Sunday, February 27, 2005
I got to Mount Royal metro, and Ing was already there. As we waited for tardy Becky, I applied my mascara with only a vague Plexiglas reflection to assist me ("how perfectly white trash," I remarked) as Ing told some disturbing tale about Becky's cat swallowing, and subsequently pooping out a rubber balloon--un-inflated, I'm assuming.
Becky arrived, and as we made our way towards El Salon, we promptly revived our discussion from the previous evening: our band name. Crucial, crucial stuff here. Suggestions were plentiful, and plenty uninspiring, ranging from "Misanthrope" to "The Latin Lovers" to "Faux beaver." Lacking jazziness, to say the least.
A sign on the door of the venue "requests" that we do not smoke. Scoffing ensues. Inside, the coat check lineup is ridiculously long. But that's okay, because the first opening act is easily ignorable, inspiring no desire to rush to the front of the stage and revel in their crappieness. Plus, waiting in line gives us the opportunity to scope out the crowd, and point and laugh at people. One guy in particular captures our attention. Coke-bottle glasses, tapered jeans and white keds. E-gad. I whisper to Ing, "wouldn't it be funny if he ended up being in one of the bands," and we all have a good laugh. Slipping by the merch table, Ing notes the names of the opening acts, "The Shout Outlouds" and "Highspeed Scene", and their lack of the all-important jazziness factor. I buy a pack of Futureheads pins for 3 bucks. Irresistible, as they conform to the pink-black-white motif I've got going with my current accumulation on my purse. I kid not.
Our coats are secured away, and we venture towards the right side of the stage.
In a beautiful, beautiful moment, the second opening act comes on, complete with coke-bottle -glasses-guy, as drummer. Priceless. These Shout Outlouds turn out to redeem themselves, however, by a) being from Sweden (which somehow excuses any fashion accidents) b)having a lead singer who vaguely resembles Jason Shwartzmann, and c) actually being pretty damn good, and rockin' the joint like a bunch of crazy "Scandies-" as Becky chooses to refer to them as. They are a crowd pleaser. And that is a rare thing for an opening act in Montreal, let me tell you....
The Futureheads jump on stage shortly after, and they seem just as happy to be here as we do. It's quite refreshing, really. They look all spiffy, in loafers and black dress pants, but their mischievous smiles and the random jabs at each other betray this formality. Like a bunch of young hoodlums being forced to dress up for church by their mums. It's endearing.
The music starts, and we're infused with massive amounts of energy. I'm dancing like an idiot. I can't stop myself. I'm a slave to the sound. By the third song, the three of us have maneuvered our way to the very edge of the stage, in arms reach of the bassist, Jaff. They can't help but notice us, the dancing fools that we are. Every look from Jaff, lead singer Barry and drummer Dave, inspire us to no end. And just as we think we've run out of steam, they play "Hounds of Love" and there's that second wind. But, uh... gross, my bangs are all sweaty! Oh, fuck it. Dance on!
When the show is over, we are buzzed, but disgustingly hot. There's a back door that the bands have been coming in and out of, and no security whatsoever, so we cross the line into "backstage" territory, and step out the backdoor for some fresh air, and a smoke. A few minutes go by, and two of the band members walk right by us. I call out to them "Great show guys!" One of them says thanks, and I say, "It was really awesome." Awesome? Really? Oh, crap. Possibly the lamest words ever. Or at that moment in time they were anyway. Soon, the four of them are about to turn the corner, and I'm thinking.... do it you fool! Just ask them! Before it's too late! So I do.
"Where are guys going?" The lead singer hears me. He turns back. "After the show," I add, "Are you going somewhere?"
"Yeah. Some party, " he says. Oh, great, I think. A private thing. No fans allowed kinda deal. But wait! He calls out to one of his bandmates, "What's this place called?" He turns back to us. "Pistol? You know this place?" Do I?!
"Yeah. Yeah!" we all chime in. " It's just a few blocks down," and "they have good sandwiches,” and "good fries."
"Right. Thanks." And he's off. Cue giddiness.
Oh. My. God. We look at each other and exchange profanities. "Tell me I am the coolest person in the world," I say, or something to that effect. They do.
Soon after, some homely looking girl pokes her head outside, all frazzled and lost, and asks us if the band left. She gave them a CD (to sign, I'm assuming) and wants it back. We just sort of shake our heads and tell her we think they're getting changed in the tour bus. She leaves, and we reflect on the insipidness of autograph collecting.
We decide that the best thing to do is waste an hour or so, as we don't want to be sitting at Pistol waiting for them when they arrive. 'Cause, you know, that would just be sad. Ahemm. Yes.
We go for noodles right across from the Pistol, and talk about our fabulousness some more, and work out some of our band logistics. Then, the time comes.
Once inside, we wait for a table to open up at the bar, nursing our Heinekens, and assessing the Furtureheads sitch. They're all stuffed in this little corner together with their friends. We see little opportunity for mingling. But, the night is young, and a table frees up. We sit. Soon enough, someone appears at our table.
