MONDOmagazine

Evergreen Club Contemporary Gamelan followed by Fond of Tigers
at The Music Gallery
May 18th, 2007

By Sal Hassanpour

There’s a concert festival in Toronto that goes on in May and it is called VTO. The idea is that, much like the island in Lost, The Music Gallery (in cooperation with Rough Idea) suck musicians on their way to Victoriaville, Quebec’s Festival de Musique Actuelle (arguably Canada’s pre-eminent avant-garde music fest) into Toronto for a layover performance. Unlike Lost, the artists are not left stranded to be attacked by polar bears and intelligent smog. Well, maybe Toronto’s smog clouds are old enough to have become sentient, but I digress.

The second of three nights in this mini-fest featured a gamelan (I’ve learned the word means “ensemble”) that has been operating in Toronto for decades now and has a rep for playing the “degung” style that emerged from the Sunda part of Java during Dutch colonization, and Fond of Tigers, a septet of avant-rockers that were hotly-tipped in the local press when I was out in Vancouver late last summer.

I was pretty excited to hear both groups, particularly after reading one of David Toop’s books – the most well-written, easy-to-read intro to experimental music texts you can pick up. The book has an interesting section on the gamelan’s impact on Western 20th Century music. Basically, I was hyped to get my experimental on.

Truth is, the night was a mild disappointment.

First off, a gamelan is comprised of highly complex polyrhythms, extended passages and dialogue between players. Every style of gamelan – and there are hundreds – has its own unique set of conventions (and you thought indie music had too many sub-genres). So, when the Evergreen Club Contemporary sets out to “perform a set of planned and spontaneous improvisations” in lieu of their bread-and-butter commissioned work, well, frankly it does not pan out that well.

While it was cool to hear the trombone and the hurdy-gurdy make wailing noises in counterpoint to the minimal and random vibrations emanating from the percussionists, the three movements outlasted their running times. Passages from transverse wood flutes or an instrument resembling a lap steel guitar did their best to sustain interest, but frankly, uninspired improvisation is just that, no matter how many gongs and wooden xylophones you bring to the table.

Fond of Tigers have gotten away with being labelled an avant-jazz band somehow, but really, they’re a more loose post-rock band, albeit one that is familiar and experienced with jazz conventions like call and response and vamping. So while it was impressive to see seven musicians each playing different melodies slowly build a cohesive wall of noise, rhizome-ing out like the tendrils of a root system digging through the earth yet all the while in tune to whoever was carrying the piece forward – either JP Carter’s trumpet-plus-FX combo or Jesse Zubot on violin and later, Stephen Lyons on guitar – the band managed to sustain their set without delivering anything more mind-blowing than Do Make Say Think (post-rock) covering John Zorn (free-jazz/noise).

OK, so that’s pretty mind-blowing. It’s certainly not a complete dismissal, either, only that the band have been pegged as something a little bit more off the beaten path, a little more “out” than they ended up sounding, which is not their fault. It also comes down to the fact that I will never claim to dislike a live performance that has two drum kits firing away at the same time. The older members of the crowd seemed bewildered as the band finished their encore. One wondered, assuming they were all seasoned experimental/improvisational gig-goers, how they coped with something as rockist as Fond of Tigers. Ultimately, those perceived reactions spoke for the entire night, which was an exercise in mixing sounds, intentions and abilities that were, as often as not, mismatched.

Peter Bjorn and John with Au Revoir Simone and Fujiya & Miyagi
at the Phoenix Concert Theatre
Sunday May 6th, 2007

By Sal Hassanpour

At the end of science-fiction author Arthur C. Clarke’s 1973 novel Rendezvous with Rama, we are left with the cliffhanger observation that “Ramans do everything in threes.” Apparently, so do overnight Swedish indie-pop successes when they’re putting together North American tours.

One

First up were Brooklyn-based, all-female keyboard band Au Revoir Simone. Dressed in polka-dot jumpers and purple tights, they had the retro-cute indie-girl look down pat. Cue all sorts of predictable drooling and palpitations from the guys, although personally it was my eyes that were swelling more than any other body part after seeing Heather D’Angelo stroke an Omnichord. Oh, be still, my beating synth-pop heart!

