opener “Burn In Hell” is a 2001 recording of an old Scare Band song from 1974. The sound is much more polished than the home-fi sonics of the Sleeping Sickness material, with lots of studio reverb applied to everything. But this excellent number (it’s becoming one of my Jeff/Paul/Terry favourites) goes to show how good they are when stripped of all that mystique-enhancing scuzz. The song itself is an early Rush or Budgie-styled slow-burning number, with a lengthy solo from guitarist Terry Swope. The guy is just all over the place as always. Although the Scare Band is definitely his vehicle, I don’t think the solo work would be half as majestic without the fuzzed-out Rickenbacker support of bassist Paul Grigsby. And when the solo ends, there’s some great tom-tom work from Mr. Littrell to usher the last verse in.

“I’ve Been Waiting” is next, another deliberate head-nodder of a track, and another example of solid songwriting from a band that seems to have made the free-form jam its claim to notoriety. The band describes this song as a tribute to Ozzy and Black Sabbath, and I can see it to an extent, especially in the vocal delivery. The song itself isn’t pastiche at all, though. It’s very much in the JPT vein. After a while, the guitar drops out and Grigsby gets a chance to solo, and holy jeez, is it ever cool. And despite the fact this song was recorded eight years before “Burn In Hell,” he’s got the same monster tone happening. Even when the guitar solo takes off, my ears are still riveted to the bass line. Again, the sound is much cleaner than on Sleeping Sickness (which contains a much rougher version of this same tune, with a bonus flute solo!), but it only proves what good musicians these guys are…something that wasn’t as blindingly obvious beneath the murk on the other album.

The single “Wino” follows, recorded at the same session as “I’ve Been Waiting,” I think. This is a cover of a folk song by Bob Frank. “This arrangement is slightly heavier than the original,” says the band. No doubt! This one reminds me of “Parents” by Budgie. The first guitar solo is incredibly tasteful and elegant, with clean Mark Knopfler tones. Sure, the solos are this band’s selling point, but check out that singing. Some soulful stuff going on here. For the second solo, Swope unleashes some wah-wah, the rhythm section picks up and everyone drives the number home.

The album then heads back in time to the Stone House on Crooked Road for 14 minutes of “Sleeping Sickness” in 1976. This is a killer song—really reminds me of Robin Trower. My favourite moment on this is right before the first solo, where the guitar volume rises, and the amplifier hum gets more intense—even before Swope hits the first note he creates a lifetime of excitement in that one brief second. It’s sort of the musical equivalent of Dr. Bruce Banner’s seams bursting as he transforms into the Hulk. You just know you’d be wise to take a step back. What Swope proceeds to do during the next 10 minutes is pretty much indescribable, tearing into his instrument like the fate of the world depends on it. After one amazingly intense passage he stops completely, letting the bass and drums power along for a bit. I can only imagine he had to step back and fan away the smoke spewing from his amp, guitar neck and fingertips. With that done, he comes back for another brief solo flurry before the last verse. “Sleeping Sickness” may be the definitive Scare Band song and recording, and one I’d play to anyone interested in hearing what the band is all about.

“Time To Cry” is another refugee from Sleeping Sickness. This one’s pretty freeform, and it doesn’t take long to get going before Swope starts giving his guitar a good thrashing and the rhythm section hangs on for dear life, summoning all their enthusiasm and tenacity to get them through these 13 noisy minutes. Actually, everybody locks in pretty quickly. To be able to jam this well, you’ve got to listen to each other carefully…and it’s clear that the Scare Band figured this out back in the early days. With about 6 minutes to go, there’s another bass solo, followed by off-the-cuff vocals that herald some more crazed soloing. Yeah, that one’s a keeper.

Next up is “Titan’s Sirens” from February 1975, which is the title track to an LP that Monster Records put out. Like “Time To Cry,” it’s another freeform one. More of a sustained peak than the flowing and ebbing “Time to Cry.” It’s over relatively quickly and works as a nice bridge into…

“Jerry’s Blues,” recorded a year later. The band really swings on this song. “Jerry” is one Jerry Wood, a legendary Wichita musician whom the Scare Band used to back up. It’s great to hear them work within this format. If they had a set of tunes like this, they could come to town and play the Yale. Not a bad idea to contemplate. There’s a great moment with about four minutes left where the band smoothly changes gears and moves from a shuffle to a four-on-the-floor feel and it sounds like they’re gonna go into Zeppelin’s “Rock and Roll.” But no, it just sets the stage for some more nutty Scare Band action.

