MONDOmagazine

Crippled Black Phoenix
A Love of Shared Disasters
Redeye, 2007

By Allana Mayer

What buzz exists of Crippled Black Phoenix tends to centre on name-dropping (members of Mogwai and Electric Wizard; album produced by Geoff Barrow of Portishead) and atmosphere-building (moody, ominous, grandiose, sweeping). That’s pretty much all anyone knows. Their website features a composite image as an “About” page, including a dog dressed in a Yoda costume and a brick. So now that you’re up to speed, let’s listen to the album.

Skip straight past the first song. Please. Don’t give it a moment’s notice. After about ten seconds of “Really, How’d it Get This Way”, the second track on A Love of Shared Disasters, you’ll realize that Crippled Black Phoenix is a great fucking band. But if you listen to that first track… well, you’ll never make it that far. You’ll probably capsize in laughter or disgust and give up straight away. Which would be a shame.

On that note, maybe you should skip the first couple minutes of “The Whistler,” as well.

I’ve listened to enough great bands that have really awful, over-the-top theatrical moments (Cerberus Shoal and The Creeping Nobodies spring to mind). I have the patience to sit through that stuff, but I don’t want other people to take that chance and risk depriving themselves of the good parts of this album.

The artists are intelligent and creative, for sure, and there’s no doubt of an impressive group effort behind this disc. But what sounds like Gregorian chanting and a rambling Gaelic storyteller are definitely off-putting touches — strangely unlike the “aaa-ooo” wailing at the end of the album. It might just be easier to identify with the more realistic emotions expressed on the album: torture and heartbreak are well and fine, but not the apocalypse that seems to be coming in the first song.

A Love of Shared Disasters suddenly becomes an album on the fourth track, “Suppose I Told The Truth,” and stays that way until the end. It’s a solid alt-country-ish track, and a good primer for the spectacular, single-worthy “You Take The Devil Out of Me” that comes later. There’s everything to love about the subtle, husky voices, and the way the twanging guitar perfectly intermingles with the piano melody.

The first track may have been meant to set the mood — of a gloomy pirate ship sailing to the ends of the Earth, or something equally hard to take seriously. But it’s those songs of lyrical content and straightforward structure that get the message across, rather than those that use harsh and irritating sounds. Sometimes those have an appeal, but I think Crippled Black Phoenix are capable of being quite enchanting — they just have to decide if that’s what they want.

300
Directed by Zach Snyder
Warner Bros., 2007

By Jason Kogler

Posted March 26th, 2007

How can you go wrong with a story as simple as 300? Über-beefcakes dressed in their birthday best, strapped to spear and shield fighting off the invincible hordes of the Persian Empire? It is quite literally the stuff of legend. At the very least it should make one hell of an action flick to fend off the doldrums of winter. Yet, with Zack Snyder helming 300, prepare for more bore than gore.

The story of Frank Miller’s graphic novel 300 is perfectly suited for a visual effects wet dream. Leonidas starts as a child, taught to fight by his father and then tossed out into the wilderness to become a man. Flash forward to King Leonidas, the Spartan with the most muscle, and closest approximation to a brain. The rest of the film follows him as he defends Sparta from the massive horde of Persia with a paltry three hundred warriors. Of course, the film does have a sprinkling of politics, with scenes led by Leonidas’ wife, the Queen of Sparta. One assumes that this is to provide a breather from the unbearable violence.

The trouble is that neither the visual effects nor the gore live up to the hype. Unlike Robert Rodriguez’s treatment of Sin City, the images in 300 hardly look like a living comic. The high contrast vibrant colours and computer generated characters look more at likely to appear on a PS3 than a film screen. However, with modern video games taking steps towards cinematic status, it is sad to see a movie taking the same steps backwards.

There is more violence on an episode of America’s Next Top Model than there is in 300. Sure, there are plenty of amputations, decapitations and Spartan spears to the chest, yet no blood or guts. It is a very literal reproduction of comic violence: all action and no detail. Why are the violence and gore so inadequate? For one thing, director Zack Snyder is far too serious about his task. At least in Sin City characters such as Marv mix wisecracking with neck breaking. King Leonidas won’t even crack a smile as Zeus throws lightning bolts upon the approaching ships of his enemy.

The most fun Snyder has is with an apple. After a particularly gruelling fight Leonides enjoys a good-old Granny Smith. I hazard to guess where he stashed the thing to begin with but, for the active warrior, a quick low-carb, high-in-natural-sugar snack is what you need for that extra spurt of energy between battles. The King munches apples and declares orders, in what might be the pinnacle of 300’s comedic styling.

