The Nerve Magazine - June 2007 by The Nerve Magazine

The Nerve June 2007 Page

Volume 8, Number 6, Issue #72

CONTENTS

508 - 825 Granville St., Vancouver, B.C. V6Z 1K9 604.734.1611 www.thenervemagazine.com contact@thenervemagazine.com

11 Tiger Army

The Don (a/k/a Editor-In-Chief and Publisher) Bradley C. Damsgaard editor@thenervemagazine.com

Wiseguy (a/k/a Music Editor) Adrian Mack mack@thenervemagazine.com

The Henchmen (a/k/a Design & Graphics) Kristy Sutor

Murder Capital natives put out a killer album - Chris Walter

Just your average mad genius - AllanMacInnis

14 Marnie Stern

Weapons Cleaner (a/k/a Article Editor) Jon Azpiri

“Here I am! Rock you like a soccer mom!!!” - Jon Braun

14 Bob Scott

Surveillance Team (a/k/a Photographers) Dale De Ruiter, Miss Toby Marie, Leigh Righton The Muscle (a/k/a Staff Writers) AD MADGRAS, Cowboy TexAss, Chris Walter, Stephanie Heney, Adam Simpkins, Carl Spackler, David Bertrand, Herman Menervemanana, Ferdy Belland, Dave Von Bentley, Devon Cody, Dale De Ruiter, Johnny Kroll, Andrew Molloy, Cameron Gordon, Brock Thiessen, Filmore Mescalito Holmes, Jenna James, Jenny C, Will Pedley, Christina Paris, Allan MacInnis, Samantha Laserson, Michael Cook, TC Shaw Plaster Caster (a/k/a Cover Design) Toby Bannister toby@thenervemagazine.com cover photo: Kevin Estrada

Would you like to touch my Tiki? - Boy Howdy

9 12 12 15 15

Skip Jensen Cannonball! Capdown Spoon Living with Lions

PHOTO: DEVON CODY

Fire Insurance (a/k/a Advertising) Brad Damsgaard, Sean Mckay advertise@thenervemagazine.com

The Nerve is published monthly by The Nerve Magazine Ltd. The opinions expressed by the writers and artists do not necessarily reflect those of The Nerve Magazine’s publisher or its editors. The Nerve does not accept responsibility for content in advertisements. The Nerve reserves the right to refuse any advertisement or submission and accepts no responsibility for unsolicited manuscripts or artwork. Printed in Canada. All content © Copyright The Nerve Magazine 2007. Est. 1999

How can you be a nihilist with such great hair? - Adrian Mack

13 Eugene Chadbourne

Launderer (a/k/a Book Editor) Devon Cody cody@thenervemagazine.com

Out-of-town Connections (a/k/a Distro & Street Team) Toronto: Rosina Tassone, Kerry Goulding Montreal: Douglas Ko Calgary: Mike Taylor Edmonton: Freecloud Records, Bob Prodor Winnipeg: Margo Voncook Regina: Shane Grass Vancouver: Mr. Plow Victoria/Whistler: Jono Jak, Lindsay

16 Wednesday Night Heroes

Shotgun (a/k/a Film Editor) Michael “Wanna Touch Tips?” Mann mann@thenervemagazine.com

The Kids (a/k/a The Interns) Claudine Ostashek, Samantha Laserson, Alyson Bryan

Features

Sections 06 20 23 18 26 27 26 29 28

Cheap Shotz Live Reviews Album Reviews Film / Short Ends DVD Books Video Games Crossword Comics The Nerve June 2007 Page

Cheapies

Nerve

Von Bentley’s Monthly Weather Watch

“99% Chance of Smiles!”

Bertrand’s Bizzaro Film

-O

-Rama With a rare and precious screening of Cock Fu masterpiece Hanzo the Razo r: Sword of Justice in late May , Dave Bertrand’s weekly gath ering of drunken film weir dos reached a new pinnacle of awesomeness. Check out June’s schedule for more cheap thrills, people: Sunday, June 3 - Willie Dyn amite! Gordon from Sesame Street plays Willie the pim p in this blaxploitation clas sic! Featuring some of the mos t outrageously flamboyant pimp outfits of all time. Sunday, June 10 - The Sicko Shor t Films of Don Her tzfel dt. Modern stick-man animatio n legend Don Hertzfeldt’s entire Bitter Films collectio n! Including, Ah, L’Amour, Gen re,

Billy’s Balloon, Rejected, The Meaning of Life, and more hilariously depraved mayhem . Sunday, June 17 - Brian DeP alma’s Sisters. An early, preCarrie classic from DePalma ’s glory days, and pretty muc h the best Hitchcock movie to not be directed by Hitc hcock. Awesome use of split-screen , an incredibly surreal clim ax, and Margot Kidder’s best ever performance. Amazing . Sunday, June 24 - Mario Bava ’s Blood and Black Lace. A gorgeous, gothic, vibrantly Technicoloured masterpiece from Italy’s godfather of horr or. Widely considered the original giallo film, it’s also one of the best. If you’ve neve r experienced Bava before, there’s no better place to start. The Gaff Gallery, 684 East Hastings

Plagiarism!

Mairead Ashe

Magazine!!! Sues the Nerve Nerve celebrates The , are aw are s der

rea As many of you fine l each summer by e that is rock ‘n’ rol the wonder and aw uise aboard the Cr at Bo ll Rock ‘n’ Ro ise on the open hosting the annual cru r ou r-h event is a fou couver’s finest mighty Abitibi. The Van of e mances by som open-air er, seas featuring perfor upp the ds perform on gently rock bands. The ban Strait the sun sets ia org Ge the r ove deck, while out s and time-honoured ou joy s thi s, ala t Bu into the horizon. MAIREAD ASHE. jeopardized by one tradition has been Crystal Pistol’s ing dur t tha ims ss, cla Ms. Ashe, a waitre while she was right , ise cru at bo r’s t yea performance on las the lead singer, a of nt fro in ht t?), rig contacted with up front (rocking ou and rd wa for ly pushed ided to launch monitor was alleged dec has she r e months late in Nerveland e her foot. Over nin her us of any the weakest AD ASHE IRE her lawsuit, one of MA ). few d we’ve seen a moter pro have ever seen (an the i, itib ners of the Ab the names the proud ow of Crystal Pistol, and ger sin the ), ine (The Nerve Magaz hurt foot is not the ged alle the t Bu Captain of the boat. iming to be suffering MS. ASHE is also cla extent of it, oh no. . nia om from anxiety and ins s about five times on this matter wa Our original piece rful language but, ou col re mo ed much as long and contain ual legal advice act ted ges e highly sug upon aquiring som ter amendment… rac cha of a defamation (something about met with a s wa ich ” I yelled, wh advice” “What character!?!? look from said “legal ow -br ugh hro s-t loving sic mu live prolonged eye you n decided that all this ed olv res giver… SO!), it’s bee ’ve we il to have to wait unt th can fans are just going details and the tru y juic the all ore annoying matter bef a boat deck. guts of a fish across be spilled like the gazine is throwing Ma rve Ne The te, And on a related no draiser Thursday, Fun d Fun al Leg ROLL a SAVE ROCK ‘N’ in Vancouver, to ille anv Gr on za Club . Mairead, you August 9 at the Pla end ter bit the lawsuit to fight this frivolous t… ugh tho uh, on second are not invited… - A.D. MADGRAS of Nerveland Celestial Overloard

Here is the first line at all, especially wit of Tony Newton’s h the writing cho Pride Tiger article, which ps she displays in the one appeared in The Ne original line quote rve in February, 2006: d above, specifically ,“Nine tracks of honest, hard “Pride Tiger worsh rock goodness.” Th ips at the altar of at shi t’s ho t enough to classic rock, emulatin put Chuck Kloste g the sounds of Th rman out of busin in Lizzy, Sabbath, Deep Pu ess as far as we’re conce rple - you get the rne d, so wh point.” at gives? Even And here is the firs more pressing of t line of Adrian Ma co urs e is the question of Pride Tiger article ck’s how Tony Newton , which appeared ended up authorin in another Vancouver g the top ranked Pride paper in Septembe Tig er article on Google r 2006: “Matt Woods sings (way to hide your and plays drums for tra cks by the way, ‘Ta Pride Tiger, which ra’). But Tony Newton has been saddled ? Seriously, what with a lot of Thin Lizzy co the fuck? Is that because he mparisons since it ’s sitting in Winnipe busted out of the spliff bu g googling himself all nker this year wit day long? Of cours h its debut album Wood, e it is! Incidentally, ‘Tara’ Dhak, Froese, Payett , if you really wann e.” a make And here are the a splash, you should first two lines of try lift ing fro Vue m Von Weekly Edmonton’s Bentley or Johnny Pride Tiger article Kroll.You can hav , which was published on e that idea for free. February 21, 2007 : “East Vancouver’s - Nerve Legal Desk Pride Tiger is a band that worships at the altar of cla ssic rock, mirroring the sounds of bands like Black Sabbath, Lyn yrd Skynyrd and De ep Purple. Pride Tiger has also been struck with a lot of Thin Lizzy comparison s since it busted ou t last year with its debut album Wood, Dhak, Froese, Payett e, nine tracks of ho nest, hard rock goo dness.” The Vue Weekly art icle is credited to somebody by the name of ‘Tara’ , although we’re ob viously on slippery ground here, and it would be hasty to assume that it’s the author’s real nam e. In any event, did ‘Ta ra’ intend her art icle, not as some lousy, craven, and unbeliev ably lazy act of che ap-ass plagiarism, but as a sly comment on Pride Tiger’s pla yful appropriation of other people’s mu sic? And did ‘Tara’ get paid for this act of meta-textual genius ? If so, Mr. Newton and Mack would like their royalties , please. The weird thing is that ‘Tara’ feels the need to steal from anyone

Nerve’s Man of the Yea r,

Already? On May 7, the bus driver pictured in the action sequ ence below was spat upon by a passenger who refused to pay his fare. In the events that follo wed, the driver left his seat in order to pursue his assailant , eventually catching up with him and returning wet, phlegmy fire. He then asked the asse mbled crowd of frightened onlooke rs if anybody else “would like to fucking spit on a bus driv er,” while nearby CTV cam eras captured the entire fracas. Hours later, it was on You Tube, and everybody in Vancouver was clucking about what shou ld be done, with most concluding that the driver deserved to be disciplined at least, if not fired . This is a complex issue, but The Nerve would like to stat e for the record that the dud e actually deserves a fuck ing raise. The guy that did the spitt ing is a well-known dirtbag, and while we’re inclined to lend our support to the disposse ssed and meth addicted creature s of Vancouver - aka our talen t pool - we also feel that show ering in junkie hoark is som ething that should only happ en between consenting adul ts. Furthermore, The Nerve has no problem joining the cho rus of criticism regularly directed at TransLink by anybody with an

Letters = cheapshotz@thenervemagazine.com

The Nerve June 2007 Page

ounce of common sense, though we cannot bring ours elves to apply the same accounta bility to an underpaid shlu b who just received an unexpected dose of the Hep. All things being equal, we tend to feel that - although their numbers are many - asshole bus drivers are mad e, not born. Unfortunately, we can’t reve al the name of the driver, but we invite him to visit the Nerve office at his conveni ence to claim his prize for early nom ination as Nerve Man of the Year (two tix to see Honeym oon Suite, September 14 at the Bell Performing Arts Centre in Surrey), provided he’s wea ring those shorts and that hair. TransLink refused to spea k with The Nerve about the situation, although we did trac k down the driver’s distant cousin Ricky at the Sunnyvale Trai ler Park in Halifax, who thou ghtfully commented, “Fuck off!” He also faxed a picture of him self giving us the finger. A slightly more balanced view was prov ided by the driver’s old buddy Jeff “the Dude” Lebowski (they roadied for Metallica a few years back), who said, “ We’ ve got certain information, man. New stuff has come to light ,” before adding, “This aggression will not stand, man!” - News Desk

Worst Album of the Month Linkin Park

Minutes to Midnight Warner Let’s start with the cover for this latest shit-feast from the fuckwit Yankee band who can’t even spell the word ‘Lincoln’ properly. It’s a triple foldout (oooh!) with moody shots of six dipshits moping about on a pebbly beach. One dipshit sports a faux-punk mohawk and mirror shades while another dipshit sports a Strathcona beard and shades, while the other dipshits are just dipshitt ing their dipshit way for the camera in a manner designe d to enthrall the easily-duped middle-school schmucks who make up most of Linkin Park’s dwindling audience. Not a good start. The sticker on the CD’s shrink-wrap boasts: 12PAGE FULL COLOUR BOOKLET WITHIN! Suitable , no doubt, for ‘plugging the flaming pucker of a fuckedout crackwhore’, to paraphrase Cheap Shots. Now let’s delve within; an honest-to-Christ FOREWORD kicks off the liner notes, as if it’s the preface for the latest Great American Novel, but honey, believe me - this ain’t no Ham on Rye. The foreword tells how the band struggle d through 100 songs with overhyped uber-producer Rick Rubin (proving he’s just another asshole studio-mercenar y who gives not a tin shit about his reputation). But when you’re merely the willing stooge-puppets of the decayin g establishment music industry, you’re just spare-board employees punching a time clock - YOU ARE NOT ARTISTS. Never were, never will be, and all the pastiche Anton Corbijn photo shoots in the world will not change that, you dumb pricks. So let’s go to the music, if we dare. The intro, “Wake” , is either trying to conjure up moody NIN-meets-Pin kFloyd synthy edginess - or it’s just trying to conjure up Von Bentley’s jism from my stomach, which is precisely what happened when Linkin Park kicked into track two, “Given Up” - something all of you idiot diehard Linkin Park fanfuckos should have done five years ago (given up on Linkin Park, that is, not puked up Dave Von Bentley’s load in a greasy froth of regurgitated Olde English 800 in a Granville Street back-alley dumpster - that’s MY job. Nerve office parties are legendary, even in Hell). And then it just gets worse. Inane raps here, pointles s guitar riffs there. MAKE UP YOUR FUCKING MINDS , YOU PANDERING CHARLATANS! And the titles: “Bleed It Out” “Shadow of the Day” “No More Sorrow”…. if THAT’s the best they could do, then the other 88 songs they threw away must have sounded like the droolin g of low-end imbeciles at some Port Coquitlam retard farm, where the inmates paint the walls with their own shit. Maybe they ghostwrote Minutes… hmm? Get a hundred imbeciles behind a ProTools program and a Triple Rectifie r half-stack and eventually the new Linkin Park album will ass-bark into woeful existence. For fuck’s sake, people, these donut-probing Chicago losers were cunningly slid into the tail-end of the asshole nu-metal wave, just when dinks like Disturbed and Stain’d were coming into vogue; they were meaningless then and time hasn’t been kind to them. There’s nothing more embarrassing than failed punk-metal shitheads pushing the useless side of 30 and still trying to bang junior-h igh cheerleaders by saying, “I’m the bass player in Linkin Park, little sweetass, mind if I shit in your mouth?” (I assume this happens.) - Johnny Kroll

Not Just For Weekdays Anymore By Chris Walter

dmonton might not seem like the most culturally advanced place, but hardcore punk is a long-standing tradition there, and the Wednesday Night Heroes are the new ambassadors. Full of rig pigs and rednecks, Edmonton is a good town if you like to brawl in the streets, and last year it edged out Winnipeg to become “The Murder Capital of Canada.” Never mind that more people are murdered in Fargo every year; for Canadians, the level of violence in “E-Town” is very high. We’ll never know for sure if this brutal environment helps create fast, aggressive music, but singer Graeme MacKinnon is proud of his heritage. “Bands like SNFU and Down Syndrome were huge on my thirst for hardcore punk, but I also find myself drawn to some of the earlier stuff,” he says. “Bands like the Malibu Kens and the Rock ‘n’ Roll Bitches are a few hidden gems, but we discovered some crucial stuff from the ‘90s when we first got into punk. The Glory Stompers and the Systematics were huge on making us proud to charge our hair and look like freaks in a city full of rig workers and redneck humpers. One of the best shows I’ve seen to this day was a hardcore band called Blindside at a venue called Punk ‘N’ Junk, and they fucking tore it up. That was the first time I’d seen 50 people on stage with a band, singing every word with urgency. That was an incredible gig.” Graeme explains how the punk scene in Edmonton has changed over the years. “In the beginning, for me, the community was just about angry kids playing music and releasing their wiggles. It was about kids being punk: hating school, hating the jocks and hating everyone telling you how to be and how to act. But as people got older and more people started joining the front, I felt that the kids started getting jaded and the scene started to divide into very genre-specific niches of punk and it became a tad more exclusive. However, the kids nowadays are beginning to see through the bullshit and there is a lot more crossover happening, so it makes for better shows and better bands. I feel that with the inclusion of hardcore, thrash, ‘77 punk, soul, and reggae, punk bands in Edmonton are becoming a force to be reckoned with. Because we live in an isolated microcosmic environment, these same angry kids are constantly creating innovative and energetic punk

that is on par with anything I’ve seen in big cities like NYC or LA. Plus kids stagedive like fucking madmen. You know that guy from Road Warrior who dives onto the hood of Mad Max’s semi? I think he lives here, and I saw him racing down the street with a donair in one hand and an Edmonton SUNshine girl in the passenger seat of his apocalyptic Chevette.” For all his willingness to talk about the old days, Graeme is clearly eager to discuss the new album. “As we speak, the Wednesday Night Heroes have inked a two-album deal with BYO Records in LA. For us, this was a logical choice seeing as they put their faith in a bunch of great Canadian bands in the ‘80s. Great bands like Stretch Marks, the Unwanted, Jr. Gone Wild, and those killer compilations chock full of other great Canuck punkers. But for us, the biggest thing is following in the footsteps of one of the greatest live skate punk bands of all time, and that’s SNFU. So all you bums from Vancouver who are trying to claim them as your band - piss off, they’re ours! “The record will be out on June 5,” Graeme continues. “It’s called Guilty Pleasures and it is a ripper - a great little mixtape for fans of all different styles of punk. If all goes well, we’ll be doing an extensive tour following the release and we want all the ragers and fucked up maniacs to attend all the gigs, sing along, and get some serious air with us.” In the Wednesday Night Heroes camp, there is more to life than beer and girls. “Most of our songs are about having fun, but since I don’t drink and I’m such a pervert that girls just run away from me, it’s all about enjoying music, fucking shit up, and hanging out with friends. To me, everything should be questioned: from government and media, lessons at school, orders from your employers, to fucking cliques; clichés and punk rules that people try to push on you. I mean, I’m pretty easy going, but I will fight if I feel that my right to be a righteous dude is being threatened. I don’t drink or do drugs, but I don’t need to push any of that shit on people who do… I mean the rest of the band drinks and parties and I feel that we should all live life to the fullest and that all depends on what you value. I like the quote from the keyboardist in Spinal Tap who says, ‘Have a good time all the time.’ That is a credo I can

Since I don’t drink and I’m such a pervert that girls run away from me, all of our songs are about enjoying music, fucking shit up, and hanging out with friends

