ISS 8 (2006) AUG 10 – 30
G. Love, Lemonade (Alternative) Summertime can get pretty hot and sticky. Luckily, G. Love (along with his Special Sauce) is back with a few of his friends, serving up some sweetly smooth tunes in the form of Lemonade. The album gives off the feel of a group of people chilling around a bonfire, nothing too strenuous, just laid-back melodies set over either G. Love’s cheeky rhyming or his soothing croon.
The mood is set right off the bat with “Ride”, allowing its countrified guitars and harmonica to transport you down a stereotypical old dirt road, before adding a little more funk (but not too much) as things shift effortlessly into the melodic “Ain’t That Right”. The next few songs share a similar tone, giving off a danger of things being a little too monotonous, for all their pleasantries. Only “Can’t Go Back To Jersey” manages to free itself from the flow through some of G. Love’s classic over-drawled rhymes, set to the swagger of a psychedelic organ and jazz piano. The song harkens back to the impish G. Love we came to know and love in the beginning, before signing to Jack Johnson’s label in 2004.
After keeping things pure for the first half of the album, G. Love decides to share his toys, bringing out a few of his friends to play along. Hip-hop group Blackalicious lends a hand on the fresh, beat driven “Banger”, breaking up the chain nicely through their crisp raps, before handing the mic to Jasper for the optimistic “Thanks and Praise”. No bonfire would be complete without a little Ben Harper, who makes his rich, soulful presence known in “Let the Music Play”, producing a couple of chilled bongos and a splash of attitude to add to the mix. A few songs later we find old buddies G. Love and Jack Johnson reunited in the collaborated “Rainbow”, a song that might not be the most ambitious of creations, but (as the title suggests) is cheerful enough.
Apparently the “funky lemonade” G. Love spoke of in the past has been a little watered down this time around (perhaps so he could accommodate more of his friends). Nonetheless, the album will please the ears of anyone who doesn’t require a certain sour twang in their beverage; but then, there’s nothing wrong with preferring your lemonade a
little sweeter.
Price: $13.99
The Devil Wears Prada, Original Soundtrack (Compilation)
The task of creating the perfect soundtrack is not one to be taken lightly. A soundtrack is a little like salt: essentially a flavour-enhancer, when used correctly, it makes a good thing even better; however, too little can make a dish taste bland and lacking, while too much can override the essence of the dish altogether, drawing the focus away from any other spicy intricacies. It’s a tricky balance, with the ultimate goal being the formation of a seamless collection of songs that will add that extra sensation to those critical moments, without claiming the film altogether.
Bonus marks come from achieving all this, while still having a soundtrack that, when stripped of its movie plot and visual distractions, will still stand firmly in a car stereo or cd player. While The Devil Wears Prada may not be the most hard-hitting flick of the summer, its soundtrack offers a solid clutch of songs from both big-named crowd pleasers and lesser-known gems.
Admittedly, it starts off a little shakily with Madonna’s “Vogue”, giving a somewhat dated, clichéd first impression (surely the music committee could have found a less obvious, less tired fashion-related song to kick things off). The track list returns back to the 21st century after this initial lapse with the seductively smooth “Bittersweet Faith”, by Bitter:Sweet, a song that must surely be setting the scene for the on-screen debut of the necessary lust object.
That’s another amusing thing about soundtracks: when followed closely, one can usually pick out the plot of the movie without even having seen it. U2’s “City of Blinding Lights” could only mean good things (epically good) for the protagonist, a streak which continues in a cooler vein through with the help of recent releases from Jamiroquai, Moby and Alanis Morissette, before the plot takes a turn for the worse with indie duo Azure Ray’s beautifully despondent “Sleep”. DJ Colette supplies the work-it-out music through the electronic beats and soulful vocals of “Feelin’ Hypnotized (Black Liquid Remix), and sure enough, things have improved by the next song, “Tres Tres Chic” by Mocean Worker, a quirky, retro-flavoured track that will have you pouting haughtily as you strut along to it.
Even if you haven’t seen The Devil Wears Prada, its soundtrack offers a vivid variety of recent songs that, while technically can all be found on actual albums by their respective artists, will at least save you the hassle of having to cultivate your own ipod playlist.
Price: $18.99
Jurassic 5, Feedback (hip-hop)
Pimps, ‘hos, gangs, guns, drugs…all these stereotypical hip-hop subjects (and more!) are refreshingly omitted when it comes to Jurassic 5’s fourth released album, Feedback. With heavy inspiration taken from old school hip-hop, J5 has always managed to skirt the edges of the monotonous mainstream, priding themselves instead on their deftly crafted beats, additively catchy sampling and signature rap harmonization.
While their numbers have been trimmed from six to five with the departure of DJ Cut Chemist, their new album still manages to celebrate this clean-lined formula through the majority of its fifteen track line-up.
The album features a great deal of variety. “In the House” and “Radio” both pay tribute to the Ghost of Hip-Hop Past, one through a “Rapper’s Paradise”-styled sound, the other through its sleek beats and eighties-driven keyboard. “Brown Girl”, on the other hand, features the sensual purr of Brick & Lace, with a hip-shaking background straight out of a tango routine, giving rise to images of a club dance floor full of curvaceous seductresses.
Then there is the more PSA side of J5. The anti-hater “Where We At” focuses on the lamentable state of the hip-hop world, not in a “fuck all you assholes” sort of way, but in the typically reasonable J5 style, unruffled in their melodically rhymed response to accusations that “J5, man, the n----s ain’t shit” as a soothing piano loops in behind. “End Up Like This” takes a similar stance, with its more nostalgic air played upon by sweeping vocals and instrumentals behind the simple beat as the group reminisces of the good old days.
This song, however, walks a fine line, bordering dangerously on the edge of cheesy (in a Black-Eyed Peas “Where Is The Love” sort of way), a rare weak point in the J5 regime of seamless coolness.
The biggest surprise of all comes in the shape of their first single, “Work It Out”: a hip-hop group has to be awfully confident to feature Dave Matthews Band in their first release from a new album while still maintaining a solid stance that they are one of the top groups out there. Perhaps featuring Dave Matthews when you’re a hip-hop group is like wearing pink if you’re a guy- only the coolest can truly pull it off, or would even dare to try. The song is sound enough and while not particularly conventional when it comes to J5, its lack of convention makes it fit right in.
The boys have a way of keeping their listeners on their toes. Despite the odd blip, Feedback, with its spot-on blend of cunning beats and unconventionally fitting samples threaded together by five separate voices, is sure to entertain anyone who can appreciate a good rhythm and a whole whack of talent…minus the bling.
Price: $12.99 *
Joanna McIntyre
WHO: The Kitchen
WHERE: Fairview Pub
WHEN: Aug 12
At 10:45PM the house was shakin’ at the Fairview Pub with five guy combo called The Kitchen. They’re a fresh-faced soul/funk band with a fan constituency that appeared to be urban clean-cut fun enthusiasts. After weeks and months of seeing bands whose audience scowls or clench fists to pounding angry guitars it was a delight to see a room full of what appeared to be life-sized bobble-heads getting down on the dance floor or grooving in their seats. I stood at the back of the room and I swear every head in that room, in my line of sight, was bobbling (left and right, up and down) as if they had been tapped by the same gentle hand one after another. And the dance floor was happening.
The Kitchen gave off a lot of heat and energy during their set and delivered their material with ease and comfort. The acoustic guitarist surprised us by taking most of the solos and bassist, Adrien Fillion, was a major catalyst in getting people onto the dance floor or wishing they were.
