Best Shows of 2013: Angel Olsen at the Media Club, April 21

My first time seeing Angel Olsen, one of my favourite musicians of 2012. She lived up to all of my expectations and was the first good show I saw at the Media Club. It was also the first time I saw people sit on the floor during a headliner, but because they were in a focused hush.

The following excerpt is taken from my review of this show for Vancouver Weekly:


Up until Angel Olsen, I was starting to think the Media Club was cursed for me. My first time there was the only time I walked out of a show. I nearly had to leave during Chelsea Wolfe and King Dude because my mildly sore throat from the night before blossomed into a full-on fever during the show; simply standing still was painful, especially as I fought off the chills while wearing two layers and a jacket indoors. And Terry Malts, one of my favourite bands in 2012, only managed to pull off a lukewarm set at the Media Club despite their Ramones-ripping pop-punk.

“Luck” would have it that I walked into the Media Club this past Sunday with a killer chest cold, the same one that forced me to skip Nervous Talk and Crystal Swells on Record Store Day (if you were at Neptoon Records, you know how suffocatingly hot the store got during and after the Evaporators). But the St. Louis-born, Chicago-based Angel Olsen’s debut full-length album Half Way Home was one of my favourite releases of 2012, so there was no way I was letting anything stop me from seeing her live.

Angel Olsen kicked off week three of her current tour at the Media Club. It’s her first West Coast tour, but more significantly, it’s her first tour with a backing band. And though she’s expressed uncertainty as to where her writing and performing will go now that she’s working with a band, that was part of the excitement as much for me as I’m sure it is for her.

I don’t know how long Olsen’s been playing with drummer Joshua Jaeger, bassist Stewart Bronaugh and cellist Danah Olivetree, but they sounded so right together that I never would have thought they formed just for this tour. By the second song, “Drunk and with Dreams”, Olsen showed that with this new outfit, she could rock. The hardest rocking of all (and most altered from the recorded version) was “The Sky Opened Up”, my surprise hit of the night.

There’s always a question of whether or not voices that are usually only heard in intimate settings, especially voices as humanly fragile as Olsen’s, can be sustained when belted out. I was happy to hear that as loud and distinct as the bass, drums and cello were, Olsen’s voice rose above them all. The strength of her voice really showed when she sang acoustic over her own electric guitar and by how loudly her voice took over the room even when she stood a fair distance from her mic.

Olsen’s only mildly unimpressive moments were actually the two songs I’d looked forward to the most, the more uptempo “The Waiting” and “Sweet Dreams”. But they were only the slightest bit unimpressive because they were the only songs she didn’t give a unique, live band spin.

Half Way Home marked the beginning of a breakthrough year for Angel Olsen in 2012. Her rise only continues in 2013 with the January release of her new Sleepwalker 7” and her recent signing to Indiana label Jagjaguwar. If you hadn’t heard of Angel Olsen before, you surely will soon. And there’s a good chance when that happens that one of Olsen’s final lines of the night will resonate with you the way it resonated with me: as I left the Media Club, although I didn’t couldn’t identify the song, I found myself repeating her last words in my head: “I’ll never forget you all of my life.”

Worst Shows of 2013: Half Chinese at the Astoria, January 23

I shouldn’t complain about free shows, but Half Chinese at the Astoria wasn’t even worth the $2.10 I spent on transit or the ~hour-and-a-half I spent in transit and enduring a shitty opener (form of dude at a laptop).

Half Chinese’s We Were Pretending To Be was one of my favourite albums of 2012. I’d missed them multiple times, so I was stoked to finally see them. But they played for about fifteen minutes, and most of it sounded like they were tuning. There was scarcely a string of recognizable notes.

Half Chinese still play often enough, but their fifteen-minute sound-check that cost me time and very little money was enough of a rip-off to strongly dissuade me from ever seeing them again.

Visit their Bandcamp page to listen to ALL the sounds I expected to hear at the Astoria.

Worst Shows of 2013: Chelsea Wolfe with King Dude at the Media Club, January 15

Okay, I fucked up my list already. This show (and tomorrow’s entry) happened two months before Martha Wainwright and AroarA.

That Chelsea Wolfe with King Dude was one of the worst shows I saw this year was no fault of theirs. The sorts of black magical forces they tamper with were exactly the ones that seemed to have been at work against them. She was sick. Members of King Dude were sick. I was sick. A full-on flu hit me at the show. My joints ached. It hurt to even stand still. I fluctuated wildly between suffocatingly hot and shiveringly cold, even though I wore two layers and a jacket. All of that befell me on top of usual cold symptoms. No way was I able to focus on Wolfe's or Dude's cauldron-brewed doom-folk. Still, I didn't have it as badly as one person in the audience who passed out and had to be taken away in an ambulance.

Chelsea Wolfe with King Dude continued my Media Club Curse (see paragraph three of my Angel Olsen review). In hindsight, the show was no big loss: Despite heavily getting into Nick Cave and back into Swans and Michael Gira this past week, I'm mostly past Gothic music, these days.

Best Shows of 2013: Martha Wainwright at the Rio Theatre, March 9

I’ve been a huge Martha Wainwright fan for years. I still think she has one of the greatest voices today. I’ve seen videos in which she’s played to entire opera houses, so I was shocked (but delighted) that I was able to see her for the first time at the Rio Theatre for only thirty bucks or so.

Surely enough, her voice was as huge as I expected, and she had a personality to match. One of the best parts of this show was that Andrew Whiteman, one of the core members of Broken Social Scene, who plays under the solo moniker Apostle of Hustle, filled in on lead guitar (his band with his wife, AroarA, opened). But it wasn’t great just because Whiteman played with Martha; it was great because his lightly ocean spray, lightly Latin-influenced guitaring came through in her songs, and being the underrated guitarist he is, his style totally worked.

This show was also my first published music review. Read the entire piece at Vancouver Weekly.

Beasts Bellow Or Howling Hell Blues: Six Organs of Admittance with Low Hums and Mirror Lake at the Waldorf Hotel

October 2, 2012
The Waldorf Hotel
Vancouver, British Columbia

There are two primary ways to make interesting music: by having a completely original sound incomparable to anything that has previously existed or by blending pre-existing styles in ways never (or at least seldom) heard before. Though I had never heard of the Vancouver-based Mirror Lake prior to the show, they immediately impressed me as a case of the latter.

Right away, Mirror Lake captivated me with their brooding Turn on the Bright Lights-era Interpol hooks and similar steady builds and tremolos. Mirror Lake's pounding bass, riddling the audience's ears like rounds from a Gatling gun in tandem with drum-work brimming with fills, could have emanated from Carlos D. and Sam Fogarino themselves, if the audience didn't know better. "All right, so Mirror Lake's a really tight post-punk group. Sweet," I thought. But then, lapping up like agitated waves from below the surface of post-punk rhythms and tempos, came lashes of psychedelic keys and dual guitars. Mirror Lake was the first band I ever heard that blended post-punk and psych or at least the first to have done so with so much skill that I actually noticed.

As the next band, Seattle's Low Hums, indicated, the night was only about to become even more psychedelic. On record, Low Hums often hint at Swans-style post-rock; at times, Michael Gira himself even seems to possess lead-singer Jonas Haskins, albeit at Gira's tamest. But although the pastoral psych quartet did not take long to break into a bluegrass-jam with banjo, shaker and lap steel, Low Hums were able to just as quickly turn around and conjure a Judgment Day-ominous riff with as much menacing, slow-brew suspense as any doom-psych band. Their third-last song in particular, with several false disintegrations in the forms of droning Brian Jonestown Massacre-like interludes, could have been dubbed space-rock, as it rocketed me into a different galaxy. Following that cosmic experience was another song that could have fit seamlessly amongst the BJM's oeuvre, this one alongside their catchier, Matt Hollywood-penned hits.

