Oh, for fuck's sake. I know I've been preoccupied with this 'n' that as of late (children - can't you put them on autopilot or something??), but I wasn't expecting this quite so soon. No, not at all. You see, I was starting to come to grips with the falling leaves and the falling temperatures and the early falling of darkness. I was falling into Fall. But just as I thought I had the fall under control, I was mugged. Most brutally and painfully.
Little Man & I had popped into our local Shoppers Drug Mart (yes folks, it's true, here in laid-back Vancouver we have retail stores selling weed, shrooms, and skag on open shelves) to pick up some codeine tabs for Dearest Wife and her irrepressible bronchitis cough. As we wended our way through aisles of pomade, unguent, powders and carbolic soap, my gaze was wrenched by a display of Toffifee boxes with smiling, rosy-cheeked fat men in red suits.
As I reeled in amazement, I was sucker-punched in the ears by a mawkishly mewled version of that bane of Yuletide music: Last Christmas. To make it worse, it was some dreadful cover version - The Cheetah Girls, I think. It were 'orrible, it were.
Sigh. It all seems so desperate, so tawdry: c'mon folks, get into the Chrimbo spirit! Do your bit to prop up global capitalism! Spend spend SPEND your way outta recession! Here, start with this delicious Toffifee...
And THAT song!! Argh!! Truth be told, there are some fine versions of it out there, which I suppose means that the tune itself has some merit. Shame Messrs Ridgeway and Michaels butchered it from the get go. Here, have a listen to these (if you've not been round here for Xmas before), whack one or two on your Xmas partee playlist, and watch Aunt Edna whizz it up:
The Revolvers - Last Christmas (dunno where you can get it, but it looks like this) Best. Version. Ever. Even if it's by some superannuated German punks.
So the past two weeks have been one blurry stream of numbers and anxiety and cortisol pump pump pumping through my screaming veins, sweeping all else aside. A bitter soup that fed deep, not wholly rational fears. A contrast medium that highlighted my shortcomings.
Heh. And just when I thought I was getting back on track round here.
But yesterday a high water mark was reached and the flow has subsided. For now. And I shall use the clarity afforded to consider those shortcomings...
But this morning, driving to work through a phosphene image of street light traffic light tail light against the a dark, rainy predawn of a dawn that ended up never really breaking, I could still feel the slightly sickening buzz at the back of my head. Twin Crystals provided a focus. Of sorts.
Ich trinke champers mit Herzfisch, sagt niddynoo...
I took yesterday's weather as a sign that it was finally time to purge the last of the summer backlog and get on with matters at hand. The day had started abysmally: suffocated by a smoky grey pall of clouds and drenched in the hard, cold rain that the Pacific Northwest does so well. By mid-morning I was convinced it'd never get truly light, and the subsequent fierce gritting of pea-hail that set off the car alarms outside seemed purely gratuitous. I was musing that summer was well and truly over, when the clouds and hail and rain were suddenly ripped off like a dirty bandage to reveal a newly healed blue sky and a defiantly bright sun.
So one more chance, then.
Lest you think from previous posts that the summer was spent in a hippy-folk haze, I'll have you know that I found time in my schedule for other popular beat combos, thank you very much. In late July I toodled down The Biltmore (a venue I like more in theory than in practice) to see The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart, with whom I had fallen in love earlier in the year. I shan't wax prolific, but suffice to say that they were charming and lovely and wonderful. Their fuzzy dreampop washed off the stage and over the audience like frothy waves of happy ache and yearning, while the band members themselves were graciously sincere and seemed genuinely pleased to be playing to us. Big, warm hugs all round.
Then there were the opening bands. First up were TPOBPAH labelmates Champagne Socialists, who I mistrusted from the start. Several slightly awkward lads (one apparently of rather good Glaswegian gang Bricolage) strummed and drummed, while a singer with a passing resemblance to Amy Winehouse went through the motions in an uncomfortably am-dram stylee. Oh dear. So imagine my surprise when I downloaded their 'Teardrop Tattoo' and found that their meh stage presence seemed to have camouflaged a pop song that, while rough around the edges, was actually rather evocative and tweely catchy, what with its "woo-ooo-ooo-ooo-oohs" and all. Apparently in the last month or so they've decided to call themselves Neverever, should you be inclined to investigate further. I might be.
