Tweedle-drums and Tweed-l-dy

How can you doubt he's the hippest president to roam planet Earth?

No matter how it's said over the years, the meaning's the same:

If a tree falls in the woods, and no one hears it, does it really make a sound?
If your weekend (or whatever) didn't appear on Facebook, did it really happen?

Tonight, I went to see one of the world's greatest bands play at Toronto's greatest venue. This statement is unarguable.

I went alone, finding a cheap deal on floor seats way past the sell-out date. Alone doesn't scare me - I'm a rare, semi-reclusive Gemini who enjoys being surrounded by people as much as I do being surrounded by emptiness - not that tonight was empty, Wilco's Jeff Tweedy and his band of brothers filled every inch of the room with something that sounded better than any record of theirs, a full spectrum of sound that was full of breaking intensity and steady serenity at the same time.

After nearly two hours of bliss, I left alone, the way I came, wanting to gush about the show's greatness and why it was so. Times like these, I think, I wish I could learn to like nicotine, to stand around and make talk with other social smokers. But a smoker I will never be, and as I walked away from Massey in my hazey daze, I tried to find another way to start a chat with another fan, to recollect the show - it's what I like to do to better engrave the show in my mind, to make it a more permanent memory in my scatterbrain. But no, why loiter, why intrude on a group chat, I thought. I came home to spill my last two hours in speedspeak to my roommate, only to find her fast asleep. Not knowing what to do, I poured myself one last drink and went on the patio - being across the street from the Hall has its benefits - and played voyeur to those leaving. I tried to eavesdrop from ten floors up, imaginary including myself in their post-concert convos. Here, now, I'm youtubing everything Wilco to assure myself, they were indeed as grand as I'd percieved. And I'm blogging, waiting for the first eager commenter to tell me yes, they enjoyed the show too and also thought the lead guitarist was strung out, Tweedy's honesty was adorable, the ticket was more than worth it. But I'm still not sure.

Yes, I fell in love again with Wilco. What I still can't figure out, though, is why I need someone to tell me that I should.

final destination

(this piece was originally published on Torontoist.)

"When you see eight large columns and three heads of Zeus, you will know you have arrived in the correct spot."

Not an excerpt from your typical Saturday night show stub. And unless you've recently taken some wedding photos, not a place where you'd typically head from downtown (because we folks at Torontoist ah-hem, never leave the city's core). But this Saturday evening, the downtown kids "who know" willingly made their way east to the borough for some artsy-fartsy fun.

It was Stillepost that tipped us off about Bite Your Tongue, a mini music festival featuring Final Fantasy and friends. Presented by the Toronto Arts Council and Theatre Centre, the show included six artists in four hours for ten dollars, a bargain by any means. But with a bargain always comes a catch, one we picked up on when we picked up the ticket. To find out the hidden location, concertgoers were told they must return to the location of ticket pickup, given nothing more than assurance that the secret spot's "majesty" would more than justify the trek. We were instantly enticed—mystery, adventure, and music, oh boy!

Come Saturday evening, we exchanged our tickets for a program of artist bios and some basic directions. A long, lonely subway ride to Kennedy and a bus through residential areas made us wonder if we'd missed our stop, but a friendly bus driver informed us we were drawing near to a lesser-known city landmark. Off the bus and now walking through the parking lot, we passed by Guild Inn itself. (Later, the locals—who got in free, unaware of the event—would tell us the inn was previously an artists' colony. Owned at the time by a couple who spent a good part of the mid-twentieth century collecting pieces of art and pieces of demolished buildings, it stands today as a publicly owned property and historical site filled with gardens and fragments of the city's history—like this piece from the not-so-permanent Canada Permanent Trust Company.) Across the field and atop the Scarborough Bluffs, we were greeted with a birds-eye view of water as far as the eye can see, and sky and clouds delightfully unobscured by the CN Tower. And yeah, we'll admit: at the beginning, the scenery was far better than the sound.

