Volume 8, Number 7, Issue #73
CONTENTS
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Features 10 Pride Tiger
The Don (a/k/a Editor-In-Chief and Publisher) Bradley “Ya? So Sue Me” Damsgaard editor@thenervemagazine.com
Wiseguy (a/k/a Music Editor) Adrian “The Toucher” Mack mack@thenervemagazine.com
Tiger, Tiger, burning bright, in the seedy East Van night. - Adrian Mack
12 3 Inches of Blood
Insert obvious little dink joke here. - Ferdy Belland
Shotgun (a/k/a Film Editor) Michael “Wanna Touch Tips?” Mann mann@thenervemagazine.com
15 The Omens
Launderer (a/k/a Book Editor) Devon Cody cody@thenervemagazine.com
Complete tea leaf reading, inside! - Jenny Charlesworth
15 Elizabeth
The Henchmen (a/k/a Design & Graphics) Kristy Sutor, Toby Bannister
They’re back! (Yeah, they went away!). - Leela Monroe
Weapons Cleaner (a/k/a Article Editor) Jon Azpiri, Terry Cox
..
13 SpreadEagle
Surveillance Team (a/k/a Photographers) Dale De Ruiter, Miss Toby Marie,
How to single-handedly sink a record label. - Jack Duff
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
14 12 12 15 15
Plaster Caster (a/k/a Cover Design) Toby Bannister toby@thenervemagazine.com cover photo: Toby Bannister Fire Insurance (a/k/a Advertising) Brad Damsgaard advertise@thenervemagazine.com
The Hits Ulrich Schnauss ANTiSEEN Die Mannequin The Yesterdaize
The Kids (a/k/a The Interns) Samantha Laserson, Alyson Bryan 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, Stiff Josh Victoria/Whistler: Jono Jak, Lindsay 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
Sections 06 21 24 28 26 30 32 35
Cheap Shotz Live Reviews Album Reviews Film DVD Books Crossword Comics The Nerve July 2007 Page
Nerve Nerve
Von Bentley’s
Monthly Weather Watch
Cheap Shots
The Bus Exchange This month, the #7, Nanaimo Passenger: I waited 45 minutes for you. Driver: Well, what are you gonna do? Passenger: Maybe you guys should put some more buses on the road. Driver:Yeah, or maybe I could just drive two at once. Passenger: Maybe you should get another job. Driver: Maybe you should sit the hell down. Passenger Yeah, well, TransLink SUCKS!
Oh, You’re Just Paranoid (Part 28)… I would like to draw reader’s attention to the belt buckle worn by Arnold Schwarzenegger in this photo adorning the cover of Time Magazine. See that? That is the “Totenkopf”, or ‘Death’s Head’ insignia, which was adopted by Himmler’s ruthless SS (as opposed to Himmler’s “nice” SS) during Germany’s Nazi era. QUESTION: Why is the son of one of Hitler’s Brownshirts (ie. Arnie) brazenly wearing the Death’s Head insignia of Himmler’s SS? I suppose there’s always the possibility that the Governor of California Uber Alles innocently
picked up his Schutzstaffel accesory along with a Slipknot T-shirt and a Harley doo-rag at the Rock Shop on Granville Street during his recent visit to Vancouver, because he thought it looked all cool and piratey, or something. Or, on the other hand, maybe the Austrian ubermensch with a badly papered-over history of expressing his admiration for the Third Reich is just, you know, a FUCKING NAZI! You decide. QUESTION: WHY IS HE WEARING THAT BELT?? (Answer: To hold his pantzen up!) - Philip K Dink
“95% Chance of Having No Cavites”
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The Nerve July 2007 Page
The Legacy “Phil and the boyz in Thin Lizzy ripped this joint, drank it dry, did all of the drugs, shit out a lotta gold, a few turds, could whip any sum’bitch in the house and looked good doin’ it” - Carl Spackler, Nerve, September 2005 “Thunder and Lightning” from Thunder and Lightning (1983) “Chinatown” destroys except he says ‘Chinatown’, like, seriously, 92 fuckin’ times. And the ‘Rolling me over’ business, and ‘Turning me around’, as much as “The Cowboy Song” decimates, I just never really got that one. What is he talking about? The horse? Or the cow he’s roping? His Brokeback bro? I dunno. I’m gonna give Phil the benefit of the doubt. Thunder and Lightning? It fuckin’ destroys! Like, “Cold Sweat”? Right? Am I wrong? “Thunder and Lightning”? Aren’t those the two decimators off that particular album? I dunno. I don’t have it. I only have two on vinyl, so I don’t know. Black Rose and Fighting. “Thunder and Lightning”, I dunno. Even fuckin’ Pantera can cover that song and make it rad. - Donnie James Rio Renegade (1981) There was a brief moment back in 2004 when I Budgied my way into the inner Strathcona circles of the STREETS / Pride Tiger bros, but my fate was sealed forever when I dared say OUT LOUD, in a crowded house party full of boozed-up, loudmouthed beardos, that I just didn’t like Thin Lizzy too much. “They’re no Wishbone Ash,” I said, or something stupid like that. A quick rasp of a phonograph needle skittering across a (vinyl, of course) copy of Renegade, and the silence was deafening. Then they stopped returning my calls and e-mails and I was persona-non-grata ever after. Now I get to hang out with uppity art-rockers and be the only guy in the improv gallery not wearing a white belt. Lucky fucking me. - Ferdy Belland On the Land, In the Air, In the Sea (But Mostly in the Sea) A certain Irish-born Burrard Inlet barge captain and all-round seagoing mucky-muck (who I’ll call Paul, ‘cos that’s his name) is, in fact, a personal friend of mine. So fuckin’ what, you ask? Well, prick, he also happens to be one of the “boys” whom Phil Lynott refers to in the all-time #1 get-off-work-and-fuck-shit-up anthem, “The Boys Are Back in Town”, having had the pleasure and privilege of growing up as one of Philo’s school-age pals. These days, his duties include moving freighters full of Hello Kitty merchandise in and out of the inlet and saving drowning/floating/unconscious people from washing up as unwanted corpses in Coal Harbour, now that we’ve sold off our national Coast Guard. - T.C. Shaw “Emerald” from Jailbreak (1976) Fuck, look here. 1976. “Emerald”. The tail end of Lizzy’s commercial break-through album, Jailbreak. With its rollicking Celtic proto-metal gallop, opening hi-hat shuffle, rousing riffage and twin guitar harmony break, lyrics about marching into battle, “To fight the fight they believed to be right / Overthrow the overlords!” and nearly two minutes of take-turns guitar dueling, this song – along with maybe Budgie’s “Hot As a Docker’s Armpit” – is basically the blueprint for Iron Maiden. Serious! The chop-chop tom-rollin’ and ride-ridin’ here is like Nicko McBrain’s entire repertoire. There’s a reason “Emerald” has been covered by Mastodon and Dragonlord. It’s bombastic, and it’s METAL. But my favourite Thin Lizzy song? “Gabrielle” by Ween. - Dave Bertrand Johnny the Fox (1976) The first thing that really struck me about Johnny the Fox was all of the awesome names in the song titles.
Track one: “Johnny”. Track two: “Rocky”. Track six: “Johnny the Fox meets Jimmy the Weed”. Track ten: “Boogie Woogie Dance”. Then on top of all that action, the producer’s name is John Alcock (pronounced All Cock). I’m naming my first child Alcock! Boy or girl! Anyways, Johnny the Fox is the first album after their breakthrough Jailbreak record, so you know it’s pretty fucking good. Phil Lynott was determined to live life to the fullest while he was on the this winning streak; so much so that he drank enough booze to get hepatitis. That’s hardcore. Who knew hepatitis could inspire such great music? Thanks for sharing, Mr. Lynott. - David Von Bentley “The Boys Are Back in Town/Jailbreak” Double A-side 45 Ok, I was 10 and got suckered in by the double A-Sided “The Boys Are Back In Town/Jailbreak” 45. People will say, “That’s not Thin Lizzy, their songs are so much MORE, and I usually counter with, “Yeah, but it got me wanting MORE Thin Lizzy, and, in turn, led me to such amazing tunes as “The Rocker”, “Bad Reputation”, and my personal favorite, ‘The Cowboy Song’!” The twin lead guitars and syncopation in the rhythm section was something that always made Thin Lizzy stand out. Their songs were fucking complex, the lyrics almost Springsteenian, and their live show was one of the ‘70s best! My only gripe was seeing those fucking idiots Metallica cover “Whiskey In the Jar” and have a hit with their COMPLETELY forgettable version, while the rock machine known as the Supersuckers kick the shit out of “The Cowboy Song” and still can’t crack the Billboard top 100. Come to think of it, as monster a record as Jailbreak was for Thin Lizzy, they only made it to #18 on the Billboard Charts. Fuck Billboard. - Boy Howdy Wang! In the VH1 produced Thin Lizzy: Behind the Music, we see home movie footage of Phil Lynott climbing from the ocean in a pair of orange speedos with a fuckin’ Anaconda apparently nestled in where a mortal man’s cock would normally be. It is magnificent. As the old joke goes, if you ever got into a size competition with Phil Lynott, he’d take out just enough to beat you.You guys all get into size competitions too, right? - Adrian Mack “Cruisin’ in the Lizzy Mobile”, from Vagabonds, Kings, Warriors, Angels box set It’s like this song is actually coming out of his Speedo. Download now, my little fuckarinos! All cock, indeed. - Adrian Mack Pussy! “Killer hooks! Soul power vocals! Riff-Action! Bitchin’ tom-fills! Only the best drugs! The whiff of ripe pussy intermingling with the smell of good dope! And this is only in my living room! Seriously, they were a helluva band.” - Carl Spackler, Nerve, September 2004
APHRODITE’S CHILD
The ABCs of Apocalypse By Bill Mullan
invented (by mistake) in 1965 by a freshly electrified Bob Dylan with that snare shot at the beginning of “Like A Rolling Stone”. It snapped God and the Devil awake and the battles of Armageddon have been waging ever since. So what is acid rock, then? It’s the soundtrack for these battles, spiritual, psychedelic, and necessarily dangerous.” As the son of a preacher man,Vince Furnier understood this very well. High School football star, big man on campus, young Vince heard all that rumour of Armageddon in the strange distance and promptly did what any bright eyed Wanna buy an amp? Some shades? How about some sideburns? ambitious young man would do. He changed his name to Alice Cooper and is for Apocalypse, Greek for “lifting Not just a bunch of high bluebook value signed on with Satan’s side. At least that’s of the veil”, or as my good friend collectibles with no particular theme or how it first seemed, particularly with the Philip Random used to have it angle. No, if my good friend Philip was worded on the back of his business cards, good at anything, it was staying on theme. unholy trinity of albums released 197173, Love It To Death, Killer, and Billion Dollar “Apocalypse is now and ongoing and Aphrodite’s Child, for instance, Babies (note: School’s Out is not included has been since before you were born, a are Greek prog-psyche weirdos whose here because it’s not in PR’s collection; state of spiritual, philosophical, political, 1970 double album masterpiece 666 is “Fundamentally profound single,” he intellectual and emotional critical mass, still fucking with young minds today. As notes, “Fundamentally unprofound a sustained chain reaction of apparently the cover suggests, it’s the last chapter album, except for the “girl’s panties” conflicting beliefs, ideas, demands and of the (so-called) Holy Bible, The Book inner sleeve”). In three short years, Alice feelings, which challenges us to evolve Of Revelations, put to music. And the (and his kick-ass band) didn’t just kill an entirely fresh and conceivably radical mad thing is, it works, everything from flower power forever, they also gave to new point of reference.” And then he the pop-euphoria of “Four Horseman” the Apocalypse an easy dozen enduring disappeared. Or maybe he just went on to the jammed-out experimentalism of anthems of madness, black magic, baby tour again and forgot to tell anybody. “All The Seats Were Occupied” to the killing, pre-pubescent gangsterism, Either way, he left me with his pre-Exorcist possessed Mother-Superiornecrophilia, sexual confusion, even tooth records, plus a few notes, which is fucks-a-crucifix ranting of “Infinity”. decay. The work of the Devil? Probably. what these columns promise to be Not recommended for the sensitive, But worry not for Alice’s eternal soul. He’s about: Apocalypse unveiled via notable particularly when high on acid. currently redeeming it, one Celebrity Golf selections from Philip Random’s record Speaking of which, what Apocalypse Tournament at a time, all in support of the collection (and occasional notes). would be complete without acid rock? Solid Rock Foundation. Praise Jesus. n Because it really is that kind of collection. Philip puts is this way: “acid rock was