They sound like a band called Sweet Comfort, a funked out soulful Christian rock group from the late seventies (trust my brother to find over-looked gems) but you’ll probably be more familiar with a comparison to the Blues Travelers, without the long strung out harmonica.My one minor criticism, and it is admittedly only a matter of personal taste, is they fatten up Luke Cyca’s drums by switching kits, or changing skins and give it more of a boom and rumble. And they could dirty up the Strat’s sound just a little.
You can catch some home cookin’ from the Kitchen on August 26 at Café Deux Soleil on Commercial Drive or on September 8 at the Highland Pub in Burnaby. *
Michael Van Lane
www.myspace.com/kitchenmusic
WHO : Hezzakya
WHERE : Waldorf Hotel
WHEN : Friday, August 11
WITH: MMF, Next Hundred Years, and Hypnopilot
Imagine you’re standing at the bottom of a large mountain side and then, look up. Watch a demonic fire god with the words ‘I’m going to kick your ass’ scrawled across its chest rise into the sky high above the mountain with a burning building clutched in one iron fist. Continue to watch as said fire god pelts the fiery mass down the steep slope right into your path. Listen. Hear the sound and watch the destruction as it approaches. See the ruin left in the wake of that building and wonder if it’s going to mash your head into the dirt too. Welcome to the musical project that is Hezzakya.
The five members of the band whose live sound is responsible for conjuring up such images played to a small but enthusiastic crowd last Friday night at The Waldorf in East Vancouver and managed to leave little doubt that louder can indeed be better. With an onstage amp and cabinet setup that dwarfed the in- house PA, the band looked poised to destroy some hearing. Following two local acts, MMF and Next Hundred Years, and playing right before the headliners from Calgary, Hypnopilot, Hezzakya went to work on a mixed six song set covering new songs as well as material from their first studio album “Drug Metal.”
Drummer Nat Green provided two thirds of a thunderous rhythm section that was the foundation of Hezzakya’s set. The remaining third was filled with the clever cuttings of bass player Brad whose instrument effects resulted in a sound more like crackling electricity than the loppy punchings one might expect from the electric four-string. This crackling effectively stitched together the huge power chords and soloing of the guitarists to the pounding roles and cymbal crashes of the drums. Listening to Nat and Brad play within the band’s massive guitar sound, it was quickly evident that Hezzakya would not work without a drummer and bass player of their stripe, musicians who could, and did, properly keep a sturdy base intact, despite the amount of auditable terrain that was gulped up by the guitars.
The two-axe sound of Hezzakya, as a result, and not surprisingly, is where the majority of the band’s loudness emerges. Mike Steiger and Sayad Nassir both stood over their instruments like blacksmiths over anvils, hair draped around their faces, fingers moving up and down the fret boards in a measured pace that revealed a stark and deafening landscape. The lack of flashy finger work was obvious but not a drawback.
The brave bareness and block-like fit of the notes gave the guitars a simplistic elegance that galloped slowly, thundering as it went. Just to be sure that the audiences’ focus was indeed on the fit and not the absence of flash, Mike and Brad provided ample, well timed devil horn salutes and head nods to the crowd throughout the set, salutes that were promptly returned by us along with cheering and yelling.
Vocals were handled by Hezzakya’s most recent addition. Rob joined the band February 2006 and quietly took his place on stage Friday atop the churning mass of guitars and drums. With this surging symphony of fire at his back, he continually reached for the upper registers of what’s humanly possible from a vocalist for the entire set, singing in pitches that could only be reached by Sayad’s occasional and loose solos. Rob’s presence throughout the first two songs, “In Her Garden” and Satan’s Curse” was good, but he kicked things up a notch for the third number, “Temple of Fire”. His voice seemed to open up and the improved range was instantly noticeable. The band tightened as well, and as a result the next couple songs, “September” and “Burn the Witches”, especially the latter, were great. The fret board climb through a handful of chords at one point in “Burn the Witches” sounded amazing and added a command-and-conquer feel to things. The six song set came to a crashing halt following “Hands of Stone.” The first thing I heard once the guitar amps quieted came from a guy standing behind me: “Fuck, my ears are ringing.” Amen.
Many bands, including Hezzakya, play with enough shear volume to rattle ceiling tiles, make dental work hum, and ensure that hearts beat irregularly, but not all bands know what to do with that amplitude. Hezzakya does. They play at that volume live to establish a take-off point for the audience. Then they stand on that point and move off, shaping the noise, putting their patent on things with thumping rhythms and riffs that pull like an ocean undertow, and connecting with the audience through the mutual appreciation of a slow roar.
This was certainly the case Friday, and we surely haven’t heard the last from this demon of a band.*
Matt O.
WHO : Anoushka Shankar
WHEN : August 10
WHERE : Chan Centre for the Performing Arts
WHAT : Festival Vancouver
He is arguably the best known sitar player in the West and everything I know about Indian Sitar music I learned from Ravi Shankar. In addition to 40 years of recordings he has also written extensively for Western audiences about the sitar and its music comparing and contrasting it to musical forms familiar to our own musical traditions.
While my attention to his work hasn’t made me an expert on the form or style it did help me understand the performance by Ravi's daughter, sitar player and composer Anoushka Shankar, at her appearance during Festival Vancouver.
She appeared on stage with seven other musicians and combined the sitar with Eastern and Western instruments, including a G5 Mac Powerbook, piano, an Indian wind instrument, tablas and voice. Although I had prepared for the show by re-familiarizing myself with the form I couldn’t prepare for the sheer beauty of Anoushka Shankar’s performance or her compositions.
It's hard to describe the extent to which she blends European influences into the Indian form since I'm really just a chump with a thing for the sitar but the effect was a wonderful mixture of her melodic runs up and down the fret board, her bended notes and resonating sympathetic strings, the tap-tunk of the tablas drum, the beauty of a chanting human voice and the soundscape from the G5.
Shankar gave a very relaxed and easy-going performance, she was clearly happy being on stage and was apparently surrounded by friends (during a lull in the music she had a delightful mimed conversation with someone in the wings, "Hello. Great to see you! No, come around the side and sit in the front. No, no, there are people you know there", etc).When you want to climb out of the flames of everyday life and slip into a calming pool of world music sit down in front of Anoushka Shankar and her friends or add her to your iPod playlist.*
Michael Van Lane
WHO : Peaches w/ The Eagles of Death Metal and Stinkmitt
WHERE : The Commodore Ballroom
WHEN : August 10
What do The Clash, Tina Turner, and Dizzy Gillespie all have in common? This venue: The Fabulous Commodore Ballroom. In fact, the afore mentioned acts have all played absolutely memorable and ground-breaking sets here. The Clash played their first ever North American show here. Tina threw down a long rant about her life before leaving Ike. And Dizzy Gillespie made everyone in the audience fall in love with jazz all over again. Peaches can now be added to that list, as this show was beyond memorable.
The night began with oft-downloaded local act, Stinkmitt. Betti Ford (resident DJ at what was once the best club night in Vancouver, Stacked @ Celebrities) and MC Jenni Craige taking to the stage – Producer/Vocalist Bigstuff only present through vicious recorded tracks ; and they absolutely through it down. The somewhat divided crowd, half there for Peaches and half there for EoDM, seemed completely united around the two fierce vocalists. Cutting across dirty, soulful, pop-laden hip-hop beats, came Stinkmitt’s lyrical barrage: completely pornographic, unadulterated smut, and painfully perfect. If you didn’t want to start your own band before watching them, you sure did after.