Live, Au Revoir Simone did not replicate the weepy, bedroom-soft production and so the synth-pop elements of their songs shone forth. Standouts included inaugural single “Through the Backyards” and a re-reading of this year’s The Bird Of Music album-closer “The Way To There,” displacing it from cute doo-wop to a cavernous, powerfully-feminine, all-member chant that not only answered what if Cocteau Twins used only Roland Juno-60 keyboards, but belied the girly band image as well.

Two

Brighton’s Fujiya & Miyagi followed, dressed in circumspect jeans and tees. What they lacked in style was made up by their mix of krautrock and synth-funk. Vocalist/guitarist David Best’s whispered delivery tends to creep the hell out of half the people who listen to their music, but made more sense live: he’s a strange character, delivering his biting lyrics with a face so blank that he can’t possibly know how funny they are. And yet his onstage persona is oddly compelling for that very reason.

Keeping their set very heavy on 2006’s Transparent Things, Fujiya & Miyagi kept the krautrock-revival tracks to band-anthem “Ankle Injuries” and a synth-tastic keyboard duet version of “Conductor 71,” favouring party tunes like album standout “In One Ear And Out The Other” instead. The crowd reaction was favourable, which by Toronto standards means that five people at the front of the stage were doing more than tapping their feet at a crowded and sold-out Phoenix. While we’re on the subject, the majority of the audience were familiar with the openers and what’s more, the concert did not smack of hype-mongering or a scenester-fest in particular. Instead, what we had was a good portion of the city’s segmented indie music population gathering together for a common band, which is a rare occurrence these days.

Three

Immediately apparent about the headlining act: they like to brand things. So behind all the performers was a curtain with huge, white-on-black letters reading:

Peter
Bjorn
And
John
The Backdrop

And much the same for the amps, bass drum, stage passes, etc. It’s that kind of wry humour that the band members portrayed when interacting with the audience, particularly the talkative Peter MorŽn, who had just turned 31 that day.

Those of you who bought the version of Writer’s Block with the extra CD will have identified the instrumental theme music as the band came onstage as “Sitar Folks,” a cheeky, Oriental-flavoured cover of what was perhaps the biggest indie single of 2006. I was convinced that its inclusion meant the band would not play “Young Folks,” having already disavowed it (reports from their most recent NYC gig suggest that half the audience there left once the track was performed). Those worries proved false, however, as Heather from Au Revoir Simone stepped-up to do a good (if hushed) imitation of Victoria Bergson.

Starting with a rousing “Roll The Credits” that threw away the stately acoustic strum for a faster, electric guitar churn complete with smashing drums and growling bass (by indie-pop standards, anyway), the band followed by what is for me the best track off Writer’s Block, “Let’s Call It Off,” which ushered a set of performances: the B-Side “(I Wanna) See-Through” and “Start To Melt” that did away with the mid-tempo retro-rock and went straight for Cheap Trick-style power-pop. Later in the set, when the band performed earlier tracks, such as 2004’s Falling Out highlight “Big Black Coffin” (for which Moren successfully-garnered a huge “ba-ba-ba”-style singalong), Peter Bjorn and John’s immense popularity was given a little bit more weight and credibility. Writer’s Block is the band pairing down their heavily-melodic indie-pop and making it a little more “rock”. As such, their live show is a furtherance of that trajectory.

When I first listened to “Young Folks” in the autumn of 2006, the song did nothing for me at all and I was completely ready to ignore the band from that point on. Since the band’s explosion, others have reacted more passionately, such as this guy whom I have some sympathy for: to quote the night’s sole heckler, the band often sounds as average as “Peanut Butter & Jelly” on record and any indie-popster who dove into the Swedish indie-pop label Labrador Records’ roster in their mid-to-late 90s heyday will tell you, PB&J are definitely second-rate. Yet, in relation to an indie scene that’s still engaged in an increasingly tired game of trying to out-weird/-freak/-bizarre itself, the fact that a bare-boned rock-pop trio gets away with fame based on a track that features nothing more than a whistled melody, a bassline and a guy/girl duet (the essence of musical “retro”?) is not too hard to fathom. Air did much the same with the truly horrid “Alpha Beta Gaga,” and they are one of my favourite bands.