Next up we had Girls. No, not those kind - it wasn't that sort of a show. I'm talking about two fellows from San Francisco who spun some fine songs out of strands of dreampop, the 1960s, melancholy, bittersweetness, and shimmer. Truth be told, I was unimpressed at first listen. But as thes stood their ground and worked their magic, I was drawn in and found myself both liking it and wondering why I did, particularly since some of their songs did go on for a while. I guess it was all of those beautiful strands...
Ladies & Gentlemen, whether you like it or not...HEDWIG!!
Dearest Friends, it's time to toss your tresses, shake your split ends, and fluff your fringes, coz this week Contrast Podcast has gone all hairy. Yes, this episode is dedicated to all things hirsute and hispid, so get ready for some Vidal Sassoon stylin' and download the grizzled goodness here.
I had to go with my choice because I've long wanted to contribute a song from Hedwig, one of my most favourite films of all times. Fantastic music, a glorious plot, journeys, self-doubt, authenticity, inauthenticity, trust, love, betrayal - ZOMG, it has it all. And Hedwig herself is a personal hero of mine. Someday I hope to see it in its original staged incarnation.
But as usual, there were other potential choices:
The Locust - Hairspray Suppository (buy here or e-here) In the end I figured this bit of speedcore chicanery from San Diego's wierdest might be a bit too much.
The Exploders - Put On Your Wig (buy here or e-here) I seem to have been submitting a fair bit of garage punk of late, so these Toronto racketeers were denied.
Despite my limited output here on pogo a go-go of late, I never missed a single opportunity to submit to the Contrast Podcast. That's not meant as a brag, but rather as an indication of how wonderful I think the CP Nation is. The folks who contribute are a fantastic group of folks, and the eclectic musical joy they contribute is soul-enhancing. Dearest TiM is a demigod for putting it all together for an amazing three-and-a-half years!! And the chance it offers me to dig deep into the cluttered, absurd depths of my mind to pul out my intros has probably been lifesaving. Several of you have said kind words aboutthem, and it gives me unbridled pleasure to think that you might find them amusing. For those of you who find them tedious, I do apologize and hope that your podcast player of choice has an easily operated fast-forward function.
In celebration of the Contrast Podcast (BTW, in case you've never listened and are having difficulty catching the subtext: GO LISTEN NOW!!! THEN CONTRIBUTE!!!!) and in penance for my silence here, I offer you a smattering of tracks that were recently in the running for submission:
Shonen Knife - Cycling Is Fun (buy here or e-here) Almost made it into CP 178. I <3 Shonen Knife and their "Ramones-meets-Peanut-Sisters" vibe. Off to see them next month - w00t!!
Stereolab - Outer Bongolia (buy here or e-here) Possible destination for CP 179, as it was the closest I could get to Mongolia in song (Tuvan throat singing aside). But one day I shall visit for real, oh yes...
Dearest Friends, that's the question Dearest JC posed below. Short, sweet, and shot straight. And it's one I thought best answered by a comeback, plarticularly since he mentioned me in a very kind post of his a few days ago. But how to make my re-entrance? Where to begin?? What to say???
You don't want the litany of reasons, primarily because it'd be pretty banal. An uninspiring mix of work, laundry, garden watering, erranding, that amounts to the taxing reality of summer bachelorhood. Admittedly, there is also the running, which might be a story worth telling, but not now. Suffice to say I've wanted to spend more time here, and the evidence can be found in the half-formed bits of prose that are moldering in the corners of my Blogger "Edit Posts" box. And in my frustration - les visible, but most tangible.
