It's Not Fair: Ticket Sales in an Online World

I was browsing around Ticketmaster Canada today as I'm wont to do on a fairly regular basis to see if by some miracle a band I want to see is actually coming to Winnipeg. Lo and behold, I discover that Bloc Party is coming in May. I immediately attempt to buy a ticket. (The blood is buzzing in my ears at this point as it usually does when I try to get tickets online.) Already in my heart, I'm fairly certain that I won't get floor seats - it's the Burton Cummings Theatre, a vaudevillean venue that generally sells out its floor in seconds. I still remember what one of my friends and I will forever call the "Franz Ferdinand Debacle"; despite both of us being on the Ticketmaster Web site at the same time trying to get tickets for the gig, which happened to be a double headliner with Death Cab For Cutie, we both got locked out of the site and all of the tickets were gone in a minute. We still largely blame overzealous Death Cab For Cutie fans and their pre-sale passwords for this. I maintain that this is not the only reason I hate Death Cab so much. Back to my current Bloc Party situation... Sadly, I am correct, and I resignedly settle for a seat in the first balcony. It's Bloc Party - I need to go. I'm satisified enough just to be going at all, but when I look online for information about this concert announcement, I'm rankled by what I discover. The official announcement appears to have occurred on January 14, and there was a pre-sale password.

Now, I understand that the world of ticket-buying has irrevocably changed since the advent of online sales. I accept that. However, what I refuse to accept is the fact I have to have a coronary every time a decent band comes to this city. There shouldn't be such a thing as some elite pre-sale that only those in-the-know have access to. I'm not cool enough to be in-the-know. Or the loop. I'm already a lot more obsessive and crazy than regular music fans when it comes to monitoring things like this, but I realize that it would be physically and mentally impossible for me to keep tabs on every band I love to see when they might decide to brave the trek to Winnipeg. Perhaps teenagers are more adept at this because they have more time and energy to devote to such pursuits, or because they don't have hundreds of bands to worry about. At any rate, it's inevitable that every time a band has a pre-sale, there will be either no good seats left or no seats at all. Winnipeg is generally pretty starved for good gigs, so when they come, there's a rabid scramble.

I'm old enough to remember the times of pre-online ticket sales and pre-pre-sale ticket sales. When I was a teenager and barely twenty or so, I would dutifully line up outside ticket sellers and try for the best seats possible from the agent. This is how I procured third row tickets for David Bowie. I also remember being able to get tickets by phone. This is how I ended up on the floor for Muse (albeit after leaping over a couple rows of seating when the lights went out in order to evade security).

I would also like to point out that this isn't a rant against ticket touts, which seems to be a growing problem all over the world (though, I've heard most about it in Britain) because I'm fairly certain the majority of people who bought up the good tickets for Bloc Party genuinely wanted to go. In the end, this is probably more of a rant against pre-sales and annoying venues. What I mean by annoying venues is the aspect of assigned seating. I am most happy at a venue that has no seating at all. To me the democratic way of concert-going is rush seating. That guarantees that you don't have to have a grand mal trying to get tickets first, and it ensures that the more committed the fan, the better the position in relation to the stage. If you have the motivation to arrive at the venue's doors an hour or four in advance, then you surely deserve a prime spot by the stage. I have operated this way many times - in fact, I've gotten used to this manner of doing things over the past couple of years. Perhaps that's why I get so enraged at a place like Burton Cummings. Although, in the past, before this ticket frenzy nonsense, I recall being up against the stage at the Burt for The Arcade Fire and for Muse. But pre-sales have obviously changed that. I may never set foot on the floor of the Burton Cummings ever again.

Additionally, I seem to forget that most of the bands and artists I like are considered relatively obscure, thus when I've gone to their shows, I got to go to tiny venues that were automatically rush seating. This is why I wish bands would get out here before they get too big (this is how I managed to see The Killers with a couple hundred other people and nearly have Brandon Flowers step on my hand with his loafers). I can't compete with the army of indie fans that can finagle their way to the best spots for shows. At least not online. When it comes to physically competing for spots at the stage, I have sharp elbows and a stealthy nature, and I can stand outside a venue for half a day in sub-zero weather easily. My only small consolation is that the people at the Burt seem to be adamant that the Bloc Party show will have strictly assigned seating; however, having been in this position several times at other shows, I have witnessed the tide of fans leaving their assigned floor seats to press the stage regardless of security or rules. And I will be trapped like an obese pigeon up in the first balcony.

I feel sorry for those people who aren't techno-savvy and think they can actually purchase concert tickets by phone. Or by standing in line somewhere. Those days are long gone. My fear is that the days of online ticket purchases will soon be out of sight for me as well.

One Month Off - Bloc Party

Atonement - Bloc Party

Last Night Electro Saved My Sanity: MSTRKRFT in WNNPG

The first time MSTRKRFT came through Winnipeg I didn't bother going and then I regretted it. When you realize that the only artists from Modular that you will ever get a chance to see come to your city are Wolfmother and MSTRKRFT, you start to panic when you miss the better of the two. Of course I had seen one half of MSTRKRFT a couple of years back when he opened for Nine Inch Nails in Death From Above 1979, and I loved it. When Jesse F. Keeler hooked up with Al-P to become MSTRKRFT, I fell in love with their brand of electro beats that sit well next to the likes of Justice, Daft Punk and Simian Mobile Disco. Not to mention their stunning remixing abilities. So, needless to say, I decided that I just had to go to the Exchange Event Centre last night for MSTRKRFT without a second thought. Oddly enough, it only hit me much (much) later that night that a show like this was a different beast from the ones I normally attend. Throughout the night I discovered the difference between a traditional live gig and a DJ gig, and in some ways, the similarities, too. And for some reason, I can't say I had ever given much thought to it before.