The psychedelic attack peaked with San Francisco's Six Organs of Admittance, the solo project of Comets on Fire guitarist Ben Chasny. Backed by a three-piece band, anyone who had heard Six Organs' latest album Ascent probably knew why Chasny enlisted the extra muscle. I, however, was not one of those people. I had known Six Organs of Admittance for delicate, introverted neo-folk, so when the first sounds that erupted from the stage with a ferociousness that could have blown the (faux-?)bamboo finish off of the walls, I was more than taken aback. It was difficult to believe that the music with which I was familiar - which I had expected - was borne of the same creature that was attacking every part of his guitar with Palaeolithic savagery right before my eyes. But observe Chasny closely, and one would have seen that his furious attack was merely a veneer - that he was, in fact, dissecting his guitar as precisely as a surgeon manoeuvres its knife.

The only serene moment of Six Organs of Admittance came during their only encore, Chasny's sole unaccompanied performance of the night. I wish I knew the name of the song, because it was the most pleasant way to close the show, aside from my successful acquisition of their set list.

With a surprise as good as Six Organs of Admittance at the Waldorf, it was a good thing I did not remember until at least more than halfway through their set that my friend, with whom I had attended the show, described Ascent some weeks back as very much a hard rock record. She wasn't kidding. The crispness of Chasny's playing was ultimately key in the indelible impression Six Organs left on me, his guitar-work sharp amongst the frenzy of every other instrument. If more performers can learn a lesson from Six Organs of Admittance in this respect, I would remember far more shows for the music itself rather than merely their volume and muddled sloppiness.

The Greatest Show on Earth

September 6, 2012
Commodore Ballroom
Vancouver, British Columbia

No, I'm not talking about the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey. I'm talking about Swedish New Millennium garage rock revivalists the Hives.

Fully-suited ninjas complete with hoof-toed boots as stagehands, giant puppet-strings shooting forth from the figure in the backdrop, diabolic intro piano music as the ninjas flanked the sides of the stage in guard-positions - I'd always read that the Hives were "the greatest live band in the world," most vociferously touted as such by Spin Magazine (at least by my reading), and before the Hives even took the stage, they already began living up to the acclaim. And after having finally seen them live at the Commodore Ballroom after a ten-year wait, I have to say, until the rush of the show finally wore off a couple of days later, they made a true believer out of me.

The Hives emerged fully-suited, dapper as always with long-tailed coats and, on this tour, top hats, giving the band the even more theatrical appearance of magicians. But the Hives didn't need any magic or parlour tricks to cast the crowd into a frenzy, just their music and frontperson Howlin' Pelle Almqvist's Mick Jagger-swagger - his marching and stamping around and mic/mic-stand acrobatics; watching Pelle toss his mic-and-stand like a ballerina partner and catching them every time was a show in itself. Simply put, Howlin' Pelle may be the greatest frontperson I've ever seen.

Like Interpol, the Hives were so good live that they even managed to electrify me with their songs I didn't like, i.e. everything they played from their two most recent albums, this year's Lex Hives and 2007's The Black and White Album. I don't even own those albums anymore. It definitely helped that moustachioed guitarist Nicholaus Arson was equally as animated as his brother Howlin' Pelle, miming prodding the audience with the neck of his guitar, whipping pick after pick into the crowd (along with Chris Dangerous' seemingly endless stream of drumsticks) and generally just getting in the audience's faces.

I'm confident that the Hives will never deliver a truly "unique" show; they're far too rock 'n' roll incarnate to do that. They are all of the clichés of rock 'n' roll as performance. But the avant-garde be damned, clichés exist for a reason, and in terms of rock concerts, those clichés persist for a simple reason: they're fucking FUN. Of course the Hives are going to play an encore. Of course they're going to play as many of their major hits as they can. And of course they're going to pander to the crowd endlessly, using every line in the book to beckon insatiably for louder and LOUDER applause, telling the audience they can do better. If you expect any more from the Hives (or any less, for that matter), you probably don't know the Hives.

For a hell of a lot more photos of the Hives at the Commodore Ballroom, click here, here, here aaannnd here.

Beasts Bellow Or Howling Hell Blues: Six Organs of Admittance with Low Hums and Mirror Lake at the Waldorf Hotel

October 2, 2012
The Waldorf Hotel
Vancouver, British Columbia

Six Organs of Admittance with Low Hums and Mirror Lake was exactly the show I needed to wash out the still-acrid taste of Mode Moderne, Terry Malts and the Fresh & Onlys at the Media Club a couple of weeks earlier. Best of all, Six Organs et al. were all surprisingly better than I had expected.

There are two ways to make interesting music: by having a completely original sound incomparable to anything that has previously existed or by blending pre-existing styles in ways never (or at least seldom) heard before. Though I failed to find a single piece of information on the Vancouver-based Mirror Lake prior to the show (although I had no trouble at all when I searched again afterwards), they immediately intrigued me as a case of the latter. Right away, they captivated me with their brooding Turn on the Bright Lights-era Interpol hooks and similar steady builds and tremolos. Mirror Lake's pounding bass, riddling the audience's ears like rounds from a Gatling gun in tandem with drum-work brimming with fills, could have emanated from Carlos D. and Sam Fogarino themselves, if the audience didn't know better. "All right, so Mirror Lake's a really tight post-punk group. Sweet," I thought. But then, lapping up like agitated waves from below the surface of post-punk rhythms and tempos, came lashes of psychedelic keys and dual guitars. Mirror Lake was the first band I ever heard to blend post-punk and psych or at least to have done so so skilfully that I liked it enough to have noticed.

As the next band, Seattle's Low Hums, indicated, the night was only about to become even more psychedelic. On record, Low Hums often hint at Swans-style post-rock; at times, Michael Gira himself even seems to possess lead-singer Jonas Haskins, albeit at Gira's tamest. But although the pastoral psych quartet did not take long to break into a bluegrass-jam with banjo, shaker and lap steel, Low Hums were able to just as quickly turn around and conjure a Judgment Day-ominous riff with as much menacing, slow-brew suspense as any doom-psych band. Their third-last song in particular, with several false disintegrations in the forms of droning Brian Jonestown Massacre-like interludes, could have been dubbed space-rock, as it rocketed me into a different galaxy. Following that cosmic experience was another song that could have fit seamlessly amongst the BJM's oeuvre, this one alongside their catchier, Matt Hollywood-penned hits.

The psychedelic attack peaked with San Francisco's Six Organs of Admittance, the solo project of Comets on Fire guitarist Ben Chasny. Backed by a three-piece band, anyone who had heard Six Organs' latest album Ascent probably knew why Chasny enlisted the extra muscle. I, however, was not one of those people. I had known Six Organs of Admittance for delicate, calculated, introverted neo-folk, so when the first sounds that erupted from the stage with a ferociousness that could have blown the (faux-?)bamboo finish off of the walls, I was more than taken aback. It was difficult to believe that the music with which I was familiar - which I had expected - was borne of the same creature that was attacking every part of his guitar with Palaeolithic savagery right before my eyes. But observe Chasny closely, and one would have seen that his furious attack was merely a veneer - that he was, in fact, dissecting his guitar as precisely as a surgeon manoeuvres its knife.

The only serene moment of Six Organs of Admittance came during their only encore, Chasny's sole unaccompanied performance of the night. I wish I knew the name of the song, because it was the most pleasant way to close the show - aside from my successful acquisition of their set list.