So, if there was a something linking the bands besides a numerical that night, it was that all three broke through the limitations of their recorded music to deliver a concert experience that was great from beginning to end: Au Revoir Simone exchanged emo for exuberance (of a sort), Fujiya & Miyagi played-up Hot Chip-style dance fun (minus that band’s goofy stage antics) and Peter Bjorn and John built a barricade that may yet stand up to backlash.

Mt. Eerie with Wyrd Visions (and another band I didn’t see)
Over the Top Festival, Sneaky Dee’s
May 6th, 2007

By Kerry Freek

From the beginning, the mood was a little off last Sunday. I met some visiting and heavy-hearted friends at a cafe in Kensington, and the mood spread thickly even though I was wearing a rainbow lollipop dress, donned to help said mood. We stopped for tea and coffee and made our way to Sneaky Dee’s.

We missed the first act, but arrived just in time for Wyrd Visions: Colin Bergh playing guitar, singing about ancient times and nature, and wearing a big sweater-thingy over skinny pants. Bergh’s music is entrancing, and perfect for a good number of settings, like nighttime campfires, or hazy, drugged-up summer picnics. Or a sit-down show at Sneaky Dee’s with the sun streaming through the windows, sprinkling a docile Sunday afternoon all-ages crowd.

Wyrd Visions played three or four songs, each one lasting about ten minutes before blending into the next. After the last time that Bergh chanted “W-Y-R-D-V-I-S-I-O-N-S across the sky,” some happy hip-hop intermission beats started up, snapping us out of our collective trance. Nice juxtaposition, deejay.

Today, Mt. Eerie was comprised of Phil Elverum (formerly The Microphones) and his guests, locals Steve Kado (of a trillion bands) and Jesse James Laderoute (whom I stalked after the show to find out that he’s from The Incidentals). Though Elverum was clearly instructing the other two how to play the song prior to the song itself, the band conveyed an electric Neil Young-ish feel and rocked the impromptu vibe. In fact, I felt the need to punch my friend Josh in the arm out of excitement.

Because I hadn’t listened to it beforehand (being mainly familiar with The Glow Pt. 2, an album under the Microphones moniker), I didn’t know much of Elverum’s Mt. Eerie work, with or without the band. As he headed to solo, acoustic songs, I expected really raw, painful, baring-my-soul kind of stuff. Instead, Elverum played a lot of straight-to-the-point ditties condemning stupid behaviour (“Where’s the rebellion in acting like a fuck-up?”), lack of sociability (“Get off the internet”) and smoking (“Improve yourself right now”). Cute and poignant, but not the Phil Elverum I know.

There were, however, some great, literate stories about blood and stab wounds and loneliness. Lots of food-word combinations and usage – even some extra sounds added to vocals to enhance the narration, like a crashing sound as he sang the words “the door blew down.” Super-mega points for covering “Undo” by Bjork.

End note: Not really what I was expecting, but worthwhile nonetheless.

Wyrd Visions can be found at myspace.com/wyrdvisions, but Phil Elverum is too cool for that. Look for him and all his projects are found here pwelverumandsun.com

Locomotive 8
at The Central
Friday April 27th, 2007

By Sandy Ashton

Comfortable with the venue (and each other) the six members of Locomotive 8 lined up like criminals on The Central’s tiny stage after two lifeless performances by friends The Paper Bird Crew and League of Nations.

The band consists of two members of Michael’s Type, originally from Scarborough, Ontario: singer-songwriter Paul Jobin and drummer Clayton Inwood.

Michael’s Type started off as a solo project for Paul. He used the title to explore his own “songwriting abilities which did not fit into a traditional setting of a band. ” His friends saw the potential that Paul had as a songwriter, and soon jumped on board. Paul then started to feel like he was losing control over the band’s direction, and decided to put his music on hold and head for the coast.

At the Close to the Coast festival in 2006, friends Smothered In Hugs performed a version of Paul’s song “Trading Spezzas,” which made him realize that his music was appreciated, and he moved back to the city to continue his work.