So, I think I have it now -- it's time for a cleanout, a pump 'n' dump, a spray 'n' pray. They will necessarily be the abridged versions (and there still may be some mold stuck to them), but here's the first from the pile of what might have been over the past weeks/months:
I have a terminal weakness for compilation CDs. They make me feel all savvy & clever, getting a brace of killah-not-fillah tracks from multiple bands, all for the price --sometimes discounted-- of one disc. Yes, I know these days you can achieve the same by trawling the net and sampling its wares. Yes, I admit that often the killah to fillah ratio is low. But yah boo sucks to all that, I still love them.
The problem is that I usually get fixated on two or three tracks, and pay scant attention to the rest. Take the "Yes New York" CD that on a whim I tossed into the car stereo the other week. When I got it back in 2003, I locked in on Radio 4's "Save Your City," "Olio" by The Rapture, and DFA's remix of Le Tigre's "Deceptacon." So tracks 2, 8, and 14 got heavy, heavy rotation. Fast forward to 2009 and imagine my utter surprise when track 4 grabs me by the ears and shouts in my face:
I'VE BEEN HERE ALL ALONG AND I'M TOTALLY FUCKING AWESOME!!!
A squealy intro of feedback. Chugging guitar, Fizzing distort,. Shouty vocals. Densely erudite, eloquent lyrics that sliced straight through flesh to plug directly into my soul.
Today I woke up uncertain And you know that gives me the fits So I left this land of fungible convictions Because it seemed like the pits And when I say, "conviction" I mean it's something to abjure And when I say "uncertain" I mean to doubt I'll not turn out a caricature
My God, in a flash I got this song so utterly, so completely. I made that trip. It was a pure epiphany, and the only thing the white light/white heat couldn't completely drown out was the little voice screaming "What the Hell took you so LONG???" at me.
So now I'm somewhat obsessed with this song. Somewhat? I mean totally.
And so begins the return. Thanks, Dearest JC, for kicking me up the jacksie. It feels good to be back. To misquote another track that's had heavy airplay in the FiLmobile of late: I won't fade away... Joy Division - Digital (buy here)
The Rev. Peyton & his lovely wife, Breezy Vancouver Folk Music Festival, 16 July 2009 Picture nicked from bswift
Dearest Friends, you won’t believe what happened to me! There I was, minding my own business, when all of a sudden I was abducted by a gang of hippies and folkies! It’s true!! I was held captive for three days during which I was fed nothing but patchouli, quinoa, and Pete Seeger. But that was just the beginning! After they had their wicked way with my innocence, they sold me into the slavery of Real Life!! Oh, the horror!! For a brief while I escaped on holiday, but as I was beginning to recuperate, Real Life found me hiding on an island and once again shackled me to a grindstone. Not the least comfortable grindstone I’ve ever been shackled to, but a grindstone nonetheless. Now I’ve been given a ten-minute loo break, which I’ve chosen to share with you, my lovelies!!
Right, I promised last time to tell you all about the Folk Festival, didn’t I? Well, I had a fantastic time - but not really for all the same reasons as previous years. You see, when I first started going to the Fest, it was purely for the music. Then I started volunteering, and my motivation became 80% music and 20% the volunteer “experience.” Well, this year I was surprised to find that I was equally rewarded by both aspects. Upon reflection, this was partly due to the fact that I wasn’t as galvanized by the music as in previous years; some of it left me unmoved, most of it I enjoyed mildly, and almost nothing triggered an epiphany.
Probably what surprised me the most was Arrested Development, who put on a series of intelligent, uplifting, and storming performances. I had long thought that gangsta and corporate bling had exterminated the Daisy Age in the hip hop wars, but I was inspired to see that there is still a guerrilla campaign of positivity being waged. In addition to their stonking headline on Friday’s main stage, AD’s core participated in a soulful Saturday morning session with Jamaican word warrior d’bi young (whose raw, defiant broadside against sexual violence both chilled and inspired), reggae poet Mutabaruka (righteous, if occasionally heavy-handed), and lyrical activist / mother Lisa Garza (who nearly made me cry).