The last track is a bit of a teaser. “It’s Too Late” is one of their best songs, and the hit single from Sleeping Sickness in my opinion. Here it is again—backwards!

I’m really glad to have crossed paths with this band, and with Past is Prologue. It’s given me another perspective on the Scare Band and their music over the years. They’ve achieved a lot, and I think they’re going to accomplish much more. It just goes to show what I’ve always believed—you don’t need huge recording budgets or marketing campaigns or cutting-edge technology or an “image.” None of those things can replace imagination and a love for what you’re doing. There’s nothing more radical than people playing music in a room together. Nothing better either.

The more I read of Sound of the Beast, the more I’m impressed by it. It’s almost desperate in its thoroughness, as if Ian Christe is scrambling to document an era that’s finished and destined to be forgotten. Perhaps the metal years are over and done with, and if this is the case, then Christe’s labours assume an air of nobility that other rock books can’t approach. It’s much more entertaining than the sociological studies of metal (by Donna Gaines, etc.) I’ve read, but it’s just as carefully documented.

Writing this book almost seems like an altruistic act, something for future generations to puzzle over and maybe learn from. That's a pretty naive thought on my part, though. Never mind the future—I wonder who the audience for this book is in the present day. I read books like this for the same reasons I enjoy hanging out and talking music with friends—to hear what someone else is into, and how they got into it and why, get recommendations, eyewitness accounts of gigs, etc. I often think these books preach to the converted or about-to-be-converted. I have difficulty imagining someone just casually picking it off the shelf and getting into it like I have.

Ultimately I don't care. He’s written the book for posterity, and that’s an admirable thing. I got it from the VPL, but I’ll probably buy a copy for my own library.

My only frustration is with the book’s American POV. The chapter on MTV don’t mean shit to me. Sure, I saw all those videos on MuchMusic, but that our video channel wasn’t nearly as omnipotent and censorious. There wasn’t as much of an “us vs. them” thing happening between the metal underground and mainstream music TV in Canada. I think the book could be improved with an addendum about the Power Hour and the cultural ripple effect of Celtic Frost’s “Circle of the Tyrants” video.

“Heyyyy!”

I’ve just started reading Sound of the Beast, Ian Christe’s new book on the history of heavy metal. The concept for such a book seems kind of facile, and in a lesser writer’s hands it might resort to a tedious band-to-band-to-band kind of structure. I don’t think this book will fall into that trap, however. The opening couple of chapters are mainly about Black Sabbath and their genre-defining Ozzy years. From there it’s zoomed through the seventies and into the NWOBHM without a letup in the narrative. At this pace I’d expect the book to be over in 30 more pages, but there’s about 350 left to go. I expect Christe will settle in and mine the eighties for all they’re worth.

It’s a pretty well-researched book. I can’t find much to question, except the contention that Sid Vicious died in jail. Can someone confirm that, please? Christe knows what he’s talking about, and he’s got quotes from people who’ll back him up. Tom Warrior’s on board, as is King Diamond, Jess Cox from Tygers of Pan Tang/Neat Records, and Brian Slagel of Metal Blade records.

In the chapter about the birth of Sabbath, Christe namechecks a raft of similarly heavy bands who were signed in '70-'71 and released a quickly deleted album or two. The trend for major labels back then was to create a subsidiary to release all their “heavy” albums on, in order to present a facade of underground counterculture and let the kids know that this wasn’t their dad’s stodgy old record company. Pye Records, for example, had Dawn (responsible for releasing First Utterance by Comus, one of the most flat-out insane albums I own), and EMI had their Harvest division (home of The Floyd and a ton of progressive folkies), and Philips had Vertigo, which released fine bands such as Cressida, Black Sabbath, and a band that Christe mentions alongside the Sabs, the “haunting” May Blitz.

(The Vertigo name survived well into the eighties. We all remember the $2.99 double LP Vertigo Sampler from 1985, a seminal release that introduced the Cult, Love and Rockets, Cocteau Twins, and many others to thousands of impressionable Canadians. Everyone I knew bought one of those. More recently, Mikael from Opeth can be spotted wearing a Vertigo shirt on the cover of the latest BW&BK.)

May Blitz were new to me, so I looked them up. Turns out they were a Hendrixian trio who released two albums in ’70 and ’71. I have no doubt that this is cool stuff, but what really intrigues me about them is that two of their members, James Black and Reid Hudson were Canadians—transplanted Victorians, in fact. Both of them apparently still live on the West Coast. I guess if I was Nardwuar, I’d begin stalking them now. But being me, I’d be happy just to hear one of the records.