In late March 2007, Michael’s Type unexpectedly announced on their MySpace page that they would soon have new songs available from their new band. Using Michael’s Type as a template, the duo took that band’s sound and created Locomotive 8 – named after the song “Driver 8″ by Fables of Reconstruction (Locomotive 8 being the train on which he rides) – with new friends Brendan McKnight (bass and mandolin), and Nate Siegler (viola, guitar and vocals) and old ones: elementary school friend Olivier Gauthier-Mercier (guitar, banjo and vocals) and Paul’s high school girlfriend Leah Solis (keys).

Locomotive 8’s music is inspired by the likes of The Replacements, The Smiths, and Neil Young, but it is the influence of the highly-prolific, now-defunct Guided By Voices that is the most apparent in their short, catchy songs, which are then given their own unique sound by the band’s chameleon-like singer. His small words filled every corner of the room, making the air thick and moist – forcing the audience to inhale their every word.

“No Harvest” starts off like any rock ballad: slow and quiet, with singer and music volume in constant competition. Both the vocals and the beat pick up quickly, like a fast flying-punch that you leaned into. The most important line in the song is emphasized when the beat is dropped and you are left with the band’s final thought: “There will be no harvest.” They also performed “False Idols of the Young,” “Last Round,” “Murder Bout,” and “Masticated Love,” which is some of their best work, but they offered very little new work to surprise their fans.

Although there was hardly any room for the members to move around, they nevertheless managed to create energy on the stage; each member offered something unique to the performance. Olivier kept eye contact with the ladies in the room; Brendan stole space by reaching out into the crowd and interacting with them, inviting them to be part of the show; Paul refused to make good use of his prescription glasses and look into the eyes of his audience, suggesting that he was re-living the events as he sang “There’s too much explaining to do”. The violin, drums, and keys provided a foundation for a strong lyrical performance.

Guster and Me: A Concert Love Story
at the Phoenix Concert Theatre
February 26th, 2007

By Alexander B. Huls

“For all you stoners out there, I want you to concentrate your attention-deficit-disorder minds to the most glorious instrument in the history of creation: that’s the cowbell, motherfuckers!” – lead singer Ryan Miller.

These utterly indisputable words were spoken at an event that was, for me, almost ten years in the making.

Most of you are probably unaware of the musical powerhouse (in my heart) that is Guster. Picture the scene: the early nineties in the Boston, Massachusetts area. Guster was created by Ryan Miller (lead vocals, guitar, bass, keyboards), Adam Gardner (guitar, vocal, bass, keyboards, trumpet), Brian Rosenworcel (drums/percussions) and was recently joined by Joe Pispasia (bass, guitar, keyboards, banjo, lap steel guitar, harmonia, vocals). While not incredibly prolific – the band has released five albums in twelve years – Guster, in the last few, have expanded upon their already die-hard fan base with more high profile (and, in my opinion, better) releases such as Lost and Gone Forever and Keep it Together, two albums that represent the best Guster has to offer.

You may ask, “So what’s the big deal about Guster?” Well, like any good band, it’s the music. They produce infectious pop melodies driven by great vocal harmonies, fantastic song titles, lyrics that fluctuate from amusing playfulness to elusive poignancy, and the amazing hand percussion (bongos!) by Brian Rosenworcel. What solidified their popularity is their relentless touring and the quality thereof. Their concerts have gained an almost mythical status amongst their fans, so when Guster announced that they would be at the Phoenix Concert Theatre on February 26th, you can only imaginethe amount of anticipation that coursed through every musical vein in my body as I awaited the day I would finally see my favorite band live.

Naturally, there was some apprehension about them not meeting expectations – but Guster did not disappoint. In fact, they exceeded all expectations, high as they were. The band actually sounds better live than on their albums: they vary their songs according to the instruments used therein, to make each a unique experience. Brian’s helter-skelter work on the bongos (some fans call him “thunder god”) propels the musicians along with even more energy than they naturally possess. The most glorious part about their performance, however, is their harmonizing.

