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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Valhalla, I am coming...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What's in my bag?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ingredients: Liquid smoke.”

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

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

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

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

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

Always a treat to talk to Debbie Downer.

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

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

I think one of you may have already.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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