I had wanted to catch Basia Bulat, but scheduling meant I only saw her perform a couple of songs. However, I later bumped into her eating an ice cream (she likes vanilla, BTW) and had a sweet little chat with her about our common Polish heritage. You see, the Fest is like that: you just run into artists, moreso if you're volunteering. In the kitchen tent I had another nice conversation with veteran Glaswegian firebrand folkie Dick Gaughan (reference: he sings with Billy Bragg on 'The Red Flag' off of BB's 'Internationale' EP). I asked him if he was going to play 'Stand Up For Judas,' which a friend of mine gave me in high school on a compilation tape that was one of my earliest exposures to Billy Bragg. He replied that he no longer played it live after discovering years ago that fans were bringing their religious friends to his gigs to shock them with the song. Though he was critical of religion, Dick didn't want to insult for the sake of insulting, even inadvertently, so he dropped the song from his set. Alas, shift timing meant I couldn't listen to what is in his set these days.
Still in Scotland, The Proclaimers put in an appropriately energetic set on Saturday night's Main Stage. Yes, all the songs you'd expect at one of their gigs were performed, including (natch) 'I'm Gonna Be,' which set the folkie crowd dancing in a sorta gawky pogo-helicopter stylee. A big, crowd-pleasing performance it was, and one that I found pleasant, if largely for reasons of nostalgia.
So, what moved me? Well, I was seriously impressed by Matt Andersen, a mountainous bluesman from New Brunswick whose voice he summons up from somewhere elemental Down South. I only saw him for a few songs, but they were something else. I also enjoyed Kate Reid, but not for the reasons you might expect. Kate does a good line in dyke-folk, in a sorta Ferron-meets-Indigo-Girls-meets-Ani-DiFranco-on-the-edge stylee. Which isn't admittedly my favourite idiom. But what got me was that she has soul. By which I mean she was earnest, righteous, determined, vulnerable, uncertain, honest, funny, witty, direct, unabashed, and celebratory, all at once. After seeing her I wanted to go out, right some wrongs , and hug people along the way.
My one moment of pure epiphany came, appropriately enough, on Sunday morning when I attended the hootin' & hollerin' service of Reverend Peyton & His Big Damn Band. Oh yeeeeeaaahhhhh!! With Reverend P pickin' on gee-tarr, his brother Jayme on drums and pickle barrel, and his wife Breezy on washboard, the Big Damn Band pumped out an electrifying mixture of punk, bluegrass, delta blues, country, and moonshine. This was a stompin' revival meeting at which the Holy Spirit Of Music descended and whacked you upside the head until you spoke in tongues and became a true believer! And just to make the point, Breezy set fire to her washboard during the last song. Phew!!
But enough about the music. At least half of the reason I enjoyed the Festival so truly, madly, deeply was that I had a blast hanging out with, and basking in the glory of, all the wild, weird, and wonderful people I met while volunteering. I once heard the Festival described as a sort of Brigadoon: a magical community that appears once every while out of seeming nothingness, then disappears suddenly, leaving you wondering if you ever really had been there. Now, with few exceptions (i.a. Sweeney Todd, Threepenny Opera, Little Shop of Horrors) I despise musicals, but I think the comparison is entirely appropriate. So a big shout-out to the Chess Nut, Frank the Prof, Magnificent Mairghread and her Team Z Commandos (who came to my aid as I shouted for backup chasing a crazed rogue cyclist through the crowd), Jennifer the Space Station Tracker, Mike the Dipsomaniac, Wistaria, Pascal, all of Team G, and the rest of the exotic fauna I omitted to mention. Slumber well until next year.
Right, loo break over - back to the grindstone. But here, have a few of these:
Liza Garza - My Everything (cannae find anything of hers for sale!!) This is the song that choked me up at the Festival. She sang it acapella, and quite frankly I think the backing music lessens the power. Here, look at this instead - this is much more like it. And yes, she choked up at the Fest as well:
I don't know where I'm going, but I'm on my way. I'd like it if you'd come along, at least for a while. We'll have some fun, maybe sing a few songs together. Sound OK?
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