Then the gents of The Eagles of Death Metal attempted to prove their mettle. Ranging from middle-aged to over-aged, one can not deny that these guys can rock, in fact, by their fourth or fifth song three lovely pairs of ladies undies were graciously tossed onstage (the yellow ones, emblazoned with the words “Sweet 16,” actually belonged to my friend Claire).
They have a predominantly retro-rock sound to them, and, in a world of painfully cheesy pop, this band is a welcome addition. After the first few songs, I yelled to my friends that they sounded a lot like early Rolling Stones – I wanted to hear them rock out Brown Sugar. And they did. And it was absolutely heaven. I don’t recall ever dancing as hard and as reckless as I did during that set.
A few beers later, Peaches made her presence felt. Donning a ridiculous silver hooded cape/jumpsuit outfit, she emerged from the port side bar, basically performing the hell out of it. I think that’s what really strikes me most about this girl and her band: they perform songs. There are not many acts that can really do this, but Peaches steps up along side groups like KISS, Daft Punk, and Queen. Her older instant electro-rawk classics, like 2000’s Fuck The Pain Away and 2003’s Operate, Kick It, and Shake Yer Dix, are able to sit perfectly next to her new it-is-clear-god-is-a-woman-and-she-gets-laid-all-the-time-and-even-sometimes-straps-one-on, blatantly crass pop tracks, like Two Guys (For Every Girl), Rock The Shocker, and Boys Wanna Be Her. She is around for the long haul, thankfully.
It was all truly sublime, right down to the Peaches/EoDM/Stinkmitt encore. Crass. Filthy. Pornographic. Heaven. So, get off your ass, and go buy Peaches’ Impeach My Bush, Fatherfucker, and her self-titled album. Go pick up EoDM’s Death By Sexy and Peace, Love And Death Metal. And for sure, support your local scene, and make sure to purchase Stinkmitt’s debut album Scratch ‘n’ Sniff. Give ‘Er! *
Joel Gook
WHO: The Heartfelt Apologies
WHERE: The Backstage Lounge
WHEN: August 9
The Bartons - brother Andrew and sister Melissa, sat at a table at the Backstage Lounge under a poster advertising Tuesdays with Morrie. No Jack Lemmon? No thanks. They were surrounded by a large group of fans who hung on every word and laughed at every joke that came out of their mouths.
Canadian music legend Alannah Myles’ comment on their Myspace page sums The Heartfelt Apologies up perfectly: “I'm not sure I comprehend your comedy heading~ Despite the odd completely out of tune guitars, without any vocal embellishments, your music is rash, song writing strong & fresh and beautifully sung.” I couldn’t have said it better myself. But here’s an attempt :Under the churchy sky-light looking thing that illuminated the stage with a sinister red glow, at the stroke of 10, Mr. Barton wasted no time and began to tune-up. Twenty minutes later, Ms. Barton joined her brother. The house music faded out and a long-blond-haired gentleman bounded on stage. He introduced himself as Mike Weterings, the host of West Coast Wednesdays.
The crowd went crazy when he introduced The Heartfelt Apologies. They kicked it off with “Gotta Hold On You.” Ms. Barton gripped the microphone like a girl performing fellatio for the first time ; afraid to grip it too tight but giving it a good college try anyway. Her singing is ballsy, bluesy and brazen, commanding respect like Aretha Franklin. Mr. Barton played with incredible intensity, strumming chords like he was in a bubble gum pop-punk band, leaning back, rooted to the stage, electrifying/electrified by his guitar. Together, the duo, the west coast White Stripes, surged with the energy of a Jamiroquai-ing Napoleon Dynamite.
“The Deeper I Fall,” a touching tune with surprising honesty (considering it was crafted by a 9-year-old Ms. Barton), and “Father,” an angrier, noisier, rocker, gave us an idea of the two-piece’s versatility. The outro to “On My Way” made the hairs on my arms raise their wiry heads to see what angel summoned them from their sleep. They covered Tegan and Sara’s “Walking With a Ghost,” and followed it up with “Montreal,” a love song rapacious as the icy wind that flows along the fleuve St. Lawrent, clenching the Gaspésie heart in its relentless grip. Despite their chilly heart-seizing songs, the performers were overheating.
Ms. Barton quipped, “I’m sweating like Roger Ebert— it’s the jacket.”
“I’m sweating like Gene Siskel— wait… wait…” her brother joked.
It would have been funnier if Mr. Ebert wasn’t currently recovering from a cancer operation.
Regardless, they were a very entertaining duo. Between songs, despite unnecessary self-deprecation, the banter was upbeat and humorous. During songs, Ms. Barton played off her brother’s burning intensity with hammy facial expressions, and shimmied and shuffled with dance moves fit for a vaudeville act.
The table full of fans provided perfect percussion for the optimistic “I’m Gonna be Fine,” while Ms. Barton’s bassy, Baez-y tremolo was all the accompaniment required for the socio-politically savvy folk-flavoured “Dollars & Cents” (I think that’s the name, anyway). She introduced the next song thusly: “We didn’t write this song, it’s about running for your life. It’s by The Beatles. It’s called ‘Run For Your Life.’” Insert drum roll here.
I had a sudden vision of The Bartons in the future, playing their music in a seedy lounge in Vegas, à la Marty and Elayne from Swingers. Their last medley consisted of a variety of “joke songs,” reminiscent of the off-beat charm of Canada’s own Corky & The Juice Pigs, including one about the George Foreman Grill, “Unabomber Shack,” and “Stamos ‘N’ Me,” a
touching tribute to the “Don’t touch the hair!” man.
Mr. Weterings came back on stage, and fomented the crowd into forcing an encore. The tenacious B’s busted out the crowd-pleasing “Hobo Man.” It inspired a guy wearing a fleece sweater zipped all the way up his throat to ask a girl beside me, as a conversation-starter, “Is that a Barenaked Ladies song?” Not quite, but it could be. *
www.theheartfeltapologies.com
Liam Ford
WHO : Nikki Hurst
WHERE: the Roxy
WHEN : Aug 8
WHAT : Canadian Content Concert Series
WITH: This Week in History (left)
On Tuesday night nearly 250 twenty-something rock fans turned out to see This Week in History and The Nikki Hurst Band at the Roxy, Vancouver’s venerable rock club on Granville St, for 99.3 The Fox’s Canadian Content Concert Series. The 8 dollar cover got you in the door with a complimentary drink coupon courtesy of the promoters and a 90 minute sampler of our local independent rock/metal/pop scene.
The crowd was dressed in rock n roll black, T-shirts (The Lamb of God – North American Metal, my fave), cargo shorts and at least three women in plaid private school mini skirts with heels.
This Week in History opened Tuesday night with six numbers and they lined up on the Roxy’s shallow stage like the Beatles.
TWIH advertises itself on myspace.com alternative, experimental rock and in truth they don’t fit any particular school of metal rock. The two guitars slide up and down the fret boards in unison with metal bar chords while the bass player, Aidan Rantoul dressed in a hoodie over a shirt and tie, looks like Doogie Howser but plays and moves like Metallica’s Robert Trujillo. Actually the whole band looks like boys from St. George’s private school playing Rob Zombie getting funky and experimenting with ambient sounds.
