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

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

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

I got

and

Love those covers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* Jerry Horne and his obsession with exotic food.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The tree is upright and decorated, I've seen Mr. Bean with a giant turkey stuck on his head, I've gladly paid $9 for a Terry's Chocolate Orange (the white chocolate variant), and I'm grabbing the g.d. clicker box every time that commercial with John Lennon singing "So this is Christmas" over a montage of starving children comes on. I love this time of year.

The only thing I haven't done is gone shopping with my sister. The tiny doctor is in New Zealand, tumbling down crevasses and setting new lows in personal hygiene while on a mountaineering course. Every year we meet downtown during the peak weekend of consumer insanity to buy things for our parents and finish any other shopping we have left to do. Our secondary mission is to be nice to salespeople—they're the real saints of the season, having to deal with individuals who make themselves miserable over something as inherently frivolous as Christmas shopping.

Oh well, everyone's entitled to a minor Yuletide gripe, as long as they don't take it out on an innocent bystander. Personally, I'm still a little pissed that they shut down the Marks and Spencer on Robson. There was no better place to shop for parents.

The Tangent—The Music that Died Alone (Inside/Out Music)
The liner notes say, “So how would it turn out if four English Nihilists teamed up with three Swedish Aquarians?” Pretty darn well. The Tangent is a project led by Andy Tillison, whom I’ve been aware of since he used to sell cassettes of Peter Hammill cover versions in Pilgrims fanzine. He’s gone on to release several albums with his band, Parallel or 90 Degrees. The Tangent is apparently one of those solo projects that got a little out of hand with the guest musos, so the sheer amount of star power involved (“star” being a relative term) garnered it a release on biggie Inside/Out Music. The Tangent are Tillison, Flower Kings guitarist Roine Stolt, and—gee whiz—David “Jaxon” Jackson, Van der Graaf Generator’s dark lord of the saxophone. Assorted Po90D personnel and Flower Kingers round out the lineup. This is a very good-humoured, enjoyable album—music about music, more than anything else. For instance, the second track, The Canterbury Sequence, is about the act of listening to music—the narrator digs Caravan and Hatfield and the North—and the sense of nostalgia it can produce, even if, like our narrator, you weren’t there at the time: “Feigned innocence and humour/Through my Walkman on a bike ride in the sun/My bicycle and I/we missed the party back in 1971.” The song is a mini-suite—all jazzy flutes and Hammond—that takes a detour through Hatfield and the North’s “Chaos at the Greasy Spoon” at mid-point. Three of the four songs are what I’d call epics, between 8 and 20 minutes. The exception is “Up-hill From Here,” clocking in at a breezy 7:11. This one gets up a good head of steam, and resolves into a super-catchy chorus/post-chorus/hook sequence that reveals some serious songwriting skills. It’s prog and all, and everybody gets to take a solo, but it’s not just a wank. I wish I could pin down who this song reminds me of. The Wonderstuff maybe? Anyway it stands out like a tuneful little island amidst the meandering subcontinents surrounding it. The last (title) track is a bring-down after the first three songs. It’s a little on the sleepy side, offering what could be an effective cultural commentary if it wasn’t presented in such a laid-back, MOR context: “We pay people to destroy us/in the media every day/So we’ll know our place and keep it/And never want to move away.” I’d prefer that the album didn’t end with a whimper, although I’m happy that it ended there, after 48 minutes. The Tangent don’t overstay their welcome, delivering a good dose of faith for the faithful in the process.

There was a strike this week. It’s depressing the amount of vitriol that people harbour. The bile in their letters and soundbites implies that everybody’s got it better than them, and nobody deserves anything, especially not people who serve food or do other manual labour. Nobody deserves job and wage protection, they say. Nobody deserves to make enough money to pay for a home and take care of a family, buy some stuff and take the occasional vacation. Nobody deserves time to raise their children. Nobody deserves a voice.

People who gripe about these things don’t have the imagination to visualize anything different for themselves. They only want to bring others—people just like themselves—down to their level, or at least down a peg or two. Everything beyond their immediate control is a source of blind distrust and resentment. They don’t seem to see that one victory might lead to others; that we all could be better off someday. Instead they watch the losses mount, believing it when they’re told that everything’s going to be all right.

The ever-helpful Sun published the hourly wages of every member of a Spirit-class ferry in the paper today, to prove a point, I suppose. Rub salt into wounds. Never mind that it’s none of anyone’s business what people get paid. Looking at the numbers, I don’t make as much money as the lowest paid member of a ferry crew. Then again, I get to sit in a warm office every day, I get to leave for work and come home at the same hour every day, I can wear whatever I want, and I don’t have to deal with members of the public who are angry at me for doing exactly what they would do in the same situation.