“Order Now and receive a SECOND cd absolutiely FREE!” support.” Graeme is happy to espouse the merits of fellow E-Town punkers. “I have a side hardcore band called the Whiz Kidz that rule. Also, the Homewrekers have been fucking dudes up faster than anyone ever thought was imaginable. Panik Attak are fucking awesome, and features our old drummer and long-time pal Todd on vocals, while our roadie Ben Disaster plays in this amazing ‘77 band called Let’s Dance. Thrastic Fibrosis kill, and a band I just discovered this weekend called High Jinks almost made me shit my pants they were so good. Our bros from the Whiz also play in this punky soul/reggae outfit called Our Mercury and they are truly a great band. There are so many killer bands.” Back on the subject of “Murder City,” Graeme warns that his hometown isn’t the safest place for the leather, studs, bristles, and acne crowd. “In some ways, Edmonton - although I love it and it’s a beautiful place - seems to be getting a surplus of total assholes.You know that show Deadwood, where there is a gold rush and the town is full of total reprobates? I think that’s what’s happening here. Unfortunately our city is the entertainment hub for the oil boom, which means that all the meth-head fucks from the oil patch come down to rage on their days off, making my life worse. Although I haven’t been in a scrap for some time, probably because I don’t go out unless there’s a show, I still hear loads of horror stories and get angry. There was this place in Edmonton called Whyte Ave. where all the “Alternative” types would go, and it was a pretty cool place on a Friday night, but the influx of rig pigs and rednecks has made Whyte a very unfriendly place when the bars let out.” The proliferation of bands such as Simple Plan and Good Charlotte has not dimmed Graeme’s enthusiasm for punk. “Punk is still my life and it will always be. I hate when I see those old jaded fucks that are like ‘I’m over punk - I discovered Meatloaf.’ And I’m just like, well you might have to look deeper than NOFX or whatever to find some really killer

shit. Plus new and amazing punk is being created all the time so it shouldn’t be hard to find something that rips. Unless you traded in your leather for a brown suede jacket with a Damn Yankees back patch, and then you’re fucked! Just check out bands like Government Warning, the Regulations, or the Vicious, or Canadian acts such as Emergency, Alternative Action, the Tranzmitors, or the Bayonettes from Toronto, and you’ll see that the dream is still alive and well. If the dream ever starts to fade then you can check me out in the Decline of Western Civilization 4 swimming around in a pool, choke-slamming 430 Mama Burgers, with my mother watching from the deck.” The lyrics for the Wednesday Night Heroes’ “Style Over Substance” speak for themselves, but Graeme takes it one step further. “The song was written out of frustration when we saw that punk was being written off by the media and by kids who used to be punks but traded in their balls for eyeshadow and hyper-colour hipster clothes. Even the Goths were trading in their Count Dracula capes for the nu-Matrix style of techno-goth. Either way, there were all these people changing and pissing on the culture they had abandoned. It pissed me off because this style of clothes and music has never been a trend for me, and I know it has never been a trend for many punks, but now it was being cheapened by people saying ‘I used to be punk - I had a Spandau Ballet record’. The music being created was all this poseur shit, supposed punk bands with eyeliner and a studded glove taking $2,500 photo shoots. I woke up one day and felt that the jocks won. Fuck that!” Graeme is optimistic about the future. “I would like people to pick up our new album and decide for themselves. We work hard and we aren’t going away. I hope that we’ll be able to tour all the time with bands that we love, promoting our brand of positivity while playing to the most energetic kids in the world. There is nothing better than getting to play for these kids, and there’s nothing better than creating music with friends. Right now, it’s all gravy.” n

The Nerve June 2007 Page

WARPED TOUR 2007 July 3 - VancouVer - Thunderbird STadium July 5 - calgary - race ciTy Speedway

enTer To win Bad Religion New Maps of Hell (in stores 7/10)

Pennywise The Fuse

Escape the Fate Gallows Orchestra of Wolves (in stores 7/10) Dying is your latest Fashion

The Matches Decomposer

I Am Ghost Loversâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Requiem

Tiger Army Music From Regions Beyond

The Unseen Internal Salvation (in stores 7/10)

Parkway Drive Killing with a Smile

go to www.thenervemagazine.com to enter nerve_fullpage_warped.indd The Nerve June 20071 Page

5/25/07 4:38:40 PM

PHOTO: JULIE GAUTHIER

Skip Jensen & His Shakin’ Feet

A One Man Band With Two Drummers? By Jenny Charlesworth

ith everyone clambering in recent years to start up their own one man band project, you’ve got to wonder how it is that anyone can stand out in this sea of plank glued to my boot, tambourine stitched to my knee, harmonica suctioned to my face musical opportunism? But Montreal’s Skip Jenson does stand out, and it’s on account of the driving rhythm behind his shakin’ feet and the fact that his one man band, for the moment at least, actually has two men in it. “I never wanted to be a one man band, it was just a way to play my songs,” explains Serge Gendron, who started Skip Jensen more than six years ago, at a time when the concept still brought to mind pioneering acts like Doctor Ross and Hasil Adkins - long before the idea was championed by overzealous hipsters and mediocre musicians, in other words. His admiration for these legendary men and their authentic sound of stomping blues and rumble-down country is unmistakable. It rattles through every sour Skip Jensen howl. But so too does the trashy punk-rock remnants of Gendron’s years spent multi-tasking with notorious Montreal punk bands like Scat Rag Boosters (singer) and the Demon’s Claw (drummer). And it’s Skip Jensen’s celebration of these two sounds that has led to a deranged showcase of honesty and passion far more compelling than you’d ever imagine a paint stick taped to one foot and a tambourine to the other could be. He does admit, however, to struggling with the form’s limitations. “Its hard to be quiet and make it sound full at the same time,” he says. “I don’t like some songs the way they come out only with my feet.” And while challenges such as these are clearly frustrating, such is the unfortunate reality of playing – ahem – with one’s self. Unless, of course, you break with tradition, which Gendron has done, by adding another drummer to the project. “The recordings went really well,” Gendron begins “It was in Strasbourg [France]. I was there in December. I stayed at this guy’s apartment.

Seb Normal. We had plans of playing together and it ended up that we recorded 18 songs in a little room.” That’s an impressive feat for any collaborating musicians, but even more so considering Normal had a broken leg at the time. “He played a little bit like, ah, my feet. He doesn’t do big drummer style, but it’s effective. It works well with me,“ explains Gendron, who is otherwise oddly uninterested in recounting tales of what must have been a rather unconventional recording experience. “I like playing with other people, that’s what I want to do,” he continues, turning his attention to the upcoming Skip Jensen Canadian tour that he and Normal will undertake this summer. “I came back three months ago from Europe… and now I’m playing every two weeks in Montreal and it’s starting to be weird a little bit,” groans Gendron. “It’ll be nice to go away and play somewhere else I think.” There will be plenty of opportunity to do just that – throughout June and July Skip Jensen is booked to play shows in almost every major city from Montreal to Victoria, including an ambitious six-day stint in the Vancouver area alone. When asked if the Vancouver residency could start “to be weird a little” itself - what with playing so many consecutive shows in the same city Gendron is optimistic . “On tour it’s alright when you play every night cause you pretty much have your own thing going on,” he states, although for the man who plays as Skip Jensen – a man with numerous seven-inches, the wailin’ fulllength Abscond on Delta Pop, besides much more under his belt - it certainly seems as though he’s had his “own thing going on” for quite some time now. n

I don’t like some songs the way they come out only with my feet

Skip Jensen and fellow Montréaler Travelling Headcase plays at the Royal Albert,Winnipeg on June 30, the Castle in Calgary on June 30, Pub 340 in Vancouver on July 8, the Railway in Vancouver on July 9, and the Ocean Island Lounge in Victoria on July 10. Check myspace/ skipgendron for more dates.

The Nerve June 2007 Page

TIKI AND DANCERS!

Bob Scott Master Tiki Dude About Town

TransLink is very proud to introduce its new SkyTrain security personnel

By Boy Howdy

o I commandeer Bob Scott away from his obsessive work schedule to ask him a few questions about what makes this very interesting character tick. We cover all the bases – divebombing crows carrying diseased heads, punk rock, Dali and Warhol, and even Trucker Monkey head (yes THAT kinda head) - so let’s see what Mr. Scott had to say as he prepares for his one-man show - Tiki Plague - running June 21st – July 4th, at the Jem Gallery on Broadway (opening reception June 22). Going instantly for the jugular, I ask, “Why lowbrow art, Bob? Why not porn, or music, or tiny little army figurines? Why not fucking little army figurines to exotic music and taking pictures, Bob?” He rolls with it, like the savvy vet that he is. “Huh? I like porn too,” he says. “Alright,” I ask, “so what the fuck is this Tiki Plague you’re working on?” “It’s an exploration of a Tiki wasteland,” answers Scott. “Over 40 carvings! Lots of small affordable ones for everyone! Guests will visit Tiki Plague Island and Shark Reef, and end up in Tiki Tombstone Cemetery. Holly Ruth tells me there will be a bar and a cheese pineapple!” Feeling rather unsatisfied, I reach back for another curveball and ask Bob Scott, master Tiki

dude about town, “What single childhood television experience most contributed to your current mental state and how you views your art?” I am certain he will fail miserably with his answer, but Bob strikes gold again, informing me that it was “BJ and the freaking Bear!” Picture the pre-teen Bob Scott, “expecting the monkey to give him trucker head!” We get back to the original question and delve more into porn and art and I riddle Bob, asking him “If art is porn, who’s the better fuck, Salvador Dali or Andy Warhol?” Bob doesn’t even skip a beat professing his love for Dali - even the commercial stuff like Schiaparelli neckties. I am beginning to wonder what the fuck you need to be a part of this art fag trip. Like, what kind of formal training do you need? Or can you fake this shit? Like, am I, Boy Howdy, the next gallery star? Apparently not – as this art shit has to do with “brain hemispheres,” ac-

cording to Scott. “It’s all in the lobes,” he says. “Like the dude driving the Malibu in Repo Man. He was no faker. It’s all about those deaf, blind, mute people who play a mean piano!” My only chance to defeat the Tiki Master is to go off the board and take “Little People of Film” for 100; to try and get Bob Scott off his game. I ask Bob Scott, Lowbrow Tiki Master, “Which famed Hollywood ‘little person’ would make a great Tiki? How about a Herve Villachez Tiki? Could Bob Scott duplicate that little devil in his white suit?” Scott grows very serious. “I think you nailed it with Herve,” he nods. “A Fantasy Island Tiki… Ever see him in Forbidden Zone as King Fausto – Ruler of the Sixth Dimension? Poor Herve. A Billy Barty Time Bandits Tiki. Tod Browning’s Freaks Tiki totem pole would be a sexy carving endeavour…” I start to think that this nocturnal Tiki master

Tod Browning’s Freaks Tiki totem pole would be a sexy carving endeavour…

may have sniffed too much varnish over the years. He’s just as wacky as his art. The steady diet of Pebbles/Nuggets/Back from the Grave ‘60s garage-type compilations may have given Bob Scott a permanent case of the shimmy-shakes. Not to mention growing up in Montreal, where he took in the likes of Nina Hagen in 1985. “She came down in a spaceship and had a cat’s head on her crotch!” he recalls. “She was hot and her audience was uber-creepy.” Or, “having a TOTAL MELTDOWN seeing the Ramones, on acid, in an amusement park!” Bob also saw Public Enemy rock a high school and describes seeing the Spaceshits as like “mainlining Viagra into a dead Montreal ‘90s scenes flaccid cock!” Yep. See what the man is REALLY about, check out the Tiki Plague show, or keep up with all things Bob at www.myspace.com/bobscottartwork. n Upcoming art soirees include pieces in a group tiki show at Safari Sam’s in Los Angeles on June 24th, the Frida 100 show at the Jem Gallery on July 6th, Lowbrow on the High Seas #4 at Pat’s Pub Sept 15, and a vendor booth at Big Iron 2007, at the Waldorf on August 1l. He is also making a pair of gargoyles to go above the bar at Pub 340.

The Taboo Revue Burlesque Variety Show By Mr. Plow

erve: Who are you and what do you do? Melody Mangler: I’m Melody Mangler, or MMmmmm for short, and I’m the artistic director for Screaming Chicken Theatrical Society and a performer in the Taboo Revue Burlesque Variety Show. What is the taboo revue? And what can one expect from your shows? The Taboo Revue is a Burlesque/Variety show that features a wide range of acts that incorporate singing, dancing and comedy. People can expect to be entertained at the least, and possibly laugh so hard that they pee themselves (it’s happened). Can anyone shake their thang? Or does it take a special individual to shake it? Everybody can, and should, shake their thangs frequently. Of course it takes a lot of time and effort to but together a quality show, which is what it’s really

The Nerve June 2007 Page 10

How Would You Define “Boob”?

about. What makes burlesque different from stripping? Besides the musical choices? Burlesque is about the show and the showmanship. A burlesque show will generally include some striptease (note the tease) but is also so much more - comedy, music, satire... Not at all like a trip to your local peeler bar. Some would say a boob is not a boob unless there is nipple. That it looks like a shoulder without the shoulder bone. Do you have to say in defense of the tassle? You’re right. I guess from now on we might as well do the show fully clothed. Actually, tassels and pasties are sexy - part of the tease. Are there many tassle malfunctions? It happens. Some boobs just won’t be constrained Who makes all your costumes and tassles

and frilly things? I make most the costumes used in the show, as well as all the frilly things you’ll find at our merch booth. There are lots of burlesque troupes these days. Do you all get along or do you have gang fights like in West Side Story? Generally everybody gets along, but you might occasionally find a couple troupes in an empty parking lot, late at night, dance fighting. Why should one go to a burlesque show? Because it just might be the greatest time of their life and if not, they’ll probably have a lot of fun anyway. Anything you want to shamelessly plug? Do it now. Come see us on our BC/Alberta tour, June 14-23 or on our visit to the island in early August. Check out screamingchicken.net for more info! n

TIGER ARMY

Idiots Never Die, Too (Except Jerry Falwell) By Adrian Mack

“

I’m so disgusted with people’s stupidity and apathy in general, that it begs the question, is the human race worth saving?” Jeez, it’s gettin’ hot in here! Nick 13 is talking to the Nerve about Tiger Army’s 4th album, Music from Regions Beyond, when he lets out that little zinger. He’s on the phone - at home in LA, presumably (forgot to ask) - and tackles all the rude questions put to him in a steady, unruffled tone, even when I state that at least one of the songs on his new album is a pile of shit. Nick 13 never loses his cool or his sense of humour, but does seem to have a permanent glower, or something scary simmering under the lid. Nobody needs to try and get him going with cheap insults. He’s already there in his own, dark way. When asked if the shooting of his former drummer Fred Hell in 2003 has given him a dim view of mankind, he replies, “The shooting event didn’t change my views about anything, it only confirmed the things I already knew.” Well OK, then! Music from Regions Beyond is the album that should put Tiger Army ‘over-the-top’ as music industry dummies say. It’s really that good, aside from the one pile-of-shit number mentioned before (“Hotprowl”, to answer your question, and every good or great album is allowed to have a stinker). The rest is solid gold horrorpop, coming in at a tasteful 11 songs (CDs are too long these days – fact!), and covering 11 distinct styles of popular American music (with one very conspicuous exception). “Hechizo de Amor” comes closest to anything ‘billy in my limited experience, being a midnite-voodoo fucky‘n’ reverb number in the manner of the Plugz getting romantic with Chris Isaak, but I have no problem admitting that I just don’t know what the fuck ‘psychobilly’ is supposed to be, especially since Jeff Roffredo’s stand-up bass might as well be a fucking box spring, monkey, or a Chinese guy in a hat for all the stand-up bassiness it exudes (ie. none) in some of these tracks. It’s there in the bubblegum cowpunk of “Ghosts of Memory”, and the lovely sunset country rock of “Where the Moss Slowly Grows”, and there’s clicking all over the place, sure, but 13’s songs are so stylistically broad and the production of the album so thick – in a good way - that it just doesn’t make any difference. Nick 13 sets me straight on this, so listen up: “It’s funny that you hear that because this is the only album since the first one where we recorded the bass with a room mic, to pick up the acoustic qualities of the instrument. I think, to some extent, that’s what psychobilly is. To take the stand up bass which was there at the dawn of rock ‘n’ roll - 1954, Elvis, Sun Sessions - and kind of put it into a new context.” The new context here - the regions beyond – includes a monster, stadium-sized lighter-draining epic called “Forever Fades Away”, and the shameless “As the Cold Rain Falls”, which starts with robotic hi-hat 16ths, synths, and is - to all intents and purposes - a New Order song circa “Ceremony” (1982) but happier. It’d fit on the Valley Girl soundtrack. It could be a worldwide smash, or it could lose Tiger Army almost all its current fanbase. Me? I love it. “I’m sure a fair number of people will hate it and be deeply disturbed by it,” 13 says, with a low chuckle. “But I’ve always written for myself, and if

Tension mounts for the final three in America’s Most Geometric Haircut people like it, great, and if they don’t, that’s fine as well. But the funny thing is, with our first album, we did a song called “Outlaw Heart” which is basically a country ballad, steel guitar, etc., and nobody in the psychobilly or punk scene was putting out songs like that at the time. I was pretty sure that people were gonna hate that song as well, but I didn’t care. As it turned out, that was one of people’s favourite songs on the record, so it just goes to show that you should do what you want and let the chips fall where they may.” But ‘billies are surely more inclined to accept American roots music than something that reminds them of China Crisis, aren’t they? Nick laughs again, “It’s funny because in my experience a lot of people that are in the subculture that have a particular style, whether it’s punk or psychobilly, will listen to music outside that genre anyway, and it’s not uncommon for that to be the Smiths or the Cure. But if you mix the two, they’re uncomfortable with that for some reason.” It’s tempting to assume that Nick 13, with his stated antipathy towards most things human, does it for the perverse kick of doing it - a theory I’d be comfortable with except for the impression that Hellcat’s small but busy roster of psychobillies is so career-oriented (not a bad thing, by the way. Just a thing). “Well, there may be an element of that,” he concedes, “But it’s not done to get a rise out of people. I mean, ultimately that’s just the song that came out

and resonated with me, so that’s why it’s on the record. However, the people that are going to get pissed off aren’t really the fans; they’re kinda the idiots. I don’t have any problem watching an idiot spin his wheels and jump up and down and get pissed off about something.” The idiots made their feelings known when “Forever Fades Away” was illegally previewed on YouTube. Some of the comments that followed: “I miss old tiger army:(“ “this shit aint psychobilly, i don’t give a damn what anyone else thinks” “yikes, kinda ghey” “ya a realy tiger army fan would admit this is horrible and this is not psychobilly t.a.n.d. a true fuckin fan” “jerry finn fucked up afi, and now hes gonna do the same to tiger army. lame…” “I’m exposed to a certain amount of that,” Nick says with a sigh, “but those people are so predictable, I don’t need to see it to know what’s being said.” “And it’s funny,” he continues, turning to the topic of producer Jerry Finn, “because that was a joke in the studio.You now, Jerry isn’t determining the songwriting, or the arrangements. I mean, if someone’s gonna point a finger it should be at me, because the record sounds like I want it to sound. I take full responsibility.” I’ll assume you’re fully responsible for “Hotprowl”, then? Nick guffaws when I call it “jock punk”. (By the way - I’m well aware that my hate-on for this one song is a personal bias no less idiotic than

I don’t have any problem watching an idiot spin his wheels and jump up and down and get pissed off about something

anything quoted above, so spare the letters, okay?) “Certainly a lot of my youth was spent listening to highly aggressive punk and hardcore, and that is something that definitely makes up a part of my musical DNA. “Hotfire” makes me feel like those records made me feel when I was a kid. If bands like Youth of Today and Agnostic Front made you feel uncomfortable in the first place, then you’re not gonna like this song.” To give a little balance, “Hotfire” is followed by “Afterworld”, which is sure and speedy pop punk. Personally, I value pop punk only slightly more than I admire Nazi pedophiles, but Nick 13 wrangles such melody from it that I’m sold. It’s his sense of history and his age (“Old enough to know better but young enough not to care,” he says, cagily) that makes the difference, perhaps. “People’s favourite bands in punk are the most melodic. For example, the Misfits, or the Clash, Buzzcocks. Even in Oi!. Cock Sparrer is an incredibly melodic band, and that’s the most beloved band of any Oi! skin you can find.” In the end, Music from Regions Beyond is animated by Nick 13’s unflagging musicality, the band’s tough-guy sensitivity (take that you fucking jock-punk homos), and – let’s not forget – Nick’s gorgeous voice. And for all its psycobillia sexualis obsessions with dead girls, Bela Lugosi, bats, and shit, it’s an incredibly upbeat record. It’s summertime in a CD sleeve, for sure, which is odd coming from the sunlight-hating misanthrope Nick 13, isn’t it? “I’m so disgusted with people’s stupidity and apathy in general, that it begs the question, is the human race worth saving?” I guess Nick 13 is thinking, maybe not? He laughs, hard. “There’s also no question in my mind that we’re heading for Orwell’s 1984,” he states. Aren’t we already there? Isn’t it 1985? “Yeah. It will get worse,” he says, cheerily. “I don’t doubt it. I guess my position is things probably are hopeless, in that sense.” Fair enough – that’s the position a lot of people take these days. But Nick 13 has an enormous tiger army at his disposal, all of them tattooed, most of them young and looking for some reassurance. It’s not like anybody needs to write a manifesto, but maybe if he said, ‘yes - things are bad right now, but the human race is worth fighting for.’ Maybe that might rub off on some of the fans. Do some good. “Not really,” he argues. “I think people who are part of the Tiger Army are definitely united by certain things (but) where they’re coming from in terms of politics, religion, social beliefs; that isn’t the uniting factor. I think people who are drawn to it tend to be individuals.” Ok, but I think Nick 13 is more of a humanist than he lets on. His songwriting is one clue. That, plus his continued love of the Louvin Brothers, and the fact that he inadvertently reveals which side he’s on when the late Jerry Falwell comes up (may he burn forever in Hell). “Hopefully I’ll run across his grave one of these days on tour so I can piss on it,” he says. n Tiger Army play Warped Tour in Vancouver BC July 3rd, Barrie ON Aug 11th and Montreal QC Aug 12th.

