Photo credit: Sylvana d'Angelo
Ryan Dyck, boss at Hockey Dad Records and one of the best, most commanding frontmen I've seen. Definitely my favourite local band live, and the "competition" is stiff. Snappy, breakneck punk. Consult a chiropractor. And maybe a psychiatrist.
Snippet from my Vancouver Weekly review:
If there was ever a time for me to see B-Lines,
this was it. The B-Lines as I knew them were to be no more, as Nominal
Records' showcase marked bassist Adam Fothergill's final show with the
band.
When your life revolves around music – whether you play it,
write about it, read about it or anything else – it's easy to become
difficult to impress. I've become a tougher sell over the years, but
B-Lines reaffirmed everything I ever loved about music in general,
specifically seeing live music. Just try to pin back the grin on my face
as I watched the "everyday Joe" Ryan Dyck who took my money, stamped my
wrist and chatted briefly with me at the door proceed to leave his
body, and let a manic, possessed surrogate take over the stage. Ryan
spun; he writhed; he squirmed; he kicked; he fell to the floor and
pounded the stage so hard, you could hear the full *thud* over the
band's high-speed thrash. I'd never witnessed such an instant, dramatic
metamorphosis. His tall, lanky, tapeworm-like frame whipped and twirled
with the mic cord so that I couldn't tell where one ended and the other
began.
A word of warning: If you're seeing B-Lines, be prepared to be rained on as Ryan Dyck aimlessly launches wads of spit into the air. Although, I hear you'll be lucky if that's all that happens to you.
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