Like many avid concert-goers, we expected the music to start late, and missed more of the show than we saw. Gowns, fronted by a grungy female with an immaculate blonde bowl-shaped haircut, played a heavily distorted guitar and keyboard set contrasted with whispery, wallowy vocals. The crowd didn't seem to care, however, until Owen Pallett strolled onstage, violin and MacBook in tow. Smooth, soft falsetto with sudden punches of sound and a modern take on the violin made Pallett's sound the model for baroque pop. He riffed through his newer repertoire, scoffing when the audience requested 2005's "The CN Tower Belongs to the Dead." And during the set, it was a pleasant surprise to see the perfectly disciplined performer stop abruptly mid-song to flick a spider from his ear, showing us that Owen Pallett is, in fact, human (at least to all but Polaris Prize judges). His set, unfortunately cut short by the park's 11 p.m. noise restrictions and longer-than-planned opening acts, was intimate and interactive, short and sweet. The later police presence remained a friendly reminder that while events like this are cool once in a while, they can't always cater to the crowd who wants an encore and another round. So while the ride was, for some, longer than the event itself, it was certainly more about the art of getting there, of urban discovery and experiment. And now that we've been, we'd say it's worth going back.

The Inliers.

*Disclaimer: This post is not meant to be a racist tirade, but simply a cultural observation I've recently made which has allowed me to come to terms with some failures of the past. Don't hate.

I remember piano concerts as a kid. I remember throwing rampant tantrums in the car every time before I was to play in that concert I so loathed. It wasn't that I hated playing piano. It wasn't that I had stage fright, or even remotely disliked being the center of attention. All I ever hated was not being the best.

Every spring and every fall, I'd cram-practice for a week, playing the piano for an hour a day rather than an hour a week in preparation for Ms. Dorothy Weiss's seasonal recital. Two hours before show time, my little sister and I would dress in our Sunday best, hoping to impress all the well-to-do parents with our class, if not our classical piano. I'd bring the sheet music in the car, trying to commit each grace note to graphic memory, to nail each bar deeply in my brain.

And then we'd walk into the concert hall, late of course.

Scene: rows of piano students younger than I, all seated politely, with legs crossed at the ankle. Pretty skirts and perfectly-polished shoes, glasses, and of course, smug smiles. Beautiful little Asian girls and boys who were perfect, and perfectly better than I at anything I could do on that grand instrument. No matter their age or difficulty, they'd walk properly onstage, play their little hearts out without missing a trill, or an accent, or a crescendo. Perfect posture, perfect and proper. At the end, they'd turn and face the audience, bowing with a prideful, yet unconceited grin.

Then I, a foot taller and five shoe sizes bigger than most, would stumble onstage in a daze, sit down, and think of all ways could go wrong. And many of them, I did―my lithe fingers tangled, my crescendos started loud and ended soft, and many of my last notes were resemblent of that Arthur episode where he fails on the last note of Fur Elise (don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about). I'd bow, embarassed, thinking how I should, instead, be bowing down to all the future Yannis and Yokos in the room. I was green-eyed and confused about why the Asians were just so damn perfect, and wondered what in the miso soup was making them so much better than I.

Well, I spent yesterday at the U of T Robarts library. Unfortunately, I also spent most of the night. Throughout the day, everyone of every race seemed to be there, navigating the stacks in a less confused fashion than myself. But when I finally got on that elevator at 9:55 p.m., I stepped into a box that may have fit better on a different continent... and that's when it all made sense.

Just like The Outliers said, success doesn't happen by chance. It happens with a specific set of circumstances, a certain environment, a combination of drive and work ethic. And that's exactly what I was surrounded by in that elevator last night―people who'd been raised to understand the long hours proper study requires, and those dilligent enough to stick it out, because it's engrained in their culture. No wonder everyone thinks of the west as fat, lazy Americans―by comparison, we are.

So maybe it's time I took a lesson from overseas experts and came to expect that good marks only come from long, hard hours. And that magical pianist's touch comes from days and days of hours and hours of gruelling practice. After all, the rigorous work always means a better reward.

First-past-the-post.

Their music has always been manna for critics, and milk and honey for weird indie kids (the kind who actually like the wacked-out experimental sounds they're supposed to listen to). And to the average listener, it sounds like sugar-happy toddlers unleashed on a keyboard loaded with trippy samples, animal sounds, and wobbly vocal mods. 

Last year I winced and pulled my hood over my ears at their music sound "experimentation" onstage at Rogers picnic.

But this time around, everyone's getting merry about their new collection. Two weeks in and its already the best album of the year―and don't be surprised if it holds its ground for another eleven and a half months.

This time around the post, the crazed combines with the conventional to create a masterpiece accessible enough for the open-minded radio listener, clear and sunny enough for the well-weathered ear, and still innovative enough to make dryest critics drip with excitement.

As for the album, I grant you three guesses. (Clue: the hint's in the puns. You know me, you know my lust for the lowliest form of literary musing.)

1, 2,... 3.

Merriweather. Post. Pavillion.