My company does the right thing and gives me a few benefits, but it could all disappear tomorrow. I understand this last fact, and I wish it wasn't true. I still think I'm the luckiest bastard on earth.

There’s a Christmas toy drive on, and I'm watching the box gradually fill up with stuffed animals. God. You’d think needy children are all affection-starved, tactilely challenged, insecure basket cases. I’m all for charity, and I love Christmas, but seeing stuffed animals and other plush goods in a toy drive box makes me want douse the whole works in kerosene, flick a match in and watch the heap of “flame retardant” synthetics and post-consumer-recovered stuffings melt into a bubbling, blue-flaming pool of toxicity. The box would then be empty, ready to receive useful, welcome gifts. If I was dictator, I’d demand that it be filled with Lego, Hot Wheels, Barbies, and books, games, etc. The best place for stuffies is the local rifle range.

Dimmu Borgir/Nevermore/Children of Bodom/Hypocrisy Dec. 1 at the Commodore Ballroom
Nobody I contacted could be my +1 for the gig, so I felt a bit like Billy No-Mates as I joined a queue that stretched around the block. The size of the lineup made me flash back to the last time I tried to Dimmu Borgir—“tried” being the operative word, because I got stuck in the lineup and never got in, due to sketchiness and incompetence by the promoters on down. This time the line moved steadily, and half an hour later, I was inside.

Hypocrisy came on first in a mass of windmilling hair and scurrying bodies. I always thought Hypocrisy was a trio, but there were four of them tonight. The lineup gave them twin lead-guitar capability, which they showcased throughout their half-hour set, notably on a great new song, “Eraser.” The Swedes have always been a workmanlike entity, with mainman Peter Tagtgren most noted for his production work at Abyss Studios. I’ll praise their material for its diversity more than anything else, with songs that either chug mercilessly or speed along at an unreasonable clip. I was disappointed they didn’t tip their hat to Canada by doing their awesome cover of Razor’s “Evil Invaders”, but they did end their set with “Roswell 47,” which aroused fists-in-the-air jubilance from the crowd. To borrow a line from Jeff Wagner, “Roswell 47” is Hypocrisy’s “Rock ’n’ Roll All Nite.”

After a quick 15-minute changeover, Finland’s Children of Bodom came on. The five-piece seem to be a love-’em/hate ’em proposition with metal fans. The Quebecker who sat next to me during Hypocrisy was definitely primed to see them, and so were most of the crowd. I think CoB’s style—Yngwie Malmsteen classical virtuoso metal with keyboards fused onto an extreme black/speed metal framework—irks the manly men purists out there, and truthfully it’s not really my cup of tea either…though it’s a blast in small doses. The whole set was just a blur of wheedling keyboards and guitar, trading lines like Mahavishnu or Mastermind. More than half an hour of this may have betrayed the material’s lack of substance, but as it was, CoB were pretty near the best band of the night.

This was a funny gig for me. I wasn’t really there to see any one band over the others. I have albums by all the acts on the bill except Nevermore, who were on next. I was expecting that their more traditional metal style would sound really immense, but Nevermore were a big disappointment. Vocalist Warrell Dane looks like he’s seen better days and the guitars were just a mass of downtuned 7-string sludge, rendering the riffs miserably undetectable. No fun.

Dimmu Borgir set things right again with great sound and staging. Their keyboard-heavy material came across as pretty slick for Norwegian Black Metal. I could understand how it could appeal to the wee Marilyn Manson goth girls in the crowd. I didn’t know that Dimmu are basically an all-star band now, with Uncle Fester from Cradle of Filth on drums and Galder from Old Man’s Child on guitar. I was really impressed by their bassist, the first proper finger-playing bassist on stage that night. And when he stepped up to the mike to perform the clean singing parts—man, what a voice! He was like one of the three tenors. Really, though, he sounded to me like Simen, the old Borknagar singer…and it turns out that’s who he was! What a superstar. I couldn’t see Fester down on the floor, so I went up to the side seating area to for a better view. Fester was still pretty hidden by all the dry ice fog, but from what I could see, he’s not looking that great these days. He looked like one of these guys. The band were wearing the studded shin guards that feature so prominently in their promo photos…very impressive. They look like the ideal accessories for puncturing Christians (you’d have to pick them off like burrs), or for aerating the lawn.

I had to get up early the next morning to travel down the states for work, so I left before the first encore. No more Death Cult Armageddon for me; I needed some shuteye.