Dreadlocks Mohawks and Mullets (oh my!)

Chester Brown on Paying For It at Drawn and Quarterly

2011-05-16T08:37:00.000-07:00

It's been awhile since I've posted, and the reality is... I haven't been going out quite so much these days. My time has been dedicated to my own creative projects, rather than consuming that of others.

That said, Chester Brown's launch for his newest work, Paying For It, was irresistible. Mr. Brown is a long time hero of the Canadian alt-comic scene. His life's cannon includes a number of autobiographical works, including this latest examination of his foray into john-prostitute relationships as a way of life. Drawn and Quarterly consistently publishes comics (do I call them graphic novels? comics? so much debate over semantics!) of high calibre. I attended and was glad to have done so.

Packed with new media glasses, beards, and asymmetrical hair cuts, the launch attracted a cache of Montrealers that normally haunts Drawn and Quarterly's storefront. Given the subject matter, I was conscious of the male-female ratio in the room. It was a 50-50 split. Perhaps an interesting comment on the universal appeal of the graphic novel or Brown himself?

Brown showed slides of his comic, presumably the opening chapter in which he breaks up with his girlfriend and begins soliciting escorts, and filled in the dialogue. He then graciously answered questions, many of which were personal or made an assumption that Brown was a scholar on the legalities of prostitution.

The audience was extremely favorable and receptive to Brown's work. It goes without saying that the illustrations are top notch and the work extremely humorous. The biggest laugh came from a scene in which Brown seeks out a street prostitute on his bicycle -- oh those eco-conscious Montrealers. But many of the panels or vignettes were equally amusing, even the ones where no one laughed out loud. The comic is steeped in Brown's signature style. He uses panels of no dialogue to allow the reader time to advance the story at his or her own speed (and build or fill in the lapses as one wishes). He addresses questions about morality as well as his own thought processes through dialogue with the other characters. The backgrounds are living, but anonymous city scenes. The most interesting artistic choice was to hide the faces of the prostitutes -- a conscious choice on his part to give them their anonymity, but perceived as dehumanizing by others, especially since you see their bodies. If he'd invented faces, I am sure there would be an equal critique that he removed their personality and imbued them with his own. I suppose there is no easy solution that satisfies everyone.

What was most striking though is the questions and what they revealed about the audience that Brown attracts. I was surprised, first of all, that no one spoke from the perspective of prostitution as exploitation or asked if he encountered anything in which the woman's situation seemed dubious. The prostitutes he seemed to be involved with were not the drug addled nor abused nor prisoners of the illegal sex trade (listening to the podcast The Red Umbrella Diaries provides a more balanced look into the experiences of sex workers from their own POV). His experience with prostitution seem almost wholesome. Then again, his book is autobiographical, not a definitive political tract. Instead, the audience asked what sorts of hostility he encountered or expected to encounter. I was struck by the fascination for the audience with the mechanics of paying for and affording his lifestyle. The questions that interested me most were asked about his attitude towards monogamous relationships, as I think that this is the driving question behind the book. A heterosexual (I'm assuming) man has chosen to actively reject conventional male-female relationships and uses prostitutes to address his biological needs. Lots of people use prostitutes, even those in relationships do, but very few people choose to abandon the search for emotional and intimate connection with at least one other person BY CHOICE. But here, again, the audience was deferentially polite. How does one ask such personal questions in a public forum, anyway? Some tried, but no one was willing to plummet the depths of awkwardness.

I'm looking forward to reading the work. Perhaps I will report here when it falls into my hands.

Hot Hot Heat and eeeee Hey Rosetta at the Belmont

2010-10-26T16:29:00.000-07:00

What is up with the Belmont these days? The place went from ho-hum frat bar to kick ass little venue in about six(???) months time. Montreal could always use a new place for kids to see music, of course. The loss of the Mile End Cultural Centre still leaves a gaping wound in my heart. I'm still waiting for my own little hood (le St. Henri) to step up and cater to the local yup crowd. We're starting to get restaurants, but the best venue we have around here is the weird DJ night at Blackjacks next to the strip club.

So, this show. Wow. Holy mother f'ing wow. It was sort of like a CBC programmer's wet dream, I think. East coast to west coast. Something like that. Not to mention, I got to relive an old identity when a semi drunk sweet engineer asked me if I was with the band. As in, band groupie. Aaahhh. I've gotta love it when someone thinks I'm more than just another sexy babe in thigh high boots.

I'd seen Hey Rosetta before. In fact, I think I saw them open for an act in Montreal about 3-4 years ago... at Barfly? Has it been that long? Perhaps I wrote an entry here about them before. I am sure I liked them, but I think they were openers, not headliners at the time. Times have changed. This band now brings down the house with its east coast vibe. It's somewhat hard to explain just what is so distinct about east coast bands -- a tendency to marry periods of noise with hooky melodies and moments of folk/blues/funk. I guess that's it. The crowd was crazy enamored, as was I. I only know a few songs from the one single Hey Rosetta album I have, but they were played with gusto and passion. Oh, and talent. Let's not forget that they seem to have that innate east coast ability to make things danceable and beautiful at the same time.

Following on their heels were punkier outfit Hot Hot Heat. I'd gone to this show largely to see HHH, a band I've often liked and never seen -- uncertain what to expect in a live show. I certainly didn't expect all that hair, that's for sure. And I didn't expect them to look so young. Looks can be deceiving -- but they just seemed so young... They launched into a series of famliar tunes, played with punch and though I initially found lead singer Steve Bays a bit trilly, I soon found him more than charming. I didn't last their full set (boo hoo, I am old), but what I did see plastered a grin across my face.

From east coast to west coast, Canadian music is kick ass.

Matt Stern

2010-09-30T16:41:00.000-07:00

It's been ages, yes I know, AGES, since I posted on here. Have I been completely out of Montreal's cultural loop? Not really. I've mostly seen shows of bands I've written about before -- Braids, Caribou, the Winter Gloves, etc. So, it seemed redundant to reiterate how much I enjoy these bands yet again. All I can say is that you, dear reader, should check them out if you haven't already. Other than that, it is true... I haven't been out and about as much as in the old days, which means I have less to write about. So, if I'm a bit less frequent in my postings, you'll have to forgive me and enjoy what I do manage to share.

Luckily, today is a good one.

I've always loved male singer-songwriters, starting with Martin Sexton. John Mayer's first album (I haven't heard anything else by him since)? Yes, please. I'll pass on Jack Johnson though. I find him boring beyond the beyond. And I haven't the foggiest who James Blunt is, though my British boyfriend assures me he is horrid.

It was with great delight that I discovered Matt Stern, a local singer songwriter at La Sala Rossa. I knew nothing, except that this was a CD release and I'd get a free CD along with the the ticket purchase. Sala was not the usual Sala -- tables and chairs filled the room, and a shy but enthusiastic crowd sat on the ground about 10 feet from the stage. Did they know this guy? I'd never heard of him before and was surprised that so many people obviously had.

First up, the stage filled with a large entourage of backing musicians -- 3 female vocalists, a drummer, a bassist, a bongo player, and a computer operator. I was even more intrigued. They all had an air of professionality about them, something I hadn't seen in quite some time. I like indie music, and indie musicians don't exactly smell like coordinated, professional efforts. Most curious! Then, Stern came to the stage. Dashingly handsome with puppy eyes, crazy hair and a smile like a constellation, he is a tonic for sagging womens' libidos before he even opens his mouth. "A cute boy," I thought, "But can he sing?"

What do you think?

Oh could he sing. He had a beautiful voice, such perfect delivery. He couldn't have been more delightful. Every song had a some element that made it distinct, that made it likable... whether it was the lyrics or a melody. Although certainly in the singer-songwriter category, Stern certainly benefits from a world smorgasbord of influences: rhumba beats, reggae rhythms, a pinch of this, a splash of that. And even better, the music was gracefully contained. Songs never stretched on into egotistical lengths. The band shared in the spotlight. As if the performance were not enough, Stern had modern dance performances accompany two songs (and dare I say it, THEY were extremely gifted dancers as well). All in all, this was a bit of an extravaganza, one I never expected. And the level of professionalism... Yes, I would not be surprised if this is only the infancy of Mr. Matt Stern's music career. Keep your ear out for him.

The Do and Braids at Sala Rossa

2010-09-12T19:10:00.000-07:00

It's been ages since I've posted, but seems that the art scene of Montreal is in full swing and I've made it out to a few shows and whatnot lately. I'm always keen to promote a band I enjoy, in particular one that seems to be finding its feet. This time, I'm again giving a proper hoot to the band Braids, one of the best bands on the MOntreal scene as of late and one that I expect will have a brilliant future. This four piecer came to my attention at the last pop montreal and I've tried to catch every performance since. They tend to seam their songs together, so that the entire production is more an experience or an art form than a straight up concert. Somewhat difficult to describe, they are somewhere in the realm of electronica and indie psychedellica. Strong on vocals, innovative, seemingly passionate -- yes Braids delivers a most enjoyable concert experience.

As for headliners, the Do, I found them insipid and a bit silly. Fun, yes, but kind of not my thing. HIgh production values, of course, and helped along by their very engaging performance. Yes, they were cute to the point of twee, as one might expect from a French-Finlandish duo. But cute only carries me so far when I like things a little more layered and a bit less cloying. However, they seemed to please the audience beyond giddiness with their pop melange.

Ahmad Jamal at the Jazz Fest

2010-07-04T15:31:00.000-07:00

Okay, it's been ages since I've posted. I haven't been as diligent in my concert going or my arts consumption as I usually am, and then took off for India for a month.

I come back to find the Montreal Jazz Fest at my doorstep, a nonstop carnival of fantastic delights, ranging from mindblowing to head scratching. I saw quite a few wonderful things, but the toast of the festival is Ahmad Jamal. This free jazz legend, keyboard player extrodinaire, has ruined jazz music for me. I kid you not. I have see the mountain and nothing will be good ever after. To put it simply, on his 80th birthday, Mr. Jamal delivered what is the best jazz quartet I can ever expect to spend an evening with. There isn't much else to say. He was modest in speech but warm and delighted in his own band. The drummer had the fastest, smoothest hands that awed us all (two drummers were with me).

I can't comment much further than that. If you have the opportunity to see Mr. Jamal, by all means, do not pass go without paying $50 and see his show.

Commodification of the "Criminal" Genius: Exit Through the Gift Shop

2010-05-06T07:38:00.000-07:00

Banksy, the internationally celebrated Bristol U.K. street artist, made a name for himself dismissing crass commercialism and the shallowness of Western corporate culture. Symbolically using the rat for his nemeses, Banksy teased his targets as self interested vermin. Even peacefully sipping his coffee, a business man on the Chiltern Lines riding his way into London with the Guardian in hand is just a rodent in a nice suit.

The street art movement proved fertile ground for artists and social commentators to voice and display their visions. Rooted in the urban ghetto graffiti scene of the 70's and 80's, street artists seem to embrace that their creations share in the alienated, criminal ethos. Men who were powerless in society plastered tags along bus lines and subway lines to mark territory and immortalize themselves. The appeal of alienation and the seething anger spoke to suburban white boys who took on graffiti art, tagging in old styles and new. It is in this atmosphere that the street artist, a graffiti artist par extrodinaire, works. Using the same techniques as his predecessors, but with the creativity of the artist, graffiti goes beyond vandalism to social commentary, to beautification or uglification, to medium-as-message advertising. What all versions share is a sense of being immortalized, not so much by being everywhere (though that is part of it), but by doing something so monumental that it is spoken of ever after. But while the suburban white boy and the street artist can enjoy the vigilante nature of their vanadalism, the graffiti roots are in lawlessness or arbitrary law that allowed taggers to post indiscriminately, guided only by the law of the street.

Exit through the Giftshop is seen by many as yet another act of street art, in this case presented on the screens of the nation. No one cares all that much if that was its intent. The charming story of a French camcorderist who shoots thousands of hours of graffiti artists before jumping feet first into his own commercial success as one of them plays well without irony. He begins by selling low value T-shirts that become valued only as their price tag is set to ludicrous levels, so too with his art. Derivative pieces fill a warehouse and sell to a public starved to own art work they can relate to and value, without an ability to assess its quality.

Banksy is hardly the first artist to comment on the presumed emptiness of the wealthier classes and by no means the first man to use public space as his venue. He is not the first artist to be celebrated by those he seems to satirize and chastize, nor is he the first to be commodified in spite of his anti-commerical stance. Whether his intent is genuine or his protagonist a fiction, it matters not. HIs points are valid and the street art movement deserves no less than a feature length work of art to celebrate its birth and florit. Banksy can no more escape the contradictions of fame than any other person of visible talent. Even if all he is is his own "brand" without a face or identity.

Sebastian Bolesch at the Goethe Institut. Afghani Lives

2010-05-03T10:57:00.000-07:00

Photojournalist Sebastian Bolesch elevates photojournalism to higher levels with his pictures of everyday people in extreme environments. Whether capturing children or adults, Bolesch captures the humanity and personal concerns of his subject matter. The viewer's ability to identify with the subject's simple gestures of friendship, intimacy, pain, joy, or passion give each photo photo a transcendent sense of man's ultimate concerns.

The exhibit at the Goethe institute of Bolesch's work, running until June 30, is a moving study of a country that is largely known for its lawlessness and troubles. It reminds us how easy it is to forget the ordinariness of the individuals who live there.

Motor Sport?: Clint Neufeld and Jason Gringler at the Parisian Laundry

2010-05-01T10:34:00.000-07:00

Kissing Sisyphus by Jason Gringler, 2009, 72 by 84 inches, acrylic, collage, broken mirror, spray enamel, plexiglass

The Parisian Laundry continues to provide Montreal with avant garde installation exhibitions. Clint Neufeld and Jason Gringler's joint show celebrates the beauty of the mechanical and re-examine the concept of what is traditionally conceived of as masculine.

Neufeld's ceramic pieces are porcelain depictions of motors and car transmissions, decorated with dainty floral motifs commonly found on dish ware. Organized around the room on hip level cabinets, each engine component is turned into an artwork demanding contemplating. Initially, the viewer is amused by the juxtaposition of the traditionally masculine car part presented in such a feminine medium as porcelain. However, the cool white porcelain also beckons the viewer to appreciate the beauty of the motor, its unintended beauty and disguised symmetries. It is not so much as a jarring blend of masculine and feminine elements, but rather, a celebration of an ordinary object, elevated to the status of the Beautiful.

In the Bunker, four large paintings by Grigler also celebrate every day existence and mundanity as well. Constructed out of everyday architectural components -- enamel, glass, plexiglass, mirror, metal pieces, and spray paint -- these abstract pieces ask the viewer to consider their materials as objects of contemplation. The pieces resemble angular puzzles, with their components cut into long sharp triangles and rectangles, fitted together in an organic composition. Although rather masculine in their media and size, the paintings also utilize arrangement in a less aggressive and more familiar style. The blend of the two leaves the viewer rather satisfied with a tension brought to balance.

HIATUS?

2010-01-15T10:32:00.000-08:00

DDM is on temporary hiatus January-April.
Posting to resume in May.

Edge of the Seat Ride in Avatar

2010-01-10T19:25:00.000-08:00

Avatar is the kind of movie I imagine my father rolling his eyes and saying, "Ugh! Cartoons."
It is animated -- or dare I say it -- CGIed. But the animation is almost believable and the characters so human that the fantasy bleeds into reality. We've come a long way from Mary Poppins and Roger Rabbit. Those talented New Zealanders who brought us Lord of the Rings certainly do not disappoint in bringing us the world of Pandora and its ferocious inhabitants.
The film uses the age old no-fail (=cliche) formula of underdog people with a heart of gold do battle with evil men bent on domination. Avatar is not exactly a film with a complicated plot structure. A human mining corporation has set up shop on Pandora in search of Unobtainium, a prized substance that unfortunately is richly deposited underneath a sacred tree. Accompanying the company man are a contingent of tougher than steel and sham wow Marines who are at cross purposes with a contingent of scientist-anthropologists, headed up by Dianne Fossey (oops, I mean Grace, played by the indominitable Sigourney Weaver). Without my revealing too much of the film, suffice to say that both sides take very different view on the fate of the planet's inhabitants. Unobtanium or no unobtanium.

Where the film succeeds most, though, is in a number of premises that underlie the film. The first of these is the creation of the world of Pandora. The blueish, feline humanoids that seem to represent the local intelligent life have the unique ability to plug into the planet's heart and soul. They become one with different species of animals that they are able to utilize to serve different purposes. Their culture is created on screen, a combination of celtic, aboriginal, native american, and african cultures. Or, in other words, any culture that is finely attuned to nature. Warrior culture, mythology, and rites of passage are emphasized, though it is a culture that seems to (very PCishly) respect male and female members equally. They are people who seem to draw a hard line between divinity and science, preferring, of course, divinity. This is not the Judeo-Christian concept of God, but the kind one sees in Miziyaki films, a nature goddess, all powerful and timeless.

The second of these is character development, particularly of the protagonist, Jake Sully, a Marine. Though paralyzed from the waist down, Sully proves to be a complex and interesting man whose life takes on new meaning as he serves both the scientists and the Marines on Pandora. Again, as with a Miziyaki film, Sully's loyalties are tested and he ends up not quite the man he started.

Finally, the third premise is the Avatar. The planet is hostile to humans, who only venture out with big guns and face masks to protect them from the atmosphere. The scientists make use of Avatar bodies, genetically modified organisms that are part Pandora inhabitant, part human. The physical Avatar bodies are controlled in the safety of the bunker by their respective humans in much the same way a person may take on the persona of a character in an online mass multiplayer video game. When the human relinquishes control of his Avatar, the Avatar body goes limp and lifeless. I did spend a good chunk of the film wondering what would happen if someone's Avatar should die while they were in it.

I shall say no more about the film except that it is moving, exciting, and works on many (but not all) levels. It is not an intellectual discourse, nor does it pretend to be. It deals with very basic aspects of human nature and covers territory many films have covered before. Yet, it has the magic and suspense that made other films like ET, STar WArs, and Lord of the Rings so enjoyable. This film, though, exceeds the others in that it looks so damned real. Maybe it is our video game culture that has conditioned us to accept virtual worlds, but this one goes beyond in every respect I could imagine. Even the technologically wizardry of the 3D, which didn't really mean all that much to me, but did add a layer of interest, was well done.

The Robert Downey Jr. Retrospective

2010-01-07T08:19:00.000-08:00

Ah, well, Sherlock Holmes has prompted me to go on something of a Robert Downey Jr. movie retrospective. My goal is to watch all of his movies and review them here. On a similar note, I am planning to do the same for U2 with their albums.
so, in the coming weeks, look for reviews of old RDJ films and possibly TV shows have held up.

The Moth, in NYC

2009-12-28T20:33:00.001-08:00

I'm a podcast nut. Seriously. I think I subscribe to about 30 different podcasts and listen to them religiously. My favorites come and go, but I've been pretty steady in listening to ones that clock in around 20 minutes to an hour. On regular rotation: To the Best of our Knowledge, This American Life, Tapestry, Stuff you Should Know, Mom Stuff, Tech Stuff, Radio Lab, Hearing Voices, Sheila Rogers' show on books, White Coat Black Art, and so on and so forth.

One that I never miss is The Moth. Real Stories Told Live, Without Notes. Every week, it features a story, usually funny, sometimes kind of chilling, that usually has me laughing out loud as I walk along the streets of Montreal. As the shows are held weekly in NY, LA, Chicago, and Detroit, it was only a matter of time until I saw one. This was the day I saw one. Today. New York, The Bitter End, Bleeker Street. The theme for the night: Denial.

Well, I think I was in denial, because I showed up at 7 p.m. for a 7:30 show, fully expecting I would be allowed in. My mistake. The line circled the corner and then some. I was at the end of it, and then somewhere in the middle, when the line began to move. Sadly, I did not make it in when the show started, but stood outside in the bitter cold until 9. Only after intermission were we were finally allowed in by an unfriendly fat bouncer. The five performers were funny... not nearly as good as the ones on the radio show... but certainly a bit whack and entertaining. I think the experience of waiting outside chilled my humerus (pun intended). Or maybe the advantage of the radio show is that they can pick and choose among the performers and find the ones worth airing.

The lesson learned was this -- things that involve waiting in line are never worth the wait. The time spent talking to my friend while waiting: priceless.

Sherlock Holmes. More Bond than Baker Street

2009-12-26T20:30:00.000-08:00

I am a Sherlock Holmes fanatic. Well, perhaps I overstate my enthusiasm. I don't belong to any Sherlock Holmes fan clubs or can even claim to have read every single book written. I have, however, read Sir A. C. Doyle's corpus and can claim to have read several stories more than once. Like any intelligent, somewhat cool headed and unconventional individual, I identify with Mr. Holmes' worldview. Unlike Holmes, though, I know a lot more about literature and politics and a lot less about boxing.

It is with this caveat that I saw Guy Ritchie's adventure of my beloved Sherlock Holmes. He chose no better actor for the part than Robert Downey Jr. Holmes is brillian and has a tendency towards cocaine and morphine. Downey Jr... indeed, not so different. Apart from the nose, I would say that the two look alike. After seeing Downey Jr. without his shirt, well, I would also say that one is a lot more muscular than is appropriate for a lanky, coke addled detective who forgets to eat or refuses to eat when faced with consuming cases. Watson, unlike the more fumbling and doddery doctor of the Basil Rathburne persuasion, was also perfectly cast. Watson is sharp, a former military man of note, and only seems somewhat inept next to the almost autistic genius of Holmes. Shouldn't we all?

Holmes proves himself an able man, both through his cunning, his foresight, his gift for disguise, his ability to derive entire theories off the smallest of observations, his knowledge of chemistry, and even through his fists. Is Holmes really the boxing fighting machine who knows how to break a man's jaw for spitting in the back of his head? Therein the problem of this film lies. Rather than allowing this to be a masterpiece by accepting the limitations of Holmes and his world himself, Ritchie makes the mistake of turning to cartoonish action sequences that make Holmes seem more superhero than human super-brain.

In some ways, these long drawn out action sequences are exciting, deeply pleasurable, and well executed in their use of 19th century props that demonstrate a fascination with the newest of technologies -- steam engines, handguns, and a fascination with chemistry. On the other hand, they have a generic action sequence element to them. It might as well be a 19th century James Bond or Superman fighting in the scenes, rather than Sherlock Holmes and Watson. Just because the clothes and the prop set the date, there is something so ho-hum about chemical weapons and a final fight to the finish on a bridge.

My other major complaint is Irene Adler. Indeed. Any Holmes fan knows that the good detective has but one woman he recognizes as superior to all others: The Woman. She appears once as an almost Katherine Hepburn-esque sprite who bests Holmes using similar techniques. Adler is smart. Adler is herself a bohemian. Adler is above all classy. Her appearance as a double agent with a knack for trouble is... well... almost an insult to the real character. Furthermore, the implied relationship of feelings between Holmes and Adler is immature and inappropriate. No wonder Madonna dumped Mr. Ritchie.

Along with Irene Adler's shameless ability to manipulate Holmes is the absence of Holmes' true dark side. The 7% solution. Ritchie's Holmes is angelic compared with the one of Doyle's stories. For shame, again, pandering to the PG-13 rating.

That said, this review sounds harsher than perhaps intended. Was I engrossed in the story from beginning to end? Absolutely. Was I fascinated by the use of the 19th century world? Absolutely. Was Robert Downey Jr. the perfect choice? Absolutely. Did I find myself on the edge of my seat? Absolutely. The story is entertaining and Downey Jr. fantastic. The film has its stunning moments, but as a Holmes' purist, I don't like to see what I treasure most about the detective -- his lack of emotional influence, the lack of romance in the stories, the sheer use of mental power -- bandied about like a cat toy. No, had Ritchie held back a little, showed some restraint in the plot choices and their presentation... this film could have been iconic. Instead, it has the blandness of a Bond film, in which big action sequences are held together by a somewhat convoluted plot involving world domination and a double crossing woman. Move it ahead about 200 years and yes, you pretty much get the average action film of today.

December Indyish at Il Motore

2009-12-13T17:25:00.001-08:00

It'd been ages and ages and ages since I'd been to an Indyish event. They never fail to delight either, so I have no good excuse (albeit, a personal one) for not attending. Fortunately, I swallowed a certain amount of anxiety and went to the XMass Mess at Il Motore. As expected, a sampler of the local and somewhat lesser known arts scene performed with gusto, reminding me that Montreal is a pretty cool city at the end of the day.

Rather than review each act, as they were all good in their own ways, I'll just mention two bands that I hadn't seen before and was rather excited to make their audial acquaintance.