During their second number there was an electronic susurration (a ghost-like sh-sh-sh-sh) that bloomed behind metal bar chords from the guitars and it was pretty damned sweet.
The band’s forgivable weakness is they look like accountants, except for lead singer Jesse Barber, who has an urban Lord of the Rings look about him. Their less forgivable weakness is that they haven’t found a style yet and are wandering all over the musical map. Their notable strengths are that they’re good musicians, they provide intriguing arrangements, can rock out like the Chili Peppers, and have at least one fan in a plaid mini skirt with heels. Vocalist Nikki Hurst fronts the band that carries her name and if you and I are anything alike the first thought that comes to mind when watching The Nikki Hurst Band is, “Lee Aaron you’ve come back to me”.
You can tell that Nikki is hungry to make it in the music business as she takes to the stage with her pint of water (no ice) dressed in a hoody and low-rider jeans. You can tell she’s worked at her presentation and stage presence and that things are coming together for her band. At one point mid-way through a number she leaned over her stage monitor to be closer to the audience and stepped into a jet of air from the Roxy’s air conditioner and her hair feathered back as she sang. Whether the move was by chance or by design, it was well-done.
The Nikki Hurst Band was more pop than expected. It wouldn’t be wrong to describe them as a pop band who use metal guitars and gear (or let’s just call the style PRM: pop, rock, metal). They have a consistent sound to their material and in their set and they ran through the hard stuff, the slower ballads, the up-tempo numbers with catchy choruses making
the crowd rock, just short of out-right dancing.
Where does The Nikki Hurst Band go from here? Probably up one level: get a distributor for their CD, a FACTOR grant for a video, hire an indie promoter to find some radio play, and possibly open for a bigger name band on a tour, like Nickelback. And then, who knows? *
Michael Van Lane
WHAT: Bang for your Buck Concert Series
WHO: The Sessions (left) , Revenue Kanada, Castle Project, Curtis Santiago & The Vendetta Republic, Treshell
WHERE: Richard’s on Richards
WHEN: August 3
I arrived at Richard’s on Richards way too early. Jay, a big dreadlocked man standing inside, explain to me how it was all going to go down. “The Sessions are on at 12—saw their sound check, they were just standing there, and– oh man!” Jay, I would learn later, was responsible for bringing all the bands together, and for pulling the devilish prank of having them perform without getting paid.
Out of 43,447 bands that submitted requests to take part in the Emergenza Music Festival, “the largest international concert organizer for unsigned bands” (according to their website, www.emergenza.net), a mondo mundo-wide battle of the bands (according to me), only 21 bands remain. One of those bands is The Sessions, and they will be representing Canada in Germany at the Taubertal OpenAir Festival next weekend. The winner will receive, among other prizes, a fully sponsored promotional tour of the USA.
At 8:40, Treshell began to bring the roof down. They’re a tight 3 piece rock band, offering the tonic to bland, angry, modern rock. With a tinge of British pop/rock backing vocals and soaring lead guitar solos, Treshell was as solid as the brick wall behind the stage. Their trademark is the kind of music you’d play cruising down the highway at least 30 clicks over the limit with the convertible roof down and the sun pounding. They spliced the sounds of the Sex Pistols, the Clash, and the Futureheads with some sunny California style punk, and the result was an undeniably tasty fruit, juicy and quenching.
Castle Park’s lead singer lumbered on. He played solo for a bit before the band came on and turned up the good. Equip a team of 5 various species of primates with guitars, a bass, keyboards and drums, and you’ve got the raw, relentless, feral, college-radio ready rock of Castle Park.
Next, Curtis Santiago & The Vendetta Republic were ready to tap our foreheads with their metaphorical hard rockin’ cocks. Lead man Curtis Santiago is Carlton Banks on a cocaine high. He studied Tom Jones’ moves on fast-forward and then punched out Steve Urkel and stole his glasses. And then he decided to lead a rawk band; trashy, noisy, wild and riveting. Mr. Santiago preceded their second song with a warning: “The clothes tends to come off!” He proceeded to sexily assault the crowd, screaming catchy rock lyrics.
Despite his relentless hip gyrations and crotch thrusts, the audience’s eyes were drawn to the rock ‘n roll dream girl on guitar, Zoe Way, and guitarist Parker Bossley, who bears an uncanny resemblance to a young Ron Wood.
Revenue Kanada was next up. Their lead singer slithered and strutted, serpentine, to the band’s sinister charming. Their music was primal, insistent, powerful, and the singer preached angrily and postured like a pagan warlock summoning some sort of daemon.
At last, The Sessions took the stage. Guitarist Tristan Martin and bassist Tobias Jesso minced it up like a couple of British invaders while contributing meaty hooks and undeniable leg pounding rhythms. Singer/guitarist/keyboardist Josh Abel pounded the ground and bobbed his big mop of hair that looked like it came straight off the set of Fraggle Rock. The Sessions made the one-step, AKA the white man’s shuffle, look good, and brewed up instantly likeable, irrepressible, original and unforgettable modern rock at the same time. They were hotter than Hot Hot Heat, and cooler than The Arctic Monkeys. Yes, they might one day be found responsible for the death of Franz Ferdinand. Their music transported me back emotionally to the first time I had sex, except that under its influence, I was as cocky as a grog-sodden pirate, and the girl was my sexy grade 7 French teacher.
Exceptionally outstanding numbers included “My Love,” with the heart-felt refrain equal to The Bravery’s “Honest Mistake,” and “18 Candles,” evocative of a dreamy synth-rock high chool dance fantasy that never came true. If you work for a record company, please heed these words: I’ve heard the new Killers single. Sign these kids and get them in a studio, because the world will need them.
Following their set, The Sessions were rushed off to a party bus, packed to the mirrored ceiling with Pabst Blue Ribbon, Jim Beam and a party platter from Pita Pit. Vancouver’s finest, lights flashing and sirens blaring, escorted the bus to YVR, where Snoop Dogg waited in the cockpit of their personal jet. Inside, strewn about the bean bag chairs and inflatable furniture, an assortment of circus clowns, 12 six-foot blondes, a team of Shetland ponies, and Vancouver’s own Chilliwack (featuring federal NDP leader Jack Layton on keyboards) were eager to entertain our boys— nay, Canada’s boys— on their fated flight to Germany. *
www.thesessions.ca
Liam Ford
WHO: Ora Cogan
WHERE: The Railway Club
WHEN: Sunday, July 30
WITH: Sean Wesley Wood, Maps
Sunday, as it always seems to do, brought blues. The clouds arranged themselves as an airy grey archipelago in the cerulean sea of sky. I decided to wear a writerly grey tweed sports coat to blend in with my cloudy companions. The evening was filled with the kind of sunlight you’d rather squint at than darken with sunglasses.
I climbed the stairs into the Railway Club, and sat at a table near the stage.
A guy got up on stage, tuned his guitar and then said “I think I’m gonna go now… I’m gonna play now. My name is Cameron, I play under the moniker Maps.” Maps played us what he called “songlets. . . minimal structure” songs with unexpected endings, like snippets of songs used in movie soundtracks. He voices a plaintive falsetto, an ethereal, deliberately indistinguishable string of sound-syllables. The performance could only be likened to a Kids in the Hall skit that never made it to air, starring Scott Thompson as an uncertain Shakespearian actor who has forgotten his lines, and therefore looks off-stage occasionally for his cue, while doing a stepless pee-pee dance. At times I laughed incredulously, responding to his clowning; at others I frowned sympathetically, sensing the sincerity behind Maps’ odd oeuvre.