Like with many pop artists, studio recordings often embellish weak vocals (here’s looking at you, Snow Patrol), but the purest way to experience Guster, I know now, is to hear them live. If anything, I now feel that studio recordings diminish the clarity, strength, harmony and talent of their voices, both individually and together.

Guster, like its fans, seems to know its own best work. Most of the songs played were from the Lost and Gone Forever and Keep it Together albums, with the usual obligatory sprinkling of songs from the newest album Ganging up on the Sun. Old fan favorites “Demon” and “Airport Song” also made it onto the set list.

Particular highlights for me were “Come Downstairs and Say Hello” and the encore performance of “Happier” – the vigor used by both band and crowd to sing the lyrics “one more inch, you son of a bitch, been wasting my time” reflected the collective recognition that song elicits so well.

Speaking of the crowd, they went a long way towards enriching the experience. Thinking that Guster was mainly popular in New England, I was shocked to see the size of the audience, moreso their dedication. Even the band pointed out how amazed they were that the crowd seemed to recognize songs only a few chords in and knew all the words.

There is, as anyone who has lovingly followed a relatively obscure band for years knows full well, a certain collective euphoria that emerges during a concert: a shared sense of belonging, a feeling of privilege, and a devoted possessiveness. That’s what I loved most about this show.

Through it all Guster, mostly via lead singer Miller, proved to have a great sense of humour. Whether it was narrating over the opening jam/warm-up sessions building to the first song, trying to make us forget our frigid weather by playing “Aquarela do Brasil” or heralding the musical wonders of the cowbell, Guster never failed to promote a fan-friendly atmosphere.

Most amusing was Miller’s encouragement of the audience to follow what he claimed was the latest trend: instead of cheering for an encore, one should boo and verbally abuse the band. The audience obliged, of course, and in kind Ryan and the band came back onstage, all middle fingers firmly extended, with a boisterous “FUCK YOU!” I don’t know about you, but getting the middle finger from your favorite band? That’s my idea of a good time.

Encouraged by the turnout, Ryan suggested early in the show that they would be back very soon. So once again, I wait. Except this time I’ll know what I’m waiting for – one hell of a great night.

The Last Rheostatics Show
By Miles Baker

“Well, this is the fake ending of the show – let’s rock.”
- Martin Tielli, before the last song of the first set.

To end the first set of their three-hour-plus concert, the Rheostatics played “When Winter Comes”: a song about Canadian music, its importance, and how much hard work music can be. They dragged the bridge out for a long time, squeezing out every possible note before the quiet resolution. Then the stage went dark and, as Martin Tielli sang “In the blue Canadian winter…”, snow fell from the ceiling of Massey Hall.

I cried a little bit.

On Friday, March 30th, the Rheostatics played their last show ever. It was their first and only time playing Massey Hall, a venue that had eluded them for the past 27 years. With numerous guests and a never-ending list of favourite songs, the show was the most emotional event I’ve ever been to, including weddings and funerals.

The core of the band is an unlikely trio: Martin Tielli, the genius songwriter and eccentric performer; Dave Bidini, the journalist and most politically minded of the band; and Tim Vesley, who seems like he should be playing hockey and not bass guitar. But, like Voltron, together they are more than the sum of their parts.

Together, they were so very Canadian, with songs like “Saskatchewan,” “Northern Wish,” “The Ballad of Wendel Clark,” or the entirety of Music Inspired By the Group of Seven. They sang about our frigid winters, mining strikes, and hockey. But as Canadian as the Rheos were, they never stuck to the gimmick. No reliance on the quaintness of writing about Etobicoke here – they have found the freedom to make a children’s record (The Story of Harmelodia), a soundtrack (Whale Music), and a messed-up experimental music-joke (The Nightline Sessions).

But live is where they cut loose. Despite their greatness, the group’s records often lack the live energy that makes them one of my favourite bands. On stage, Martin would improvise his solos with incredible passion, Bidini would throw in lyrics from the Talking Heads or Bruce Springsteen, and guest after guest would show up onstage, making every show special.

Like the show at Massey Hall.