I've been checking out various music blogs via Metafilter this morning and feeling guilty about the tangents I've been traversing lately. There's no shortage of music to write about, so why am I neglecting it?

Stay tuned for more rock.

Fancylady and I had a belting time at the island last weekend. It took us a while to get moving after we got off the ferry though. My late Grandad’s Volare, our means of transport from the ferry to our place at Bennett Bay, gave us some grief. It usually starts after a couple tries, but the battery had gone seriously flaccid. With darkness closing in, the brave belter snagged the last-remaining ferry terminal employee, who kindly drove her pickup over and tried to give us a jump start. That didn’t work, so we called the island cab. We only got their answering machine. After leaving a couple messages with them, I tried the car one last time. I guess a charge had settled into the battery or the engine unflooded itself, because it finally started up (and ran fine for the rest of the weekend).

Good old Volare. It may be the sketchiest roadworthy car on the island, and looks especially rad parked by the minivans, Mercedes SUVs and F150s at the Miner’s Bay Saturday market. I’ll miss it when it finally gives up. When that day comes, instead of having it towed off the island, we should do something useful with it. Maybe we could seal up the interior, cut a pipe hole in the side, and bury it in the backyard as a spare septic tank. I think Grandad would approve of that kind of thrift.

So, the first night was pretty action packed. After we dumped our stuff at the house we went down to the water. The stars were out. We watched a meteor shower for a while until some kind of weird hellcat creature ran out and spooked us. (Probably a river otter, my dad says.)

I had the first encounter with a huge black spider. There’s always one when you first arrive, usually in the sink or some other source of dripping water. This time he was hiding under the rim of the bog, so once I’d got over the initial shock (he’d been that close to the old fella), it was a simple matter to flush the bastard.

We took the canoe out on Saturday. Bennett Bay is quite lake-like, so it’s good for a non-boater like me. As long as you stay away from the tidal currents that run between the main shore and the small islands at each end of the bay, it’s fine. The big challenge with the canoe is getting it down to and back up from the water. It’s damn heavy, and the handholds fore and aft threaten to slice your fingers off. It’s a two-person canoe in the water, and a six-person canoe when you gotta get it up the hill.

We hiked up Mt. Parke on Sunday. The weather was pretty blustery, and at the ridge on the top, the hawks and eagles were swooping above and below us. Looked like fun. There’s a nice view of Saturna, Pender, and points beyond. We didn’t see anyone else on the trail up the hill, which was good. I hate having to say “hi” to strangers going the other way. I guess it’s the hiker’s code, but you know…I don’t like strangers. On the way back we played tourist info service for a large group who were wondering whether they should keep going to the top. We promised they’d see some birds of prey and left them to it.

Monday was cleanup day, but we also made time for a walk out to the point and a quick trip into Miner’s Bay for gas at the station that may or may not be self-serve. We packed up and drove to Village Bay, where we bumped into the lady who gave us the eventual jump start on Friday night. “All through with your car adventures?” she asked as the belter bought our tickets home. Yeah, we were. Wouldn’t mind staying for a few more, though.

I always like to have a book on the go, but I’m not reading anything at the moment. The last book I read was Universal Recipients by Dana Bath, who read last week at Milk (where the belter emceed and my friend Shockk provided b.g. music until he was beaten down by p.a. glitches). It wasn’t bad. The quality writing compensated for the fact that I didn’t love the narrator persona she often projected. One story featured a scene at the Hope Slide, which gave me a little thrill. The Hope Slide is one of my favourite things on earth.

I’m not reading anything right now because my eyes need a rest. Some weeks I have days where I get up, answer email, read for an hour on the bus/train, read and edit stuff all day at work, read for another hour on the bus/train home, then edit for a couple more hours at night. After a few days of this, I go temporarily blind.

My sight doesn’t fade to black, exactly, but I get quicksilver spots in my vision where I can’t focus on anything. I can’t read. I have to go for a walk or lie down with my eyes closed for a couple hours to make it go away. I think these might be migraines.

It’s not a tumor.

We hit the road unnaturally early on Saturday morning, en route to a Tim Horton's before heading out to Maple Ridge. We were listening to CBC Radio 1, partially because we didn't have any tapes, but also because we couldn't miss a second of their exciting Harry Potter book launch coverage. This one reporter was roaming a parking lot in Hatzic or somewheres, talking to the kids. "Oh my, you should really see this," she said. "There's kids dressed up in all kinds of costumes. There's some dressed as witches, and some look like little goblins..."