The time advertised for the gig was 9pm, but thankfully, my friend, Lisa, and I didn't really show up til 10 because, as we soon discovered, that still meant we had another two hours to go before the opener Felix Cartal came on. As we ventured further into the club, I started thinking the idiotic pseudo-bouncer needn't have scrutinized my ID so keenly. All he had to do was clock the level of my awkwardness and displacement in a place like this. The reasons why I never was a clubber came flooding back to me as drunken couples groped each other and girls tottered around in high heels and short shorts. The music preceding the actual show, while infinitely better than the stuff played at Top 40 bars, wasn't particularly inspiring nor distinguishable (aside from snatches of Hot Chip and Justice), and Lisa and I found ourselves seated at the back of the club, yawning from the stressful day's work we had already put in at her office. And probably from rapidly encroaching old age as well. So, as any good curmudgeon would do, we sat there mocking the younger people around us.

There were the girls in matching gold shoes, holding hands like they were part of some nightclub buddy system. There was a b-boy wannabe with a hockey mask permanently perched atop his head (and baseball cap), which led us to the conclusion that the sole purpose of the mask was to keep his hat in place. There was the guy who appeared to be leading an invisible conga line up and down the club, chugging away like the little engine that had no dance partners. There was a guy in neon green sunglasses - a Corey Hart of the long-lost rave scene. One of our personal favourites was Mr. Tall and Awkward, who seemed to be roaming aimlessly alone and waiting for MSTRKRFT - we felt that he was a kindred spirit. Nearly every girl looked like she was trying too hard while nearly every boy looked like he didn't care one iota for trying at all. And many seemed very tied up with mediating and commemorating their own experience whether by digital photo or mobile text. But like pretty much most gigs I've been to, I got the distinct feeling that it was more of an opportunity to be seen rather than to hear a particular artist's music. It was all very interesting from an anthropological standpoint, but the night was beginning to wear on us. At midnight, Felix Cartal came on, but honestly, I didn't get much out of him - there were some fairly dissonant and jarring mixes happening, and his set just ended up feeling too repetitive and not enough to get me anywhere near the sweaty, flying limbs on the dancefloor. It's not like I couldn't stand it, but it's more like I wasn't affected by it.

However, when MSTRKRFT took the stage, I began my stealth journey to the centre of the dancefloor. That pulsing, persistent 4/4 rock beat that makes MSTRKRFT one of my favourite electro acts soothed my otherwise stressed out body and propelled me further and further into the inner core of gyrating bodies. Aside from the sweat raining down on me from the shirtless, grinding idiot atop the platform and the rather fierce knee to the back of my head from another dancer on the aforementioned platform, I had a pretty euphoric time. I literally lost myself in the music, usually shutting my eyes and moving like a de-programmed robot (no sexy dance from me). I was whipping my head around so fast that I became completely disoriented and detached from the people moving around me. Between the unsure footing rolling on top of discarded glow sticks and the green lights spidering across the ceiling and walls, I seemed to effectively separate my mind from my body. While I caught glimpses of MSTRKRFT on the stage from time to time, rather than focusing on the artist, I focused on the music in a new way. But at the same time, I couldn't tell you exactly what was being played or remixed at every moment, and that was okay. It was pure feeling without concentration - perhaps it was the bliss of a brief numbness to the outside world. Like that moment in the film I Heart Huckabees when Mark Wahlberg and Jason Schwartzman smack themselves in the head with a big plastic ball to achieve a state of non-thought for a fleeting moment. But this was for an hour and a half. And it included a complete abandoning of kinesthetic sense. As I made my way back up the stairs from my drowning on the dancefloor, I felt like I had sea legs.

One of the memorable highlights for me was the remix that featured bits of Hot Chip and then pieces of Happy Mondays' Hallelujah. I also recognized their remix of fellow labelmate Wolfmother's Woman, Justice's D.A.N.C.E. (apparently a hot track for the night considering it was played in some form three different times) and Kylie Minogue's Wow along with the odd track off of debut LP, The Looks and, of course, latest single Bounce/Vuvuvu. The set ended with a rather jubilant remix of Daft Punk's One More Time, which allowed for audience participation akin to the live shows I'm accustomed to as MSTRKRFT dampened the vocals and everyone joined in for the "Don't stop the dancin'" refrain. By the end of the night (or early morning), I felt just as exhausted and vindicated as I do leaving any good show, yet knowing that it was the show itself and not the environment that I had fallen for. I could do without most of the people and without the preamble of parading poseurs, but there is always life-preservation in good music. In this case, it was postmodern pastiche as remedy for the postmodern condition.

This tour is continuing on into the US, so if you live in any of the cities they're hitting, get tickets and let MSTRKRFT's beats give you that pummeling gift of oblivion for one night. Fist of God, indeed.

The Looks - MSTRKRFT

Bounce ft. N.O.R.E. (Felix Cartal Remix) - MSTRKRFT

Woman (MSTRKRFT Remix) - Wolfmother

Ceolakanth is Android (MSTRKRFT Remix) - Polysics

Three Quarters Full Or One Quarter Empty?: The New Pornographers at the Groove FM Jazz Festival

And so I returned to the Groove FM Jazz Festival and the Pantages Playhouse for the second show of the "indie package" - Canadian indie supergroup The New Pornographers. This was a make-up show for the Winnipeg gig they had to cancel earlier, and it was my first time seeing them live. Due to their supergroup nature, not all members are present at all shows, and unfortunately, at this one, both Neko Case and Dan Bejar were absent, and thus Kathryn Calder, AC Newman's niece, took over all of Case's vocals with delicate aplomb. The audience was definitely lively, often shouting out to the band, and they still put on an excellent show live despite the fact they were missing a quarter of their members, but at the same time, I didn't quite feel like I saw a complete show. I don't know if this was because a quarter of the band were missing and because they were vocalists, or because I'm not as huge a fan of the band as I am of others, or because the some of the ludicrous banter coming from the audience appeared to be making the band feel a bit awkward (continuous requests for Freebird were annoying me and no doubt annoying them as well).