The Nerve June 2007 Page 11

Capdown Mixed Cocktails, Molotov Punks

By Christina Paris

e have reached an era where the godfathers of the punk generation have relentlessly claimed their status as its founders. Insisting that they alone embody what punk once was, they further argue that now, in their dotage, punk is gone. And they aren’t willing to share. Instead of encouraging evolution, they say it’s dead. And while punk has been turned into a commodity - which was inevitable - there are nonetheless still some bands out there willing to use punk music as a means of social contribution. This is the case for Capdown, as lead vocalist Jake Sims-Fielding confirms. “I feel that I’ve made a social contribution through my music,” he says, calling from his hometown of Milton Keynes, England. “I think that young

people in this country sort of lack the understanding, and the media doesn’t do them many favours at the moment, and I think that we have real room for improvement in this country in terms of providing young people with inspirations to be creative and believe in themselves.” Capdown is currently promoting its newest album, Wind Up Toys, and the band claims its voice is stronger than ever. The music, meanwhile, shows a willful taste for diversity, with Capdown’s fast punk influences balanced by the occasional extension into reggae. Sims-Fielding, funnily enough, compares it to a hangover, saying, “I don’t think we leave a bad taste in your mouth. But we’re certainly good enough to give you a good old headache.” He continues, “Different generations have dif-

We’re certainly good enough to give you a headache.

ferent preconceptions of what punk rock means and what it should sound like, and what it should achieve. And I feel like our approach to writing punk rock music requires us to forget those preconceptions, and to be open-minded. I would like people to be open-minded to all types of music.” To me, Capdown is an archetypal punk band, even three decades after the world was introduced to the term. As Sims-Fielding hollers in “Home is Where the Start Is”: “Speak with passion / move with conviction / and still take the time to just stop and listen.” Has the band peaked with its fifth album? Answers SimsFielding, “I certainly feel like I’ve only just begun to explore my voice, and explore or be able to express

! l l a b B n o Cann Part 2 of 3

my opinions in an effective way, so you certainly haven’t heard the last of any of us. Whether it’s in Capdown or not remains to be seen, but we will continue to be musicians and make social contributions for as long as we possibly can.” n

Spackler goes backstage with GNR, and gets an up-close lesson in ‘Never Meet Your Heroes’. Or Sebastian Bach.

By Carl Spackler

enny whisked me backstage with an all-access pass, which had a picture of a girl on it. “Make sure you flash it fast so they don’t check the picture,” he grinned. I nodded and followed him past the goons at the gate. Backstage was busy; hundreds of people milling around with Coors Light in their hands, mixed feelings in their hearts, and orange skin pulled tight on their bones. A Mensa meeting this was not. The men all resembled Andrew Dice Clay… “No, that actually is Andrew Dice Clay,” Benny said, with a shake of his head. And it was, only a lot fatter, and with possibly the world’s only comb-over pompadour. A guy walked over to him and asked if he could get a picture. Ford Fairlane replied, “No, ‘cuz I don’t wanna start a big commotion, ya know?” and I let out a loud snort. The Diceman glared right at me. “What the fuck iz your problem?” he barked, as I turned and ducked back into the crowd and ran into the only celebrity in the room as far as I was concerned - Bubbles from The Trailer Park Boys. Turns out Axl is a big fan of the show and Bubbles had been coming to some gigs and hanging out. I wondered if he would like to hear the new Canadian national anthem, but before I could belt it out, Benny appeared again. “Hey Carl,” he said, “Come back to the roadie lounge. We got a great game goin’.” We went back to a small room filled with smoke and the sound of men screaming in defeat and victory. A bubble hockey tourney was in full flight, with the game hooked up to a pair of humongous speakers blasting the canned crowd noise and goal siren for everyone to hear, including one blonde rat-faced dude who entered the room whining, “Come on guys, can you turn that down? Tonight is the night that Geffen is going to see me, and I can’t hear myself to do my vocal exercises!” The room went silent for a heartbeat, and then exploded with laughter and a chorus of ‘fuck yous’. It took me a second to realize the guy was Sebastian Bach, and Jesus, what a fuckin’ princess. Someone dropped another quarter in the machine, and we turned back to the game. Bach squealed again, “Guys!” stamped his little feet, and then stormed off down the hall. Benny asked me, “Do you want to go and watch some of that guy? He’s on the bill tonight, too.” I looked at him with my mouth open and then we both burst out laughing so hard I thought an air bubble was lodging itself in my brain. Other than the bubble hockey tourney, the rest of the backstage was overflowing with bad juju. A very hostile vibe. As I sat in a chair drinking some lousy American swill, I heard another piercing whine from the cement corridor, this time a nasally Midwestern accent complaining that the massage

room lights were too bright, and who the fuck can fix the lights? I started laughing again. Suddenly a skinny man in a towel with giant hair stood in front of me, yelling at me to ‘shut up and get the fuck out of here and who are you’, that kind of thing. I took a good look and realized it was Tommy Stinson. My mouth hit the floor! Say it ain’t so, Joe! Say it ain’t so! Tommy had become one of them! “When I get home,” I screamed, “I’m gonna burn every Replacements record I have!” Tommy yelled, “Fuck you!” and I stood up quick, ready to punch the little primadonna right in the cocksucker, except that Benny jumped in and whisked me out the door to the soundboard, laughing hard. He gave me a jay and a coupla beers and told me to meet him after the gig. I asked him what the show was gonna be like. He said, “Well, since you used to love ‘em, you should probably leave now.” Really? How bad could it be? “The new songs,” I said, “What are they like?” “They make ‘November Rain’ sound good,” Benny replied, earnestly. “Jesus,” I croaked. “That’s too much for one man to handle.” “Well, keep drinkin’,” said Ben. “It’ll help a little.” The lights went down and the familiar echo and stabbing sound of the “Welcome to the Jungle” intro lick began, only no Slash was playing it and I could tell from the tone that this guy in a beard and dress was no godamned guitar hero. The rest of the band trotted out looking like an assortment of mutts from a Hollywood-type’s idea of what a band should look like. One guy was dressed only in white, looking like a nurse, or something kinda gothy. Another guy looked like all the Black Halos fucked each other and had a lil’ mutant child, all ‘Cheap Thrills’ type clothes - you know the look - skinny pants, Thunders hair, and an Amen T-shirt to prove how real he was. Stinson looked like a horse’s ass playin’ Duff’s parts in a bowler and kimono combo that said bitchy old queen. And the drummer looked like a bald ?uestlove. Then, finally, out strode the only orginal member in an outfit only Chad Croaker could love. Bad Acid wash jeans, super-gay Le Chateau shirt open all the way and big silver cross that P. Diddy must have loaned him. Well, I guess it’s a step up from those bike shorts and monogrammed hi-top runners (every head’s dream shoe!), but still! And then the hair. ‘Don’t look,’ my brain screamed, ‘do not look directly into the cornrows, you won’t like what you see in there.’ Fuck! Aargh! And what the fuck is with his face…? (to be concluded in next month’s issue...) n

“When I get home,” I screamed, “I’m gonna burn every Replacements record I have!”

Hands off my little kitty, ya’ greasy cocksucker! The Nerve June 2007 Page 12

A Bottle with No Label

Eugene Chadbourne

By Allan MacInnis

onstage in a gold lame suit and interspersing his anti-war songs with surprisingly respectful renditions of “Okie from Muskogee” and medleys of Buddy Holly and Elvis Presley tunes. The one recorded document of this stage of Ochs’ career – often regarded as a sign of his decline – shows an audience that is definitely not receptive to his song choices. “I thought it was weird when that Gunfight in Carnegie Hall disc came out with the audience getting upset,” Chad says. “I thought New Yorkers must be really uptight. In Boulder, Colorado, he did his rock ‘n’ roll shtick and nobody objected at all.” The tragedy of Ochs’ death is only augmented, Chadbourne feels, by the “several stupid biographies that came out after he killed himself.” Chadbourne will be arriving in Vancouver a week before the jazz festival starts, to replace 2006’s Nels Cline as the Vancouver Creative Music Institute’s avant-guitar instructor. I had a chance to talk with Cline about Dr. Chad. “Eugene sat in with my old trio playing banjo once, at my old concert series, and had been a houseguest. I don’t know many people who haven’t had Eugene as a houseguest, but... No, I do, but I mean, you know what I’m saying: he gets around... He can play Thelonious Monk and Frank Zappa in the same set solo, and then have prepared guitar flights of improvisation mixed in, or play Sun Ra songs, solo acoustic. I’m not saying that that’s necessarily what makes him good, but it does make him original and it does point to something that he was doing before a lot of people started to mix and match like that. He knows a lot, so he’s a great person to have at VCMI.” It’s tempting to call Chadbourne a postmodernist, given the diversity of his musical influences, but I somehow doubt he would take to the label. “I like that comment of Captain Beefheart’s, ‘my bottle doesn’t have a label on it;’” he tells me. “I prefer the kind of labels that relate to buildings: garage rock, chamber music, loft jazz, bedroom tapers...” I asked him about his rather unique fusion of high and low culture, and he responded that he knows the separation “is there in the minds of some people but that is not where I live,” adding that the “worst aspect” of both the highbrow and lowbrow worlds “is the distaste they might have for each other... I am proud to say I relish both.” Chadbourne will be doing a special pre-fest gig June 20 at the Cobalt, followed on June 22 by a duo at the Western Front with drummer Paul Lovens. Lovens comes from a prestigious avant-jazz background and hooked up with the more eclectic doctor by unusual means. Eugene explains that Quebec’s Victoriaville festival had turned down his duo with Mothers of Invention drummer Jimmy Carl Black, saying “there was too much rock and country, and the festival crowd would not see what a great guitarist I am in this context... This is, of course, the opposite of the usual public reaction to free music.” Dr. Chad contacted Lovens, who had been noticing the doctor’s banjo work, and the two put together a new show. “Still expecting a largely free improv set, the festival was surprised that Paul – who’s a big fan of drummers such as Charlie Watts, Gary Chester, and Earl Palmer - had encouraged me to play all the country and rock stuff, because he

Local yokels think I sit around the house playing the electric rake all the time or something

PHOTO: ALLAN MACINNIA

“

I think somebody should make a movie about Eugene, if they haven’t already. I think he’s an absolute American treasure. He’s an American original and has his own kind of iconoclasm, that’s not everybody’s most digestible kind of iconoclasm. I just find him completely delightful and remarkable.” – Nels Cline When Eugene Chadbourne last played Vancouver, at the Western Front in November 2005, he began with a short improvisation on banjo with the traditional Vietnamese Khac Chi Ensemble. Dr. Chad’s banjo improvs, which could be likened to hillbilly free jazz, if such a thing existed, are ethereal, compelling, and pretty much unique in the world of avant-garde music – or banjo music! They were made stranger still by the Vietnamese accompaniment; it was likely the first time in musical history that a five-string banjo had shared the stage with a slack string dan bao and a two-string koni. Such ethnomusicological singularities make up only a tiny sliver of Dr. Chad’s vast repertoire, however. For the next part of his set, a solo Chadbourne broke out his electric guitar and a fat book of songs, spontaneously selecting tunes ranging from a darkly funny bossa nova reworking called “The Girl from Al Qaeda” to haunting and fragile takes on the Byrds’ “Everyone’s Been Burned” and Phil Ochs’ anti-totalitarian “Knock on the Door”. (He also covered Michael Jackson’s “Beat It,” to much laughter and applause). Though Chadbourne has written several great songs of his own – check out “Hendrix Buried in Tacoma” by his former unit Shockabilly, or the version of “Psychedelic Basement” that appears on the first Camper van Chadbourne CD – his covers of country and western songs have a particularly special place in my heart. I seldom want to listen to the work of Merle Haggard or Willie Nelson, but Chadbourne’s slightly twisted re-interpretations of the same are joyous fun; by making the songs less normal, he makes them far more accessible for weirdos. Even after he’s convinced me that there is brilliance in these songs, I’d rather listen to his versions than the originals any day. I asked Dr. Chad why he thought that was. “I don’t know the answers to any of this for sure,” he writes, “but I do hear a lot of it. In the ‘80s, I would hear that albums such as There’ll be No Tears Tonight and Country Protest ‘turned on’ punkers to country music. I just assumed they hadn’t heard anything they liked yet in the genre and I just happened to be that.” There’ll be No Tears Tonight, from 1980, is probably the best known and best-sounding collection of Chadbourne’s country numbers. It features fellow avant-gardists David Licht, Tom Cora, and John Zorn – whose first recordings were on Chadbourne’s small Parachute label, started in Calgary, where Chadbourne, an American, waited out the Vietnam war. The unit – dubbed the Chadbournes - covers Roger Miller’s “Dang Me” and “The Last Word in Lonesome is Me,” and does a Johnny Paycheck medley and songs by Carl Perkins, Ferlin Husky, and Willie Nelson. Chadbourne himself describes it as “a groundbreaking record in some ways;” it’s a great place to start explorations of this side of Dr. Chad’s world. A propensity for covering songs that may not be warmly received by certain contingents of his audience is something Chadbourne has in common with a musician whom he describes as a “huge inspiration,” Phil Ochs. “I saw him several times when I was a teenager,” Chadbourne says. “I always had to go alone because all my friends hated his voice.” The idealistic folksinger, who was initially the equal of Bob Dylan, but whose career ended in the early 1970s in a shambles of mental illness, alcoholism, and, finally, suicide, had, at one point, taken to coming

wanted to play it too!” Later that night, at the Vancouver East Cultural Centre, Lovens will join Dr. Chad in a quintet devoted to the music of Fats Waller, led by Japanese virtuoso pianist Aki Takase. Newbies wishing to check out Dr. Chad’s CDs can take heart – he’ll be bringing a pile of his legendary homemade House of Chadula recordings with him, and will be happy to help “steer people toward whatever sides of my music they are most interested in.” Lovens, Chad reports, thinks that his collaboration with Chadbourne and vocal improviser Phil Minton, New Directions in Appalachian Music, is “the greatest CD ever” and won’t stop listening to it. And Dr. Chadbourne has a few favourites of his own. “The CD version of The English Channel is such a crazy assortment of noise that I think every household should have one. I am currently quite fond of Horror Part 10: Concert Band Massacre by Evil Spell in which a pile of rare vinyl recordings by the Grimsley Stage Band in Greensboro get mutilated in my lab.” You can also try your luck with collections like Duck Chad or the Doc Chad Coffee Cure, which “present good examples of what I am up to currently.” Given Chadbourne’s legendary musical eccentricity, I was quite shocked at how well-kept, suave, and – gasp – normal-looking the man seemed. When a friend and I picked him up at the airport last year, he presented quite a striking contrast with his onstage persona, which is closer to that of a mad scientist in a Looney Tunes cartoon. It exasperates the Doctor a bit when I ask about this. “My wife gets a lot of this from local yokels who think I sit around the house playing the electric rake all the time or something.” (Note to the uninitiated: Dr. Chad rather infamously put pickups on a rake and transformed it into a musical instrument.) “Why would you expect someone to act the same way at an airport as they do at a concert performance? ...Another funny variation was the guy running a college radio festival in Cleveland: he wanted to be assured I would actually show up since ‘your music is so weird, how do I know you will?’” n

LISTEN NOW www.pridetiger.com • www.myspace.com/pridetiger

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The Nerve June 2007 13 28/5/07 Page 15:26:11

Marnie Stern Meta-Shredder

Calm down buddy, she’s actually looking at the guy behind you...

By Jon Braun

he screams, she shreds, and she stands far apart from the rest the indie scene. Her first album was released with little warning earlier this year, and with melodies and riffs that could be compared to scribble art and a car starting while it’s already on, Marnie Stern has taken the title of shredder to a different level. It might take a brave ear and a friend to keep you from changing the dial at first, but there is genius behind the variegated dimensions of free-for-all guitar-shredding on Stern’s late February Kill Rock Stars debut, In Advance of the Broken Arm. The album is innovative, brash, and full of crooked notes gone good. “Every time I look at the guitar it’s like a blank slate to me,” says the 31-year-old Stern, calling the Nerve as she dodges traffic in Sacramento, on her way to yet another seven-hour band practice. Stern has been playing for almost two decades, putting down the acoustic at 21. “None of the history comes back to me. I think in some ways that’s good and some ways that’s bad.” If you’re not careful, Stern and her live partner

Robby Moncrieff’s speedy hammer-ons and pull-offs - accompanied by the pounding of Hella’s Zach Hill on drums - could run over your senses. Moncrieff’s band, the Advantage, covers original Nintendo songs and Stern could only describe Hill’s drumming with an impression of Family Guy’s Quaqmire: “Diggity-diggity-diggity…” “It’s amazing,” Stern says of Hill’s “not-obvious”, rapid and ridiculous patterns. Her dog Fig, a female Morkie, would probably agree, after Stern let it out from the isolation booth during practice. “He just did one kick on the bass and she flew across the room, literally like a ping pong ball, and ran away.” Hill, Moncrieff, and Stern are preparing for a summer tour that will span North America and the UK.