"Hi Girls." It’s the lead singer. And HE came to talk to US. "I'm Barry." He offers his hand. We shake. No hesitation there. At first, he just crouches at the edge of the table, and we talk briefly about our dancing, the Montreal crowds, and the music scene. He turns back to his group, and says, "hold on a minute," very politely, and Ingela says "smooth exit."
"You don't think he's actually coming back," I ask, not out of naïveté, but from the sense that he seems like an honest guy, who, if he were finished talking to us, would actually say a proper goodbye. And, whatdaya know, he does come back. Pulls up a chair in fact, sets his glass of white wine firmly on our table, and chats with us for a good 15 minutes. About sleeping on a tour bus, Conan O’Brien, Kate Bush and weird stalker fans that follow them from show to show. And of course, about our band: Leave it to Beaver (working title). Honestly though, I don’t think that impressed him much.
Of course, Ingela simply mentions the fact that she's heading back to Toronto the next day, and he offers to put her on the guest list. But she's floored. He goes out of his way to find a pen, and proceeds to write her name, plus one, on his hand. She's dying inside. And in the good way. Becky and I wish we lived in Toronto, so he would write our names on his hand too, until we realize.... wait.... that would mean we would actually have to live in Toronto. Never mind.
We wait until they've cleared out completely to leave the bar. Ing insists on doing some zany arm-flailing dance on Boul. St Laurent, accompanied by some literal woo-hooing, to my and Becky’s chagrin.
I console myself with the fact that Ingela owes it all to my courageous act, of daring to speak to them. It's sort of working.
Lying awake in Becky’s living room, too wired to fall asleep, I tell Ing, "I'm never not doing that again . . .. If that makes any sense."
"I'm pretty sure I know what you mean," she tells me. As I write this, she is probably on her way to the Toronto show. Have fun Ing. I hate you.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
2. The last CD you bought was... Pony Up! Yes. I am that cool.
3. What was the last song you listened to before reading this message? Of Montreal - Jaques.
4. Write down five songs you often listen to or that mean a lot to you. Okay. These songs all represent major musical landmarks in my life:
1)The Dead Kennedys - Holiday In Cambodia: Unbeknownst to me, I am exposed to punk rock, and like it (about 7 years later). Age 10.
2)REM- Losing My Religion: I "discover" my first band. Age 12.
3)Nirvana - Polly: I learn about teen angst. Age 12.
4) The Beatles - Elanor Rigby: I learn how to play the guitar on this song. Age 15.
5) Sonic Youth - Self-Obsessed and Sexxee: Not only does this sum up my self-image at this point in my life perfectly, but I'm listening to something really weird, and starting to understand it. Age 16.
Also, in honour of my birthday(march 2nd) The Lovely Feathers were kind enough to schedule a show on Saturday, the 5th at Le Swimming. So I'm dragging everyone downtown-kicking and screaming.
Monday, February 21, 2005
"On our way back to the motel after Friday's races I warned Steadmen about some of the other problems we'd have to cope with. Neither of us had brought any strange illegal drugs, so we would have to get by on booze. 'You should keep in mind,' I said, 'that almost everybody you talk to from now on will be drunk. People who seem very pleasant at first might suddenly swing at you for no reason at all.' "He was a brilliant man with an acid tongue, who wasn't afraid to say exactly what he thought. This got him into trouble, but it also made him a kind of cult-hero. Someone for bitter, disenchanted youth such as myself to look up to.
"My first feeling was a wild desire to drive a stake in the sand and claim the place for myself. . . . I had never seen such a place. I wanted to take off all my clothes and never wear them again."When you read Hunter Thompson, you get this feeling, that if you were to hang out with the man, you would fear for your life, and yet, if somehow he got you killed, it would be worth it. It would be the most dazzling, spectacular death the world had ever seen.
"No matter how much I wanted all those things that I needed money to buy, there was some devilish current pushing me off in another direction--towards anarchy and poverty and craziness. That maddening delusion that a man can lead a decent life without hiring himself out as a Judas Goat."Passion, intoxication, and brutal honesty. What more could you ask for in a journalist? Oh, there's talent. That was never an issue.
Goodbye, Raul Duke
Quotes: 1) from "The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved" 1970.
2 and 3) from "The Rum Diary," started: 1959 published: 1998.
Sunday, February 20, 2005
Wow. I just realized that I, tragically, have zero
vampire-related content on my blog. I apologize for
this oversight, and will rectify the situation.
Here is one of my rejected McSweeney's Lists:
Where Vampires are a Valid Form of Currency, and
also Exist OR Taking Common Expressions About Money
and Replacing the Word Money With the Word Vampires
and Seeing Which Expressions Still Hold True
1. Time is vampires.
2. Put your vampire where your
3. Not for all the vampires in the world.
4. Vampires don't grow
5. Vampires are the root of all evil.
6. It takes vampires to
7. Vampires can't buy you happiness.
8. Vampires talk.
9. Vampires make the world go round.
10. Your vampire, or your life.
11. Take the vampires and run.
12. He's got vampires to burn.
13. Give me all your vampires, or the old lady gets it!
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
(Walter: If you read this, leave me a "comment" for god's sake! Otherwise, I will go through Walter withdrawls. You know what I'm saying. Something about endorphines and... intoxicated monkeys?)