Following a rather raucous and fun set from Winnipeg mod-popsters and Mint Records labelmates Novillero, who also managed to get the crowd dancing early, The New Pornographers took the stage led by Newman with his Challengers-emblazoned guitar, and launched into a set that included Challengers, Use It, All the Old Showstoppers, Unguided, Adventures in Solitude, Stacked Crooked, All the Things That Go to Make Heaven and Earth, Testament To Youth in Verse, and Twin Cinema. My personal highlights were hearing the bouncy, shuffling classic Mass Romantic played live, and singing and dancing along to Sing Me Spanish Techno - one of my favourites despite the fact it doesn't seem trendy to state as such. I was also impressed with the tender duet between Newman and Calder for Adventures in Solitude as both closed their eyes in rapt emotion. One point at which I really noted the fact members were absent was when I missed Bejar's vocals for Testament to Youth in Verse - the feel of the song seemed to shift from quirky to gentle and bland.

Newman attempted rather sarcastic banter with the audience (including a shot at Winnipeg's Burton Cummings - the audience's utter silence spoke volumes about the crowd's apathy for their "hometown hero"), and at one point a rather vocal older man, who kept screaming how much he loved the band, decided to yell "We still love you," prompting Newman to ask "Despite what?" in a bewildered tone.

Somehow the set still seemed too short and I was still missing key songs I wanted to hear like Myriad Harbour, Mutiny, I Promise You, and Falling Through Your Clothes. There were also some sound issues where the bass appeared to be overpowering the vocals, muddying the sound so much that I grew frustrated - I was thankful when one of the audience members piped up and told them to turn the bass down a bit, but it came too late in the show to really make too much of a difference.



The set proper concluded with a nearly endless cover of ELO's Don't Bring Me Down, which was fun and a crowd pleaser, but I think I would have preferred a more powerful original song as a closer. If anything, the cover might have worked better as an encore number, especially since they had a disappointingly short two-song encore, finishing with usual show ender The Slow Descent into Alcoholism. I was left with a strange feeling of incompletion and I still don't know whether I should look at the show as an above average gig for a regular group or a below average gig for a supergroup. I would really like to see The New Pornographers live again to get a better sense of how I feel about them, and hopefully, I'll get to see the full line-up next time.

Mass Romantic - The New Pornographers

Adventures in Solitude - The New Pornographers

Performing Love, Thorny and Fragrant: Stars at the Groove FM Jazz Festival

I got to see Montreal-based band Stars play live a couple of years ago when they came to the Garrick Centre in Winnipeg to promote their 2004 album Set Yourself on Fire. And it was definitely a fantastic show. Then within the last eight months I've managed to miss them twice - the first time, they played Waterloo just before I moved there, and the second time, they played Winnipeg in winter while I was still in Waterloo. That's why I was so thankful that they decided to play the Groove FM Jazz Festival as part of the "indie package." I would finally get to see them play material from their latest album In Our Bedroom After the War. Of course being part of the Jazz Festival, they ended up slotted in Pantages Playhouse, an old vaudeville theatre building with proper seating and a balcony - not exactly my favourite kind of setting for a live show. As I sat there in my eighth row seat, watching the opening act, Winnipeg band The Details, I started feeling a bit grumpy and put off by the situation. The audience appeared to have drawn all sorts of demographics, and especially ones I never thought I'd see at a Stars show. Frankly, I think some of these people were wondering what they were doing there themselves (if they were expecting jazz, they were in for a surprise). And I was wondering how I was going to bear sitting through the show trapped in the eighth row.

After the intermission between The Details and Stars, the pulsing introduction from the opening track from In Our Bedroom After the War, The Beginning After the End, started up and the real Stars fans began to scream in recognition. The band sprung out onto the stage, and instantly, Torquil Campbell told everyone to come down to the stage - he later said that we should have to stand if they fucking had to. I joined the exodus of indie-pop fans as we stumbled and leaped over the bewildered older people who were completely content to remain seated. I was so grateful I could have hugged Torq. The moment that all of us crowded against the stage the gig started in earnest. And Stars are always completely earnest.

The stage was decorated with white and red roses, which were flung from the stage at various intervals, some of them disintegrating into showers of petals. It was a beautiful idea and completely fit the honesty and tenderness that Stars embody. The first track they played was the second one off the latest album, The Night Starts Here, and indeed it did. Torquil and his lovely singing partner Amy Millan demonstrated the perfection of their united vocals - I think their voices complement each others so perfectly it's emotionally alchemical. Amy lightly chanted the refrain of "The night starts here, Forget your name, forget your fear" and I did exactly as I was told, dancing and letting myself soak in the bittersweetness. Then Torquil asked the audience where our Barack Obama was and when would we finally elect a First Nations person for Prime Minister in this country before launching into Soft Revolution. This was only the beginning of the banter that he and Amy would engage in throughout the night.

The sheer intensity of the music was incandescent - Torquil has been accused in the past of being "hammy" (cough, Pitchfork), but I only see his theatrics as passion of the order of Morrissey. Being a consummate performer who believes and feels every word he/she has written is the opposite of "hammy" fakery, and Torquil is the consummate performer. There were so many highlights, and many of them were due to Torquil's energy as he played off Amy, who serenely played brilliant guitar, electric and acoustic. They ended up making two dedications to the couple whom they stay with whenever they're in Winnipeg - the first was The Big Fight, dedicated by Torquil, and the second was My Favourite Book, which was dedicated by Amy, ostensibly to rectify the dark implications of the first dedication and to elicit further banter between them (including a comment by Torquil that sex was always painful and you end up regretting it - a theme that works its way into several of their songs). The former was seductively sinister as Amy and Torquil exchanged lines in a dark dialogue of a fractured relationship, and the latter definitely balanced it out with its retro elegance and twee melody. Ultimately the spectrum that these two songs span, the pain and the elation of relationships, is completely representative of their body of work, and it's what makes me adore them so much.

