MONDOmagazine

By Elisha Denburg

Simple and delicious. Feeds 4 generously.

Ingredients!

450g package of pasta
one large eggplant
one large zucchini
5 cloves garlic, sliced
1 medium-sized onion, chopped
4 Italian sausages
one bottle of Italian passata (strained tomatoes)
3 sprigs fresh rosemary, finely minced
1 large handful chopped Italian parsley
1 tsp each: dried oregano and paprika
one heaping spoonful of grainy mustard
one small spoonful of honey
olive oil and balsamic vinegar
dry vermouth
coarse kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper

Cooking!

Roasted Vegetables:
Preheat oven to 400F. Dice eggplant into small chunks and zucchini into slightly larger chunks. Toss with some oil, salt, pepper, oregano and a few splashes of balsamic vinegar. Spread evenly on a baking sheet and bake 20 minutes or until tender. Set aside.

Italian Sausage Tomato Sauce:
Heat oil in a large heavy-bottomed saucepan while the veggies are roasting. Sautee onions and garlic until fragrant and add salt, pepper, and rosemary. Start the water for your pasta in the meantime and add a generous amount of salt to the water.

Squeeze meat out of sausage casing in meatball-sized chunks directly into pan. Add mustard, honey, and paprika and sautee until brown and richly caramelized. By now your water should be ready for the pasta.

Add passata, a splash of balsamic vinegar and the same amount of vermouth. Add roasted vegetables. Cook for a few more minutes. Your pasta should be ready. Turn off the heat, add parsley to the sauce and then the pasta. Toss to coat.

Enjoy with a kind-hearted lifestyle editor and get some ice cream afterward. Preferably strawberry.

Eighteen Years is a Long Time to Wait for Something You Hate to Go Away.

By Daniel Ian Taylor

This week the NBC phenomenon Heroes returned to television, which is something I’ve been giggling and wringing my hands and chattering about since the show went on hiatus over a month ago. I’m so pleased that there’s a show that I can follow from week to week with genuine anticipation and glee, and I feel compelled to write this week’s column about what a fantastic program it is.

But that will have to wait for another week, because for the moment my commentary is needed elsewhere. With great powers of mordant observation come great responsibility, and so I must turn my irritated gaze back to the children of the world and portion out the stern retribution of which the gods have made me a loyal steward.

But first, in the interest of bouncing a single stone of the neck of one bird and into another, I offer an anecdote relating to this week’s episode of Heroes as means of sauntering casually to my point:

I always go over to my sister’s house each Monday to watch Heroes, because it enhances the whole experience significantly. My sister and her fiancé are both young professionals, and as such they have become very respectably domestic over the last several years. They have a nice apartment with hardwood floors and comfortable furniture and big windows and a nice view of the park. They have different kitchen appliances that do different things and two coffee makers and enough dishes to host dinner parties every now and again. They have more than one bottle of wine in the house at any given time.

Central to the heightened viewing pleasure of Heroes Mondays, as I’ve come to think of them, they have a flat-screen plasma television and one of those little High Def boxes and surround sound.

So needless to say I’d rather go there to enjoy my favourite television show, because they feed me dinner and let me stretch out on their big comfortable couch and drink one of four different kinds of coffee, which is considerably better than watching the show on my 80s television with the wood panel sides whose screen changes colour if you step too heavily on the floor. There is no surround sound at my house, or high definition, or delicious home-cooked meals. I don’t even have a fucking microwave.

As young professionals with lives that are falling nicely into place, and lemon zesters and wine glass cabinets and Tivo, they also have a cat. This is a fine cat of strong pedigree, who has had a good kittenhood and loving parents to raise her and lots of little toys to play with. She, too, is doing alright for herself, and has had every opportunity to do so.

That being said, she is a complete fucking asshole. She seems to have decided that two friends is all that she needs, and anyone else who comes into the house should get the hell out or be prepared to tuck their pants into their socks and spend their visit looking over their shoulder. As I’m a frequent guest there, she hates my guts.

As I was waiting for my nice dinner to be prepared and my favourite television show to come on, Turtle, which is what they have named her, was treated to a rare opportunity. After weeks and months of waiting for the moment to arrive, much like I had been waiting for my television show, Turtle found herself delightfully close to my face, which she has no doubt been waiting for quite some time.

Needless to say, she landed at least four good shots before being subdued, drawing blood from my upper lip, nose, temple, and the back of my neck, coming quite close to blinding me in at least one of my eyes, which I’ve become almost certain was the aim of her attack. As I covered my face and pitched off my seat, something occurred to me.