For the rest of the film Snyder feels some inane need to interrupt the battles with overdone slow-motion and a political side story narrated by some one-eyed sod. I lost count after the thirtieth time the film slowed to a near halt and then sped back up mid-decapitation. Cut out all the slow-motion scenes and 300 would barely reach feature length.

300 lacks substance and fails to make up for it through spectacle. Not surprisingly, Snyder glosses over more controversial subtexts such as the homosexual pairings of Spartan warriors and the racial implications of the film’s Persian portrayal. Sadly, it is likely that neither Snyder nor his target audience, a mix of adolescent boys and men who spend too much time drooling over the WWE and UFC, would either invite or understand such elements. By the end of the film I felt only the desire to be one of the Persian soldiers slaughtered mid-way through. At least they were spared the agony of the rest of Snyder’s over-masculine bore-fest.

Proving modesty is something to aspire too

By Rebecca Harrison

A preface to this article: I love David Krumholtz. Not just in an “I really admire and respect his work” way, but in a “marry me and let me have your babies” way. So, believe me, writing this article hurts, since he takes criticism of his show about as well as he punctuates a sentence.

Three years ago, I was home for some reason, chilling and watching TV with my mom, and she was insistent that I watch her new favourite show, Numb3rs. Now, I was leery because 1) I don’t like shows with 3’s in their titles and 2) my Mom loves Sue Thomas: F.B. Eye.

So, in typical only-child fashion, I began bitching and whining in an attempt to get my way, but then something shut me up — David Krumholtz. He appeared on the screen and I decided that maybe I’d give this show a try because I am exceedingly shallow.

I soon realized the Friday night CBS drama starred not only Krumholtz’s curls, but also Rob Morrow (from my beloved Northern Exposure), Peter MacNicol (from my loathed Ally McBeal) and Judd Hirsch (from my never-seen Taxi).

From that night on, for thirteen episodes, I was enamoured by this strongly acted show with an interesting concept, but no clear direction. Was it a procedural (yes, please!), a family drama, or a show forewarning us of the predicted 2010 drop in employment rates for mathematicians? No — it was a pastiche of all three, but I held out hope that the show would grow into itself. It had such potential, even if the creators mistook numbers for letters. The family and friendship bonds forming between the characters were intriguing, mostly because of the strength of the cast, but the crimes remained weak, as it headed in to a second season.

And so it was, that one night after yet another episode where I correctly picked out the unsub (aka “bad guy”) the moment they walked on to the screen, I found myself on the Television Without Pity message boards. The Numb3rs forum was jumping and I began skimming the thread, when a particular message drew me in — it was a post from creator/writer Cheryl Heuton (aka CHeuton). She had begun writing regularly on the boards and it is because of her that I now vehemently disparage Numb3rs whenever I have the chance. With one post read on a message board, Numb3rs went from secret favourite show to most loathed show. How is this possible?

She made me defend CSI: Miami.

From her December 7, 2005 post on the TWoP message boards:
“I mean, come on — I watched a little of [CSI: Miami] the other night. The first five minutes of the first act consisted of characters walking up to a crime scene in slow motion. The lead character just happened to be in the confession booth when a mass shooting breaks out at a funeral going on just outside. Maybe mass shootings at funerals are common, everyday events in Miami — making it less of a ludicrous contrivance. I don’t know. You tell me.”

Now, I kinda despise CSI: Miami. I spend my Monday nights at home saying the same damned things Heuton said, to my Mom. But seriously, you’re Numb3rs — you have a mathematician telling experienced FBI agents how to negotiate, and tacked-on moral messages about why we should sign organ donor cards. Granted, Heuton has admitted that Numb3rs isn’t exactly great literature, but she also defended her writing by comparing it to Austen and Dostoevsky.

And so Numb3rs lost me. The show has the potential to be strong, were it to use the mathematically-solved crimes as a backdrop for the familial issues that must arise from having a brother/son who is a genius or brother/son who is an FBI agent and stay away from using math to solve crimes from the Holocaust.

So, now with this very article David Krumholtz hates me. Don’t believe me? Here’s his response on the Numb3rs.org forum on December 17, 2005 to a critique that the show seemed too right-wing:
“It’s a friggin’ t.v. show!!!!! Get a life, and next time, don’t post nasty thoughts here…there are plenty of other sites dedicated to our show you can post on, our show is just so popular…there it is, my nasty scathing opinionated post, a well deserved response, your “climax” if you will. Did it feel good? Now, clean yourself up and go to bed.”