First up, Random Recipe. Where have these kids been hiding? Apparently, they were at the jazz fest, but I guess I was busy with other stuff that night. Anyway here's the recipe: Two female leads take turns with the lyrics, one rapping and beat boxing, the other belting out tunes Ani de Franco style. The two are backed up with a guitarist and a percussionist who occasionally come in with harmonies. Whoa. This was something special. I've managed to see some unusual fusion acts in Montreal, but this one was a deeply satisfying meld that threw down high energy, catchy songs. I found their performance the perfect blend of spontaneity and tightness. Yes, yes, y'all. This is the type of band that reawakens my passion for live performance.

Second up, the Receivers. I actually went to the Mess so I could see the Receivers. I'd heard good things and wanted to litmus test for myself. The fact that everything else that night was just good was just cherries in my martini, basically. The Receivers are a mood psychedellic act, with a noir feel, along the lines of the Dears and other moribund bands. Which is not to say the music is dreary and dull. Au contraire. This is dark and fierce, rather romantic in the 18th century, Wuthering Heights kind of way. Violent, feminine, almost gothic. Live, the Receivers were also a treasure to see, a very expressive band all around. They started with two Christmas songs, and then transitioned into their own material. With each song, singer Emilie Marzinotto hypnotized with her haunting voice and filled the room to stillness and a bit of rapture.

In sum, the monthly mess was satisfying from start to finish and a somewhat poignant kick to the ass that I should swallow my pride and anxiety and make it out to every single one of these events for the sake of this little blog and its much beloved readership.

Mosaics at the Belmont

2009-12-06T07:09:00.000-08:00

I'm not really a hip hop person. I grew up about a quarter mile from Hempstead, the epicenter of some of the first artists of the genre (Public Enemy, in particular), and so kind of took it for granted. It was only after I left New York that I realized that hip hop is some kind of quasi-underground genre of music -- not the all-consuming entity it seemed to be. I've retained a few beefs though, such as the focus on the hyper-masculine, materialistic, anti-woman, anti-homosexual messages. Fortunately, not all hip hop is of that stripe and I can't paint every artist with the same brush. All the same, I dig hip hop because I like -- no -- LOVE -- I LOVE to dance. So if they talkin' 'bout bitches, ain't me theys talkin' 'bout.

Montreal has a vibrant hip hop scene and an internationally celebrated dj culture. Pair those things with the live music and you've got a true mosaic (pun intended) of St. Laurent's Friday night lifeblood. It was my good fortune to catch some of Montreal's turntabilists orchestrated live music by DJ Mana at Le Belmont. Again, this isn't my regular scene, but I did recognize a few names on the bill.

It isn't easy to describe the event, but basically DJ Mana (Annam Le) led his group of turntabilists as a kind of musical jam maestro. Along with scratching and other techniques, the dj-altered record was mixed with spoken word lyric, the musical talents of electronic beats, guitar, and keyboard. I was most surprised by the keyboard talent that the entire mash was able to provide. Little did I know that these djs are not just masters of mixing sound, but know a thing or two about how to play music as well.

Jon Davis and Bent by Elephants at Sala Rossa

2009-12-03T07:09:00.001-08:00

Nothing like coming out of a long sickness to try and get back into things. Decided to take it easy and catch one band I've had my eye on, Bent by Elephants, as the openers for Jon Davis. These are two very talented groups of people who come into the Montreal scene out of McGill's music program.

Bent by Elephants reminds me very much of Joan Osborne, with a rich bluesy throaty songs. The band combines the standard fare of a regular rock band with the magic of a violinist, trumpet and a double bass. With such an orchestra, lead singer Chelsey Waltz has got to power her way to presence. But she does so with amazing virtuosity and still manages to remain charismatic. The music is delightful, complex, and indicative of high level training. I'm hoping Bent by Elephants will continue on its journey.

As for Jon davis, this was the first time I'd seen him. He came out with an orchestra, basically, cellists, viola players, violinists, bassist, plus keyboard, plus trumpeter, plus drums, plus guitarist. Whoa. WTF. This was no small production going on here. There's no denying the talent -- this is a band of, again, highly trained and highly talented individuals. The sound was big and lush, with so many elements coming together. Davis is at the helm, with his James Taylor-esque vocals, lyric driven, emotive. Singer-songwriter sort of material. Yet, for all the pieces, my favorite was the one he claimed was not practiced. I liked it because it sounded less precise, less timed, more... oh... reliant on the musicians' ability to work as a band. I felt as though the jazz section and the orchestra section needed to be better integrated and Davis seemed more comfortable with his jazz players than the orchestra. Not to say that any was lacking -- but I did sense a duality between the jazz side and the orchestra side, and perhaps on this short tour, the two will come closer and closer together as a single unit under Jon.

Timber Timbre and Do Make Say THink

2009-11-29T06:32:00.000-08:00

I almost didn't make it to this show. At tiny postage stamp of a venue Casa del Popolo (still perhaps my favorite place to see shows, though only when the crowd and the show are well matched), the show sold out. Fortunately, someone got sick and passed his ticket off to me. So, I did make it. Woo. Timber Timbre is one of my favorite bands, sort of eerie and haunted but also sort of rockabilly or bluesy in style too. Not the most well known band, but one I think I stumbled on accidentally some time ago (3 years?) and have gladly followed since.

At any rate, the show was so crowded that I found myself miserably staring at a bunch of heads in the back of the room. I'm not at my healthiest these days, fighting off some kind of virus (no, not swine flu) and so my desire to stand in a crowd is about zero. I sat on a chair and tried to glimpse what I could of the show. It was pretty solid, by all accounts, and I was pleased. But, something is lost when the artists are entirely not within eyesight. Although live performance always sounds richer and more exciting than a recording, not being able to see the artist(s) play kind of makes me think -- shoulda stayed home. But this is indicative of one thing and one thing only -- timber timbre has gotten more popular. And that, if nothing else, should make me happy.

After the Timber Timbre show, I meandered off to catch do Make Say Think across the street at Sala Rossa. I had tickets to this show the next night (which I did go to, but only lasted through the first two incarnations of Do Make Say Think before my virus urged me home). So, I'm going to lump together two shows as one report. Do make Say Think is one of my psychedellic band favorites. Let's just say its been a great week for me with show after show of favorites coming through. I almost feel like its planned this way, someone is putting together line ups just for me. Anyways, pyschedellic fused with a smart serving of punk is the best way to describe it. I think dmst is one of the bands that I most often listen to on CD -- just letting their album roll as I go about my business.

Well, dmst also has a number of side projects, and two of them made appearances at this show. The Years made me think of Godspeed! You Black Emperor with its huge, lush, soundscapes that built from the simple to the grand. This was followed up byt he Happiness Project, which consisted of different people talking about happiness and then having their vocal recordings transformed into melodies. It was pretty cool stuff. And then, of course, the main course for the night, DMST goodness. Huzzah.

Apostle of Hustle

2009-11-28T17:27:00.000-08:00

I thought Craig Mercer would be the reigning king of my favorite Canadian guitarist in my heart forever. Craig, you've met your match. Andrew Whiteman, frontman of Apostle of Hustle and guitarist of the Broken Social Scene, is pretty damned close. The two are stylistically similar -- as if born from the same little Fender factory -- but somehow come from such divergent backgrounds it can't be possible. And yet, to me, there was something so oddly familiar. Mixed reggae-indie-electro styles with more funky pedal action than I can fill my ears with? Chops? I dunno. I'm just a music fan, not an expert or critic.

What do I care? I've got a new band to love.

I don't know why I hadn't seen Apostle of Hustle up until now. Some bands just manage to escape my heavy concert calendar, I guess. Well, on a whim, I thought I'd head up to Il Motore (a venue that is growing on me since my kind of lukewarm feelings of it since it opened) and see the hoopla and hee haw. I missed the openers -- that's how indifferent I was to the whole thing. Ah, man, I was just totally enraptured from the get go.

The sound is exactly what me loves most. Fused styles that become their own style, wildness, dancing tunes, crazy lyrics, sampled sound, tambourine action, and a lot of give'r as they used to say back east. The drummer... Jesus Christ... he was on fire. If you haven't seen these guys yet, don't sit on your hands waiting and watching for hummingbirds. These guys are amazzzzzzzzing. With that many zeds.

Muchas gracias! Muchas muchas muchas.

American Radical at Cinema Politica

2009-11-17T19:41:00.000-08:00

Cinema Politica continues its run of excellent documentary film screenings with American Radical, the Trials of Norman Finkelstein by David Ridgen and Nicolas Rossier. Finkelstein is an outspoken critic of Israel's policies on the Palestinians and Lebannon. He is also the author of a number of controversial books, including the very ominously titled the Holocaust Industry. He has been called self-hating, self-loathing, and a number of other adjectives of this sort by those who have difficulty with the idea that a man of Jewish descent whose parents were Holocaust survivors has critiqued and lambasted long cherished Jewish icons and rallying points. In consequence, Finkelstein has had difficulty securing a permanent academic position and has nomadically traveled from New York to Chicago and back again, seeking a place of employment.

I am not familiar with Finkelstein's work nor am I knowledgeable about the conflicts between Israel and Palestine. I read the papers and hear the news, same as anyone else. However, with a deep appreciation for history and personal experience in academia, I am well aware that the situation is extremely complex. The film does try to present Finkelstein as a scholar who backs up his conclusions with serious research, but has a tendency to use inflammatory language. I, for one, can not comment if the filmmakers are correct on those points. I can not even comment if they are biased or not, or if their implied message -- that Finkelstein's situation is a question of academic freedom -- is valid.

However, as a film, I did find myself rather fascinated by a portrait of an unpopular and hermit-like scholar. I was impressed with his willingness and openness to face opponents in debate. I liked the fact they did not try to portray him as a hero, but rather as a man who questions his choices. There were also some half-hearted studies of psychoanalysis, on the relationship of Finkelstein to his politically vocal mother. If nothing else, though I know little of Finkelstein's scholarship, I did get a sense of the difficulty of his life and the precarious position in which he finds himself. I am more interested in learning more about the issues he seems so adamant about, if only to see if I agree with him. On the other hand, I don't think his dismissal from Hunter College and De Pauw was handled adequately by the filmmakers. If there intent was to question academic freedom, they barely scratched the surface of the situation. On the other hand, if they wanted to indicate that Finkelstein has alienated himself through his controversial viewpoints -- I certainly think they did an excellent job.

Bullshit from Cinema Politica

2009-11-09T19:09:00.000-08:00

For all my good intentions, I keep forgetting to write about the films I see.

This week I managed to make it to Cinema Politica's pick of the week, Bullshit. Contrary to all advertising attempts that try to sell this film on the poop, it is about the Indian food-farming activist Vandana Shiva and her fight against corporations. She is shown in action, standing up to Monsanto and Coca Cola, as well as making appearances at the ever overhyped World Trade Organization meetings.

I think i should begin by stating the following: I am not opposed to genetically modified foods. Although I am not impressed with large scale agriculture and mono-crop economies, I have absolutely nothing against genetically modified foods. If we produce genetically modified insulin, that's fine. If we can treat genetic diseases by altering the genes, that's fine. But, if we can grow a corn plant that requires less water, that's dangerous! Well, I'm not entirely convinced. But, then again, I do have certain admiration for science's wonder babies. I am willing to change my opinion in the face of evidence. Good evidence, that is. I also take proud activist stances when I have seen gross abuses, such as Walmart's strikebusting. I don't shop at Walmart. Neither should you.In sum, I try to remain neutral until something has convinced me one way or the other on a particular issue.

Perhaps it is my neutrality that caused me to watch Vandana Shiva with a certain amount of revulsion. The cameras follow this petulant, incessant, pushy Indian woman around the world as she speaks on behalf of her cause. When the photo op moment comes, such as the day of the big announcement of a court decision, she is present. I never really understood her reasons for opposing Monsanto, except that she connected the company with a series of Indian farmer suicides.

It is not that I think her work unimportant. Rather, this is a case of some sloppy film making that did not present the issues in a meaningful or considered manner. Shiva is shown as a scattered, overworked, good natured freedom fighter. The companies are presented as sterile, out of touch, almost sinister colonialists. I was under the impression that the filmmakers didn't remotely understand what genetically modification to a food was -- neither the process nor the purpose. I further didn't see questioning of Vandana Shiva, who struck me as rather sinister in her own way with her cult-like farming and somewhat empty speeches about seeds being a good. The most egrigeous filmmaking concerned the Coca Cola company in the Kerala region of India. Why didn't the filmmakers follow up to see what happened to the region when the Coca Cola company shut its doors in the area. The situation is far more complicated than the filmmakers imply -- rainwater shortages are frequent in the area and other activities affect the water, not just the Coca Cola company. I would have preferred to see a more balanced and nuanced presentation of the culpability of Coca Cola in the water problems of this region. However, the film points a finger at the easy target without presenting a full story.

All in all, this film simply repeats beloved party lines for those that are already sold on the cause. However, for a fence sitter like myself, with some critical awareness, I was left unconvinced of Shiva's merits and the corporations' guilt. Instead. I saw a film made by those with an agenda twisting a story to serve their purposes. Boo.

For all I disliked Bullshit, I rather loved the opening short, the Bicycle. This film followed Pax, who bikes 20 miles a day to visit villagers of the Zomba district of Malawi, Africa. The grassroots movement under the banner of the group DIGNITAS to help stop the spread of AIDS and treat those already inflicted, but unaware of the benefits of ARV (anti-retro-viral) drugs is one that makes me proud to be a human being. In fact of such incredible suffering and sadness, men and women are doing their part to better the lives of others. Bravo to the NFB director in residence Katerina Civek for this moving gem.

Elliot Brood at La Sala Rossa

2009-11-08T11:59:00.000-08:00

Perhaps its from my days working as a merch girl that I have become sensitive to the ways in which bands will try and plug themselves. I noticed, in particular, that Elliot Brood had more than the usual assemblage of merchandise. Usually, a band will have a CD and a T shirt available, maybe a poster. This band had several shirts, screen printed posters, CDs, stickers, and pins! The whole enchilada, I guess. Is this how bands have to pay for the gas to get from place to place these days? But there was something also about the stage, with its folksy set up of red lights, triangle flags, that made me feel as though this band was offering not just music, but a package experience. I'm not entirely sure how I feel about the matter either. Neutral, I suppose. But, this trend toward increasingly savvy self marketing and the presentation of an experience, rather than just music, is a trend noted from my side of the stage.

Anyway, good show came down at Sala Rossa with Elliot Brood, with openers the Deep Dark Woods. Elliot Brood (I'm always fond of bands that have names that have no connection to anyone in the band) put on a barn burner of a performance. CBC was in the house, taping away, so the band seemed to make an extra effort to increase enthusiasm. I didn't think it was necessary given their outstanding performance and high energy, body moving songs. The band sits in the realm of alt-country, I suppose, or alt-folk. Sort of Sadies--esque, Corb Lund-esque, but not quite so twangy as those two notable Canadian outfits. Ultimately, it means that Elliot Brood has its own distinct sound.

Openers, the Deep Dark Woods from Saskatoon seemed less inspired than the headliners. This band was far more C&W in its songs and mellower in general. Pleasant, but also a bit too overshadowed by Brood. Although, maybe that is the point of an opening band. It warms the audience without stealing them. I was rather more absorbed by the incredible amount of facial hair than I was by any particular song.

Stories of Love and Sex

2009-10-20T17:50:00.000-07:00

My favorite podcast, without a doubt, is the Moth -- real stories, told live, without notes. To my chagrin, the Moth is recorded in New York and L.A., with Chicago and Detroit as new locations. How tragic and sad for me. My love for stories is as boundless as the infinite universe (or as unbounded as the expanding universe before it decides to collapse should that be the case). When I caught wind of the annual International Storyteller's Festival in Qubec, I had to attend. And what better night to catch these word weavers than the night entitled Stories of Love and Sex?

The night brought four enchanters, wizards of words. I don't have enough praise for the experience. I sat in the back, expecting to bolt at any moment, only to find myself drunk with delight. Kicking things off was Quebec storyteller Stepahnie Beneteau. Her small frame and firey hair caught my attention before she spoke. Then, she launched into a story of an ancient Chinese man who coaxes his frigid wife into trying out some new positions. The audience roared with laughter at the euphemistic names for sexual positions.

She was followed by Alan Shain, a man whose obvious disability was first shocking and then forgotten as his story about how a Native American man uses the help of the village shaman to fashion a mighty, detachable penis in hopes of seducing the disinterested Pawamis.

After Alan was Yukon storyteller Ivan E. Coyote. She told a story that certainly sounded autobiographical, though one can never be certain with stories. Fiction and non-fiction weave together, and a good story-teller can tell a story that sounds autobiographical, but is not. The story was about finding love with a much younger, newly gay woman.

Last but not least was Jan Blake, of the UK and Jamaica. She was the "headliner" I suppose, but all four storytellers were amazing in their own way. Jan Blake was best at holding the audience under her spell. She told three stories (I think there were three!) that were drawn from Jamaican folk culture. Each was funny, somewhat erotic, and certainly ripe with humanity.

As the festival continues, I will hopefully be able to report back on some of the other delightful theme evenings that occur.

Share at the Green Room

2009-10-18T07:04:00.000-07:00

My all time favorite place to hang out in Montreal is back in business. Huzzah. Green Room has returned. Hopefully its upstairs compliment, the Mile End Cultural Centre, will also find its feet again. All the same, the Green Room manages to combine great vibe, good dj nights, excellent art exhibits, and, of course, fantastic live music at better hours than some places that shall remain nameless.

Indie Montreal, the promoters/booking agents for this event, also deserve a quick nod for bringing lesser known music to this city and promoting lesser known local acts. I enjoy my concerts best when I don't have to wear earplugs and the audience has no idea what to expect. Hence, my seemingly psychic ability amongst friends to know what bands are worth listening to. They regularly consult me with the question, "Anything hot in Montreal these days?" And then I prattle off the list. Really, I just like small shows best and make a mental note of the ones that impress me. It's all the work of small promoters like Indie Montreal that make the $5-12 shows possible. Blue Skies Turn Black just brings in bigger much loved acts that have regular airplay on XMRadio. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but my budget does not allow me to see these acts. In better days, better times, perhaps some money will plunk down in my lap or I'll get a new radio show at one of the local stations and take advantage of free concert tickets or something along those lines.

Alright, enough props to the people who make things happen. Now, some props to the very excellent show I caught at the Green Room last night, promoted/booked by Indie Montreal. Owing to a lame ass friend, I missed the opening act, but I did catch the Maritime goodness of Share and Montreal local folk-popster Laurent Bourque last night. So happy to make it out to this show.

While Maritime music often tiptoes through folk and fiddling, it tends to feature a diversity of styles that make it hard to classify. From the first few songs, I thought Share was going to be a pleasant, folk-laced pop with a bit of melancholy to round out the upbeat strumming. There was a double bass, after all, a euphonium, and almost everyone was supporting the hipster-facial hair style of the moment (that would be something like a handlebar). I knew I'd like them, but it wouldn't grab me by the cahonas (if I had cahonas to grab). Au contraire, mes amis. Without warning, about four songs into the set, things got wilder and wilder. With three guitars going simultaneously, I'm talking huge wall of sound here. Nothing was as it seemed, I guess. Where I expected a jam, things ended abruptly, as if to tantalize me with an opportunity to dance that just was yanked away. I loved it, teased and delighted at the same time. I think this is the real feature of Maritime artists -- they're incredibly diverse and hard to slot in a single genre. Share is a band I'd like to share will everyone (I'm sure they hear that ALL THE TIME). Nuff said.

I missed the openers, as I mentioned, but holding the middle slot for the night was Montreal based Laurent Bourque and his lovely band. Bourque was more folk-pop, more singer-songwriterish than Share. What I liked most about him was that he really gave it his heart when he performed. He sang big, played big, and just exuded the love. He's a young sprout which means he'll probably be around the local scene for a good long time.

braids, bent by elephants, and pick a piper

2009-10-08T16:12:00.000-07:00

I went because of my incredible fondness for Pick a Piper. It was Pop Montreal, one of my favorite festivals in the city. However, recent financial cash flow situations prevented me from partaking in this weekend of music goodness. I only caught a single show. Lucky for me it was AMAZING. Yes, totally and completely amazing. I didn't even see all four acts (curse you Pop Montreal for ridiculously late shows), but the three I saw were just ear candy to the max.

Let me start with Bent by Elephants. This unpretentious jazzy-folk-rock group is fronted by the endearing Chesley Walsh who is backed by musicians of the highest calibre. Walsh is strong as the soulful, full throated helmswoman, and she exudes warmth and charm. There's something about this band that melded hot apple pie with Dizzy Gillespie.

Next up, from a totally different music genre, was Braids. The two bands could not be more different, and yet, Braids was equally a mind blower for me. Think electronica and anime cuteness. A little more frenetic than Bent by Elephants, this band had me riveted as song flowed into song and the entire set folded back on itself in a symmetrical way.

Last but not least, Pick a Piper is what happens when drummers go wild. Two drum kits, lots of electronica, and a psychedellic guitarist. I've been loving this band since their last show at Trois MInots. This performance was a little less jungle beat and a lot more psychedellic-electronic tinged. Highly recommended.

All in all, two new bands to adore and an old new one that continues to develop and grow in good ways. Thank you Pop Montreal, thank you.

Young Galaxy and Treasure Hunt at Il Motore

2009-09-13T16:13:00.000-07:00

Has it really been almost a month since I posted? I should hang my head in shame. It's not for lack of getting out and about! I've managed to get my butt back out to the concert circuit, see some films, check out some art openings. Time to post, Levine, time to post.

So, let me start with the latest and greatest. New amazing band alert. Yes, nothing like catching an act in its infancy so one can reminisce when that band suddenly sells out La Tulipe or Metorpolis (think... Patrick Watson, think... Plants and Animals, think... yeah... you get the point). Young Galaxy is going to be yet another jewel in the crown of the Montreal music scene. Granted, they're really from Vancouver, but I guess they're here now. Yay, us. Yay me, more appropriately, for catching this fantastic act at Il Motore and for like ten bucks, yo. Ten bucks! BARGOON! And the CD -- FIVE BUCKS. Holy schmokes. I picked it up and have been listening religiously since.

Okay, this band is centered on the vocal harmonizing and barganing of male-female couple Stephen Ramsay (guitars, vocals) and Catherine McCandless (keyboards, vocals). The two are backed by an extremely well greased machine behind them that gives depth and complexity to the emotive and pensive (if not emo-esque) lyrics. Though I read in the Mirror that McCandless was reluctant to sing in public, I couldn't believe that was ever the case. She belts out indie pop tune after indie pop tune without ever reaching the shallow end. This girl has got a great set of pipes -- haunting, crystalline, and all around replete with feeling. If she was the Souxsie, Ramsay is very much in the vein of the best morbid crooners I ever loved -- Robert Smith and Morrisey. Don't assume that a bent towards dark hearts and tortured love means the music is drippy or sappy. Au contraire. I was moving around with the rest of the happy music scenesters who were clearly more in the know than I was about this little engine that could. In summation, great stuff. This was by no means the band's first appearance, but I think we can expect that their meteoric climb to greater and greater recognition will be cosmic (yes, those are lousy intended puns).

Openers Treasure Hunt also deserve a quick nod and fist pump of approval. Though the claim was that this was a once in a lifetime pairing, and the busy touring schedules of those in the band might make that so, this little foursome was hot. Two drummers. Two bassists. Sounded like... metal? punk? heavy shit, no matter how I look at it. I suppose it was dude music and that most of the hooting and hollering came from the dudes in the audience and four very punk rock girls in the front. But, I like heavy and I like when the envelope gets stretched and the result cuts deep.

Ponyo

2009-08-15T02:31:00.000-07:00

It's been far too long since I've written a review of anything artsy or cultural. However, the MIyazaki film Ponyo (otherwise titled Ponyo by the Cliffs by the Sea) seemed more than blog-worth for its combination of hand drawn animation with its Hans-Christian inspired Little Mermaid-esque story. This confluence of art and ideas demanded a few thoughts.