Sorry, everyone else.
Come to think of it, even if you don't know what the hell I'm talking about, that was still kinda funny, wasn't it?
So Nancy, Steph and I went tobogganing on Friday at the BGC, or more accurately, krazy-karpeting. Now one might easily jump to the conclusion that "crazy" is just one of those words tacked on to a product name to boost sales, like "mega!" or "XXX" or the Quebec favorite "super!" In this case, you would be wrong. Krazy Karpets are in fact crazy. Certifiable. They aren't especially fantastic at flying down hills, but they are, like a crazy person, impossible to predict, irrational, easily startled and I think mine was drooling a bit at the mouth. And like when spending time with a crazy person, one feels somewhat uncomfortable, yet exited at the same time, and the craziness rubs off on you a bit too, because even though your Krazy Karpet just flipped you over, and you think you might have a mild concussion? You run back up that hill to have another go.
In other news: My classes are going really well this semester. I think I'll be doing the Honours program. Although, it would be nice if I had some money to pay for school. I hate looking for a job. I just don't like selling myself. It makes me feel......... dirty. And not in a good way.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Sunday, February 13, 2005
So, normally, I'm on the up-and-up, as far as new music is concerned. But lately I've noticed a few people saying things like "you know, The Fiery Furnaces? Oh, of course you do. You're Aurora."
Somehow, Limewire slipped under my radar. I've been struggling with Soulseek for months, and their elitist regime of "the more files you have, the higher your downloads priority." Brutality. Accursed I-pod-people.
Well, I'm a socialist, baby. And so is Limewire.
Saturday, February 12, 2005
Anyway, I've discovered they are changing their name to "The Living Blue." I guess they really liked the name of their album. And this all leaves me quite curious as to the deeper meaning behind the "living" and the "blue" or perhaps the blue-ish qualities of said life.
My favorite show went off the air last night
My band got arrested when they got in a fight
My bike got stolen from off my front stoop
Oh Jesus, oh man, I'm asking you
How do I believe in a god who
lets stuff like this slide
I don't want to pray to a god who
isn't on my side
I can't find a vegan putine anywhere
Punk rock is corrupted and nobody cares
The metro never gets me to the bus on time
Can't the cops see skateboarding isn't a crime
God God God
I don't believe in you
God God God
So sad , too bad, boo hoo
God God God
I might just feel inclined
To suddenly change my mind
If I found a hunderd dollar bill
Or if I fell gravely ill
Anyway, I guess it's about some sad, self-centered, whiny college kid. I think we've all been that kid at some point in our lives. Admit it.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Intelligent Design is a label fabricated by Fundamentalist Christians, to make it sound all acedemic, when infact, it's simply creationism: the idea that some more intelligent, powerful being is responsible for the creation of the universe, eg-God. These religious fundamentalists believe it should be taught along side Evolution, as an "alternative theory". They get all bent out of shape, whining about how Evolution is "only a theory."
See, the problem is that a theory is a hypothesis that has stood up to rigorous scientific testing, and thus been accepted by the scientific community, published in a journal and whatnot. Can't really see that happening with Intelligent Design. And it's not that kids shouldn't know that this idea is out there, it's just that it should not be taught in the context of a science class. It isn't science
It's too bad that so many people can't manage to reconcile their spiritual beliefs with the world of science. Maybe they find it cold and inaccesable. Maybe they just don't understand how science works. Sure, Evolution is just a theory. So is gravity, relativity, and lots of other junk that we just assume is true about the universe. But scientists acknowledge that. Nothing is written in stone. Maybe that's what really scares the religious fundamentalists.
Sunday, February 06, 2005
I played around with Flash MX 2004.
I started a blog.
I don't know. Maybe I only tend to notice the freaky or pathetic looking loners when I'm at a show, and there are really all these really cool loners who just kinda blend into the crowd. But would I be a crowd blender? That is the scary question.
Well hopefully I'll get another chance to see Pony Up! I bought their new mini album last week. It's catchy and fun. Kinda like Liz Phair, circa 1994. Apperently, they are Montreal's "hot up-and-comers" or some such rubbish, according to Spin Magazine. And It's not just one Montreal band getting attention. Suddenly, This is the City. The new epicentre of indie rock.
Well, according to the people who write the articles, anyway.
...the next big pop movement will not involve accordions accompanied by crooning chanteuses. This one involves a coven of English speakers who have banded together up and down Boulevard St. Laurent in the Mile End neighborhood, filling lofts, community centers, bars and restaurants with sumptuous noise. Montreal, which leaves serious business to Toronto and revels in its work-to-live ethic, has drawn Anglophones from all over Canada to form bands, record labels and a full-blown scene.
Cold Fusion: Montreal's Explosive Music Scene, David Carr
February 6, 2005
The New York Times
Whatever. I just likes the good music.