Sean Wesley Wood was up next, led by his tattered combat cap and revolutionary/beatnik beard. I recognized his second song, “When It’s Warm ‘N Sunny,” featuring twangy finger pluckin’ and a jaunty, hooky rhythm. If you were to close your eyes, you could easily envision Mr. Wood as a young father singing lovely and tearful lullabies to his newborn babe. I was impressed by his deft finger flourishes and timeless lyrics, which serenaded and soothed the strange summer night. Near the end of his set, Ms. Cogan and a fellow named Doug joined Mr. Wood up on stage. Together they sprouted lovely sonic flowers in his melodic mountain-top meadow. It occurred to me, listening to his calming, Matt Costa-like crooning, that Mr. Wood wears a beard to deflect blows, tired of taking it on the chin, and that he wears a hat to shield his gaze, which might otherwise, like Cyclops, tear through as all, but with tenderness.
Ora Cogan appeared, and spread like Dawn over a shadowy land. The first thing I noticed was the voluminousness of her voice. It was dense as a diamond, but as carefully articulated as its Sutra. It incorporates a multitude; she seems to somehow twin her own voice, while swimming alongside Bessie Smith, bobbing above Fiona Apple, and out- pirating Edith Piaf. Whether due to poor equipment, or a fluke of static-electricity, Ms. Cogan’s output popped and crackled like the rediscovered rarity records Moby used to craft Play. Sarah Hanson (Happy Birthday!) joined Ms. Cogan on rhythm guitar. “A little bit of slow Sunday performing,” she remarked as the twosome tuned in to each other. Despite difficulties delivering clean endings (could it have been the birthday libations?), Ms. Hanson provided welcome sunny accompaniment to Ms. Cogan’s moony crooning. Together, they played tracks from Ms. Cogan’s albums Sparrow and the newly released Tatter.
As I listened, I felt myself drift off into calm daydreams. A hush descended over the room, unrivalled except by the blankets pulled over dozy preschoolers at naptime. Mr. Wood and Doug were conjured back on stage. Like the final encore of a legendary folk concert where each player comes back onstage, they brought it all home together. The night was a perfect farewell for the golden Ora Cogan who, after the show, grabbed her guitar and climbed onto a moonbeam to tour from Washington down to New Mexico. Look for her at the beginning of a rainbow when she comes back to Vancouver in September. *
www.oracogan.com
Liam Ford
WHO : The Raconteurs & Kelly Stokes
WHERE : The Malkin Bowl
WHEN : 26 July 8pm
WHAT : Rock.
A gorgeous summer evening shone over the cruisy crowd filling into the Malkin Bowl slowly. I walked in mid-way through Kelly Stoke’s set. A San Fran based band that played alt/country/rock –I suppose- with lots of banter between tracks that were all well received in the soft sun.
Mexican/Gypsy/Western music played ‘tween them and The Raconteurs. Two DJ’s from the fox came out and plugged their radio station –Get this out of my live music experience-half an hour or so pass and The Raconteurs walk on stage and get to it. They were in five-piece mode having added keys to the twin guitar attack with the Rickenbacker and drums rhythm section bringing it home. Everyone was looking like rock stars, even the effeminate bass player who killed it. Jack White strapped on his Les Paul-think Slash- the show started with a nice four on the floor beat not too far removed from that other band that old Jack’s in before the rest of the boys joined in.
The Raconteurs punched out rock action from game on with ‘Intimate Secretary’. During the slower tracks like ‘Together,’ Brendon Benson’s and Jackie boy’s voices mixed well like a nice cold vodka martini with a whole bunch of olives. ‘Steady as she goes’ got an early start as the third song and the crowd were loving it.
With lots of light left on this summery Vancouver night, The Raconteurs played through their ‘Broken Boy Soldiers’ slab making each song something different though easily recognizable. Intros, finishes and middle bits that sounded like jams were probably an even mix of improvisation and practice gained over time on the road. The lads pulled out a wondrous cover of ‘Bang, Bang’ written by Cher in ’66-so the internet tells me- with White’s husky vocals making us feel it. That’s not the only thing I felt last night. I felt rock n’ roll action 2006 style.
I saw old hippies smoking the peace pipe, young drunk kids dancing it up and five guys onstage rockin’ out. All was well beneath my raised rock sign. Shockingly the show ended.
The stage was empty except for a guitar tech checking equipment. No stage lights-remember folks, that means they’re coming back-. And they did after a minute or so playing ‘Broken boy soldier’ to start the encore. Jackie boy killed us with some all time rock action in the following song. He kicked aside his fold back (wedge speaker in front of the mic) and got right to the front of the stage. Then effortlessly ripped apart a solo on a mirrored Les Paul. The boys finished with a new track which surprised me. Having read in last weeks Georgia Straight that Jack White said they wouldn’t be playing any new songs live, because of the internet they’d feel like they would be throwing them away. Goes to show you can’t believe everything you read.
The balance between the songwriters White and Benson with Jack Lawrence on Bass, Patrick Keeler on Drums and the Keyboardist whose name I can’t recall was on the money. Hats off to the sound guys whose did their job, giving every instrument its space. The show was over this time as the boys left the stage again. The two Bald Eagles had flown away from their perches in the massive old growth Oak by the back of the crowd. The gates were wide open and people were streaming out happily as the first ‘boom’ of the fireworks in English Bay were audible after The Rock. *
www.theraconteurs.com
Ricky Railer
WHO : Scotty Tuesday
WHERE : Media Club
WHEN : July 27
Entering the Media Club must feel a lot like stepping into purgatory: a lesser-known band about to break it big, or wander off into the land of disenchantment, confesses their sins at the end of the small room. Armed with a pen and pad and my name on the guest list , I would be the one in charge of judgment. I walked in, passed by the girl at the door, and bellied up to the bar.
I was dispatched to the Media Club to review Scotty Tuesday, which is the stage name of Scott Valentine, singer/songwriter of The Next T-Shirt (as I uncovered through hours of preliminary research). I assumed that The Next T-Shirt would appear before the headliner. As fate would have it, they were not to appear at all. The band, as we were informed later, had recently broken up. And unfortunately, Mr. Tuesday, who was still scheduled to play, lost the pre-show Rochambeau. First up was Fiction like Candy (from San Francisco).
There’s something distinctly feline about their lead singer, Genna Giacobassi. She sports a mangy fem-mullet that alternately resembles a lion’s mane and Garth Algar’s mop, post-Suck Kut. But the felinity is mostly in her voice, which ranges from coy alley cat cry to full-fledged jungle jaguar growl, and hits every vocal paw-print along the path. “It’s hot up here,” Ms. Giacobassi said a few songs in, with the voice your annoying ex-girlfriend only hoped to achieve when she was trying so desperately to be cute. The sound man dropped the lights sympathetically, and that’s when they really warmed up. Ms. Giacobassi is a joy to watch, especially when she switches chords, like a blissful drunk fumbling with her fly, and when she strums them out, smiling bigger than the special kid in class when awarded the best effort ribbon on Sports Day. I felt each kitten’s claws’ tickle and scratch of drummer Keith’s brushes on the cymbals and snares. A personal highlight was “Joshua,” one of their last songs, that sounded like The Barenaked Ladies’ “Jane” on happy pills. They launched into their finale, and I looked at my friend Shannon (bassist/backing vocals for the up and coming Danny Echo), and exclaimed: “I know this song!” I soon realized that it was the song they played during the warm-up. It was THAT catchy.