I'll start with the bad news first. The story of Ponyo is irregular and asks one to suspend disbelief in unimaginable ways. Five year old Sosuke finds what he believes to be a goldfish stuck in a jar. As it turns out, this is no ordinary goldfish, but Bruunhilde, the headstrong daughter of a powerful wizard whose job it is to maintain the balance of the sea with his magical potions. Despite her father's attempts to catch and keep her in his magic world, Bruunhilde prefers life with Sosuke entirely, even his onomatopoieic name for her: Ponyo. She sprouts legs and arms and returns to the surface with one of the most stunning animated sequences I have ever seen. Ponyo runs upon the waves of giant fish alongside the winding cliff roads leading towards Sosuke's house. Up until this point, the narrative of the film is quite strong, but it gives way to final third act that not only broke with my laws of movie plausibility, but also lacked narrative flow. Sosuke's mother leaves her five year old son and Ponyo alone in the middle of a tsunami-like storm to check on the elderly people in the retirement centre where she works. I can accept a human faced fish that sprouts chicken legs and a toy boat transformed to ridable size, but I simply can not accept that any mother, save for one on crack, would leave her five year old son alone. From there, Ponyo and Sosuke begin a gentle, child's quest to find the missing mother, unaware that they are being tested to see if Sosuke will commit to Ponyo forever. There is an allusion that she will turn into sea foam should the quest fails, but this particular threat never seems a possibility. Also, there is a subplot about the moon coming too close to the earth and throwing the forces of nature out of balance that seems to reverse itself deus-ex-machina-like and loosely hinged on Sosuke's choice. Oh, and there's a Cocoon moment when the elderly ladies are running around in a protective bubble to bear witness to Sosuke's choice. What??? I suppose last, but not least, how can saltwater Ponyo survive in a bucket of freshwater? Details, people, details.

Provided that leaving a five year old alone in a house in the middle of an environmental threat (tsunami-like conditions) is perfectly acceptable and provided that the whole moon subplot can be ignored, the rest of the story is charming and kitten-like, with a wide eyed wonder that is at turns sweetly humorous, poignant, and grandmotherly wise. The characters are endearing, especially Sosuke who is a genuinely good and flawless boy. He listens to his mother, endures the taunts of his girl classmates with grace, shows gentility to the elderly ladies, and takes his promises to others very seriously. Ponyo is equally lovable, a wild child red headed sprite who clearly didn't order the kosher meal for the plane with her requests for "Ham!" Sosuke's mother may be the most likable of all, though, with her intense wonder-mother ways -- closing doors with her feet, driving like a maniac, and her obvious frustration with her husband's absence. Small moments add Japanese humor to the film, such as when Ponyo and Sosuke share a noodle bowl with some ham and eggs that "magically" appear while their eyes are closed.

Where the movie excels, however, is its visual punch and imagination. Hand drawn animation is still my favorite and Miyazaki gives a feast of details. An octopus slides into the open door of Sosuke's house. A flock of sea creatures run across the seaside rocks. The ocean itself is the most breathtaking of all, changing forms and character as needed to suit the story. I immediately thought of the reputed number of words for snow in the Eskimo vocabulary -- only those who live by the sea could understand how the sea has many moods and nuances. The underwater world and its collision with the human one is a masterpiece of imagination. The five year old perspective makes simple things meaningful -- a candle grown to giant size, for example. Reflections in mirrors, in the water, and the effect of light and wind are whispered details that elevate this film above many others, even those filmed in HD.

All in all, Ponyo is delightful and sweet story, but problematic in its narrative, especially in the final third. While I am glad to inhabit a fantasy world, I can't let go of certain realities, such as the responsibility of a mother to her child. The likable characters and animation don't make up for the flaws, but are admirable in their own right.

Futensil, Devil Eyes, and Zoobombs at Divan Orange

2009-07-01T06:28:00.000-07:00

I feel so punk as fuck. These three punk bands, all of varying versions of the genre (one day I will learn the terminology for punk styles), took Divan Orange to its motherfucking knees. Too bad I haven't got the same fire in me to give rebel yells and knock over garbage cans or deface things for fun. I guess I got old, but I still love good punk music. I just listen with earplugs in my ears now to preserve what I've got left of my hearing for the next 65ish years of my life. I want to be long lived and hear punk music.

Okay, so most of these bands are a bit wide of the radar, so I'll just scrub in here and let you know what they're about.

Futensil, whose name I think comes from the words futile and utensil put together, although I am not certain. Fitting, I suppose for a noise band trio that straddles the fine line between musicality and deconstruction. They never went so far into the sound that I lost a sense of the song, almost like a rubber band stretching to its limit, and then safely snapping back into shape. They projected a kind of maniacal pleasure and I imagine I'll be seeing these kids around again. Put 'em on your buzz band list.

Devil Eyes has been carving a niche in the scene with regular appearances, no two of which are alike. Art-punk-blues? Garage-swamp-fireworks? Hard to classify, because there's always some spectacle that accompanies the rugged, raw, and raging music. The band has a subversive, won't-be-members-of-any-club-that'll-have-us ethos. Maybe its because they abuse (tease? torment? or simply experiment with?) every variation of sound they can make in a show? Don't be fooled by the bullwhipped guitar schtick (yes, because it does happen). Just take a few moments to watch the band members play their respective and exchanged instruments and you know they have talent aplenty. Makes me think... this band could do and be anything they want and so they do exactly that -- they are everything all at once, bringing genres and variants into a chaotic mash. This band is a local must see because they take you places you didn't know you could go. In a way, its kind of heady stuff, but that realization only comes later, on reflection.

Finally, the headliners, the zoobombs, Japan's brilliant mad mash of garage punk meets... I don't even know. I'm told its blues, but that didn't come to mind at all during this show. Post-show, their mp3s were more bluesy, but I didn't really sense that at all at Divan O. The sheer energetic frenzy is wonderful to behold. Every song is an earscape and body bone rattler. Instrumental jams with vocals I barely caught. But, even better, there's no egotistical posturing, no nudge-nudge wink-wink meta-music going on here. This is sheer joy, a complete energetic transmission in which the conductors pick up no friction, and that is what makes live music my favorite past time.

Further Afield with Sorrel Muggridge and Laura Nanni

2009-06-21T16:27:00.000-07:00

It was hard to resist the request for participants in Further Afield, a collaborative art project between Toronto and UK-based artists, Sorrel Muggridge and Laura Nanni. I was to meet Laura in front of the Bellgo building on the X, and then instructions would be given to me. Sounded cool. I signed up.

Laura met me, accompanied by her documentarian, at the exact time and place. From there, we placed a call to Wales, where Sorrel and her colaborator, Lisbeth, were waiting. The two teams each took 493 steps, to symbolize the kilometers separating us. I wandered away from St. Catherine, towards the old port, reaching Rene Levesque as our starting place.

Then, Laura wrote instructions on the ground. Look towards the ___________________ and turn right. I was to find something in my field of vision that could fill in the blank. Seeing a woman in an obnxiously monotone hot pink suit, I suggested, "The woman in the garrish pink outfit." The instructions were relayed to Lisbeth and Sorrel, who were then to find an individual in a garrish pink outfit and turn right. I, on the other hand, had a much easier task of finding a "reception" which I interpreted as a reception desk for a hotel.

So we continued for about an hour and a half, relaying instructions back in this mad-libs style art project. It was fun -- mainly to come up with unusual things to fill in the blanks. I was rather proud when I took the word "wonder" from a travel agency called "Vacances Wonder" to give the instruction, "Follow the wonder and find a place to rest yourself."

At the end, I was told to describe my view to Lisbeth on the phone, and she did the same for me. As she described her view, I was instructed to draw it on a postcard given to me and finally to mail the postcard to her. And so it went... artist and creator sent postcard to artist and creator.

This wonderful (yes, there's the wonder) way to spend two hours was certainly not my typical art outing. sure, I go to gallery openings. But the art is passive and I am a viewer who interprets. In this case, I was turned into collaborator for the duration of the project. Although documented, the project in fact ends when the walking tour ends. I suppose the postcard is really its only remaining component.

I'm not entirely sure what to make of it. I did enjoy myself immensely. Would I consider this art? Not typically, I guess. But, that is part of the beauty of making art -- it can challenge one's preconceived notions of what art is. I am intrigued by very modern art these days of the land art genre and minimalist genre, even though it lacks the technical skills I so admire of line drawing and color. But, when explained, I appreciate the intent of these modern artists. I suppose Further Afield is very much in this vein. It warps and reinterprets the premises of art and makes one say "Aha! Thank you for stinging me out of my rut."

Spiral Beach and the Sunday Sinners at the Green Room

2009-06-15T10:53:00.000-07:00

Hurrah, the Green Room is back and seems to be crashing this bash with kick ass line ups night after night! I've missed this place more than you'll ever know, my beloved music box in Mile End.
So, as part of the annual Fringe Festival, the Green Room has been showcasing musical acts. Last night, Toronto's punk upstarts Spiral Beach and Montreal's ye ye reincarnates The Sunday Sinners performed to a mostly depopulated Green Room. Blame Sunday, blame the heat of the day, blame too many options with all the theatrical happenings, blame the fact the Green Room has been out of commission. Under no circumstances blame these two fantastic bands.
Spiral Beach has been on my radar for awhile, since seeing them perform several years ago at the Mile End Cultural Center (the Green Room's neighbor and kissing cousin venue). I was blown away by that first show, as these young upstarts put the kink in my mink with their wild revelry and ability. Since then, I've felt somewhat less enthused to see them play -- finding them a kind of pink punk (and I don't mean "gay" or "flamboyant" -- rather, just kind of not so ballsy). However, last night's show renewed my enthusiasm for this band. The newer songs are dirtier, harder, wilder, crazier, and make the early stuff that I liked so much seem... well.. superficial in comparison. This is a good thing. A band that evolves for the better is one with staying power. So, Spiral Beach is back on my great act list. Even if there was hardly an audience to appreciate it, Spiral Beach puts on a good ride for a performance.

More subdued, but no less intriguing were the Sunday Sinners. Again, this is an act I'd seen several times over and had felt lukewarm about until last night. Bedecked in matching glasses and burnt-toast-dry humor, I felt like I was back in Cambridge (Mass) at Christopher's watching folkies sing about their peeling paint. Only, get rid of the folkies bit and the peeling paint bit. The Sunday Sinners are a ye ye-esque, 60's inspired, guitar driven band. I don't quite remember them this way... so my memory might be playing tricks on me. Not to worry. I like when my memory has a senior moment of this particular kind. The Sunday Sinners were fanastico and I loved the vocals, loved their vibe, loved their spleen. Much like Spiral Beach, a band that had only garnered a kind of mildly enthusiastic response from me now has gained my full support and admiration. I'm already excited to see them play again, whenever that happens to be....

Pick a Piper at Trois Minots

2009-06-14T08:13:00.000-07:00

Tribal goodness, oh man, did I not expect this at all. What a fantastic barrage of drum symphony! Pick a Piper instantly brought a smile to my face when I saw there were two drum sets brought to the stage. Since Brad Weber is Dan Snaith's (Caribou formerly known as Manitba) touring drummer, I had an inkling things would be good. Snaith's shows are outpourings of mind governed physicality. What would Weber bring to the table on his own? Well, its clear the two have a similar vision. But, while Snaith goes synth-pop psychedelic, Weber goes for the tribal beats. All four members of Pick a Piper take to the sticks and pound their souls out.

The entire (albeit brief) set skirted through some other experimental genres. Trois Minots is not exactly the venue of choice for this kind of show, but lately this little venue has been showing some mighty fine artists -- its nice to have yet another stage available in this city so quality and mediocre acts can continue to flaunt their goods.

United Steelworkers of Montreal at the Fringe

2009-06-11T20:59:00.001-07:00

Goddamned I love the Fringe Festival. I think its better than the jazz fest, but only marginally so. I love its lack of pretense, its rootsiness, the communal spirit. Jazz fest brings in big names and its a huge party of one kind. But Fringe is so much closer to my own heart. I similarly enjoy the infringement festival because of its commitment to artistic tolerance and rejection of corporate sponsorship by any questionable companies. However, let's stick to the topic... tonight's freebie show at Parc d'Amerique.

I wish I lived in the Plateau. Granted, St. Henri is where its at if you have punk, anti-authoritarian leanings and embrace street cred as an asset. But, if I ever get married and have puppies, I want to live in the Plateau with the other liberal artists of the world. Why? So I can take my pack of brats to the Fringe festival free concerts and let them play and run while the good beautiful creative people stand around, drink beer, and listen to kick ass music in the heart of the city. This jovial event is family friendly, neighborhood friendly, artist friendly, introvert friendly, queer friendly, trans-whatever friendly, and you name it friendly. Everyone is all smiles, smiles, as Mr Rourk would say on Fantasy Island. Actors and actresses put flyers in your hand begging you to see their productions. It's a great vibe and a pleasure to attend.

As for tonight's two freebies, Lake of Stew followed by the sizzling United Steelworkers of Montreal, I was psyched as all get go to be there. Both bands fall pretty squarely under the roots genre, which means they have country leanings, but tend towards rock IMHO. I've seen both play before, and was by no means disappointed to see this well chosen complimentary pair. Lake of Stew is a little more sprawling and lacks the gritty character that gives the United Steelworkers so much charisma. Not to complain -- they are a fine band, but perhaps more sedate then I enjoy. As for the United Steelworkers, they put on a big, fun, balls out show. Its impossible not to like them, with their northern version of southern charm. I sometimes find it hard to believe that so many different types of quality artists are bred in the same city. Must be the constant exposure to quality entertainment in all arts areas.

Flotilla CD launch at O Patro Vys

2009-06-07T05:56:00.000-07:00

Nothing is better than when a band exceeds one's expectations. Flotilla has been much touted around Exclaim and CBC... so my immediate response is always a one-eyebrow raised, "Impress me." That eyebrow dropped in less than two phrases of the first song performed, when they more than live up to the generous praise heaped on them. How lucky am I to catch them at this fairly intimate CD launch.

This sweet little local band is every inch bathed in that Montreal ethos that keeps on creating these amazing independent outfits. First off, they have the requisite atypical instrument, in this case, a concert harp. Second off, they seem to have that power mix of Franco-Anglo talent. Thirdly, they come off as mild mannered sorts whose "this is who we are" gentleness is disarming and charming. Fourthly, and most importantly, they make music you want to listen to again and again and again. Moody, surprising, and never pressing into discomfort as a means to evoke a wow! factor.

I liked their balance of softness and speed, the reflective and introspection of the lyrics, and just that lack of pretense and ego. Music that tends to be so sentiment driven or emotionally evocative is often a shade boring. However, this was NOT the case. NO NO NO NO NO. This band had me seduced and I walked out of this show a convert to the cause. Eyes out and ears up for Flotilla who seems to have stayed subsurface but will surely make big waves with their new album One Hundred Words for Water.

Roller Derby Madness

2009-05-25T18:30:00.000-07:00

I've never been to a roller derby before, but this is one of those kooky hipster things that I knew would be too too wacky to pass up. So, let me begin by saying this -- I greatly overestimated the camp and underestimated the athleticism. In fact, writing about the derby in this little blog is probably a complete mistake. All the same, I'm going to stick it under the big banner of culture since it is a subgroup of the city's culture that merits some attention.

The roller derby might look (or project the image of being) all fun and silly, but in fact, its pretty hardcore. The girls out there kick each other in the metaphorical balls. In front of my nose (and the noses of my two manly companions), a girl went down and twitched on the floor after a power hit. Like a real champ straight from the Bell Centre, she was back on her feet and managed to skate off at the end of the night at warp speed. Roller derby is a sport in the same way rugby is a sport. This is a tough, physical sport.

So what is a roller derby if it isn't girls in tight dresses who pull each others' hair, you might wonder. Basically, it works like this. A pack of girls (I think 5 or 6 from each team) skate around an oval shaped track. They wear crazy outfits (more on this shortly) and the kind of skates that one used to wear back when skating rinks were all the rage (our local hotspot was called Hot Skates -- my brother and I renamed it Ghetto Skates after a recent because the clientele are now the sort of peeps who budget their welfare checks for a big night out at the White Castle. YEOW! Okay, that sounded funnier to write than it should have. Hot Skates is ghetto, though, and ghetto has nothing to do with race or color, but rather with an aesthetic and an attitude). Okay, so these girls skate around in a pack and push each other around, trying to create a difficult moving obstacle course of limbs and bodies. Meanwhile, two Jammers, one from each team, take their positions behind the pack, and at the whistle must elbow their way through the pack and get in front of it. The Jammer who gets in front of the pack first is the Lead Jammer and earns points for her team. Obviously, the pack makes it difficult for the Jammers and there is a certain amount of strategy and skill, as well as some smooth moves, that the teams employ. Sadly for Montreal, Toronto had more skillz n' moves. The whole process requires a certain amount of brains, strength, pluck, and lunacy to do. It was not at all what I thought it would be.

The part of the night that falls under the cultural banner is the "ethos." What do I mean by that? Well everyone from the audience to the announcers, look as though they raided the Blue Light Burlesque's wardrobe closet. I think I saw five or six Betty Paige lookalikes in the crowd, and at least 10 women and men who got into their pinup girl getup for the evening's shenanigans. Meanwhile, down on the track, the refs wear kilts, crow wings, multicolored leg warmers. Scores are taken by a few good trans folk (or shemales?) who came wearing full length gowns (I exaggerate, there was only one lady in a gown and my friend had met her the night before... and told me that she was a trans person). The skaters come out dressed not like the bobsled team for Team Canada, but instead bedeck themselves in team outfits that are tight, revealing, and highly personlized with crazy names, imaginary and invented numbers, and sparkly undergarments meant to entice.

According to my two companions, the audience comes to look at the T&A, I think, and what it perceives to be cat fighting. However, I did not see cat fights. I saw hardcore tough women skate their butts off and play hard. And personally, I couldn't quite understand how people could play such an intense sport and not present themselves with such frivilous frippery. But I guess that is the appeal. One need not look like an Olympian to be one. Athletes come in all shapes and sizes, and challenging preconceived notions of what athleticism and that culture entails is absolutely valid.

Yes, this sounds a little big academic for DMM (om!), but roller derby could easily become a legit study for social norms and things of that nature. The very weirdness of the juxtaposition of exterior wrapping vs. interior athleticism would have the average academic (also a rather strangely dressed subculture) drooling their way straight into the gender studies section of the library.

Anyway, I rank this as the second weirdest thing I have ever done in this city, with naked breakfast at La Princessa taking top honors.

King Khan and the Shrines at Sala Rossa

2009-05-11T20:00:00.000-07:00

I love Sala Rossa like its nobody's business. THis show was so sold out that people were hanging out the windows -- not that there are windows upstairs -- but if there were windows, people would have been hanging out of them. I wasn't sure if I was going to get into the show, but with the usual finesse, I found my way inside inches away from King Khan's multi-piece band and burlesque go-go girl. Unfortunately, the guy on either mushrooms or PCP in front of me (he obsessively kept combing his slicked back greasy hair, so I told him a la A Scanner Darkly that he had bugs all over him) kept on stomping on my feet. I had to retreat to the sides and then had to retreat period because at 5'3" I don't see much and I don't like getting elbows to the face that much.

But, I can comment on the part of the spectacle that I did see, and let me tell you, folks, it was a spectacle! King Kahn made me think of 1968 Catskill mountains. He's brought together a ragged assortment of horn players and guitarists and plays songs that are... quite frankly... nostalgic. But modern nostalgia for that suburban sickly-sweet time period, for Elvis and the bobby soxers and stuff... is laced with a kind of skull and crossbones punk as fuckness. What was probably more innocent then has become a kind of zombie retro obsession for an entire underbelly of culture. Khan puts on a show like its nobody's business. King is the right name for him. Kahn is king, and the fact that he's of southeast asian descent instead of wonderbread white, says a great deal about how awesome it is to live in our day and age, in a city where multicultural isn't about being the single identity of your origin. Instead, it is embracing any identity one wants and wearing it with pride.

Khan struts and bellows, he lords it over the audience and loves them. He channels the spirits of those great entertainers but does it with his own very distinct brand of MOntreal cool that falls somewhere between punk, cowboy, city brat, DIYer, and hippie. It's hard to typify a Montrealer -- they always look hot and wear the oddest assemblages with class. He even manages to have his own not-quite-undead cheerleader who shimmys, shakes, and adds real sparkle (pun intended) to everything.

The show wasn't as chaotic as I'd hoped for, but it was much better musically than I ever imagined. For all the James Brown jumping around, Khan and his band have got skills. In other words, don't let the show prevent you from seeing just how good he really is.

Indyish Monthly Mess in May

2009-05-03T19:09:00.001-07:00

I swore I would make it to one of the Monthly Mess nights of Indyish about two years ago. Now that I've gone, I regret not going sooner. This monthly party in a quasi-remote location features a nonstop line up of short acts from across the arts and culture scene of Montreal. Basically, these guys are the sampler of everything I should see and do with every free evening of my life. Except, of course, for my responsibilities and also my own artistic endeavors.

I would be at a loss to explain each act individually. Every single performer was outstanding -- Nir Blue, Chris Ralph, David Syrshpan, DAvid Simard, and especially the Darling Demaes. The Darling Demaes have more than a little buzz around them, so I'm hoping they'll play locally soon and I can fill your ears up on their charms and wonders. The comics, including host Asaf Gerchak, were certainly entertaining, and dare I say, varied. I wouldn't want to be around David Heti when he's having a bad day, that's for sure. I suppose last of all, I should mention the search for foreskin origins reading and powerpoint presentation by Jeff Gandell, which I enjoyed not just for its amusement value, but also for the gentle interplay of text and image.

Indyish Monthly Mess, we will not be out of touch!

Shout out out out out and the Casecos at La Sala Rossa

2009-05-03T18:33:00.000-07:00

Free tickets? I am never one to say no to free tickets! And where exactly did these free tickets lead me? To see two CBC favorite bands from the indie scene. There was a third band, but I managed to skip out on them because I had to talk to my +1 guest. I might have kept on talking to my +1 guest and missed Shout out out out out if he hadn't bothered to point out that the main act might be starting. Some conversations are completely engrossing.

Anyway, let's start with the Casecos. Toronto based band, from what I understand. As the openers, they played to a mostly shy crowd dispersed at the edges of the room. People were head shaking and shifting in place to their groovy disco beats, but no one was brave enough to dance until the last song. Which is a shame, because they were a fine act. The band seemed slightly disappointed by this fact -- I suppose they don't know the whimsical nature of Montrealers, nor might they know that during exam week at the Universities, the usual audience is library bound. I can't say too much about them, in part because I've only ever heard them from one song played on CBC's music podcast about a year ago (???), so this was my first foray into their live act.

As mentioned, I didn't even catch the smalltown DJs. Too bad.

But, Shout out out out out (I'll just refer to them as SOOOO), was in fine style. This electronic act is in the vein of LCD soundsystem and Mouse on Mars... highly electronic. Though, they add my favorite component... a live drummer. Make that two live drummers! Yehaw! If only I did acid or heroin, the experience would be straight out of the rave scene of the 80s. Fortunately, that absentee audience appeared and was ready to boogie down to the electronic aural feast. With Korgs a flying (can Korgs fly?), they got me moving and the whole room shaking down, big and small alike. This is a big act that far exceeds anything pre-recorded on a CD. They have to be seen live to be appreciated, and I dare say that their old jams and new jams are lovable booty shakers alike.

Il Motore and Julie Doiron and $100

2009-03-30T11:22:00.000-07:00

I think Julie Doiron is the cat's ass and a half. She's so real and so down to earth and so rocking. I love her live performances. I love her CDs. I love her lyrics. I love the fact she is in the world.
Too bad I only saw her play five songs. They were five great songs, but I couldn't last for more.
It isn't my old age (it might be, but it isn't)... it was the venue. Il Motore. Nicknamed by some as Sala North, which is not an inappropriate name. Il Motore is owned by the Sala Rossa-Casa Del Popolo people. It is more similar to Sala than Casa in that it is large, red, and boxy. Nonetheless, it lacks something Sala has: comfort. The stage is low, so anyone under 5'7" can't see the artists if the room is crowded. There is nowhere to sit and escape the sound or the crowd. There is nowhere to walk around outside the venue either should one chose to escape by running to the depanneur. Just big ugly Jean Talon with a lighting store across the street. So, to sum up: too many people inside and nowhere to sit or escape and a stage set too low to watch. I was not impressed. Not at all. I am always glad for a venue, don't get me wrong. But I wish that music experiences could be had in places with a little less like a holding pen for livestock. So, I only lasted through the opening band and a bit of Julie's show. Exhaustion and annoyance carried the day. Sorry, Julie. I did love those five songs.

Other than that, the opening band, $100, is one I have seen a few times and feel lukewarm towards. I guess that is the perfect opening band -- one that just kind of warms up the audience to the main act. In fact, I feel so lukewarm, I don't even want to write a spiel at all. Rootsy queer politics and love songs. Perhaps in Alberta it seems radical. Here, not so radical. My malcontent of Il Motore probably did nothing to facilitate my appreciation for the talent onstage. It was hard to enjoy when I kept getting elbowed by people who were walking around trying to find a comfortable place to roost. So, let's just leave it at that.

Holler Wild Rose, Broadcast Radio, and the Urban Aesthetic

2009-03-15T16:49:00.000-07:00

It's been awhile, but I've been preoccupied with a massive move.
Not to worry, I do get out now and then.
This time to catch 3 bands I don't know at all, and am so glad to add to my life list of seen bands...