Sigh. Forgive me, David! I loved you in Serenity!

By Elisha Denburg

For the Salsa:

Two small mangoes, slightly under-ripe
A large handful of fresh coriander
1/4 of a large red onion
Juice of one lime
Salt and pepper
Peel and dice mangoes, finely mince red onion and roughly chop coriander. Place all ingredients in a bowl and toss well with lime juice, salt and pepper.

For the Couscous:

One cup couscous
One cup water
One tbsp canola oil
One tsp each: cumin, garam masala, turmeric
Heat oil in a small saucepan. Add spices, couscous and water. Cover and turn off heat, leave for 5 minutes or until all water has been absorbed. Fluff with a fork.

For the Fish (That’s right! It’s fish!):

Two tilapia fillets
Two tbsp olive oil
One tbsp butter
Salt and pepper

Heat oil and butter in a non-stick pan. Season fish on both sides with salt and pepper. Sautee fish for a few minutes on each side, or until just cooked through. It should flake easily with a fork. Be careful not to overcook.

Assemble couscous, fish and salsa on a plate, garnish with more coriander and dig in to the goodness of World Fusion Food! It’s literally a melting pot of cultures.

Manipulator? I Never Touched Her!

By Danielle Zacarias
Illustrations by Dara Gold

Listen carefully, because I am only going to say this once: love is not about flowers and candy and cards. Love is about mind control. What we have come to call “romance” is merely a soft veneer for the true, darker nature of love. Love is a contest of wills whereby two people seek to dominate each other and the most immoral wins. Ninjas know this. Few others, save for the bravest among us, dare admit that. If you are one of those rare and fortunate brave, read on. If you have what it takes to be a ninja, or at least pretend that you are, I offer these ancient teachings. But if you are one of the weak, if you know you will falter, then turn your gaze away from this page and take solace in your ignorance and chocolate and teddy bears. I will try not to think less of you. For those who remain, I will teach you how to win in this greatest of battles and emerge clothed in glory, victorious and in masterful and in complete control.

Show off your grappling hook

Leave it somewhere in your car or in your bedroom and make it so that it looks as though you forgot it was there. Doubtless they will ask you why you have such a thing. Grappling hooks are sexy but not many people have them. Their curiosity will drive them mad. You should tell them something along the lines of: “Oh that? Uh, look there are some things about me I can’t tell you right now. I promise I will tell you at the right time.” After this throw away the grappling hook so that they never see it again. Anytime they ask you about it, be evasive: it will never be the “right” time. This has the effect of making them want something from you, namely your trust. They cannot take your trust, they must earn it and they will try hard to. This gives you what I like to call leverage.

Maximize outcomes

Whenever you are about to do something really nice for them, act as though you are about to tell them something awful. This means that whatever nice thing you do for them will seem ten times nicer than it would have if they were expecting it. As a result you will have to work less. The majority of your effort will be expended in keeping up the impression that something bad is about to happen and finding new ways to trick them each time. By doing this to them you will be able to gain control of their emotions. You will come to possess the key to their misery and their happiness, and they will become dependent on you.

Name no one, say very little

Remember, your friends do not have names. They should at all times be referred to as “my friend” or “my colleague”. Also, if you can, try as hard as you can to leave gender out of the conversation. If you are asked to reveal who your “friends” and “colleagues” are, say “You don’t know them, what difference does it make?” or, if you are feeling particularly creative you might try, “I can’t talk about such things. It is for your own good not to know.” Remember also to be as vague as you can about where you go. You do not go to the mall to buy Captain America action figures. You “go out.” This saves you from having to deal with any fighting that may arise out of the company you keep or the places you go. On the other hand, if they are foolish enough to reveal names and places, you will be able to pick fights with them about these things. This will put you in a position of power because you are always “the wronged one” and they are always “the screw-up”. If they are mad at you they are really crazy. If for some reason they still find something to be mad at you over, do not lose heart. Pretend to listen, then slowly become extremely and visibly agitated. Pace if you can. At the perfect moment tell them how hard you are trying but that it is really impossible to deal with all their crazy demands/ actions/ thoughts. A good one to use is: crazy insecurities. Chalk up any anxieties or problems they are having to insecurity and you have already won. It makes their anger and sorrow their problem, not yours. Never let them see you bleed. Real ninjas don’t bleed. Do not cry; do not show any strong emotion other than displeasure or, occasionally, happiness when they’ve done something extravagant for you. Emotions are for them. Not you.