With a surprise as good as Six Organs of Admittance at the Waldorf, it was a good thing I did not remember until at least more than halfway through their set that my friend, with whom I had attended the show, described Ascent some weeks back as very much a hard rock record. She wasn't fucking kidding. The crispness of Chasny's playing was ultimately key in the indelible impression Six Organs left on me, his guitar-work sharp amongst the frenzy of every other instrument. If the Men can learn a lesson from Six Organs of Admittance in this respect, maybe the Brooklyn quartet's recent Waldorf show would have been memorable.

Dead Energy Or That Moment When You Realize You've Wasted Your Money

September 15, 2012
The Media Club
Vancouver, British Columbia

Two weekends ago marked the first time I walked out of a show out of displeasure. I don't count the time I left after the Constantines when they opened for the Weakerthans at the Palace in Halifax in 2009, for I had planned to see only the Constantines, whereas I actually wanted to see all three bands at the Media Club.

Formed twenty years too late and a continent too far away, borne directly of the melancholy pop of 1980s Britain à la the Smiths, Vancouver's Mode Moderne opened the show. Despite having formed in 2008 or 2009, I had only heard of them a couple of weeks prior to the show, although as a friend of mine tells me, they've been popping back up after a bit of a hiatus. And she's correct: I can think of at least four shows they've played/will play between September and October alone: the Victory Square Block Party on Labour Day and with Wild Nothing, Cult of Youth and, of course, the Fresh & Onlys.

Since last year, I've wished more Vancouver bands would play the exact kind of music Mode Moderne plays. Despite that, I found myself bored by their third song, and I'm not entirely sure why. Technically, they're good; there's absolutely no denying that. They were cohesive, and the acoustics were sharp, but they just lacked something. Singer Phillip Intile had all the right moves and mannerisms and all the right clothes, yet, I couldn't help but find his entire presentation affected - incredibly affected. Seeing Mode Moderne live was truly a confounding experience. All I can really hold against them that night is, as I've already said, that at least live, they just seem to lack a certain intangible that brings their technical soundness to life.

Next was San Francisco pop-punk trio Terry Malts, the band that sold me on this show over the cheaper five- (or did it dwindle to four-?) band bill featured at the Astoria that same night. Their debut album, this year's Killing Time (Slumberland Records), is a blitzkreig of punchy, uncomplicated-despite-containing-a-potential-athiest's-anthem, headbanging tunes. Simply put, and I say this with zero scrutiny, Terry Malts are the best Ramones rip-off band I've heard. At just over thirty-minutes in length, Killing Time lent itself to at least six rotations per day when I got it the week before seeing them.

Now, let me make this clear: Terry Malts definitely did not slouch at the Media Club. But as hard as a band tries, sometimes, it's just not enough to get all the cylinders firing. Maybe it was the lackadaisical, thinly packed audience, the failed attempt after failed attempt by two guys in trying to start a mosh-pit, or even the lighting under which both Mode Moderne and Terry Malts looked naked or exposed, but the atmosphere for what should have been a sweaty, in-your-face, sing-along dance-party just never coalesced. I think Terry Malts could sense so too, coming off with a soldier-on attitude, but again, like Mode Moderne, Terry Malts just seemed to have been off that night - missing something, not as punch as on record. Although, even as a lo-fi-lover, I did really appreciate being able to hear Corey Cunningham's surprisingly bluesy-toned guitar with clarity.

And then there were the Fresh & Onlys, a psychedelic garage outfit also from San Fran. I can't say much about them though, because I left the Media Club a few seconds into their fourth song (their third song was actually a bit catchy, but then they reverted right back to their grotty, more-psychedelic-on-record blues rock).

After a night of all-around flaccid performances, I left the Media Club with more than a bad taste in my mouth. It wasn't a taste I'd experienced much, but it was almost sickening. A deep pressure sank into my chest as I thought about how I not only wasted three hours and $20 when I could have spent $8 and seen probably a far better show with more bands and how I may have to cut a show from my upcoming schedule to make up for the money I wasted at the Media Club. Hopefully, my second experience at the Media Club, which instantly had one of my favourite interior layouts of all the venues in Vancouver, will be more enjoyable with more worthwhile bands.

The Men at Work

All photo credits: steve louie

Sept. 5, 2012
The Waldorf Hotel
Vancouver, British Columbia

I admit I don't know much about Vancouver quartet Sex Church. I don't know their history. I don't know the names of their releases. I don't even know what to call the music they play. After the first time I saw them (the only time I saw them), I always referred to them as shoegaze. And although I didn't hate them, they didn't impress me either. I never thought that a little over a year later, Sex Church would steal the show even as the first of three bands on the bill, especially a bill shared by the likes of White Lung and the Men. Maybe "stealing the show" is a bit of an overstatement, but Sex Church were unquestionably the surprise of the night, delivering scorching 80s/90s alt-rock à la Dinosaur Jr. and blustering indie rock à la Dinosaur Jr. offshoot Sebadoh, all with a spaced out twist.

I hesitate ever so slightly to say Sex Church stole the show because White Lung was also fucking fantastic - worlds better than the last time I saw them; a superior sound system goes a long way, particularly in amplifying Mish Way's voice into a building-razing roar from the deepest recess of Hell. I decided that night, unable to take my eyes off of Kenneth William as I soaked in the fury with which he unleashed his coarse, chunky guitar lines, that he is one of my favourite guitarists to watch. The fact that he is White Lung's sole guitarist and carries the band's blazing fast rhythms while shooting out white-hot solos, with impeccable precision, no less, is simply amazing. Also pretty cool was seeing Nü Sensae drum-machine Daniel Pitout rocking out in the front row, cheering on his Van-punk besties.

"That's really original. I like it," Mish Way complimented with dry sarcasm before tossing the sign into the crowd.

 
Unfortunately, any interest I had in the show left in tandem with White Lung. As an indie "it" band that is really just starting to break out now despite having just released their third full-length, this past spring's Open Your Heart on Brooklyn imprint Sacred Bones Records, I'd expected quite a bit more from New York's genre-blurring Men. I had looked forward to frantic, noisy, (possibly post-)punky mayhem delivered with manic desperation amidst searing, driving drone that billowed and loomed like smog in a house-fire, but what I received instead more closely resembled psych-tinged hard rock, more streamlined and high in positive rather than depressive, stifling energy. As well, loud as the Men were, two of the band's vocal mics were almost inaudible, even after one of the Waldorf's sound-people in the audience instructed the house-crew to turn up the mics. With only two songs I really enjoyed, the names of which I don't even know, I was unfortunately relieved when the Men finished their set.

One may assume I would never see the Men again. While I thought as much up until this very sentence's writing, I've since reconsidered: Perhaps the unpredictable(-to-me) nature of the Men's show is simply characteristic of the band's uncategorizeable temperament (they've also delved into sunny 60s/70s open road pop on their latest album). If such is the case, perhaps the Men still have enough allure to keep me returning to their shows, despite this unfavourable first live impression.

Click here to view a very few more photos of White Lung and the Men at the Waldorf.

The Second Best Five Bucks I've Ever Spent

August 3, 2012
Antisocial Skateshop
Vancouver, British Columbia

The best being my leather jacket.

Last night was Nü Sensae's record-release show at the Antisocial Skateshop celebrating their new LP Sundowning (Suicide Squeeze, 2012). Also featured on the bill were Nü Sensae's good friends White Lung who themselves recently released a new album titled Sorry (Deranged Records, 2012) which you can listen to in full here. 

Despite "strict" time-constraints (the bands stressed on their Facebook event page that the set times were rigid due to the 11 P.M. curfew), White Lung took their time taking the stage, or floor, rather. Had they known they were in store for the bass amp's power cutting off two or three times at the beginning of their set (the first time within seconds of their first song), perhaps they would have been more punctual. Even by the second power-failure, the treat of free booze (while quantities lasted) seemed to have been inadequate in quenching the growing audience's thirst for high-velocity punk rawk, especially after White Lung teased the audience by having appeared to have launched into their first ripper ... as a soundcheck.