Urban Aesthetic looked like the most mild mannered group of clark kents to grace a stage. But, as if out of a break in the space-time contiuum, they leapt into action on their first song, drawing everyone to them. They have a new fan in me and I'll keep my eyes out for this Ottawa based band.

next, Holler Wild Rose from New Jersey showed us a bit of psychodelica. Is that even a word? This lovely band played big wide songs that were guitar layered. It was a great sound! Although, I think the lead singer was wearing his sister's pants. They were tight in places that emphasized parts of his anatomy and this was fascinating to me for reasons I am in no position to explain.

Finally, the local version of Franz Ferdinand/the Killers, Broadcast Radio came out with their disco-tinged, dance enabling rock and roll joy. I love this particular sound and am pleased to have caught the show.

Sorry such a short and uninformative review, but I'm short on time and energy. More to come as the spring rolls in.

Geoff Berner and the Forest City Lovers at Casa Del Popolo

2009-02-15T06:32:00.000-08:00

What a long strange trip its been. It hasn’t been a trip, in fact, but a long strange illness that robbed me of any energy to stay on the pulse of my beloved Montreal music and arts scene. Little by little, I’ll be back with reviews of films and art openings and musical acts.
So, here’s a taste of last night. I was unfamiliar with Geoff Berner, though it was unlikely he’d be off my radar forever. This songwriter-singer-musician sings, rants, and drinks, and not necessarily in that order. Casa del Popolo was packed to the rafters with people who dig the Soul Music of European Heebs, Jewish Jazz, better known as Klezmer. Here in Montreal, there is a klezmer scene of note led by Josh Dolgin, who blends traditional Klezmer with hip hop and other genres in his identity SoCalled. I’m rather fond of him, and I’ve seen hit the ivories as well as the accordian, and he further opens the stage to a host of other locals including octogenarian drummers. His talent is nothing to sneeze at. Geoff Berner also seems to have considerable talent with songs so clever, you could stick a tail on it and call it a weasel (that’s a Blackadder line). I found myself laughing, dancing, and kind of shocked at his daring simultaneously. I haven’t heard such candor in a public venue since I left the States 13 years ago.

Sharing a bottle of whiskey with his bandmates, two fiddlers, and a drummer, he brought the room to tears of laughter with his rollicking, ferocious music. To dissect the themes in an academic manner (he dealt with modern sexuality and political themes) does not do him justice. He breathes life into this old genre of music by singing about all things relevant to a generation raised on iphones and under the shroud of globalization. Furthermore, he sings about his own identify, a modern Jew living in liberal, multicultural Canada, in a way that is celebratory, self aware, and self deprecating. Canada needs more musicians like Berner who can kick the audience in the balls by treading into uncomfortable territory fearlessly and unapologetically.

Opening for Berner was Toronto band Forest City Lovers. This lovely band fronted by the equally lovely Kat Burns was a solid Canadian indie rock band in the same genre as the Jetplanes of Abraham – great throaty vocals (Jill Barber-esque), wonderful collaboration with some less familiar instruments to grace the stage (good old glockenspiel and outstanding violin contribution by Mika Posen), and fantastic set of songs. Again, a band I am not so familiar with, but one that I am hoping to see on the scene for many years.

Igloo Fest

2009-01-18T16:07:00.000-08:00

Montreal seems to have a never-ending supply of weird things to do that I have never quite gotten around to checking out. Case in point: Piknic Electronik. While Anglos and people who like to beat each other up while wearing Renaissance Faire gear go to the Tams, Francos and Raver Kids go to Piknic Electronik every Sunday to dance to beats from some of the hottest DJs worldwide. Having never been to a Piknic Electronik event in person prior to last night, I can't confirm if the linguistic split is true for the Sunday parties. Last nights event was sort of Franco-UN, with French dominating and every other language of the world flying off the tongues of those present. Ah, we can all unite under 150 bpm.

So, Igloofest is Picnik Electronik's winter slamdown. Every weekend for a three week period from 6 p.m.-midnight, the Jacques Cartier Pier is transformed into an igloo park on one side and a large party hall on the other. Almost the entire venue is outdoors, including the DJs who wear huge jackets to keep warm or look cool, or a bit of both. The igloo part includes an igloo bar for energy drinks and a lounge igloo. SInce staying warm is very important at Igloofest, people do not spend a good deal of time around the igloos, except to gawk.

The dance hall is true Canadiana. The walls are lit up with screens and lightboards. Speakers make sure the sound is heard throughout the hall at a not uncomfortable but loud volume. The snow is packed down from the feet of those dancing. And I tell you, people are dancing. You have to or else you will freeze. People come out in their snowboarding and winter gear, big down jackets, ski masks, snow pants, boots. A few get a little funky with care bear outfits or crazy hats. Somehow, even in all that clothing, people manage to move. You can't see every shimmy and shake, but you can see arms and legs in all directions as bodies go with the beats. Also striking... the smokers. For all those people deprived of the right to smoke at their favorite venue, they smoke freely and incessantly as they dance, which is intolerable for someone like me who doesn't smoke. Also in the dance hall is a bar with a variety of drinks that include the Caribou... a whiskey-maple combination.

The atmosphere is fun, jovial, but perhaps not conducive to making chit chat since you have to keep on moving to stay warm. I wasn't too impressed with the DJs, but Skratch Bastid has a set next weekend and if I knew a thing or two about the international techno scene, I'd probably have a better sense of who was worth checking out. As for Igloofest, it was worth the gander, but as soon as my sweat started to cool in the -19 temperatures, I left the party for other activities.

Last Chance Harvey is Decent British Rom-Com

2009-01-16T00:01:00.001-08:00

The English have a knack for making romantic comedies that are neither too saccharine nor too pessimistic. The list in my mind goes back quite a few years now: Four Weddings and a Funeral, Notting Hill, and About A Boy. Joel Hopkins’ Last Chance Harvey is very much in the same vein. Two middle aged people who have fallen short of their respective dreams meet and find the beginnings of love and the promise of a new beginning together.

Harvey Shine (Dustin Hoffman) is down on his luck and something of a black sheep. He’s about to lose his job writing jingles for commercials. His white suit (in a sea of black ones) still has the plastic anti-theft device attached. His daughter wants her stepfather to give her away at her wedding. Harvey is bitter about his failed marriage and looks unkempt, short, and unsuccessful next to his ex wife (a fine job done by Kathy Baker). In the major areas of his life, he is being edged out by what seem like better men. At work, he is being replaced by young experts in digital media. As a husband and father, he was replaced.

Hoffman gives a fantastic nuance to Harvey. He is uncomfortable in his skin, awkward with people, but not a jerk or a creep. He has difficulty making himself heard or even conversing. He tends to make a poor first impression, but his second impression is charming. Hoffman allows us to feel sorry and empathize with this character for his mix of pride and humility.
Kate Walker, played by the airy Emma Thompson, is less developed than Harvey. It is never clear why she has stumbled into the single life, except perhaps she is a tad unfriendly and busy. Early on, a failed blind date implies that her greatest fault is that she is middle aged while the men in the dating pool appear to be about ten years younger.

Nonetheless, Kate’s reason for singledom is not essential. The pair match well as an awkward duo, with Thompson towering over Hoffman, and showing him London’s less obviously romantic side.

The film doesn’t break any boundaries or challenge conceived notions. It doesn’t tread on new ground. It isn’t outrageously funny with situational toilet humor (that would be an American film) or have an ending in which every character is alienated and sad (that would be a French film). It is a very gentle look at how two people who can’t fit perfectly into the world alone manage to fit better into the world together.

Old Montreal's Happening Gourmand

2009-01-14T09:39:00.000-08:00

Food is an art, and for the next two weeks, Montreal's Old Port area is having a dinner special. Some of the top tables are offering a prix-fixe well worth checking out if you have a few twenties to spare.

Clocking in at $17, we have Italian restaurant Galianos, Suite 701, and Narcisse.

For just five bucks more, $22 will give you a meal at Restaurant Du Vieux Port, Modavie, and Méchant Boeuf.

And $27 will let you dine at Verses or Aix Cuisine Du Terroir.

Now, back in the day, I was a foodie, so I can safely recommend those restaurants in which I dined. Galianos is much loved by some of my friends, including some old school Italian cooks. Modavie has a great ambiance and some fine lamb (not that they are offering lamb). Verses is one of my favorite places to eat in Montreal. As for the rest, I think I may try them out at these prices...

Concerts You Don't Want to Miss

2009-01-07T18:39:00.001-08:00

January is cooking in Montreal when it comes to concerts. I wanted to give a heads up for two of them.

Tomorrow, at Il Motore (179 Jean Talon Ouest) get ready for the Phonopolis and Pome Record's kick butt little party. On the billa re the Handsome Furs, Julie Doiron, MIracle Fortress, the Luyas, Elfin Saddle, Adam and the Amethysts, Shapes and Sizes, Snailhouse, Special Noise, Nut Brown, and Patrick Gregoire. YEOW.

On January 25, my birthday, my favorite band is coming to rock you where it counts. The Jimmy Swift Band will be playing Petit Campus. This is a concert that you don't want to miss and... hey... there will be cake.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Boring

2009-01-07T18:16:00.000-08:00

Did you see Forest Gump? If you did, there's almost no reason to see the Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Granted, Benjamin is ever so slightly racier and he seems to avoid stumbling into Watergate. But, then again, Benjamin isn't retarded. He's got a strange disease where he progresses from old age to childhood in his physical body, but mentally develops as a normal human does. So, he is born an old man with arthritis and the helplessness of a baby, spends his 70s learning the read and be a boy, and at the end of his life, suffers from dementia, but looks about 2 years old. Like Gump, though, Benjamin is a man of few words, a passive observer of life, swept up in the tide of what goes on around him. Both stories share the same nostalgic view of the American century, the same folksy approach to race relations in America (as if there were never any problems between blacks and whites), the same narrated voice-over humor, and the same life is like a box of chocolates message.

Did I mention it's also 3 hours long? and boring?

While moments of the film are genuinely charming, such as the old-style film "strips" inserted into the picture to tell stories, other moments are downright awful. In particular, the story of Benjamin Button is framed by a girl who reads to her dying mother from Benjamin's diary during the events of Hurricaine Katrina. This story line does nothing for the narrative except ruin whatever momentum Benjamin's life has gained.

Worse, this film is a tear jerker of the most shameless kind, swelling the music to highlight every death and disappointment that shakes Benjamin's eventful life. The characters reflect -- no, they do not reflect... they make trite statements about the passage of time and the importance of savoring the moment.

Overall, this one is a big loser that has no business sitting beside films such as Slumdog Millionaire and the Reader in the march to the Oscars.

Art and Love in Renaissance Italy at the MET

2009-01-02T13:17:00.000-08:00

Paolo di Stefano Badaloni, Inner Lid from a Cassone with Venus Reclining on Pillows, ca. 1440-1445.

The New York Metropolitan Museum’s exhibit Art and Love in Renaissance Italy would probably be a hit in almost any other museum in North America, a big show with interesting, intellectually challenging pieces. Many of the objects are drawn from the every day life of Renaissance Italy’s wealthy elite and represent courtship, marriage, pornography and eroticism, and even the birth of children. However, as far as “big” pieces in the exhibit go, only a few are drawn from the familiar art media of painting and sculpture. In fact, most works are pedestrian, lacking grandeur. However, what constitutes pedestrian “art” for the renaissance elite is still extraordinary by most critical standards.

The exhibit works best as a historical, anthropological study, a true art historical journey into an idea and its historical importance. The diary entries, belle donne jugs, maiolica ware, birth trays, and guilt girdles are not masterpieces. But they are artworks. More importantly, they reveal the complex ideas that pervade attitudes towards love, marriage, and sexuality at the time. The re-attunement to the Classical past is evident, but so is competitiveness among leading families to out-do one another. The ubiquity of art and the humanist themes in the lives of Renaissance people is well demonstrated by this exhibit.

Quantum of Solace : A Film That Couldn't Be Understood By Rocket Scientists

2008-12-14T08:57:00.000-08:00

Yes, he's dishy alright.

I never met a Bond plot I understood. I have seen probably 90% of all the Bond films, slacking off on the most recent ones. I don’t think I can recount a single plot. Oh, sure, I remember the Bond girls (for their names, certainly: Pussy Galore, Xenia Onatopp, Plenty O'Toole) and I remember the baddies and their desires. Take over the world is a dominant theme. The means to do so vary – nuclear warheads, for example, and in the present case, hogging resources and installing puppet dictators. However, ask me the plot of any Bond movie and hmmmm... I can’t remember it. Big opening sequence. Bond back at Head Quarters. Travel to lots of exotic destinations with adventures that include a seduction, a chase scene, and the death of a much loved colleague from the spy world. The conclusion is inevitably a big blowout with the baddie and Bond with a one-liner.

I suppose that’s the point. Bond movies are to spy films like the Quarter Pounder is to hamburgers. There’s no surprises, but you love seeing exactly what you expect to see happen. But you love it anyway, because its funny and fun and mostly, because Bond uses his brain, his wits, and his charisma to make it happen.

In his current incarnation, Bond is up against a mysterious network, Qunatum. They have infiltrated the upper echelons of government and even spy networks and seem to make business their business. They profit from misery by providing solutions to misery that they have engineered. Sounds familiar (did anyone say Haliburton?). In this case, Quantum is taking over Bolivia by installing a puppet dictator and damming up the water supply in some remote location.

In theory, this could be a good plot. After all, most Bond movies play on our most current definition of evil. Multi-national companies that have their hands in war-profiteering are our current incarnation of the devil. We like seeing this crafty individual figure out the situation and take action against all odds. That’s fun. But in the real world, though, nothing is quite so black and white. Okay, so dumbing down is the bread and butter of the Bond franchise and golden child Bond brings down brutal, inhumane bad people. It’s so simple, an eco-savvy 10 year old could write it! So, in order to give the plot depth and maturity, the writers make it complicated and add lots of action scenes. This is a mistake. I would like to see a Bond movie that is smart, rather than confusing. I miss the snappy dialogue. I miss seeing Bond be... Bond. Instead, in this film, Bond could have been played by Sly Stallone a la Rambo.

For all the stupidity of the plot and the emphasis on the action, I admit that the movie is enjoyable. One expects this much. Bond is no longer a metrosexual who is in touch with the politically correct issues of the day. This Bond is an animal. He probably would tear flesh off the bone with his teeth given the opportunity. Bond has been recreated as a primal and wild character. I like this new Bond (played by the dishy Daniel Craig), mainly because he is like a boxed tornado, destructive and unstoppable once unleashed. Only sometimes will he sit at the side of his master, played by the ever on her game Judi Dench.

I regret that I don’t think the newer Bonds match the older ones. The potential is always there, but it seems lost to CGI and expectations. It is really too bad, because Bond is a fantastic character and the situations he faces could be more three dimensional and meaningful. It wouldn’t require psychology or a history of the past to create something with a little more brain.

Plants and Animals at Divan Orange

2008-11-30T20:04:00.000-08:00

I don't think I can rave about this band enough. They get better n' better n' better every time. Spicer was singing to the edge of his pipes and it still got me deep inside and made me want to dance and never stop. I love how they come together with so much energy and bacchanalian fun.

For the sake of filling space, let me at least note the following. The night prior, P&A played a sold out show at La Tulipe. I've been to La Tulipe and though its a nice place to see a show, its a big, crowded venue. Divan Orange, home base, is small, intimate, and has pretty mediocre acoustics. It doesn't matter. It felt like a privilege to be there, mere feet away from these soulful, spritely merry-makers.

The Dears at the Apple Store on St. Catherine

2008-11-28T16:21:00.001-08:00

These are the new Dears. Murray Lightburn and his partner, Natalia Yanchak, have recruited a new band of not-so-merry men and women. Although this was not their first performance in Montreal in their new incarnation, it was the first time for me to see the newest version of these masters of mope.

I’m not entirely sure what to make of the experience. I think I expected something more transcendent. The venue of the Apple store is small. The crowd was small (!) It was a perfect set up for an intimate, soul gripping performance. I’d seen Lighburn do as much when he played solo at a Christmas show in the Ukranian Federation in Mile End and talked about being in the Gaz-ette. He can be personable, funny, charming, endearing. But this short set was very remote, very cool, and very introverted. It was as if they were concentrating on each other, more than on performing. Granted, the Dears are an introverted band, but they’ve managed to bring togetherness to aloneness. At this show, I didn’t feel part of the collective journey.

There are a few problems inherent in these Apple Store performance. First of all, I think bands and audiences have a sell-out phobia and are probably uneasy to play for the Man or attend concerts thrown by the Man respectively. The Apple Store is a pretty slick place that clearly has corporate vibes. But, COME ON, it’s Apple! It’s the high priced underdog of the computer world. Most people in the art and music professions use Apple computers (or want to use Apple computers) to make all that great stuff they do. So, it isn’t like Apple is helping kill whales, coral reefs, and baby seals. Anyway, the whole corporate phobia is a bit silly since once a band graduates from the bar and college cafeteria circuit, they’re helping someone make money off something.

Second of all, the Apple store has not yet figured out the meaning of good sound. I am no expert on acoustics, but the speakers are turned up so loud, my ears hurt if I stand within 20 feet of them – and the room is probably only a little bit larger than that. The people at the Apple store have to create a sound appropriate for the audience and the room size. Once this sound issue is settled, I think that concerts at the Apple Store will live up to the bands that play there.

So, I’m not entirely sure why I didn’t connect with the Dears on this one. It could be the new band/new sound thing. It could be the shortness of the set. It could be the ambiance and environment of the Apple Store. Or, it could just be my own expectations. Ultimately, I’ve had better Dears experiences, but I suspect that this one had nothing to do with them.

Actions : What You Can Do With the City at the CCA

2008-11-27T20:31:00.001-08:00

The Canadian Centre for Architecture generally impresses with its innovative, thought provoking exhibits. Most of the time, the exhibits remain true to the spirit of the museum: architecture in its many guises. Unfortunately, not a lot of people can relate to architecture, and barely notice it unless they happen to be surrounded by crumbling infrastructure. Yet, the museum manages to sneak a few in that are easily accessible and interesting to almost everyone. The latest exhibit, Actions: What You Can Do With the City is certain to have popular appeal for its radical, wide-reaching theme of activism.

The exhibit presents short vignettes about individuals and artists who have transformed their urban space through action. Guerilla gardeners are there, but so are sheep that mow lawns, cows that occupy a vacant lot, claiming parking spots to lay down grass (while continuing to feed the meter so as to rent the space), and other such radical acts. Some are comic, some are eye opening, some are the fundamentalist side of eco-consciousness, such as the freegans. No matter, one leaves the exhibit with a burning desire to make the world a better place to live.

The exhibit is laid out in the Main Gallery of the museum over several rooms. Typical of the CCA, tables sit at the center, containing models and objects, while videos project on the walls. Each table also contains several oversized books that outline various transformation projects, complete with photos.

The different radical, transformative acts take place globally, from Brazil to Switzerland. While San Francisco, New York, and London have multiple coverage, I was heartened to see how many people care about their environment world wide.

Latest Creations by 8 Men and a Dame

2008-11-25T20:51:00.000-08:00

8 Men and a Dame? What's that? Well, that's my fake company that does all my art work designs. It works in conjunction with the RJL inc. Anyway, in order to help secure some funds for my upcoming transition into being a home-owner, I'm selling my work on cafe press. I should be putting up about 50-60 designs (for real) in the next few weeks. I'll see how that goes...

But, in the meantime, if you're curious what it's all about, check it out...

http://www.cafepress.com/SqueegiePunk
http://www.cafepress.com/YogaBliss

Stinger Editions Master Printers at the FOFA (Concordia University)

2008-11-22T09:10:00.000-08:00

Betty Goodwin A Burst of Bloody Air 2003 printed by Christopher Armijo

Concordia University's various galleries are always a treat to visit. They feature thought-provoking artists, both cutting edge famous and unknown students. The fofa, in particular, run by the faculty of the Concordia's Fine Art program, curates worthy exhibits. In conjunction with Stinger Editions, the print center of Concordia, curators Judy Garfin and Cheryl Kolak Dudek, are featuring the work of master printers Christopher Armijo, Matthew Letzelter, and Cheryl Kolak Dudek printing works for David Elliott, Janet Werner, Naomi London, Robert Racine, Pierre Doiron, Francois Morelli, Ed Pein, Betty Goodwin, Roland Poulin, Barbara Steinman, and even Anne Carson. Tying together these works is the theme Concerning Sisyphus.

Sisyphus is an interesting choice, since he was a bit of a wild man prior to his afterlife. The gods punished him with eternally pushing a rock up a hill, at which point it rolls back down and he must start again. The boredom and monotony of Sisyphus' life became the subject of an existential essay by Camus (The Myth of Sisyphus) that celebrates the mundane of life. The final words are, "One must imagine Sisyphus happy."

While I do not easily connect the works on display to the theme, I can certainly relate to the joy found in the tedium of printmaking. For the same result (or at least, the possibility of approximating the same result), one must repeat the process of re-inking each time. And printmakers, though no less talented or creative than artists in any other media, are often forgotten or treated as hick second cousins to oil painters and bronze sculptors. Hmmm... I find this curious since Andy Warhol, Picasso, and Rembrandt all produced prints, just to name a few. Perhaps this is because print work is a collaboration between the artist who creates the work and its design and the master printer who gives that work physical body through the press. Nonetheless, these less familiar artists of the print world produce works of great beauty and timelessness.

In terms of a collection, the works are extremely diverse and represent a range of printing techniques (monoprint, lithograph, screenprint). I am more drawn to the figurative work of Betty Goodwin and recognizable objects of Pierre Doiron, in contrast with the abstractions of Roland Poulin and the erotic playfulness of Ed Pien. But this is a matter of taste, rather than quality. Hopefully this show will put this art form with its wide range of applications more readily in the public eye.

Sadies and Bloodshot Bill at Sala Rossa

2008-11-15T23:08:00.000-08:00

The Sadies are a band that changed my life.

Many years ago, while collecting boxes for packing from Kinkos for my upcoming move to New Brunswick, I overheard a girl on the phone telling her friend that she "had sex with the singer from the Sadies" and "he was in her bed now." I'd seen the Sadies several times in Toronto at that point and I had friends who swooned over Dallas Good and practically pinned me to a table at the Horseshoe when I said I'd introduce them to him (not that I knew him, but I was drunk and life was good so why not...). Keep in mind that there are two singers in the Sadies and seriously, the girl could have been BSing. But that doesn't matter. What does matter is this: upon overhearing this important phonecall, I turned around, expecting to see some kind of supermodel. In my mind, only the hottest of the hot hooked up with people in bands. Instead, I saw a girl who couldn't have been taller than me (I'm short), who looked a little unkempt but kind of cool at the same time, and just... well... regular... like me. My entire worldview shifted. I realized that I could change my life at that moment and I was going to become the kind of person who could hook up with the boys in the band (not the Sadies, of course, but any band). Perhaps not a lofty high minded goal, but a goal that fit my mental state at the time, which was... very, very, very low following a very, very, very sad separation from my husband. It was the first goal I had in a very long time and for that reason, monumental.

And so, my life changed. I went to New Brunswick and did things I never thought I would do. I extended myself. I became friendly with bands and artists, had a radio show (which this very blog is named for), and found my way back to true self.

For this, I thank the Sadies.

The reason for this lengthy, and quite personal, preamble is this. A Sadies show is a religious experience for me. I get to worship at the temple of music. The Sadies can do no wrong in my eyes. So, all I can do is gush. The audience was electric. The dancing was aces up. The Sadies play long, kick ass sets and never seem to miss a favorite. They even threw in a few by the Unintended. What else can I say? These guys are the cat's ass and every time I see them, the magic of possibility is renewed. 30 songs of main set, 10 in an encore, and then three more in a second encore. Greg Keillor (I was asked by the boy next to me who he was. It made me want to cry. I am that old that people who dance around me no longer know Greg Keillor) played a few. Now, with smashed toes, sore muscles, and sweat on very part of my body, I think I can say, this was (as expected) an excellent show.

A few words about Bloodshot Bill... I love that guy. He's so... weird. He'll never get mistaken for a Canadian Idol contestant with his yodels, moans, shrieks, and piercing holler. But, he's got so much heart that I swear he's got some piece of the Elvis spirit in his pocket. He warmed things up nicely at the start of the set, with a one man performance with energy that could only be matched by a Freshman on his fourth Redbull.