Familiarize them with loss

You are busy. You are not always available (unless you want to be). You are also, because you have hardened yourself and trained your mind, not afraid to lose them. They are, however, afraid to lose you if you have done your job properly. Remind them of this. Break up with them at the slightest sign of disobedience, but take them back if they please or placate you enough. If you manage this, you will have, at this point, won the battle and you can congratulate yourself. You can never let your guard down — vigilance is key — but from this point on you can content yourself with knowing that you hold all the cards and have attained for yourself what I like to call a love slave. And what about the real ninjas? At this point you may be wondering what real ninjas do if this is what people pretending to be ninjas do. It’s so simple. Real ninjas don’t fall in love. They don’t even pretend.

On Dressing the Child.

By Daniel Ian Taylor

I’ve gotten to the age now where I can ask my father the questions that I was once afraid to ask. I was once too young, not yet ready to hear the answers, afraid to know such things. But now I am ready.

Did you love mom? Was I planned? Is Susan really your favourite or is it secretly me?

Even now, with a hardened heart of accrued disappointment and collected tobacco residue, I am sometimes unprepared for what he says. One Christmas Eve, when I was sentimental for years gone by and just a little drunk, I asked him what one memory, what single moment he would take with him from this life when the time came. Rest assured that it was so romantic, so idyllic, so positively filthy that my fingers shy away from the keys that might spell it out.

Other answers are less troubling, but no less difficult to hear. Perhaps because the answers are just what I expected them to be, and hearing them aloud finalizes it in my mind, makes it so much harder to swath myself in velvety lies and ignorance.

Dad? Why did you let mom dress me like that?

Oh, Son. Why do you think? Because I didn’t care!

That is a hard thing to know: That someone can love you enough to die for you, love you enough to set aside their own plans to raise you and guide you through life, yet not quite enough to make sure you don’t look like a complete fool as you trundle off into the world in a sailor suit your mother bought at Sears. I guess all of our fathers fail us sooner or later.

I often lay blame on mothers in this column, haranguing them for letting their children run amok at the hair salon, for hauling strollers into places they ought not to go, for screaming and crying and wringing their hands when the child inevitably wanders off and disappears into the crowded mall. You should have been watching him, you negligent twit.

But I call on you fathers now, for the sake of the children, for the sake of me having to look at them: Help dress the poor little buggers. Help pick out their clothes. Your wife or common-law partner or regrettably-fertile girlfriend is only going to mess it all up; it’s built into her.

Now I’m no Woman Biologist — and never once have I claimed that I might be — so I won’t offer any kind of theory as to why this happens. Is it instinctual? Is it hormonal? Ovarian? I can’t say for sure. I don’t even want to look it up for fear of there being diagrams.

All I know is that once the miracle of child-birthing has occurred, a perfectly normal woman, one with an otherwise keen sense of fashion and the ability to discern smart decisions for complete idiocy, loses a part of her mind.

Somewhere a gear slips off its axle, a circuit breaker flips, a spring buckles and goes sailing out her ear and into the wastebasket. A tiny man with a tiny clipboard and a tiny crowbar saunters into her head and starts pulling wires out of the walls.

So I’m going over your heads this time, ladies. If you’ve yet to have children, anything I tell you now will cease to make any sense at all once your first child is born. And if you’ve already had kids, it’s too late. You’re probably reading this as you bounce a toddler wearing a “Mommy’s Little Man” sweater on your knee. Your brain is probably systematically filtering my words right now in such a way that you don’t even realize that I’m talking about you. You probably think you’re reading the latest gossip from tinsel town. Enjoy that. I’ve got work to do.

So, Fathers of the World! Hear me! I know that you probably don’t care. I wouldn’t either. But you have to. You just have to. You have to put your foot down about the overalls with the little button-flap bum. You have to make a stand against the iron-on t-shirt transfer of grandma and grandpa. This is your legacy we’re talking about. Do you want a Barney and Friends advertisement slapped across the chest of your legacy? Do you?

And for those of you who leave the house dressed exactly the same as your son in those little matching outfits, right down to the identical ball caps and sunglasses:

I forgive you.