You could really tell she'd done her research.

Every day I see someone with one of those J.K. Rowling doorstops cracked open on their lap. My coworkers are reading it. So far I've managed to ignore the whole phenomenon, but with Cypress's ability to finish anything by Cleary in about 15 minutes, I'm intrigued with the possibility of handing her a 700-page book. I'm curious—with music, for every million-selling blockbuster artist or album, there are two dozen underground equivalents who are way better. You just have to dig a bit to find them. What about children's lit? Is Potter as good as it gets?

Smash and I showed up at the appointed time and place to jam yesterday. Unfortunately no one else did. We drove around South Burnaby, looking through windows and buzzing intercoms, trying to rouse the troops, but it wasn’t any use. Nobody home.

We ended up at Smash’s place, camped out in front of the stereo. I’d packed the promo stuff I’d got from Adrian earlier that week, so we previewed some of that, along with the new Himsa album that Smash picked up at the show last Thursday. It was a good afternoon, trading off tunes and making plans for different bands with different lineups of friends. Even if our ideas never amount to anything, it’s at least fun to speculate what might happen.

In the meantime, Smash has a Stoke album to finish, I have about half a dozen unfinished/unmixed nuggets of crap to work on, and JR has custody of some eight-year-old Café Flesh ADATS that he needs to extract some quality moments from. If everyone finds the time, this could be a productive summer for the SoBurn scene.

Credit goes to Asteroid Belt for this one.


Dude, you're Eddie Van Halen!!


Which Classic Van Halen Member are You?
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Yesterday I went to a funeral for a friend’s father. The church was full, which shows how well this man was liked, and how many connections he made and maintained through his life. It was good to see. He had a lot in common with my dad—he talked loudly on the phone, he was a healthy measure more gregarious than his son, he was very content with himself and his life, he raised a family of good people, and he tied his son’s ties for him. He also chose a nice neighbourhood to live in.

It was a fine sendoff—laughter during and after the service, superb tributes from family members, lots of friends catching up over sandwiches and tea at the reception in the church basement. I mean, that’s what it’s all about. Not that sadness and mourning don’t have their function, but...

I’m a great believer in memory. Right now is just the tip of the iceberg, and the accumulated memories below the surface are what’s keeping the whole operation stable. I have to live life always remembering that I’ll never really die as long as someone remembers me (fondly, I hope).

I think I’m fighting the after-effects of seeing Waking Life again last week.

After the funeral my dad and I stopped by his place so I could pick up my mail. I’d been looking forward to something good in the post, but it turned out to be a bill from the Medical Services Plan, overdue, with threats of enforced collection. Christ. I drop 500 bucks a year into that bloody thing and I haven’t seen a doctor in nearly 20 years.

I paid up at the bank after work. If I don’t go for a checkup soon, the next time I’ll see a doctor is when the belter kicks my ass into the emergency ward.

We went Lougheed Mall-ward on Saturday night to hang out with JR and Rob. After dinner they took us on a tour of their building, which is one of a cluster of apartment towers next to the mall. I hadn’t had the tour for nearly 10 years, when JR first bought his place. Time flies. We checked out the laundry room (75 cents a load), the common areas done in weird '70s rustic style, the swimming pool, a tenant’s classic car collection on P2, and the view from the roof. Tower blocks have weird personas, like they’re ruled by unseen, dullwitted overlords with clipart fetishes and massive Reader’s Digest collections for the laundry room library. JR's building is very Arrowhead.

JR interrupted himself at one point with “I’ve got to show you what I want!” and then took us by someone’s parking level storage locker to view an old Maudite gift set box, which he coveted like a holy relic. We all agreed it was a handsome item.

The belter found salvation by the building’s pool, and while she sat on the edge with her feet in the water I contemplated buying a place. But I don’t know; it’s too scary an undertaking, what with maintenance fees, demented strata councils, plus the worry that the walls are rotting around you. I love where I am right now, except for the fact that the general public basically has free access to our hallways.

I almost got to hear the new Metallica, but the night got away from us. Had to give the Zeppelin DVD priority.