The Ghost of Genova Heights, a track I wouldn't have immediately pegged as one of my favourite Stars track has proven to be exactly that, especially after seeing it live. It shifts between two different styles and moods, between a dreamy New Romantic feel and a soulful funk. Torquil was hugely impressive with his falsetto, breathing and yelping like Prince, making this song's chorus one of the most memorable ones of the night. Humour was also constantly present - before shooting headlong into the raucous Take Me To the Riot, Amy attempted to talk to the crowd about the Manitoba Moose hockey team and the AHL, only to have Torquil jump in and say that this audience was probably the only 800 people in Winnipeg who had no interest in hockey, prompting a hearty cheer. He also prefaced One More Night with a dedication to the newly re-formed New Kids on the Block, complete with an accapella satire of boyband trite emotion and dance moves, singing the chorus of Phil Collins' saccharine One More Night with a modified ending complete with profanity. The set-up served to demonstrate the contrast between Collins and the honesty of Stars' One More Night in which lovers hurt each other as much as they long for each other. There was also a sweet little moment in which it appeared Torquil lost himself in the middle of the song, standing there holding his trumpet and muttering "shucks" before eventually returning to the microphone and continuing on to the second verse.

I also have to mention one of the most exciting segues in which they moved from What I'm Trying to Say into Elevator Love Letter, two of my favourite Stars songs flowing together in an ecstatic tribute to complex emotion. To round out the entire set, they also played Your Ex-Lover is Dead, Set Yourself on Fire, Ageless Beauty, Midnight Coward, and Window Bird. The vulnerability and uncertainty that accompanies love and intimacy in reality pervades Stars' music and transforms these seemingly unromantic characteristics into a new form of romance. My only petty wish is that they would have done Barricade, a fantastically perverse ballad from In the Bedroom After the War, in which two football hooligans fall in love, turned on by violence.

One of the most intense moments was the final song of the set proper, the title track of their latest album, an epic ballad to the necessity of rebirth and reinstatement of humanity after the horrors and dehumanization of war. A person in the audience asked Torquil if he could dedicate it to his friend in Afghanistan, and Torquil replied with "Of course, my friend," his voice choked with sincerity that nearly made me tear up. The song built and built to an incredible climax of catharsis as Torquil ended up throwing his head back and howling "war" over and over. I felt my eyes close along with him as I sang with him, my vocal cords straining.

After the set proper ended, Torquil was the first to bound back onto the stage to tell us that he would have to perform accapella and that he knew some great Captain and Tenille songs; when the rest of the band reappeared, he feigned disappointment and told us that we could catch his solo material at a softball game in Ontario, trailing off with "the bus there is cheap." Stars then proceeded to perform a stellar four-song encore - it was like they read my mind. They needn't have told me to dance. They began with their fabulous laidback cover of This Charming Man - once again, anyone who could accuse Torquil of heavy-handed overdramatic performance couldn't have ever heard the subtlety of this understated cover version where Amy and Torquil's voices approach whispers as Marr's famous riff gently pulses in the background. They then slipped seamlessly into Reunion, one of my favourite songs off Set Yourself on Fire, a joyful trip of nostalgia and reclaiming missed opportunities. The show then ended with the gentle loveliness of Calendar Girl and then The Woods, the only other song that night from their second album, Heart.

Stars restored my faith in live gigs after the last lacklustre one I attended. I wish I could have gathered up the gig in my arms like a bouquet of roses, thorny and fragrant, and buried my face in it forever. Instead, it will have to remain pressed and dried in the folds of my memory.

The Ghost of Genova Heights - Stars

Barricade - Stars

Elevator Love Letter - Stars

Tokyo Police Club: A Lesson in Gig Selection

Back when I first heard about Canadian band Tokyo Police Club (probably well over a year ago now), I downloaded a few of the tracks off their EPs from music blogs, listened to them, was mildly interested and then left it at that. They were typical indie-pop with that bouncy backbeat and a bit of new wave cheek. Having listened to most of the songs off their Smith EP, I recall thinking the songs were rather short and similar. Then after listening to several songs off their A Lesson in Crime EP, I started confusing those tracks with the ones I heard earlier from the Smith EP. Besides the slower title track, I couldn't distinguish between the two EPs. When I heard their debut album, Elephant Shell, I confused its tracks with the tunes from their EPs. Needless to say, I probably shouldn't have gone to see them live. I don't know what exactly I was thinking - as if seeing them live would help the fact their songs all sounded the same to me. Nonetheless, I decided I would give them a shot (and kill one more evening in my generally eventless life) and attend their gig at the Garrick Centre in Winnipeg last night. As part of the tour in honour of the sixteenth anniversary of Exclaim magazine, TPC are making their way across Canada with varying opening acts.

The second I got into the line for the show I found myself irritated and for completely unreasonable, curmudgeonly reasons. The massive amount of teenagers and people who were technically adults, but still much younger than me, were annoying me with their attempts at indie hipsterdom. These things shouldn't anger me (these indie kids are at nearly every show I ever attend, whether in Winnipeg, Toronto or even Cardiff...they're practically a global phenomenon - I bet there are penguins somewhere in the antarctic wearing Converse sneakers and footless tights, bobbing their heads to a bouncy backbeat). Perhaps what was really irking me the most about this crowd, aside from the t-shirts paired with dinner jackets and the bizarre return of plaid flannel shirts, was the fact that all these kids appeared to adore Tokyo Police Club. Again, this should have been expected, concerts tend to be attended by fans of the band playing them. But somehow the fact this many young people turned out to see this particular band, which in my eyes was completely average, vexed me. It started to make me wonder whether the kids were there because they truly loved the band and found their music to be life-changing and original, or whether they wanted to believe that this band was truly unique because all the other cool kids thought so, too. And if it really was the former reason, there was no way I could ever understand these people. At any rate, I started feeling rather surly and self-righteous and turned up songs by The Sound on my iPod to block out the rumbling of excited chatter around me. I became an ancient 25-year-old.

Frankly, it's already a bad sign if I'm not compelled to take up my usual spot against the stage. Despite the unseemliness of being pressed against the stage at my age (though this problem will probably only get much, much worse as the years pass), I almost always plant myself firmly against the centre stage, arms resting on a monitor. I should also add that the fact I'm very short also contributes to this behaviour. This time I stood back a fair bit further than usual, well away from the pointy elbows of malnourished indie boys, though still close enough to have my hair ruffled by the bass vibrations emanating from the speaker stacks. As Tokyo Police Club took the stage, I hoped against hope that they would end up impressing me with their live presence.