Now my editors are becoming concerned as they always do when I am approaching my word limit and have not yet come anywhere near anything resembling a point. Well, fuck them. I come to my point now not because they want me to, but simply because I have arrived at it.

The point is that I have now realized that I am a cat person in the same capacity that I am a people person. I like them, they are very nice and often fun to spend time with, but some of them are just assholes.

Sometimes nature and nurture and genetics and all the rest of it just goes flying out the window, and a cat or a dog or a human being is just a douche bag, just because.

And I’d like all of you out there in the internet to take this into consideration when you think about having children. Despite all you do, regardless of the upbringing you provide for your child, you may just end up with an asshole. Just because.

Couples are often seduced by the idea of the first few years when they think about parenting. They think of that squishy little amalgam of DNA, that sparkly eyed creature that is part me, part you, and then the decision is made. We’re having a baby. Oh, we just must.

The key to responsible planned parenthood is to think beyond the first eight years. This is typically when a child gains a sense of identity and confidence, when it begins to really develop its own character. Unfortunately, they’re still novices at having a personality, and they aren’t very good at it. Ask any grade four teacher. Nine-year-olds are, with nearly no exceptions, complete dickheads. They wipe their noses on your shirt and call you things like “poop nose” and make farting noises with their armpits. It sucks. Nine-year-olds suck.

Sometimes they get better. But sometimes they don’t. Don’t even start me on teenagers. And then you’re stuck with this little thing running around your house, wrecking your things and eating your food and making noise just for the sheer hell of it. And you can’t turn it out of the house or hit it or drown it because that’s frowned upon.

So just consider it. I feel like people thinking about parenthood think about the joys of coddling a baby, of throwing the baseball around in the back yard with their son or watching their daughter’s dance recital, the pride of seeing them graduate and get married. But before you dive into all that wonderful stuff, think long and hard about the possibility of your child turning out, for no particular reason, to be an asshole. It happens every god damn day.

And just like an asshole cat, you’re stuck with an asshole child until they turn eighteen. One dies and the other moves out and only calls when they want more of your money.

Adytum
Echoes of Refuge
Northern Storm Records, 2007

By Emma Byrne

Adytum.

Adytum Adytum Adytum.

This is a hard album to review for several reasons, the main one being that it’s damn good. If only I hadn’t heard Opeth before; if only I could pretend to myself that the music on this CD was original — it’s like this group of really amazing musicians got together and went “Hmmmm, let’s write Opeth’s next album” and proceeded to do exactly that.

At least the vocals don’t resemble Mikael Akerfeldt’s, right? That alone lends a slight edge to Adytum’s music, and makes them stand apart from Opeth.

For the uninitiated: Opeth — and Adytum for that matter — are what I like to call “soft metal.” Soft metal means that the lyrical content is generally about things that are dark, dismal, and depressing. But the music is far from emotional post-punk (a.k.a. emo). The music is intense, and filled with depth, meaning, and complexities. Generally, within any type of metal, soft included, the heart of the music is not in fact the vocals, but the guitars. They lead the plaintive melody over the heavy bass line and elaborate drumming. As far as vocals go, there are two main types used: growling (death metal growls sound remarkably like Cookie Monster from Sesame Street), and clean vocals (that’d be singing). Death metal means that the thematic content is, not surprisingly, heavily related to death.

While I like to call Echoes of Refuge “soft metal,” technically the classification should be “prog-death metal.” “Progressive” means a few things. One, that the music can be in more than one time signature at a time (for example, drums playing a waltz beat, while the guitars opt for a more standard pop timing, and match up once every 12 bars). Two, that it changes keys more frequently than you can pretend to keep up with. Three, that it’s overall a fairly pretentious genre, and rightly so, as it probably requires more musicianship than other genres.

Despite the lack of even a hint of original thought on the CD, the fact that I’m even mentioning them in the same breath as Opeth means that the musicians in Adytum are top-notch. The skill required to play that calibre of prog-death metal is ridiculously high. The musicians are all talented players and exceptional songwriters. The growls are well done, too: raspy without losing inflection and interest. The only problem is the clean vocals: there’s no control at all, and they’re kind of shaky.

I’d give this album a high score for a good sound, and a low score for interest. It IS a good album. Also, I CAN promise that Adytum put on a way better stage show than Opeth ever will, so if you get a chance to check these guys out live, do it! And if you’re not worried about originality the way I am, and if you like Opeth’s sound, I’d also highly recommend this. Just don’t put it on if you want to experience something new and ground-breaking.