Sink, Swim, and Kick. Crépuscule des Océans at Agora de la Danse

2008-11-12T20:48:00.001-08:00

This is the second time I have seen this piece performed at the Agora de la Danse in Montreal. For those of you who don’t know French, it means, “Twilight in the Ocean.” In every way imaginable, the seven performers who make up this piece capture the movements and struggle of sea creatures as they either awaken, settle, mate, and die.
To begin, the piece combines both nude and clothed dancers. The erotic effect of this quickly wears off and instead, the bodies of the dancers become the costumes. Watching every muscle tighten and release, and every breath gulped into their rib cages causes their bodies to become animalistic. The effect is captivating, and the lighting of the entire piece causes the surface lines of the body to look sculptural.

Set the Beethoven, each “movement” involves pairs or trios of dancers that repeat the same, or similar movements, sometimes synchronosly, and sometimes in a more rhythmic pattern. This mimics ocean waves, as well as the way animals tend to mirror one another. Periodically, the choreographer throws in something humorous that prevents these movements from becoming too stiff an distant from the audience. Inbetween are narrative type duet-dances that show the creatures interacting with one another, generally in a way that implies a mating ritual. The nudity of the dancers during these movements further suggests this. One small mall asks another to spin him around. A female tries to grab the ankle of a swimmer, only to find that she is left behind. These moments turn the dancers into characters, and each character is endearing and unique. When one of them goes belly up, it is a sad moment.

Most striking of all is the difficulty of this dance. Daniel Léveillé does this intentionally, stressing not gracefulness but impossible challenges. The moves are taken from a variety of styles, though yoga poses and a kind of kick boxing is evident. The dancers hurl themselves from one pose into the next, with beautiful wildness and violence. Their bodies slam against the stage with incredible toe-breaking force. It is impossible to maintain accuracy and this is part of the beauty of the whole piece. Life is a struggle in the wild. Only the strongest survive. Yet, even the strongest do not always finish in the same state in which they began. That is evidenced here, where the dance wears down each dancer. Imperfection is made beautiful here. The choreography is designed to be impossible and to push the limits of stamina.

Not Much Compassion for Sympathy for the Devil at the Musee d'Art contemporain

2008-11-11T13:38:00.000-08:00

Slater Bradley
The Year of the Doppelganger, 2004
Courtesy of the artist and Team Gallery

In conjunction with the Warhol exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts, the Montreal Contemporary Art Museum is running an exhibit on the relationship between art and rock music today. With mixed media presentations, including a working recording studio, the exhibit takes the visitor on a tour through various countries that dominated the music scene since the 1967.

I’ll begin with the recording studio, since it is a somewhat of a treat to see a performance art piece that sustains for such a long period of time. Rirkrit Tiravanija created a “silent” recording studio, where the instruments are fed into a recording consul rather than an amp. This keeps the room quiet, though it is possible to listen with headphones that surround the studio. Musicians are allowed to book one hour of time during the museum opening hours, so visitors see whoever happens to have booked the time slot. This is, in many ways, a taste of not just the experience of seeing an aquarium-like perspective of how a recording studio works, but also, what the studio itself experiences as different groups of musicians work within its confines.

The rest of the exhibit is hit or miss. Most pieces are concept pieces, and without an explanation remain mysterious and somewhat uninspired. The hits include three gigantic pieces by Robert Longo who depicted dancers of the 1980s club scene in New York in graphite (pencil) and charcoal. These iconic writhing bodies are a dynamic study of the experience of movement and its contrast with one’s profession (he depicts “the suits”). Richard Prince’s portrait photos of an assemblage of artists such as David Byrne, Tina Weymouth, Laurie Anderson, and Dee Dee Ramone seem less impressive in the day of the cell phone camera, where candid shots of celebrities are commonplace. Andy Warhol’s screen tests of Lou Reed, John Cale, and Maureen Tucker, though, are a good compliment to the exhibit down the street at the Museum of Fine Arts.

Moving through pieces from artists of continental Europe and the UK, the art is less interesting and the musicians less familiar. From World works, Yoshimoto Nara’s drawings are quick splash of the familiar amidst a largely unaccessablem, if not just boring, exhibit.

Warhol Live Music and Dance in Andy Warhol’s Work at the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts

2008-11-02T20:15:00.000-08:00

I remember Andy Warhol’s white hair first and foremost. He had a show in 1986 on MTV back when cable was young and MTV played music. It’s too bad that my sense of history was so brief since I could not appreciate the long relationship Warhol had with music. It is no surprise that towards the end of his life, he got involved with music’s latest incarnation: the music video. And, as the song goes, video killed the radio star. Well, not exactly, but Warhol managed to keep up with every shift in music’s sharp edge through his entire life.

The MFA exhibition examines the relationship between Warhol and music, starting with his earliest love of movie musicals with Shirley Temple and opera, progressing through his Stuido 54 days (to quote Warhol, “It was a dictatorship at the door, a democracy on the floor.”) While most people know Warhol produced the Velvet Underground, which practiced in his studio, I was surprised to learn that Warhol was even part of a band, in which Jasper Johns sang lead.

The 640 works on view for this exhibit include some Warhol pieces that don’t relate to music – but these are far and few between. On the whole, Warhol’s record covers, Interview magazine, and portraits of singers and musicians dominate. The major pieces, Elvis, Marilyn, Liza Minnelli, Grace Jones, Mick Jagger, and Debbie Harry are well known and presented in a way that they seem part of Warhol’s interest of the moment. Interestingly enough, his record covers are as symbolic of his greatest desire – to mass produce art – and in some ways are even more representative than what one thinks of as Warhol’s emblematic pieces.

The exhibit draws on the collection of one of the four Carnegie Museums of Pittsburgh, the Andy Warhol Museum, which supplements the holdings of the MMFA and private collectors. On the whole, the amount of material is simply overwhelming. Warhol touched every single medium imaginable, from screen printing to video to cinematic shorts to sketches and it seems he was interested in every single variant of music as well: dance, opera (he was an opera fiend), disco, rock, vocalists, punk, and experimental.

http://www.mmfa.qc.ca/micro_sites/warhol/expo_en.html

What Happened? Barry Levinson made a great film, that's what happened

2008-10-31T00:01:00.001-07:00

There's nothing like a Hollywood Funeral for an agent who makes 10%
Robert De Niro and John Turturro star in Barry Levinson's What Just Happened, an Alliance Films' release.

If you think you’ve had a bad two weeks, ask Ben (Robert De Niro), an executive producer for a number of major Hollywood pictures. He’s got two issues in particular. First, his latest project, Firefly, starring Sean Penn, has received horrible reviews with the test audience. The money people want the film edited. The director wants his vision respected. The film is set for Cannes at the end of the week… Second, Bruce Willis has shown up on the set with a Grizzly Adams beard and about 20-30 extra pounds. The money people are going to pull out if the beard isn’t gone by Friday. Mr. Willis thinks his artistic integrity is being compromised.

Minor problems, perhaps, but with $25 million dollars on the line for each film, along with the livelihood of directors, gaffers, agents, and a whole host of supporting staff… Ben has a heavy load on his shoulders.
As he drives from place to place in his SUV Porche, Ben attempts, at least on occasion, to find a moment or two for intimacy with his ex-wife, his teenage daughter, and a woman who straddles the border between elite call girl and… um… actress. However, the cell phone takes precedence, and any attempt to have a meaningful connection with others, outside of work concerns, is back burnered.

De Niro delivers an amazing performance as Ben, the man who will lie if he needs to, bullshit when necessary, and hustle to please those who must be pleased. Without explicitly stating it, he wrestles with his conscience. Should he allow addicted director Jeremy to keep Firefly as is? Should he strike a film deal with someone who has been sleeping with his ex wife? Does the situation change if Brad Pitt has agreed to be in the film? With the same contained violence about to explode that he brought to Raging Bull and the Godfather, De Niro’s character conveys a man barely graceful under intense pressure. His brooding silence is sometimes all he has left in most circumstances, as his brain calculates what must be done to make the show go on.

Hollywood usually does a wonderful job parodying itself. The film is sharp and witty from start to finish and manages to show the drama inherent in everyday situations. Gripping drama is created over such topics as an argyle sock, and, of course, the multi-million dollar question: Will Bruce Willis shave his beard? The film also manages to raise questions about sincerity, or rather, it points out that truth is relative to one’s immediate needs and one’s situation. Ethics are something one must balance against the attention of the reigning hierarchy. Discomfort is a constant theme, especially how much a man will endure in his quest for money and power. The cast does an incredible job fleshing out the supporting roles by Bruce Willis (as himself), Sean Penn (as himself), directors (Michael Wincott), agents (John Turturro), script writers (Stanley Tucci), money people (Catherine Keener), associates, and, of course, family members.

Zach and Miri Make a Porno And Damn, I'd Like to See It

2008-10-31T00:01:00.000-07:00

I think I have a massive crush on Seth Rogen.
Seth Rogen and Elizabeth Banks star in Zack and Miri Make a Porno, an Alliance Films' release. Darren Michaels/The Weinstein Co. 2008

Many years ago, back when people had big hair and wore shoulder pads, a movie was made in which a man and a woman who were friends finally confessed their love for one another and had sex, though not necessarily in that order. The climax of said movie, no pun intended, was when the female character faked an orgasm in a deli in order to demonstrate the ease with which a woman makes a man feel… beastly.

I hated that movie.

Fortunately, the theme of how friends can become lovers is visited in a much zanier comedy, Zach and Miri Make a Porno. Apparently, the audience with which I sat barely twittered, while I had two hands over my mouth at the seedy suburban humor of director/writer Kevin Smith.

Although Seth Rogen is better known from his role in the Judd Aptow films, he proves to be every inch his manly, likable self in Smith’s film. Smith has moved away, fortunately, from the divine and the improbable, sticking to things that are merely… well... possible ... assuming that all planets were aligned and Mercury had gone into retrograde. The point is that this film is more grounded in a conceivable reality and as a result is better than some of Smith's last few ventures. With the fantastic repartee one comes to expect from a Smith film and a very sweet set of characters, the home grown porn industry looks almost like family fun.

The story, quite simply, is that roommates and best friends Zach (Seth Rogen) and Miri (Elizabeth Banks), are broke and have lost both power and water in their run down apartment. An accidental You Tube moment, in which Miri’s grandmother sized flowery underwear become the hit of the web, leads to a scramble to produce their own porno -- Star Whores. Sadly, the soundstage, costumes, camera, and props meet an unfortunate accident with a wrecking ball, and the entire motley crew turns to Zach’s place of employment, a coffee shop, instead.

Situation aside, the movie is truly about the unrealized love that binds Miri and Zach. Their jealousy, their pride, and their desire for each other is the point of the film. No matter how awesome Tracy Lords is as Bubbles, the film would not work unless Rogen and Banks brought the right chemistry and energy to the film. Fortunately, they do. They are fantastic and their situation, although sometimes a little on the saccharine side, is very real. Their genuine feelings override the zaniness of the situation.

I am happy to think Smith has resurrected his career and has returned the spotlight to barristas and people from the Class of 199X who didn’t just lose their retirement funds on wall street last month. This film is an enjoyable romp that will delight most audiences who appreciate anal sex-vibrator-saggy balls humor.

Napoleon Exhibit at the Musee des Beaux Arts in Montreal

2008-10-28T19:29:00.000-07:00

Napoleon, painted by Francois Gerard

He's short and stout, like a little tea pot. He wrote dirty letters to his wife that she shouldn't bathe until he got home. He hung out in Egypt for awhile, and controlled a major Empire in the wake of the French Revolution. Yes, the man of the moment is Napoleon. He, like many of the world's greatest leaders in history, attracts a following even now.

Right under our noses, Ben Weider amassed a collection of memorbillia and art related to Napoleon and the First Empire. Weider made a gift of his collection to the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts. Starting October 23, 2008, the museum opened its new galleries to display this collection along with loaned and donated objects from other generous patrons. Furniture, clocks, clothing, enamels, bronzes, sculptures, painting, and works in other media make up the collection.

The exhibit is a delightful assemblage, well worth a visit. Personal effects bring Napoleon into close proximity to the visitor. I was especially struck by the cocked hat. This hat is one of the few authenticated hats worldwide, and was worn during Napoleon's failed Russian campaign. The hat is lined with silk, in order to protect Napoleon from the harsh winter weather, and adorned with a small tricolor cockade stitched on near the point. Its worn appearance coupled with its iconic familiarity is intimate and poignant.

No Napoleonic exhibit would be complete without some of the carefully tailored portraiture, the bread and butter of propaganda. Napoleon cuts a striking pose as First Consul in a painting by Andrea Appiani from Milan. Heroic, stately, attractive... Napoleon was something of a looker in the early days. However, the more familiar, more regal portraits are included as well, such as a bust length portrait of Napoleon in his coronation robes from the workshop of Baron Francois-Pascal-Simon Gerard in Rome. Napoleon liked the painting so much that he had multiple copies produced of this image and distributed them to foreign dignitaries and diplomats, as well as redone in prints, porcelains, and medallions. Complementing this official image is a neo-classical marble sculpture of the late Napoleon done by the Danish sculptor Bertel Thorvaldsen.

Overall, this exhibit does a fine job of bringing together grand pieces with more humble objects. Nothing is lost or overshadowed in the display. Montreal is lucky to have such a generous donor in Weider and he deserves a hearty Merci for offering his collection to the public. Perhaps others will follow his example in years to come.

Montreal Museum of Fine Arts
1380 Sherbrooke West
514-285-2000
Guy-Concordia Metro, or buses along Sherbrooke
Permanent Collection is Free, Tuesday-Friday 11-17h; Sat/Sun 10-17 h

Montreal's Museums: the CCA (Centre for Canadian Architecture)

2008-10-25T19:31:00.000-07:00

In terms of your straight up art museum with works by the Old Masters, Impressionists, and ancient cultures, Canada clocks in pretty weak for the Western world. Canada’s history museums that focus on Canada, as well as Canada-focused art, are more the local specialization. As a former New Yorker and Bostonian, a short time resident of London(England) and Athens (Greece), having just one or two major exhibits pass by the Musee des Beaux Arts is kind of a cultural disappointment.

However, one museum in particular in Montreal deserves far more credit than it usually gets. The Centre for Canadian Architecture, otherwise known as the CCA. This cute little museum made out of a former mansion tucked away on a quiet street of downtown (unless one approaches from the Rene Levesque side) is a worthy visit for the serious architecture connoisseur and those who are interested in cutting edge art. There are no Picassos or famous art pieces to be found here that would appeal to the mass. Instead, the museum tends to demand a more thoughtful visit.

The museum usually features two major exhibits that stick around for around 6 months at a time. The exhibits are always thought provoking and interesting. However, they are only of moderate interest to someone who is looking for the typical museum browse. Instead, take the time to read the walls, which feature detailed explanations of most of the things on display. Leaf through the beautiful books and watch the videos. This is a museum where one must stop and spend time with the displays. Even better, take a tour led by one of the informative guides. With their guidance, the text heavy exhibits are suddenly a mind expanding experience.

Ultimately, the CCA is more academic than user friendly. The museum experience here is that the visitor feels educated by the visit, rather than simply “in the presence” of a masterpiece. The exhibits manage to present history, theory, and practice all at the same time, and this does require some effort of involvement. Of course, any expenditure of time or energy is worth it here. These are very intelligent exhibits. Every time I visit this museum, I come away with new eyes and feeling as though my worldview has expanded.

The CCA also features an archive and a library, as well as a collection of prints, drawings, and photographs. Items from the collection are usually integrated into the exhibits when appropriate. Frequent lectures, mainly on the free Thursday night, are a bonus. The bookstore is a delight for those who love art books.

Current Exhibitions: Toplight Room Transparencies from 1760-1960 until Feb 15, 2009 and Actions: What You Can Do With the City opening November 26th.

Address: 1920 Rue Baile (south of st. Catherine, north of Rene Levesque, off Rue Du Fort); Montreal, QC

Hours: Wednesday to Sunday 10 – 17; Thursday 10 – 21

Admission: Adults $10; Seniors $7; Children 6-12 $3; Children under 5 free

Free admission Thursday nights after 17:30h

http://www.cca.qc.ca/table.asp?lang=eng

Punkz not dead! It just dilutes: Vancougar, Chocolat, Jay Reatard at the Cabaret

2008-10-19T09:10:00.000-07:00

I'll start with Vancougar, since these ladies played first to those who dared come early enough to see the opening act. These four talented ladies put the Ps in Pop and Punk, which is the best way. I don't mean Dead Kennedys punk. Think 80's punk-pop sort of new wave and that's exactly their sound. They were a solid four-piece, standard bass-guitar-keys-drums, with some sweet harmonies, and catchy tunes. A group of women musicians always risk being a little on the saccharine side with too much technique and not enough bone chewin'. Their cute name (I rather like it, but these are not cougars by any stretch of the imagination) and matching "rocker" suits didn't do much to give them depth. I was worried that these girls had no chops, but about halfway through their set, they seemed to grind and rock out a little more. Montreal can be a tough town, though, and Vancouver is a long way away. Every song was well done, and the dynamic between them is enjoyable to watch. I liken them to the GoGos, back when the GoGos were cool.

Next up was Montreal's much beloved Jimmy Hunt in one of his newer incarnations: Chocolat. Jimi Hunt has been around the scene for a long time, a champion of that mod-electro 60's style that gets the kids dancing here. This band brings together members of Hunt's band the Demon's Claws with some members of the CPC Gangbangs. WIth fuzz, reverb, and a certain amount of psychedellia (I don't think they pull it off quite as well as the artists of the 60s, but drugs these days aren't what the drugs of yesterday were), they put on a ballsy show. And the audience? The audience practically threw themselves on the stage in adoration. Hunt crooned, wailed, caterwalled, and folked while the rest of the piece band provided effective backup as well as outstanding solos by second guitarist Dale MacDonald who even flung himself at the feet of Hunt in a rock spin of solo madness. Make no mistake, if Vancougar worked the black denim Canadian leisure suit, Chocolat worked the bargain bin at the Salvation Army. Obviously, the Montreal one, since tight pants ruled the day. Hunt is iconic, emblematic: a scarecrow come to life, with his checkered plaid shirt, fedora, and harmonica strap. The Dylan comparisons are more than appropriate.

Finally, hair rockers Jay Reatard. Reatard harkens back to the 80s and 90s, when men wore tiger print spandex and eyeliner and played guitars that were shaped like lightning bolts (in this case, a flying V). Reatard, fortunately, forewent the spandex, but the sound was unmistakable. If only he'd brought the fog machine and a better light show. This is hair metal. That glam rock meets hard rock sort of thing. It isn't hard to imagine these three dudes sitting in their basement, taking bong hits, and head banging along with Motley Crue, ACDC, and um... Meatloaf? Loud, crunchy, riffy, power-chordy. Which is not to say un-talented -- this is real music, but it isn't serious. Songs clock in under 2 minutes apiece and the entire set might have been a half hour long. Who cares? It's awesome! Reatard is fun. Big fun. Indie rock kind of fun. Indie rock? You read that right. Seems that as the music of my youth becomes retro to today's 20-somethings, the genre switches. What once would have been metal has become the mainstay of today's fans of the alt independent scene. Not that I'm complaining. I liked some of those MTV bands and know all the words to the Final Countdown.

Battle in Seattle A Phyrric Movie

2008-10-17T00:01:00.000-07:00

There are two sides to the film the Battle in Seattle. Yes, immediately one thinks of activists vs. McWorld. But that isn’t what I mean. The Battle in Seattle has great film making paired with some of the most mundane clichés.

The Battle in Seattle is a fictionalized account of true events that took place when activists in Seattle interrupted the WTO (World Trade Organization) from meeting. Non-violent protests and acts of civil disobedience managed to stop the plenary session by barring entry to the Paramount Theatre using creative tactics. However, mobs of people easily get out of control, which was exactly what happened as the downtown core of the city turned into a riot. The mayor of Seattle was forced by higher ups in the US government to take more extreme measures. The police began to control the protestors using force and arrest as a state of emergency was called.

Inspired by these events, first time writer/director Stuart Townsend brings us into the frontlines of Seattle’s battle. For five days, the indignancy and anger of ordinary people is captured. Activists whose issues range from labor concerns to sea turtles join forces. The activists withstand tear gas and rubber bullets for their respective causes, believing in something greater. They do this with heroic ferocity. The film certainly galvanizes sympathy and appreciation for the work of these men and women. This is where the film is commendable.

On the other hand, to convey the story and tell its messages, stock characters with stock situations are used. The worst of the bunch are the characters of the activists, whose lines are often just statements of principle put into dialogue. I don’t know who is the worst: the perpetual optimist? The angry anarchist? The champion of non-violence who is drive by a desire to avenge his brother’s death? The one who quits and has to be reminded of the big picture? Worse, is the “novice” blonde reporter who disobeys her boss to cover the protests instead of the arrival of Clinton. Then the situations – the woman who gets caught in the mob who doesn’t belong there, the showdown between the non-violent protestors and those who are less gentle on the city, the cops brutalizing the crowd.

Fortunately, even shallow characters with rotten dialogue are given a bit of roundness by passionate actors. Ray Liotta does a wonderful job as the conflicted mayor whose hand is forced by the US government. Woody Harrelson is the perfect vehicle for controlled rage. Charlize Theron evokes a great deal of sympathy for her character, the pregnant, politically unaware upscale shopgirl .

Another aspect of the film that I appreciate is the fact that the director indicates the way the protests hinder some of the “good guys” (Médecins sans Frontiers, for example) who are on the inside of the WTO. Of course, I wonder why the presenter for MSF looks like a bedraggled intellectual in need of a shave and a haircut. He heads up a major international NGO and is a physician. Despite the fact the WTO is dominated by corporate interests, it also provides opportunities for necessary networking and visibility of NGOs.

All in all, Battle in Seattle is an important film to see, if only to remind ourselves that we can make a difference and that our voices can be heard.

The Duchess -- Oscar Worthy?

2008-10-09T03:14:00.001-07:00

I’d been warned prior to seeing the Duchess that the film contained some Oscar worthy performances. Nothing could prepare me more to be critical than advance warning of inherent worthiness. With my scathingly critical glasses on, I readied myself for disappointment.

I am happy to say that disappointment is the last thing that entered my mind. The movie was not just good, but intelligent.
Clashes of culture between new-made politico idealists and aristocracy, between cultural constraints and the extension of rights and freedoms of the Enlightenment, between love and duty are handled with deftness and thoughtfulness. This film works on all levels, with fine acting, fine scripting, fine period ambiance, and, most importantly, a gripping and engaging story.

The It-Duchess of the 18th century, Georgina, Duchess of Devonshire (Kiera Knightley), is married at a young age to a man many years her senior, the Duke of Devonshire (Ralph Fiennes). Georgina is an aristocrat raised in a society bursting with the new idealism of human rights and freedoms from the Reformation, while her husband is a man of the past, interesting in hunting and little else. He only seeks an heir and so treats Georgina with icy indifference in and out of the bedroom. Georgina finds fulfillment as an influential force in all areas: politics, fashion, theatre, socializing, and gambling, until ultimately, she turns to John Gray (Dominic Cooper), her old beau. When the Duke of Devonshire takes Georgina’s closest and only friend into his household as a lover, Georgina comes to face questions about love and duty in a way she never imagined.

Knightley lends Georgina a wonderful innocence. Though she is schooled in rights and freedoms, able to poke fun at her husband through plays created by her circle of artists, she is unable to use her intelligence to better her station in her marriage. She fails to conceive the machinations of others or even to fully understand the consequences of her actions. She is an idealist and a dreamer, one unable to compromise her principles and in consequence, suffers, but does so with dignity. At the same time, the Duke’s coldness is surprisingly thawed in moments of humanity, such as when he takes in the orphaned daughter of a late chambermaid – his own daughter – and raises her in his household. He is bound, at all times, by the rules of old and to him, all ideas are simply passing fads, whereas the thing that persists is lineage.

Knightley delivers a full range of emotion in her performance and at the same time maintains the perfect sense of being well-born no matter what happens. She is perfectly cast in this role, with her youthful jubilance and majestic quality. However, top billing goes to Georgina’s mother, Lady Spencer (Charlotte Rampling). Propriety and restraint rule the day, though one senses the burden she wears as she sees her flighty, free spirited daughter suffer. Lady Elisabeth could easily have been a heartless tyrant, but here she is mediated.

All in all, the film is excellent and one that is worth seeing. I fully expect to see it return to public attention when Oscar nominations are announced.