A
Black Ships Ate The Sky Current 93 Durtro / Jnana - A Critical Review by Chris Towers, of the New Creation “If I make no sense to you I make no sense to me...” David Tibet. Current 93 is not party time music. It is not highway cruising music, or any music to bed your lover by. You’ll never hear Current 93 being spun at your favourite rave, local grocery or in any elevator going up or down. It is “time alone” music. Music to muse by. The latest CD, Black Ships Ate The Sky, carries on the spiritual quest begun in earlier albums, including the well-received Thunder Perfect Mind. Black Ships showcases the selfsame blend of exquisite musicianship and mind-turning prose for which David Tibet and his company are well-renowned. Listening to it is to drift away to a world like no other, a world of calmness, peace, despite the nightmarish images and the certain edge in Tibet’s voice that grows and grows as his apocalyptic vision becomes clearer, more stark. And the daring of it! Such frightful risks taken! To include the same song eight times in a field of 21 seems reckless, foolhardy, yet it works. It does work, for each of the singers, and there are eight, including Tibet, himself, bring his or her own unique feel to the song. The rest, all true songs, take you back to childhood, to first images of the world, of God, fairy tales, and fantasy. The music is edgy, still sweet, but edgy, with Tibet’s voice taut and anxious, building to an unsettling climax, a frantic, desperate end. Mixed in with daffodils, tigers, and clouds, are unhappy visions, fierce creatures like Bloodface, who twists time while selling sweets to sweethearts. It is all “tea and toast and judgment and all that stuff that rests in the land of Jack and Jill”, yet disturbing, even mind numbing at times. Still, at the end, there is resignation as the black ships are revealed; a settled, if regretful resolution. A wonderful atmosphere is set and I’m reminded of the child in all of us, not ever quite fitting into the world, seeing life at a different level, and questioning all.
The Nerve July 2007 Page
ART
Holly Ruth Anderson Arty, Poetic & Drunk
By Boy Howdy
W
hat is it about Winnipeg that inspires people to become artists? Is it the antifreeze? Transplanted Winnipeger Holly Ruth Anderson recalls a life in the ‘Peg as “a lot of time being arty and poetic alone in your room, or arty and poetic and drunk in a room full of other people doing the same.” When I look at the work of Holly Ruth Anderson, I see a very striking style; one which tells unique stories of vulnerability and pain. Stories that lie in, and want to cry out of, the eyes of these beautiful, nubile women. Anderson would have us believe that it’s simpler than that, and far less fruity, claiming, during a conversation with The Nerve at a Main Street brothel, that she just “draws the eyes and goes outwards.” Yeah, right! It just “happens” that way! Anderson
elaborates further, “You start with an idea, but somewhere along the way the painting just starts to take on its own character, like she’s made up her own mind about how she wants to look.” She continues, “I wish I could give a big statement of artsy intent, but I’m afraid they’re just a bunch of pictures of pretty girls!” Perhaps this reticence is the by product of growing up in a place which didn’t support her artistic dreams. Anderson recalls the Winnipeg of her youth as a place where “it was pretty hard to find anything cool or different, so we had to make our own interesting stuff.” She adds, “I majored in art in high school, lasted a whole month in university fine arts and not too much longer in college. I had an art teacher who told us
A nude girl doesn’t have to be doing anything. She’s art all by herself!
to give up any hope of showing paintings in galleries and making any kind of living doing what we wanted to do. He was a lonely, bitter old man who wore ugly penny loafers.” Many of Anderson’s ideas originate from songs. She also uses “a lot of movie star glamour photos to get the drawing started. Mostly it’s just for the pose or the hairdo but occasionally it turns into a portrait.” But why all the nakedness? Patiently, she explains, “A nude girl doesn’t have to be doing anything. She’s art all by herself!” So, is there a difference between creating art for clients (i.e. themed concert posters; commissioned paintings) and just creating art to fulfill oneself? “Obviously painting for myself is easier,” Anderson answers, “’cause if I tell myself it’s all wrong, I
don’t piss myself off. Mostly. What some clients really want is for you to draw the picture they see in their head. It’s boring and fairly impossible. The best clients are those who love your style, trust your vision and let you go with it. Then you get to do something that is mostly yours anyway.” So what about the big show? What can the adoring public expect from Holly Ruth when the curtain rises on Cherry Ice Cream Smile at the Jem Gallery from July 13 to 31? “I wanted to edge away from the ‘oh-gosh-my-panties-fell-off’ pin-up poses and get a wee bit more classical or something like that. There are 13 pieces, half drawings and half oil paintings. Pretty much every painting or drawing is named for a line from a song, which may or may not have a helluva lot to do with the end result.” n
The Nerve July 2007 Page
MUSIC
t o N e r ’ u If Yo cing... Dan By Adrian Monk
T
he best couple tracks on Pride Tiger’s fancy major label debut were written at the end of its fabled two-months of recording in LA. “Fill Me In” is a relationship song that has a blue-eyed soul feel beneath the rock dressing, and “The Lucky Ones” is the feelgood hit of summer ‘07, I swear, being a bouncy exhortation to party. In the latter, vocalist-drummer Matt Wood chides the listener to “put that record on,” and it’s the kind of moment that makes writing about this stuff impossible. The charm contained in those two or three seconds - right at the end of the first chorus - is vast. Wood sounds seductive, charismatic, warmly paternal, righteous, hung; a whole bunch of things, all suggested in that one itty-bitty line and they way he delivers it. Trust me, it hits you right in the vagina. “We didn’t really have too much time running together when we did the first album,” Wood says, over soft drinks at the Templeton on Granville. “Those were the first songs we ever wrote, and they all sounded different, and I think “The Lucky Ones” is us finally honing it, and “Fill Me In” is what we really wanna do.” Wood and his four accomplices are in the thick of doing publicity for their new EMI album, also called The Lucky Ones, and the presence of a label rep and the fact that he springs for the Nerve’s fries and gravy points to the change in the weather around here. Fort their part, Wood, guitarists Sunny Dhak and Bob Froese, and bassist Mike Payette seem as giddily out-of-place as any of the lucky ones who get to actually tour the Chocolate Factory, while interviewing Wood in a situation so far removed from the other end of a bong in the alley behind the now defunct Bloodstone Press is freaking me out. Wood says, “We did a lot of growing up there in LA. It changed us, man. It made us a little better. We just wanted to make the most of it. We were playing in a different league now. ‘Are you guys a real band or not?’ Yeah, we’re a real band. ‘OK, go down there. Finish your shit up’.”
e D i R P
Payette joins us at the soft-drinks table, first to show off the obscene shirt he’s brought for the Nerve’s photo shoot (it depicts a dude getting blown by a fish), and then to tease me with details of a “little Pink Floyd song” that didn’t make it onto the record. “It’s Floyd to a ‘T’,” he claims. “It’s got the gospel lady and the slow bass. But you’ll have to wait for that on MySpace or something.” Even without their goof on “Shine on (You Crazy Diamond)”, The Lucky Ones expands on PT’s more conspicuous influences - Lizzy, Atomic Rooster, Captain Beyond, all that stuff - with mellower, more mature and deliberate grooves. Check out the restrained chords that are allowed to yawn over the verses of “No Ones Listening”, the honeyed harmonies of “Forget Everything”, or the slower remake of “What It Is”, which I think kicks ass on a version (from Wood, Dhak, Froese, Payette) that I already love. “That’s great to hear, “ says Payette. “I’m definitely concerned about it. I don’t know if everyone shares the same concern as I do, but for me personally, when I hear a band re-record old songs, even if it’s better, my ears are just used to the old version, you know?” Also improved is Wood’s singing. It was already pretty damned great, since he’s a natural, but on numbers like “The Lucky Ones”, or especially “Long Way Down”, where he brings a new kind of beefiness to the table, Wood sounds more like a singing drummer than a drumming singer. Or vice versa. In any event, it’s just better. “Thanks, man,” he says, while Payette adds that they were all surprised at Woods’ vocal gifts, even after plenty of karaoke at the Cobalt. “Matt would
get up on the mic a lot. There was a lot of “Lay it On the Line” by Triumph,” he says. “Singing drummer,” Woods reminds me. Oh, yeah. The topic of singing drummers is a fruitful one in any situation - over dinner, after sex, prior to dental work, I tend to bring it up all the time - and even in such austere company as, erm, the guy from Paper “The Night Chicago Died” Lace, or the other dude from Jigsaw (“Sky High”), Wood is a young turk in the world of singing drummers, partly because he always looks so fuckin’ happy up there. That’s the only time he looks happy as far as I can tell. Payette backs me up. “When he drums, yeah,” he nods. “He’s a drag to hang around with, but when he’s drumming and he’s baked, he’s super happy. Otherwise, he’s just an average dude.” “I just bought a Paper Lace record about a week ago,” Wood adds, probably by way of tuning Payette out. “They’re great.” If Wood is the drag, whose the band dummy, I ask? “Well, I get picked on,” answers Payette. “But I’m the intellect. So that doesn’t work out very well.” “I think I’m probably a bit of a dummy,” Woods offers, earnestly. “I wouldn’t say you’re the dummy, but you’re definitely the stoner,” Payette counters, as Dhak finally hovers into view. I know it’s him because I seen him that one time in a TV commercial for a cellphone, playing “Sweet Dreams”, prompting Payette to make a crack about “serious musicians getting serious free stuff.” Any other sponsorships on the boil for Pride Tiger? “Fruit to Go,” answers Wood, while Payette decides to change the subject, noting, “It’s funny that
He’s a drag to hang around with, but when he’s drumming and he’s baked, he’s super happy
! n O d r o c e R t a h T Pu t
peyote. They came very close to melting the core of the planet with their uber-crushing Volcanic Rock LP. These fuckin’ guys rip through some of the heaviest, most spacy riffs, sounding like a ’72 Charger, wide open down a lonely stretch of blacktop in the badlands.