Maybe Adytum could start a new career as an Opeth tribute band?

Husky Rescue
Ghost is not Real
Catskills Records, 2007

By Lonny Knapp

“Unlike the current vogue for singer-songwriters who tell stories about things that start and end in the real world, we love musical tales that open doors to other worlds,” states Marko Nyberg, founder of Husky Rescue, on the band’s website

Husky Rescue is Anssi Sopanen on drums, Miika Colliander on guitar, Reeta-Leena Korhola on vocals, and Marko Nyberg on bass. Together, these Finns make music that is simple, yet symphonic. Their debut album, Country Falls, was warmly received by critics and made die-hard fans out of many listeners on the first spin. Two years later, Husky Rescue return with Ghost is Not Real, an album that builds on the warm, breezy sound of their debut, but this time incorporates an underlying chill.

“Cinematic” is the word most often used to describe Husky Rescue’s music. While the leadoff track, “My Home Ghost”, is spooky in its sparseness, it is “Blueberry Tree”, a three-part suite that inhabits the middle of the record, which best fits this description.

The trilogy begins with twenty-year-old singer Rita-Leena Korhola bidding good morning to the sun while symphonic sounds are introduced and layered, creating an atmospheric meadow before giving way, in a rush of sound, to silence. Part two is a more upbeat variation on the theme, and features smooth, country-tinged string bending by guitarist Miika Colliander. The final installment, an instrumental, is the darkest of the three: percussion is introduced and, as the drums build, the tempo increases. It creates a sense of urgency until the crescendo, when the group locks into a triumphant groove. Though they share the same simple chord progression and melody, each movement is a distinct piece that could stand well enough alone. When taken as a whole, the piece is epic.

Not all the tracks on the album are so serious. “Caravan” and “Hurricane (Don’t Come Knocking)” are tracks that would sound at home on mainstream “alternative” radio, and “Nightless Night” is a bouncy, upbeat number that provides lightness to balance the weight of the album.

The album is not without fault. The unfortunate spoken-word segments in tracks “Shadow Run” and “Silent Woods” highlight the fact that English is not Korhola’s native tongue. Her lyrics, though simple, are charming when delivered in her elfish singing voice — but when executed in an ever-so-serious poetic voice, they quickly lose their charm and end up sounding childish and corny.

Husky Rescue inform their songs with a less-is-more sensibility. The production is far from slick and they stay away from processed digital sound, instead filling the album with thick, organic, lo-fi tones, adding layer upon layer of sound until each track is lush. The density of the production ensures that Ghost is not Real will stand up to multiple listens: there is plenty of ear candy to be discovered in subsequent spins. It’s a testament to the songwriting ability of musical director Marko Nyberg that the songs don’t get lost in the aural soundscape; the strength of his simple songwriting will leave you frantically searching for the rewind button on your MP3 player as soon as the album ends.

Sunday, April 22, 2007

By Kerry Freek

Last Sunday, I sat on some cold cement in a dark, dirty stairwell and chomped on alphabet pretzels while listening to screamers and drinkers. Am I a bookish vagrant? A literary hobo? Mais non. I am me, and the event was this month’s NO FACE NO PROBLEM. The location? 107 Spadina South — in a cavity in Chinatown, by a tax sign.

NO FACE NO PROBLEM is a “monthly series that asks its participants [to] strut and stammer with words and body to an audience at various locations in and around Toronto,” writes ThankYouJeanPierce on the Stillepost message board. While I don’t have confirmation (I’m a terrible journalist), it appears that Jonathan McCurley (of the Life of a Craphead project thingy) and Laura McCoy curated and/or developed this month’s edition.

We met on the busy, coconutty south-west corner of Spadina and Dundas outside of the Dragon City Mall at 3 p.m., only to be led to an underground stairwell “secret location,” which was actually quite novel. A cement floor provided the stage, and the stairs made for amphitheatre-style seating.

McCurley opened the event by welcoming us and reading some wordplay poetry (written, he said, that morning). It and all following performances (mostly spoken word) were a treat to behold, and included medieval fantasy-inspired rhymes, a charming jibberish piece, and Grandmother Willow, an alter-ego of Ben Ong (of the Waterloo band Bocce). Ong presented simple yet pensive songs about elephants and the environment, accompanied by the dulcet tones of a secondhand omnichord.