Every time I look at the guitar it’s like a blank slate to me

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The Nerve June 2007 Page 14

And with a drummer that makes small dogs fly and a couple of squealing guitars, I would suggest earplugs if you plan on seeing them. Though I won’t be wearing any; there’s too much to listen for. The hooks that explode out of Stern’s eardrum-bursting, high-end finger-tapping whirlwinds are well worth any sort of hearing impairment. Basically, what Stern has created is a catastrophic tornado of avant-garde rock‘n’roll brilliance, with lyrics stemming from philosophy, metaphysical books, and Yoko Ono. She adds that “Vibrational Match” was sung in a cadence similar to Talking Heads’ mastermind David Byrne. If Picasso owned an electric guitar, he’d probably have produced something similar during his cubism days. Stern looks forward to putting her work together with real people, achieving “the push and pull” of a band. On her last tour, she used her iPod for accompaniment and still attracted moshers out of the 1,500 in attendance for her final show back home in New York City. “It was insane,” Stern says of that night. “In-sane.” Because it’s also in-sane, there is definitely a time and place for Stern’s music. It’s not something you go to sleep to. But it should strike every single chord in the souls of youngsters who have ever stumbled upon a Steve Vai or Robert Fripp solo and fallen in love at first listen. “I’m an OK guitar player,” Stern demurs when compared to these virtuosos, insisting, “I’m being serious. I don’t think I’m bad [but] I don’t think I’m some fantastic player. I just have a specific style because I’m not trained. That’s what so strange.” Stern actually swings a little closer to her stated influences, which include Deerhoof and Mick Barr,

Mark Hansen, M.S., Au.D. Registered Audiologist

her “biggest idol ever.” “Watching him play makes me feel sick every time I see him,” she says of Barr, who has not-so coincidently created albums with drummer Hill as well. Stern says watching Barr live makes her furious and excited at the same time, usually causing her to think, “I gotta get out of here and practice!” She mentions that this tour will be missing some of the noise from her iPod - most notably the keyboards in “Absorb Those Numbers” and “Plato’s Fucked Up Cave”, and a bass guitar that’s sparse on the album anyway - but she plans with Moncrieff to fill it out with, yes, more guitar. The trio is also working on nailing Stern’s voice effects and harmonies. “The great part about the last tour,” Stern starts up, “I had so many technical problems that I learned to just roll with anything and to keep going.” In this spirit, the trio intends to try new things, roll with the punches, have fun, and, most importantly, “perform!” Marnie Stern’s trio plays at Pat’s in Vancouver June 22 and Chop Suey in Seattle on June 23.They go east to the El Mocambo in Toronto on July 6 and at La Sala Rosa, July 7, in Montreal. n

Keeping Things Well and Fine

Spoon Brit Daniel demonstrates how Pitchfork readers have sex

By Cameron Gordon

ith string of synth-infused hits and a snappy new wave sensibility, the Spoons were one of Canada’s finest modern rock acts of the 1980s. The band aimed to please, whether it was via the moody drum machines of “Nova Heart” or the more granola approach taken on “Romantic Traffic”. Whatever the case, the Spoons made it work and gained a legion of fans in the process. Unfortunately, this feature is almost, but not quite, about the Spoons. Instead, it’s about the singularly named Austin four-piece that is continuing the fine legacy of utensil rock well into the 21st century. “We’ve never actually been mistaken for the band but occasionally, somebody calls us the Spoons,” says

Brit Daniel with regards to his Canadian counterparts. “It’s OK; I don’t know their music that well but I remember it being just fine the few times I heard it.” As the ringleader and vocalist for indie rock heroes Spoon, Daniel knows a thing or two about keeping things well and fine. His band has specialized in smart, unfettered songcraft for well over a decade and Spoon has been keeping upwardly mobile in recent years with a string of underground smashes. The band will release their latest masterstroke, Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga, in early July and if leaked tracks online are any indication, the disc will be another weighty notch in the band’s bedpost. Spoon released their debut 7” “Nefarious” back

in 1994, on a tiny Texas-based imprint called Fluffer Records. Even amid this bizarre Pixies-meets-Lou Reed hybrid, you could tell that Daniel could work his way around a melody like a mofo. As a result, Spoon quickly began attracting a cult following amongst hipsters and other societal debris. In short order, the outfit was scooped up by indie powerhouse Matador Records where they got their first nibble of national acclaim. Another stellar 7” entitled “All the Negatives Have Been Destroyed” begat their debut full-length Telephono and both efforts continued to showcase Daniel’s wacky wordplay and ability to draft a tender pop hook. Before long, the majors came a-calling and Spoon eventually signed with Elektra to the shock of many. Their sole big league effort (1998’s A Series of Sneaks) was solid enough but before long, the band was jettisoned back to indie ranks, where they have remained to this day. Not a bad place to be, especially considering Spoon was birthed with virtually no expectations. “The original goal of the band was to get weekend gigs instead of having to play first of four at the metal bar on a Monday night,” says Daniel with regards to his band’s early

years. “It took a while but we got there and, of course, I always hoped that it would last as something long term.” Merge Records has released the last three Spoon albums and as mentioned, the unit’s fan base continues to grow with each record. 2005’s Gimme Fiction was the biggest Spoon disc to date, debuting at #44 on the Billboard charts and featuring the plucky college rock fave “I Turn My Camera On”. The band’s newfound notoriety blew open a bunch of doors for the band, leading to world tours, plenty of name dropping and even a chance to dabble in film (Daniel helped score the 2006 Will Ferrell vehicle Stranger Than Fiction). When asked about the expectations for Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga, Daniel is oddly tight-lipped although he does look forward to getting back on tour and road testing the tunes. “We always have the most fun in Australia,” he comments about his favourite places to tour. “It’s cool because they speak English. It’s like England without the attitude and the shitty weather, drab food, and retarded music press.” And in terms of new terrain to conquer, Daniel replies with a smirk, “I don’t know… I guess I’ve always wanted to go to Tahiti.” n

The original goal was to get weekend gigs instead of having to play the metal bar on a Monday night

Living with Lions By Christina Paris

Typical Boys

e want to know which girl did this! Which girl out there took a machete to the gentle souls of the Vancouver-based punk band Living with Lions? More than half of the songs on their new EP Dude Manor show traces of a deep bitterness and resentment towards this one girl - this “fake girl” as she’s called in the song “Colours”. Confronted with the question during a phone call to the Nerve, charming guitarist Chase tamely offers a stock and somewhat irrelevant answer. “We just want to have a good time,” he says, meekly. “I would love to write all our songs about having fun and partying until you puke, because our priority is to have fun, and it comes natural!” These boys are so tender and innocent that the Dorothy in me just wants us to cuddle their wounded Lion hearts, but an admonition, ladies: don’t let your butter melt with sympathy just yet. As much as their sweetness and sincere songs can overcome a sensitive girl with a taste for high energy punk, the Lion bites back with the song “Said and Done”, in which we are informed, amidst stinging guitar, tumultuous drumming, and mind-wrenching vocals, “I thought that I was

different from the boys you see / it turns out I’m as bad / so don’t take a second look at me.” So what gives here? Chase scrambles for an explanation. “I didn’t write the lyrics for that song,” he insists, like a total coward (typical man). “Matt did. I’d say Matt is a pretty bad boy.” Matt is Living with Lions’ mustard-hating vocalist. With a hesitant laugh, Chase adds, “I don’t know if he’s a heartbreaker, but the girls seem to like him quite a bit. I don’t want to hurt his game at all (so) I’m going to say he’s a pretty genuinely a sweet dude.” After a beat, Chase then admits, “He tends to get himself in trouble every so often. Matt gets in these moods and he pretty much writes the first thing that comes to his mind.” Well, whichever way Matt’s mood takes them - these Lions purr but also maul, it seems - the five-piece has a clear passion for good times and keeping a generally positive attitude. As their career is still young and fresh, you can sense their determination to take the world by storm. They actually still love to tour, for one thing. I ask, “If you became so successful that the label wanted to put out figurines, what would you say?” Chase can barely contain himself at the thought.

Having little Barbie dolls of ourselves would be the coolest thing ever

Sure, the practice space is small, but it’s really affordable “Hell, yeah!” he screams. “Having little Barbie dolls of ourselves would be the coolest thing ever.” Dude Manor is sheer fun, and the guys are already eager to begin recording new material in the fall. Happily, Chase assures me, “You can definitely expect the next album to not have as much girl talk on it.” I’d trust him but the man clearly has a personality disorder, since he screamed, “This meeting is over, I’m going back to my Mercedes,” as

soon as I’d thanked him for his time. “Ha, ha, ha, just joking!” he says. Me too. He actually said thank you first. n Living with Lions play June 4 in Vancouver, BC @ The Sweatshop Skate Park, June 6 in Calgary, AB @ Chinese National League, June 7 in Edmonton, AB @ Avenue Skatepark.

The Nerve June 2007 Page 15

The Nerve June 2007 Page 16

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The Nerve June 2007 Page 17

Danning, Birch, Bava, Dante and Del Toro Movie Pick of the Month

They’re Playing With Fire Dir: Howard Avedis

No, They’re Playing With Fire isn’t the frisky prequel to She’s Having A Baby. It’s the story of a college student named Jay. He looks kind of like Tom Cruise, he’s got a job at the gas station, and he just learned that MacBeth is about ambition, courtesy of sexy English professor, Dr. “Call Me Diane” Stevens (Sybil Danning). Things are going wicked awesome until Jay learns the hard way that being the boy toy for a horny, gold-digging PhD. isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. He’s shot at, threatened and even nagged by foxy co-ed Cynthia even though they only slept together once! To make matters even worse, he’s a suspect in a double homicide and his car’s in the shop. But our plucky hero is determined to win the heart of his mature lady love and thanks to a knife-wielding product of incest (not to mention a daring poodle rescue), his determination is rewarded and some incredibly nonsensical narrative closure is achieved. If you’re a fan of boobs, Grey Gardens,Van Halen videos, poodles, attractive older ladies, and corny theme songs, They’re Playing With Fire is the must-watchironically DVD release of 2007. Suck on that, WKRP In Cincinnati:The Complete First Season. -Robyn Dugas

Gower. Lucky for viewers, Gower purchased the updated edition of everyone’s favourite guidebook that included such essential chapters as “The Dead Ringers Approach to Gynecological Violence,” and “Blondes, Brunettes, and Parallel Universes.” Thora Birch stars as Susan/Karen, a young married woman with fertility problems/mortician’s assistant in a post-apocalyptic industrial landscape, both of whom are outrunning a serial killer creatively nicknamed the Night Stalker. (Sadly, the late Darren McGavin is nowhere to be found.) The movie gets points for filming roughly 75 per cent of the creepy scenes in broad daylight, and the running gag of aroused male corpses was a friendly reminder of Six Feet Under’s early episodes. But the real stars—whom I hope will be seen again in Dark Corners 2:The Cornering, starring in a 4-way battle royal—were the panty-sniffing British hypnotherapist; the blind Southern detective; the embalmer who lost his twin brother to fatal sleepwalking (but gained double the birthday presents!); and Susan’s sassy Southern co-worker Elaine who graciously informs Susan, and the nauseated audience, that natural childbirth has left her with all the “elasticity of an over-washed tube sock.” -Robyn Dugas

Kidnapped Dir: Mario Bava

Mario Bava is the horror God who directed such classics as Black Sabbath and Black Sunday. If you’re into all things Pan’s Labyrinth, it’s about time you

illogic logic of magic, all wondrous. There’s some irritating time-lapse cheats, but I’ll forgive. Del Toro, that lovable chunky Mexican, is now a popular and critical hero to rival Peter Jackson. He’s kinda overly fixated on Good vs. Evil in simplistic, absolute terms – the comic book influence, no doubt - but fuck it. Pan’s Labyrinth is a genuinely adult fairytale, gorgeous, majestic, and tremendously depressing. Expect a third Spanish Civil War fantasy-ghost story, 3993, from Del Toro in 2009. -David Bertrand

Hellboy Animated: Blood and Iron Dir: Tad Stones & Victor Cook

Mike Mignola’s sledge-fisted, hellborne, shit-stomper from the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense has been animated once already in Sword of Storms, which was fun, but sorta kiddie and moderately incoherent. Blood and Iron is tighter and darker, though why the animators still ditch Mignola’s incredible hard shadows and angular intensity for an ‘American manga’ Saturday morning cartoon look

Dark Corners Dir: Ray Gower

Dark Corners was written, directed, and lovingly sourced from Horror Cliches For Dummies by Ray

introduced yourself to his work because he’s Guillermo Del Toro’s biggest influence. Kidnapped has a strange backstory and is considered the lost Bava film. Originally titled Rabid Dogs, it was the last film Bava directed on his own. A first cut was made then one of the film’s producers died. Consequently, the footage was seized by the bank and sat in a vault gathering dust for 28 years until his son, Lamberto Bava, ended up with it. He shot some new footage, re-edited it and added a new score (the DVD also contains the original Rabid Dogs cut if you’re feeling nerdy). Kidnapped is about a real-time payroll heist gone wrong. Doc, Stilleto and 32 are the culprits who, after shit hits the fan, take three hostages—a man with his sick child and some woman they grab in an underground parking lot. As the cops close in on them Doc, the brains of the operation, begins to lose control of the Stilleto and 32, the brawn. With most of the action taking place in the car, things escalate to the point where Stilleto and 32 sadistically threaten to kill the man’s sick son, rub mayonnaise on the breasts of their female captive and force her to pee in front of them. Not one of Bava’s classics, but it’s a wonderfully fucked-up end to his career. -Michael Mann

Masters of Horror: The Screwfly Solution Dir: Joe Dante

Giving horror directors free reign to make a onehour television show is such a great premise. It’s a shame that in practice Masters of Horror has churned out way more misses than hits. Season One only had three good episodes, from John Carpenter, Takashi Miike, and Joe Dante. Dante’s episode Homecoming wasn’t particularly horrific but it was definitely the most provocative. With The Screwfly Solution Dante

Pan’s Labyrinth simply blows my fucking mind. The classic Eurohorror story merges legendary Elizabeth Bathory—the murderous Hungarian Countess who used virgin blood as face cleanser—into a genuine vampire, “Erzsebet Ondrushko”. Flashbacks follow Hellboy’s adopted father, Professor ‘Broom’ Bruttenholm, destroying the Countess in the 1940s, while Hellboy and his team investigate a wealthy douchebag’s scheme to Disney-fy Erzsebet’s haunted mansion in the modern day, obviously sparking a gory reanimation. Also included: a priest losing his faith, two chainwhipped harpies, six saggy undead boobs, thousands of slaughtered virgins, and a big smashy end battle with Hecate, Goddess of Witches, and her very lame voice. Blood and Iron isn’t mind-blowing, but a couple of 75-minute animated Hellboys a year is OK by me—what’s better than shit-kicking evil spirits with muscles and uppercuts? Plus, I’ve always had a soft spot for films with implied baby murder (see: Omen III:The Final Conflict), and Ron Perlman, John Hurt and co. reprise their roles from Del Toro’s live-action Hellboy. Awesome extras include: Iron Shoes, a mini-adventure about an evil Irish monkey; a Mignola e-comic, The Penanggalan; and flashback sequences cut in chronological order, a la Memento

The Nerve June 2007 Page 18

DVD. - David Bertrand

Dir: Guillermo Del Toro

Spain, 1944: 12-year-old Ofelia (Ivana Baquero) and her pregnant mom are escorted to the fortified country home of Ofelia’s new step-father, a merciless captain in Franco’s Nationalist army. As the real world turns to bloody shit, Ofelia escapes into a secret fairytale realm under the guidance of a giant faun... And a fucking brutal fairytale it is. I think most viewers – if they weren’t already scared off by the subtitles – expected a pleasant family romp of Hook proportions, but sure-as-shit got shaken awake by a farm boy graphically bludgeoned to death with a bottle of booze. Like Guillermo’s earlier The Devil’s Backbone – Pan’s companion piece – there are plenty of leaps to myths and the supernatural, but what hooks me is the quiet wartime rebellion; realistic, less-than-valiant characters working with bitten tongues in service of the enemy. “Freedom” and certain horrible death vs. temporarily comfortable subservience. The cast is a godsend. Sergi Lopez is calculatedly intense in the thankless role of the Captain, a brutal sonuvabitch who sews together his own sliced mouth. The rubber suit effects are top-notch; the lullaby musical theme tear jerking and heavenly; the vibrant, specific use of colours, the

once again shows he isn’t afraid to try and use horror to tackle larger social issues. Men are murdering women across the globe in droves as part of a religion called Sons of Adam. However, the science shows that the outbreak in femicide isn’t because the bitches burned our dinner, rather an airborne disease triggered by sexual arousal. But when the solution is castration will the people listen? The answer is no, not even the scientists preaching castration go for it, and all the women get hunted down and killed. But it’s not a complete downer as you get to see Jason Priestley’s pubes. -Michael Mann

“Horror films are a lot like NASCAR”

Don’t fuck around with a virgin.

Behind the Mask: Satire is Mightier than the Axe By Michael Mann

eslie Vernon has aspirations of being up there with the psycho-killer greats like CandyMan, Dr. Giggles and Maniac Cop. All that stands in his way are a group of cheerleaders, jocks and stoners. They don’t really stand a chance and he’s about to rock Glen Echo, a stereotypically quiet American town, to its very core with his murderous rampage. What motivates a man to do something like this? Fortunately for us, a group of film students are documenting his every move. Behind the Mask:The Rise of Leslie Vernon is an inventive new Horror Black Comedy—or Hoblacom as they’re referred to in critic’s circles. Equal parts Man Bites Dog and This is Spinal Tap, the film jumps back and forth from slasher film to verité documentary. Along the way Leslie Vernon teaches us slasher lingo and gives us tips on how to stack the deck in your favour if you ever want to waste a large group of teenagers. After taking home top honours at last year’s Fantasia Film Festival and having a limited theatrical release, the film is due to be released on DVD this June. This impressive debut from Scott Glosserman goes to show that satire is way better than a machete if you want to expose the insides of the slasher genre. Nerve: Behind the Mask screened at a lot of genre film festivals. Did you witness anything exceptionally nerdy at them? Scott Glosserman: Like the comic book guy in The Simpsons? No, it really was really nice. I made this comparison that horror films are a lot like NASCAR. The audience has this sense of propriety over its filmmakers in the same way NASCAR fans feel a sense of comraderie and loyalty and ownership over their drivers because it’s a small community. Everybody travels and goes the same places and the filmmakers interact with their critics and the fans and there’s really no pretension. That’s what struck me. The one’s who were probably more intimidated than me were the horror gurus. But they weren’t pretentious at all so that was great. Was raising money for this film difficult or did the script sell itself? Well, it depends on what context you’re talking about because it was impossible to raise money within the industry because a) not having a proven

track record and wanting to direct was very tough but b) the movie being a hybrid, a cross-genre movie. It doesn’t fit into anyone’s formula about how to make and market a movie so that film very quickly wasn’t going to happen. So the the question is how do you raise money privately and you could write a book on that. It proved to be easier to raise a little bit of seed money, to simply go out and explore the idea of raising more money. It’s one of those things where if the first person says, “great, I want to do it” then everybody else who was previously reluctant jumps on so you just gotta find that spark and it’s easier than not to fan the flames. Do you think it would have been easier if the film came out when Scream did and everyone was all about “clever” horror films? I think that a movie’s failure or success in the theatres is a factor of the amount of money that’s put towards publicizing it. So the real question is, all things being equal, if there was as much money spent on marketing as Scream, how would the movie have done? I think the only things you can really point to are the reviews and the word of mouth. You go out to the middle of St. Louis and poll 10 people and I guarantee you they’ve never heard of the movie. I can’t necessarily beat myself up because we got some good reviews and I got another job. We’ll make the money back and I gotta be proud of it. It’s all gravy. Just getting the theatrical release for me was a bonus. Well this movie was exceptionally well reviewed for a horror movie. Given that films like Grindhouse and James Gunn’s Slither tanked so horribly, is a wellreviewed horror film the box office kiss of death? Well Slither almost became the ‘kiss of death’ for my film because in the midst of Slither’s box office... we were right in the midst of trying to close our acquisitions deals and many of our opportunities disappeared after that. Especially after a very snarky Hollywood reporter’s article came out quoting Eli Roth saying that horror comedies don’t work. They failed to mention things like The Howling, An American Werewolf in London, Tremmers, Scream and Shaun of the Dead. So yeah, Slither was tough. We were definitely rooting for that one. Certainly. James

Gunn is a really talented guy. What movies were you watching when you were working on this film? David Stieve wrote the original screenplay and was clearly inspired by some of the late-night slasher films he was watching [at the time]. I come from a little more of a horror-ier edition having studied the conventions of horror in college. I was studying Psycho and The Shining, and Texas Chainsaw Massacre too, which is full of phallic and yonic imagery. So, getting to use the academia of this within a really funny screenplay was a real thrill. I took all of the conventions of all of the movies we’ve enjoyed. Halloweens, and Friday the 13ths and all of these slasher guides. In The Shining, when Shelley Duvall [put] Jack Nicholson into the food closet, essentially putting him back in the womb, all of a sudden she is out in the kitchen and there’s all these knives hanging around her, symbolic of how she’s now got the masculine sense of power. She empowered herself with cock. Exactly. As soon as she has the baseball bat, that basically changes the power. People laugh and take it tongue-in-cheek but I was merely trying to suggest that perhaps there is a more sophisticated thing going on here. With this film are you putting forth the idea that Freddy, Jason and Michael Myers are not supernatural, rather intelligent and methodical? I am putting forth the idea that they are just extraordinarily awesome at what they do. Especially Freddy. So, ‘mindless killing machines’ is misnomer? Exactly. This is a high art. These guys have created and contrived a ghost story and simulated it into a town that they think this ghost story exists. They planned all this stuff and they are truly brilliant at what they do. Now, there is a scene that’s on the DVD which is one of my all-time favourites where Scott Wilson’s character, a retired psychoslasher, is explaining to Taylor all of the injuries he’s had—how he’s been shot, had his head chopped off, his eyes gouged out and set on fire. Taylor asks him point blank, “how do you survive all these

things when they prove to be fatal for the rest of us?” and he sorta hints at the fact that there’s some homeopathic things passed down but they don’t give it all away. Did any of your slasher encyclopedia not make it into the film? A ton. There’s a lot of good stuff on the DVD. In fact, one of the things I’ve been toying with is somehow adapting this for the stage because the whole thing is dialogue driven. The scenes are great and I really love them, but when placed among the entire movie, trying to pace it and keep the plot [moving] forward [didn’t work]... a lot of it is superfluous, but fun. So, I threw a lot of extended and deleted scenes onto the DVD and a lot of that stuff could live on a stage, in a dialogue medium, but not necessarily in the movie. n

Encyclopedia Slash-tanica Survivor Girl - The star of a psycho killer’s rampage. Will either kill the bad guy or be the last to die. Must be a virgin. Ahab - A symbol of all that is good. Will do everything in his/her power to protect the survivor girl. Highly covetted. No one gets away - Rule number one. Yonic imagery - The female equivalent of phallac. Safe zones for potential victims. E.g. closets or meat lockers. Red herring - The victim of the all improtant first strike; meant to scare the Survivor Girl and serve as a sign of things to come while not alerting the authorities. Empower yourself with cock Symbolically empower oneself with phallac imagery (bats, machetes). The only way the Survivor Girl can defeat the bad guy. The Nerve June 2007 Page 19

LIVE REVIEWS Strokesian Interpolian rubbish and played 35-minutes too long (note: the set was only 30-minutes, so right there I pretty much gave it the ultimate burn). In closing, cheers to Awesome Color, jeers to Uncut and meh to Dinosaur Jr. But kudos to the dude in sweatpants doing air guitar all night and to the two girls dancing in front of me that looked like Blossom and Six from television’s Blossom. Your lameness totally took me back to 1992, idiots. That’s all for now, readers. See you in the mosh-pit! - Adam Simpkins

ACID MOTHERS TEMPLE

Gutter Demons / Switchblade Valentines / The Big Bad

PHOTO: DEVON CODY

Pat’s Pub,Vancouver, BC Saturday May 26, 2007

Mics by Shure, synth by Roland, hair by Dr. Suess

The Reverend Horton Heat

Commodore Ballroom,Vancouver, BC Saturday, May 5, 2007 Vs.