Sir Lord Baltimore These furry freaks were labeled heavy metal before anyone. They made Bill Graham shit his pants and declare them the worst band he had ever heard. Awesome! Check the proto-metal gospel rave-up that is “We Got It Goin’ On” from their in-fuckingsane second LP.
Pentagram Teenage zit-faced losers who were so cool they flew right over Gene Simmons and Paul Stanley’s heads in the ‘70s when they auditioned for the not-so-ambiguously-gay-
The Nerve July 2007 Page 10
duo in one of the band members’ parents’ kitchen. Gene and Paul told them they had bad skin and didn’t look the part (as they departed in a limo). Their collection of demos and practice space jams on First Daze Here and First Daze Here Too make Pentagram my definitive candidate for the most overlooked band ever. A mix of the Stooges and early Sabbath.
Buffalo Who knew? These Aussies, for fuck’s sake, were living on a steady diet of Free, Sabbath, desert, and
Leafhound Growers of Mushroom So killer, you can’t believe these British blues rockers didn’t become the giants they should have been. With one of the great all-time singers in Peter French, this is mind-fuckingly good blues boogie rock. I think Billy Gibbons stole the riff for “Just Got Paid” from their “Freelance Fiend”.
Black Oak Arkansas Are you fuckin’ wit’ me? These guys flew the freak flag - and lived in a commune, loud ‘n’ proud - for so long. Check out Raunch ‘n’ Roll Live to hear Jim Dandy and the boys laying it on so righteously. This shit cooks, and is also a really rad indicator of who “gets” rock. Put it on at your next soiree and watch: anyone protests, kick ‘em right in the nuts, throw the sonofabitch out the door, and let them know that at one time, men played rock
you would say that about soft rock hits of the seventies (author’s note: I said something about soft rock hits of the seventies), ‘cause when the band was in the studio, we got into Steely Dan.” He turns to Wood. “Didn’t we listen to a lot of Steely Dan? I wonder if some of that kinda came out.” “We were white guys in LA, man,” Wood nods. “Totally nerdy and really ugly,” Payette continues, more to himself than anyone else, still pondering the Dan. This goes on at length until the whole band is rounded up for what turns out to be a fairly silly photo shoot with the Nerve’s Miss Toby, involving human pyramids and some arm wrestling (ala Hustler - see opposite page). Knowing that the rest of this article will mostly be comprised of Spackler getting drunk and writing about his Pride Tiger-approved record collection, I make sure to get a few band names out of the guys before they take off. What’s in and what’s out right now, fellas? Mike: The first Boston record. Matt: That’s what I would say. Three Man Army. Uriah Heep, Demons and Wizards. I love that album, man. Any Beatles. Mike: I have to go with Pentagram. And of course, Sir Lord Baltimore. Matt: Kingdome Come by Sir Lord Baltimore. Put that one on in the van, and the boys ARE partying. Okay then. Boogie on, gentlemen. For the rest of you, we’re only just getting started here, so roll up you sleeves, pack the pipe, and don’t make any plans for the next few days, because Carl Spackler and the Nerve’s Dirty Head Dept. are going to walk you (but not in a straight line) thru the seven ages of boogie and shit rock. So… n
Pride Tiger play The Zoo inWinnipeg MB, July 4th,The Gaslight Saloon in Regina SK, July 7th, Hi Fi Club in Calgary AB, July 8th, Lucky Bar in Victoria BC, July 10th, Richard’s on Richards in Vancouver, July 12th, ED FEST, Edmonton AB, July 28th
‘n’ roll. Mountain Nantucket Sleighride is like a shot of coke and Valium to the brain, then it’s flyin’ high, straight down the boogie highway! Features the righteous Leslie West, Johnny Ramone’s guitar hero. Dig his first, self-titled LP for gloomy, greasy riff ‘n’ roll. Cactus Dude, the singer (and his kid!) got machine gunned down in a Florida coke deal gone bad in the early ‘80s. The suspect remains at large, but was widely suspected to be a fellow musician. These dirtbags (Carmine Appice, Tim Bogert and Jim McCarty) fucked, drank, drugged, and boogied their way through the very early ‘70s, releasing five albums along the way. For a time, they were America’s answer to Led Zep, and made one killer LP (1972’s ‘Ot & Sweaty) with Peter French (of
R e g i t Leafhound, and shit rock kings Atomic Rooster, on the classic In Hearing of… LP). Their first LP was banned from stores ‘cos it had a big cactus cock ‘n’ balls on the cover. Their version of Howlin’ Wolf’s “Evil” is a Freak Power classic that will live forever in blackened hearts everywhere. Flower Travellin’ Band Satori is a re-release of the second LP by these Japanese weirdoes who listened to Led Zeppelin and had some kraut rock orgasms (or is that origami?). Whatever, these Yoko Zosos crush down a very strange groove that somehow has a very Eastern, religious vibe. They also spelled their name ‘Frower’ on their LP, which rules hard. Humble Pie If you don’t listen to the ‘Pie, don’t even come over.You are a turd. Blue Cheer Same thing.
This is part of the basics. If you don’t own the retarded genius that is Outside Inside, you are going without one of the basic components of life itself. It’s like looking into the face of God and discovering he’s cross-eyed. Hustler High Street Mack’s big brother’s band. England’s finest, featuring stone cold classics like “Get Outa me ‘Ouse”, “Jack the Lad”, “Midnight Seducer” and, of course,
Then There Something ’s Wrong!
“Pirhanas”. The original Darkness? Shit, the bassist’s name is Tigger Lyons, fer Chrissakes! Josefus Four Neanderthals, defrosted by scientists in the late ‘60s in Texas, proceed to play rock ‘n’ roll as demanded them by their fully damaged, lysergic minds and souls. Bonus points for their outrageously plodding, monolithic cover of “Gimme Shelter.” Super Stoopid! - All the above courtesy of Carl Spackler UFO and April Wine I listen to lots of Allman Brothers, and Skynyrd, and Cheap Trick, and Uriah Heep. I don’t fuckin’ know. I don’t have a ‘boogie rock’ one that I go to. Maybe… Yeah! Fuck that! UFO, Strangers in the Night, obviously! Or April Wine. I don’t know if that counts, but I would have to say, Harder Faster. It’s got “I Like to Rock”! - Donnie James Rio, SpreadEagle
AC/DC When I was in high school in Edmonton (in 1976, I know, know… shut up!), AC/DC was a totally unknown entity. Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap had just been released, and punk rock was about to explode onto the front pages of newspapers everywhere. “Punkers” were even more outnumbered by rednecks than they are now, and we were regularly hassled for “lookin’ funny” and listening to “fags” like AC/DC (which is ironic, since the football players who hassled us were all wearing “jams”, which were actually funnier looking than anything we could find at any thrift store, and we were trying!). Even though AC/DC’s sound hasn’t changed much at all, it still took the band until 1980 to ‘make it’ in North America (with Back In Black), and when they finally did, the late, great Bon Scott was already gone. Incidentally, Dirty Deeds… wasn’t released in the U.S. until 1981, once it was finally “OK” to like AC/DC. -T.C. ”Grandpa” Shaw
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3 Inches of Blood
This delightful Russian nesting doll set can be yours for only three healing potions, two bat wings, an anvil and a Sword of Malderon (in good condition)
I
t would seem as if the exciting world of heavy metal is alive and well, and especially triumphant for the Canadian contingency of the world’s metal maniacs. Case in point:Vancouver’s unconquerable powermetal heroes 3 Inches of Blood, which will have unleashed its third album Fire Up the Blades in June, in a move nothing short of unignorable blitzkrieg genius (see Reviews). The Nerve met up with 3 Inches’ magnificently-bearded rhythm/lead guitarist Shane Clark and towering/bespectacled/unshaven vocalist Jamie Hooper in the quaint brick confines of the venerable Met Pub in East Van (we had a few hours before the hooker-karaoke got underway) to discuss their new album, their recent international touring adventures, their plans for the summer, and the black-denim realities of life in Canada’s finest modern heavy-metal band. The thick, heavy, in-your-face production of Fire Up the Blades is the gift of Slipknot’s Joey Jordinson, and a positive experience in the end. “We knew Joey from before, when we toured Sweden back in 2004 with Satyricon, and he was subbing in for them on drums,” explains Clark. “He knew early on that we were ready to record, and approached us for the producer’s role. Joey’s a fan of the band. We have a very strong work ethic as to what we want, metalwise, and Joey helped us bring that to the next level with the instrumentation, and especially with the vocals.” “It wasn’t a whip-cracking process,” adds Jamie Hooper in a low baritone voice (which fails to hint at his poly-octaved, Rob Halfordian vocal shriek on record. “It was a pretty casual, laid-back atmosphere. He’s a living encyclopedia of underground metal and rock, so any reference that we had, he knew where we were coming from. We could talk a lot about Angelwitch and Axegrinder. The experience was more like we were hanging out together, and before we knew it, the record was done.” Three Inches of Blood is infamous for its punishing performance schedules, having been more or less on the road continuously since Spring 2006, and there’s no
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Hail Victory, by the Spawn of Yog-Sothoth! By Ferdy Belland sign of stopping the Sinister Six. When recalling their US tour with Cradle of Filth, Hooper shares, “PVC and Goths as far as the eye could see. Endless ranks of Wednesday Addams look-alikes flashing their mascara-blackened eyes at us from ringside. A Nightmare Before Christmas paraphernalia everywhere. Striped leggings… a fun time!” “That was a great tour, man,” Clark agrees. “Cradle of Filth pulls in a lot of people. Most of them definitely weren’t there to see us, but usually about two songs into our set we’d win them over. Paul Allender (Cradle of Filth guitarist) and I share the same love of all things, er, green, so we ended up being really good friends with him and the whole band. He played ‘Deadly Sinners’ with us at the end of the tour, on the last two nights.” It’s a reward unto itself to forge true camaraderie between touring bands, without bullshit competitiveness or wars of flimsy ego. “Especially with a band of that calibre,” says Hooper, “who’s been around so long and plays shows of that size.You might expect some prima-donna bullshit going on, but they’re actually very friendly and laid-back and welcoming.” “Right after that tour, we did a few weeks in the UK with Biomechanical,” Clark adds, “and lots of Cradle’s crew, and the bandmembers themselves, came out in their towns. Their monitor tech did sound for us in Manchester. A good experience all around!” “Biomechanical’s a power-metal-meets-JudasPriest / Earache sort of band,” explains Hooper. Asked if they felt that was closer to the 3 Inches sound, Clark answers, “They were actually on the