Although lead-singer Mish Way's mic could have been louder, the band sounded great. They tore straight ahead through their thirty-ish-minute set with everyone in the band sounding bold and clear on their way to the finish line: Kenneth Williams' jagged guitars punctured through the destructive maelstrom of sound while Grady MacIntosh fired relentless volleys of thuddily palpable bass notes, and Anne-Marie Vassiliou tamed the chaos into some kind of order as best as she could with her merciless, thunderous, mechanically precise drumming.

Having been my first "real" punk show where all of the focus was on Nü Sensae and White Lung (rather than on them merely as openers or parts of a festival line-up), I was slightly disenchanted by the crowd's docility during White Lung. I'd expected the crowd to have been pretty crazy, given that most of the people there, I assumed, were going to have been the bands' equally rowdy punk friends and the "real" punks who go to these sorts of shows as a religion. Admittedly, I was a part of the "problem," as I didn't move much during White Lung either, as much as I liked them.

The mood totally changed when Nü Sensae came on, however. I and pretty much everyone else who was into it got into it. Before I knew it, without even having been really conscious of the fact, I'd somehow found myself standing right in front of singer/bassist Andrea Lukic. I stood so close to her, I could have sang into her mic without leaning in, and believe me, the temptation was almost overpowering. More than a few times, I and the people around me nearly knocked over her mic-stand. I, or more likely one of the guys next to me, actually unplugged her peddle by kicking it, an accident unrelated to a handful of us slipping on beer and falling onto the floor; yeah, there were more than a few cans of beer flying and spraying around last night; I caught a few on the shoulder and chest but remained unscathed thanks to the moderate protection afforded me by the carapace that was my jacket.

Nü Sensae get better every time I see them. Even more than at the Khatsahlano Music + Arts Festival did their songs sound more developed and progressive, with the inclusion of some extended jams, instead of just like relentless deluges of sound. Unfortunately, unlike last time at Khats, Andrea's vocals did not soar above the rest of the band and carpet-bomb us with shrill cries, feral growls or Serengeti-an roars. I guess the complaint is somewhat moot, though: when one stood as close to Andrea as I did, I guess her mic volume didn't matter that much.

Though I escaped the show without any cuts, bruises or scrapes this time, I hadn't moshed that hard since Les Savy Fav or maybe Andrew W.K., although I'm reluctant to count Andrew W.K., because that was more like fighting for my life rather than having a good time. That said, it was a total mistake to have worn my aforementioned leather jacket, as I sweltered, stuck, dripped and soaked with sweat (and a little booze) like never before; who'd have thought, on a hot summer night, crammed amongst a hundred or so living bodies in a relatively tiny skateshop? I probably would have had more ease escaping a straight-jacket than taking off my leather jacket.

And that was the night I vowed to never miss either Nü Sensae or White Lung again - unless they're supporting some crappy, over-priced bands.

Also, I'm starting to recognize too many people at shows ...

2012 Khatsahlano Music + Arts Festival Recap

Nü Sensae shred and pulverize the Maple Stage 

July 21, 2012
West 4th Avenue, between MacDonald Street and Burrard Street
Vancouver, British Columbia

The 2012 Khatsahlano Music + Arts Festival, Vancouver's largest free outdoor music event of the year, took place the Saturday before last. With over forty mostly local performers featured between ten blocks on West 4th Avenue, I did my best to catch all of my favourite bands, and that I did with surprisingly few conflicts.

The festival ran from 12 P.M. to 8 P.M., but the day began for me with Juvenile Hall, a three-piece pop-punk band that takes cues from the Ramones (obvious by the bassist's T-shirt) and Shonen Knife (based on JH's sound alone). Catchy songs about candy, love and getting high delivered with more chops than the typical pop-punk band made Juvenile Hall one of the top highlights of my day. And they gave away free buttons! Chyeah!

Next up on the same stage (the Yew Stage) were Weed, my most anticipated band of the day. That this was my first time seeing them after having missed them three times, I was pretty damned stoked. However, Weed were also the most disappointing band of the day for me. Not only did they play the shortest set out of everyone I saw at the festival, and they didn't play "Eighty," one of the top two songs I wanted them to play, but the live versions of their other songs all kind of sounded the same. Weed did live up to the ubiquitous description of them as grungy sludge-pop, though: they layered everything on thick, particularly Hugo Noriega's slabs of fat bass. That said, Weed were one of the last bands I expected to see a couple of toddlers dancing to in the front row. Weed couldn't have possibly been good for the kids' ears: Weed were possibly the loudest band I heard at Khats, unless my ears had adjusted to face-melting levels of volume by the time I saw Nü Sensae.

The final band I saw at the Yew Stage, immediately following Weed, were Peace. I'd looked forward to Peace's unconventional, danceable, Q and Not U-style rhythms and melodies, but Peace were more post-punky live than on record. And singer "Lt." Frank Dickens' vocals sounded much plainer live. Peace were still pretty good, though, as I do love my post-punk; they just weren't entirely what I'd wanted.

Finally moving from the Yew Stage, I saw possibly my favourite Van-band, punk trio Nü Sensae. They were exceedingly better than the first time I saw them, when they opened for Best Coast at the Biltmore at the end of May. Maybe it was a difference in sound systems, but at the Biltmore, while Nü Sensae were good, pretty much every note in every song sounded indistinguishable. This time, however, each song actually stood out, the band was clear, and they didn't seem to just blitz through their set. I didn't keep track of the time, but I was surprised by how long it felt like they played - much longer than their Biltmore set felt. Maybe their new songs are just more dynamic - fleshed out - and kick more ass, and that's why they stood out. And despite bassist/singer Andrea Lukic's initial mic problems (her mic was initially so low, she was completely inaudible), her screaming seemed even more eviscerating than ever. Nü Sensae were definitely my favourite performance of the day.

The final band I saw at the Khatsahlano Music + Arts Festival was indie pop-rock band Pleasure Cruise. Like Peace, I'd looked forward to them quite a bit, but also like Peace, vocals were not Pleasure Cruise's strong suit live. Otherwise, Pleasure Cruise were pretty on the ball: fun, rocking, and they seemed like nice people, constantly joking with the crowd and even giving a shout-out to Nardwuar who was in the crowd. And they played a Misfits song. How rad!

So, I missed all but two of the High Drops' songs; Capitol 6 seemed to have either been taken off of the festival's line-up, were poorly advertised or, despite having played the Khats Fest launch party at Zulu Records back in May, were never scheduled to play, and the Dirtbombs-evoking Ballantynes who are just GOD-AWESOME were moved to a timeslot that conflicted with some of the other bands I wanted to see, but my first Khatsahlano Music + Arts Festival could not have been through and through funner. Forty bands over eight hours, I was bound to have missed some things. And it was all free, so how can I really complain?

The Mountain Goats with Dustin Wong, Pt. 1

June 22, 2012
The Rio Theatre
Vancouver, British Columbia

Sure, I've written about Best Coast, Jack White/the White Stripes and Jesus and Mary Chain a lot, but I actually rarely write about my favourite artists. That's because I usually have the greatest difficulty articulating exactly how the artists that move me the most move me the way they do.

Hawaii-born, Japan-bred, Baltimore-based guitarist Dustin Wong is one of those artists. I've seen live videos of Dustin before, so I knew he was going to be great - interesting, even - but I didn't think he was going to steal the show; after all, looped music, especially by a solo musician, can get pretty repetitive, especially since most loop-based songs start with the same slow layering process. But Dustin utilized so many different sounds and playing styles throughout his fifty-minute set - the most delicate finger-picking; open chord strumming; muted picking to create plinking, percussive notes; low, thuddy, percussive notes; slides; straight-up shredding and sudden intentional stutters and stops, all filtered through a fire-hazard platter of effect pedals - that there wasn't a single dull moment while he was onstage.