Ryan McMahon was up next. Most songs were straight-forward grunge-era rock that took their cues more from Temple of the Dog than the groups that combined to form it. Take Alice in Chains’ harmonies, subtract heroin, self-deprecation and add an attention span. Mr. McMahon and his band were at their best with the clopping, plodding bassline and slide guitar atmospherics that conjured wide open spaces, hawk’s cries, and desert heat in “Weeks, Months, Years.” They finished the set with “Double Life,” a swingy, swampy C.C.R.ish roots-rocker.
At midnight, it was finally Scotty Tuesday’s turn. “He looks like a hippie. He needs a haircut. I hope he’s good.” Shannon read my mind as Scotty placed a small green frog, who he later introduced as Tom, on the stool beside him. “I like his t-shirt,” Shannon remarked. Good bush, bad Bush. As we would discover, Mr. Tuesday doesn’t only wear his politics on his shirt, but his emotions on his sleeve. He took the stage, wielding his axe as a lumberjack would his chainsaw (or his axe). At least 6’5” and bearded, the lumberjack metaphor is a fitting one. For a solid hour, he crafted a compelling concert complete with expert axemanship and creative vocalizations. He drew us in with sandy fire-side singing and floated us away with his rooftop falsettos. At times bounding into Paul Simon-esque bliss, or dipping into Dave Matthews-esque murk, Mr. Tuesday boasts a recognizable but individual style.
The disco ball twinkled as it does during the last song of a high school prom, and we all had Hope on our dance cards. While songs like “Inside Out” allowed Tuesday to bare his heart (such songs are rendered all the more touching when sung by a man who could fell a tall pine with a single stroke), the call-to-arms “Save the World,” and the environmentally-aware “21st Century Animal Family Plan” allowed him to bare his teeth. In the latter, as the Daniel-san to David Suzuki’s Mr. Miyagi, Mr. Tuesday reminds us that “actions speak louder than words.” The midnight slot at the Media Club might not be the best place to see Scotty Tuesday, but rest assured that he will successfully battle his way out of musical purgatory. Try to catch him in the heavenly outdoors sometime. His unique mix of emotion and action deserve to be heard. *
www.myspace.com/scottytuesday
Liam Ford
WHO : Sam Roberts
WHEN July 25
My ticket said doors at 4, show at 5, Sam Roberts Band & Broken Social Scene. From my rigorous investigative research, I’d discovered that two other bands would take the stage before the headliners: Jets Overhead and The Stills. But I was there for only one reason. The Sam Roberts’ Band mix of 60’s/70’s folk sensibility (think The Band) mixed with a strong Canadianity, topped off with a certain unfinished, even scruffy, musical aesthetic makes their newest release, Chemical City, one of my favourite discs of the summer.
First up was Jets Overhead. The lead singer rocked out far harder than the heat and the crowd would expect him to. Their harmonic guitar sounds suited the late afternoon vibe and complimented the lake-view ampitheatre-esque venue. Combine U2’s rolling rhythms with Pilate’s airy vocals, and you get a vague sense of Jets Overhead. Still, the vocals were a little too airy, and the rhythms trundled along endlessly; a guitar solo or two wouldn’t have hurt.
The Stills were up next. I recognized the first song from their big debut Logic Will Break Your Heart, but presumably they were playing songs from their new one, Without Feathers as well. I enjoyed their dynamic: the lead singer was dressed all in black, while the bassist was sans shirt. Their rock keyboards made me thirsty for Crystal Pepsi. The crowd stood up in large numbers, and clapped loudly after their set.
Despite the felted-in “no emos” on the sign listing restricted items placed outside the venue, there was still an inordinate amount of boys who looked like girls. Regardless, the ratio was fantastic. “A lot of talent,” my brother said. “A lot of pu—girls,” another acquaintance of mine said. (If you find yourself in the enviable position of attending an all-ages concert, but are unsure of the age of cute potential interlocutors, check for the “drinking age verified” wristband. Thank you, Liquor Control and Licensing Act!)
The Broken Social Scene was next to take the stage, all 23 of them. No, wait, on second count—10. Oh, there’s the brass section—13 it is. Bearded Andy Dick, young Lyle Lovett and the guy who gambolled on stage like a junky attracted by shiny metal led the real motley crew in a memorable set. “We just finished playing the World Eletronic Music Festival,” Kevin Drew told us. “This is a much more natural setting, and you’re not all on a 2 day crystal meth bender—or are you?”
I squinted into the crowd, the lake, the horizon, then at the birds in the sky as the music rushed by as in an impressionistic music video. The sunset stretched across the fan-strewn lawns, and time slowed noticeably. The Scene finished their set, yet the applause remained polite. It was clear the crowd was saving it for Sam, the Wolf-Man of Canadian music.
While the mythological Wolf-Man transformed into a wolf only during a full moon, Sam Roberts is seemingly afflicted by a rare chronic strain of über-lupus. Rock music is the one cure for his hairy atavism. The ‘Band took the stage. Sam and lead guitarist Dave Nugent opted for work-a-day Canadian tuxedos minus manteaux, while bassist James Hall sported a Bob Dylan-inspired bowler hat and bandana ensemble.
Sam called for reinforcements on a suped-up rendition of his first big hit, “Brother Down.” Eager tambourine men from the afternoon’s previous bands bum-rushed the stage and jingled and jangled as you’d think was possible only by reindeer on Christmas Eve. The crowd chimed in for the most popular chorus in the short history of Canadian modern rock, which drew animalistic, body-wrenching convulsions of appreciation from the lead singer. His hair seemed to shorten, his beard seemed to sparsify as the sun set and the ‘Band rocked on. Sam was transforming before our very eyes.
They drowned out the sun with “Mind Flood,” filling the stage and venue with purple lights that dashed and zipped along the fog of marijuana smoke, crafting a dull Aurora Borealis. After over an hour of some of our generation’s best radio rock, Sam et al. left the stage with many polite thank-you’s. For the encore, we were escorted through “The Gate” and with the aid of the tromboner, trumpeteer and saxophonist from BSS, were indulged in some jazzy Orientalism, in a tour of the “Taj Mahal.” At the end, Sam stood at the front of the stage, fists raised in triumph. His face looked smooth, almost cherubic, and his hair shone with a surreal sweat-halo. Through the magic of rock, he had once again shed his Wolf-Man appearance and become an angel.*
www.samrobertsband.com
Liam Ford
WHAT : Zombie Night in Canada
WHEN : July 25, 2006
WHERE : Lamplighter Pub
WITH : The Rocket Fins, The Farrell Bros., The Alley Dukes
In the late 1930s when Les Paul ran up and down the stairs of his house, with his suspenders flapping around his knees, soldering a magnetic coil pick up onto a 4”x4” fence post to make a solid body electric guitar he probably had no idea by this act he was dropping the spermatozoa of country swing music into the egg of mountain folk music and helping to create the bastard child known as rockabilly. And later, when the son of rockabilly was born into the urban dissatisfaction and alienation of the London punk scene it became ‘psycho-billy’, a sort of half-demented, highly energetic, scandal of a sound that’ll have you shooting meth into your veins before you can say, ‘born to lose’.
Last night Stumble Records threw another “chains-on-the-wallet, cuffs-rolled-up, and-tattoos-that-say-‘Mom, Cindy, Susie Forever’ party at the Lamplighter with The Rocket Fins, The Farrell Bros., and The Alley Dukes. And the faithful turned out proving the local rockabilly and psycho-billy scene is alive and well.