They blazed through their set in less than an hour mostly because all their songs are about two minutes long - a feature I came to appreciate as I felt myself longing to leave the venue early. With a set that included In a Cave, Tessellate, The Baskervilles, Your English is Good, Listen to the Math, Nursery, Academy, Nature of the Experiment, Box, Citizens of Tomorrow, and Be Good, TPC failed to engage me - to be honest, every time they played a new song, I could swear they had already played it earlier, and that I was in some horrendous indie groundhog day. In their live context, the sameyness of their songs only became more prominent to me (the only reason I can recount the songs I do is because I mentally took note of a few lyrics off each song to compare with the actual tracks later and work out like a puzzle - a fantastic mental exercise, but not a good sign for their music). Singer/bassist, David Monks, whose voice reminds me a bit of Peter Perrett of The Only Ones, was animated, but uninteresting as a similar drumbeat intro started each song off. Graham Wright, the keyboardist, who provided the odd unhinged shouting chant, bent so low over his keyboard that I feared he would trap his nose between the keys until he snapped his head as far back as humanly possible with Snoopy-like tosses. But even that action became cliched for me - it felt like I had seen that before from countless unmemorable opening acts. The show became reminiscent (right down to the seizure-inducing strobe lights) of when I went to see another indie Canadian band, Hot Hot Heat, play a gig about three years ago. That time, too, I shouldn't have expected much, considering I was really only there to see The Futureheads in the support slot, but the complete disengagement I felt at that gig also came as a sad surprise. Their fans also went beserk for songs that had no effect on me whatsoever.

I can't bring myself to hate TPC because they are so genuine and grateful, bless, thanking the crowd at every moment and making the effort to keep mentioning their earlier Winnipeg gig at The Pyramid. The set was also punctuated by a dedication to someone named Jill just before Your English is Good (am I so crotchety that I even find this ungrammatical phrase annoying?) and the encouraged participation in the form of handclapping for Citizens of Tomorrow. So, TPC do get an A for their attempt to interact with the crowd. Their encore was appropriate in that it was short just like their set was - it consisted merely of Cheer It On, which I only really remember because they keep shouting their band name in it (not something I'm particularly fond of, but which is extremely helpful when you're like me and apparently need to utilize mnemonic devices where this band's songs are concerned). For most of the show, I found my eyes straying to the audience, including a boy with the exact same haircut as Monks, flailing like he had a particularly bad case of head lice, and a couple of indie hipster girls dancing by themselves, one of whom looked like she had walked straight out of a 1980's high school yearbook photo, oversized glasses, unfortunate haircut and all. Kudos to them for being so confident with themselves and for actually having sense enough to attend a concert they would actually like.

I had also hoped that the opening acts might make my attendance worthwhile, but to no avail. The two opening acts were Smoosh, a teen-sister duo from Seattle, and Attack in Black, a plaid-shirt-wearing four-piece from Ontario - I've largely forgotten both of them. I will give kudos to Smoosh in that they're doing something fairly ambitious for their age (and heaven knows I can't play keyboard and sing at the same time, nor can I write my own music, and I really had nothing going for me as a teenager...so, I really don't have much of right to be harsh), and in time, they'll probably fit quite nicely into the indie scene. At the very least, they played a cover of Bloc Party's This Modern Love, which was admirable. Attack in Black sounded like a blend of country-rock and emo, a mixture I never really want to come across again.

All in all, the night was forgettable. Although, I'll probably remember just how forgettable it was if TPC tours this way again.

**NOTE** I'm not even joking when I say I initially forgot to include tracks to download for this post. Bloody hell.

Tessellate - Tokyo Police Club

Cheer It On - Tokyo Police Club

Dance Me to the End of the Tour: Sons and Daughters in Toronto

This past Wednesday at Lee's Palace in Toronto I finally got to watch Glaswegian four-piece, Sons and Daughters, perform live. I became a fan in 2004 when I first heard their debut Love the Cup, however, I lost track of them over the last few years and missed the release of their second album The Repulsion Box. I became aware of them again last year as they began getting more and more attention for their latest album, the Bernard Butler-produced This Gift. When I finally took a listen to This Gift, I marvelled at the difference between it and Love the Cup, a much slower and folkier body of work. I can still reconcile the two by the thread of call and response vocals of Adele Bethel and Scott Paterson and the Celtic lilt of their garage rock, but I was curious about how the live show would go down. I was truly impressed by the energy and unadulterated joy they project on stage. Adele, looking like a cross between a disco diva and Wonder Woman in her blue eyeshadow, gold sequins, purple hotpants, and knee-high gold boots, stomped her feet and brandished her tambourine, leading the band through a breathless aural assault that had the energy of a punk show.



Notably, they played almost exclusively songs from their last two albums The Repulsion Box and This Gift, including opener Gilt Complex, Hunt, Dance Me In, Chains, Flags, Rebel With the Ghost, Taste the Last Girl, Iodine, Rama Lama, Goodbye Service, and The Nest. The only song from Love the Cup to make an appearance was Johnny Cash, and it was re-tooled into a faster piece from the version I remember, naturally to fit in with the newer sound. Their encore included a blistering performance of This Gift followed by the raucous House in My Head. Highlights included Chains, which shuffled along like a rockabilly song, propelled by Scott's "whoah-oh-oh"s, Dance Me In, which felt like a Celtic jig played on speed, and the absolute insanity of House in My Head, where I was certain my own head would be shaken loose. Adele spun around, whipped her microphone cord and flung herself toward the audience, careening like a pinball into all corners of the stage, and at one point, she stood in a playful salute posture. Scott, in his sparkly black shirt and quiff, played his guitar in true guitar hero fashion, his face contorting with passion as he crouched and lurched or ran to the edge of the stage for solos. Bassist, Ailidh Lennon, was more reserved in her black dress and boots as she hung back and kept the rhythm pulsing like a racing heartbeat (her reserve could have some connection to her being sick with flu) while drummer, David Gow, kept a crazy pace through the entire set, heavy on offbeats, forcing you to dance, clap your hands and swing your head. Scott and Adele's vocals are perfectly matched and blend in both sweet lilting and wild yelping. For a band who mentioned their love for Bob Dylan, Johnny Cash and Leonard Cohen, this newer incarnation doesn't quite mesh with those influences anymore. Perhaps they never truly did. Oddly enough, seeing them live, I could now recognize The Smiths in some of the songs like two of my favourites, Darling and Iodine, and Taste the Last Girl - there was something Marresque about the guitar and melodies.