I've always liked Animal Collective (their studio work at the least), but sometimes their sounds are too, er, animalistic for me to corral. I'd file them away in the "experimental" section of my iTunes and hope one day my music tastes matured enough to appreciate the layers and the levels. 

Now, I don't have to. Finally, the collective has reached the perfect balancing point, the place where experiment and audible melody work harmoniously together, where inventions come from actual intentions, and where their "music" (which I might have just named "noise" pre-M.P.P.) is truly good music. And that is why this album is, and probably still will be, to the critics and the common folk, the best album of 2008. Shit. 2009.*

*That is, unless any of the following bands reunite and/or release an album on or before December 31, 2009: TV on the Radio, Radiohead, Wilco, or the Beach Boys**.

**Seriously.

for such a small price, ms. perry requests your presence....

a postcard from Sweden.

Meet Gustav Ejstes.

He's the one-man musical mastermind behind Swedish folk-psych-fantasy rock outfit Dungen (DOON-gen). He records every aspect of entire albums by himself, and graciously allows a few good men to accompany him on tour, carrying instruments and standing on stage... it's like he's in a band or something. 

The mass of musical instruments he brings on tour probably outweigh his slight frame, yet cannot overpower his mastery over each object he plays. A man of the many talents, Gustav can play a magical flute while simultaneously smoking cheap cigarettes. He's a man with the midas touch, everything he touches turns to musical gold. He's the magnificent merchant of everything beautiful and Swedish (he even makes dirty captain mo's and ginger ale mix well). He likes rap as much as John Bauer.

And, more than anything else, this 28-year-old loves 6 a.m. lectures towards unassuming younger women on life accomplishments and success. Bless your sweet, sweet Swedish soul, Gustav.  Please come back to Canada.

When you hear ringing and your phone's unplugged....

... you probably need to invest in a pair of ear plugs.

Ratatat and Tiger, Beck's and Beck. My white weekend's been full of bevvies fit to the tune of the music.  But because I need to revel in a few minutes of shut eye, stat, I'm giving the quick run-down...

Ratatat was wild(cat), perfect music for gamers who also enjoy sailing. A brilliant hybrid of natural outdoorsiness, with jungle and ocean themes, mixed with the sounds of Sega Genesis and euro beats, and topped off with a majestic light and dry-ice show. My only issue? I fear for a case of whiplash for the keyboardist. Happy t(r)ails to you, Ratatat!

MGMT, this time around appeared, as my pal so eloquently put it, "a cross between Prince and Axl Rose." With mullets and handkerchiefs, the dirty New Yorkers did recall a certain Welcome to the Jungle, but with less badassery and more inter-ga-lac-tic plan-e-tar-y. My, how their hair has grown. 

Beck, oh Beck. Are you crazy because you are on drugs or on drugs to help you live through your artistic(?) craziness? Beck's popularity would be shot without his rock anthem choruses and catchy slacker anthem riffs. It's like Cobain passed the early 90s alternative torch, er guitar, directly to Beck for the rest of the decade. Sure, you may be able to shout along to soy un perdedor, but what comes after "why don't you kill me?" Obscure, muttered beat poetry dots the funky, bass-heavy beats all throughout Beck's varied repertoire. Well, except for his latest. Beck's certainly feeling guilty about something lately, as his latest release does sound a whole lot depressed. I guess even rock stars go through mid-life crises... 

british invasion

When I was fifteen, I was known as "the Coldplay girl." The manically obsessed, poster-hoarding, freckled-faced nerd who bought every b-side the day it was released. I cried when I procrastinated too much for tickets to their Edmonton show. I cried again when I got tickets to see them in Las Vegas, but the kind of cry where you can't contain your joy. I went with my mom to the concert, bought the merch, and wrote the review (which, by the way, was my first published work... in the Edmonton Journal).

Well, I did a little grave-digging and dusted off a little gem I found on an old external hard drive. My portfolio from my application to the Journalism program―the original review. I planned to post it for your viewing pleasure, but I didn't want to lose any/all two of my dedicated readers and decided sternly against it.

Coldplay last Wednesday however, is way deserving of the praise my high school writer's hand doled out, and much, much more. Who else can cater to nine-year-olds, their moms, and the people with good taste in-between? Sure, the show sounded a little more Bono-infused than I'd hoped, and I left wishing they'd played more of their older repertoire, but I'd known that I would before I walked in the door (two songs late, I might add). But if that was the worst of their musical catalogue (IMO), then they're a stellar bunch of lads... it's not often that you hear a true, unpracticed had-to-be-there encore where one of the most technically perfect bands of our age loses tempo, but it's moments such as these, when they play their first beautiful song about a beautiful world, that you hear the genuine passion. They're brilliant musicians alone, and collectively it's mind-boggling.