I know that wasn’t your idea. I know you were just sitting in the kitchen, minding your own business, reading the newspaper on a Saturday morning or a Sunday afternoon when you heard the car door slam and your wife appeared in the doorway with Winners bags hanging from each arm. I know how you felt as she crowed brainlessly “Look what I found for you and Joshua!” I know how much you hated her in that moment.

And I know how your heart sank as you turned away in disgust and caught your own reflection in the coffee tin on the counter, saw the thinning hair and the deepening grooves that time was carving across your forehead. I know you realized that you couldn’t go back to the bar scene like that, you couldn’t start doing your own laundry again, you couldn’t keep track of all the expiration dates in even the most modest of bar fridges. As much as you wanted to, I know you couldn’t turn on her like the rabid dog that you might once have been in such a moment, you couldn’t list all the hellish tortures you would prefer to putting that on and taking Josh to the park.

But it’s not too late. You can fix it. You can leave something behind that you aren’t ashamed of, something that isn’t ashamed of itself. Go get the clothes. You know what you have to do.

Published by Nintendo
Developed by Nintendo EAD

By Danielle Zacarias

One thing that Mario games always make me think is this: man, those folks at Nintendo know what they are doing. New Super Mario Bros. is no exception. Not too hard or too easy, and after the game is done, there is still plenty more to do. It’s perfect for the both gamer who wants to race through a game and the gamer who never wants their game to end.

The game story follows the usual plotline: you, fat little Italian plumber that you are, lose your princess to the evil Bowzer. In order to get her back, you pursue her through a series of worlds. Each world has a bunch of levels in it that you are pretty much forced to follow in a fairly linear pattern. You can go back to old levels and play around, or you can sometimes offer up star coins (there are three of these in each level, to be collected and used to get items or go places) for the privilege of trying out an alternate level, but you can’t really beat levels out of order.

One thing about Mario games that has always simultaneously bothered and fascinated me is how easy it starts out. It seems like child’s play at first. You get new lives just like that, and even when you die, your coins are not lost. Once you reach the halfway point of most levels, you are allowed to return to that point if you manage to die afterwards. There are also goodies everywhere. You get the feeling that the minds behind Mario are kind minds, and that they want you to enjoy your gaming experience the same way that babies like being fed candy.

On the very first level of the first world in Mario, you are offered an exciting prize: a giant mushroom that makes Mario grow to gargantuan proportions. Right away, without even having to try, you get to experience the psychotic fun of stomping everything in your path. It’s like Nintendo Land crack: the high doesn’t last long — he shrinks back to normal size pretty fast — but boy, do you ever want more.

The whole first world is extremely easy. Serious gamers might actually get bored because the challenges are few and far between. I mean, for heaven’s sake, you are in a world where mushrooms have little legs and toddle along and killing them is as bloodless and easy as stepping on them. The first couple of boss fights are also pretty much a joke: all you have to do is fire off a couple fire balls or step on Bowzer or one his minions three times and you’re done.

But you shouldn’t get too comfortable. The game does get pretty hard. It kind of creeps up on you, but eventually you will be losing life after life and cursing Mario and his chubby little legs. I didn’t mind the increase in difficulty too much, though I have to say that a couple of the levels struck me as being a bit ridiculous. There were moments when it really did seem like there were too many bullets, and enemies, and Hail-Mary jumps, and flowers spitting fire balls, all happening at once. It was like I stepped into West Side Story.

My only other real complaint about Mario is that some of the secrets are incredibly hard to figure out. Some are rather clever and involve satisfying problem solving, but there are others leading to fairly big things — like the unlocking of two additional worlds — that are not unraveled without a fair amount of game play and guess work.

However, the touch screen is utilized really well in New Super Mario Bros. It’s used to either show your progress in terms of coins or distance, or allow you to access a sort of back up upgrade (whether it be a giant mushroom, a fire flower, or whatever). It’s all set up so that the screen feels like a worthy — if not necessary — component, which makes perfect sense. Nintendo made the DS, and they seem to know best how to exploit it.

In the end, I still can’t help but think again: man, those folks at Nintendo know what they are doing.

Published by Destineer/Bandai
Developed by Bandai

By Diana Poulsen

“Humankind cannot gain anything without first giving something in return. To obtain, something of equal value must be lost. That is Alchemy’s First Law of Equivalent Exchange. In those days, we really believed that to be the world’s one, and only, truth. The Philosophers’ Stone: those who possess it, no longer bound by the laws of Equivalent Exchange in Alchemy, may gain without sacrifice, create without equal exchange. We searched for it, and we found it.”