Even though Martin wasn’t feeling very well that night – he was sick and couldn’t hit the higher notes that he’s usually able to – he soldiered on. To compensate, he was note-perfect on the guitar and he took ample liberties to solo, jump around the stage with his bandmates, and enjoy every last moment. The night ended with the band sitting in the audience with a guitar playing “Record Body Count” from Melville. I’d seen them do this before: Dave had sat on the venue’s bar, belting out the song, the half-drunk audience singing along. This time, it was every single person in Massey Hall singing – knowing it was the last.

Maybe.

Dave and Martin have said that they plan to keep making music together. And sometimes keyboardist/guitarist Ford Pier thinks it’s a sham. They’ve been together too long, he thinks. I hope he’s right.

If not, at least at this show I got to see both old drummers, Dave Clark and Don Kerr, play with them (and both at the same time). I got to hear my favourite songs performed one last time, and I got to see the end of an era in Canadian history.

For your listening pleasure the Rheos gave us permission to accompany the article with an MP3. I have chosen a live recording of “Record Body Count” that appeared on thier album Double Live. Click here and enjoy.

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.

Dance Yourself to Death
Self-titled EP Release Party
at Ciao Edie Roxx
Febrary 23, 2007

By Andrea Philp
Photography by Tavishe Coulson

Taking their name from the old Alice Cooper song, Dance Yourself to Death are on the verge of very big things. Popular on college radio, featured as the prom band in the Elton John-produced film “It’s a Boy Girl Thing”, crowding clubs around Toronto, and making girls and boys swoon are just some of the things these ladies have been up to.

With Jen Markowitz on vocals and bass, Nina Martinez on guitar, and Susan Gale on drums and back-up vocals, they sound like The Ronettes making love to Chrissie Hynde and then having breakfast with members of Squeeze and XTC. They evoke a subdued version of Detroit Cobras, but I promise they’re not derivative. The band has a timeless sound, and that’s what makes them instantly charming. I’ve been able to catch three shows by them in the past year, and I can tell you that their crowd and popularity only grows.

Dance Yourself to Death’s brand-spankin’-new self-titled four-song EP contains infectious hooks in call-and-response arrangements of guitar and vocals, and each instrument is given a chance to shine. They don’t dilly-dally with long interludes or overindulgent guitar solos — they get straight to the point, and play some of the catchiest music around town.

Markowitz pronounces her lyrics tenderly and humbly, with tangible emotion. I’ve seen a few vocalists over the years who give off too much “in your face” attitude, but Jen doesn’t do this at all. There isn’t a stitch of ego in her performances. It’s punk rock, yes, but these girls aren’t the type to show up late and drunk to a show, smash their instruments over a table of beers, and then make out with all the hot young things in the crowd. They are responsible punk rockers, which makes them even more endearing. DYTD will be the next big thing from Toronto; it’s just a matter of time. They are friendly enough for pop radio, but still edgy enough for alternative and rock stations, and with their good looks, they could be video darlings to boot.

TV on the Radio and Subtle
at The Kool Haus, Toronto, Ontario
Sunday March 4th, 2007

By Allana Mayer

Subtle

I was the next journalist in line to use the “Subtle are anything but” witticism, but luckily I was saved by MONDO’s title-free format (Dear Editors: Best decision you ever made). Which is good, because I’m feeling a bit out-clevered by the band’s over-the-top theatrics. I’ve seen “Dose One/The Propmaster” (Adam Drucker) play his eccentric frontman persona before, when 13 & God toured their self-titled album, so I knew a bit of what to expect. But that group’s subdued presence is nothing compared to Subtle’s outspoken and fantastical artistry.

This group is prolific enough for an entire set of new material, yet favoured us with the choice tracks from 2006’s For Hero, For Fool, such as “The Mercury Craze,” “Middleclass Kill,” and “Nomanisisland”. Plus, they started with “Swan Meat” from the Wishingbone EP, setting the stage for the “Propmaster” himself to dazzle.

Now, any analysis of Subtle must inevitably devolve into a character study of Adam Drucker. But, for a moment, let us discuss the rest of the band: the keyboardist/flutist/tenor saxist/various-whistle-ist wore a black robe seemingly taken from a Scream costume; the cello player looked like he would’ve preferred a biker gang; Jel head-banged like a psychopath as his hands mimicked the drummer’s heavy rhythm.