Yannis Simonides as Socrates in Plato's Apology

2008-10-06T14:58:00.001-07:00

Much to the delight of a room full of Grecophiles, Yannis Simonides delivered his gripping monologue as Socrates in a dramatic performance of Plato’s Apology. Altered to some degree from the original text in order to accommodate the modern actor’s tongue, Simonides retained the spirit of the maverick philosopher’s legal defense for his life against the charges of corrupting the young, not believing in gods, and introducing new gods. Of course, different people read Plato’s work for different reasons, finding different points of emphasis. In this case, the translation focused on the importance of virtue and why one should not fear mortality, but little attention was given to Socrates’ disregard for the legal system or his demonstration of his sharp dialectic process. Simonides played him with much more earnest, but these are simply interpretations of the same piece. The alternate visions and understanding of the piece’s meaning and significance are what make it timeless.
Simonides was a perfect Socrates. Affecting a wide mouthed smile and palsied arms, Simonides dottered around on stage, conveying both the age and mental alacrity. Even better, he captured the humor and humanity of the thinker. Too many people place Socrates on a pedestal, rendering him above human foible. This is erroneous, as anyone who has read the dialogues is aware. Socrates, in the dialogues, is sharp and incisive, yes, but also extremely funny and sometimes silly. Simonides showed the philosopher’s multi-dimensionality, without losing his importance. Even when playing the part of Miletos, Simonides transformed himself into the sneering, self aggrandizing upstart with ease. The gorgeous mask set on the center stage chair exuded the awesomeness of a deity, as though humanism itself were personified and present. I was grateful that the mask was on the chair, rather than on Simonides, largely because so much of what makes the monologue work is Simonides’ expressive face. Furthermore, the mask itself was reminiscent of the Greek dramas, in which actors all wore masks that were frozen in distinct expressions.
Following the performance, Simonides allowed the audience to ask him questions, though they mostly focused on his work as an actor and performer. Yannis Simonides is a Yale Drama school trained actor and writer, and an Emmy award winning documentary producer. His credits are many, including a position as the former chair of the acting program at NYU.
Overall, this was a special experience and it is not to be missed as it travels the world.

Appaloosa is Western Lite

2008-10-03T06:45:00.000-07:00

Ed Harris and Vigo Mortensen see what should not be seen.

Appaloosa should be better than it is. Or maybe it should be worse.

The story over shifting loyalty is compelling. Ed Harris and Vigo Mortensen have unbeatable chemistry as town marshall Virgil Cole and deputy Everett Hitch. Most characters are painted in shades of grey. So, I'm going to single out the tone. Yes, the tone is wrong. Appaloosa isn't quite a comedy, since the humor is often accidental. I can't call it a drama, because it skips into shades of light when it should be dark and subdued. Yet, this lack of seriousness is entirely in opposition to some incredible acting of two very serious characters facing rather serious situations -- not just bad guys with guns, but the advent of the capitalist into the west. Because the film never quite leans towards sheer entertainment or in-depth study, I was left dissatisfied.

The perfect example of misplaced humor occurs when Virgil tries to have a conversation with Russell Brigg's stablehand about the murders of the previous town marshall and his posse. Virgil dismisses his girlfriend Allie French (Rene Zellweger) who retreats to the parlor and begins practicing piano scales. This pivotal scene becomes zany, if not absurdist, with the imprecise notes in the background. This is not the moment for humor and it turns a good scene into a lousy one.

Of course, if the film is a fluffy, saccharine Western, then it isn't funny enough and it seems such a waste for the amazing performances of both Harris and Mortensen's. Harris is perfect as stoney lawman, poker faced, never unruffled at work, but whose entire face breaks out into smile lines in the presence of his beloved. He is a wonderful character, and Harris brings such fullness to him -- even when he stumbles over multisyllabic words. Mortensen can do more with the way he holds his body and looks with his eyes than most people can write in a daily tell-all blog. He is precise as the airy, wiry sharp shooter with his oversized 8 gauge shotgun. Even Zellweger, who does not bring the same game as the other two leads, brings a certain levity to a character that could easily have become a barracuda. Allie Finch is innocent, playful, but also... flaw driven. Her flaw, though, is to align herself with the resident stallion for self protection from her fears -- lonliness, lack of money, lack of protection.

The other gripe I have is that the film lacks subtlety. Though Harris and Mortensen give perfect delivery of every line, I would have preferred less dialogue. Everett talks about feelings, tries to coax Virgil into revealing where his loyalties lie. It would be far more appropriate to convey the same with expression and gesture. Similarly, it was unnecessary to show Allie French splashing naked with her captors, when a gesture of affection would have had the same affect, but without misplaced zaniness.

All in all, the story is interesting, the acting top shelf, but the film lacks the heart, feel, and consideration of more recent "serious" Westerns (Brokeback Mountain, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford) and lacks the punchiness and overstatement of those that are strictly for entertainment purposes (3:10 to Jima).

Appaloosa opens Oct 10 in theaters in Montreal

Look the Other Way when it comes to Blindness

2008-10-03T01:02:00.000-07:00

Julianne Moore and Mark Ruffalo ask for antibiotics.

The eagerly awaited cinema adaptation of Saramango’s book, Blindness, fails to live up to the literary masterpiece. The territory of man reduced to a Hobbsian state of nature takes on the familiar pattern of many an apocalyptic film. Will it be a Disney ending where the good guys win or cynically conclude the other way?

In the film, a metropolitan city in which no one is particularly nice to anyone else, an infectious white blindness strikes the population. Anyone who comes in contact with one infected is left unable to see anything but a milky whiteness. Only Julianne Moore, in the role of the doctor’s wife, seems to escape the plague, though she plunges herself into the heart of darkness by accompanying her husband into quarantine at a former mental institution. There, she and her husband, the opthamologist, serve as leaders to Ward One and the arriving victims. They create a utopian society, of sorts, until an opportunistic and self preserving man, known once as a Thief and Bartender, declares himself the King of Ward Three. Using a gun and a genuine blind man who is not adjusting to a sudden change, he dominates and terrorizes the institution, demanding first goods, and then women, in exchange for inadequate food rations. Things progress into a war of good vs. evil, until the discovery that the guards are gone and the plague has affected everyone. Then, the doctor and his wife lead the original group to their house.
The film works in its ambiance, as one would expect from outstanding director Fernando Meirelles (City of God). Switching from eyeball bending close ups to shaky patches and the periodic flash of white, he conveys the disorientation of sudden sight loss and the helplessness of wanting to see when one cannot. At crucial moments, he stays with the characters as they cry or lapse into despair, as though their emotional voices trump the need to see. The decay of the ward and the city mirrors the decay in morals as well.

The film fails, though, to create realistic characters that are sympathetic or vital. This is not the fault of the actors, but rather of the script itself. The story never gets to the heart of the struggle of the doctor’s wife to save others at the expense of her morality, or the gulf of grief that has unmoored the Japanese couple. Even the doctor’s decision to turn to the prostitute for solace seems to have no place in the film. The little boy is an afterthought. By focusing on so many characters, none of them are adequately developed and each one seems to develop without adequate justification. The film needs a better script. The switch from the ward to the city is handled poorly, and serves as a recreation of what has already been lived – a movement from lawlessness to… more lawlessness… It ends with redemption, but one wonders why.

Another complaint is that the blindness turns most people into animals, a point illustrated by a pack of dogs tearing apart a deceased man on a flight of steps, while one dog walks past. Are we to believe that everyone is so shallow and brute that a tragedy of great magnitude destroys our humanity. I am more inclined to think otherwise. More than a few people would quickly adapt to being blind, finding inner resources to survive and using their intelligence to thrive. Don’t any of these people have dogs???

Overall, Blindness is a great idea but the terrain is well beaten. It offers nothing new to the theme and strips the book of its best observations.

Chet Doxas Trio at the Upstairs with Tim Hagans

2008-09-27T14:14:00.001-07:00

Chet Doxas is a regular in the Montreal jazz scene, with regular gigs at places like the Upstairs and Café Sarajevo. As someone rather removed from the jazz scene (albeit, someone who likes jazz), I have never seen him play, except perhaps at the jazz fest when he’s been a member of a band. Doxas is an accomplished musician in his own right: a composer and a saxophonist. So, this opportunity to see Doxas jam with Tim Hagans, a New York trumpeter, known for his willingness to experiment was not to be missed.
The trio plus Hagans put on an engaging show. Doxas’ trio was clearly enthused to be playing with the jazz giant. They pulled out all stops in showing off the range of their talents. The Doxas trio are not minimalists. They fill their solos with fast movement, scales flying up and down, and clock breaking time changes. This is not jazz you can sleep through. It isn’t the jazz one recites beat poetry to. This is jazz that confuses and awes at the same time. It’s complexity makes it challenging, but also fun. I feel guilty drawing any attention away from Chet’s accomplishments, but his brother (Jim Doxas) is the most dynamite drummer I have ever had the pleasure of hearing.
Hagans was far more subdued in comparison with the Doxas trio. Though, I suspect, this is because the trio was carrying the bulk of the action in the music. I would have liked to hear more of Hagans’ virtuosity, since he is the special import. Of the four (five?) songs played, only one was a Hagans composition. I would have liked to see Hagans take the lead on a song as well.
Ultimately, I was impressed by the Doxas trio, but a little disappointed that Hagans played a very subdued role in the night’s proceedings.

Stephen Harper and his Rich Galas

2008-09-25T13:19:00.001-07:00

http://www.friends.ca/News/Friends_News/archives/articles09230805.asp

How could I write an arts and culture blog and fail to include some famous remarks by one of arts' biggest supporters (ahem)???

Anyway, the peeps of Montreal are not amused. A concert was held at Club Soda the other night to protest Harper's remarks and the cuts.

Land of Talk at La Sala Rossa

2008-09-20T07:08:00.000-07:00

It’s been far too long since I’ve made it out to a show and huzzah for the one I pick to restart the September season of Dreadlocks. Friday night found me at the D’Urbervilles and Land of Talk show at the improved(???) Sala Rossa. I’d never noticed the sound panels on the ceiling before. Are they relatively new? No matter. They are there and the acoustics sounded better in Sala than I remember in a long time.

I’d not seen or heard of d’Urbervilles before, but I’m glad I’m now in the know. This band of 20 somethings burns up edgy energy and the dance-ability simultaneously. In their set, they tore through song after song, with a few modest remarks by lead singer John O’Regan that we could buy their album or any of the other excellent albums for sale by other bands. While the spazzy dance moves, complete with fist pumping action, and some retro bass are memorable, that hardly characterizes the performance. This is solid Canadian indie music, a la the Constantines, with a mélange of subtle influences from across the garage rock genre in other songs. Good things will come from these guys, so keep an eye out.

Land of Talk delivered a riveting show that picked up momentum as it went along, Elizabeth Powell is one of my favorite performers in Canada. Her dreamy, smoky vocals go perfectly over her academic guitar playing. At the same time, she can cut deep through the skin and pull out rich, emotional feelings, transforming what seems almost too precise into a warm frenzy of creativity. She is a force.

The performance, as mentioned, started a bit subdued. Well, the first song was subdued. Powell, for one thing, was on crutches. She remained seated (from my vantage, behind tall viewers) the entire show, which perhaps stopped her from the physicality that often accompanies her playing. But, she seemed to give herself over to the jubilant and appreciative mood and soon it was the chapel of the Land of Talk. Every song was a peony coming into bloom and flashing its magnificence.
I did note that this is the third, perhaps fourth, drummer I’ve seen play with this band. Years ago, Powell picked up a Montreal friend (Bucky) to fill in on drums at the Parc D’Amerique show. I’d seen others play with her since. Tonight was Lowell Campbell of Wintersleep filling in with his talents. I describe Mr. Campbell as the best drummer in Canada, so… lucky Powell for snagging him for this show.

Plants and Animals at the Apple Store

2008-08-19T21:02:00.000-07:00

I've been enthusiastic about this band since day uno. A year... has it been that long now???... of touring and these guys sound so pro. Not to say they ever sounded amateur. But they were different at one point. Less confident maybe? Less cohesive? I don't know. I recall nights of seeing one band member working the bar at Divan Orange. But they have matured like a fine wine and I am proud to say that they do not disappoint. Plants an Animals are indie darlings, beloved by fans of alt scenes everywhere. They're hard not to like, because they make good music and somehow maintain a mysterious air about them. They seem so down to earth and yet... so... out there at the same time. Maybe they're more out there? It's almost impossible to capture in words, but such is the problem for many of my favourite bands.

In the past, I have compared Plants and Animals to Simon and Garfunkel. To my mind, the comparison still holds. Now, I know you're thinking about adult contemporary light pop when I say Simon and Garfunkel. You're going to have to get that out of your mind and pretend you're in 1969 and people are protesting the Vietnam War and these guys are singing Scarborough Fair. They are singing about things that are important, making beautiful complicated music, and harmonizing at the same time. That is exactly how I feel about plants and animals. This band is singing about something current... yet with Kabbalistic mysticism around it. They're making beautiful, complicated songs that range from east coast sailing tunes to trippy rock, and they harmonize in three parts. Perfectly to my untrained ear.

No, these guys have just begun their journey.

So, the apple store. Right. This is a review of sorts. Well, I couldn't see a thing over the heads of dedicated fans who responded to a last minute summons to come out for the show. It seems Plants and Animals attracts tall men. Feh. Spicer said the glaring lights prevented him from looking out at the audience, but he only would have seen a row of coolly dressed skinny indie dudes bobbing their heads. Beyond that, about an hour's worth of their songs that were performed richer than I remember. The sound was fantastic, though, and perhaps it is to this that I can attribute that to Apple's particular arts niche market. There's a reason why everyone in the arts prefers Mac. Mac is better (so sayeth I on my macbook). After most of the audience parted, the remaining few applauded the band back for an encore of Sinnerman.

I have been duly impressed by the Apple Store's little music talent display over the past week. Granted, I took a pass on Simple Plan and Good Charlotte or whatever that band is called... but kudos to the store for calling up Montreal's best trio on the smorgasboard of good sounds.

Laura Barrett is All Thumbs

2008-08-16T06:42:00.001-07:00

The Up to Your Ears (Jusqu'aux Oreilles) Festival presented Laura Barrett and her magical kalimba at the Christ Church Cathedral Friday evening. With a brief, but always wonderful performance, Barrett backed with two other instrumentalists providing sparse layers, treated the audience to her mythical songs. Mythical is a good word to describe Barrett, but so is futuristic. Couched in songs about robot ponies and mechanicistic tomorrows, Barrett still captures the essence of humanity. She sings about the search for identification, about consumerism, about the inevitability of change -- but she does so without malice or a cross side sneer. Barrett is concerned with purpose and meaning, without getting caught up in the self-importance of her personal experience, as so many other singers do. These current and future themes are juxtaposed with Barrett's sweet, song-of-Roland voice and the fairy tale like melodies of her kalimba, turning each song into a kind of timeless folk song.

Barrett is a wonderful performer, with a distinct personality. She is so warm and so open, and at the same time, so unique. She is truly a delight to see perform live.

Tension and Motherhood in Frozen River

2008-08-13T23:55:00.000-07:00

Melissa Leo as Ray Eddy Working at the Yankee Dollar
Photos by Jory Sutton © 2007 Frozen River Productions, LLC. Courtesy Sony Pictures Classics

When your means and opportunities fall short of the American Dream, a woman needs to reassess her dream or find a less savory way to make things happen. Ray Eddy is a woman whose dreams are dashed by the men around her. Her husband runs away with the money to pay for the doublewide, a prefab house that is supposed to replace the family trailer. Her boss refuses to promote her to assistant manager at the Yankee Dollar. As a middle aged woman with a lot of tattoos, two sons, and few options to improve her situation, Ray is the perfect example of the women Barbara Ehrenreich writes about, the women who find themselves choosing between food and gasoline.

Ray's fortunes, though, shift when she meets Lila, a Mohawk smuggler who involves her in a human trafficking operation to bring illegal immigrants across the Canadian-American border through Mohawk territory. The law of either country doesn't apply on Mohawk territory, where a tribal council makes determinations instead. Each trip earns the driver $2400, paid in two installments. But, in order to make the journey, the women have to cross the frozen river between the two countries, a perilous journey as weather conditions affect the strength of the ice to support cars. With four trips, Ray will have enough money for her payment before Christmas.

This film works on the strength and believability of its characters and their relationship to one another. The film is certainly a spin on the buddy film genre in which an unlikely duo must work together. Both Ray and Lila are full of suspicion and distrust in a world that has shown them no pity. But both women are still mothers, and they connect on this one basic point -- a mother will do anything for her children. Their tense and hostile conversations keep the story engaging, as the viewer waits to see if any reconciliation between them is possible past their initial bond of motherhood.

The performanes in the film are excellent. Melissa Leo delivers an outstanding performance as a woman who has come to expect disappointment in life. Despite her life-beaten appearance, she struggles to maintain dignity and raise her two sons with love and discipline. The simple act of applying mascara is transformed into a sanity-saving ritual through Leo's nuanced performance. Ray is an immensely likable character, and perhaps it is difficult to understand exactly why she is in such a demeaned situation in the first place.

The film opens in the AMC on August 22.

Brick Lane A Study in Humanity

2008-08-11T10:38:00.000-07:00

Brick Lane is a tremendous effort by first time director Sarah Gavron that captures the transformation of Nazneen from a sheltered Bangladeshi immigrant coping with despair and lovelessness in London's east end to a more modernized and less innocent woman. The film traces Nanzneen's idealized childhood, where she runs wild with her sister through fields. However, this freedom is little more than a memory, when Nanzneen is shown 16 years later in her cramped, dark, cloistered existence. Shrouded in black and keeping to herself, Nanzneen detests her overweight, educated husband, and seems to care only for the care of her two daughters. The romantic visions of her early life return throughout the film, as bright moments of escapism. The suicide of her mother during childhood seems a distinct possibility for Nanzneen, whose entire world consists of her apartment and her view out the window. Only her husband's promise that they will return to Bangladesh gives her a reason to persist. When spunky Razia moves in next door, Nanzeen is inspired to begin a home sewing business to help pay for the return flight to Bangladesh. The business brings her in contact with Karim, a muslim rights activist, and the two begin an affair that forces Nanzneen to re-evaluate her identity.

The film weaves together complicated strands to create an intelligent study of love, memory, and the shifting roles played by men and women in the immigrant family. Through a shattering of her naive and romantic understanding of the past, Nanzneen comes to learn the differences between the real and ideal. The dangerous seduction of idealization is also identified when Karim and his group spout empty platitudes for Muslim unity following the attack on the Twin Towers. Chanu sees through the radicalism and ahistoricity immediately, pointing to the real situation that took place in Pakistan a generation before.

The theme of the immigrant experience is equally well developed, where Chanu is conflicted between his desire for a traditional and a modernized family. He loves his family, but understands none of them. He is educated academically, but lacks common sense. He tries to embrace life as a Londoner, but only comes off as a comic imitation. Even the wall paper in his apartment is a failed attempt to imitate a country interior. Yet for his failures, he struggles with very real emotions of pride and tenderness. Nanzneen's experience is one of awakening and a shedding of her old identity as she learns what the new world can offer her. While her mother was trapped in her Village Life, she has the opportunity to improve her station not through marriage or sex, but through her own efforts.

From the acting to the production values, the film is a great success. Nanzneen's caged existence is mirrored in short, jagged shots that mirror her agony. Her angry, resentful glare softens as she falls in love, as she herself does not have the words. The entire crew does a fantastic job conveying emotion through color and cinematography, rather than through dialogue. This film is highly recommended and a moving study of the new immigrant.

Brick Lane opens August 15th in the AMC forum

Woolly Leaves, One Hundred Dollars, and at Divan Orange

2008-07-31T10:16:00.000-07:00

These three bands put on an interesting, heartfelt show at the Divan Orange last night. The crowd was so sparse. So sparse that I wondered if the entire audience consisted of me and a room full of performers. However, none of these acts (I missed the big finishers, Quest For Fire who took the stage after midnight) merited such a mediocre turn out. These were solid acts, certainly a good representation of the twangy, alt-country genre of Canada's indie scene. These performers would have been at home at the annual cowboy themed Stampede Breakfast held at the St. Catherine Theatre. Maybe (hopefully) next year.

Kicking things off was Wil Kidman's solo project, the Woolly Leaves. Wil Kidman is the keyboardist in the Constantines, which should draw all kinds of Canadian music fanaticos based on association with a major band alone. Well, having seen him, he should draw all kinds of music fanaticos simply because he's great. Just a man and a guitar. No pyrotechnics. No clowns. No magic tricks or dancing poodles. This particular set-up can suffer from being boring if the music is too similar from song to song, but Kidman managed to cover enough range to hold my rapt attention. He sang, by and large, about broken heartedness and disconnection. Thank God for heartbreak, or all these musicians would be singing about Steven Harper. Anyway, Kidman had good lyrics, a sedate stage presence (he doesn't pander to the audience or explain his songs, which is to his credit!), and a very sweet, shy manner about him. Genre-wise, this was folk-country stuff (emphasis folk over country).

Next up was a far twangier, trippier performance by Deloro, a band featuring Dallas, who is the bassist in the Constantines. Again, where the hell were all these Constantine fans? Anyway, this was borderline jam band music. Not jam music funky, but jam music rootsy. I was thinking... Mississippi All Stars and MOE. This is swamp music. Which is awesome, certainly. But what these artists brought to it was mood. I felt them feeling the music, digging deep into their inner bayous. Hootin' and a-hollerin' is wholly appropriate.

Last, of the three that I saw, was the ensemble country-folk (emphasis country over folk here) One Hundred Dollars ($100). Despite falling in the same genre, this band, headed by Ian Russell and Simone Fornow, complete with a lovely pedal steel, was very different from the two others. The songs were about real folks, real people, a sort of urban downtrodden emphasis to the lyrics. The synergy among the performers was great and sincere. The audience which had assembled over the night from four to a small but mighty crowd was enamored, which always helps feed the energy of the show. Looking like they rolled in Divan Orange having just finished a two week camping trip, this band is proof enough that tight pants have nothing to do with talent and honest performance.

Sadly, I missed the headliners, Quest for Fire, but even more sad, I missed Starving Hungry and Devil Eyes at the Bar St Laurent 2. Well, you can't get to them all... and I have no idea why everyone that interests me plays on the exact same night.

Brideshead Revisited Bores

2008-07-25T04:06:00.000-07:00

One complaint about animated children's films is that they are cinema length advertisements for dolls, T-shirts, video games, toys, trips to Disneyland, food products, sneakers, and anything else that parents are willing to spend their hard earned shekels on in order to please their grasping brood. In contrast, I feel that an adult film that is based on a book is successful if it makes the viewer want to go out, buy the book, and read it. I recently had just such an experience with the Golden Compass. The movie was not the best I'd ever seen, but I was intrigued enough by the film to want to read the Pullman Series.

Which leads to my point.

Brideshead Revisited makes me want to burn the book.

Funny, because I never read the book. I've read other Waugh books and this one is a butchery.

I twisted. I turned. I wiggled in my seat and prayed for it to end. I can't remember the last time I hated a movie so much. I can't call it a bomb, because it isn't a bomb. It has high production values and Albert Finney. It doesn't suck necessarily because the acting is poor (save for the actress who plays Julia who is a mediocre actress playing a bad character). Rather, it sucks because it is a poor adaption of a novel that is satiric, a chance to make fun of the upper classes and their pretensions. Waugh is usually quite funny to read. Brideshead Revisited 2008 is serious and takes itself too seriously.

The worst part of the film is the terrible development of Charles Ryder as a character. Ryder at first, in theory, is a complex character with many competing motivations -- his infatuation with both Sebastian and Julia, his infatuation with the aristocratic life he discovers, and his distaste for Catholicism and committed atheism. I could ascertain how Waugh handled these matters, including one of the climactic scenes when Ryder an avowed atheist sees the family praying at the bed of their father -- how absurd it must have looked to him and how alien. But in the film, Ryder comes up empty. Rather than identifying with his conflicting motivations, I found myself wishing he'd simply jump off the beautiful balcony and end it all there and shorten the film a bit.

Seriously, though, for a story that must capture the inner struggle of the protagonists' infatuations and his own belief system, it was poorly developed and poorly introduced. This could have been a much better film if it had emphasized different aspects of the novel and the characters. Despite the rave reviews I noticed by a few notable critics, I have to give this film a resounding yawn of disapproval. Don't bother. Support literature and read the book instead.

Shakespeare in the Park in Greenport

2008-07-19T07:22:00.000-07:00

I'm not in Montreal these weeks -- hence the lack of posts on Montreal's current festivals, art events, and happenings. But, one does not cease to be a culture junkie just because one has left the city. Here, on the eastern end of Long Island, I managed to catch art as local as it gets: Shakespeare in the Park in Greenport.

Shakespeare's comedies have never been my favorites. I prefer your standard Hamlet, MacBeth, Julius Caesar type stuff. But, summer theater groups seem to prefer the light hearted and zany comedies to match the levity of an outdoor, sunset performance. And, indeed, watching Shakespeare in the park is always an enjoyable thing to do on a summer evening, provided one has enough bugspray, a bit of potage, and a nice blanket to sit on.