Opening Lines of Fullmetal Alchemist

Gamers cannot gain anything without first giving something in return. To obtain, something of equal value must be lost. That is video games’ First Law of Equivalent Exchange. In those days, I really believed that to be the world’s one, and only, truth.*

This is the second Fullmetal Alchemist game I’ve played. The first one was Fullmetal Alchemist 2 Curse of the Crimson Elixir, and it got me interested in the show. I’ll admit that I enjoyed the show so much, I needed a video game to fill my alchemic hunger. Of course, I did not forget the one actual law about video game criticism: games based on movies and television shows are mediocre or terrible.

FMADS (did anyone else wonder whether the “DS” in the title was an homage to the system?) begins by, at first, playing through the game as Edward Elric, the Fullmetal Alchemist. The game does go through the entire storyline, but to get the entire story, you have play again through the game with all available characters that are unlocked after the game is finished the first time. So you’d better plan on calling in sick at work. On the bright side, you can play the game through as you favourite character from the show. On the down side, doing so will leave some holes in the plot, and will leave non-FMA fans wondering what the hell is going on. Then again, I imagine that only fans of the show will buy this title anyway.

Game play is easy-peasey, typical hack and slash, and boss battles are challenging and require a little bit of strategizing, but FMADS certainly is not a brain buster, and you should get through it with a bit of persistence. The touch screen is used to unleash alchemic attacks, and to solve a variety of touch-related puzzles, which are usually pretty lame. They consist of: touching dots to perform some alchemy, tracing alchemic circles, chopping wood, untying a person, and so on. Exciting? Not really. Some of these touch screen events are added to the minigame section. The best minigame is the whackamole game where you try to whack all the homunculus. However, it’s still not enough to make up for a game that is lacking in depth. The story may be wonderful, but the game play is tedious and unchallenging, unworthy of the name of an entertaining television show.

A game based on a TV series or movie: those who possess it, no longer bound by the laws of Equivalent Exchange in videogames, may gain without sacrifice, create without equal exchange. I searched for it, and I was unsatisfied with what it had to offer.*

*my incredibly bad parodies of the opening quotes from Fullmetal Alchemist

Battlelore
Third Age of the Sun
Napalm Records, 2005

By Sam Linton

First of all, to be honest, this review actually started not as a review at all, but as a failed attempt to purchase a different album, based on the recommendations of another review. Yes, I was reading Exclaim! the other day (no doubt a familiar publication to all of our Canadian readers), and they had published a rather glowing review of the latest Battlelore album, Evernight. Anyways, this review appealed to me, and I resolved to purchase a copy of Evernight for my own, despite never having heard any of Battlelore’s music before. Long story short, I couldn’t find a copy at [Well Known Bathurst & Bloor Area New and Used Music Store], but I DID find a copy of their last album, Third Age of the Sun, and with some hesitation based on the sticker price ($20.99 + tax!) I bought it. Well, it turned out to be a good call on my part, because this album fuckin’ rocks!

Actually, I may want to qualify that this album fuckin’ rocks if you like power metal. Those of you who don’t like your guitar chords loud, uplifting, and triumphant and your lyrics filled with tales of myth and wonder may want to stop reading this right now. Unless you’re reading for my eclectic, wit-infused writing style, that is. On the other hand, for those of you who are “in the know” when it comes to this oft-misunderstood sub-genre, this is definitely an album you want on your playlist.

The best way that I could describe the band’s overall style is in terms of a back-and-forth: there are guitar riffs that vary from sludgy to clean, and songs that shift from the aggressive to the melodic (not that the two are mutually exclusive). The vocal stylings alternate between clear, melodic lyrics sung by female vocalist Kaisa Jouhkiand and throaty death vocals sung by male vocalist Tomi Mykkänen. This makes the vocal style of the band somewhat similar to Opeth – except with two people doing it, rather than the same person doing two separate vocal styles.

This “back and forth” approach is especially apparent on tracks such as “Of Orcs and Elves,” where the song seems to switch from orcish to elvish perspectives throughout the song. Of course, that’s not to say that it’s all back and forth: there’s also frequent overlap of the contrasting styles, as well as a few songs that seem to stick with only one approach. The overall effect creates a wonderful sense of variety wrapped up in a shell of standard power metal goodness (guitars, drums, loudness, lyrics about orcs and elves). Which is good, because if there’s one thing I hate, it’s shelling out $20.99 + tax for an import CD where every track sounds the same (I’m talking to you, Bolt Thrower!)