Now, the Propmaster. He is this tour’s persona, made up of equal parts Jacko and Beetlejuice. Was the outfit purchased at a fire sale of Prince’s old costumes? I enjoyed the black and white stripe motif that adorns their albums, website, props, and Dose One’s very own clothing; despite its heavy symbolism (which I refuse to delve into here), it was nice to see something stark amidst the usual flamboyancy. Maybe, without losing any of the showmanship or flash, the theatre troupe that is Subtle decided to keep things a bit more mature, a bit more Diva on a Dime. Although that didn’t stop Dose One from deadpanning his way through tasteless jokes about Anna Nicole Smith, cannibals, Jesus, and getting his early acceptance into rapper heaven, or from taking each song’s applause with a flourish of a bow and a wide grin, as if he knew all along just how deserving he was.

Most of his stage presence during songs involved rapping frenetically into the mic while pulling a “look at what a bizarre object I hold in my hand” routine. Of course, there’s only so much you can pantomime while jumping back and forth across the stage, and with his lyrics buzzing by so fast, it was almost impossible to catch all the references and connections. I can’t help but wonder what kind of constitution one requires to fake fascination in the same set of nesting dolls night after night. Other props for the Propmaster included a bust that could be dismantled, paper hearts and fake-blood streamers, a gigantic ring of keys and a long canvas painted with the mug shots and identification of numerous faceless, nameless people.

Luckily, being sick with mononucleosis, I was both too tired and too conscientious to leap onstage and give him a solid lick up the side of the head in pure, rabid fan lust. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t seriously consider it.

TV on the Radio

Hearing the name (“Saddle?” “Sidle?” “Saunter?”) passed amongst the pimply-faced all-ages crowd at the Koolhaus to see TV on the Radio made me smirk a bit, I’ll admit. It’s just too bad they don’t grant opening bands the rights to use fake blood onstage.

That’s not to say that TV on the Radio weren’t wonderful. I really can’t fault anything that gets underage suburban white boys to shake their skater-boy asses (although sometimes I’d like to). But in their performance, I couldn’t find any of the dark urgency that so appealed on 2006’s Return to Cookie Mountain; it felt decidedly stadium-anthemic. It warmed my heart to see two moms drinking and dancing with their sons on the sidelines, but it didn’t particularly make me want to get out on the dance floor myself. Again, blame the mono for making me so goshdarn uninteresting.

My listening experiences of TV on the Radio have never really hinged on their lyrical content, but with the emphasis placed on words through lead singer Tunde Adebimpe’s body language – emphatic hand flings and hip swings – it felt a bit like a gospel being preached. There’s no point in saying they were surrounded by those already converted. At least half the crowd qualified as “head bobbing” or higher, which for a Kool Haus-sized audience is fairly impressive.

A song near the end, in which they each bore various hand percussion instruments, would’ve been where a smaller band could have handed out toy tambourines and shakers to the audience – and collected a fair percentage of them at the end, too. I guess it’s one of the things you sacrifice when you graduate to a venue that requires a fence and a row of bodyguards between stage and fans. Although TV on the Radio is probably pulling in a budget that would allow for expending dollars on toy props for every show.

Obviously, their music is so high-calibre as not to require stage theatrics – just energy and honesty. And when the members of Subtle hopped onstage for a joint encore, they kept to drumming and left the main band to do its thing. And maybe it was just my sickness-addled brain, but it seemed as though they felt a bit smug about it, as though by the end of the show they had nothing left to prove about the calibre of their own “supporting” act. A friend confirmed after the show that Subtle seemed to have stolen it.

Scissor Sisters
at the Namba Hatch in Osaka, Japan
Monday, January 29th

By Andrew Nicholas McCann Smith

I couldn’t help but think that the Scissor Sisters got a little ahead of themselves in tackling a one-and-a-half-hour show, with no opening band, in a venue as awkward as the Namba Hatch (on the 3rd floor of a cylindrical building). The room itself looked like a space ship imagined by McDonald’s: with room for 350, it’s one of the larger mid-size venues in Osaka – but with the added capacity comes more responsibility, and the Scissor Sisters aren’t a responsible band. It would be great for housing an intimate show with a skilled major act, but not a still-growing group like the Sisters.