Seemingly impromptu public poetry readings are not without risk. During Louis Calabro’s drinking-and-reading set, a wary security guard peered out from the glass doors of the mall (backstage) and made a mental note that a bunch of hooligan beatniks were taking up the stairwell. I, on the other hand, made mental note of some kids climbing on a stalled escalator in the mall beyond us.

Later, as Eugene Slonimerov (I’ve also seen it spelled “Slominerov,” but I can’t be sure which one is correct) lead us through a divine visioning and chant session (“Where is Millie?”), yet another security dude approached and we were asked to leave the premises. Eugene put on a superb sad face and said, “But it’s for a school project.” The crowd, united in the fight for secrets, nodded in agreement. Somebody negotiated five more minutes and, when our time was up, we moved above ground for Laura McCoy, the last performer.

As stunned passersby gaped at the rag-tag gathering and absently licked their ice cream cones, McCoy shouted bits of conversation over her drumming, passing traffic, and an air horn that was circulating the audience. We were encouraged to sound the horn as much as we pleased, and we did. All told, I had a cold bum, but a marvelous afternoon.

For future locations and info, keep your eye on stillepost.

Fragments
Hangman Gallery
Runs May 1-31, 2007

By Georgia Webber

Student shows — that is to say, high school student shows — are constantly changing their shape and personality.

True, some still perpetuate our expectations that they are targeting the parental audience (who are sure to appear), and that could only mean one thing: everybody gets in. Not to say that student art shows are devoid of anything good, or that there isn’t any talent among the youth. There are absolutely pieces worth paying attention to that will capture you just as totally and validly as any other great work of art. But there is a certain level of expectation, and, for the most part, it remains low and ever-satisfied.

With this in my critical mind, I entered the Hangman Gallery on Queen East (at Broadview) to see the Rosedale Heights School of the Arts Senior Exhibition of photography and painting. The show called Fragments featured original pieces by over twenty-five senior students in the theme (or constraints) of the “Constructed Image.”

Here’s where I begin to believe in the morphing face of the high school art show. Fragments was not the usual case of beauty among the rest, but rather an incredible exhibition of talent and experimentation. With the theme being so loose, there is an incredible the coherency shared by the pieces — yet they are very clearly done by a collection of artists with an established style, each individual. There are still the few oddballs that don’t seem to fit, either because they look uninspired or are under-developed. The majority of the show was stunning, and removed from my mind the fact that I was standing in a room that at all other times is classroom in the high school across the bridge.

Rosedale’s seniors have clearly stepped it up for this one and it’d be worth your while to look before it’s gone. The show runs until the end of May, and many of the artists are headed off to university to continue their studies.

Hopefully (and in my opinion, more than likely), these students will appear again and again in the art world, spanning wherever their education takes them — catch them while you can.

David Thomas Broughton
It’s in There Somewhere
Birdwar, 2007

By Jessie Skinner

The low-tech folk music that Englishman David Thomas Broughton produces never sounds like it’s coming out properly. That is to say, it reaches the ear through no small amount of distortion. But forgive the sin of low sound quality and the sometimes incomprehensible voice, and you will find one of the most alarming and affecting songwriters of whom you’ve never heard. Broughton is a troubling genius, singing of unease and fear while coming across as more confused and worried than sad or melodramatic. This is music for shaken people.

It’s In There Somewhere isn’t the career high point for Broughton: it’s the sound of him getting old ideas out than of progressing into new territory. It’s hampered by distracting instrumental interludes and experiments that are rather pointless, if birthed by what is obviously home (read: cheap) production. When that voice is let free to battle itself however, like in the commanding “One Day”, no amount of fuzz can diminish its power.

Much of Somehwere is older and less polished than that last album; it is an odds-and-sods affair spanning the past 6 years, give or take a few. Broughton’s voice on the opener “Circle Is Never Complete” is much lighter than usual — the song may have been recorded far preceding the deeper acoustics of 2005’s Complete Guide to Insufficiency. The waltzing tempo here seems to retreat at one point; it’s as if the music was actually unsure of venturing any further. When it does get going, it becomes a fitting introduction: murky, haunting, sometimes indecipherable, like most of the songs on the album.

The next proper song “Gracefully Silent” is more familiar: a solid example of the kind of thing that Broughton alone is so good at. Guitar and vocal splices are joined together, sometimes running smoothly and sometimes competing for attention. The lyrics are not so much poetic as singular and blunt: “to and fro, on and on,” “through the smoke I wasn’t afraid of death,” “I wasn’t surprised.” The technique, and its subsequent effect, is impossible to appreciate without a great amount of patience. A typical Broughton song runs its varying laps past seven minutes, and how much one gets out of this patterned approach depends partially on an appreciation of the human voice. Not in an American Idol way, not in how much one can project; the voice here is more like a monk’s — a thick, chanting style. Broughton’s confidence in his own words allows him to tread carefully with singular phrases; this is of potentially greater impact than rambling, endless poetry.