I could not find Battlelore’s latest album, so I am in no position to give any specific advice regarding its purchase. However, if it’s anything like the group’s previous album, I’d be willing to bet it’s worth a listen, especially if you like your metal and you like it FANTASTICAL. In fact, I’d be willing to bet $20.99 + tax on it. Any takers?

Of Montreal
Hissing Fauna, Are You the Destroyer?
Polyvinyl, 2007

By Cassie Emmett

You know those days when you wake up really late, well past the alarm, roll out of bed, and just throw on jeans over your pyjama pants? You’re too rushed to brush your teeth or make breakfast before you catch the bus to work/school/shul/haircut, but you still somehow have time to grab your music player. As you trudge through the snow to your bus stop, you put on that album that will help make everything go away — something mindless that will just get you through the rest of the day.

Hissing Fauna, are you the Destroyer? is that kind of album. While aurally pleasing, it seems that the trademark Of Montreal kitsch is missing; this album is just the slightly-less-interesting-but-still-danceable offspring of their last release, Sunlandic Twins. As good as this album is, I was expecting something more groundbreaking. Reviewers often complain about a lack of cohesion from song to song, but it’s also a problem when some tracks become unidentifiable and function only as filler between the “good” songs.

There are elements of Hissing Fauna that make the English major part of me ejaculate with unrestrained pretension: the song titles are fully loaded like a textbook from a dream class. However, much like Icarus, Of Montreal may have flown a little too close to the sun on this one: they try to do too much, and the result is an average album.

Dance favourites for me are “Heimdalsgate Like a Promethean Curse,” a contagious song about self-medication, and “Bunny Ain’t No Kind Of Rider,” a song that makes light of the sexual ambiguity that has become commonplace in many social circles. The standout song of the album for me, however, is “The Past is a Grotesque Animal;” it stands out stylistically from the rest of the album. The line “Sometimes I wonder if you’re mythologizing me like I do you” seems to sum everything up for me; it makes me feel better about completely over-thinking everything. Although I personally don’t consider Hissing Fauna the most successful Of Montreal album, it is worth being late for.

Modest Mouse
We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank
Epic Records, 2007

By Dan Taylor

Ask Not for Whom the Brock Yowls

Nobody can tell me that someday the carbon from which my body sprang will be returned to the soil of this temporary and fleeting planet like Isaac Brock.

Maybe it’s the epically-philosophical scope of the lyrics set against Brock’s undeniably danceable guitar riffs. Maybe it’s off-kilter wisdom he doles out in the choppy shouts and barks that make him sound like a lost Muppets character. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s been doing this for five albums now, because I get a sense of permanence from the consistently-ephemeral nature of his poetry.

Somehow it’s all so reassuringly bleak. It’s “Dust in the Wind” without the suck.

We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank, Modest Mouse’s follow-up to the unexpected commercial catapult Good News for People Who Love Bad News, is admittedly more of the traditional fare from the Washington quintet-turned-sextet (Johnny Marr sat in on the album and is now apparently a full band member), but hell if I care. Modest Mouse is one of my “roast beef” bands; I’ll eat leftovers for a week so long as they keep dressing it up a little differently every night.

The lead single, “Dashboard”, the most immediately-infectious of the new album’s 13 tracks (that’s what a lead single is, right?), was an early indication of how I would digest the disc when I heard it on the radio a couple of weeks back.

Modest Mouse has either ratcheted their production values even tighter, thought our intrepid young hero (Me), or this poppy new band with everything to prove sounds a hell of a lot like Modest Mouse.

Melodically and rhythmically, the album also seems to be the logical extension of where the band has been headed over its last few albums. It’s a little glossier, a little cleaner, but it’s clearly more of the same. On my first full listen through the record there were several instances in which I found myself mentally overdubbing lyrics and melodies from past Modest Mouse songs over the new tracks, which is a total asshole thing to do but I’m nothing to you people if I’m not honest.

All in all, I just don’t care. The band’s got a wonderfully distinctive sound, unusual lyrics that are equal parts of catchy and profound, and they give hope to homely indie rock kids everywhere. I’m not really going to complain that they sound like themselves, because they sound really fucking good.