The Acid Mothers Temple Richard’s on Richards.Vancouver, BC Wednesday, May 9, 2007

It ain’t particularly cool to like the Reverend Horton Heat, but fuck it: I can say nothing bad about his brand o’ punked-up, old-fashioned, smartly dumb rockabilly. I danced up an angina attack at the Commodore show May 5, which guitarist/vocalist James Heath presided over with a bemused smirk and a look of effortless poise, welcoming requests and batting not an eye when one guy in the pit started pummelling another, at the start of “Bales of Cocaine.” Midway through the longish set, Heat(h) humoured the audience with a couple of Johnny Cash covers, with the crowd really getting excitable for “Folsom Prison Blues.” Since he comes here fairly often, I actually kind of believed him when he said he enjoyed playing Vancouver; his dedicating “Marijuana” to BC bud may offer us a hint at an explanation for his frequent visits. However: the reason I mention Heat(h) is that he makes an excellent point of comparison for writing about the Acid Mothers Temple. Like the AMT, he favours a look and a style of music from generations past, selfconsciously presenting himself as if it were 1955. There’s a goofy, dress-up quality to his show which winkingly acknowledges that rock and roll, much as we love it, is pretty fuckin’ silly. This serves to get our self-consciousness about the stoopidness of the transaction safely out of the way, so we can Just Have Fun, secure our reasons for being there are transparent, and that we’re pretending at nothing. The Acid Mothers Temple kinda had the opposite effect at their Richards on Richards gig three nights later. As the Japanese are wont to do, they care about looking cool, albeit in the rather different manner of the late 1960s, and they take the whole “rock” transaction kinda seriously. Though undoubtedly sincere, and good at what they do, it gets to be a bit much. Despite Tsuyama’s mantra-like basslines, the forceful throbbing intensity of the band’s twin-guitar jams, and the genuine coolness of Higashi Hiroshi’s long silver hair or Kawabata’s leather “I am Eric Bloom” pants – or the simple fact of a female theremin player – the gap between the degree to which they seemed to be getting off on being onstage, revelling in their own intensity, and anything they may have been communicating to the audience (read: me), was fairly noticeable and distracting. “If you’re so heavy, why don’t I feel anything?” I’d probably’ve liked the whole event more if the band had abandoned the concept of rocking out altogether and instead invited us on a perceptual trip, getting subtle and weird instead of heavy. To the AMT’s credit, tho’, at least they didn’t wave long sticks (aka “Wizard Staffs”) around, or wear floral-print dresses as faux robes, like their opening act, Mammatus, did. This staggering trio of gotta-be-Americans

The Nerve June 2007 Page 20

seemed about as convincing as an SCA re-enactment of a Black Sabbath concert. I couldn’t figure out if what they were doing – a 100% Krautrock-free, pre-Spinal Tap take on Led Zep and Sabbath – was intended ironically, and I didn’t want to ask, lest they beat me up; but they looked like the kinda guys who would probably enjoy Hawkwind (tho’ I suspect from the narrowness of their musical plagiarisms they haven’t actually heard of them; Hawkwind would likely be a step UP). Audience members were overheard joking about expecting a miniature model of Stonehenge to descend onto the stage. They weren’t BAD at their Zep/Sabbath-in-a-housedress act, but that’s kinda like being really good at karaoke. By the way, I don’t really have angina. That was hyperbole. - Allan MacInnis

to My Rock & Roll” and “Weapon of Choice”. I remember portions of the show when the band showed mercy with the stripped down melodies of “Devil’s Waitin’” and “Fault Line”. And I remember emerging from the venue over two hours later, breathing smoke and knowing I needed this band’s entire catalogue, stat. When it all happened and in what order is something I figure only the shamans that had just left the stage know for certain. - Devon Cody

I’m not much for masochism. Never been much of a sadist either. In fact, prior to this evening, the appeal of the whole S&M thing kinda escaped me. But tonight I got punched by a rather attractive girl, and kind of enjoyed it. Whilst in the heat of an argument with her boyfriend, Toni (we’ll call her ‘Toni’) caught me in the eye with a meaty right hook just as the Gutter Demons took the stage. I’m not quite sure if she missed him altogether, or if it was deflected into my face by all the grease on her dude’s pointy little head, but it hurt like hell. On any other night it might have been a bit of a bummer. Fortunately tonight’s opening band, the Big Bad, had me full of enough adrenaline and good cheer that I could have taken a kick in the nuts smiling.. This was my first time seeing The Big Bad and I’d make an argument that they gave the headliners a run for their money in the “best set of the night” category. Hard driving, hook-laden, punk rock ‘n’ roll with vocals from a broad that belts it out like Gwen Stefani getting punched in the throat by Courtney Love. No nonsense. No posturing. This lady and two gents just kicked ass and looked good doing it. For all the grief I give rockabilly folks about “their uniforms” I’ve got to say, I’ll take pompadours and girls in seamed stockings over crusty punks with fungus-feet and bugs in their hair any day of the week. The Switchblade Valentines let loose in a punkabilly fury.Vocally, there was a bit too much yelling for me to really get into them, but bassist Alec Valentine gets points for producing the meanest sounding upright I’ve heard in a long time (no small feat, given that this is a venue which often has me checking my ears for blood as I leave). The crowd, on the other hand, obviously loved everything about these guys and it wasn’t long before the dance floor was awash with spilt booze and broken glass. The Switchblade Valentines play with surprising confidence and did a hell of a job keeping the pace for the headliners. The Gutter Demons’ set list consisted mostly of tracks from their latest album Room 209, and while I wasn’t entirely crazy about the songs on this record, live, they managed to insinuate the grit and fire that was missing on the album – even without some of the shout-out-loud backup vocals, which were often left out for some reason tonight. There were a couple of technical delays due to bodies flying out of the pit and into the gear on stage, as well as several moments where singer Johnny Toxic would have to step away from the microphone mid-verse to avoid getting his teeth taken out as some drunken hairdo flopped into his mic stand, but the sheer energy and enthusiasm of the room easily compensated for the glitches. Kudos to Fireball Productions for a solid bill, a great turnout, and what was hopefully the first of many successful Grease ‘N Grind Saturdays at Pat’s Pub. Now if you could just reduce the time it takes to get a drink at the bar, you’d really be on to something… - Devon Cody

LIVE

Black Rebel Motorcycle Club Richard’s on Richards,Vancouver, BC Saturday May 12, 2007

They say the shit that’s used in smoke machines is virtually harmless to human beings. Non-toxic and all, with the only side effects of prolonged exposure being the minor annoyances of dry eyes and throat. I have a sneaking suspicion, though, that the several pounds of triethylene glycol I must have inhaled over the course of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club’s two-hour set severely affected my ability to retain any detailed recollections of this show. The remaining memories indicate that the show was nothing less than amazing. Let it be known, however, that the review that follows may occasionally border on myth. I recall arriving at the venue at the ridiculously early time of 7:30pm. Frankly, these early-slotted rock shows at Dicks really chap my ass. Do the tit-jobs and alpha males that file through the doors after the rock crowd leaves really spend that much more money on overpriced booze? I wonder… Nevertheless, it was 7:30 and there I was. Seeing that the Fratellis had cancelled because they were too “knackered” to continue their tour only added to the notion that BRMC somehow owed me a hell of a lot more than an average effort as compensation for my woes. And so I stepped into the venue and into the fog that was already being pumped out by smoke machines. It can be tough to open yourself to the dark power of rock ‘n’ roll when the sun hasn’t even set, but the mood was dialed in right tonight. The place had the feel of a damp little juke joint at the crossroads of Bourbon St. and the Highway to Hell. The fog thickened. The crowd breathed it in like free drugs. BRMC’s intro music faded up. I half expected some voodoo shaman to take the stage to the reverb-heavy twang and slide and set our minds on fire with some hoodoo chant. Instead Hayes, Been, and Jago emerged from the white gloom and took to the task. This is where things get hazy. I remember being lulled into a near narcotic state with hypnotic grooves like “Red Eyes and Tears” and “666 Conducer” and I remember scorchers like “Whatever Happened

Dinosaur Jr.

Commodore Ballroom,Vancouver, BC Wednesday, May 23, 2007

After seeing Sebadoh this past March at Richard’s, I made a strict vow to never subject myself to another indie rock reunion show. Not because the music is irrelevant or that the performers are shamefully in it for the money. You see, it’s just kind of depressing. And news flash: slacker indie jangly whatever-you-wantto-call-it rock just doesn’t age that well – at least not in person; the records still hold up. So what was I doing at a Dinosaur Jr. concert? Beats me. At least the band has released a new record, which is more admirable than the Pixies, Urge Overkill, the Jesus and Mary Chain, and whoever else is currently making the rounds cashing in on blurry nostalgia. With a near capacity crowd in attendance – which was impressive due to it being a Wednesday night, a 11:00pm stage time (!, I know!), and Björk playing not too far away – the original line-up of Dinosaur Jr. (Mascis, Murph, Barlow) lumbered onto the stage, turned their amps way up (I refuse to say ‘to eleven,’ but it was really fucking loud) and launched into a revvedup version of “Almost Ready.” Within seconds the crowd was covering its ears, wishing they had the foresight to bring earplugs. It was actually ridiculous at this point how loud it was. I was all “Can you believe how loud this is?” to my assistant, and he was all “What?” so I repeated “I say, can you believe how loud this is?” only to be given a confused look, followed by “I’m sorry. It’s far too loud, I can’t possible hear you”. To which I replied “I’m sorry, what?” This exchange was on par with any Abbott and Costello bit – excluding “Who’s On First” because that is golden genius and y’all can’t mess with that. Where was I? So anyway, the Dinosaurs turned it down a pinch after the initial noise burst, though I could have just become deafer, I don’t know. They played too many songs from their new record (which isn’t that good, what are you people talking about?), a few ‘hits’ (“Feel The Pain” and “Out There”) and, you know, the classics. But guess what? It just wasn’t that great of a show. As I said before, this music doesn’t sound right in a live setting, played by greying dudes who aren’t really into it. The records still hold up, but the magic of the group is long gone. Sorry, I guess. Opener Awesome Color was, in fact, pretty awesome – mixing the stoner youthfulness of Dead Meadow with light-hearted kitsch and humour. Following that was Toronto’s Uncut – which left me thinking “I wish junkies would have stolen their instruments so they couldn’t play.” I don’t know how this band ended up on the bill. It left the crowd limp with some

Arcade Fire / St. Vincent Deer Lake Park, Burnaby, BC Thursday, May 24, 2007

Burnaby, what a town! They’ve got it all, from the bright lights of the bustling downtown core to the even brighter lights of an “Asian Only” Dance Dance Revolution tournament funded secretly by the Korean Mafia taking place after hours in Metrotown where winning is everything and losing means death. They’ve got it all. Oh, sorry I already said that. I won’t bore you with the details of my day leading up to my trip to cottage country, but lets just say I got a new haircut (pause for applause) and had a few margaritas. It really did feel like I was on vacation. I was out of the city, had nothing to do the next day except write

a few reviews, and the weather was amazing. Usually at this point I would go into some rant about something that really got my goat or the performance was shabby or the sound sucked or I got too drunk and got kicked down a flight of stairs, but really, none of that happened. The park is wonderful, looking out over the lake. The sound was nice, the people were friendly, the booze was dispensed in an orderly fashion, there were no shitty Auschwitz-style beer gardens, they had Strongbow cider, there were babes everywhere including one on my arm - the night was perfect. Nobody cared about the opener. I did crack a Boys of St.Vincent joke that bombed. Then the Arcade Fire took the stage and everyone was silent. They did the whole Arcade Fire thing, which everyone knows and tries to copy and they did it well. I really wish I had something more interesting to write about, but everything went off without a hitch. I did get too baked and my date did eat a hotdog, a donair, and some mini doughnuts. Both of those things are fantastic. Oh and I got lost too, which was also fun. Fun, fun, fun, fun, fun. Lets all be best friends and solve the worlds hunger problem. Them kids are still hungry right? - Waltergeist

Dr. David Ray Griffin

St. Andrews Wesley Church,Vancouver, BC Wednesday, May 16, 2007 Dr. Griffin delivered a truncated set, even at 90 minutes. He has enough material to go all night, but the focus was on his 2007 release, Debunking 9/11 Debunking, starting predictably enough with a huge crowd favourite, “The Official Version of 9/11 is Also By Definition a ‘Conspiracy Theory’,You Know”, which pretty much had the 800 or so people here tonight singing along within minutes of his arrival onstage. Griffin capitalized on the momentum with a quick segue into “If Government Can’t Keep Secrets, How Do You Explain the 6,000 People that Worked on the Manhattan Project Without Telling Anyone?” - always popular - augmented by a chilling passage entitled, “There Are Well Known Means to Keep People From Talking”, which in turn led to an extended jam on “Hearst Publications Fired Most of the Staff of Popular Mechanics, Before Installing the Cousin of US Homeland Security Director Michael Chertoff as ‘Chief Researcher’ for its Stupid, Crack-Ass Hit Job on 9/11 Truth” – not my favourite Griffin number, to be honest, but the good doctor kept me on board with a brief foray into “Philip Zelikow – What a Total Cunt”, “The Authors of the 9/11 Commission Report Keep Changing Their Story”, and “The Military Record of the Day is Patently False and We Can Prove It”. Daringly, Griffin put a lot of emphasis on physical evidence – the slogan for this tour is “Let’s Get Empirical”, after all – meaning we got “We Are Expected to Believe that United 93 Buried Itself Completely in the Ground, While Parts Were Found Eight Miles Away, which is Consistent with a Shoot-down”, and even better, “Whichever Way You Slice it, the Purported Phone Calls from the Hijacked Planes Don’t Make Sense”, and finally – my favourite – “Hani Hanjour Couldn’t Pilot a Cessna but Somehow Managed a Near-Impossible Maneuver to Hit a Specific, Reinforced Wedge of the Pentagon with a Commercial Jet”. Griffin then brought the house down with “Mohammed Atta’s Magical, Inferno-Proof Passport”, and, best of all in my opinion, “Mohammed Atta was a Devout Muslim who Enjoyed Pork, Cocaine, and Lap Dances”. Myself, I was really itching to hear “The Flight School that Trained Mohammed Atta is a Known Node in the International Drug Trade which Benefits from Mysterious, High Level Protection”, “Al Qaeda has Extensive Ties to US Intelligence, Goddammit”, “The US Government Ignored Specific Warnings from Afghanistan, Argentina, Britain, the Cayman Islands, Egypt, France, Germany, Israel, Italy, Jordan, Morocco, and Russia”, “Insider Trading in the Days Prior to 9/11 Made Somebody a Few Billions Richer, but the Commission Chose to Dismiss That”, “The Pakistani ISI Wired $100,000 to Mohammed Atta on September 10”, or even “The Ballad of Colleen Rowley, Norman Mineta, and Sibel Edmonds”. Sadly, Griffin rounded out the performance with “Controlled Demolition” and even – aargh – “What Really Hit the Pentagon?” Sorry, but I can’t whistle along with that tune, although Griffin mercifully kept the latter very brief, as if he can’t really whistle that tune either. He also avoided any real barnburners such as “Noam Chomsky is an Intellectually Dishonest Gatekeeper” - a

LIVE REVIEWS a sold-out show at the Commodore (and everywhere else on the planet). Taking campy to an extreme, the boys appeared in identical ruffled-shirts and black slacks. before a ginormous sign that read ‘PETER BJORN AND JOHN BACKDROP’. They looked like an amateur bar-mitzvah band in 1970. But looks can be deceiving. Despite the polite nature of the tracks on record, PB&J played with enough chutzpah to make Grandma Yetil reach for her Manischevetz, exploding into “Objects of my Affection” with aggressive guitar work and flawless vocal harmonies. The band’s on-stage chemistry is immaculate, with vocalist Peter as the focal point of the performance, and borderline flirtatious between-song banter with bassist Bjorn throughout the night. Deviating from the album’s synth-driven version of “Amsterdam”, Peter performed a chilling rendition of the tune alone, plucking airy patterns light as feathers on an acoustic guitar. When the Swedes finally played “Young Folks” (aka that song), the crowd literally creamed its pants - OK, not literally, but the worldwide smash did bring the audience to a predictable condition of frenzy. - Samantha Laserson

TEENAGE HEAD

PHOTO: JEN DODDS

Pulling Teeth / Resist the Right Alf House,Vancouver, BC Wednesday, May 2, 2007

Frankie Venom suddenly regrets not using Depends instead of more duct tape number that caused a bit of an uproar when Barry Zwicker did it in this same room last year. It should be mentioned that the audience concealed a number of spooks and provocateurs, or at any rate, a handful of idiots. I know this because a pad of paper was passed around for a question and answer session, and somebody had jotted down a couple of hare-brained inquiries pertaining to “the Jews”. This is the ancient art of taking legitimate inquiry into a cover-up, and poisoning it with paranoid, right wing extremism. It’s no wonder the mainstream press stays the fuck away from 9/11 “Truth” (aside from the whole military-industrial-media complex thing). Speaking of which, there was one conspicuous local columnist and media personality in the audience. He’s a very smart guy, but he slimed the conference a week later in a column that was based on a faulty premise - in this case, something that was addressed by Dr. Griffin towards the end (specifically, “Nobody in the movement really thinks George W. Bush had anything to do with 9/11”). He would have known this if he’d stuck around for the whole thing. The 9/11 Truth crowd needs to be criticized like any group with a claim on “truth”, but starting with the information they present - rather than a common but incorrect assumption of their position - might be a good idea. After that, I’m happy to entertain any argument about what a bang-up job the 9/11 Commission did. And then I’ll point you to Evan Solomon’s shockingly swift humiliation of befuddled Commission vice chairman Lee Hamilton on the CBC last year. - Adrian Mack