other end of the spectrum. We have lots of the same influences, but they were more into virtuoso guitar playing and complex, mathematical time-signatures and shit, where our band wants to rock, and sonically kick you in the balls. But the guys were really cool. I don’t know if that combination of bands helped anything. It was definitely a straight-up metal tour. There weren’t a lot of leather pants, or girl’s pants, or straight black hair, none of that going on. No one was riding Harleys onstage in a cloud of dry-ice smoke, and there wasn’t a line-up of hairstraighteners in the guy’s change rooms, either.” And just when you thought all this wasn’t accomplishment enough in itself for 2007, along comes the announcement that 3IOB has been chosen to play the second stage for the entire Ozzfest tour this summer. “That should be an interesting time, alright,” quips Hooper. “It’s a great chance for us to bring our stuff to new ears,” Clark says. “We’re looking at this as a typical festival scenario. I’m sure we’ll have our own contingent of 3 Inches fans from date to date, whatever size that may be, but with the Ozzfest vibe, most people are going there to see the most famous acts. We might win over those who catch the bands like us, who’re playing earlier in the day. It’s a questionable thing, being on a corporate festival, but at the end of the day, the worst thing that’ll happen is that we’ll make some new friends and make some new fans. So it’s a win-win situation. Some people might have some motives, like, ‘I wanna meet Ozzy! I’ll make friends with Jack Osbourne and my band will take off like THAT!’” Clark snaps his fingers
Our band wants to sonically kick you in the balls
for emphasis. “There are other bands on the latest Ozzfest bill that are playing very underground music, and it’s a great chance for us to introduce that style of music to kids who only know about the mainstream metal acts.” Clark continues, “When I was younger, I would have loved to see that sort of thing where, instead of seeing big package tours with just the Scorpions and Dokken. It would have been cool if the festival promoters had thrown Testament or Exodus onto the bill as well. But I do look at Ozzfest in a positive way. This summer’s going to be great for getting the music out there. It’s all happening at the perfect time. The new record’s coming out, and now we’re on Ozzfest!” Although 3 Inches haven’t spent much time in the old hometown, they express honest fondness for Vancouver as a city and a musical stewing-pot. Much of this goodwill is beamed upon their sister band Pride Tiger, which features no less than three former 3 Inches members – Sunny Dhak, Bob Froese, and Matt Wood. Three Inches is somewhat notorious for whirlwind (and oftentimes emotional) lineup changes during its early years which would have made the post-Dio Sabbath blanch with fear, but it would seem that all is cool between Pride Tiger and the current/stable incarnation of 3 Inches of Blood. “There’s definitely a community vibe,” Clark remarks. “There’s a real scenester element in every city, where people go out simply to be seen - who you know and who you blow, bla bla bla - but there’s a real core of music-loving dirtbags in town. It’s so awesome to see your buddies on the cover of the Georgia Straight, and it’s awesome being friends with your favourite band. Bison’s also a good example of that.” “Just being able to see your friends rock like that,” muses Hooper, “You think, ‘I didn’t know these dirtbags were capable of rocking so hard! Wow!’ But then again, we knew they were capable of rocking that hard.” “And it’s so inspiring, too,” adds Clark. “Seeing a great band like Pride Tiger put a new twist on an old idea. And Bison are definitely my favorite Vancouver band. It’s all about keeping a sense of community, even though we’ve been away for a couple of years.” n
3 Inches of Blood play the Croatian Cultural Centre in Vancouver, July 13th
PreachTheIt On The Mountain Eagle Has Landed… Finally By Jack Duff
I
“You want the money...
was born in East Van, but when I turned six my father bought property in a quaint but steadily developing little town called Mission. I hated the idea of moving, but when my dad drove my mom and me into “the country” as he put it, I quickly became enthralled. The plans were finalized, and we began preparations for our long exodus into exile. The house itself was large and roomy, but lacked the character of our former dwelling in the city. Parts of the lawn were completely overgrown and the areas that were accessible looked a little less than safe. But, who the hell was I to judge? I was only six, and after being cooped up in that goddamned station wagon for over an hour, I needed to blow off a considerable amount of steam. When the moving truck arrived, the first thing to be off-loaded was my bike. Nice. I grabbed it from the moving guy, hopped on and started tearing
around the yard with youthful aplomb. It felt great to weave in and out of the strange looking weeds that had been left to grow wild around the house. I felt a massive rush of freedom as I finished my first lap, but it was cruelly interrupted by a sudden brilliant burst of pain. The sensation of barbed wire being raked slowly up front?” over my groin filled my head as the wind was snatched swiftly from my gasping little lungs. The broken fence I had run into was neatly camouflaged by the dense surrounding foliage. It had brought my speeding Norco to a full and crushing stop and my freshly-maimed crotch into close contact with the surly and unforgiving crossbar. A harbinger of things to come? I hoped not. Welcome to Mission, kid. Good Luck. Essentially, it’s that same deadly combination of limitless possibility, devastating impact, and devilmay-care attitude that I look for in all of the music I am exposed to. I don’t have to look far these days when it comes to the local music scene. There are hordes of exceptional bands here in Vancouver. And ironically, a lot of the members of said bands have roots in the Valley. One such group that comes immediately to mind
is the crushing force from Mission and old friends of The Nerve known collectively as SpreadEagle. Donnie James Rio (or DJ Warslut, to be precise) re-visits the origins of “The Eag”. “We got things going around 2000 or so, after our death metal band called it quits,” explains the heavily bearded representative of SpreadEagle’s unholy trinity of guitarists. “It started as a total bro show, but then we got a little more… serious? We had two previous drummers and a third that was only with us for a short while. Our power bro, Jake, was our original bassist. Now it’s myself, Juan Badmutha, and Mattias Stabbz. Boon’s been in there since forever now and we acquired Mr. Dana and Kenny Savage in the last couple of years.” With the current line-up set firmly in place and a burgeoning popularity packed full of promise, the question begs to be asked: what makes these guys so damn good? “Three part ‘guitarmonies’?” offers Warslut. “Probably my youth and the fact that I want my stage name to be ‘Explosion’?” adds a somewhat confused Kenny Savage (guitar). “We’re like a bearded wall of sound with more energy than an Olympic sprinter on speed. We will put you in such a mood that you will reach for God’s balls.” Wow. I am left devoid of speech. It suddenly becomes quite clear to me that the members of SpreadEagle are anything but “straight-edge”. “I didn’t even know what being stoned was like until I joined ‘The Eag’”, confesses drummer Mr. Dana. “Weed is just filler for hash with these guys.
It took me six months to learn 10 songs just due to the fact that I was too damned stoned! Fuckin’ hippies.” Although SpreadEagle’s second full-length album Magnus Bestia has taken nearly two years to rear its ugly head, bassist Boon claims that we can expect “absolute gold”. “We spent a couple of months writing, and a couple of weeks recording,” he continues. “Then we spent another couple of years sitting on it while we played shows, partied and toured. It’s a rock ‘n’ roll casserole of radness.” “It’s a lot less ‘punky’ than the debut,” DJ Warslut clarifies. “It’s more diverse. I like it.” “You can expect a lot of crushing riffs with catchy, sing-a-long vocal melodies and the occasional melting of the face. It’s pretty much a guitar-driven force of thunder waiting to explode at any minute.” I love this guy, Kenny Savage. It is with tongue placed firmly in cheek that I proclaim that the Eagle has definitely landed and has its sights set on a small village near you. DJ Warslut wraps things up. “Thanks to everyone who has been coming to the shows and shit. Watch for the new CD and check out our stuff at www.spreadeagle.ca. See all of you skids on our Slaughtering the Universe tour this summer with Whyte Hott. Also, I would like to request “Take it to the Limit”, by the Eagles. I would like to dedicate it to Boon. He’ll be stoked by my thoughtful bro-ness.” n
Weed is just filler for hash with these guys. It took me six months to learn 10 songs
SpreadEagtle play the Rock ‘n’ Roll Boat Cruise aboard the Abitibi docked at the Plaza of Nations Marina, Friday, August 24th
The Nerve July 2007 Page 13
The Hits
Who Gives a SHIT as
By Boy Howdy
I
am working my way down Commercial Drive amidst the hippies, spoon players and Harleys with the three fellas who might just save rock and roll in our fair city, the Hits! Kyle Riot (lead guitar) Lou Slips (vox and rhythm) and Dusty (banger of theee drums) are three genuine guys who don’t care if they are fashionable, or lean against the Student Union building at just the right angle to look cool. They just want to play some balls-out rock ‘n’ roll. Dusty admits that the band’s gang-like relationship makes it easier to write songs, because they “can kind of tell each other when they don’t like something.” To which Lou adds, “We can be pretty harsh about it, but we are really thinking of what’s best for the BAND!” Then Kyle interjects with a nice bon mot about LIVING rock and roll and “loving rock and roll and music.” Ahhh, to be young again… These guys are what they live and The Hits are gonna do it their way and go down fighting if it kills them doing so. They are Ambassadors of Rock [tm]!