As I watched Dustin, leaning forward in my seat with my eyes transfixed on him the entire time, mouth often ajar in utter entranced awe, I wondered what it must be like to be someone like him: how does someone like Dustin see and hear the world? Is his head filled with intricate, ethereal soundscapes all day, providing his life with an endless soundtrack that would make having a bad day impossible? Just watching his body movements - sometimes rocking, often swaying, almost always with his eyes closed - I could tell music just pours out of the guy, and we aren't hearing a quarter of it because he only has so many hands, so many fingers, so many pedals and so many strings.

And flow the music did: even with intentional stutters and stops, all of his songs immediately segued into one another. Not only did the lack of breaks afford few appropriate opportunities to applaud (we the audience actually didn't applaud once while he played), but his performance was one of those that is so captivating, the audience doesn't want to so much as let out a clap or whisper a sound until the whole performance is over, for fear of interrupting (tainting, even) the spectacle. But when it ended, man, we erupted. We gave Dustin all of our energy we had in return for his, but he deserved far more than we could give him.

One would never imagine that Dustin Wong's elaborate compositions - his symphonies - exist in someone as unassuming and beyond shy as him (he said nothing all night except in nervously introducing himself and thanking the Mountain Goats before his set and quickly and humbly tweeting "Thank you" afterwards). They ought to come from older, more experienced individuals who've spent years and years plying their crafts, not a kid in Cons and a tight, cream-coloured sweater with a cartoon owl on it.

But fuck looks. Dustin Wong is one of the most inventive young minds in music today. And that he's so young (or at least he looks so young) means fans can expect many more years of amazing music from him to come. If Dustin continues to evolve the way he has, such as with his increasingly prominent drum samples, vocal "waaaaaa-AAAAAAaaaaahhhhhh"s and yelps of varying pitches and other primal vocal gymnastics (all which he masterfully incorporated into his current style), he's bound to crowd everyone's radar sooner or later.

Heroin Is So Passé, But Dandies Rule Forever OK?

 June 15, 2012
Commodore Ballroom
Vancouver, British Columbia

Last Friday, the Dandy Warhols, one of my favourite bands since eighth grade, returned to the Commodore Ballroom in support of their newest album This Machine. Even though I wasn't able to see them with my best friend who loves them as much as I do this time, unlike when they played the Commodore two Decembers ago, it was still one of the best times of my life, let alone one of the most fun shows I've seen.

San Fran psych-rockers Sleepy Sun opened the night. Despite their generic psychedelia, they had a few impressive moments which was more than I'd expected based on their latest album Spine Hits (ATP Recordings, 2012). Lead-singer Bret Constantino's electronic harmonica-type thing, which was shaped like a fist-sized box, sounded pretty cool, too.

As the mediocre portion of the night drew to a close, it was time for what everyone in the building was chomping at the bit to see. The Dandy Warhols emerged with keyboardist Zia McCabe and guitarist Pete Holmström in particular looking as fashionable as ever. Pete also looked as disengaged from the rest of the band as ever, even physically as he stood the furthest away from everyone else; I often wonder how much he enjoys being in the Dandies, especially considering his outspokenness against the band's creative process.

With the crowd still roaring, the Dandies began not with a bang with one of their big pop hits but by drawing out the audience's anticipation with the hazy, rush-building "Be In." It didn't take long for the Dandies to bust out their myriad pop-hits, though, and when they did, they pulled out pretty much all the stops: the breathtaking one-two combo of "Horse Pills" and "Bohemian Like You" (literally breathtaking: try singing these songs back-to-back at the top of your lungs with my recent respiratory problems amidst a blanket of pot smoke), "Get Off," "Last Junkie," "We Used To Be Friends," "Boys Better," "Minnesoter," the most surprisingly good song of the night for me (I love the song, but it was even better live than I'd expected) ... Then, there were the other best songs of the night: the sultry "I Love You," "You Come in Burned" which sounds so much more exotic live with Courtney playing the clacky percussion that while not terribly audible on record rang throughout the venue, and the washboard, ranch-clopper "Country Leaver."

Of course, the Dandies couldn't cram all of their most popular songs into their set. In fact, I don't think they played any songs from either Odditorium or Earth To the Dandy Warhols ... which was too bad mainly because I'd really looked forward to hearing the slow version of "New Country" again; their twangy, countrified version of "New Country" was amazing and one of the top highlights of the last time I saw them. Lead-Dandy Courtney Taylor-Taylor played a slow, solo version of "Every Day Should Be a Holiday" on electric guitar, though. That was a pretty acceptable trade-up.

Also different this time around was an awesome keyboard freestyle by Zia that was full of fat, warpy, spaceship tones and which Brent DeBoer and Courtney joined (Brent of course on drums and Courtney with a lot of palm-mutes and random noises with his mouth).

Unfortunately, a few more songs after that groovy freestyle (maybe even just a couple), the Dandies wrapped up their show. They didn't play an encore, but unlike probably a lot of people, I actually didn't mind: not only did the Dandy Warhols play long enough that I didn't feel cheated without more music, but the entire encore process is pretty hokey and feels so canned/phoned in. Also, Zia was "drunk enough" to sing a cute little unaccompanied ditty at the end of the night, so that was enough of a bonus for me.

Click here for photos from the show.

The National Live at the Orpheum Theatre

November 28, 2011
The Orpheum Theatre
Vancouver, British Columbia

The National have been one of my absolute favourite bands for at least the past four years - my second favourite band lyrically, behind the Mountain Goats. After having swooned over live National video after live National video, needless to say, I had pretty damned high expectations of them. Although my expectations weren't impossibly high, the National, as good as they were that late-November night at their first of two sold-out shows in a row at the immaculate Orpheum Theatre, still unfortunately fell short of them.

I always thought the National were one of the tightest bands today. However, there were a few moments when the band seemed completely out of sync: a missed drum-kick on "Secret Meeting," a mistimed lyric here or a completely missed lyric there.

Far more glaring - distracting and even unbearable - was some of Matt Berninger's vocal performance. Matt possesses one of my favourite voices ever: a velvet-smooth baritone so soothing and soft yet aggressive when it needs to be. However, he should NOT yell. EVER. I love well-executed yelling, but Matt's yelling was strictly piercing and very nearly ruined many of my favourite National songs including "Abel," "Mr. November" and "Secret Meeting." Matt's "intense" vocal performance also seemed to have gassed him quite a bit, as he kept running out of breath and thereby missing lyrics.

I admit I actually nodded off during some of the National's more sombre songs. I mainly attribute that to having been seated in the middle of the upper balcony. Not being immediately immersed in the band's and floor-level crowd's energy definitely doesn't help bring up my energy. When I'm so far removed from the action, I don't feel very motivated to do anything but pretty much stand still and keep my mouth shut: no dancing, no singing, not even mouthing along with lyrics. I'm sure I would have felt more alive if I was on the floor near the stage when Matt went into the crowd, but I could hardly even enjoy the moment vicariously, as I could only see Matt suddenly disappear and the distant crowd erupt. I'm sure the audience around me felt the same way which was why they were so still and silent as well.

Even some of the good aspects of the show were not perfect. Almost every song (if not every song) got the brass treatment. Being a huge brass fan, I was overjoyed, except the horns periodically drowned out the rest of the band.

Despite all of my complaints, the National did put on quite a good show. They played a generous four-song encore which included "Mr. November," "Terrible Love," "Lucky You" and an entirely acoustic version of "Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks" which closed the show. In fact, the only songs I wanted to hear that the National didn't play were "Karen," "Lit Up," "Start A War," "Wasp Nest" and "Apartment Story."