Searching for Broughton’s music is a scavenger hunt, the kind of which I have not participated for a long time. His best songs, like the brutal dirge “Lord Don’t Use Cusswords,” are often relegated to homemade discs distributed only at concerts. My frustration and hunger for more, since I first heard “Execution” (from his debut), are indicative of not only the quality of his work, but the oddity of it. It is not uncommon for Broughton to break out into a doo-wop melody, which sounds strange enough coming from a bearded Brit, and even stranger when he performs every vocal layer by himself.

I wouldn’t be the first critic to call Broughton an old soul — that is, his creations are a throwback. There is a reliance here not on technology or production, not on programming, but on the basic elements of music. Repetition and pattern are vital tools, forgoing the tendency of more indulgent artists to tumble mindlessly down a tunnel of showmanship. There are no guitar solos, no breakdowns. Every sound proceeds slowly and carefully, and above all I get a sense of precise craftsmanship and attention to detail. I hope someday that Broughton is given the opportunity to work in a studio, where his sound may not be so stifled by monetary limitations, and his mind can be given room to breathe.

The Wind That Shakes the Barley
Directed by Ken Loach
IFC First Take, 2007

By Doug Nayler

As many of you are quite aware, there is often a strange cultural disconnect between England and North America. Though we share a common language, a common history, and a common affection towards all things meat-and-potato, sometimes we diverge down our own little paths. Localized culture just doesn’t translate well that often. I’ve certainly never understood what the deal with Blur was. However, there are often staunchly, unapologetically British tomes that are universally insightful, but just suffer from a lack of exposure across the ocean. Such is the case with the films of Ken Loach. And also the Two Fat Ladies. But, for now, I’ll talk about Ken Loach.

Ken Loach has for decades been producing films about very modern, very British problems. Mostly about issues of the working class. Loach loves to embrace a sense of locale as much as he possibly can in his films, often casting actors that are exclusively from the region in which the film is set. Riff-Raff, his most famous film over here, details the plight of a group of construction workers being notably exploited by their employers. And despite the fact that the film is indeed in the Queen’s Own English, the dialects are so thick, that the film required subtitles for the North American market. And likewise Loach’s latest film The Wind That Shakes the Barley is thoroughly wrapped in it’s time and place: Cork, Ireland in the 1920s.

Now, I’m not sure if you’re aware or not, but Ireland wasn’t really a happy place in the 20s. Or for a long time before or after that. In fact, the whole damn place was embroiled in constant civil war. And so we find Damien and Teddy (Cillian Murphy and Padriac Delaney) dead in the middle of it. As they play their part fighting off the British, they slowly learn what it really takes to be at war. When a treaty is signed with Parliament, many of the Irish are glad to have fought for some peace and political recognition. But many feel that it’s a poor compromise that negates all the sacrifices made. Damien and Teddy end up on opposite sides of this rift, and soon have to decide how far they’re willing to go for the cause.

It must be fairly obvious that this film is trudging into historical epic territory. Characters caught up in a classic struggle bigger than themselves, stunning landscapes and period garb. But Loach smartly steers clear of Braveheart territory by keeping his story on a small scale. Instead of a big, inspiring tale of a larger-than-life figure that inspires his people to victory, Barley’s characters are just average people that can’t take it anymore. Unlike Mel Gibson or Kirk Douglas, nobody here is certain that they’re really going to triumph in the end. They don’t even know if the killing is worth it. So when the rift occurs, one can see both sides. Those who can’t stand the violence anymore, and those who want to be sure that it meant something.

A Taste of Authentic East-Asian Cuisine Your Kids Will Love!

By Leo K. Moncel

“Ee ta da ki mas!” That means “Chow down!” in Japanese. If you’re anything like me, you’d probably love to expose your kids to the exciting world of flavour that exist out there in the realm of international cooking. But, if your life is anywhere near as hectic as mine, between driving to soccer practice, swimming lessons, ballet and karate, there’s just no time to gamble on a dish your kids might turn up their noses at.

That’s why I’m offering a sampling of recipes that bring the exotic, tangy flavours of the Orient right into your kitchen with easy-to-prepare meals your kids are sure to love. Follow along with these simple recipes and in no time, your kids will be saying, “Ee ta da ki mas!” Chow down!