Adding to the overall charm of their show, Adele and Scott talked to the audience in between songs, revealing genuine down-to-earth personalities. Adele prefaced Dance Me In by telling the audience that it was an answer to Leonard Cohen's Dance Me to the End of Love and how excited she was that he was touring again, and she introduced Taste the Last Girl with mention of a rubbish ex-boyfriend. She also joked about how the night before they played a song so fast she almost had cardiac arrest (with the alacrity they played this particular night, I could definitely see how that could happen). With self-deprecating humour, Scott prefaced Rebel With the Ghost with the fact the song was quite easy because it was all "nah-nah-nahs." Close to the end of the show, both Scott and Adele talked about how happy they were to be heading home now because this was the last gig of the North America tour, leading into the catharsis and tour-end celebration of House in My Head. The band I loved in 2004 has changed, but they have convinced me to fall in love with them all over again in 2008.

Opening band, Bodies of Water, didn't disappoint and definitely deserve mentioning. Having listened to a few of their tracks in advance, I was excited to witness their sound live. For only four people, they create a choir of voices, filling the small venue with waves of beautiful sound. Their songs are long and meandering, switching time signatures several times before ending, but it never gets tedious; instead, you feel like you're accompanying them on a journey that no one has mapped out yet, but is bound to be filled with serendipity and wonder. Styles seamlessly moved from gospel to reggae to latin to operatic epic. Keyboardist and vocalist, Meredith Metcalf, hit spine-tingling heights in vocal range during It Moves - I will always remember that. They have that powerful organic feel of several people functioning as one like Arcade Fire or Broken Social Scene, but they accomplish it with far less people. They deserved far more than the small crowd that hung back from the floor in front of the stage. Truly impressive.

Darling - Sons and Daughters

Chains - Sons and Daughters

It Moves - Bodies of Water

Dirty and Sweet: The Raveonettes in Toronto

This past Good Friday was indeed good with The Raveonettes' gig at The Opera House in Toronto. I've never had the privilege to see the Danish duo live before, and I'm very happy I got to witness them on stage. Sune Rose Wagner and Sharin Foo filled the vaudeville stage with incredible swathes of sound and intricately crafted noise, the stagefloor littered with effects pedals. Their guitars chirped, chimed, buzzed and bounced throughout the relatively small venue, producing a hybrid of a 50's prom and a space age rave.

Image is just as intrinsic to The Raveonettes as the music - they are a fascinating combination of Europe and Americana. They come across like the aloof cool kids who somehow ended up presiding over a 50's prom in the future. Their symmetry on stage is perfect - Sune stands stage right and Sharin stands stage left, leaving a fairly large gap between them with the androgynous female drummer standing in the middle of the gap towards the back of the stage. And the drummer does stand - she bangs away at the drums like one would in an orchestra rather than sitting behind a traditional drumkit, all to a perfect visual effect. Seeing her sticks come down on the drums in such an obvious way, further emphasizes the classic Ronettes drumbeat that runs throughout most of their songs.

Sune and Sharin contrast but match at the same time - he is slight of build with dark hair while she towers above him on high heels and sports a platinum blonde pageboy haircut. He looks fragile in his Endless Summer t-shirt and skinny jeans, while she looks austere in her sequined black and silver dress. At the same time, they both have the same aloof look on their faces as they stare out over the audience with their kohl-lined eyes. No matter how fast and danceable their music gets, they stay nearly motionless behind their microphones as their hands move in a blur over their guitars. Sometimes this stance is broken as Sharin gently sways her head to the beat and Sune backs away, sliding his pointy shoes around the stage, as he performs a guitar solo. But they always come back to formation, a repressed tension filling the space between them and crackling along with their reverbing guitars. None of this distance makes them appear rude or arrogant - when they speak to the audience in between songs, they appear quite soft-spoken and gracious; instead, they seem to have an inherent, effortless coolness that makes you envy them because you know they're untouchable. You can't take your eyes off them in their mesmerizing detachment.

The Raveonettes' fusion of distortion and Spector-like walls of sound and drums makes them undeniably like The Jesus and Mary Chain, especially the Psychocandy period. Other obvious reference points are 60's girl groups like The Ronettes and the distortion of Sonic Youth; however, their light vocals meld into each other so gently that they sound like one androgynous, dreamy voice. It never ceases to amaze me that they can create as many songs as they do with the same sound, same chord progressions, same drumbeat patterns, but with distinctive melodies that constantly update their 50's and 60's simplicity with something intangibly original. Their songs have the magic to transport you back to an America of milkshake fantasy and arrested adolescence while creating an excitement and a spacey atmosphere that belongs to a future as imagined by the 1960's.

Blowing through a set that mainly consisted of songs under three minutes, they played many songs off their latest album Lust Lust Lust, opening with Hallucinations, and going on to play Dead Sound, Blush, Lust, Black Satin, You Want the Candy, and The Best Dies. Faster songs like Blush and You Want the Candy soared through the venue propelled by drums and sweet melodies, and Sharin's vocal on The Best Dies in tandem with Sune's lazy lullaby of guitar strumming were entrancing and hypnotic. Sune, staring into the middle distance and flickering his eyelids in an idiosyncratic blink, often strummed while holding the whammy bar as his hand moved up and down the frets with a careless ease. In breaks from vocals, he would hunch over his guitar and lurch in time with the downbeats. Sharin, seeming to be channeling the spirits of Debbie Harry, Nico, and Agnetha from Abba all at once, strummed her guitar with the same abandon and characteristic staccato strums Sune did. They would trade off melodies and effects, taking turns holding down all the strings with one hand while shredding furiously up and down with the other hand. In addition to newer material, they played songs from Pretty in Black, Chain Gang of Love, and their EP Whip It On, including That Great Love Sound, Let's Rave On, Noisy Summer, Love in a Trashcan, Attack of the Ghost Riders, and My Tornado. After the show, a bemused fan couldn't get over the fact that Sharin had actually knelt next to her effects pedals to readjust the calibre of her "noise." The pink and black colour motif that The Raveonettes often use is a perfect one to represent music that is both sweet like bubblegum and dark with dirty distortion, dissonant chords and Velvet Underground-like lyrics of decadence.