After his little stint, I'd say even Will Champion could go solo.

TGItuesday

Lately, I've been spending a lot more time downloading .torrents than spending downtime downtown, browsing record shops. My personal theory firmly states that more of my dirty, sexy money goes direct to the artist when I pay for their concert ticket than when I give way to their greedy record label by buying their overpriced merch. I'd drop twenty bones to see a show in a heartbeat, but fifteen for a c.d. means I'm more likely to open my web browser than my wallet. It's about as illegal as finding those under-the-table tax breaks you know your parents willingly take. And if my mom says it's ok, than it is. I harbour no modern guilt for my mass downloading.
Well, Tuesday, I was feeling lucky. I'd spent the last few days saying 'hell yes' all over again to Guero, and was reminded by a friend that Beck's new album hit stores that very day. It could have been the B.C. booze, it could have been one fall too many off the boat, but personally, I think the Modern Guilt got me inside HMV. On my way out I noticed the wonderfully psychedelic cover of Ratatat's new rousing record. Impulse struck, and I took both up to the counter. The cashier was your typical mall-music-store geek (fortunately not of the overbred emo family), drooling over b-sides and the latest LPs, and man, did he drip when he saw my selections. An initial burst of pleasure with the first CD, and when he flipped over to see the second I swear, he could barely keep it in his pants. He wished happy listening as I walked away, reasserted and highly confident in the brilliant, undeniable taste in tunes I already knew I possessed.
Me and my dad walked away, me feeling satisfied, and maybe a little proud. I mean, not that I had bought (er, Daddy had helped) a brand-new CD, but I'd make the day of an overly-enthused, small-town music geek. And once we put the futuristic sea chanties of LP3 on the stereo out on the water, my day was made, just as well.

Cold War Kids Heating Up... to more than 98 Degrees

*disclaimer: please excuse the lame-ness of this title, and read on. I promise it gets better.

Ugh, I know it's so not like me to behind the times when it comes to bands. But here and now, I'll (un)willingly admit my shortcomings—I've *gulp* been slacking. 
But I was disadvantaged.I first heard the jarring, wavering, yet punchy baseline of Hang Me Up to Dry in the dish pit of my unfortunate last-summer job at East Side's, and asked my fellow music devotee to explain to me why I'd never heard such a tune before. He went into his spiel, and before I knew it I had tuned the poor rambler out and headed back on the floor to respond to whining from overstuffed Canadians for "MO' BREAD! MO' SALAD! MO' DIET CO-CA CO-LA!", rather than succumbing to Nathan Willett's astoundingly unforgettable, piercing (and not in the pitchy ear-paining way) pleas. How could I associate such music with great things when I'd already associated it with crying over fresh-cut onions, mushy, half-eaten three-cheese capilletti, and lasanga al forno more resembling of lasagna a upchuck. Can you really blame me?

Well, in short, yeah. Cold War Kids are now waging the good war over my ears, and I think they're winning. Their Orange County sounds soothe my cravings for Cali. Seeing them at Sasquatch this weekend shot my respect off the thermometer for these heated hotties—they played harder than they skated, their guitars bouncing and swinging like punk-pop-rock dance partners, but kept it smooth with undeniable underlying piano riffs, and topped it off with the layering of a voice as powerful as the young Zach Condon. With bountiful layers, Cold War Kids are not layered like onions, no, they're a 5-tiered, majestically decorated cake with a smooth, delicious inside. And the icing on the cake? They're amazing live. The harmonies of Saint John will blow you away faster than you can blow out the candles.

Cold War Kids are here to stay, and now I can vow my loyalty as long as they're around.

boo, hiss.

This is me, "out".

This is me, learning Cobrasnake parties aren't all their cracked up to be (that is, unless you're cracked out. and in retrospect that probably explains the good time had by many hipster attendees)... 

But it WAS a learning experience (see mom and dad!)—a party's no fun without the music. And now I remember why I like all this "going out" in the first place—it's the rock 'n roll, the beats, the funky-good feel that starts with a toe tap 'till it reaches the top. 

And since summertime=concert time, and shows+friends+drinks=good times, if I did my math correctly that means we get good times times two. And math WAS my best subject, after all...