Hunan Orange Beef

This one is a rich, spicy stir-fry that originates from China’s Hunan province.

Ingredients
3/4 lb flank steak
4 green onions
2-3 stalks of celery
4 dehydrated chili peppers (optional)
1 whole orange zest
corn oil for frying

Sauce
2 tbsp beef broth
1 tbsp Chinese dark soy sauce
1 tbsp Chinese cooking wine
1 tbsp corn starch

Directions
1) Cut the orange zest into thin strips.
2) In a “wok”, heat the oil on high and drop in thin strips of flank steak.
3) After a couple minutes, take out the flank steak, lower the heat, and fry the veggies with the zest.
4) Re-add the flank steak and sauce, stir-fry for two minutes until sauce has thickened.

Flank steak can be difficult to find and prepare properly. For that reason, I usually substitute flank steak with all-beef hotdogs cut into wheels – they cook faster and your kids are guaranteed to love them. My kids can’t take the heat of the chilies or slight bitterness of the orange zest, so I usually omit those ingredients as well.

Chicken In Black Bean Garlic Sauce

A favourite in many parts of Southeast Asia, this is a version made by Chinese settlers in Malaysia where it’s known as Ayam Pongtay.

Ingredients
1 lb. skinless, boneless chicken thighs
12 Chinese dehydrated mushrooms
1/2 can bamboo shoots
corn oil

Sauce
3 tbsp black bean sauce
1 large onion
6 large cloves garlic

Directions
1) Soak dehydrated mushrooms in hot water for an hour.
2) Put chopped onion and garlic in a blender with the bean sauce.
3) Simmer the sauce in a “wok” until thick.
4) Add chicken, then mushrooms and bamboo shoots.
5) Cover “wok” with a lid and let cook for about fifteen minutes, stirring occasionally.

I always substitute chicken thighs with frozen chicken nuggets, which keep longer and come already breaded. Your kids will thank you! Forget about the onions and garlic, my kids hate that stuff. And who wants to travel all the way to Chinatown for some foreign-tasting bean sauce? I find that a cup of chocolate chips is sweeter and much easier to find.

For sure, scrap the bamboo shoots and dehydrated mushrooms. They’re hard to find and kind of gross. Half a cup of mini-marshmallows tastes better anyways.

Thai Jumbo Prawns In a Chili-Tamarind Sauce With Lemongrass

Cut the hotdogs in wheels. Sprinkle with chocolate chips, marshmallows and sprinkles (optional). Serve.

These recipes have been excerpted from Leo K. Moncel’s latest cookbook, 101 Authentic East-Asian Recipes Your Kids Will Love!

He is the author of numerous cookbooks including 101 Quick-Fix Recipes Your Kids Will Love!, 101 Authentic Caribbean Recipes Your Kids Will Love!, 101 Authentic Ethiopian Recipes Your Kids Will Love! and 101 Vegan-Macrobiotic Recipes Your Kids Will Love!

He is also the joint author of a national study on childhood obesity and the host of the Food Network Canada’s syndicated hit, Cooking With Hotdogs And Marshmallows!

Red Eye, Black Eye
Written and Drawn by K. Thor Jensen
Alternative Comics, 2007

By Miles Baker

“A joyously bleak handbook for the post-9/11 generation.”
— Rodney Anonymous (The Dead Milkmen) excerpted review from publisher’s website.

When I was looking up other reviews of Red Eye, Black Eye several critics complimented it as a great example of post 9/11 literature. True, there is a panel of the twin towers burning, but I don’t think that’s what Jensen was going for. I think 9/11 may be one reason that Jensen sets out on his road trip, but losing his job, his house or his girlfriend are reasons just as important. His proximity to the horrific events aren’t what give this story credibility, it’s Jensen’s ability to capture moments of kindness, frustration, and humour in a human way.

Red Eye, Black Eye is an autobiographical account of Jensen’s one-man road trip starting from New York at the end of September 2001 and ending 60 days later back in New York, having traveled 10,000 miles. On his trip across the country Jensen stays with various friends, the majority of whom he’s only met over the internet and never in real life. In that way the book is almost a testament to the kindness of strangers: city after city people drink, laugh and tell Jensen stories.

One thing I appreciate about Red Eye, Black Eye is that we never really see Jenson drawing or sketching the story. In too many autobiographical works, the act of cartooning is an overriding current in the story. However, while this isn’t self-congratulatory cartooning, I do wish that Jensen had been a little less forceful towards the end when he starts looking harder and harder for some meaning in it all. Even though I imagine that on the final legs of his journey he did really keep asking the questions “What have I learned from this?” and “Why am I going back at all?” he ends up pushing a little too hard into post-modern autobiography territory.