Furthermore, my less-than-favourable seat in the upper balcony wasn't all bad. It did provide a great cinematic, panoramic view of the show which allowed me to simultaneously watch the slowly swirling patterned lights cascade across the large chandelier that hung from the painted domed ceiling and look down, down, down upon the band as it and the rows of audience members' heads in front of me were silhouetted by those same blue and white lights.

Finally, I have to hand it to the National for their visuals. A gigantic screen onstage provided a live feed of the band members backstage minutes before the show, up to and including the moment they came out. The screen also displayed shots of the audience from various angles throughout the night including the band's perspective. It sure beat every other "artistic" visual I've seen on screens or projected otherwise at shows (ahem, Feist).

So, a good show overall, despite technical problems and my physical and emotional distances from, well, the show. I'm going to give the National the benefit of a doubt and say perhaps they were just warming up/saving their A-game for their next night's performance. After all, the second show of back-to-back performances is usually the one to catch.

Click here for more photos of the National's first night at the Orpheum Theatre.

The Only Place For Me

May 23, 2012
The Biltmore Cabaret
Vancouver, British Columbia

After having missed Vancouver punk trio Nü Sensae three times, I finally got to see them when they opened for Best Coast at the Biltmore Cabaret. Although Nü Sensae's set only lasted twenty minutes, drummer Daniel Pitout looked like he was convulsing after the first song. The intensity with which he and the rest of the band played is why I for once, reluctantly, kept my earplugs in for more than a few seconds; in fact, I kept them in for the entire set. It was definitely a smart move, because when I took them out for a second to hear how loud Nü Sensae were, I felt like I'd been cast into the first level of Hell (the deeper levels being reserved for heavy- and doom-metal - truly Satanic shit).

Unfortunately, yet unsurprisingly, to say the plugs took away from Nü Sensae would be an understatement. I tried only wearing the plugs halfway in, and even then, I could hardly hear Andrea Lukic's blood-curdling, Kim Gordon-like screams. I realize it seems stupid to complain about earplugs taking away from shows, but I really wonder what the point of going to shows is if one can hardly hear anything. Maybe I just need to find less-isolating earplugs - or stop caring even in the slightest about my body's well-being.

After the snarling punk of Nü Sensae, another trio, Portland, OR's Unknown Mortal Orchestra, took the stage and delivered hands down the worst performance I'd ever seen. They weren't bad at their instruments, but they weren't interesting in the slightest either; I could not have fathomed more generic indie music. Until UMO, Oh Land and Dan Sartain were the worst bands I'd ever seen, but to Oh Land's and Dan's credits, they were just boring; UMO were so annoyingly bad, I couldn't even bring myself to pretend I was into them. I frequently scanned the floor behind and beside me, I was so bored, and was shocked to find people actually enjoying UMO. That, or there were far better actors than me at the Biltmore that night. I thought my eyes were going to become stuck behind my head, I rolled my eyes so much during UMO.

As excruciating as UMO were, Best Coast were completely worth the seemingly endless torture. Although now a fleshier four-piece featuring new guitarist/bassist Rafe Mandel and Brett Mielke replacing Ali Koehler on drums, I couldn't tell much of a difference from the last two times I saw Best Coast. Despite a few slightly missed cues between frontperson Bethany Cosentino and Bobb Bruno (also on guitar and bass) and minor malfunctions with Bobb's amp during the encore, Best Coast still put on an all-around solid performance.

In typical Biltmore charm, I stood so close to Bethany, at near-eye-level, that I could have hugged her just by sticking out my arms. But that would have been getting a little too personal, so I settled for snatching her second bottle of water; I'm now two-for-three in snatching Bethany's water at Best Coast shows (someone snatched her first bottle before the encore, prompting her to ask, "Who took my water?" when the band returned to the stage. So, I decided to wait until the band was done for sure to make my move).

Bethany's bottle of water in one hand and Best Coast's set list in the other, and that was another show marked off of my calender - another ripped ticket stub in my desk drawer. And speaking of set lists, that Nü Sensae had theirs scrawled on a piece of bent cardboard was funny in its DIYness. I would have snatched it, but I didn't know where I'd keep it. It would have kind of detracted from my bedroom set list wall, even if I taped the cardboard flat. Also, I didn't want to keep that piece of cardboard on me the entire show.

Click here for more photos of Best Coast, and click below to watch a video that must have been taken by the person who stood right beside me, because the video shows pretty much the exact view I had:

Magnificent Roars Or Bon Iver and the Sublime

May 25, 2012

Deer Lake Park
Burnaby, British Columbia

To all musicians who charge over $50 a show: I hope you saw Bon Iver at Deer Lake Park, because that is how you put on a show worth that kind of money. "We're just going to play songs until the curfew," Justin Vernon casually said, and that they did with a solid hour-and-a-half show which included every Bon Iver song one could want to hear including a Bjork cover arranged around multi-instrumentalist Reginald Pace's beatboxing during the encore. Which Bjork song it was I wasn't sure, but they performed it as an ode to her having played Deer Lake Park exactly five years ago to the day.

Backed by an eight-person band, the live arrangements of Bon Iver's songs, which included a brass section and the largest saxophone I'd ever seen, at times made me feel as if I was seeing Broken Social Scene or a post-rock band as many of Bon Iver's songs broke like a dam, flooding the park with electric sound. The first kick of the drums rang through the park like a thunderclap, causing the people in front of me to physically recoil and jumpily "woo!" in surprise as if a draft had blown up their skirts. In fact, Bon Iver was the first time the speakers were so loud that I felt a tickle in my inner ear and a lump in my throat (having been an outdoor show, the sound had to project). Yet, the volume was never unbearable: everything sounded bold and clear, particularly the brass section. I'd never heard trumpets, trombones or saxes sound so ... deep - full - alive. Additionally, with Justin having urged the audience to "scream [their] asses off" during "The Wolves" because "no one can see you; you're not in a God-damned church!," it wasn't entirely the tender Bon Iver with which fans have fallen in love on record.

Clearest of all was Justin's voice. Every bit as rich as one would expect, I could hear people in the crowd gasp in utter awe at the things he did at the microphone, especially when he sang a cappella, slowly, without a whisper in the air from the audience, nearby traffic, birds, bugs or anything - just the total deafening silence of the audience and even Nature trying to hear Justin's voice at its purist. It was in that contrasting space between Justin's a cappella and the rest of the world's induced muteness that one realizes what one actually already knows, and that is just how fucking amazing Justin's voice truly is.

Honestly, try as I have, Bon Iver's only work I really like is For Emma, Forever Ago - and yes, I have heard his entire discography. But every one of his songs was incredible live. I never liked the electronic texturing on Bon Iver, Bon Iver, but even though Bon Iver employed some minor looping and other electronics, the songs from his self-titled sounded very organic; maybe it was due to the fact that I could see that humans were indeed bringing the music to life.

I tell ya, hearing "Flume," "Skinny Love," "Re: Stacks" (the only solo song of the night which Justin played on electric guitar) and "For Emma, Forever Ago" (the night's closer) - standing there in the third row, pretty much centre, so mesmerized, I could hardly do more than slowly and hypnotically sway back and forth, often with my eyes closed (I couldn't even sing along, I was so entranced) - those are the concert moments for which I live. They don't happen at every show, but when they do, there is nothing higher than that: that band - that performer - is the Ultimate - the Absolute. I'd never heard so many people shout "I LOVE YOU!!!" during a show (and this came from girls and guys), but Bon Iver fully deserved every such adulation of the night. Nor can I remember the last time I heard a crowd pop for literally every song with equal enthusiasm.

Click here for photos from Bon Iver live at Deer Lake Park.