The Greenport crew put on a Comedy of Errors, in which mistaken identity of long separated twins leads to considerable confusion in the town of Ephesus. In order to reduce the distance between the bard and the plebs of today, updates included a setting in what appeared to be the 1920s, a few musical numbers, and a very witty computer screen projection in the back reminiscent of B&W films sans dialogue.

My parents didn't last the show nor did they follow the plot. My father retreated to starbucks and my mother fell asleep. I thought it was a tour de force of locals and a rolicking good time. While glitches, such as microphones that didn't work or the occasional musical number that wouldn't make it to the gong show, were apparent, overall the entire production was well acted and well executed. The physical comedy was coreographed beautifully, the acting excellent by the principals, and general fun communicated to all. Shakespeare can be very distant from a modern, average audience, and I think this troupe did a fine job bringing it to the masses of Greenport.

Martin Sexton and Angela Desveaux at the Juste Pour Rire Theatre

2008-07-06T08:35:00.000-07:00

Other than the Classic Rock my dad woke me up to every Saturday and Sunday morning, I have the longest continuous love affair with the music of Martin Sexton. At age 14? 15? 16? I think 16, I heard him playing on the streets of Cambridge. He wore a big black sombrero like hat and played a few sets a day. I sat at his feet pretty consistently, enamored by both man and music. I read a number of political philosophy books at his feet, yellow highlighter on my hands and face from falling asleep in the Widner library of Harvard University. One time, the stripe ran clean across my face, over the bridge of my nose. Nonetheless, there was always Marty with his big lungs and creative guitar soul, and that made it all worthwhile.

I haven't seen Marty, now, in gosh, 10 years almost, since I saw him in Toronto. 10 years does a lot to a man, or a woman (in my case), but one thing stays the same. Martin Sexton is a musical orgasm. But the musical orgasm has changed. Previously, I felt Sexton in the lower chakras -- some deep primal sensuality that awakened desire. But now he hits the higher ones -- heart, throat, brow, and crown. The energy flows, but I feel it differently than I did 10 years ago. Is it me? I can only point to a single change. He's gotten somehow more effortless in his playing. He plays with the same effervesence that greats like Eric Clapton manage. It's as if and Martin Sexton can get any sound he wants out of his guitar, can make it sit up, beg, roll over, jump through hoops, and fetch a beer from the fridge. But he does it without making anyone aware of his fingers, the stretch, the pressure. I suppose true masters on the guitar are like this -- they play in some kind of supra-present state of existence, as if the music existed in sound before touching a string or a fret. It's a rare thing. Of course, from show to show, Sexton is always a different man. Perhaps this is where he was at tonight -- in his heart and head and not in his heart and loins? Chakra metaphors only make sense to people who buy into that mode of thinking anyway.

But, that said, a Martin Sexton solo show is a religious experience. For me, anyway. This is as close as I get to evangelism, praying in the temple of music. Sexton's evangelical references, hallelujahs, thanks you childrens, and amens, certainly make the transition easy. The crowd is, as at every show, enraptured, eager and hungry for the experience Sexton delivers. But, this is not just showmanship. When I think of those through whom the higher powers communicate to the world, Sexton immediately comes to mind. Each performance is a journey and by the end, all the pilgrims are believers, eager to walk on water for more. Those in the know shout for old songs, always Purple Rain, but in a way, the show is best when Sexton just plays what he likes. He's not a trained circus monkey. The man should be given free reign to take us where he'd like to go, and it would be nice for the audience to be open to his vision, rather than their own.

At this show, Sexton pulled out some new stops and old stops. For the purple rain fanatic, he played The Wind Cries Mary. But I was all too glad to hear him fit the theme of the Jazz festival by jazzing and bluesing up some of his now older songs: Gypsy Woman. A false start on some lyrics didn't stop him giving Diggin' Me a repeat. But, as an old old old fan, I tend to think that the songs from his earliest recordings are the best. It's my sentimental side. I was thrilled to hear In the Journey, a song I could listen to every single day of my life until death. Perhaps Black Sheep is my desert island disk???

Opener Angela Desveaux is a bit of a new discovery for me. I'd not heard her before, even though she is part of the pack of Montreal's fantastic roots-rock scene... these are the bands one can catch at places like Divan Orange and Casa del Popolo. She paired herself with Mick O'Brien, another much loved local. The two were great together, and I think they both have me as a new fan. Desveaux claims Neil Young as an influence and she played.... can't remember which one now, but it fit well within the rest of her country-tinged roots rock set.

All in all, a fabulous show. I'd jump through hoops if I thought it meant Martin Sexton would pass by these parts more often, but since he's in demand all over, I'll have to be patient with his erratic appearances and dream about the day when he'll next come.

If you've not heard Sexton live, well, make a road trip to his next performance. Conversion is inevitable.

The WInter Gloves and Our Book and The Authors at Quai des Brums

2008-07-04T12:29:00.000-07:00

Lord knows why the Winter Gloves refer to their high energy, body shaking music as healing/easy listening on myspace. But, hey, irony is hip, cool, fun. Though, with bands just starting out on what promises to be a tremendous career, those who are not in the know will not know the irony. But, no matter. I'm pretty sure this is a band that we'll be hearing about for years to come. At the moment, their 5-6 song repetorie is short, but proud. Every song is gripping, energetic, and sprinkled with enough musically complicated components to warrant it distinct from most of the palp indie-pop out there. This is not your navel-gazing music. When Charles f. lays it on the tambourine, he beats the devil out of it (to quote Bob Ross) and then flings it behind him with wild abandon on to the next. He's clearly the main force behind the band, but he blends well with his equally energetic compatriots. I can't wait for this band to write a few more songs, put out its first album, and get its van and start the revolution. Until then, I'll take what I can get, even if it is just five songs at Quai des Brumes.

Openers Our Book and the Authors was a sweet little duo. This band is also led by the force of one man, Gabriel d'Amour, who sings with his sweet, clear voice as he plays the keyboard, while backed with the computer wizardry of Jean Arod. This duo is much softer than the Winter Gloves, and less frenetic energy. This is more pointed and contained, but somehow a very good pairing as an opener.

These two bands show that the Montreal music scene continues to spill forth talented, listenable, and joyous indie-pop music and are well worth catching as they grow and develop.

North American Premiere of Bach at St. James United Church

2008-07-01T20:00:00.000-07:00

The North American premiere of a newly discovered work by Bach (Choral fantasie BWV 1128) brings me to St. James United Church on a Tuesday afternoon. The church is surprisingly half full, considering that its a f*!*ing Bach North American premiere. I mean, this is the stuff people should be scalping tickets to on ebay for hundreds of dollars. Instead, it looks like a bingo convention. But, upon some reflection, I am the only person I know who would make a point of coming to see this and there was no one I could have asked to join me. I don't have friends who dig classical music that much.

At any rate, here's the dealio on this little work. This piece was just discovered in March 2008 by two German researchers examining new acquisitions of the library of Halle University. The 85 baar piece was found among the papers of Wilhelm Rust, a 19th century successor to Bach as Kantor at the Thomas Kirche in Leipzig, Germany. The piece was pubished only three weeks prior to this.

The piece is played second and was indeed the gem of the entire recital. I'm not an expert or even an amateur on what makes classical music good or bad, but I find it to be... very... um... Bach-ish. I mean that in the best way, as Bach is one of my all time favourites. It sounds like Bach. It moves at a good clip, takes some minor turns off the main theme, has a nice little flourish at the end before reaching a harmonic resolution. It is certainly moving, perhaps precisely because it is a new discovery and I feel honored to be alive and hear it performed. Had I died a month ago, I would never get to hear this piece.

The organist giving the recital today is Kurt Ludwig Forg, a German organist and academic. He has a tremendous personality, and he introduces all the songs -- not just the Bach piece -- with his own little thoughts on their importance. It makes the whole recital rather delightful. One thing I can say, though, is that the organ is not my instrument of choice. At least, not the organ at this cathedral. During the recital, Forg plays on two different organs and I found the sound sort of muffled and not crisp. I guess "crisp" isn't quite the word one uses to describe an organ, but it didn't have that haunting precision I associate with organ playing. Perhaps that is why the entire concert is in part a fund-raiser to pay for an organ face-lift.

God Made Me Funky Indeed

2008-06-29T21:49:00.000-07:00

I've never played in a band, but it doesn't take more than a little empathy to realize how crowd energy contributes to performance. I've seen God Made Me Funky play before, and they are always an energetic, entertaining gang. But this time, they were on fire and their coordinated dance moves were outtasight! One thing that this bands does is bring back some songs from the 80s that are... well... funky. Or groovy. Or both. Songs like Walk this Way, Superfreak, and Jump Around. Perhaps I date myself, but these songs are due for a comeback. I miss them... and I know all the words.

In general, if there's one thing that god makes me funky realize it's that Montreal could truly use a jam band scene. We have indie pop and underground hip hop and reggae and jazz and metal. Why don't we have any jam bands? The city is full of French hippies who go around in their hemp clothing and through off their shoes at a moment's notice. The tams are packed with people who are jam band ripe. The enthusiasm of the crowd at this show made me realize we are thirsting for jam bands here. I do hope that in my sojourn, a few jam bands materialize here.

Leonard Cohen Tribute Highs and Middles at the Montreal Jazz Fest

2008-06-27T11:25:00.000-07:00

Yes, I was one of those people who stood around for an hour plus, in a huge sea of people waiting for the Leonard Cohen tribute to start. We were packed in like... packed things. This obese lady in front of me actually had a portable chair that she sat in most of the night, eventually falling asleep in the middle of the crowd. Behind, a group of Mexican ladies, perhaps 6 of them, all petite, squished into a space that was equal to the space the sleeping lady took up. Overhead, a camera boom swung back and forth, and I tried not to play the "what could go wrong" game. I was close enough to watch the singers, rather than the screens and that is what matters most.

The show was worth the discomfort in the end. The best performers were beautiful reinterpreters of Leonard Cohen's poetry. The worst ones were medicore at the worst, but its hard not to enjoy Cohen's deceptively simple music. I thought I'd give a play by play of what I could distinguish.

Chris Botti has been called the Jeff Buckley of the trumpet. Ringing over our heads he played Hallelujah, which was followed by a video of Leonard Cohen performing it with his band on the big screen. Although the two videos that punctuated the evening, Suzanne and Hallelujah, are probably the two best known Cohen songs (also, there was Closing Time), and perhaps it is best that no one individual sang these songs, I found it highlighted Cohen's decision of conscious not to show. I think this kind of no-show attitude is a bit graceless. All of these fans came to celebrate and listen to Cohen's works in his hometown. If I'm not mistaken, he was performing not a block away. The least he could do is wave at everyone and say a few words of blessing or appreciation.

One thing that struck me especially was the degree of nervousness a few performers seemed to have. When asked to cover with a story for Adam Cohen while he tuned his guitar, Serena Ryder stood in silence. Buffy Sainte-Marie paused momentarily in the Partisan, as if suddenly forgetting the words. Lhasa de Sela looked as though at any moment she would burst into emotional tears (although, she's always like that). Sometimes the performers seemed to be ushered on and off the stage like bewildered cattle, as if in a state of shock. The audience was enormous, perhaps more than some were used to seeing.

The highlight performances were wonderful. Steven Page stole the show with his dramatic performance of A Singer Must Die. At first I thought he was caught up in a bit of broadway theatrics... but he's also so emotive and so genuine. He gives a lot of his heart when he sings and holds nothing back. I'm a newly minted Bare Naked Ladies fan (though, I suppose, I've always been a bare naked ladies fan). Buffy Sainte-Marie has this deep, throaty voice. I always think these singers of the 60s and 70s have an authenticity that today's singers often lack. Although she seemed nervous, she sang the Partisan tinged with a bit of irony (she's a native American singer)

Adam Cohen, Leonard's son, was redeemed by his blood relationship to the man of the hour and a half, his charming personality and his willingness to share a bit of his life with dad. I think the audience hungered to hear about Leonard Cohen, perhaps even more than hear his music. Cohen performed with gusto, but I found him a bit sparse in comparison with some of the better artists who took the stage. His duet with Serena Ryder was far better than the solo, since she brought width and depth. Ryder is a gifted and admirable singer, anyway. Yet, of all the women performing, I think Madeleine Peyroux's Dance Me to The End of Love, was a sultry hit a la Billie Holiday or Diana Washington. She was a surprise for me. I'd never seen Katie Melua perform before, and I don't think I need to see her again. Euro pop stars. Nor do I think I ever need to hear Garou ever again. Quebec pop stars! However, where the singers fell short, the backing band rose to the occasion and filled in with richness and precision.

All in all, a wonderful tribute that would have been even better if the man himself had arrived on the scene

The list of performances:

Chris Botti: Hallelujah
Zachary Richard: Bird On A Wire.
Buffy Sainte-Marie: The Partisan.
Steven Page: A Singer Must Die.
Adam Cohen: Take This Waltz
Adam Cohen with Serena Ryder: Hey, That's No Way To Say Goodbye
Serena Ryder: Sisters Of Mercy
Madeleine Peyroux: Dance Me To The End Of Love
Katie Melua: In My Secret Life
Lhasa de Sela with Thomas Hellman: So Long Marianne
Lhasa de Sela: Who By Fire
Steven Page with Joe Lovano at the saxophone: Memories
Chris Botti (trumpet): A Thousand Kisses Deep with the words projected in the back of the stage
Garou : Everybody Knows
Michel Pagliaro: The Future
Giant screen: Leonard Cohen singing Closing Time
Salute from all the artists followed by Leonard Cohen singing Suzanne on giant screens.

Summer Solstice SubCollisions Style

2008-06-21T21:52:00.000-07:00

I had plans. Oh, did I have plans! I was done up like it was prom and I was going to slow dance with every attractive man and perhaps even woman, just to keep things lively, at the hipster slowdance. However, you can't dance if you're the only person who arrives. A lack of muller-arounders outside convinced me that the Slow Dance party was not my part. Instead, I wandered St. Laurent until I stumbled upon SubCollisions playing at Divan Orange.

There are days when I fear for the Montreal music scene. Anything "too cool" often stops being fun. Cool becomes a barrier between those who are in and those who are out. And these are extremely arbitrary decisions that serve to exclude. I was more than pleased to learn that there are bands in Montreal who are more fun than anything else. Subcollisions is one of these.

A 10 piece band, though I think only 5 musicians stayed on stage, they belt out the most incredible good time cabaret. Since it was solstice, everyone was dressed like they'd stumbled out of a Midsumemr night's dream. Inbetween familiar and unfamliar songs, small acts that included a poetry reading and a horse "he's hung like a horse" seducing a virgin turned the whole thing into a scene out of Moulin Rouge, but without absinthe. This was total mayhem, total randomness, total fun. The whole crowd was dancing and singing along, stomping their feet. It was a revelry.

And, if I don't mention the talent, well, slap me with a cold salmon across the face. The band is amazing and the two female singers have incredible voices.

Bravo. I rung in solstice in a way it deserved.

Grant Hart and Greg McPherson at La Sala Rossa

2008-06-07T23:08:00.000-07:00

Punk as fuck. That's the only way to describe Grant Hart, former drummer and half of the singer-songwriter power of Husker Du. Admittedly, I'm borrowing the phrase, but this guy is the genuine article. But, I suppose to understand that, one must first take a look at good, solid Canadian indepedent act, Greg MacPherson first. The comparison between new school and old school was well illustrated.

MacPherson is a Winnepegger touring juggernaut. He poodles back and forth across Canada with his weathered guitar, opening his veins and his lungs from club to club. This current tour is a bit atypical for MacPherson, as he reminded us many times he hadn't performed solo in almost a year. Since I've never seen his backing band, I find it difficult to imagine him as anything but firey, grand solo MacPherson. Seul. Sans autre.

One either hates or loves MacPherson. There is no other option. His show at Sala, peppered with nervous and self-depreciating comments, was raw, generous, and fierce. MacPherson is powerful by the determination of his effort and likable for his authenticity and humility. His most popular song, Company Store, is an Irish miner's fight song that rouses the audience to punch their fists and sing along as if at McKibbin's Pub. Despite its fraternal mask, typical of MacPherson, the lyrics are thoughtful and politicized.

for all the heart, MacPherson's shows are a bit like slamming a hammer into your thumb. They are a non-stop pounding -- loud, emotive, and with little delicacy. There is limited modulation of mood or conquering energy.

Which is where Grant Hart comes in.

Hart hopped onto the stage, his eyes glazed over, straggly hair, wearing a ratty grey jacket with patchwork stitched at the pocket. Even at the age of 46, long past the days of Husker Du, he oozes anti-authoritarian punk, and not the kind you can buy, but the kind that gets you beat up and left choking in a puddle of your own blood and saliva. He spent the first few songs finding himself and then seemed to step through the portal to the other side, easing into the music and riding it to other more surprising places. The show felt like one was sitting in his living room (or standing, I suppose), and he was just fiddling around on his guitair, some old songs, new songs, and occassionally just playing around and experimenting.

Hart, with his old guitar, his old amp, his bad ass attitude, his clumsy memory, and even his crude bedside manner, has that quintessential grasp on what makes indie music great. It's not a matter of trying to be something, of trying to get a message out, of trying to cajole love or acceptance out of anyone, of trying to be cool or posturing at cool or having a look or a style. There is something precious about being one's ugly, imperfect self with a take it or leave it attitude and just loving the act of making music itself. Hart is not a people person and I'd be all to happy if he left the provocative attitude at the border. But, perhaps the attitude is necessary, because when he isn't making obscure references, ironic comments, or carping, suddenly on stage appears a vulnerable, fragile artist, the epiphany of the very thing I usually have to strip through layers to find. Hart lays it out, exactly as it is, and to do that is a true gift.

Elephantine at Last!

2008-06-02T12:23:00.000-07:00

It took me awhile before I finally managed to catch this little local Franco band around the city, but man, I'm so glad I did. They're awesome. They seem to be playing everywhere these days -- with good reason -- they have an adaptable sound that is soft enough to fit as an opening band for most indie pop acts. But, at the same time, most songs seem to lapse into these great spaced out riffs that can get heavy and hard. These guys have it down, the yin yang of electronica and acoustica (can I market that term?). I think I'll be seeing them around for the next few years.

La Marea at Festival Trans Amerique

2008-06-02T11:45:00.000-07:00

My faith in the goodness of Montreal's cultural scene is restored. Winter can be a bit sparse on the offerings and a time when journeying more than just a few blocks is an effortful production. That said, with the return of festival season, I am delighted to report that the FTA's freebie offering, la Marea, under the direction of Argentina's Mariano Pensotti was a rousing return from the winter sleep.

La Marea consisted of a series of vignettes around the theme of love. Each scene was performed with minimal speech, and the characters' thoughts or the narration appeared overhead in French (and occasionally English) subtitles. Voyeuristically dropping into another person's stream of consciousness affirmed the basic common desires and hopes among diverse people. Most refreshing, each vignette made use of the apartment balconies and storefronts of Rue Emery in the Latin Quarter as a backdrop. That natural street traffic of pedestrians, residents, and film goers periodically crossed in front of the scenes, which made every episode all the more vivid and added relevancy. Characters from one scene would reappear in another, as pedestrian traffic, which also added to the naturalism. Over a two hour period, attentive crowds wandered from vignette to vignette, each a fleeting 10 minutes of mental chatter and poignancy.

I attirbute the success of La Marea to a number of factors. Phrases and names particular to Quebec, such as street names or mention of the FLQ, rooted the universal ponderings to a local setting. In this way, all the themes of love raised were applicable, rather than abstract. Personally, I found this attempt to integrate Quebec into the play a bit forced and it could have been done more subtly and with less frequency. I also enjoyed the novelty of walking from scene to scene, all of which were quirky and brief. It never felt redundant, even though most of the vignettes seemed to focus on love's brevity. I found myself waiting to see how each vignette addressed certain shared points: Every character shared an escape fantasy. Every character expressed a desire to be liked. Every character faced self doubt.

Of all the vignettes, I found the two characters who fail to meet up outside a movie theatre the most compelling. Making use of the theatre on the street, after five minutes of waiting for his date to arrive, the bitter man walks away. In the meantime, a woman arrives at the theatre and begins to wrestle with her faith in God as a consequence of her frustration at being stood up. Presumably, the two were supposed to meet each other.

Hopefully Montreal will continue to sponsor innovative productions like La Marea in its festival programming. For the past two years, the Festival Transamerique has brought high quality international work to this city in a variety of performance genres and this year's offerings are no exception.

Tony O'Neill and the EveryAddict's Tale

2008-04-15T12:02:00.001-07:00

I seem to have crossed paths with a goodly number of addicts in my life, which sometimes make me wonder if there are more of them than I realize or if I simply attract addicts. I don’t know the statistics of what percentage of people in society are addicts… but in a crowd, I can find the alcoholic, pothead, acid fiend, meth maniac, and their like in any number of recreational pharmaceuticals. Maybe it has to do with all that Buddha compassion stuff – I empathize with their suffering, rather than sneer in disgust.

So, it is with my supra-layman’s knowledge of addiction that I came to hear punk poet, musician, and heroin junkie Tony O’Neill’s afternoon reading at Marianopolis college. O’Neill drew upon an assorted collection of poems and short stories, including an unpublished work. I might be mistaken when I call them autobiographical, and I fear falling into that trap of confusing the man with the writing, but the stories show close familiarity of the life of a junkie and a junkie’s obsession with drugs. With what little I know of O’Neill, these are works about his life, or at least, about some of his experiences with drugs. His writings are intimate and visceral, recounting an endless series of days living below the surface in which getting high and hopefully higher is the alpha and omega of existence.

Reading poems in print is very different from reading them aloud. The poems are wonderful heard aloud. However, as the reading marched on past the hour mark, I found it tedious that every poem focused on alcohol and drugs, save for one or two that mentioned alcoholism and drugs. Every poem. After awhile, it was as though he were telling the same story but with an anagram of drugs and characters. Then, perhaps, I did what no critic should really do – I began to contemplate how the man and art were the same, and drew the conclusion that his addiction to drugs was now an addiction to writing about drugs. Truly, he was still an addict of sorts, and this left me feeling like an uncomfortable voyeur, looking into the life of a person with malfunctional machinery. At this point, whatever amused me about his writing ceased and I was unable to focus on the man as artist, but instead saw him as a man telling his own Addict’s Tale. And, quite simply, I am never entertained by the reality of the junkie’s existence and am not comfortable laughing at the absurdity and dehumanized pathos of junkie situations.

He is a fine writer – an excellent writer. He is able to convey his frailty and his monstrosity with immediacy. He hits notes of incredible beauty and poignancy in his writing. His melanged accent and slightly nervous demeanor help endear him to the audience. Yet, my opinion remains quite staunch; his junkie story was simply a more literate version of the EveryAddict’s tale, the same assemblage of miseries I have heard from others: the pawning of everything in the house for drugs, the cradle of the cement sidewalk, meaningless sexual experiences and marriages while high. In fact, I was waiting for my favourite EveryAddict Tale motif – the way the first white light of day breaking the sky is a time of great grief and fear, the end of the cover of darkness.

What O’Neill does is not new. As a voracious reader of addict tales, I thought of his similarities with the Jay MacInerneys and Bret Easton Ellises, the Hunter S. Thompsons and Irvine Welshes, and even more recent Ellen Hopkinses. Addict tales are nothing new and every generation has its share of bards who wax poetic about the ugliness and wildness of the raw life. But, with his talent, O’Neill would do far more to distinguish himself by launching himself into territory beyond the gutter and the crack hotel.

Montreal Music This Week (behind alas)

2008-04-13T21:02:00.000-07:00

Truth be told, I should have done this days ago. I've been out to a few shows... and now I should review them and all that. Well, I'll see how my time stretches or doesn't.
So, this week, holy schmokes, wow.
First, let me report that old time friends of mine, a band of fantastic name: Grand Theft Bus, played the Black Dot with Snailhouse and Tall Firs on Friday. The Black Dot is kick ass as far as venues go. This is my kind of place. It's practically someone's living room that's been converted into a venue. I felt like I was peeking in on a band practicing in the living room. It was wonderbar! Anyway, the Bus delivered as per usual. They have a new sound and a new member(its been a few years since I've seen them play), but still manage to deconstruct sound and create a kind of noisy chaos that eventually re-evolves into more melodic pieces. I think its fun, but I'm not sure if all the indie hipsters in the room got it. But that's kind of my complaint about stereotypical groups. When it comes to indie hipsters, of it wasn't discussed on stillepost or pitchfork media, they don't know what to think.

Alright, so let's do the rundown. I realize it's sunday already. eep. Well, I should recap what you could of seen on Saturday just to keep things here kind of regular-ish.