I can look over this quibble, however, because I enjoy the final message, or at least my interpretation of it. Also the little moments are what really make my day when reading this book (like his jokes about being a hobo). I love Jensen’s frustrations with long-distance banking — the emotional highs and lows that can be caused because of your bank statement. I like that he basically drinks his way through the first half of the book, only to be much more sober for the last half, though I imagine that was partly due to lack of funds (we’ve all been there).

Jensen’s visual style is simple but effective. The characters all look very charming and his style allows for a lot of expression. His women do start to look the same after a while. But given the incredible amount of characters, he can’t be faulted. And honestly, white people all look the same anyway.

Figuring out today’s super-bitch.

By Theresa Marshall

For years men have been scrutinized. They have been placed under the microscope of the feminine eye and then dissected in order to determine their mysterious ways — to crack the emotional and psychological cipher that is their gender. They have oft been portrayed as oafish, sexed-up brutes that are self-involved, afraid of commitment, and just “not that into you.”

Numerous self-help books have been written on understanding the male psyche and why it so often leads men to complicate, mystify, jeopardize, or destroy their relationships with women. For a long time, men have been stigmatized this way and have been scapegoated as the complicating factor in contemporary relationships.

The female mantra “Boys are Stupid” comes from somewhere, after all.

Frankly, I’m sick of it, if for no other reason than that it suggests that somehow men still hold all the power in the world of relationships. Most men (and women) know that it’s no longer a man’s world (sorry, James Brown). Women these days give the above male archetype more than a run for its money. And so, I aim through this series to expose a particular type of woman whose behaviour is even worse. That type will henceforth be referred to as the Femme Fatale (more on my choice of that term in the future). She has become a mainstay of our society — a bane to sensitive male hearts everywhere and a blight on the image of womankind (us nice girls).

No one is really talking about the Femme Fatale, which is why you probably have no idea what I’m talking about. So, who is the Femme Fatale? How does one define her? What are the symptoms of what I like to call femme-fatale-syndrome (FFS)?

Essentially, these women have adopted the male archetype mentioned in the first paragraph, admittedly with some unique flourishes. FFS features an extreme wariness of commitment, frequently associated with a phobia of losing their misconstrued perception of independence. There is an excessive focus (perhaps in over-compensation against years of patriarchal subordination) on a professional career, frequently at the expense of personal fulfillment — essentially an inability to separate work from fun. There is a hyper-focus on the self at every level, as if this rebel faction of the female gender never left behind the “me” decade that was the 80s.

There is an over-awareness of one’s own thoughts and emotions (to the point where new ones are created, like a twisted internal take on the observer effect). Their thought process and logical functions are so unintelligible, so impenetrable, so virtually inaccessible (to men anyway), that it makes them capable of giving men emotional knockouts that land them on their ass before they’ve blinked. FFs are often chameleons, they can lurk anywhere, and emerge anytime mid-relationship, leaving men confused and lost. To these women, men are existential steps on a staircase that goes nowhere.

That is why I think they deserve some answers.

This may be a mere sampling of some of the symptoms of FFS, but it should already sound familiar to both men (you’ve dated this woman) and women (you’re her friend — or you are her). Admittedly, the above is all very generalized and unqualified. I am well aware that a more in-depth consideration is required to not only help you understand the Femme Fatale, but to provide more insight into my critique of her — especially for those who will inevitably disagree with me. However, have no fear, for in subsequent installments, these individual elements/symptoms will be considered in greater depth. Theories will be postulated, arguments will be supported, and from there your own opinions may become informed.

At this point, though, you may be wondering, “Ms. Marshall, what is the point of all of this?”

I consider this series to be an intervention, an effort to raise awareness. It will be a form of social anthropology in which I will navigate the complex workings of modern women. I will expose their ways, at great risk to my own self-preservation (I am turning against a segment of my own gender after all), so men will have a better idea of what they are dealing with. This column is ultimately a relationship column aimed at men. I hope to provide some comfort for men — so they may learn they are not alone and that help is on the way.

Another thing I wish to make clear is that I am a feminist. I believe that men and women are indeed equal. More importantly, I believe that men and women deserve to be treated equally by each other in every aspect of life (career, emotionally, sexually). Of course, all relationships have their varying power relations, but just as the original feminists contested the larger cultural trends of patriarchal subordination, I too now call foul play and wish to expose how men are suffering at the hands of a particular type of woman.