Lo-Fi Loud

May 11, 2012
The Electric Owl
Vancouver, British Columbia

I battled for the better part of the last month over whether I should have gotten tanked with a bunch of friends and seen Vancouver's Five Alarm Funk during their Rock the Sky album release  or seen Brooklyn's quite antithetically lo-fi, washed out Beach Fossils by myself and in all likelihood sober. Naturally, solitary tendencies aside, I chose to see Beach Fossils, mainly because a few days prior to the show, I read that Seattle's Seapony, one of my favourite bands, were opening. Not to take anything away from Five Alarm Funk, whom I'm sure were nothing short of fucking amazing, but I'm preeettyyy sure I made the right decision for me, even though Beach Fossils with Seapony wasn't exactly the dreamy, feel-good, sway-to-the-music evening I'd expected.

Unlike the first (and only) time I saw Seapony, when they played their songs pretty much the way the songs appeared on record, at the Electric Owl, Seapony rocked their songs the fuck up with solos, tremolos and faster tempos; save for maybe a couple of songs, Seapony certainly weren't as sentimental as usual. In another change of pace, just slightly more than half of Seapony's set included new songs, surprisingly leaving no room for their usual closer, a cover of the Field Mice's "Emma's House," despite Rose Melberg's presence (I saw her hanging around the bar with the band before the show). Also conspicuously absent from Seapony's set was "Always." I don't know what they have against that song, but once again, it didn't make the set. Will I ever get to hear "Always," the song that got me into Seapony, live?

Next was another surprisingly rocking band, Vancouver's Student Teacher. And not only were Student Teacher, of whom I'd never heard, surprisingly rocking: they were rocking period. How was Student Teacher surprisingly rocking, if I'd never heard of them before? Because judging by lead Student Teacher Daniel's (I can't find his last name anywhere on the 'Net) unassuming demeanor when he asked me before the show if I was in a San Fransisco shoegaze band called Permanent Collection, (well, I definitely see the resemblance between myself and Jason Henhardy .....), I did not think the utter anarchic sonic destruction that spewed from his quartet could have emanated from someone like him; never judge a book by its cover, as the age old adage goes. Ignorant me. Indeed, Student Teacher was the most melodically discordant force I'd heard since Sonic Youth - such control, although the only thing over which Student Teacher didn't have control was volume. The band was so damned picky about volume. They must have asked for more volume on the guitars and vocals and then less volume on the guitars after every song. They're lucky they're so damned good that they can afford to be so picky.

And finally, there were Beach Fossils. Usually, opening acts don't get to "outshine" headliners in terms of volume, and I didn't think loudness befitted Beach Fossils anyway, so I thought, "There's no way Beach Fossils are going to be louder than Student Teacher." And I was correct. Even though Beach Fossils were leaps and bounds beyond how fast and furious I thought they would have been, they still couldn't touch the sheer blistering volume of Student Teacher.

On record, it wouldn't be a far cry to call Beach Fossils intimate bedroom pop with a grainy texture like the damp remains of sifted detritus. Live, however, they are just an energetic indie rock band - straight-up. No bollocks. "You guys can move around more; it's okay," frontperson Dustin Payseur politely yet playfully encouraged the audience before launching into another jumpy, rousing version of a song from their self-titled debut album (their only full-length to date), swaying, spinning and kicking in jolty, erratic movements. The band rocked with such abandon that the members stumbled into each other and their equipment, specifically birthday boy Tommy Gardner's drum set. There were a few moments when I thought John Pena was going to scrape off my face with the head of his bass (which was tuned so sharply, it sounded like a third guitar) while he was spinning around onstage. Even though Beach Fossils seemed to have missed a lot of notes here and there, the energy they brought more than made up for it.

So, I didn't get the show I expected, but every part of it was great. Okay, as usual, I do have at least one minor complaint: Both Student Teacher and Beach Fossils stopped at least one song because they screwed up. In all the shows I've seen, this was the only time I could ever remember a band restarting a song. It doesn't seem particularly rock 'n' roll to restart a song instead of just covering or rolling with the mistake. But then, "I'm not a musician or performer, so what do I know?" Right?

Closing note: I bring elastic bands to shows now. It just makes snatching and carrying set lists easier. How rock 'n' roll is that? And here I am complaining about bands restarting songs. And I brought exactly enough elastic bands to Beach Fossils/Seapony/Student Teacher: two. I'm two-for-two for Seapony set lists. My set list wall just grows and grows with every show. ROCK! \m/

Post-Punk/Twee-Pop/New Wave For Life

May 8, 2012
The Venue
Vancouver, British Columbia

I made a new life rule after I saw the Drums with Craft Spells two nights ago: Go to every slightly post-punk, New Wave and twee show, dreamy or not, I can find. Craft Spells and the Drums were probably the closest I'll ever get to seeing a band like so many of my favourite 80s groups including Orange Juice and Modern English - maybe not ever but definitely for a long time - so I can't afford to pass up seeing similar bands. Luckily for me, I'm seeing Seapony again on Friday when they open for Beach Fossils at the Electric Owl.

Craft Spells alone, of whom I'd never heard before the show, totally made the one-and-a-half-hour wait before showtime worthwhile (Part Time, the second opening band, couldn't make it that night. Problems with customs, I assume, hence the prolonged wait). However, I didn't move much during Craft Spells, despite how much I wanted to. I mean, the band was fantastic, but that long wait, which didn't factor in the time I spent in transit or in line outside the Venue, on top of having worked at 6:30 that morning and until 9:30 the night before that, almost sucked the life out of me. Plus, I was on my feet for almost two hours straight before the show began, so by the time the Drums started playing, my legs and back had gotten pretty tired; my legs felt like tree trunks with roots that ran to China.

As soon as the Drums hit the stage, though, they lit me right up. I couldn't stop moving when they came on, they were so fun. They even made the slightly plaintive "Days" danceable. It's interesting how quickly great music - pleasurable stimulation of the mind that gets those that serotonin flowing - can make the body forget how tired and even sore it is.

Front-person Jonathan Pierce's live off-kilter singing was the main reason why I passed on seeing the Drums last October (if you want to hear why it bugs me, just YouTube pretty much any live videos of the Drums, although I did recently find a few videos in which I could not only tolerate Jon's singing but enjoy it as well). But I had absolutely no complaints about his singing when I saw them, even though it was still more affected than on record.

At one point during the show, Jonathan apologized for not having had his dancing shoes with him because they got held up at customs. But even while sporting his Chucks, he was able to sway and swing and shake his hips with so much swagger that I didn't notice his alleged handicap. And danced Jonathan did through the Drums' pretty lengthy set: sixteen songs, according to the set list I snagged, which included all of their hits with "Let's Go Surfing" saved as the final encore.

All in all, a fantastic show. Both bands sounded great, especially Craft Spells who totally blew me away; I'd never heard of them before, but that night, I could hear every part of them: every note and every reverberation. I also got their set list. Schwing! And as far as my promise to myself goes, you can bet I'm never missing a Drums show again. And Craft Spells are from Seattle, so I have a feeling I haven't seen the last of them.

Random final note: While there was an average number of guys at the show, not a lot of fellas dig dancing to the Drums, it seemed ... In fact, one of the guys who stood next to me looked like he was going to fall asleep on his feet at any minute, his eyes half-closed every time I saw him.

Sharon Van Etten with the War on Drugs Live at the Biltmore Cabaret

All photos by Ashley Tanasiychuk

March 24, 2012
The Biltmore Cabaret
Vancouver, British Columbia

Of course, as soon as I say, "I've learned to always go to shows as soon as doors open," the doors for the next show I go to open half-an-hour late. At least the show itself wasn't delayed at all.