Recent recording with local “legend” Jason Solyom (produced by Mikey Manville) yielded the amazing rekkord, “Hello Everybody We Are...” which most certainly lives up to the hype surrounding it. Please don’t be a prick, and go check out kick-ass rock and roll tunes like “Sand In My Shoes” and “Forget All Your Worries”, which build majestically upon the reckless abandon of their 2004 platter Overnight Success. If you are not paying attention, these guys fucking rock! I said AMBASSADORS OF ROCK, fuckers! Although each member of the Hits brings his own style, influences and character to the fold, there are two bands that are collectively agreed upon as HUGE influences to all: the Hives and the Reigning Sound. Most of our readers will know the Hives, but the Reigning Sound are a nifty little pop rock ‘n’ roll combo who have the esteemed distinction of playing backing band to Mary Weiss (of the ShangriLas), on her new album on Norton Records. Lou gets pretty stoked about the Reigning Sound, acknowledging their debt to a band “playing oldies-style music, but sounding awesome! Like, it always seemed that it was weird to do this, but when
PH OTO: CA RM EN OB RIE N
Long As It Rocks 101?! we saw the Reigning Sound it changed EVERYTHING!” It’s easy to see why these three guys are so likeable. They believe in the rock. They live the rock. They rock. They poached their drummer from Lou’s brother’s band…their belief in rock won out over family ties. They were ruthless in their attempts to parlay the rock. Fuckin’ Eh! Dusty adds, “The biggest thing is that we don’t take ourselves too seriously – and that’s what makes things a lot easier.” This translates onstage where a Hits show is fun for everyone! It’s pure sweat and passion, and the essence of what made rock and roll so fucking special and dangerous at its inception. They carry the torch. They collectively look at the live experience as being “what solves all of our problems.” Dusty asserts that “we can be having the worst day and be crabby and pissed off and it all comes together on stage!” Lou adds, “Sometimes the shittier a day we are having, the better we play! It’s like we want to show ourselves how uncrabby we were!” Talk turns to the “scene” in the suburbs. Heh. The bums, crack whores, and skunks of Whalley, the emocore coffee shop kids of Langley and the plenti-
They were ruthless in their attempts to parlay the rock
Cannonball!
When we left Carl Spackler last month, he was on the biggest bender this side of Hasselhoff on a Double-Classic-with-Cheese Friday. After some foul backstage molestation at the hands of Sebastian Bach,Tommy Stinson, and Andrew Dice Clay, Spackler now stands front and centre at the storied Universal Amphitheatre, mouth agape at the tragic committee of LA bozos currently calling themselves GNR. And what about Axl?
I
will say this about the man who is supposed to be Axl Rose; the fucker could still sing his ass off, and he was really going for it. The pretend Guns, meanwhile, ran through a bunch of old songs, and I’m required to inform that the hired bums had the indecency to change a lot of the parts and ruin the night further. I mean, one of those bearded-dress guys did a Yngwie Malmsteen-style solo in “Night Train”…! “Night Train”! Can you fuckin’ believe that? Then out came the new songs. I tried, I really did try to be fair and give them a chance, but oh my freakin’ Jesus - they aren’t even songs. Just lame blends of popular genres like trip-hop and industrial - OK, popular like 15 years ago - but it came off sounding like the music you hear at Starbucks run through a distortion pedal. The lyrics were simple: “Me, me, I, me, I, me, I’m me, me, you aren’t me…” Where was the “urchin livin’ under the street”, and the “loaded like a space brain”
The Nerve July 2007 Page 14
vibe that has fuelled me and so many other people in need of blowing off some serious steam?! One thing is for sure though, and this is no joke, Axl is crazy as a shithouse rat. Some guy called out for “One in a Million” and Axl had him thrown out. Someone else wore a Slash hat – he was thrown out. And in between songs there where rants about haters, and how he, Axl, would get them all in the end. I actually felt bad for the guy. He is so fucking nuts and nobody can do anything about it. I was planning an early exit, when all of sudden Axl said an old friend should come on up and say
Some guy called out for “One in a Million” and Axl had him thrown out hello, and out walked Izzy Stradlin. Holy crap! He looked great, dressed like Bobby D in Mean Streets, and he swaggered out and began to play the intro for “Used to Love Her”. Alright now! We were cookin’! Izzy and Axl stood together and sang the chorus, and I had a big shiteating grin on my face. Izzy stayed and played a few more old songs and for a while it was incredible. Then he split, and it was back to the hookless, industrial coffeehouse music, which, really, fuck, blows so hard, it’ll probably be a
ful subdivisions of nothing…and how the guys could develop such coolness despite these obvious setbacks. Dusty reiterates that the Hits “don’t really care what the crowd WANTS necessarily but we just play what we FEEL like. We did not sit down and write it out as a formula – that’s just how it came out. We like it!” We reel in the rock fandom fest and talk about the upcoming show the Hits are playing at Dick’s on Dicks. This may well be the last local rock ‘n’ roll show the old lady hosts and the band are honoured to be on the bill (with the Pack; the Hotel Lobbyists and the Vultures) on July 14th! If you have half a nut, get out to see the Hits. They are fast becoming a fan favourite and I truly believe they are rock ‘n’ roll down to the bone. Nothing fancy – 110% rock! No frills, no bass player – rock! Nice guys, simple songs, fun live show – rock! Did I mention they rock? n The Hits Play the Save Rock ‘n’ Roll Nerve Legal Fund Bennefit at The Plaza, Aug. 9th
3 f o 3 t r a P
hit, if it were to come out, but it won’t ever come out. Then after the show was over Axl stayed onstage and ranted some more about haters and people who suck and all kinds of crazy shit - I have no idea what the fuck he was talkin’ about - he went at it for about 15 minutes, then threw the mic down and left. Later, backstage, I found myself standing next to Axl Rose. I looked down at him. Way down (he’s not big enough to go on all the rides), and there was so much I wanted to ask him, tell him, but one look in those eyes rollin’ around in his botox face like a slot machine, and I knew he was beyond comprehension. There is no way that man is remotely sane. Uh-uh. Fucking nuts. In the van ride down to the hotel, I sat with Benny and some of the crew. A big man in an awesome ZZ Top leather jacket said, “I can’t take this any more. Two more shows and I’m leaving, Billy [Gibbons] called and they’ve got some work for me so I’m splitting.” “Well,” said the road manager, “Don’t tell Axl ‘til the shows are done, because he’ll think that you’ll
sabotage the remaining gigs and he will be waaayworse than usual.” “How bad is it?” I asked the soundman. He just rolled his eyes. “It takes too long,” he said. “It doesn’t need to be this hard. Six-hour sound checks and it still isn’t good enough. Hell, with ZZ they don’t even check. We just smoke weed and fly model airplanes all afternoon.” “Would Axl really think you’d sabotage the shows?” The soundman smiled, “Do you think the guy who wrote ‘Out ta Get Me’ is paranoid?” he said, and the whole van rocked with laughter. n
The Omens
They Must Be Good if Nardwuar Likes Them
By Jenny C
“
It’s probably not a good thing to name your band,” laughs Matt Hunt, bassist for the ‘60sinspired garage rock band, the Omens. “It’s like the universe keeps getting in our way.” And right there, you’d think I would have picked up on the ominous foreshadowing of doom. At least enough not to be surprised by my attempted-kidnapping ordeal at the hands of a gypsy cab driver just hours after speaking with Hunt. Don’t ask how a
burly old man trying to lure me into his rogue taxi, which happens to be a beat-up, unmarked mini van, is directly related to the Omens’ string of bad luck. But trust me, it is. Not quite what I had expected from a band that models itself on the fuzz and whirling organ of ‘60s garage. And while Hunt insists the name the Omens is a “nod to the era,” pointing to several bands who shared the name at the time (and probably not the reason behind my gypsy cab driver near-death fiasco), I’m skeptical. And like the Omens of yesterday, this Denver foursome remains relatively unknown, despite playing together for close to four years. “We don’t have a crew of people pushing us very far. Nor are we very good at doing the grassroots thing ourselves,” responds Hunt, as to why information on the Colorado band is so hard to come by, beyond a few record reviews. Glowing reviews, I should add. “None of us want to be music careerists. We do this because it’s fun and we’re passionate about it,” continues Hunt, adding, “All we really want is to see our names on a bunch of records.” But there hasn’t been much opportunity for that. Since forming in 2003, the Omens have only released one full-length, Destroy the ESP on Hipsville International Records, and a collection of seven inches that is, well, not even quite a collection yet. “We keep having these member changes and things happening that keep us from
recording,” explains Hunt, of their slow progress. “We’ve burned through man, many, many band members.” Things may have settled though for the Omens. At least enough to record a shiny new seven inch for Dave Vendetta at “Where did you meet that silver chick, dude?” Real Gone Records. And according to Hunt, the Make dominate the market.” As for being able to “domiIt Last EP isn’t the only thing in the works. With the nate the market” elsewhere, the Omens hope that original pressing sold out, a remastered Destroy the along with the release of more records, a little West ESP is set to be reissued by Vendetta as well. “There Coast tour will help too. And who better to bring was a missing step,” says Hunt the ‘60s-loving Omens to town than a man who of the decision to remaster owns most of the original records they pay homthe original recording. “But age to,Vancouver’s Sean Law. The local rock’n’roll we’ve added that step. And socialite and former Nerve contributor first met now it sounds even better.” Hunt and his bandmates in 2003 when they played a And as for actually recording show at the notorious, and now defunct Vancouver a follow-up to their debut LP, bar, the Brickyard. And four years later he’s the one Hunt explains, “As soon as bringing them back. Clearly a fan of their fuzzed-out we get back from our little charm and “rabid punk noise,” Law seems detertrip up to your neck of the mined to help the Omens rise from near-obscurity. woods [Vancouver], we’re But when obscurity means being asked to open gonna sit down and get down for the Cramps and Dinosaur Jr - oh, and getting a to business and have another sidebar on Wikipedia - is it really anything they need full-length out by the end of the year, hopefully.” It’s to escape? So much for the universe getting in their a plan the Omens hope will get their band a little way. n more attention beyond Denver city limits. Calling his city’s music scene “rock’n’roll starved,” Hunt insists there aren’t a lot of garage bands in The Omens play Vancouver at Pub 340 with Thee Oh Denver. “There’s nothing else like us here, so we can No’s Saturday, July 14th.