Most importantly, I am fully aware of two things. One, I am not so ignorant or so biased to believe that the Femme Fatale is representative of all women. After all, I am a woman, and I am nothing like them. That is what, in part, motivates me to write this. Me and the other women like me are tired of these predators tainting the dating pool, emotionally burning men to the degree that they become hesitant, uninvolved, and insecure when they date the next person (i.e. me).

Second, I am also fully aware that men are not perfect either. Don’t misunderstand my aims here. This series is not about cannibalizing my gender or shifting responsibility away from men. Men who are like FFs are equally deserving of the same attention and scorn, but there’s quite a few books on them already. What this series is about is exposing a particular type of woman that seems to be relatively prevalent in our society, and is going largely unacknowledged by other relationship-type columns.

As for the FFs who might be reading this, well, you’ve had this eye-opener coming for a long time. It’s nothing personal really, I just hope that in reading this you may become aware of the effects your behavior has on both the men you so casually discard like old toys you’ve out-grown, as well as the good, less complicated women like me who have to clean up the messes you leave behind.

You, quite frankly, give love a bad name.

I dream that maybe this series will spark an ounce of self-awareness or recognition that can somehow lead to a turning of the tide. That said, I won’t hold my breath.

Finally, throughout this series I heartily welcome any and all comments, responses, anecdotes, confessions, rebuttals, death threats and love letters. So feel free to email me at theresa.marshall200(at)gmail.com.

Apparat
Walls
Shitkatapult, 2007

By Sal Hassanpour

It always sucks to review something crappy from an artist one loves. Case in point: Walls, Apparat’s first full-length solo album in four years. Apparat is one Sascha Ring, co-founder of the Berlin-based label Shitkatapult. His music has seemed out of place there, especially since the other co-founder, T. Raumschmiere, became iconic poster-boy of the glam-inspired “schaffel-beat” movement, a flash-in-the-pan back in (ancient) 2004.

Apparat’s output has been progressively outdoing itself since 2001. His steady EP releases blend sub-genres of electronic music holistically: you get the fluorescent-expressway rhythm that characterizes Berlin-tech, the obsessive ornamental details of glitch, and the wistful melodies of more pop-friendly IDM, often on the same track. It’s the kind of electronica that would be more readily found, by those who follow these things, on such labels as BPitch Control and Neo Ouija, which have served as temporary homes for Apparat in the past. In fact, 2006’s Orchestra of Bubbles saw Apparat work with BPitch owner Ellen Allien, creating Berlin-tech’s most-listened-to album, and electronic music’s hottest female/male team, to boot.

Walls is Apparat’s most pop-oriented work yet. The tight, minimal rhythms that constituted Apparat’s aural vocabulary are bypassed in favour of a more maximal production. A far cry from schaffel-beat, then. One only wonders if this move is a result of lingering creative sparks raised by last year’s partnership. Indeed, Sascha Ring has called Walls a “compilation” of two years’ worth of previously-incomplete tracks.

The sad truth is that Walls actually does feel like an odds-and-sods collection. And — just as Air’s recent Pocket Symphony has been accused of leading the listener to boredom, due to the band’s restraint and austerity — Walls does much the same through Apparat’s newfound pop-ambition and aural extravagance.

Starter “Not A Number” is promising, as sine-waves prefigure what I can only describe as a porcelain-bowl vibraphone. Before long, strings appear and weave their melodies through the ensuing polyrhythms. It all sounds like something you’d expect from the colourful, melodic post-rock of Fridge. Unfortunately, hopes are dashed by “Hailin’ From the Edge,” an insipid piece of hi-tech R&B with belaboured vocals from erstwhile Apparat singer Raz Ohara that, like many of Walls‘ tracks, overstays its welcome by a full minute.

Later, on the other hand, the rhythm guitar in “Fractales Pt.1″ evokes the much-loved “indietronic” sound first pioneered in Germany. “Birds” is a delightful moment of glitch-pop, as Apparat himself takes his first-ever stab at vocals. It comes off as well as anything the Morr Music label releases in abundance (i.e. Lali Puna). The sturdiness of Walls is only revealed in its second half, where Apparat’s ambitions finally bear fruit with the warm shoegaze of “Headup”, the album highlight.

I can only surmise that for those not familiar with Apparat, Walls will appear as a mildly interesting electronic pop album, at best. I imagine that fans, however, will suffer disappointment for the first (but hopefully last) time.