The climax of the show for me was the final song of the set proper: the first single off their latest album, Aly, Walk With Me. It's droning darkness and the chiming dissonant guitar chords paired with their nearly monotone vocals makes the song both beautiful and unsettling live. At the end of the song, Sune and Sharin both turned their backs on the audience and hunched over their guitars to make a blazing cacophony of white noise. Their encore was a tender performance of Love Can Destroy Everything followed by a rendition of Twilight, which finally saw Sune and Sharin close the physical gap between them by facing each other and creating a mirror image as their hands flew over their guitars.

I have to mention the opening band, Black Acid, just because they were so terrible. They looked like an identikit indie hipster singer backed by four homeless men. I've never seen a more disinterested band in my life. The singer, wearing red pointy shoes, skinny jeans and a dinner jacket over a t-shirt, was probably trying to seem cool by being indifferent to performing and to his audience, compulsively drinking beer as he walked around the stage in lieu of playing an instrument, but instead he just came off like a boring jackass. His voice was so low in the mix that I could only catch snatches of it - good thing since he sounded like a chipmunk caught in a combine. And the songs they played were so repetitive and endless, I was ready to claw my way out of my own skin. In all their efforts to be as cool as The Raveonettes, they just ended up being their antithesis. And proved that The Raveonettes know what they're doing.

All of my photos from this gig can be viewed via an album on my MySpace page.

Aly, Walk With Me - The Raveonettes

You Want the Candy - The Raveonettes

That Great Love Sound - The Raveonettes

God Save the Manics...and the Music Press in General

I think it's fairly safe to say my life revolves around music, books, decent films and television (ie: stuff most people don't watch), and travel. I like to write, and I also like to express opinions that people who are not music fans just smile and nod at. Now I have somewhere to put them. The opinions, not the people who are not music fans - although, trapping certain people in a shoddily-designed blog would be fitting.

It only seemed appropriate to begin this music blog with my favourite band of all time - the Manic Street Preachers. Not to mention the fact I ripped my blog name from them as well. The Manics are the only band that can pair a blistering guitar solo with politics so seamlessly and intelligently. I will always admire their honesty - even when they contradict themselves. The following is a review I wrote way back in May 2007 about the May 12th Manics gig at the Student Union in Cardiff. I think it's a fitting start to a blog that will feature music I like and support - signed or unsigned. I'm tired of sitting back and moaning about how bad the music press is these days when I can create my own.

So here it goes...I shall blunder along with a completely delusional amount of self-belief. After all, it worked for the Manics.


The Art of Being a Manics Fan

Ask anyone who knows me fairly well and he/she will probably tell you that I'm certifiably insane when it comes to the Manic Street Preachers. I love them above all other bands (David Bowie tops my solo artist list). I've bought up countless singles, bootleg DVDs of TV appearances and concerts, a limited edition magazine (that cost me about $60), a relatively rare vinyl edition of "Motown Junk" (that cost me about $50), and a t-shirt (again, $50) off Ebay. I know the lyrics to a good chunk of their songs (including B-sides), which may not sound fanatical enough unless you actually read their lyrics and realize that they're so complex that sometimes James Dean Bradfield (the singer) doesn't remember them completely. I woke up at 4AM to buy tickets to their May 12 gig in Cardiff off Ticketmaster and then went to work a couple of hours later (nearly crying, which knowing me, is a pretty rare occurrence). Living in Winnipeg, Canada, one just doesn't meet other Manics fans. One doesn't usually even meet people who are aware of the Manics. It gets a bit lonely and starts to make you wonder if perhaps you really are a bit crackers to love them with such a passion. Of course I was aware that in the UK there are hardcore Manics fans, but just this past Saturday I got to witness Manics fandom firsthand and it's truly glorious.

I didn't get to the venue - Cardiff University Student Union - until about an hour and a half prior to the doors opening and there were already legions of fans camped outside the door. They had likely been their all day (or perhaps even from the night before since many of them had seen the show the previous night) and were in full Manics regalia. Some wore leopard print from head to toe; others wore boas or tiaras; some wore military gear; others wore Manics t-shirts from assorted previous concerts. One guy dressed in a military jacket (representative of The Holy Bible era) on the front of which he had scrawled "PCP" (the title to one of the songs on THB) and on the back of which he wrote the lyrics to the chorus of "Yes" (another THB song). He also had warpaint under his eyes and a haircut in imitation of Nicky Wire (the bassist). Another guy, who I swear I saw before on the DVD for the Manics millennium gig, was a Richey (the guitarist who went missing in 1995) lookalike with a leopard skin coat and eyeliner. Two girls dressed up to look like the girls on the front of the new Manics album - namely, one in a fairy outfit complete with wings and one in a devil's outfit with horns. Another two girls, who perhaps spent the most time in preparation, are known as Team Wire (as in Nicky Wire). They wore identical outfits which included Team Wire visors and jackets, glittery red highheels, glitter makeup, cheerleader pompoms, sparkly wristbands, red nailpolish and red glittery cosmetic bags (I had plenty of time to observe them since they stood nearly right in front of me for the duration of the gig). One guy in a Generations Terrorists-era t-shirt kept asking everyone if they had an extra ticket because his camera battery had run out during the show the night before - utlimately he got a ticket from a tout for $100, twice the regular price. However, I could have seen myself do the exact same thing if I hadn't been able to get a ticket. Before I had even reached the queue, an older man had stopped us in the stairwell, asking where the washrooms were. When he saw my Manics t-shirt, he asked if I was a Manics fan and if I was going to the show, and when I said yes and that I had come from Canada to see them, he pumped his fist in the air and screamed "Yeah." Then he told me, "Have fun, darling." All everyone could talk about was the Manics and I suddenly no longer felt alone.