I arrived about 10 minutes into The Rocket Fins’ set and the four boys were standing in their canvas high-top sneakers cranking away with their combination of twang country guitars, growling vocals, and clickity click rockabilly drumming. Mick, the upright bass player, was pulling on his strings like he was uncoiling cable by the yard.
At one point near the end of their set they let loose with a lead guitar and drum duet with Chopper making his battered Les Paul scream and kick while the drummer kept beating his toms until the room was spinning like a hurricane. And then, with the rattling of the snare drums, the song re-launched into the chorus and the room went back to normal. It was a fucking magical moment.
The local rockabilly scene is a visual stunner with chicks who are a hybrid between Peggy Sue Got Married and Elvira and guys who are part Screech, part Elvis, and part blue-collar welder. They were primarily drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon and at 6% alcohol the road to drunk is pretty short but a little rocky (have they really been making this since 1893, I ask). I counted about 120 of the faithful for the Farrell Bros., who were up next.
These three guys, hailing from Winnipeg, are a must-see band and they could rock a tight-ass like Stephen Harper in seconds, getting him loosened up enough to smoke a pack of Export A and steal cars for fun like a normal guy. Rock music is theatre and jump and the Farrell Bros. deliver. Skinny and lanky, with a guitar that has a wider waist than he, and sporting a ‘do that took a little thinking about, Shawn Farrell twisted, bent, nodded, postured and stooped and shouted call-backs to his brother’s lead vocals all the while playing a mean guitar, slapping out chords or keeping rhythm with rockabilly riffs with a competence that said, ‘I was truant the last couple of years of high school.’ His brother, Gordie, mounted his white upright bass, leaned on it while delivering most of the band’s vocals with a raspy voice that sounded as if it smelled of gasoline.
The evening wound up with Montreal’s The Alley Dukes, whose missing rhythm section was replaced by the rhythm section from The Brains. These guys are a raunchy, scatological, shit-disturbing rockabilly band who picked up the crowd where the Farrell Bros. left off and took them down the home-stretch. The bass player, who’s upright was shaped like a coffin, and the drummer, who stood while wailing on his snare and stomping on his kick drum, both played with enough drive to warrant them duct-taping their fingers. Front man Zak Duke proved himself to be, as advertised, Mr. Taste, with songs like Fucking in the Butt and Milkshake Queen (about facials). He also offered free T-shirts to the girls who showed him their nipples and apparently the chicks in Calgary are either looking for any chance to flash their breasts or are in need of clean t-shirts ‘cause he said we sucked in comparison.
Did I mention how much alcohol there is in Pabst Blue Ribbon? During the Alley Dukes’ last number I ducked the flying beer cans, stumbled home and dreamed of rockabilly girls, with Betty Page haircuts, living in Calgary. *
www.thefarrellbros.com/
www.freewebs.com/alleydukes/
http://rocket-fins.tripod.com/rockabilly/index.html
Michael Van Lane
States of Grace by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Rich exile, and five thousand year old vampire, Saint Germain finds himself in the midst of political and religious intrigue as the Reformation takes hold in 16th century Europe. He and his mistress are hounded by spies as Saint Germains publishing interests bring him under the scrutiny of the all powerful Church. Saint Germain finds himself on a cross continent trip trying to protect his business and hide his true Vampiric nature - even as he is being slowly embezzled from, and accused of heresy, kidnapping and murder.
States of Grace is a great historical novel that perfectly captures the religious upheavals of the time. The look at daily life in the 1500’s is fascinating, and
obviously a great deal of research went into this book. But as a vampire book, thriller, and romance it falls flat. Yarbros fans will be happy to see the
continuation of their beloved Saint Germain, Roger in tow as always, but the secondary characters are not well developed, and little is seen of the supposedly powerful relationship between Saint Germain and his mistress. There was little to no tension in the book, and no real climax. As much as I can applaud the book for its historical accuracy it was almost too detail orientated, I grew tired of reading every detail of each bit of clothing the characters wore, what it was made out of, the stitching, and the color. It added nothing to the story and slowed the book down to a snails pace.
And well, there’s nothing Vampiric about the book. Yarbro easily could have created a brand new, non-vampire character to fill the role of the beleaguered publisher because Saint Germains dark nature had absolutely nothing to do with the plot. Bottom line is read it if you love history and the time period but don’t bother if your looking for a thrill.*
Renee Mallett
SINNER & SAINT DISCUSS... PEDOPHILIA
I’ve never given pedophilia much thought. I knew it wasn’t something I would do and it’s not something I could take lightly if someone I knew were to confide in me about. It’s not my thing and it’s illegal in this country. It seemed simple enough. I find it repugnant and that’s that.
I was prompted to survey the web to see what I could dig up. I wasn’t looking for pictures. What I was looking for was insight. I wanted to know how these people think and what other people think about them.
It was easy enough to find snippets of information that profile a pedophile. After reading through a handful of these pages it became clear that if you’ve read one, you’ve read them all. It was all pretty standard fare and most of it had been freshly dredged up and discussed alongside reporting of last week’s incident in Saskatchewan. We’ve heard it all
before.
At least I thought I had until I found this; http://www.lege.cz/archiv/pedo1.htm. It’s a page written by none other than Mr. Ronald McDonald. Under this unnerving moniker he goes on to expound what it’s really like to be pedophile for the rest of us. He maintains that he’s not anything like Peter Whitmore or any of the other boogeymen we read about in the news. He’s what I’d like to call a “pure” pedophile. He reviles abductions and assaults as much as most of us do. He claims he would never hurt a child. It pains him to think that anyone could.
After reading through his site and reviewing some other pages discussing how do deal with the likes of him I began to sympathize with the pedophile a little bit. It’s tragic, really, if you consider the situation fairly. As far as pedophilia as an affliction goes, it can’t be “cured.” One may even go as far as to say that pedophilia is a bona fide sexual orientation. So what if it is? It presents a quagmire to put it lightly. Being a bit brazen, I’d say we’ve got a big fucking problem. Let’s put aside the monster for a moment. If I can quell my compunction and explore this a little deeper, it gets interesting.
What I read from Mr. McDonald (trust me, that doesn’t get easier to write) is the tale of a sad, tortured man, who with enough prodding is apt to get a bit irascible, perhaps rightfully so. All I could think about was the tragic ephemeral nature of the relationship between a man like him, a self-aware professing pedophile with a penchant for girls approximately twelve years old, and an object of his affection.
I reckon my take on relationships is somewhat typical. My frame of reference leads me to yearn for a long, meaningful relationship. Happy couples are all around; boys and girls, boys and boys, old people, fat people, the lot of them are as happy as clams at high tide. Everybody is getting hitched, shacking up with their sweethearts and living happily ever after. Mr. McDonald will never experience that. It’s not because he doesn’t want to. If I believe what he says, it’s because he simply can’t.
Even in the best circumstances, love can be fleeting. It’s precarious and is most dangerous to a sensitive soul when it’s new and cloying. From what I’ve read and come to understand, the pedophile’s romance can only be a strictly temporary affair. Taboos and laws that insist that their trysts are surreptitious are secondary to the stark reality that in a short time, that pedophile’s peach will have spoiled. Mr. McDonald’s Lolita will soon turn thirteen, fourteen…twenty, and thus will become unattractive. She will have lost all of her appeal through no fault of her own. After all, she’s just growing up.