We do this because it’s fun and we’re passionate about it
Elizabeth The Secret Remains
By Leela Monroe
A
pollonian vs. Dionysian, what has that got to do with music? To me, there’s a disgruntling wave of light, sunny, poppy (more Apollonianstyle) bands right now that are claiming the frontlines of Canadian music around the world. Sure, it’s fun and happy sounding, but sometimes I just crave some dark, intense, get-you-off-your-ass rock ‘n’ roll! Hence, the welcome relief of a more “Dionysian” sound thanks to Elizabeth. By coincidence, it turns out that the band is making its reappearance these days, both playing live and having released a new album, First Excommunications. Their dark, energetic, and dancey sound is derived from choppy, surging guitars, which collide with steady bass and Buzzcocks-like Ritalin drumming in a entrancing brew that brings to mind such direct and indirect influences as Magazine, Television, and Joy Division. To me, they’re one of the local Vancouver bands worth making a noise about. During a mellow evening recently at the Morrissey pub (natch!), the band was abuzz with its recent reception across the pond. They’d just returned from an exhilarating tour in the UK: 14 shows in 15 nights. “Yeah, it was amazing. Amazing!” vocalist Reggie Gill explained. “After the first show, we wanted to move [there], basically! The first place we played, we rolled into a place called Stockport which is a tiny little town and we thought ‘Wow! Nobody’s gonna be at this show.’ But then when we played, the place was packed. We played so many encores that we ran out of songs! Signing autographs on our first night there. And we were like ‘Yeah, we’re movin’ to the UK!’” Gill continues, “It was way beyond what we thought it was gonna be, for our first time over there. We played and headlined at a Club NME night
in Glasgow. We did an acoustic session for BBC radio. It was cool, cuz we all had visions of that Live at the BBC CD in our head. So everything was kind of like living out childhood dreams, really. We met a lot of cool people, industry people, label people from Japan were there.” Guitarist Davor Katinic adds, “People were shocked when they spoke to us and we had ‘Canadian’ accents. ‘You’re not English? You’re not an English band!?’ All our influences are English bands so we sound more like [one of] their bands than any other Canadian band here.” “War is Beautiful” is an intense, dark song from the new album. I wonder if it could be a dangerous song in terms of current events and political correctness. Gill quickly exclaims, “Rock ‘n’ roll IS dangerous!” while Katinic adds, “On the surface maybe, but it has nothing to do with that if you listen. It’s really pretentious when you dissect it, but it’s about the Futurists. It’s an art movement that believes that man-made machinery like tanks and bombs had the power to instantly change landscapes from buildings to big craters. They thought that was this beautiful artistic thing. It had nothing to do with the humanity of people dying.You can’t really consider that a pro-war song. We’re not condoning war!” Another fave track on the new album is “KS”. The band declares in unison, “Don’t ask about the lyrics! It’s a secret!” Drummer Paul Gill takes up the story, explaining, “We did that with our friend, Tom Zoxic (formerly of Raking Bombs and Basketball). We don’t even think he’d remember what it was. He was pretty wasted in the studio. We wrote it down for him on one of the drumhead boxes, exactly what we were singing. He sang along with us. It was about three o’clock in the morning. So the secret remains!”
You’re not English? You’re not an English band!?
Shh! It’s the new neighbors... again - pretend we’re not home! Concerning Elizabeth’s history in Vancouver; is there some frustration due to the fact that bands here often only get deserved recognition after first getting it elsewhere? Reggie replies, “It’s not bad! I think maybe the critics once [felt that way], but they seem to be warming up to us now. But the fans never have been [frustrating]. We’ve played sold out Richard’s on Richards and Commodore shows and had loads of fans and signed autographs. Maybe a handful of critics think that style and content have
to be mutually exclusive, but they don’t. Just because they dress horribly!” And on the subject of style, we wrap up by discussing what kind of name we can apply to Elizabeth’s music. Bassist Rory O’Sullivan suddenly pipes up, “We are combat rock!” Hmmm. Sounds familiar. Did Elizabeth just prompt a whole new genre? “That’s it. It’s started now. It’s official,” asserts O’Sullivan. “But no one else is allowed in. It’s just us.” n
The Nerve July 2007 Page 15
Die Mannequin By Samantha Laserson
I
Noise Junkie Makes Good
t’s a Friday afternoon and I’m chatting on the phone with Care Failure as she takes a moment from her busy tour to walk the streets of Windsor, Ontario, and unleash the story of her menacing past, and the musical journey that led to the birth of Canadian rock outfit, Die Mannequin. “I got banned from music when I was 12 when my best friend tried to commit suicide,” she explains. “She wrote a note with all these band symbols in it, and this was right after that Columbine tragedy, so the cops were really up on blaming music. They pulled my parents and me in, and tried to blame her suicide on me, explaining that music was the root of all evil.” This obstacle didn’t stand in the way for Failure, however. Leaving home at the age of 16 with a few belongings and her guitar in hand, she continued to pursue her musical aspirations. “I had to leave in order to do what I had to do, so the ‘banning me from music’ thing didn’t really work. Within a couple months I got some industry work, which eventually led
me to EMI and all the other people and labels I work with now. It was like, do or die.” Following a tumultuous battle with drugs, Die Mannequin collaborated with music mogul MSTRKRFT, who recorded and produced Die Mannequin’s thrashing four-track premier EP How To Kill. Their second, Slaughter Daughter, was completed just yesterday. “Sonically, it’s a little more me,” Failure notes, about EP number two. “We did two songs with Ian D’sa from Billy Talent, and the other two we did with Junior Sanchez, who’s a legend of his own. I’m a noise junkie. I turn on my amp, plug in my guitar, and make a sandwich listening to the feedback. But I didn’t want to just do another EP with four songs of bashing guitar. There’s a little more versatility on this one. It’s a little more dangerous.” Although Die Mannequin is still in its early stages, the band has already received a considerable amount of attention, including the opportunity to tour alongside Guns ‘N’ Roses on its recent Canadian tour. “The week before, we
were playing clubs for like 20 people,” Failure says, “and then you go and play in front of like, 20,000 people. It was like the same clubs, but on acid, you know?” Failure is refreshingly humble, even in the face of burgeoning success. “I don’t expect anything, so everything’s always a pleasant surprise,” she admits, when asked if she’s pleased with the way things have been going for her. “Why should I expect anything? I’m just a white kid in North America, life won’t ever be that bad.” And as the saying goes, what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger. The trials and tribulations of Care Failure’s youth are merely stepping-stones for this music maiden. “[Sonic Youth’s] record Small Flowers Cracked Concrete just totally reminds me of my past,” she muses. “If you look down at the concrete on the sidewalks, the flowers will still find a way to grow around it.” n Die Mannequin play the Curling Club in Victoria July 9th and the Commodore in Vancouver July 10th,11th & 12th.
Ulrich SchnaussGoodbye, Germany By Cameron Gordon
N
ineteen-ninety was a strange time to be a music fan in the UK. Acid House fall out from the second “Summer of Love” was still being heard everywhere, and rave culture was quickly being co-opted by mainstream radio programmers and other primordial a-holes. In other parts of England, guitar-based outfits like My Bloody Valentine, Ride, and Chapterhouse were maxing out the effects pedals and giving birth to the shoegazing movement that kept the NME soused for a couple of years, anyway. Meanwhile over in Germany, a young piano player named Ulrich Schnauss was listening to all of the above and presumably, taking notes. Little did he know that he was planting the seeds for a career in performing, producing, and remixing; one that would draw heavily from the music of his youth. “When I was 10 or 11 years old, I was really fortunate in that there was a lot of really interesting, progressive stuff going on,” he confirms, during a recent telephone interview with The Nerve. “There was still a strong
British military presence in Germany during the late 1980s and early 1990s, so we used to get the British Forces radio around that time. They were playing the latest electronic and shoegazer stuff of the moment, and I picked up on it almost immediately.” Schnauss has been writing and recording since the mid-1990s, both under his own name and under a variety of pseudonyms (View to the Future and Ethereal 77, to name just two). Regardless of the moniker, Schnauss’ music is typified by a steady electronic pulse and nods to more organic sounds, creating a unique strand of tunage that is equally dreamy, droney, and pretty damn far out. Schnauss moved to London about a year ago, and he confirms that he’s always felt far more attached to the sounds coming out of his adopted homeland than anything more provincial. “The music scene in the UK has always been more progressive than in Germany, or North America, or anywhere else. In most countries, the charts and the radio were a lot
more controlled, whereas in Britain, there was always the chance of a total unknown breaking into the Top 40 and doing so with a very unconventional sound. It’s probably the only country in the world where that’s possible.” Schnauss has just released Goodbye, the third full-length under his own name, and the album is arguably his most accessible album to date. Perhaps remixing for artists such as Depeche Mode and Mojave 3 has drawn him a bit closer to the mainstream, or maybe it’s the steadying influence of Schanuss’ girlfriend Judith Beck, who contributes vocals to the album. Whatever the case, look for more teamwork and breakbeats from this German export in the months and years to come. “It’s the collaboration that keeps things moving forward for me and keeps the inspiration coming. I always have a long list of ideas for songs but really, it’s being able to share those with other musicians and other people that helps me grow as an artist. Just having the opportunity to talk about music with people I admire and respect is really important.” n
Accessorize... vas ist das ‘accessorize’...?