At first I was a bit concerned that I hadn't gotten their early enough to be near the front (I HAD to be at the front for this show), but I still managed to squeeze in right behind a shorter girl right at the barrier almost directly in front of Nicky Wire (this was after I sprinted past a couple who were ahead of us in line and began taking two stairs at a time). I had a brilliantly clear view of the whole band (Nicky was obscured from time to time by Team Wire's pompoms). To be honest, it was probably best that I wasn't right at the barrier because other people's bodies protected me from crowd surges. Of course the opening act wasn't due to come on for another hour, but people had already nearly filled the floor in front of the stage in anticipation. While the opening band, Fear of Music (seemingly underfed Mancunian teenagers), made an effort, the response was polite and fairly muted - in the face of these kind of fans, I don't think most bands could stand up very well, and I really don't think this band was up to the task anyhow. I think they elicited just as many screams as those that came when the roadie placed Nicky Wire's signature boa-draped mic stand on the stage.

When the Manics finally took to the stage (approximately 45 minutes after Fear of Music left it), the audience careened forward and screamed. They were back to wearing military regalia akin to The Holy Bible days (something I'm so thankful to have witnessed), and Nicky Wire, wearing white jeans reminiscent of the Generation Terrorist days and his usual eye makeup, looked as viciously glamourous as he did fifteen years ago. His hair is cut shorter again and dyed a reddish colour, as the rest of his ensemble, recalling the golden years of the Manics vitriolic beginnings. When they launched into the opening riff of "You Love Us" (their tongue-in-cheek middle finger to their critics at the time of Generations Terrorists), I felt my heart hurtle into my throat as I screamed out every line. And the brilliant part of it all was that every other soul around me screamed out the lines too and we all pumped our fingers into the air, punctuating the chorus "You - love - us, oh - you- love - us, you love, you - love - us, you - love - us, you - love - us, you love." It was the perfect moment of organic synchronicity - the crowd moved as one and knew intuitively what to do. I felt a communal feeling unlike any that I've ever experienced at a gig - the fans' energy crashed into the band's energy to create the most intense symbiosis. "You Love Us" was followed by "Send Away the Tigers," the title track off of their new album, and it was greeted like any of their classic songs. The unbelievable 22-song set included at least half of the songs off SATT, and though the album had officially just released 5 days earlier, fans (including myself) were screaming the lyrics along with James as though they were old favourites.

There were the ubiquitous yells requesting "Sleepflower" (to which I contributed), the first track off the Gold Against the Soul album and one that was never released as a single. It's inherently a fan favourite and we all know it will be requested. Just as we know the "1,2,3" count before the chorus of "You Stole the Sun From My Heart" kicks in and the crowd jumps in unison.

Throughout the gig, the Wire often closed his eyes and mouthed lyrics along with James's singing, a blissed-out look on his face. Sometimes he looked out into the audience and flashed his Cheshire cat grin or laughed (perhaps at the constant pointing of fingers pumping his way or perhaps at the sheer strangeness of Team Wire). He loped and marched in circles about the stage, often doing his well-known scissor-like jumps. Sean Moore, the drummer, kept time in his darker portion of the stage, relatively unnoticed, but in a way that we know he prefers. He is the steady backbone and an amazing musician in his own right. James wheeled and careened during breaks in his singing and chatted to the audience in between songs. I believe he's one of the most talented musicians in the world and watching him play guitar live was incredible - his solos were blinding. Appropriately, at one point just before "Faster," he took a fan's military hat and put it on. When the rest of the band left him to do his acoustic set alone ("Yes" and "No Surface, All Feeling"), he sang like an angel wracked with the pain and inanity of the world. So vulnerable, but also so angry.

After James's acoustic set, Nicky came back to the stage wearing his signature skirt and high socks combination, displaying that James was indeed correct when earlier he proclaimed Nicky to have "the best legs in rock." The Wire's knees sometimes knocked together in time to the music beneath the white skirt and pink leopard print belt or he would brace one leg up on the monitor and swing his bass into the air. At other times, he wielded his mic stand like the captain of a people's army, goading the fans on in their outrage against the state of the world's politics and assinine, blind consumerism.

One of the many highlights of the gig for me was during "Little Baby Nothing" when the Wire came off the stage and stood about two feet away from me. He mouthed the refrain "You are pure, you are snow, we are the useless sluts that they mould" while gesturing along with us. His kohl-rimmed eyes were shining with intensity and he reinforced the feeling that he was one of us - we all knew how much the lyrics meant to us. So rock and roll, but at the same time, so honest.

Even though much of the time I could no longer breathe in the crush of bodies, I still managed to sing along with the last bit of air escaping my lungs. I couldn't remain silent even if I blacked out in the process. These songs meant too much to me - their lyrics are so intelligent and earnest, whether they're lambasting politics or describing the bleak inner landscape of those whose only mistake was thinking too much.

The expected gig finale, "A Design for Life", ended with Nicky hoisting his boa-draped mic stand into the air in a final rallying cry. Right before he left the stage, he re-wrapped his black and white scarf around his neck in a glam flourish. And of course the Manics are too intelligent to have a hackneyed encore, and they never need one. They had already given the fans all they could possibly give.

This show was probably the closest I could ever get to seeing the Manics in either their Generation Terrorists or Holy Bible days. There was even the odd moment when I could feel Richey's presence in it all - I suppose he'll always be there. My only regret is not staying outside after the gig to see if I could meet the band - who knows when I'll ever, if ever, get to see them again, especially at such a small venue. But I suppose that just raises the bar for more dreams - after all, I never thought I would ever see the Manics live and even if I saw them live, I never thought it would be six feet away from them in the closest thing to a hometown gig.

At the end of the gig, I peeled my dripping, bruised body away from everyone else and turned to look back. There was a boy adjusting his fishnet stockings and small groups of leopard printed people meeting up with the military attired. The room began to empty, revealing a floor littered with puddles of beer and boa feathers. The Manics gig had truly meant something. Meant something to all of us.

Little Baby Nothing (Streetcar Named Desire Intro) - Manic Street Preachers

Firefight - Manic Street Preachers