It is always embarrassing watching a band go through puberty. What is it about the temperamental performance, the jarring song structure, and the fumbling for identity that makes it so painful? I’m not sure if they’ve just lost their footing with the release of 2006’s Ta-dah, but the Scissor Sisters seemed to be going through this adjustment period in force.

The Scissor Sisters took stage at 7:30pm, and I was wowed at first: it felt just like a Vegas stage show! The curtains swung open and singer Jake Shears came out tap-dancing, in a pinstriped suit and gorgeous hair, with his long legs cutting across the stage. Singer Ana Matronic was stuffed into a dreadful blue superhero dress, while guitarist Del Marquis was in a tight bodysuit – all the rage in Japan two years ago. Their energy lasted through quite a few disco tunes, Bee-Gees knock-offs, and their amazing singles like “Take Your Mama Out.” With such an eclectic mix of fun numbers, even the Japanese were dancing.

But within a few songs, as the banter began, they became sweaty (boy, did Shears’ hair go sour) and the novelty of their theatrics wore off. Matronic gabbed our ears off about the sex trade in Japan, and Shears made a cheap shot at politics, introducing “Laura” by dedicating it to “the First Lady, that bitch, Laura Bush.”

The worst moment of the concert had to be a power ballad that sounded like it was stolen from David Bowie’s Transformer. Shears walked to the edge of the stage, stood over the audience, and began tracing his palm in the air. Were this a movie, and I a boy searching for meaning and identity, I would have placed my hand in the air and traced with him, from afar. This would have been revolutionary and I would have discovered who I truly was. Instead I found myself… bored. Essentially, that piece sunk the night. From there on out, the Elton John homages began to drag, they stopped playing disco, and the audience returned to stone.

Perhaps the flamboyancy of gay art was merely a growing pain, in the same way that raves were to electronic music. When a kitsch band like the Scissor Sisters can’t pull off their theatrical stunts, perhaps it’s a sign that gay art has evolved past being a mix-tape of queer influence and is finally able to innovate with sophistication, like Antony and the Johnsons and Xiu Xiu, instead of plain garishness.

Or perhaps the Scissor Sisters are still discovering hair growing in places it hadn’t before. (Wow, what a Carrie Bradshaw ending.)

Cat Power
With the Memphis Rhythm Band
at The Phoenix
Wednesday November 22nd, 2006

by Gabrielle Channon-Merritt

Truth be told, Chan Marshall might be the most awkward person on stage. She did a funny chicken-like dance when she was nervous, and kept apologizing for what an awful show she was doing that night at the Phoenix. She even admitted being frustrated from a lack of sex, and that she was PMS-ing hardcore, being four days from her period.

If it hadn’t been for Cat Power’s accompaniment, the Memphis Rhythm Band, she would’ve stopped halfway through each song, unsatisfied with her own playing. This 10-piece backing group – including vocals, piano, sax, trumpet, and violin, among other things – helped record singer/songwriter Chan Marshall’s stunning new album, The Greatest, and kept her on track during the 2006 promotional tour.

After being introduced by the big, ballsy backup singer, Marshall climbed onstage to the opening riff of the album’s title song. I was worried that the concert would sound just like the album, but happily, the songs were quite different. The band even helped with an a capella version of “Where is My Love.” The lead guitarist seemed inebriated and over-powered everyone, but the musicians still had fun. Unfortunately, Toronto just isn’t the right place to hold a blues show; the audience seemed to enjoy Cat Power’s performance, but no one danced.

When Marshall wasn’t performing solo on both guitar and piano, she put a touch of twang into her smooth, lilting voice, getting back to her southern-blues roots. The performance was a clear example of Marshall’s free and improvisatory style on stage. She has nothing to hide, and really doesn’t care what anyone thinks anyway: she knows she can’t dance, and she doesn’t mind stopping one song to start another that she prefers instead. By the end of the night, she had lit a couple cigarettes and passed them to the front of the crowd. Despite ranting about how much she sucked, Marshall’s performance affirmed that she is, indeed, the greatest.