Chuck Ragan
From Hot Water to Fresh Water
By T.C. Shaw
I
kept the phone call short, ‘cos this wasn’t going to be a main feature, but maybe it should’ve been. I was able to learn a fair amount of surprising things about the onetime pillar of Gainesville, Florida’s post-hardcore fourpiece, Hot Water Music. After HWM announced that they were taking a “hiatus” in 2005, guitarist-vocalist Chuck Ragan relocated to L.A., and, recently, to the foothills of the Sierras, “close to snowboarding and close to fishing, and just… fresh air,” he tells The Nerve, during a fascinating phone call. It’s this “fresh air” that Ragan was looking for that led him to plot his own course as a solo acoustic guitarist and singer. His latest LP, Los Feliz, might seem to be a far cry from the bombast of HWM, but for Ragan, it’s not that much of a stretch. Speaking from his carpentry shop - he’s a full-on wood worker by (other) trade - Ragan laughs at the suggestion that there might be a
The Nerve July 2007 Page 16
whole other side to the HWM mainstay. “To be honest, to me, it’s not a whole lot different…the majority of the Hot Water stuff we wrote, we would write on acoustic. Live, obviously, it’s a whole other world, but for years that’s how I’ve been writing, y’know, just sittin’ on the porch or whatever.” “The one thing that definitely is different about it to me is just the fact that - not that I was held back - but when you’re writing with other people you are limited in a sense, but as far as this new stuff, there’s not really anybody to tell me, ‘Naw, let’s try it this way.’” The freedom to choose emerges as a theme, as Ragan explains his reasons for changing his surroundings. “Hot Water never broke up, you know, we just needed a change. I kinda came to a point where it was clear to me. I started listening to my own lyrics about following your heart and being true to yourself, and it was kind of ‘How do you get
up there and sing songs about makin’ decisions based on what you truly wanna do and who you truly wanna be, when you don’t wanna be there?” “And don’t get me wrong,” he continues, “we had wonderful times, and I loved it, but when the road started really beating me up, and I got really tired of those other 23 hours out of the day that we weren’t on the stage, playin’, it kinda became clear to me.” It wasn’t just the grind of touring that started to make Ragan think about where he was, but other more important factors, like family. As Ragan put it, “When you start getting’ to a point where you’re missing births, and you’re missing funerals, and you’re missing birthdays and anniversaries and, you know, these family functions… and I mean, granted, shows are great and the tour is great and everything, but you start wondering, like, ‘Yeah, it is work, but is this borderline… kinda selfishness, too?’” Now, this is what I call a breath of fresh air! n
Cauterize If You Build it…
By Jon Braun
“
There’s one song that’s just about killing,” says Jesse Smith, headman for Canadian pop-punk quintet, Cauterize. “Dare You to Scream” from their mid-June High 4 Records debut is the song Smith says he “just kind of went off the deep end” with. He wasn’t sure if lyrics about killing and relationships would land them inside the emo genre in most people’s minds, but Smith doesn’t care anyhow. “I don’t even know what that means anymore,” Smith says, calling the Nerve from his band’s hometown of Oshawa, Ontario. “It was cool for awhile, then it was like, ‘Don’t ever call me that again!’” Oddly enough, he then adds, “I don’t care if that’s what people want to call us.” OK, emo it is. Once known as T.O.E., the four members of Cauterize first released So Far From Real under their new
name in 2003, on Wind-up Records. The moniker change came due to copyright issues in America. In 2005, Paper Wings was made independently and features the band’s most popular track “Closer”, along some other tunes that were carried over to the label like “Minor Key Symphony”, “Tremble” and the aforementioned “Dare You to Scream”. “We got dropped, as they say, then we put a record out on our own,” Smith says. “We thought, ‘We gotta do something. We can’t just fade away.’” And bingo! Cauterize is back on a label and Smith is promoting the band again with interviews and CD release parties. He says they’re already looking at getting back to the studio, as well. “[High 4 Records] just liked our record and wanted to put out what we had.” Last year, Cauterize went on the Vans Warped
... And don’t try to take another picture, or we’ll give you another one! Tour and Smith says they’re looking forward to another year of touring with the punk monolith. “I like it. It’s hard work,” Smith says. “It’s so hard. You have to walk with your gear everywhere, but it’s probably a little easier if you’re on one of the big stages.” Still trying to become popular in the pop-punk scene, Cauterize played out of the back
of a moving truck for last year’s Warped tour. “It was this little truck and the stage was built onto the side of it.” Smith says they had to build it every morning. “People wouldn’t realize what you do for a 20-minute set everyday,” he chuckles. At least Smith isn’t crying about that. n
ain AgRockstars! TimeDamn I
was scheduled to talk with Los Angeles-based punks Time Again early one Thursday morning in June. Shouldn’t be a problem, right? But in this case, four calls later, we were still no closer to an interview. After a serious e-mail fest, I received an apology, explaining why singer Daniel Dart was AWOL. “Daniel has been throwing up all morning and afternoon,” it read. So, I call again on the following Saturday afternoon, and my very first question is a blunt, “How good was the party on Wednesday, that you were throwing up all day Thursday?” An audibly excited Dart seems to ignore my
PHOTO: RACHEL TEJANDA
By Christina Paris
question completely. “Whoa,” he bellows, “There’s a car right there! Good looking-out Ryan, we almost got in a accident.” After a beat, I hear, “What did you say?” I’m a little irritated by this. The 10-minute fusion of silence and interruptions that follows (ie. “I always order McDonald’s Caesar salad…”) doesn’t help my mood. Finally, Dart admits that there was never a party. “We had a long drive and me and our merch guy thought it would be cool to take those energy shots you get at fuckin’ truck stops,” he explains, “And we
ANTiSEEN By Jon Braun
T
he drunken, Confederate flag flying heroes who once backed GG Allin are ready to whoop it up again after re-releasing The Boys from Brutalsville. Most likely, Canadian fans - who I’m sure are based mainly in towns like Surrey, BC - have never felt the sweat and wrath of an Antiseen show, simply because the band has never once been across the border in its 24-year existence. Devoted fans, or even just people looking to get into a brawl can catch the washboard solos, two-chord rock outs, and blood squirting action that makes up the “destructo rock” of Antiseen, all in a nicely packaged two-disc set, which also includes a DVD. Lead singer Jeff Clayton viewed his copy only hours before talking to the Nerve from his home in Rockhill, North Carolina. Now 43, Clayton says he can’t throw himself through tables like he used to. Everything else is the same, except… “My forehead is a big callus now,” says Clayton, who - like in his favourite sport of pro wrestling - tends to cut or stab himself above the brow, for realism. “I have to hit [my head] a lot harder to make it do anything these days.” His all time pick for a wrestler is Cactus Jack, a.k.a. Mick Foley, which would account for a lot more than just the coincidental attire of the two performers. “We kind of make it a little more entertaining than just sitting
drank five of those.” After a beat, he adds, “I think it says specifically don’t take more than two in 24 hours, and we drank five in less than two minutes.” Fair enough. The conversation, such as it is, then turns to the discomfort of having to shit while playing on stage, and the Tina Turner cover band my friends and I are starting this summer. “Sometimes you get like crazy fuckin’ diarrhea or throwing up and you’re on stage and you have to shit,” Daniel rasps down the phone. “What would Tina do?” he asks. I was expecting to talk about Time Again’s music. The title of the band’s newest album, The Stories Are True - which we did NOT discuss - is self-explanatory. It collects personal reflections on (mainly) Dart’s life, his encounters with the law, and the downward spiral that sometimes follows insobriety. With songs such as “Cold Concrete”, Dart wails about the horrors of being beaten by cops during a riot. It’s two-minutes of fast, catchy, anthemic punk, with Dart’s passionately raw voice on top. Dart recalls the exact date of the beating, but finds it tedious and painful to re-live the entire situation in an interview, and feeling somewhat touched, I refrain from my Barbara Walters tendency to pry open the stitches of his wounded heart. We also managed to
touch on the song “Kenny”, which was written by a guy Dart met in rehab. Without a doubt, The Stories Are True offers a classic punk recipe of melodic anthems guaranteed to keep people moshing and crowd surfing. Drummer Ryan Prurucker keeps the tempos up and the energy flowing. And although I didn’t get one complete answer out of any of the members of Time Again, I at least uncovered a little information about the esteem with which they hold their fans. “When you tour, it’s all about meeting people from all places,” says Dart. “One day, their voice is cracking and then you come back three years later with a new album and they have a beard.” Time Again is due in western Canada in July, so hit up their show, and party with them after. They insist. Though the interview may have been a wasted effort, one thing is for sure: the message of the music screams loud and clear. And hopefully next time the album will beat out McDonald’s as the feature beat... n Time Again play the Osborne Village Inn in Winnipeg, July 5th, The Exchange in Regina, July 7th, the Velvet Underground in Edmonton, July 8th, the Warehouse Night Club in Calgary July 9th and the Lamplighter in Vancouver July 11th.
Boys Go Back to Brutalsville
and watching people jump around and play guitars,” Clayton chuckles, although he admits that the band became concerned a while ago about whether or not they fit into the punk genre anymore. If you’re cutting yourself while squealing into the mic and throwing yourself and your fans into barbwire, why be concerned? “All the groups that were being put under the sub-heading of punk were all the real, you know, melodic, happy, peppy punk,” Clayton reasons. “ And we didn’t fit in with that.” Well, true, they don’t fit in with that - these guys are true hardcore punk, bayou style. Listening to Antiseen is like being shot by a Remington 870 with bullets made of Wild Turkey and human blood; a far cry from the younger generation of punk and emo bands today. Clayton says he doesn’t even know the names of these pop-punk bands in question, but he doesn’t like their sound. The opposite is probably also true. Meanwhile, a tribute album made by fans such as Hank Williams III, the Faggot Kings, Bloody Mary, and Sweet G.A. Brown was released just last year. A total of 58 bands ended up contributing to Everybody Loves ANTiSEEN “Oh man, that was a very huge compliment” Clayton says, but adds that he hopes to see a second
Meet The Nerve’s newly acquired legal counsel... volume since some bands had to be cut. And of course, Antiseen does covers itself, with a new album coming soon called Heaven, (the sequel to 1994’s Hell) which will concentrate on ’80s punk and new wave, with songs like Black Flag’s “Fix Me” and “Mongoloid” by Devo. On top of that, Antiseen’s 25th anniversary is approaching and Clayton says the band is working on a new studio album and is looking to get back on the road. He hopes to see Canada one day and show the youngsters what punk
really is, or was. “My band embraces the spirit of what we knew to be punk rock when we first discovered it, better than most of these poppy bands.” Clayton says. “I’ve just been really stubborn and refused to let that go, and you know, it is fun, and when it stops being fun maybe we should stop.” In Clayton’s view, there is no end for Antiseen. “You know, the Stones are playing in their 60s,” he says. n
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The Nerve July 2007 Page 19
Listen to the Yesterdais at www.myspace.com/theyesterdais
Photography by Toby Marie Bannister
The Lamps “What the Fuck Kind of People Were These”?
By Jenny Charlesworth
The Nerve July 2007 Page 20
T
he last time I tried to see the Lamps I got lost. There’s something about the Los Angeles transit system - oh I dunno, maybe it’s the fact they don’t really have one - that makes it so difficult to get around in that city. Generally, people in LA are horrified by the prospect of taking public transit because they’ll end up exactly where I did, nowhere, during a foolish attempt to see the Lamps play. It was the only worthwhile show the entire two months I was living down there, and I missed it because of a four hour navigational oversight by the 92 Glendale B. There aren’t many bands I’d go through that for, but the Lamps are definitely one of them. The Lamps have been called primitive, aggressive, and even paranoid. They’ve been compared to bands like the Hunches and Intelligence because of a similar inclination towards the weird and nondescript. But by far, the most appropriate comment ever made about the Los Angeles three-piece has to be, “mongoloid frenzy music” (Min Yee - the AFrames).
“My inspirations are the weirder bands. I like listening to bands where you hear their old records and wonder, ‘what the fuck kind of people were these?’” laughs Lamps front man Monty Buckles, on the phone from his LA home. And that’s exactly what first-time listeners of the Lamps are thinking when they hear the droning guitar sludge and grating vocals of the band’s eponymous debut full length on In The Red. The answer, according to Buckles, starts with a guy who really hates the sound of his own voice, “I have a horrible fucking voice,” he moans. “Conversationally, my voice is this horrible monotone, and when I attempt to sing, I am so horrifically off-key and ugly sounding it makes me cringe.” He’s a nice enough guy though. The type who listens to Bee Gees records and manages to sneak compelling social commentaries into rock’n’roll interviews any chance he gets. So it’s really no surprise that he was able to recruit pals Tim Ford (bass) and Josh Erkman (drums) for the project. “I’ve never been in another band, so I don’t really know how they
usually start,” he says. “I think most bands, whether they never leave the basement or go on to international superstardom, start with a few guys sitting around drinking beer and the subject comes up.” And it’s likely that the Lamps upcoming west coast tour with In The Red label mates, Haunted George (the Desert) and Cheap Time (Nashville), came about much the same way. “It’s more of a vacation subsidized by getting up in front of a bunch of drunks and screaming for half an hour, then what one would normally define as a tour,” laughs Buckles, just to keep the record straight. So with their sophomore record about to be released, one that “sounds, not any less primitive, but more varied [than the first]… a vast improvement,” according to Buckles, listeners should have an idea by now what the fuck kind of people these are. n The Lamps play with Haunted George and Cheap Time in Vancouver, July 26th at Pub340 & in Seattle, July 27th at The Funhouse.