The first guy playing was garbage. Everyone I could hear was complaining about it. At one point I slide behind the merch table and pretended to sell the guy’s merch. No one was buying and people were giving me shit because they though I was with the guy. The guy - I can’t call him a band - was so bad, strangers were complaining to a fake merch salesman about it. And I can’t find any mention of whatever the “band” was called online either. Strange. LCD came on late and James Murphy played with a full band. It was radical in every sense of the word. He played all the new stuff and a lot of old stuff, and super fast so it was rock and rolly, too. At one point Murphy saw a fight in the front row (thanks Granville Street!) and actually tried to break it up. Splendid. I have to say it, LCD Soundsystem are the indie dance saviors and they had us all shaking our booties very hard. I also grabbed a girls boob, too. The next day I saw James Murphy walking down Robson. He winked at me. - Whit Waltman

bass against the speaker column. He seemed to be struggling with the instrument and stopped to tune up every few songs. To me, though, the sound was good and new drummer Jack Pedler is a hard hitter despite his advanced years. Soaked with sweat, Jack kept a solid beat and his energy did not flag. Standing only several feet from the stage, I made eye contact with Steve and I could see him wondering if he knew me from somewhere. After all, I’m no spring chicken either, and he was probably trying to remember if he owed me money or vice-a-versa. No, Steve, the only thing I owe you is a thank you for making such a huge impact on me those many years ago. Overall, it was a solid show, though I wished they had played “Little Boxes” instead of “Blitzkrieg Bop” by the Ramones as an encore. Oddly, it wasn’t until I listened to the Tranzmitors singles that I was able to fully appreciate them as a live act. The songs, as carefully crafted as small jewellery boxes, are full of massive hooks and bring the listener back to the era of British pop geniuses such as the Boys, the Jam, or maybe the Undertones. Dressed in suits and ties, the Tranzmitors put on a near flawless show that included such gems as “Look What You’re Doing” and “Dancing in the Front Row.” They also showcased “Plastic Genocide” and “Beating Up My Heart” from the new self-titled album, which I am listening to at this very moment and which is a killer.Vocalist/guitarist Jeffie Genetic attempted to explain why only the CD was available this night and not the album, and clearly he was disappointed. It goes to show that when it comes to pressing plants and record labels, anything can happen. SNAFU’s aside, the Tranzmitors are the band to watch out for, and though they look like the sort of guys who got picked on in high school, this is the revenge of the nerds and they have me looking out for them now. Be warned. - Chris Walter

Hardcore punk is not dead! Tonight, hardcore is a small but thriving organism in the depths of the Alf House basement. The Alf House held not a show, but a meeting for the few people willing to “shout, kick and scream, or do whatever they can to change the world,” as Pulling Teeth vocalist Mike Riley declared. This underground force of political activism was initially ignited by Burnaby’s Resist the Right. They shook the foundation of the old squat with short and dirty songs that showed no mercy. And while a quiet audience provided minimal interaction, the band glowed with passion for dissent. Singer Kyle Scott fired rebellious lyrics at the crowd, as his mates played vicious, raw, disorientated punk. Initially, they all seemed a bit nervous, especially guitarist Brandon, who stared at his hands while he played, but Resist the Right’s potential was obvious. With time and puberty, expect them to lash out and reveal the real beast - their tour starts this July. The crowd, anxious and full of anticipation, was now well primed for Pulling Teeth to claim the floor, and claim it they did. By this time the room had filled out to about 30 people plus the band, crammed into space no bigger than a walk-in closet with bass player Chris Kuhn half inside, half outside the house. Pulling Teeth played a short, pissed off set that was as effective as a sharp smack to the head. In between songs that were quick, bombastic, and crossed with metal-influenced riffs, the band and crowd alike engaged in informal discussions about the war, with the Baltimorebased outfit apologizing at one point for its

president. Aggression mixed with a haunting reminder to “Prepare for the Worst” - a song that dissolves any sugar coating, proclaiming we are basically too late, we are nearing the end - evoked the early ‘80s cold war and arms race climate of hardcore’s infancy. I admit that I was born when hardcore “ended”, and Chris Walter would chide, “I was a punk before you were a punk.” But to that I say, “Fuck that noise, it’s evolution!” - Christina Paris

Tapes ‘n Tapes / Ladyhawk The Plaza,Vancouver, BC Sunday, May 6, 2007

“Get ready to shit your brains out.” This is what Ladyhawk’s Duffy Driediger (um, is that really his name? I mean, I don’t know these people and I’m gullible…) told the crowd about Tapes ‘n Tapes at the end of Ladyhawk’s set. Um, OK, but my boyfriend and I had no brains to shit out ‘cuz we par-tayed the night before, and my sister just thinks Duffy (seriously?) is cute. So, before getting to any potential Tapes ‘n Tapes-induced brain-shitting (did they? didn’t they?), back to Ladyhawk, who were a knockout at this stupid Plaza show. I always think I like this venue when actually it sucks big-time. It’s all bad sound, shitty sight lines, and dumb seating arrangements. Despite this, Ladyhawk sounded tight and crunchy the whole way through, although the Duffster’s vocals could have been louder. They started off with the boppy “My Old Jackknife”, and sort of made me forget my awful condition ‘cuz I was busy bouncing around and scoping them out: so much hair, rad T-shirts (‘Sex, Drugs, and Dungeons & Dragons’ on one, and a Genesis shirt on another), and raw enthusiasm from these boys. But please tell your drummer to stop being so freaking sexy: the mustache, the wiry arms, the sex faces. He confused me, and my boyfriend. Well done. Tapes n’ Tapes got off to a muddy start (fix your goddamn sound system!) but straightened things out after a couple songs. The first half of the set was weird: filled with lots of slow-ish songs no one seemed to know. Things didn’t really click for them ‘til they played the awesome “Cowbell” and then they just exploded with hit after MySpace hit: “10 Gallon Ascots”, “Omaha”, “Manitoba”, and everybody’s favourite, “Insistor”, which sounded unimaginably perfect, but different. As amazing as Tapes ‘n Tapes sounded, they didn’t sound like themselves. Well, they didn’t sound like they do on the album. At all. They were louder and heavier, and more raw than the album lets on, and had so much more presence and emotion than I expected. They kind of sounded like a different version of themselves, which was perplexing, but the lucky bastards worked it out. So while nobody appeared to have shit their brains out, Tapes ‘n Tapes did give a few of us newfound respect for their ability to put on a real-deal rock show. - Meghan Dean

REVIEWS

Red Room,Vancouver, BC Saturday, May 12, 2007 If it were not for rock ‘n’ roll, Frankie Venom would surely be lying soaked with muscatel in a gutter somewhere. Indeed, the years have not been kind to Mr.Venom, or to Gord Lewis, who looks sadly the worse for wear. Only bassist Steve Mahon seems relatively unmarked by time and still retains a certain youthful quality. Still, this is not a beauty contest, and I wasn’t at the show to get all kissy kissy. From the opening notes, it was apparent that Teenage Head had not forgotten how to play, that they still knew how to kick out the jams. The room was full but not packed as the “boys” did their best to show both young and old alike what Teenage Head is all about. Frankie, clad in dirty blue jeans with a zipper that wouldn’t stay up and a black leather jacket held together with duct tape, didn’t try to hit the notes and was content to speak the lyrics rather than sing them. Regardless, there were a few moments that took me back to 1979, when Teenage Head completely decimated the St.Vital Hotel in Winnipeg and changed this writer’s life forever. There were a couple of charming little incidents, like when Venom accidentally unplugged his mic then struggled to plug it back in, or when Steve repeatedly slammed his

Commodore Ballroom,Vancouver, BC

Saturday, May 12, 2007

Apparently, Stockholm’s Peter Bjorn and John have three albums under their belts, but it’s the snap-happy ‘80s electronicainspired tracks on their latest Writer’s Block that has won these filthy Swedes

RESIST THE RIGHT

LCD Soundsystem / Some Chump The Commodore Ballroom, Vancouver, BC Thursday, May 3, 2007

I read all the pamphlets and watch the tapes and judging by the turnout at the Commodore Ballroom, all the kids in town certainly read and watched pamphlet and tape alike. The night started out shabby with the Vancouver Canucks losing and with me losing my Roxy virginity. That’s right loyal reader, I was at the fucking Roxy and you know what? It wasn’t that bad. Not at all what I thought it would be, so come on down there every Thursday night for my DJ night, 2 dollar hi-balls, I spin deep house. Just joking, the place is a dump and the skanks are rude. We get to the CB a bit late and of course, being a legendary Nerve writer, I’m on the list right? Well, even though Adrian Mack promised me I was, he lied. Adrian Mack is a liar. So I had to get my purchased ticket back from my friend whom I gave it to. Frowns all around.

PHOTO: CHRISTINA PARIS

Teenage Head / Tranzmitors

Peter Bjorn and John

Hey waitress! That drink with the little umbrella! Over HERE! The Nerve June 2007 Page 21

The Nerve June 2007 Page 22

ALBUM REVIEWS A Ghost to Kill Again s/t Independent The self-titled debut album from Vancouver’s young lions of the emo-laden prog/math-rock world is nothing short of an hour’s worth of tense, proud, cathartic intellectual genius, channeled through the standard rock-quartet format. Much the work of guitarist-vocalist Aaron Joyce, the songs found here (sculpted sonically by good old Jesse Gander) deal with the age-old struggles of relationship strife and introspective flagellation, but what a way to bitch and moan! “Ghost Ships” and “Shots” are just two of the 11 aural marvels found here.Yes, this writer has compared them many times to the Fripp/Belew/Levin/Bruford lineup of early-80s King Crimson, but much of the very real emotional edge to the proceedings owes as much to late-90s Sunny Day Real Estate. Joyce’s voice quavers on the edge of tearful breakdown as much as it does on hoarse screaming and all spots in between. These are true songs, not mere chopsy wankouts. Since every famous band can’t play their instruments or write songs worth a shit, I suppose prog must be the new punk. And it’s about fucking time, no? - Ferdy Belland The Aggrolites Reggae Hit L.A. Hellcat Hype sheets are complete bunk. They raise the expectations of the listener - or try to, anyway - to such ludicrous heights that in most cases you should at least become sexually aroused at the mere sight of the disc’s cover art. But and this is a good but - the Aggrolites actually do have a lot of shit goin’ on, which, while not excusing the hype sheet, proves them at least worthy of praise of some sort. Everything about the Ag’s is good: vibrant riddim section, passionate vocals, busy keyboards... And material-wise, the album burns through showband lovers rock to Club-Ska ‘67-stylee ska with a seeming ease that gives me the worried feeling that one of these bwoys may have stolen my priceless collection of JA vinyl. Or, maybe it’s just that a coupla these guys are actually unclaimed groupie by-products from the last time Steel Pulse went on the road. Either way, it’s pretty irie for reggae from L.A. - T.C. Shaw The Answer Rise (Reissue) Albert Productions Yeah, thanks, I already thought of it myself: “What was the question, again?” Gee, how ‘bout maybe, “Who can we install as the next reigning hair-farmer Rock Gods, especially now that the Darkness have been thoroughly discarded by both media and fans alike?” I mean, like it or not (and a lot of people don’t like it), the influence of Led Zeppelin is so profound in the music industry, if not pop culture in general, that it just makes good commercial sense to find a new group with a “looks-like/sounds-like” lead singer who happens to front a loud, blues-based quartet with one guitar in it. Sound familiar? Like, fuck, if you can’t hear “Dazed and Confused” hiding inside the Answer’s “Memphis Water”, then you’re either stupid, tone deaf, or both. This is, of course, the problem with being as old as I am (which is... erm... never mind). It’s like being David Spade on SNL. “I really liked (insert derivative retread anything here), but I really liked it when it was (insert original derivative retread anything here).” But, hey, who am I to stand in the way of progress? - T.C. Shaw Bjork Volta Atlantic You can always rely on Bjork to be Bjork: effortlessly innovative, unfathomable, and with the wonderful paradox of bizarre yet tunefully accessible albums. And no disappointments here. The instruments are back, and the character of Volta seems to be a measure between Bjork’s early upbeat albums and recent loftier ones, featuring extremes of both. Traditional percussion and choirs meet industrial effects, and emotional fragility sits alongside violent aggression. There’s electro tribal marching beats, Chinese lute, intimate ballads, revolutionary shouting, boat horns and all the whimsical aspects you’d expect on a Bjork album. Even Timbaland collaborates on two tracks, but luckily he hasn’t turned them in to Billboard pop hits, and Anthony Hegarty (he of the oboe-sounding voice from Anthony and the Johnsons) duets on two tracks.You can’t fake this kind of weirdness, and it’s Bjork’s unfailing integrity and insistence on (musically) doing entirely what she wants that has sustained a career that shows no signs of waning. - Stephanie Heney Cephalic Carnage Xenosapien Relapse

ABSOLUTE MADNESS! Every few seconds the pattern and tempos change. The gurgling grind metal vocals are occasionally mixed with the throat screams of a murder victim. “Divination & Volition” even has a chugging groove at the end of the song and “G. lobal O. verhaul D. evice” is a shockingly great doom metal song with good clean vocals. This is simply the best grind metal I’ve ever heard! Heavy variety and riffs that sound so wrong but are so right in this context, stuff I actually haven’t had the privilege of hearing before, make for something finally different than the migraine-inducing standard grind we’ve been receiving since Brutal Truth blew our asses out in the late ‘90s. If you’re hardcore into the hardcore music, then just buy the entire Relapse catalogue since they keep finding the only stimulating bands in the metal fringe these days. - David Von Bentley Child Abuse s/t Lovepump United The cover is infectiously unappealing nasty shit: Chucky from Child’s Play’s freakshowugly mug pasted over some slender black body. It’s fucking gross and makes everyone go ughghawww!! Child Abuse, what a name. The first tune is “Wrong Hole”. Fuck... Just the thought of having to Google the band (no doubt flagged by CSIS) causes me shivers. Wait. Shit... Oh fuck I think someone’s looking over my shoulder. Child Abuse. I think the best album title of all time is Prosthetic Cunt’s Fucking Your Daughter with a Frozen Vomit Fuckstick. Child Abuse’s website is www.soundsofchildabuse.com (the sights and smells of child abuse are collected elsewhere). It’s a jazzy, creepy, strangely bouncy firebomb of grunts, abortions, and a broken Nintendo. Every amp seems to be blown and farting. If you think Hella, HORSE the band, Genghis Tron, and Cattle Decapitation are too overproduced and commercial, maybe you should – naw, fuck it. Child Abuse. CHILD ABUSE. What assholes. - Dave Bertrand The Choir Practice s/t Mint Well isn’t this bloody precious. A gathering of the who’s-who of Vancouver musicians around the mics for a good ‘ol fashioned sing-a-long. Taking cues from the Free To Be…You And Me ethos of the early ‘70s, the Choir Practice belts out church basement Glee Club burners with enough gosh-golly earnestness to put a dopey grin on Heat Miser himself; it’s enough to make you violently ill, really - unless of course you’re on your highest dose of weekly meds and gone completely ‘round the fucking bend.Vancouver, I love you but you’re freaking me out. - Adam Simpkins The Clientele God Bless the Clientele Merge From album to album, the Clientele’s approach has been: if it’s not broke, don’t fix it. Sure, each record has built on the last, but never have there been any drastic shifts in sound or direction. Instead, the Hampshire four-piece has remained true to its sure-fire formula of hazy, ’60s-influenced psych-pop - a trend that continues on God Bless the Clientele. But to shake things up a bit, the Clientele has decided to explore more optimistic waters, mixing plenty of Monkees cheer into its usual sleepy heartache. Recorded in Nashville with producer Mark Nevers (Lambchop, Silver Jews), the group’s third full-length turns down the reverb, ups the pedal steel and goes for a sound that’s less dreamy and more direct. However, a familiar strain of melancholy still trickles through the album, if not quite as pronounced as before. The result is one of the Clientele’s most solid and confident recordings, which just might topple 2005’s Strange Geometry as the band’s finest work. - Brock Thiessen

arrangements with powerful percussion and soaring vocals. Fuelled by lyrics based on life, love, death and illness, the set-up is familiar but the Kids have forged a unique path of their own. And hell, Stephen King is a big fan, too – what more needs to be said? - Adam Simpkins Cowboy Junkies At the End of Paths Taken Fontana Has it really been 20 years now since the world fawned over cult favourite The Trinity Sessions? It’s even harder to believe that the band has sustained a career this long, without any real success commercially. As ever, At the End of Paths Taken finds the Cowboy Junkies caring not a jot about trends and is newyet-typical of their style: laid back, lethargic, dark, bluesy folk, with sleepy-sultry vocals as the trademark. The theme of Paths… is that of family relationships and the many tangles therein; the band, after all, contains three siblings. The complexities of the subject matter are reflected in the music, and there is definite tension here, where previously the band has produced lighter, often easy-listening songs. However, cleverness and mature-songwriting aside, ultimately this is a dull album and adds little to their catalogue of similar work. - Stephanie Heney The Destro As The Coil Unwinds Metal Blade Metal records like this suck. It’s really just the same, old fashioned down-tuned guitars, with guttural to throaty screams and raging double kicks. If you’ve listened to metal for a few years, then you won’t hear anything new or special here. I do appreciate that the Destro throws a few grooves down here, but the record can’t really compare to the live experience of a band like this. I can smell the cheap beer, stale dope and sweaty loners when I listen to As The Coil Unwinds. When I hear a song like “The Offering”, I’m looking for someone smaller than me to rock with my forearms like I was in a dive bar mosh pit. Without the proper environment, I’m just too jaded to enjoy this metal. I need that dive bar with a watered down Molson in my hand. Without these elements, it’s a pointless exercise. If you enjoy good thrash metal, then the Destro is for you. But I’m pretty bored with ‘good’ these days. - David Von Bentley Dimmu Borgir In Sorte Diaboli Nuclear Blast You can’t get more grandiose than this anti-Christian treatise, pulled directly out of the Devil’s asshole. With sweeping, digitallywrought orchestras, production as clear as Jesus’ conscience, and wearing more leather than the occupants of Rob Halford’s basement, Dimmu Borgir has catapulted itself to the top of the black metal heap. The band has continued to refine its sound from the nasty sonic assaults of Stormblåst up to this perfection-driven effort, which is built around the story a Priest’s assistant in medieval times who becomes so disenchanted with the church that he turns into Lucifer and punishes all who corrupted the word of God.Yeah, sounds retarded, I know. But if you can get past that, In Sorte Diaboli is, in my opinion, the best black metal record I’ve ever heard. Of course, that’s coming from a guy who hates this genre, and I understand that Dimmu Borgir fits into the sub-genre of symphonic black metal. But if I can enjoy this record without corpse make-up on, then I hope you studded codpiece wearing pale freaks can enjoy yourselves too. - David Von Bentley Fisk Industries EPs & Rarities Mush Even if you get the smallest touch of enjoyment out of electronic music, you must hear this Mush release or else walk away from music forever. Mat Ronson, the mancorp known as Fisk Industries, pops out the tastiest of bedroom beats like most people shit, so don’t be turned off by the idea this is an EPs & Rarities collection. There isn’t a single throwaway track here. Ronson’s smothering of ambient synths, disembodied clicks, fractured samples, and fat ass bass is pure, unwavering gold. The first disk collects his two 10” vinyl EPs and is well worth the price of admission on its own. The second obviously pieces together obscure and compilation tracks, as well as some digital only singles. Some of the latter are still available online for free, so you don’t have to take my word for it.You’re just going to buy this album anyway once you hear them, though. Oh, yes… - filmore mescalito holmes