The likely reason for the delay was because the War on Drugs, the night's opening band - the band I went to see - had finished a free half-hour set at Zulu Records a mere two hours before the doors were supposed to have opened at the Biltmore. I guess soundcheck took the band longer than they'd expected, despite their sound guy's confident (cocky, even) declaration, "It's our job," when he overheard my friend question how they'd ever make it to the Biltmore on time.

And thank God the show started on time, because after the WoD's brief thirty-minute set at Zulu, sweetened especially by the store's great sound system, I couldn't wait for the full show. For the longest time, it seemed as if the WoD were just going to play Slave Ambient in its entirety (though not in order), but then, they busted out a song from their Future Weather EP. Sometime following that came my favourite WoD songs including "Buenos Aires Beach," "Taking the Farm" and "Arms like Boulders," all from their first album Wagonwheel Blues. Unfortunately for me, though, the live versions of those three songs were more languid and melodic than jumpy and anthemic. They were still good in their own ways, but I just wanted to hear them in their original forms, the forms I knew how to sing along to; I was glad the band at the very least retained its militaristic drumming for those songs.

After a short recess (A.K.A. nap-time because I hadn't had a chance to sleep since two mornings earlier), Sharon Van Etten took the stage and delivered what was, up until that point, the third most surprisingly good show I'd ever seen. Before seeing her, I'd really only liked her song "Serpents," though I loved it. "Serpents" was so good live - so powerful - that it didn't matter that her vocals on that song were almost completely drowned out by the rest of the music. And speaking of her voice, it was way higher than I'd expected, considering that her voice is pretty low on record.

Also unexpected was the Sonic Youth-style, feedback-drenched breakdown during one of Sharon's songs. The WoD's single noisy freakout wasn't surprising (especially since they were the band that managed to pack blistering guitar solos into almost every one of their songs even if the song didn't originally have a solo), but only having heard Sharon's albums and a solo acoustic set (also free at Zulu last year), I never saw it coming.

To draw a final parallel between the WoD and Sharon Van Etten, both were surprisingly social, especially Sharon. The WoD always struck me as a rustic, "git 'er done" kind of band, but frontperson Adam Granduciel joked with the crowd a lot. And I'd always expected Sharon to be pretty introverted, given her dark subject matters and introspective music/lyrics, but again, she was a lot of smiles that night, despite her brief song introductions such as, "This song is about quitting smoking," and "This song is about moving to New York." That was the Sharon I'd expected.

Finally, even the crowd surprised me. I expected a lot of drugged out dirtbags, plaid and denim at the War on Drugs and mostly young girls at Sharon Van Etten. However, the bands brought out one of the most weirdly mixed crowds I'd seen in a while: severely aged, smelly and wasted rockers who "danced" with absolutely zero shame; skinny boys in suspenders, slacks and bow-ties with pompous hair (think Janelle Monae as a boy who just turned old enough to go to the bar); towering nerds; and mustache-obsessed intellectuals.

One thing I learned at Seapony/Memoryhouse that did pay off was to grab set lists A.S.A.P. Situated a couple of feet in front of me on the barrierless, nearly floor-level stage, Sharon's set list was probably the most accessible list I'd ever seen, and I sure as HELL wasn't the only person who knew it; I could hear several people around me chatter about the 4x11, plain-type prize, planning their attack like a pack of hungry lions planning its dinner. But alas, I was the swifter, beating them all to the pounce.

The exact set list I grabbed

For more photos of the War on Drugs and Sharon Van Etten live at the Biltmore Cabaret, click here and here, respectively.

Come For Seapony, Stay For Memoryhouse

March 10, 2012
The Waldorf Hotel
Vancouver, British Columbia

The night started with a Vancouver band called Jay Arner. Well, it was fronted by a guy named Jay Arner, but he introduced his whole band as "Jay Arner." I could have sworn I heard Seapony members refer to him later as "Christian," though … Anyway, on drums was Rose Melberg of Tiger Trap cult fame, one of the original 90s twee pop bands, and on guitar was Seapony's Danny Rowland. It was only Jay Arner's third show ever, but they sounded really good - really crisp, every instrument discernable from the others. Their songs were feel-good pop rock to the max, but they also sounded pretty unique for twee pop if only to the extent that their songs were just a bit more complex and unpredictable than most twee pop (twee being a style that can sound quite homogenous even within the same act).

After a short break, it was time for Seattle's Seapony, the band I went to see. They sounded pretty much how I expected them to: almost perfect but a bit rough around the edges - not so rough that it interfered with how much I was able to enjoy them though. They played ten songs off of their twelve-song debut LP Go with Me (Hardly Art, 2011), but unfortunately for me, one of the two songs they decided to cut was "Always," one of my top two Seapony songs and the song that got me into them. I was pleasantly semi-surprised when Rose joined Seapony to sing their encore cover of the Field Mice's "Emma's House." I say semi-surprised because I'd forgotten that "Emma's House," one of my favourite songs ever, was a live Seapony staple.

Finally, it was time for the night’s headliners Toronto's Memoryhouse. I actually might have enjoyed Memoryhouse more than Seapony. At the very least, Memoryhouse may have been the second most surprisingly good performance I've ever seen, behind Final Fantasy, and that's saying something because Final Fantasy kicked ass, and I only liked one song on Memoryhouse's debut album The Slideshow Effect (Sub Pop, 2012) before I saw them.

I'd always expected atmospheric dream pop shows to be pretty nondescript, all of the details drowned in an amorphous sea of electronic textures to the point where I can’t tell who's doing what. But at Memoryhouse, I could hear everything: every time Denise Nouvion's mic reverberated; every key she pressed on her keyboard; Evan Abeele's guitar parts which, despite his use of various pedals, distinctly sounded like guitar and not the multitude of synthesized sounds from Denise's keyboard; and the drums were so bold and crisp yet never hard on the ears.

Speaking of boldness, I'd also always expected atmospheric dream pop shows to be pretty quiet and un-engaging, smooth textures resulting in a lack of tension and thus a lack of a sense of liveliness. But not only were Memoryhouse clear; they were loud too. And they rocked - hard enough to warrant an incredibly casual dance competition for a prize (you'd have to ask the winner(s?) what that prize was - if there was a winner. If there was a prize). I especially didn't expect that of Memoryhouse, since their album is so tepid (or placid, more positively) that it can hardly keep my attention; even after listening to it after the show, the album doesn't fully grab me, though it does now more than before. Even the apropos grainy, super-zoomed in stock/home-video footage that was projected behind the band during their entire set didn't damp the energy.

Also lumped somewhere into Memoryhouse's set were a couple of covers, although I couldn’t identify either of them. One was supposedly a Country & Western song, but they totally dissolved it into another flood of ambience. Then, at the end of their exactly fifty-minute set, with ten minutes to spare before the 11 P.M. curfew, they had enough time for two encores, although they said by that point, they'd pretty much run out of songs. I could have sworn their last song was one they’d already played, and before that, Evan teased us with the intro of "Stairway To Heaven." Again, if there was another cover in the last ten minutes of Memoryhouse's set, I couldn't tell.

If there are four things I've learned at this show, it's these: Always get to shows as soon as doors open. Based on all of my previous experiences at the Waldorf, I decided go to this show pretty late, but Jay Arner started playing half-an-hour after the doors opened; always grab set lists A.S.A.P. I got the show schedule and Seapony's set list, but even though Memoryhouse's set list was a foot in front of me, I decided to wait a couple of minutes before grabbing it. By the time I decided to make my move, a stagehand had started quickly closing the curtains; as simple as some music may sound, it's sometimes more complicated than I think. Finally, and most importantly, Memoryhouse has taught me that dream pop shows don't suck.

Click here to view more photos of Memoryhouse at the Waldorf.