How can a pedophile cope with this dilemma? In the example of Mr. McDonald, he bypasses sexual contact and cultivating relationships entirely. He accepts that he cannot realize his desires for fear of being caught and imprisoned more than anything. The resulting stress and sexual tension is alleviated in sad fashion. He goes to great lengths to present an exposé, a veritable how-to guide to satiate to ones needs in lieu of sex and not get caught. What he presents is a series of suggestions of masturbation while skulking in sight of playgrounds, file trading through newsgroups, and getting glimpses of little ones scantily clad in Sunday flyers.
That isn’t easy to accept.
If done so thoughtfully, I suppose Mr. McDonald could go about his business unbeknownst to you or I. What if he was discovered though? The resulting hysteria would no doubt obfuscate his side of the story. Few, if any, would sympathize with him and he would be relegated to the rank of being just another monster. His tastes are unsavory and are so far removed from anything the public could be comfortable with. I have to say I feel a bit sad for a pedophile. It can’t be easy. *
Jeremiah Fedoruk
JEAN JUNKIES : HOW TO LOOK DASHING IN DENIM
Who here doesn’t love that perfect pair of jeans – worn in all the right places, comfy as sin and so irreplaceable. Unfortunately, expanding holes and bottoms cause us to search out a new pair every once and awhile. This can be an incredibly humiliating and fearful process for some of us, which is where this handy little guide comes into play. Just follow our step-by-step process for a fun and fantastic denim experience that may just change your life! Ok, well, it will at least score you a new pair of jeans that you will still be in love with the next morning.
STEP 1: Identify your body type For this one, you need to get beyond the obvious ‘size 14’ or ‘the legs are always too long’ observations and into more of what your actual features break down to. For example:
-Are you short-waisted?
-Do you have a long torso?
-Are you plus-sized, with wider hips?
-Do you have more of an athletic, straight body line?
-Are you petite?
All of these factor into a better fitting jean, if you buy the style that will most flatter your certain attributes. So, saunter over to that mirror and take a gander at figuring out what your particular body type is and then jump on to Step 2.
STEP 2: Match the cut and style to your body type Now that you have figured out what your body type most closely resembles, you are almost there! Now, grasshopper, you are ready to learn about the standard issue denim styles and cuts that are out there on the shelves, just waiting for you. In this step, I am going to be brutally honest with you as to who should and should not wear what. But really, lovey, it’s for your own good! Think of it as saving you from many disgusted glances and behind-the-hand snickers. Embrace the jeans that fit your type, and run with it for the best results. Here we go……
Short-Waisted Gals look great in low-hanging, hip hugger styles. These give the illusion of a much longer torso and a leaner abdomen, equaling hot mama. The blues terminology for your jeans is LOW-RISE. These normally come in a boot cut, which helps to create a balanced curve. Unfortunately, you ladies do not fare so well with high- or straight- waisted pants, so be sure to steer clear. Ignoring this advice will have you looking like a stocky little mule. Be warned.
Long Torso Ladies are flattered by a cut with a defined waist, making your lower half appear longer and leaner for a more even appearance. This cut also has the added benefits of a defined butt, which we could all use regardless of body type! You’re blues term-of-the-day is the CLASSIC FIVE-POCKET.This cut offers slim fitting pant legs with a slight taper towards the bottom, and great definition through the waist, hips and thighs. Whatever you do, stay away from anything low-cut or baggy, which will add to your torso length and will have you drowning in your jeans. Not attractive, unless you are a 16 year old boy who listens to P. Diddy.
Beautiful, Bigger Babes often feel like they get the empty toilet paper roll on the spinner when it comes to jeans that fit right. The key here is to look for a slight flare in the leg, which helps to balance out your womanly curves. You’ll also want to reach for denims that have a bit of stretch to them, which is fortunately quite common these days. Trust me, this is key for both your comfort and for avoiding unsightly sags and bunches in your back trunk. Lastly, the back pockets should ideally be large and closely spaced, helping to minimize and punch up your rear steer. Your best blues bet will be the BOOT CUT with a bit of spandex in the mix. Definitely avoid narrow or tapered legs, which will just have you looking top-heavy and unimaginably un-sexy.
Petite Problem Solvers can be hard to find. It’s a tall world out there, and nobody seems to take care of the little people. Thankfully, a needle with some thread and quick sewing 101 can help hem up the length. You want to be careful not to over-hem, though. A bit of extra length adds to your silhouette and makes you appear taller. You also want to stick to straight legs, which will keep the taller theme working for you.
You can find true blues happiness with PETITE-CUT pants, but if you’re stuck in a backwards store with no such thing, go for the CLASSIC FIVE-POCKETS which will do the trick with a bit of adjusting. And now that you’re looking like an Amazonian Supermodel, you’ll be savvy enough to keep the flared leg jeans out of your closet, as they will bring you crashing down to earth in a crumpled and frumpy looking heap.
Lean Bean Athlete Types will look best in something that rides along the bellybutton or just below, but that has just enough definition in the rear to define your rump and lift it up a bit. Tapered or straight legs work well with your body. You can try both the LOW-RISE and the CLASSIC FIVE-POCKET jeans with equal comfort, and may find a happy addition in back pockets that are lower down and/or that carry some kind of embroidery or embellishments, to add flair and avoid the “no bum” danger zone. You will want to burn and destroy any relaxed fit or baggy trousers that pass your way, though! Only bad things can come from you wearing them, so just keep them on the shelf and walk away. Quickly. Move, now!
STEP #3: Trendy Tips from your friendly neighborhood Fashionista!Repeat these mantras when out shopping for your newest Mavi’s or Seven’s, and you will never go wrong…..
“Tighter means Sexier!” – It just means you are trying too hard
“Peek-a-boo undies are hot!” – Ugh. From all of us. Really.
“The 1-inch zipper works on everyone!” – This is a horrible myth. If you cannot see the top of your jeans because your rolls (a.k.a. ‘muffin top’) are covering it up, this honestly means that low-rise was not meant for you. At least not until you are a few more weeks into that Pilates class.
“That brown fading on those jeans looks so cool!” – If you want your jeans to look like you just came from rolling in the mud, then at least give yourself the satisfaction of actually rolling in the mud to get them that way!
And, finally, anything with laces or ties up the sides, or anything containing glitter, is banned and will never, ever be cool. Ever. Even if you are only wearing them to dance around your living room, pretending to be Shakira. We would love to see pictures of that one, though!
To end this handy guide, let’s show you the major mistakes that people just like you and I have been guilty of when choosing our new threads. Follow the above instructions and not only find your perfect fit, but also keep yourself from ever being caught dead on our pages looking like the above. Happy Shopping! *
Bonnie Lynn
art : steff valor
OVEN BAKED COOKIE
KATE HUDSON
She burst onto the scene and gained recognition merely for being Goldie Hawn’s daughter. But that was then and this is now and she’s the shit. She was in Almost Famous as a much coveted groupie. I didn’t dig her much at the time but I say that often don’t I? I haven’t seen her in anything remarkably great but her smile and her laugh is just oh so cute. Not just cos she looks like her mom either! She’s married to the lead singer of The Black Crowes and the media went crazy saying it was a Beauty & the Beast scenario. I say it’s coo.
Check her out in You, Me & Dupree. Allan didn’t dig it but if you’re gonna see it anyway, you may as well be looking at her.*
note : Ok, she dumped his ass recently