East Coast hardcore scene darlings Autumn to Ashes has, in its short career, suffered internal conflicts, a time out to cool down, and a founding member leaving (who was in charge of screaming duties). Despite all this, they are back with a new album, their fourth full length, and second for Vagrant. Autumn to Ashes are a textbook example of the current trend of screamo mixed with melodic emo interludes in each song. It must be a trend because there seems to be a million bands doing exactly the same thing right now. With elements of death metal, thrash and lame indie all in one marketable package for the teenagers, this will no doubt please all Warped Tour goers, but really, it’s no different from any of the other Used, Matchbook Romance or Billy Talent releases. Great name for an album though. - Stephanie Heney The Go Find Stars On The Wall Morr Music The studio can be a lonely place. Refusing to cave in to the desolation, producer wunderkind Dieter Sermeus opened up the recording sessions for his sophomore album to include input from his touring band. History will remember this to be a wise move. Stars On The Wall sees a continuation of the summery electronic pop that began with Miami, but jamming these new tracks out with likeminded musicians whom he’s already comfortable with fleshes out the compositions and gives them a more vibrant, organic feel. While this and his debut perfect the same flavor of ambient folk cut with a deep seeded sense of melancholy, Stars… simply has more taste. There’s No Name® vanilla and there’s Breyers® vanilla. Mmmm… - filmore mescalito holmes Grails Burning Off Impurities Temporary Resistance From the opening ambient banjo to the last trailing wind chime twinkles; the third Grails studio album is a sprawling, moody psychedelic epic. Changes wash across sonic palette shores with the same naturally vigorous ebb and flow as the sea in uncertain times. This Portland collective has simply outdone itself in delivering quite possibly the most relevant and immediately satisfying instrumental rock album of the year. Between this, Fridge, and the new Explosions In The Sky, Temporary Resistance is having one hell of a year. - filmore mescalito holmes Gross Misconduct The Process of Indoctrination Independent Three years of the Nerve has seriously eroded my metal fortitude with impurities like ‘country & western’, ‘musical exploration’, ‘Adrian Mack’, and ‘the ‘70s’. So it’s been a while since checking in with Gross Misconduct. What started as an ode to Death (the band) with all the angular, temposmashing, disjointed mayhem that was Chuck Schuldiner’s specialty, Gross Misconduct has smoothed slightly, adding a teaspoon more melody and chug-a-chug grooviness to the technical metronome perfection and aural terror. Musicianship is uniformly tremendous, with brain-swelling, death-thrash riffs, John Kurucz’s outrageous 10-tempos-a-second drum acrobatics, and constructively epic deedle-deedle-woAAAAH guitar solos. Can’t say much for the lyrics – typical pessimistic male anger and societal ills – but who really cares? It’s as metal as it gets, from the title, to the artwork, to the tough-guy band photo and a song called “Abaddon”. For a lil’ band from Vancouver, Gross Misconduct absolutely holds its own against biggies like the Crown, Nightrage, Dimension Zero, and Kataklysm. So fuck yeh, put on your thrashin’ horns. - Dave Bertrand

like this are why I don’t watch MTV. - filmore mescalito holmes Guster Satellite EP Reprise A selection of leftovers from Guster’s latest LP Ganging Up on the Sun, a couple of useless covers and a really lame “remix” of the title track in just over 30 minutes; a maxi-EP, if you will. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with Guster: they’re non-threatening, you can take them back to yours without worrying about being groped incessantly, they probably don’t smoke, take their drink responsibly, and say nuh-uh to rails (but wouldn’t object to a little 4.20 – nudge nudge). At any rate, unless your favourite bands start at Fountains of Wayne and end with Counting Crows, you could probably take or leave these college circuit favourites. Smooth guitar pop has its place in the greater scheme of things (in immaculately clean dorm-rooms and my older sister’s cassette collection), but you’ll certainly survive your trip on planet Earth without Guster along for the ride. - Adam Simpkins Inhume Chaos Dissection Order Osmose Productions Chaos Dissection Order by Inhume sounds like a cunt-gurgling piss in a hollow metal tube. Enjoy. - David Von Bentley Isotopes Around the Horn b/w You Gotta Freeze Isotopes Punk Rock Baseball Club Bouncy and upbeat, the Isotopes are from the Ramones/Screeching Weasel School of Punk Rock and make no apologies about it. Apparently, no one has bothered to tell these lads that the world is an evil, scary place full of very bad people, because this single is relentlessly happy and optimistic, fairly bursting with good will and joy towards men. I’m not saying that this is a bad thing, and I thoroughly enjoyed both songs. I’ve had enough doom and gloom anyway, and if the Isotopes want to pretend that everything is fine then I can, too. Batter up! - Chris Walter Joakim Monsters & Silly Songs K7 Let us celebrate our agreement with the adding of electronica to rock, to poorly paraphrase Homer. Parisian producer extraordinaire Joakim Bouaziz has been perfecting this mix since the turn of the millennium, reaching what may be his artistic peak with the long awaited Monsters & Silly Songs. With quality experience tucked under his cap, the man now sounds equally as comfortable pimping slick, techy house as he does making tweaked pop songs. Born out of a frustration at having 90% of this album finished before losing everything to a hard drive meltdown, the efforts to surround funky and ambient acoustic nodding with upbeat bleeps and M83 synths is driven by an irritated undercurrent which pushes the results that much closer to Joy Division than New Order. However, Joakim’s desire to be the lighthearted centre of the party still leaves the obvious emphasis on joy rather than division. - filmore mescalito holmes Klaxons Myths Of The Near Future Polydor Everything about this London trio’s debut says I should love it: the spectacular literary references, alluding to everyone from Alistair Crowley to JG Ballard, the self-proclaimed “nu rave” ambition during the lowest point in rave culture history, and, like me, they also subscribe to the fact the world as we know it is going to end in 2012.Yet, I find myself far from loving Myths Of The Near Future. It makes sense that front man Jamie Reynolds has done everything in his power to distance himself from the “nu rave” monster since the day he created it, ‘cause even dogs can see this album has fuck all to do with raves. This is the same indie dance-punk the Rapture and Franz Ferdinand have been feeding us for years, with more of an emphasis on synth work and mystical lyricism. At that, Klaxons is ahead of its contemporaries (especially Franz), but I don’t like being cock-teased about the second rave renaissance, so these assholes can dink themselves as far as I’m concerned. Nice try, NME. - filmore mescalito holmes

ALBUM Cold War Kids Robbers & Cowards Downtown During the Cold War, there was no shortage of things to concern our little heads over: Communist Hollywood traitors, Khrushchev’s shoe-banging incident at the UN leading us to wonder if the Russians loved their footwear too (the answer: no), not to mention the continual speculation of who would eventually be cast as Hawkeye in the years to come. But what about the voiceless children? Half a century later and they’re finally ready to be heard. Well, not really. Apart from the name, CWK have no affiliation to the aforementioned – politically or musically. Instead, they’re a band sounding like Jeff Buckley fronting the Walkmen: minimal

From Autumn to Ashes Holding a Wolf by the Ears Vagrant

The Higher On Fire Epitaph This Las Vegas quintet’s sophomore album marks a new low for Epitaph. The band likes it, believing On Fire to be the record that finally represents their “eclectic” tastes. However, those tastes are as eccentrically varied as mainstream r&b, mainstream dance, emo, and pop, which are always and only mainstream, so eclectic is obviously the wrong word to use there. Mainstream, capitalized and underlined, is far more appropriate. Patrick Stump of Fall Out Boy infamy even adds a “remix” just to remove any doubts, and make sure you don’t confuse this for anything meaningful in the label’s catalogue, like Pennywise. Although the music is comparatively more progressive than most pop acts, flawlessly executed and recorded with absolute sterility, the tunes would be worthy of far more credit if Seth Trotter didn’t choke every note with the industry standard emo schlock vocals. I sure hope this album makes Epitaph some money ‘cause it’s a legendary label and these dinks look absolutely wretched on its roster. Bands

Mice Parade s/t Bubble Core On album seven, Adam Pierce and his cohorts instill a bit more tradition into Mice Parade, making for the project’s most song-driven record thus far. Like 2005’s Bem-Vinda Vontade and 2004’s Obrigado Saudade, the new selftitled album finds the group replacing much

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of its instrumental post-rock leanings with Pierce’s soft-sung whisper and more ethnicbased musical accompaniment. Also, like the past two records, flamenco-styled guitar patterns, intricate drum patterns and odd percussive devices dominate, with a few guests thrown in, such as Stereolab’s Laetitia Sadier and Múm’s Kristin Anna Valtysdottir. However, fans will be hard pressed to find any big changes here. The guitar sound has grown a bit louder and Pierce’s plaintive lyrics are more up front, but overall, the record sticks to fairly familiar territory. And in a way, this isn’t such a bad thing. Mice Parade’s unique sound luckily has enough staying power to hold the record together, but come album eight, fans will likely be hoping for a bit more growth. - Brock Thiessen The Nightwatchman One Man Revolution Sony BMG The Nightwatchman is Tom Morello, guitarist with Rage Against the Machine and Audioslave. Under this alter ego, he is a one-man-and-hisguitar protest singer, mostly acoustic, unlike his day jobs. One Man Revolution concentrates on the daily struggle of the ordinary man, and like Springsteen and Billy Bragg before him, Morello’s tunes are conscious but not aggressive, and although they lack the wry comedy of the latter, comparisons are fair. The acoustic format somewhat forces the listener to actually pay attention to the lyrics, but some of these tracks would really suit a faster and rockier pace with full on grrr. After all, rising up with fists on the picket line isn’t a calm affair. Other than an anthemic bagpipe-featuring song, this is a collection of well-written and clever tracks that never oversimplify political issues, yet ‘keep it real’ for the man on the street. - Stephanie Heney NINE It’s Your Funeral Spinefarm I don’t think I hate NINE, but I also don’t like it. It seems that they don’t give a rat’s ass about their music. Maybe I don’t hate them because I’ve been reviewing shit bands like Inhume all day, and compared to that cuntpiss nothing sounds bad. I guess I like the fact the production sounds pretty dirty and not cock polished like the rest of NINE’s Swedish counterparts. But all of the instruments are turned down in the mix while a Dez Fafara wannabe screams in that familiar constipated tone. Actually I think NINE sounds like a poverty stricken Cancer Bats, and I don’t really care for those fuckers either. I guess the point is I’d never go out of my way to download or buy this music unless I was a die-hard death rock fan. I’m not, so I won’t. - David Von Bentley Ollo The If If 12 Apostles Alex Crowfoot and Lars Chresta, together with a series of friends and collaborators, make up the production team of Ollo. ‘Til now, they’ve quietly existed as Perth’s best-kept secret, but with their latest record and first for 12 Apostles, that’s about to change. Who knew Australia had formed a response to the Beta Band? Well, they did, and thank Gawd for that. While glossed with a synthetic sheen, The If If maintains a natural quirky jive, phasing in and about the many layered samples, accented with playful drone vocals conveying mildly absurdist, post-modern lyrics and images, all of which cements the comparison to Edinburgh’s favorite trip-hoppin’ Greek letter group. Ollo easily passes through the membranes of indie rock, hip-hop, funk, and electronica without ever feeling uncomfortable in its own skin. Simply remarkable. - filmore mescalito holmes Panthers The Trick Vice Thanks a lot, Wolfmother. Ever since you brought your mammoth riffs and ‘70s rock bravado from the land down under, and proven to the naysayers that “Classic” rock is still financially viable and pleasing to the ears, we’ve lost a few bands to your other dimension; Panthers being the latest casualty. At one time, if memory serves correctly, the Brooklyn-based quintet was more akin to the politically charged Nation of Ulysses as opposed to heavy bong-hitters like Monster Magnet, but maybe sometimes going backwards is the only way to move forward. Though ultimately disappointing – in the same way that Rye Coalition and the (International) Noise Conspiracy have flopped under the stress of maximum wattage – The Trick remains a relatively enjoyable record. Tracks like “Listen To Me” and “Long Time Coming” sound great blasting from the hi-fi, even if the album sounds like a smart band playing dumb; but then again, maybe that’s the trick. - Adam Simpkins

OST Spiderman 3 Record Collection By now I assume many of you have wasted your money on the unbelievably shitty new Spiderman movie. If you haven’t, consider yourself lucky. Also, if you haven’t heard its equally shitty soundtrack, consider yourself even luckier. With bands like the Walkmen, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and the Flaming Lips, it may appear respectable, but trust me, it is not. Black Mountain’s “Stay Free” is the only track out of 15 that likely won’t trigger your musical gag reflex - well, and maybe the Walkmen song. But honestly, this Black Mountain track is one of Steve McBean’s best. With some laissez-faire guitar and McBean crooning in a new-found falsetto, “Stay Free” comes across beautifully, making it essential for any selfrespecting member of the Black Mountain Army. Hopefully, it will pop up on some future McBean full-length or a rarities comp of some sort, ridding itself of the garbage surrounding it on Spiderman 3, Music From and Inspired By. - Brock Thiessen Parlour Steps Ambiguoso Figment Music The dreamy songwriting style established by the current/eternal lineup of the Parlour Steps on their 2005 album The Great Perhaps continues here stronger than ever, without losing any breath, or steam, or inspired vision. The cuttingly intelligent (and maddeningly catchy) songs, of which vocalist-guitaristbenevolent dictator Caleb Stull never seems to have a shortage, just keep on blooming into exciting life, and Ambiguoso bursts out of the gates with no time to defend oneself: “Only Mystery” and “Hot Romance” are a great onetwo knockout, and once your unsuspecting rock mindset has hit the alley gravel, the other 10 songs take their melodic hobnailed boots to your helpless ribs and ass and leave you whimpering, not in agonized misery, but in euphoric rapture. Parlour Steps has been at this game for many more years than one might expect, proving itself time and again not only as consistently enjoyable live, but also as a group of startlingly impressive songsmiths who continue to improve upon their own particular form. There’s a reason why Caleb and co. get kudos from folks like Tom Waits. One should check out Ambiguoso and find out said reason. - Ferdy Belland People For Audio The New Ancients Storyboard Every day, music critics enter a cruel world of obscure adjectives, demanding promoters, and scrutinizing readers. For many, even the numerous free CDs can be a source of pain. Sifting through the countless piss-poor promos is a job so daunting that it’s enough to make you break down and cry. Just walk into the office of the Nerve’s music editor any day of the week to witness a grown man drowning in a puddle of his own tears. It ain’t pretty. But every so often, some unheard gem makes all those random promos worthwhile, and The New Ancients by People for Audio is such a gem. The Montreal band’s sophomore album takes a serene journey through pastoral fields of post-rock, psychedelia and backporch balladry, drawing comparisons to Do Make Say Think’s more focused work and the Besnard Lakes more tranquil.Yes, this may sound familiar, but People for Audio do a damn fine job of it, once again giving reviewers something to smile about. Thanks, People for Audio, seriously. - Brock Thiessen Peppersands Forest Strays Efalin After a five-year wait, the follow-up album to the Peppersands’ debut is finally upon us, and not a moment too soon. Although the Peppersands are easily one of the more respectable modern power-pop songwriting forces Vancouver has to offer, it would seem that they’re still shadowed away from the national love they truly deserve, and let’s hope the lasting impression of Forest Strays changes that. From the infectious opener “What U Really Need”, through “The Lonely Kind” and all the way to the 10th track “Another Lesson” the band - lead by the lovably eccentric heartbreaker Citizen A - shows us all that there’s so much life and love and heart and power left to be found in modern twists on the tried-and-true four-chord poprock jackhammer. If CFOX can’t get their shit together and trade the crown of Mad King Kroeger for the benevolent tiara of Good Queen Andrea (long may she reign over us), then it’s obvious that Jay O’Neill has indeed outlived his usefulness and needs a one-way Beaufort Sea cruise on an unheated ice floe. While we’re waiting for Jay to succumb to the cruel elements, we can warm ourselves with repeated listenings of Forest Strays. 2007

is turning out to be a very good year for Vancouver releases. - Ferdy Belland Reasonable Doubt Built to Resist Copro Records The only thing that stands out about these melodic, death metal mallcore kids is how shitty their drummer is. He can barely keep up with the rest of the band and seems to play the most pussy blast beats since Phil Collins joined Cannibal Corpse briefly in ‘96. Maybe it’s the shitty ProTools mix that makes Reasonable Doubt’s sound so sexually unappealing. I think they would be more charming to me if I could hear the dirt on the mics and their Mom yelling at them in the background because dinner is ready. But instead all I hear is a second rate Black Dahlia Murder with a drummer on verge of a nervous breakdown because he has to ‘keep the beat’. Well this doesn’t do it for me, especially when the singer kicks into the average throat screamimg, which is plain and abused. I’m pretty sick of these bands that all sound exactly like each other. I’m asking Reasonable Doubt to stop, piss their pants, and regroup with a drum machine that plays the sound of a baby panda sneezing. Now that’s interesting - David Von Bentley The Rosebuds Night of the Furies Merge In music, a lot is made of the sophomore slump but rarely is much attention paid to the troublesome quarter-life crisis. By album three or four, a band often faces the predicament of either A) fleshing out its roots, or B) breaking into uncharted territory. And it’s option B that the Rosebuds opt for on their third album, Night of the Furies - well, sort of. The duo periodically flirted with the new record’s synth-laden sound in the past, such as on “Back to Boston” from their crunchy indie-rock debut, Make Out, but never to such extremes. The Furies is entirely cloaked in the dark glamour of ’80s synth-pop, leading the way with clicking drum machines, dance floor call-outs and boy/girl melodrama.Yet the record retains the warm, loose feel of past albums, causing it to sound more like a logical progression than some venture into left field. All in all, The Furies shows the Rosebuds getting through the quarter mark unscathed and releasing a nice, little record in the process. - Brock Thiessen Sage Francis Human the Death Dance Epitaph Call him Francois. Call him hip-hop’s hearton-sleeve messiah. Or simply call him Sage Francis. Whatever you call him, one thing is certain: there is no escaping the hype and praise surrounding this Rhode Island rapper. Thankfully, his latest record, Human the Death Dance, proves he deserves it. Francis’s fourth solo effort is his most sturdy, album-based output, with tighter production and lyrical fibers than those previous. Production wise, Francis had some help on this one, including guests such as cLOUDEAD’s Odd Nosdam, Buck 65 and Mark Isham, who lay down a ghostly blend of beats, loops and, at times, some heavy orchestration. Also, the record sees Francis lighten his recent activism and returns to darker, meditative waters, where the personal is political and social criticisms run alongside private insecurities. However, Francis keeps his sense of humour about it all, never letting this record become some weeping self-analysis. All in all, this death dance is well worth having. - Brock Thiessen Scatterheart s/t Independent It’s incredibly exciting when a modern rock band roots its songwriting muse in the classic power-pop soil of Rick Springfield, the Knack, the Shoes, and such, but when they dose it with just enough androgynous British glamrock colorings (think David Bowie and Jobriath Boone, circa 1972-73), one ends up with this crazy-like-a-fox melding of Jane’s Addiction alternative-psychedelia inside stunning threeminute pop nuggets.Vancouver’s Scatterheart probably never calculated it that way, since they punch out their muscular rock songs with just enough rough punk edges, but there it is - and it works like all hell here in this six-song EP which truly does leave one gasping for more. Alas, it’s not to be; until Scatterheart (fronted by the charismatically Perry Farrelian vocalist Jesse Enright and mobbed out by guitarist Doug Fury, bassist Wes DeBoer, and drummer Michael Southworth) bless us with a full-length album, the EP will just have to be played over and over again, until songs like “New Foundation” and “Goodnight Angel” are branded deep into your brains and you’ll

forget that you ever thought Mark McGrath was ever worth thinking about, ever. Let’s hope Enright & Co. tell us more of what’s on their minds. - Ferdy Belland

Tranzmitors, the record-buying public probably won’t discover these wonderful tunes for10 years or so, when Jaguar uses them to sell cars. - Chris Walter