St. Curiosity
I’ve decided I need to hear the new Metallica album. It’s been so universally & variously condemned, defended, mocked, hailed, that I’ve got to step into the shitstorm of debate myself. The more “senior” critics out there—Don Kaye and Martin Popoff, for example—have made it sound like a genuinely original, interesting album. Meanwhile, the review at SSMT and the postings on Blabbermouth have equated the album to a crime against humanity. “It’s HORRIBLE,” Adrian Bromley told me on the phone the other night, each uppercase letter sizzling with contempt.

St. Anger’s misdemeanours include long, pointless songs, no solos, laughable lyrics, and, interestingly, a bad drum sound. I’m pretty forgiving of drum sounds. I prefer them natural and unprocessed, but I can put up with anything except 1985-style Defenders of the Faith electro-cannons. And I hate it when the drums are mixed too high—see South of Heaven and The Temple of Knowledge. I’m always curious about what others consider a bad drum sound, so that’s another reason I want to hear St. Anger.

I spent all day Saturday at a volunteer strategy session for my professional association, which was as exciting as it sounds. At least I was downtown, so I got out during the lunch break and browsed through A&B. Not much excitement to be found there. White-tagged stuff was 20% off, so I'd brought a short list with me. Unfortunately they didn’t have most of it. This happens more and more to me. Either A&B is narrowing the variety of stuff they order or my tastes are getting more obscure…it’s probably some of both.

I don’t think anything on Relapse Records is all that obscure, so I was disappointed not to find the new Dysrhythmia album. Guess I’ll go to Scrape for that one.

I walked out with a copy of Sad Days, Lonely Nights by Junior Kimbrough. I felt like some more Junior, having enjoyed his first, All Night Long, for the past year. After one listen, Sad Days… definitely has the goods. I also got the impression that there’s not much variety between songs, resulting in an album-length blues dirge more suited to autumn than the summer-like weather we’ve been sweating through recently. I’ll keep spinning it, though, knowing that its time is gonna come.

Which brings me to Led Zeppelin, a band for all seasons. I picked up How the West Was Won a couple weeks ago. Any Led Zeppelin release is a household necessity, and How the West… has installed itself in our apartment as permanently as the fridge, the mousetraps, and the belter’s bucket of nail polishes.

This new release features a less jaded Zeppelin than their other live album (or original motion picture soundtrack). They’re nevertheless prone to bloating the songs to prodigious length and girth. I think this album has more interesting epics than The Song Remains the Same. “Dazed and Confused,” for example, breaks into “The Crunge” (from the then-unreleased Houses of the Holy) at one point, while the 23 minutes of “Whole Lotta Love” features a more extensive blues/rock ’n’ roll medley than the version on TSRtS.

Other plusses: “Stairway to Heaven” hasn’t yet become Robert Plant’s personal musical albatross, and he performs it with fewer asides and minimal scatting. The acoustic set that closes disc one represents an aspect of the Zeppelin sound that TSRtS entirely neglected.

Possible minuses: No “No Quarter” or “The Rain Song,” so the album downplays Zeppelin’s more ethereal side somewhat. I’m not sure if there’s a stretch of music on here that can equal the panty-removing properties of TSRtS’s side three. And the packaging, as Steve Newton in the Straight pointed out, is pretty chintzy.

The sound is spectacular. John Paul Jones could always be louder in the mix, but that’s a personal preference. The whole band sounds great, and you can clearly hear what’s going on at all times.

To sum up, it’s the new Led Zeppelin album, and it’s a crusher. Don’t take it for granted. Bring it on home.

The Skytrain stopped between Rupert and Renfrew on the way home today. Hearing those emergency brakes grinding, I knew this wouldn’t be a short delay. We had a sketchy guy in the car: “This sucks. Fuckin’ sucks. Really, really sucks.” He wouldn’t sit down even though there were plenty of seats, which made me nervous.

After a couple of minutes mission control backed us into Rupert and opened the doors. An attendant came into our car and told us there’d been a track incursion at Renfrew and he didn’t know when we’d get going again. Nearly everyone got off and walked up to Broadway to catch the bus.

People started trading track incursion stories while they waited for the #9. There was that time at Stadium Station. Guy had a heart attack, fell on the tracks. What happened that time at Waterfont? Blind person walked between the cars. That’s sad—blind. Sad. I wonder if she had a dog? No, definitely not.

It was jeezly hot today. Crossing over the Grandview cut on the #9, I looked down into Commercial Drive station. A big crowd of people on the platform waited for Skytrain service to resume. They gathered under the shade, well away from the platform edge. They had the right idea.

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.