Now that I’ve settled into the album some, I find myself coming back to certain tracks more than others. “Dashboard” drags me kicking and screaming and shaking my ass out of bed to get ready for work, “Parting of the Sensory” opens with me gloomily drinking coffee and ends with me dancing around with unwieldy fervor and coffee stains all over my shirt, and “Little Motel” tucks me in at night.

Maybe I’m just not deeply-rooted enough in the band’s old material to despise the new, since I only really picked up on them as The Moon and Antarctica was priming the music world for their impending launch to fame and fortune. I’m sure there’s some dude in Washington who went to all their hole-in-the-wall shows back in 1994 and hates them for what they’ve made of themselves, crying and jerking off to “Dramamine” for the 900th time. But it ain’t me. Not this time.

Of course, this wouldn’t be a review of the new Modest Mouse album without commenting on Johnny Marr’s contributions.

They’re good.

I don’t know; he’s Johnny Marr! He plays guitar very well, and he’s got a very different style from Brock’s angry chord-wrenching. Marr is a fantastic sideman and composer, the greatest Garfunkel since Garfunkel. It works.

Long story made short, I think you’ll like this album if you’re not from Washington, or so indie rock you could just die. The band’s got a broad new audience and old fans to please, and We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank does as well with this impossible task as anyone could expect. Four MONDOs out of five, or whatever unit it is we’re using these days to gauge the empirical value of art.

Foxfire Forest
CD Release Party
at The Drake Underground
March 14th, 2007

By Sam Linton
Photography by Rebecca Snape

Foxfire Forest! No, they’re not an alternative search engine to Internet Explorer; they’re a Toronto based indie-pop ensemble! (I apologize for that joke, but it got stuck in my head and it seemed as though the only way to exorcise it was to get it down in print.) Composed of Alex Ralph, Andre Lowy, Anna Edwards, Cameron Whitesell, Hannah Krapivinsky, Isaac Vernon, Joe Elaschuk, Monica Bettson and Neil Rankin, FF continues the current trend in indie music of having your band be really big, and having sound to match. This past Wednesday, they released their debut album in a showing at the Drake Underground. How was it? That’s what this journalist decided to find out…

(Cut to last Wednesday)

I arrived halfway through the set of Tropics, the pre-opening act, so it’s quite possible that they performed an extremely kickass first half of a set, only delving into the territory of “meh” after I arrived, but from what I saw, I might as well have missed all of their performance and just stayed in my friend’s basement drinking homebrew and watching Batman: The Animated Series (which I why I was late in the first place). I mean, they weren’t awful, but when people are turning their backs to the stage and engaging in in-depth conversations with each other while you’re playing, it’s no benchmark for success by any margin.

Fortunately, the next band, Entire Cities (the “opener proper”, as I like to consider them), served up a more captivating show: a musical antipasti to whet the appetite for the main event, in the tradition of all good opening acts. Their style: a flautist-infused rock with a country twang. Catchy, foot-stompin’, and just right to lead us into the main event.

Looking for all the world like a group of LARPers (this being the internet, I feel no need to explain what a LARPer is), dressed in crowns, capes, cloaks and tunics, Foxfire Forest manifested themselves on stage like kings and queens at court. This was also the style in which they addressed their audience, so it was nice that they had a theme going. They quickly set about energizing the audience with their mere stage presence alone, a skill honed no doubt by lead singer Neil Rankin’s days performing as an improviser, and soon the Drake Underground was alive with life: like unto a time-lost medieval reverie, only more electrical. Some slight static occurred when a couple of drunks, no doubt emboldened by the band’s heartening melodies, decided they were more important than the band and tried to steal their thunder by stealing their stage-space, but even that could not put out the Foxfire! (As a side note, the audience at this show displayed some of the most impressive unanimous decision-making I have ever seen in collectively tossing these douches out on their ears. It was like a river suddenly tossing two fish out onto the bank through the force of its current.)

After that bit of unpleasantness, the band carried the rest of the night nicely with their swankily-majestic brand of indie-pop. Sounding eerily like an indie-equivalent of the power metal bands I enjoy so much (this is not a backhanded compliment!), FF’s sound is melodic and permeating, like it’s coming from the very air itself. This is probably an effect of the combined vocal harmonies of Rankin, Bettson and Krapivinsky with the trumpet stylings of Andre Lowy, but I like to think there just might be a little elfin magic about it, too. In any case, like any good reverie, the night lent itself well to drinking, so much of its ending is lost in the fogs of my memory, but the good feelings remain from a night of good rockin’.

Needless to say, I ended up walking away with a CD.