So, Friday, if you weren't heading to hear the Bus, I would have told everyone to check out Jorane at Le Nationale. She is something awesome. A french cellist who fuses pop and rock with classical music. She's pretty special and doesn't play that often (at least, it doesn't seem like she plays very often).

Saturday, um... I was also occupied with a huge War Requiem put on by McGill's Schulich School of Music. It was big, intense, and passionate -- held in the church at Henri Julien and Rachel -- a wonderful venue for it. A boy's choir was seated in the balcony above, sounding like angels pronouncing the anti-war message. Anyway, that was well worth attending, but there were many other goods going on: Basia Bulat, for example. And, oooh, at Petit Campus was the Party Bluets, which apparently included the very cool Psycho Riders and another of my favs: Les Dales Hawerchucks.

Sunday, that would be today, right? Well, I was at l'escalier (formerly known as L'Utopik) watching jazzy soul singer accompanied by a human beatbox and some mighty flamenco like fingers on the guitair. It was wonderful. But, I could have seen Autechre (sigh) at Club Soda, Heros and Villains at Divan Orange, or even the Dirtbombs at the Musee Juste Pour Rire theatre. Well, you can't do it all.

Monday is quiet. Nothing of note. Although, I'm intrigued by this band's name: Elephantine... playing at Sala Rossa, which suggests this might be worth checking out if it falls in a genre of music that interests me.

Tuesday... whoa... Hot chip with Free Blood. I tried to get a ticket today, but it was soooold out. boo.

Wednesday. I don't think my eyes are deceiving me, but I'm blinking. The Cult is playing at L'Olympia with the Clicks. I think my devotion to the cult ended when they sold She Sells Sanctuary to Toyota or some other car company.

So, let me pre-empt next week a bit, just in case I'm behind again. matthiew d'astous (he's quite good) is playing Thursday at Theatre Lionel Groulx. And Friday, the very sexy Peter Elkas is opening for Jason Collett at Petit Campus.

and yes, that should be a wrap.

Montreal Music Week of March 27

2008-03-27T16:00:00.000-07:00

March is all in like a lion, out like a lamb. I think for the music scene, its just the opposite. March starts off sleepy and then roars to life as people start dropping in on our fair city from places afar and near.

I suppose I should begin with a plug for a friend – only once I say that, there’s an assumption that I’m simply praising the band because of our friendship. That’s a bad assumption. This is a crazy, mad, insane, guitar smashing band and the spectacle created will be take second fiddle to the wild music. Devil Eyes will be playing at the Black Dot with Swamp Sex Robots and Soki Soki at the Wrong Wave festival tonight. HELL YEAH! Okay, so if you’re into something a little more mellow, well, Luc Doucet and Angela Desveaux are at Sala Rossa. Rob Lutes and Scott MacLeod are at the Centre St. Ambroise. And, I suppose this definitely merits a nod – Crystal Castles and Heath are at the Juste Pour Rire theatre. Crystal Castles is sort of like thinned out disco electronica, so expect a dance party.

Friday, March 28, is like the day of funk and swing. At La Tulipe, the best swingy jazzy dance party, C’est Extra is totally and completely free (seriously?) I’ve been to C’est Extra and its fun – also weird – but fun. But, the nu-funk is at the Jello Bar with God Made Me Funky on their CD Release tour. The Montreal funk is at the House of Reggae with one of my favourite local rasta bands, Inword. So if funk and dance aren’t your thing, well, Die Die Die is at Zoobizzare. I have no idea what that is, but I don’t suspect that dancing is part of it.

On March 30, there’s something kind of cool to do at OFF Interarts. Get ready to suck sugar at Indyish.com’s Sugar Shack Mess featuring a host of cool folks performing. Lil’ Andy, Brie Neilson, Bad Uncle, No Barbers Required and Deep River Decoy.

Finally, on April 2, I’ll just name a few of the fun things going down: Kathleen Edwards, Justine Rutledge at the Juste Pour Rire. Mahogany Frog and Wax Mannequin at the Casa del Popolo. Pas Chic Chic at the Lion d'or. And last but not least, Wolf Eyes and Ghost Limbs Divan Orange

Caribou Concert Review La Tulipe

2008-03-24T08:02:00.000-07:00

I have two favourite bands. One is the Jimmy Swift Band of Halifax Nova Scotia, a band that has defined a new genre called rocktronica. Well, actually, Pink Floyd is rocktronica too – a melding of good old solid rock and electronica. To me, the sound is transcendent.

The same can be said of my second favourite band, Caribou, fronted by David Snaith of Dundas, Ontario. Formerly, the band was called Manitoba (even the term “band” is a bit of a misnomer, since it seems to have been simply Snaith). Snaith’s music is electronic psychedellia – a little kraut rock added, perhaps. His soft pitched voice is simply one more instrument among the others he combines to create music that is both intricate and addictive. However, backed with a full band, Caribou sounds heavier, funkier, a little bit earthier than Snaith alone. Which is not to say that any of the psychedelic dreaminess is lost by the inclusions of others. This band is an acid trip, a chance to connect with the divinity of all men, a oneness in the universe. In other words, this band is my other favourite band.

Carbiou’s show at La Tulipe was riveting. How could it not be? Any time you put two drummers head to head and have them play complicated rhythms in sync, it’s going to be impressive. The bigness of the drum sound together and its execution is just… special. Worthy of praise beyond praise. Snaith and his band switch off to pull in a melodica, a recorder, a xylophone, and a few ambient noises like dog barks to add complexity. Songs played came from across most of the records released, each delivered with flawless awe. Personal favourites are Bees, Melody Day, and well… all of them really. The rapport among the band members is evident and their joy is visible.

The band was bathed in a changing pattern of geometrics and colors flashed behind them on a screen. This light show, which I believe is a computer projection off the balcony, compensates for the one thing the band doesn’t have – audience rapport. While playing, the band is completely engrossed in the music (with good reason – this is complicated stuff). One song quickly switches to the next, with no introduction or context. Snaith mumbles a word of thanks and waves his appreciation; one senses his gratitude, but also his timidity. Caribou’s performance is a spectacle of light and sound and the excellence of these two things it what causes the transcendent feeling. It is not an active seduction the audience. I do not feel enticed or personally connected with the performers. I am rather just meant to absorb their excellence. Not that I am complaining.

Best touring to you, Caribou, my second favourite band. May you return quickly.

Montreal Music Week of March 21, 2008

2008-03-21T08:41:00.000-07:00

Ah, I thought this week was going to suck. I was proven so wrong. Seems like our local booking agents are bringing in stuff well worth hauling one's butt out to see. There was no particular theme, and the good stuff seems to fall in all genres. Starting with today, Friday, the 21. There is, believe it or not, a Festival of the Accordian, taking place at the Tehatre de la Ville. I mean, how cool is that? An accordian festival? Alright, if that sounds like something your grandfather or weird cousin would like better than you, People for Audio and the Unsettlers are at the Bread Factory. I think this must be a new venue, as I've never heard of it before.

Saturday is a matter of being pulled in many directions at once. First off, Cuff the Duke, Montreal's oh-so-cool United Steel Workers of Montreal, and Vincent are the Juste Pour Rire (Cabaret du Musee). That's a great line up. But wait, the heaviest of the heavies, metals own IRON GIANT and electik bones are at Les Katacombes. I used to hang out with the guys from Iron Giant and I swear they get as naked as often as possible. Alright, indie hipsters will no doubt be at Les Saints to see The Raveonettes. Finally, MSTRKRFT will be fulfilling the dreams of all electronica folk at the Metropolis. Man, Saturday is just overwhelming.

And then, the crowning glory of all, one of my absolute favourite artists is performing: Caribou. This PhD transplant from Canada to England and who knows where he lives now has blown me away with his CDs and with his live performances that make me cry with joy. That's taking place at La Tulipe. Oh, I'm so glad I'm off Monday.

Now usually Monday is the end of all things interesting, but this week, Monday continues to sizzle with BC's Wassabi Collective, noted stars of the Evolve Festival out east in some little town in Nova Scotia. These guys don't come through often, so don't miss them at Divan Orange.

Tuesday brings old timers LIfehouse (zzz) at Club Soda and more interestingly, Kalumnity at Sablo Kafe.

Wednesday. WHOA. Back to too many choices. First off, there's some Bach fugue thing going on with the OSM. I completely am enamoured of the OSM and think Kent Nagano is very sexy to boot. But that is beside the point. Bach's fugues? Is that like manna from heaven or what? Alright, alright, maybe it's all sold out or something. OK Giraffe (a duo I believe I've mentioned here before) along with Millie Croche and Cahrlotte Cornfield are at rickety little shack Cafe Chaos. And, ah, the icing of the week, Why? -- Ohio's own weirdest, nerdiest, and coolest export that combines confessional and dark lyrics with sparse electronic melodies. Why? is playing with Cryptacize and SisterSuvi at Sala Rossa.

It's a good week, hey?

Art Opening at the SBC Gallery of Contemporary Art OIkos/Habitacles

2008-03-21T08:05:00.000-07:00

These scenes are typical of Couturier's work on San Diego (these are not the ones in the exhibit). These are from the lawrence miller gallery.

SBC Gallery of Contemporary Art in the Bellgo building is hosting the first of a two part show entitled OIKOS/Habitacles curated by Sylvain Campeau. This outstanding exhibit focuses on the subject of landscape. Traditionally, the landscape is treated as a subject of contemplation, where the artist is separate and removed. The landscape does not change by the artist’s presence, and his (or her) presence is transient. The artwork is a transient view of an eternal object.

OIKOS/Habitcules is interested in the intrusion of the artist on landscape, as well as the melding of nature with manmade constructions. These photographs, some digitally altered, present three different approaches to the subject of landscape and do so with challenging and exciting results.

Isabelle Hayeur’s (Canada) three pieces are digital photographs, enlarged and altered to create “new and improbable” landscapes. Jour/Nuit seems a subtle nod to Magritte’s L’Empire des Lumieres, a surreal image of a house at night, with a blue sky beyond. In Hayeur’s image, a winter stand of trees, just at the end of fall, obscures the view of a row of houses still lit from the previous night along a lake. The colorless, bright sky, is touched with the reddish colors of the sun’s arrival (or perhaps departure). Cathedrale and Complicite are equally fascinating. In Cathedrale, a forest grove of trees on an irregular landscape is melded with metal poles that are camouflaged by the tree trunks. Complicite contrasts a spiral, metal stairway with a tall young tree. The juxtaposition of the natural and the manmade allows the viewer to contemplate the timelessness of the living wood and metal. Both rot and decay eventually, yet both seem to exist beyond our own lives.

Stephane Coutourier’s (France) Diptych on San Diego resemble photos of gigantic dioramas, though in fact the viewer is looking at photographs of new suburban developments with the lifeless, but ever changing, desert in the background. The imposition of man on his landscape, his need to live at a frontier and ever extend it, is implicit in the photos. Coutourier captures how the suburban structures force a generic, American life upon the barrenness and pristine vigor of the desert as well. These exciting photos demand one contemplate how man dominates and changes his landscape.

Finally, the more subtle series of untitled bunkers by Mark Ruwedel (US) brings together a series of black and white photos of cement structures set into various landscapes around the world. Much like Coutourier, Ruwedel captures the interplay between the manmade and the natural. Though, unlike Coutourier, the vigor and dominance of man is decreased. The crumbling, empty bunkers that seem defined as much by their empty interiors as by their long lasting cement are hardly an example of man’s triumph. Rather, the impression is of long, gradual decay in a landscape that changes seasonally, but lasts eternally. Furthermore, the wide varieties of locations where the bunkers come form imply that the desire of man to build himself into nature, as well as his inability to sustain his creations, is universal. Among the photos, the bunkers of the Mojave Desert, Devil’s Side, and Halifax stand out.for their unique shapes and particular solitude.

I eagerly await the second part of this exhibit, which brings together the work of three more artists who address landscape in innovative ways as well.

Jose Gonzalez Concert Review Juste pour Rire Theatre

2008-03-15T07:35:00.000-07:00

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW.
Alright, I am going to tangent about concert T-shirts before I say a few words about Jose's panty removing performance at the Just for Laughs Theatre last night.
I admit that I lately have a thing where I want to buy concert T-shirts lately. Why? I have this obsession with wearing concert T-shirts to the gym. Other people sweat away in their spandex and sport specific apparel, ATHLETE stuff. I suppose it is some kind of psychological boost, since I question the necessity of $150 spandex shorts for bench pressing for 2 minutes followed by a very strenusous sittitng around for 15 minutes while watching everyone else. I suppose owning $150 spandex shorts means that you need to get your butt to the gym so you can use them or else the guilt alone will kill you. Notably, some of the most serious athletes at the gym wear the same dingy but comfortable outfit each time. So, I wanted to meld the two --a psychological boost with something I like wearing. What could be more perfect than my Do Make Say Think T-shirt? However, it's starting to smell and I need some other concert T-shirts so I can throw it in the wash. Fortunately, Jose Gonzalez offered me the perfect opportunity to pick up a fresh T-shirt to add to my rotating cast of gym clothes.

Back to the concert. Jose Gonzalez. Wow. I mean, what else can I say but wow? The guy oozed on the sensuality through his vulnerability and his talent. This is the kind of music that makes women peel off their panties. Like John Mayer or Elliot Smith. I suppose I can make endless references to the limited cannon of guitair playing soloists I know... he makes me think of early Martin Sexon... but that sounds sort of pretentious and makes it sound as though I have a huge repetoire to draw upon. But, I see the same use of picking out a bass line with one's thumb, something that Marty made into his trademark.

Gonzalez started with a series of solo songs, just him on a chair and his guitair. The theatre was so packed that it was impossible to see him, except for the top of his afro. I found a perch on the steps at the back of the theatre, which I held faithfully through the entire show. After his solo act, he was joined by two band members, who gave body and range to the mournful sensitivity. I would never call it "lush." This was stripped down music, left at its most basic -- angelic vocals, talented guitair playing, simple instrumental backing (not even a full drum kit!). From alpha to omega, and probably beyond, I could stay the course with this cat.

Any complaints? Well, after the show he didn't come up to me and say, "Hey, baby, nice boots. I've got this great bus, if you want to check it out."

For his website:
http://www.jose-gonzalez.com/

Cuba! Art and History from 1868 to Today

2008-03-13T17:21:00.000-07:00

If a fascination with the Otherness of the East is Orientalism, is a fascination with the Otherness of Cuba called Meridianism? Cubanism? Carribeanism? Certainly not Castroism. At any rate, Cuba is a mysterious country that seems to exist more in the mythic imagination with figures and concepts that loom larger than life: monsterized dictatorial communist leader Castro; folklorish revolutionary hero Che Guevara; the poor, proud, and very literate populace; baseball players and artists who build rafts made of sticks and prayers to float across the Caribbean in hopes of reaching Miami; pork sandwiches and siestas; hot sweaty sensual Cubano rhythms. What is Cuba to those of us who see it only from afar, knowing it through sound bites, CDs, and independent films like Strawberry and Chocolate? Cuba is a place that exists in my imagination, a Caribbean Island I may never see, but one whose politics seem to make the news weekly.
The realization that the Cuba I think I know exists only in my mind is precisely why the Cuba! Art and History from 1868 to Today exhibit at the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts is so striking. It brings over 450 works from this mysterious country to the public, most on loan from Havana’s Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes. The rest of the work is drawn from the Fototeca de Cuba, the Museum of Modern Art, the Metropolitan Museum and many private collections. The works cover a range of media, though photography and painting predominate.
The exhibit is organized into five sections, and the visitor travels through time, passing from room to room. The first sets of rooms show Cuba’s earliest interaction with various western powers of the day -- the ousting of the Spanish and the sugar plantation overlords, the US arrival on the scene, and subsequent periods of interference. Then, it moves onto Cuba’s romance with revolution, a celebration of Communism and an embrace of Socialist spirit. An especially interesting room of propagandistic posters and photos relate to Cuba’s revolution and the arrival of Castro on the scene. Then, the exhibit turns to the present, where more modern influences are visible. The embargo by the US and the collapse of the USSR are evident more in a mood shift, rather than overt criticism.
For a country that sees so inaccessible and unfamiliar today, the artists show considerable familiarity with the global art world. For example, Wilfredo Lam (1902-82) paints surreal and cubist figures in the style of Picasso. The interwar futurist avant-garde drawings and paintings of Marcelo Pogolotti celebrate the unity of workers as one mass. There are numerous other artists to celebrate here. Furthermore, the exhibition demonstrates an incredible tolerance towards art styles and innovation.
Of course, it is difficult to recognize Cuba’s artistic achievements without noting that exiled artists or reference to them is notably absent. There is almost no suggestion of dissatisfaction with Castro or the present state of affairs. The absence of such works makes a loud statement.

FIFA -- Festival of International Films on Art

2008-03-10T09:19:00.000-07:00

Every year, Montreal's horrible winter is broken up by a film festival that is certain to awaken and delight the senses. The FIFA, the Festival of International Films on Art, showcases films about... well... ART. The films cover topics such as the lives of artists and famous works, as well as museums and nearly anything else you could possibly think of, so long as it relates to art.

The FIFA is particularly cool because its the only festival of its kind in the world. This year, the festival, running from March 6-16 showcases 290 films from 30 countries on 27 different disciplines including architecture, theatre, video art, dance, art history, painting, and photography.

Tickets are just $12 a film ($10 if you count as a youth). For more info, including the programming, check out the website at: http://www.artfifa.com/

Haiku

2008-03-09T13:32:00.000-07:00

Is it too arrogant to include some of my own work here? I hope not. I'm taking a poetry class with the Quebec Writer's' Foundation and our first assignment is to write some haiku of our own. I started with gusto, preparing poems whose verses fit the 5-7-5 syllabic beat. Apparently, the assignment was rather different (see below for the haiku guidelines of Robyn Sarah). Anyway, here is one of my poems that will probably not make it to class for not fulfilling the assignment's requirements. Hope you enjoy...

Fire

At Decarie and
Cote St. Luc, CBC warns
Of a house-fire.

A house-fire is
Not just a report between
Traffic and weather.

Flames in a window
Fourth story, graffiti on
The fire escape.

I see from my car
Ambulance, flames, fire trucks
from the Decarie.

No one cares about
this Cote St. Luc apartment
Graffiti strewn walls.

Bernard St. Laurent
Says the fire is spreading
I am in traffic.

Someone’s house burning
Bed, plant, pillow, blanket and
Cereal boxes.

She could have two young
Children or smoke crack and hash
Or work at a Dep.

The paper does not
Say whose apartment burned down.
Today or the next.

Robyn Sarah's assignment (please try if you wish)
For a Haiku:
1. A composite image is simply presented, not described or commented on. Adjectives are used sparingly. (image: something perceptible to the senses)
2. Simultaneity: quality of happening right now, present tense--a moment frozen. A haiku does not narrate.
3. A haiku always contains some reference to nature, and/or a seasonal reference.
4. No abstraction; a haiku presents things, not concepts.5. No figures of speech (nothing is compared to anything--no similes, metaphors, personification or attribution

Art Matters

2008-03-08T21:05:00.000-08:00

Yes, the annual Concordia art matters festival is back and now is the chance to SOAK IT UP. Although I missed the first week of the festival, including the much beloved Nuit Blanche (an all night party), things are still on-going.

Here are a few happenings...

March 7 * A Place to Bloom at The Long Hall (450 Beaumont): 11 artists responding to the question: how does connection to place influence community. This exhibit includes paintings, performances, video installations. eeee.

March 9 * Truces and Tract: The Staged Interaction Series at Studio 303 (372 Ste-Catherine W., suite 303). Dance of all sorts, including Fringe Fest favourite Amy Blackmore. This lady sure gets around the arts scene!

March 10 * In Details at the FOFA (1515 St. Catherine). I like this theme already. Attention to detail gives purpose. This is a multimedia assemblage of five artists. Also V is for Wideo at the Vav Gallery (1395 Rene Levesque O.) showcases video technology. Their Vernissage is on March 11,th.

March 11 * Hot Dog Cart at Théâtre Ste-Catherine (264 Ste-Catherine E.). This is the description "imagine that the show is a hot dog and the performers are the condiments." It also includes something called swamp sex. What is that?

March 13 * On Line at the Visual Voice Gallery (372 St. catherine O.). Drawings, sculptures, and installations involving lines. Also, A Rested Art is at Sala Rossa (4848 St-Laurent) including bands such as the Dukes Of The Archipelago and Boys Who Say No.

March 15 * the Grand Finale. The closing party. Details TBA (always a mystery). :(

Film Review of The Counterfeiters

2008-03-08T18:53:00.000-08:00

Since the film Die Fälscher, the Counterfeiters (dir. Stephen Rutowitsky), involves Jews, concentration camps, and Nazi Germany, it is difficult to recognize both its excellences and its failings. It is almost as though any story couched within the context of that time period, especially one based on an autobiographical account, is beyond reproach. Yet, I question if the film deserved to win Best Foreign Film at the Academy Awards.

The film follows Salomon “Sally” Sorowitsch (Karl Markovics), a Jewish master forger, who is put in charge of the Nazi operation to counterfeit the British pound and the American dollar at the Sachsenhausen concentration camp. Although given preferential treatment in comparison with the other Jews of the camp, Sorowitsch and his team are dispensible. Protecting the lives of his team, especially young Russian Kolya who has tuberculousis, becomes Sally’s focus. However, one of the printers, the idealistic Adolf Burger (August Diehl), sabotauges the production of the dollar because the operation sustains the Nazi war efforts.

Everything about the film’s production, acting, and pace is beyond reproach. Markovics plays Sally with the unreadable face of a man whose criminality requires a dose of anonymitiy and a hunger for survival, a perfect match against the obvious resolution of Diehl’s Burger. But Sally is by no means a flat character and his own surival is one of several competing concerns. His appreciation and admiration for Burger is as evident as his love for being an artist and his taste for women, wine, and gambling.

The problem with this film is that the essence of the story – the transformation of a self-interested man – has been done very well in this context several times over. One need only think of Schindler’s List, in which a businessman changes from profiteer to humanitarian. Other recent films have attempted to move away from the black and white treatment of the Nazis by painting both Nazis and Jews in shades of gray as well, such as Black Book and Bent. The conflict that Sally faces, is it better to preserve one’s “species” or oneself, is one non-criminals faced, as written mastefully in the works of Primo Levi, Eli Weisel, and Viktor Frankl.

I do not mean to denigrate the film – it is an excellent film that proposes difficult questions. I think its weakness is that it purports to answer the questions, rather than leaving them ambiguous. Last year’s Acadamy winner, the Lives of Others, grappled with a similar moral dilemma, and did so in a more satisfying and less certain way. Both films studied a character who came to a gradual realization that “the bigger picture” conflicted with his absolute beliefs (in the Lives of Others, it was a belief in Communism, while Sally’s was “adapt” and survive).

This Week in Montreal Music Friday March 7 2008

2008-03-08T15:17:00.000-08:00

Back in the old days, I made a list of what was worth catching around town, particularly concerning music. And so, I thought I’d start off with a list of what is good and gooder in the city. Sadly, I’m doing this on Saturday, so I’m not going to bother with Friday.

Firstly, there’s the ongoing Under the Snow Festival (http://www.emorageimagazine.com/underthesnow/) which features some mightly unique sounds from Montreal’s electronic, postrock, and experimental scene. I’ve seen a few of these bands before, like Panopticon Eyelids (Sunday night at La Sala). If this stuff turns your crank, well… you can enjoi the noi(se).

On more mundane notes, well, tonight, yeah, tonight, there are choices. Let me rephrase that. There are Choices, with a capital C. The soulful crooning of Katie Moore and the Angela Deveaux Band is pulling into the Divan Orange, while countrified fun with the Corb Lund Band is at Les Saints. I’m torn, tbqh (to be quite honest). I like both. It’s also snowing and may not stop until Sunday. I might just listen to cds and swill diet coke and pine for what I can not do. Such is winter. I gotta love it.

Tuesday, a little known band I adore, OKgiraffe is playing at Divan Orange. http://www.myspace.com/okgiraffe. This cool little boy-girl duo trades off a bass (the double kind) and a guitar. They occasionally play full band, backed up with drums and various varia. I find them kind of rootsy, jazz blues specialist types. They seem to be the choice openers for many bands, and once you hear them, you’ll see why. I don’t think they’ll be little-known for long.

Wednesday. Holy shit. I nearly spilled my coffee when I sawDown with the Butterfly is back in town, playing the L’Esco. This east coast (Halifax?) outfit has wowed me previously. But, I dig those east coast long jams and I know some folks like a more minimalist approach to music. Pas moi. If you’re not into that, Snailhouse (woo) is playing as well at Divan Orange with Mia Verko, and that will probably pretty good stuff too.

And Friday, well, Coco Rosie at le Nationale.

This week is smoking. No, correct that… this week is SmokinG.