The Sea and Cake Everybody Thrill Jockey “It’s a rock album,” says vocalist Sam Prekop about Everybody, and this latest Sea and Cake release is about as “rock” as the Chicago band gets. For the first time in ages, the group has made an album where the songwriting comes before production. Gone is the rigid and almost static sound of recent years; in its place, comes an upbeat, bare-bones approach reminiscent of earlier, more organic work. This warming effect is partly due to Brian Paulson (Slint, Wilco), the first producer besides the group’s drummer and Tortoise’s head honcho, John McEntire, to touch the boards since the Sea and Cake’s debut. Paulson’s less-is-more style allows the band to lay down a loose, yet solid, selection of tracks that finally sound as if the group’s enjoying itself again. By loosening their ties and getting back to basics, the Sea and Cake have injected some much needed heart and soul into its aging frame and made a great record in the process. - Brock Thiessen

Tarwater Spider Smile Morr Music Morr Music continues to impress with this latest release from East Berlin’s Ronald Lippok (To Rococco Rot) and Bernd Jestram. This duo sure knows how to kick out the atmospheres. The creative process behind Spider Smile involved searching for a single, definitive sound or - rather hippy-ish - waiting for a sound to find them, then building a song around it. At that, the LP is chock full of random looped sound effects, eclectic instrumentation, and/or objective noise carefully orchestrated and organized into lush works of organic, lazy, occasionally haunting folktronica.Yeah, I said it… bite me. A genre by any other name sounds the same. - filmore mescalito holmes

Patti Smith Twelve Sony Happily belonging to the one per cent of artists who have earned sufficient ‘contributions to the industry, and all-round influential genius’ brownie points, Patti Smith is the rare creature who can safely produce an album of covers - some established classics - free of derision. I mean, even Sir Bono of U2 would get critically kicked in the nads for touching some of these songs. Smith has previously reworked Van Morrison, Dylan, Byrds and the Who, so we know she has the ability to add something to the greats. On Twelve, we find a rather eclectic collection of songs, from “Are you Experienced?” to a wonderfully tense version of “Smells Like Teen Spirit”. Her trademark growly vocals alone lend something special to songs that are so perfect in the original that it’s hard to conceive they can be done differently. But she does it, and well (aside from an ill-advised reading of “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” , but some things are beyond fixing). - Stephanie Heney Sonic Syndicate Only Inhuman Nuclear Blast My goal in life isn’t to get married, have kids, and live in a house with a white picket fence. The thought of that literally made me throw up in my own mouth. The simple goal I have is to convince at least one of the many token girly goth girl band members out there to let me slip my sick dick into her vagina. It’s a simple goal and it’s becoming easier to do, thanks to all of these European mallcore bands. They clearly found a formula - made popular by the Canadian TV show Madison - and are hiring a world of little black-haired Neve Campbell’s for the storefront. Sonic Syndicate is definitely one of these bands, and I can tell you, I really want to slide my dinky dink into the birth canal of this particular Swedish dame. From the picture I’m looking at, I think she can take a Von Bentley box beating for sure. Oh yeah, I forgot this is a review of the band’s music, and not their cock throbbing bass player Karin Axelsson (so much). Well, I guess they sound exactly like the birth child of Bleeding Through and In Flames. It’s Swedish mallcore, kids, what do you want from me? I hate hearing this shit. If you’re going to have a band member that is turned down to virtual silence in the mix, and if she’s wearing an ass cheek-high skirt in the promo shots, then I’m probably going to gravitate towards that and not your boring melodic metal. - David Von Bentley

Mary Weiss Dangerous Game Norton The return of the ‘60s girl group legends continues! Last year it was Ronnie Spector, this year we’ve got Mary Weiss of the immortal Shangri-Las making a comeback, and the resulting album is outstanding. She’s got the mighty Reigning Sound backing her up and has enlisted Sound songwriting whiz Greg Cartwright to supply the bulk of the tunes, along with Dictator Andy Shernoff and Real Kid John Felice. While some of Ronnie’s album suffered a bit from overblown AOR production, Mary leaves things in the capable hands of the cream of the New York garage scene. The sound is reminiscent of those awesome Shadow Morton-produced Shangri-Las hits of the ‘60s without slavishly imitating them or sounding dated. Thankfully, that wonderfully melodramatic voice is intact. Perhaps most importantly, she’s been given a great batch of tunes to work with (along with a remake of the Barry-Greenwich-penned classic “Heaven Only Knows”). Example: check out Cartwright’s ‘”Cry About the Radio”. Kids don’t know shit, indeed. - Andrew Molloy Wednesday Night Heroes Guilty Pleasures BYO Welly, welly, it seems that the Wednesday Night Heroes have done gone and released the magnum opus of their career. The WNH will doubtlessly go on to release many other albums, but when they’re playing golf with Alice Cooper (who will be 104 by then), they will look back at Guilty Pleasures as being the best danged thing they ever did. Seriously, this baby comes ripping out of the gates at 300 miles an hour and doesn’t let up once, not even for a second. At one point, I thought a freight train was going past my apartment, but it turned out to be the bottom end in “Wash ‘Em Away.” If you need just one punk rock album to take away to that metaphorical desert island, then bring Guilty Pleasures and throw all the others away. Too bad that the WNH will probably never make another album this fine. Sorry, boys, it’s all downhill from here. - Chris Walter Wilco Sky Blue Sky Nonesuch/WEA For well over a decade after the demise of Uncle Tupelo (the band everyone loves but no one really gave a rat’s ass about during its lifetime), Jeff Tweedy’s peculiar and unique songwriting vision has continued reinventing itself through half-a-dozen albums with his new band Wilco (the band everyone loves and many people truly give a rat’s ass about), and we’re happy to say that Sky Blue Sky is yet another solid and satisfying work of laid-back roots rock that continues to push out into quasi-psychedelic branches and mournful introspective leaves. Tales of gold miners (“You Are My Face”), marching bands on parade (the title track), late-night walks through deserted towns (“Side with the Seeds”), marital disillusionment (“Hate it Here”), and wordless depression (every other song), as only Jeff Tweedy can write them. There’s a hyper-melodic guitar interplay between altaxe wizard Nels Cline and Jeff Tweedy which invites a very real comparison to what Tom Verlaine and Richard Lloyd were famous for... but Television wasn’t exactly an Americana band from the prairie heartland, and Wilco didn’t cut its teeth in grimy NYC-bowery nightclubs, either, capice? But there’s a middle ground between the two musical camps, which makes all the sense in the world to Tweedy & Co. One of America’s greatest rock bands returns with another great American rock album. - Ferdy Belland

REVIEWS

The Nerve June 2007 Page 24

The Tranzmitors s/t Deranged For me, the list of good British pop groups is much shorter than those that suck. Think of Flock of Seagulls, the Human League, Wham, the Pet Shop Boys, or at least try to without puking. The list goes on and on, and there is no end to the shite they’ve foisted on a gullible and tin-eared public. Conversely, the Tranzmitors draw their influences from British pop groups that don’t suck, such as the Boys, the Jam, XTC, and the Undertones (don’t bother to point out that the Undertones are from Ireland, smartasses), but they manage to do it in a way that is original and fresh, and that, my friends, is the secret to good rock ‘n’ roll. And good it is - each song here is a perfect little gem, polished to a high gloss and flawlessly executed. Loaded with hooks, this CD is so catchy that the songs will get stuck in your head permanently. Sadly for the

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DVD REVIEWS

Propagandhi Live From Occupied Territory: an Official Bootleg DVD G7 Welcoming Committee

As Nerve music editor Adrian Mack handed me the review copy of this DVD, he was quick to point out an obvious topic of interest. The cover photograph displays former ‘Gandhi bassist, Scott Hopper,

Yes Live at Montreux 2003 DVD Eagle Vision

I should begin by making it clear that I am NOT a fan of either Yes or prog rock in general, so if you’re really expecting something objective, stop reading now. Seriously, the nicest – and I mean the NICEST – thing I can think of saying about this “rock band,” and other “rock bands” like it (including Pink Floyd, Genesis, and... oh, the sacrilege!!!) is that they are indirectly responsible for the existence of the Sex

The Nerve June 2007 Page 26

VIDEO GAMES wailing away in his briefs. Caught up in the ecstasy of the moment, Mr. Hopper stands sweetly oblivious to the fact that his left nut has somehow managed to break free. With the help of Scott Hopper’s exposed nut, I came to the following conclusion: it takes balls to play in Propagandhi. It also takes a considerable amount of testicular fortitude to compare Israel’s illegal occupation of Palestinian territories to the ongoing fight for Indigenous rights at Grassy Narrows. But, to Propagandhi, this is just another day in the life. On its first ever official video release, the band delivers on every front. The performance itself was recorded at a benefit show for the Grassy Narrows First Nation Blockade and the International Solidarity Movement. Courtesy of the D.I.Y.-style filming (the show was recorded by members of the crowd), the viewer gets a solid feel for the intensity one can expect from a Propagandhi show. Edited and mixed by the band, the look and sound of the footage is raw yet crystal clear. But the band’s integrity and spirit is made most evident by the inclusion of two fiercely revealing and unsettling documentaries. A pair of narrated photo galleries - one on Gaza and the other on the Grassy Narrows Blockade - neatly bookend the over three hours of bonus materials, and delve a little deeper into the subject matter, while a ridiculous audio commentary track provided by Chris Hannah and Derek Hogue proves that the band still has room for a sense of humour. Proceeds from the sale of this DVD will help sustain the Grassy Narrows Blockade and the Middle East Children’s Alliance. - Edward M. Dinsley

Pistols, and for that single fact alone we owe these “rock musicians” a debt of gratitude.Yeah, for that single fact alone... that’s about right. Which is an insult, if you think about it. If you HAVE to think about it. Because what I’m doing here is thanking these five gentlemen for someone else’s music, not theirs. Yes, we all should thank Yes for making music so indulgent, so pompous, so up its own ass that it caused a social revolution in their home country, not that they really noticed or even cared at the time, since they were spending upwards of a million bucks making Going For the One right about then. Look, if you ask me, even the title of this DVD is misleading: Yes LIVE at Montreaux? When, for fuck’s sake, was Yes EVER live? And to me, it seems oddly appropriate that, in 2007, a so-called “live” concert from 2003 is finally made available. That’s Yes all over, folks. Thirty-six years and STILL behind the times! What a legacy! And you have to laugh down your sleeve when, in the disc’s liner notes - ITS OWN LINER NOTES,YET - it’s pointed out that while King Crimson had concentrated on “more contemporary material,” Yes did not. “Our view is that if Sinatra was still alive... and didn’t sing ‘My Way’, you’d leave pretty disappointed,” figures Rick Wakeman. Gee, that’s pretty good. Even I didn’t think of comparing Yes to a dead man. And what, besides over 250 years of combined stage experience, can you look forward to on this penultimate show of shows? All those great Yes chart-busters, like...err...uhh...well, there’s the “Rick Wakeman Solo Medley,” where, presumably, the rest of the group catches a much-needed nap (or maybe that should read ‘crap’) before the big climax that most assuredly is “Roundabout”.Yeeeuuuggghhh! Just say no to Yes. - T.C. Shaw

By Dale DeRuiter (Ed. = Editor, for those of you who may be confused by the following) The Wii is a flaming piece of crap. I wanted to save such a harsh judgment until I played the system… well I played it, and you can take a guess at how awesome it was. The other two big systems are pulling out all the stops with shit-your-face graphics (What? Ed.) and computing speeds and a bunch of crap I don’t rightly know what it is (good thing you are reviewing gaming systems then, eh? Ed.) but I can guess that it is expensive and thus rad. On the other hand if you get sick of worrying about frame rates and geek tech stuff, you can always just go with the cheap old Wii. I mean, fuck, you even get to shake the controller (not a big leap from shaking another “controller” eh Dale? Ed.) PS2 (uh, isn’t it the PS3 Dale? Ed.) adopted Blue Ray technology and the Xbox 360 is sticking it out with HD/DVD but, guess what? WII (World War 2? Ed.) chose neither. No next generation for you because your (sic) stuck with shit your pants crapness (huh? Ed.). Oh, guess what, you still can’t even watch fucking DVDs on your shitty Nintendo. It’s like they failed out of console make sense school (is that a college or a reform school? Ed.) because they were too busy choosing what shape to make their fucking avatar’s head. I will admit though, the Wii does have one upside and that is you get to laugh at complete idiots because they are too fat and sweaty to hold onto their controllers and end up throwing them through their TVs, walls and windows. There are even reported incidents of accidental assaults on

other family members. Shit, anything that lets me punch my goddamn kids (you don’t have any kids, whose kids are you punching? Ed.) in the face can’t be that bad. Aren’t you glad you listened to those two Japanese assholes in the commercials and told yourself that you, too, want to Wii. Pretty much the only actual selling point for a Wii is the price. Instead of paying $500 or $700 for the other systems, you can get away with just under $250 for the base system. Guess what, I’ll sell you some dog shit for even cheaper. (The Nerve does not endorse the selling or buying of dog shit. Ed.) Gimme five bucks and I’ll let you come to my house and you can hold the poop in your hand and waggle your arm around like a dickhead and then your stupid parents can joke to each other how at least you are getting SOME exercise however minimal it might be. (I don’t quite know how to deal with this concept. Ed.) And another thing: I play my video games because I am lazy. I don’t want to try and fucking mimic action. (mimic a fucking action? Ed.) I don’t want to actually have to move. I want to sit on my couch for six hours and ignore everyone around me and disappear to awesome video game land where I get to collect delicious prizes and become mister joe fucking cool. (once again, where to start… Ed.) I didn’t want to work my limbs with the other failed ninetendo (sic) peripherals. The power glove, action pad and even that fucking activator ring, where you had to kick three times to jump, failed because I didn’t want to move. If I wanted exercise, I would leave my house and get buffed and tan. But I don’t, I want to sit in my house and not move so I can be a florescent white cave troll. n

Wages By John Armstrong New Star Books Ours is a generation said to have more acquired debt than any previous one. It is not uncommon for people to resign to – if not blatantly accept – the sickeningly under-contested idea that they will always owe someone money for shit that they don’t really need, and will likely need repair before they actually own it. In one of the many stinging bits of bitter wisdom contained in this book John Armstrong calls this “digging a hole and borrowing money to buy a bigger shovel.” Armstrong’s latest memoir offers no encouragement for those of us trying to fund our over-consumption by peddling our life away eight hours at a time and getting lowballed in the process, but it’s not without some cleverly disguised hope. The optimists out there will hopefully walk away from this read realizing that, despite the unavoidable ass-fuck that entails making a paycheque, there are ways to make it work out for you, or at the very least, lube it up and make it bearable. Wages documents Armstrong’s life by way of the many soul-sucking jobs he’s performed. It’s an interesting progression from shovelling rabbit shit and slaughtering chickens to tenures as a “minor punk rock icon”, porn video distributor and award winning journalist to finally negotiating an early retirement buyout from a certain Vancouver newspaper via mental breakdown and now – I’m assuming – doing pretty much whatever the fuck he wants. It seems Armstrong has emerged neither rich nor much less the malcontent he was as a teen. He has emerged as one hell of a writer, and Wages is one hell of a read. Even if you’re not of the optimistic bent, this book will leave you with no less than a few good laughs, a sense of cynical brotherhood and a perverse appreciation for Armstrong’s Irish/English tenacity. Perhaps the funniest thing about Wages is that of all the shit jobs Armstrong has had (camp counsellor at a bible camp for the severely retarded, anybody?) the one he seems to have disliked most is journalism. His descriptions of the life of a

journalist brim with the same comic loathing perfected by the late Hunter Thompson. Anyone who has any experience in the field will get a real kick out of how precisely, repetitively, he hits the nail on the head with satire. Anyone who’s clueless to the how the machine really works will get some highly amusing insight on what a sham it really is. Armstrong’s smug recollection of how many of his assignments to cover pompous activists and selfimportant new age healers only came to be because of a particular surplus of sex ad money on that given week, is a personal favourite. Armstrong’s second outing is just as entertaining as his first (Guilty of Everything) and will no doubt appeal to a broader readership – from the punk rock loyalists who love him to past employers who likely love to hate him. Wages shows a writer coming into his own, on his own terms. -Devon Cody

Punk Rock Dad By Jim Lindberg Harper Collins From playground etiquette to diaper changing tips, Punk Rock Dad is full of helpful and hilarious advice for all you punks out there who weren’t paying attention when your girl told you she was going off the pill. Personally, it never dawned on me that I would one day be earnestly discussing my son’s scholastic strengths and weaknesses with a steely-haired dowager who would normally cross the street to avoid me, but that day has indeed arrived. Like Mr. Lindberg, I was more than a little nervous to learn that my girlfriend was pregnant, and that I was about to be dragged kicking and screaming into adulthood. Lindberg, the lead singer for Pennywise, who devoted his entire life to avoiding responsibility of any sort, was equally unprepared for fatherhood. “Like most things in life,” says the author/frontman, “I planned to fake it and hope for the best.” Not only could I have said the same thing, I have used those exact words before, and not only with regards to parenthood. My son is about to turn seven, and I’m still faking it, still hoping for the best. In fact, writing is much like raising children in that respect. Can you tell? Punk Rock Dad is not the definitive book on being a father, however. As Jim is quick to point out, every child is different and what works for one kid might have the opposite affect on another. Instead, Jim urges parents to use their common sense and to lead by example: “If you don’t want your kid putting his feet up on the table and burping out the alphabet at dinnertime, don’t do it yourself… if you pick your nose and fart in church, they will too.” I’m assuming that Mr. Lindberg is talking about the Church of Punk Rock, but religion, or lack of religion

aside, Jim’s advice is generally right on the money. He offers hope for all the slacker punks out there who must learn to be fathers or forever resign themselves to bachelorhood. For me, the only thing scarier than raising a child would be to die alone in a hotel room. The book made me laugh aloud many times, and for that I can almost forgive the author for shopping at Wal-Mart. Informative and funny, Punk Rock Dad is all you can ask for. -Chris Walter

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By Dan Scum Across 1. VW model 5. Contraction of had not 10. Lummox 13. Untruthful one 14. Frostier 15. Nat’ l Rifle Ass 16. Think dirty thoughts 19. Creepy and yucky 20. US Native tribe 21. South Park teacher’s puppet 22. Gives the thumbs up to 23. Learning disorder 24. Mayberry boy 25. Leg joint 26. High times 27. Gluteus Maximi to a child 30. On the up and up 33. Captivated 35. Child’s building blocks™ 36. Misuse 37. Hall. Mo. 38. Makes better 39. DH’s stat 40. Nice place to slit yer wrists 41. Lawyers 42. Internet conn. 43. Nice place for sex 44. Consumes 46. Ripped 48. Farm measure 49. Not he 52. ______sexual (all the gayness with none of the buggery) 54. Hectare component 55. Dumbfounds 56. Gossip 59. A Kyd on Alternative Tentacles 60. Riot 61. Taken for a ride 62. Doc’s workplace 63. _____ raving mad Down 1. Lalawood host 2. Squeals like a pig 3. Lord’s companion 4. Day after Thurs. 5. Split 6. Throbbed with pain 7. Drops dead 8. Opp. Of pos 9. Dominant cards in bridge 10. Where more cops oughta be

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11. l x w 12. An elderly person 16. O solo ___ 17. Sans clothes 18. 3fix? 23. Poker pot contribution 24. Choose 25. Smooch 26. Royally screwed 28. Not pretty 29. Supermodel Kate 30. Jello Biafra project 31. Wanes 32. Manipulator’s ploy 34. Play a role 35. Allows 38. Negative emotion 40. Stiller or Harper or Folds 43. Sweepers 45. God of War 47. Waiter’s inq. 48. Sore one 49. Sugary 50. Follows advice 51. Abbrv. On the Cheers sign 52. One of Axl’s sounds in “Welcome to the Jungle” 53. Long times 54. Site of an Olympic bombing 55. Gluteus Maximi to a Scot 57. Fisherman’s aide 58. To copulate with a female sheep (I discovered this word playing Scrabble with my Mom. I was bluffing –she challenged and to my delight it was in the Scrabble™ player’s dictionary)

Last issue’s answers

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