LIVE REVIEWS also kind of pathetic and left me aching for mankind. I hope you’re ashamed of yourself, young lady, I really do. Good night all around, though. - Adam Simpkins
SECRET CHIEFS
Lindsay Buckingham
PHOTO: JACKIE DIVES
The Commodore Ballroom, Vancouver, BC Wednesday, June 20, 2007 Let me confess my bias. Lindsey Buckingham is my favourite Fleetwood Mac member, after John McVie in the “Tusk” video, that is. In my household, Buckingham’s solo albums are preferred over Mac’s output as they fulfill the eccentric direction that was more than hinted at on Tusk, much of it being experimental synth pop. No synths tonight, Buckingham is a guitar god, and unlike other so-called gods, he never ventures into wankery, no matter how much he plays. With him seemingly pulling out a new acoustic each and every song (and it was an array of quirky looking, possibly custom made guitars) it was actually a guitarist’s wet dream. Eugene Chadbourne was playing down the street tonite at the Cobalt’s great noise night Fake Jazz Wednesdays; I recently had a reasonably facetious argument that Buckingham was the far more experimental guitarist, writing some songs that were what he described tonight as “uber-strange”, yet still firmly placed in the more-than-listenable pop genre. Tonight he showcased his new album, a mellower album about “growing up.” Mature. Very adult. Contemporary. California. Looking good. Aging gracefully.Younger than his years. Rosy cheeks. Buckingham was charming and dynamic, his voice was perfect, the best moments were when it was just him and his acoustic as in his restructuring of the synth pop classic “Go Insane”, made eerily tense like long needles with a hushed poetic intro. For too much of the set he was joined by the prerequisite and clumsily innocuous mature-artist session sidemen with feathered hair and black dress shirts. It was with them that Buckingham saved his long-blistering solo until near the end, holding it back for so long it seemed pent up. He even batted his guitar like an angry child. This solo caused two denim-clad women of the larger variety, possibly a motherdaughter set, to cry and fan themselves. And some did bring their moms. It was a mature crowd. What you expect. But no gypsies. Some were - gasp - smoking pot. There was this one douche who seemed to prefer to watch the show through the screen on his mobile phone. All this in a more intimate and inexpensive venue than what we’d get for another Mac reunion. Buckingham followed this guitar solo (on some sort of electrified acoustic) with some major Tusk moments, threw in some Rumours, sadly about only one song each from his first three solo albums, an encore of that National
Lampoon’s Vacation song that ended with a couple minutes of him barking like a dog (seriously), and you had a fairly solid career overview in a two-hour set. Lindsey Buckingham has a lot of material to choose from. His career’s had no creative misfires, yet you can find much of his back catalogue in the dollar bins. Was the show by-the-numbers? A friend of mine did see him play the exact same set a few months ago but in a different song order. Still, it was no mere Greatest Hits show. Buckingham showcased his mature (yet opposite of tepid: it’s possible, yes) new album and gave an engaging energetic performance. And he sweats. And he points at the fans. And he makes silly faces while soloing. Would’ve been nice to hear “Bwana “though. Or “Empire State.” Or “DW Suite.” Or... - Robert Dayton
The Police / Fiction Plane
General Motors Place,Vancouver, BC Wednesday, May 30, 2007 At first, this writer felt that he’d cheated himself by buying a ticket at the 11th hour; the seats were behind the stage. However, depression jolted into exaltation when realizing the seats were less than 45 ft. away from Stewart Copeland’s drum riser. Plus, the stage was a minimalist oval with wraparound catwalk ramps. As it turned out, some of the best seats in the house. The opening set from Fiction Plane was surprisingly enjoyable; many skeptics scoffed at the idea of choosing Sting’s son’s band as support for the Police’s anxiously anticipated worldwide reunion tour, but Joe Sumner (handsome like a scruffy young Sting with a Kurt Cobain haircut, but you can’t fault a guy for winning the genetic lottery) and his two sidekicks took the stage for almost 45 minutes of polite, unassuming and sincerely-kicked-out jams. They won over more Vancouverites in attendance than just this writer, to be sure. The Police kicked off their second Vancouver show with a somewhat shaky version of “Message in a Bottle”. It took the band a few more numbers before they truly got themselves locked in, but from this special vantage point, they looked like they were obviously enjoying themselves. And if their engines were somewhat slow to heat up, once they got going, there was little power lost over the years. Although Andy Summers can collect his pension next year and could’ve been mistaken for a bank president in his slick black power suit, once the man’s trademark riffs began singing out of his Fender, everyone knew he was back, with textural sound effects through “Walking in Your Footsteps” and the “Synchronicity II” interlude, as well as damn near everything else he played when Sting wasn’t singing. And speaking of Sting, his performance (almost) made up for the fact that he’s spent the last quarter-century writing mostly lame uptown-yuppie scheissdreck. His mother knows him as Gordon Sumner, but the swooning highmaintenance Robson Street shopaholics sitting near me know him as Sting the Dreamboat, and it was obvious why: the ready-for-thebeach body, the ethereal-yet-powerful voice, the winning smile. And, he makes that battered old ‘51 Fender Precision walk and talk. It was almost as if he never once made an SUV commercial.
But Stewart Copeland stole the show by a long shot. Clad in athletic bicycle-messenger’s garb, one wouldn’t believe the guy’s in his mid50s as he literally leapt back and forth from the kit on his lower drum riser to the percussion array mounted behind on a higher dais, thumping away while luminescent green brontosaurus skeletons marched and swayed across a seethrough mesh screen. Copeland was quite the character, and seemed to be the one Policeman happiest to be there. Before anyone knew what was happening, the swift parade of radio hits came to an end. The crowd called them right the fuck back again, and what did they play? Yep: “Roxanne” and “Every Breath You Take.” And it took a second encore (a sloppy, but enthusiastic runthrough of “Next To You”) before the night was truly finished. And what a night it was. - Ferdy Belland
Urge Overkill
Lee’s Palace, Toronto, ON Monday, June 11, 2007 Urge Overkill seemed an like odd choice to close out the 2007 version of the North by Northeast festival. For several reasons. They hadn’t played a show in eight months. They’d been largely dormant for the last 10 years. There was no sign of any new material any time soon. AWOL drummer Blackie Onassis was still very much MIA, allegedly last seen in LA during some drug bust-up with goddamn Courtney Love. The list goes on. So when founding members Nash Kato and Eddie “King” Roeser sidled up onstage at Lee’s Palace, most audience members were expecting either a trainwreck or a question mark. They were dead wrong on both accounts. From the killer opening riffs of “Positive Bleeding”, it was painfully clear that this version of UO meant business and their hour-plus set gutted the archives in fine style. Front and centre in the attack was Roeser, and he carved his niche mere seconds into the scrum. A little heavier around the mid-section than he was during the band’s last Toronto visit, Roeser was clearly feeling it on this night, if his fretwork and contorted facial expressions were any indication. Total intensity personified. And it was truly a treat to hear such legacy classics as “The Candidate” and “What’s This Generation Coming To?” blown out 100%, considering the studio version are badly in need of digital remastering. Nine paces to Roeser’s right was Kato, still kicking the rock star get-up with his razor-straight locks obscuring a Christopher Walken-esque face. Kato wore a sleeveless purple velveteen pantsuit (seriously!) and struck all the right poses when needed, whether it be the rotary head bang on “Erika Kane”, or the sensitive aural pout during the mournful “Heaven 90210”. Kato’s glammy garb was maybe the only holdover from UO’s original stage show (no medallions or embossed smoking jackets in sight) but truthfully, this unit was far more functional than the band was during its heyday, and sobriety looks pretty good on these guys. Even the fill-in bassist and drummer did a solid, serviceable job and let their elders run the stage show, to the delight of the crowd, who clearly loved the heavy riffage the band brought. The only low point might have been a limp-wristed stab at “Girl,You’ll Be a Woman Soon”, but even that misstep was soon wiped clean with a torrid
LIVE REVIEWS
The Plaza,Vancouver, BC Thursday, May 31, 2007 Wow! Total jihad on the Chiefs’ last show in January 2006 (the year’s gigging apex!). Though it’d been the opening band, fellow esoteric philosophy students Sleepytime Gorilla Museum, who stole that evening; crazy face-painted spookshow escapees fucking and raping us blissfully with their homemade junk instruments, while the stern, robed and immobile Chiefs – no-doubt musically Pythagorgasmic – were a wee anti-climactic... But that’s old news, and holy mother of pearl, the Chiefs were on fire tonight. My prayers were answered for a second percussionist – YES YES YES! - while another newbie played the Sarangi, a bowed North Indian shoebox. No loss of depth this time around, no pining for a full tabla orchestra, no sir! And they seemed to REALLY BE HAVING FUN. God forbid. To the unlearned: SC3 is masterminded by Trey Spruance, ex-guitarist/production whiz of Mr. Bungle. Extreme time signatures, unorthodox chording, thickly-stacked digital production, top-notch globe-spanning musicianship – all of it wrapped in unashamedly pretentious occult/mystikal/Masonic obscurity. In practice, it sounds like extremely rad Indian/Persian brainfuck rock with Spaghetti Western, surf, and grindcore undertones, and no vocals. The awkward time changes are frustratingly undanceable (annoying the women). And the shoddy, hooded robes the Chiefs wear – I have no idea how that affected the women. It’s a multi-racial unit with song titles like “The 4 (Great Ishraqi Sun)”, further subdivided into different stylistic musical collectives in service of the One Great Octopus. I’d call it twaddle if it weren’t so fucking hot. May 31 was split into two sets, which didn’t achieve anything except to seep energy from a glowing room. Oh well! SC3 did an obliterating rendition of John Carpenter’s theme from Halloween (!!!!), and another of Ernest Gold’s Exodus – not quite matching the gorgeously drenched pseudo-orchestration of the Book of Horizons version, but still gratefully appreciated! “Ethnic” tracks ruled the night – “Ship of Fools” and “The 3 (Afghan Song)”, which never ceases to amaze – with some space permitted for angular metal thrashing mayhem, rising to a shuddering noise crescendo in “Dolorous Stroke”, those dual kits of Ches Smith and Peijman Kouretchian blowing my head apart in confusion while Spruance darted about his sitar-guitar and the violins, keys, and sarangi battled for space. Amazing stuff. Faun Fables consisted of earth-mothery Dawn McCarthy, girlfriend of Nils Frykdahl from Gorilla Museum (it figures... ), plus Secret Chiefs assistance, most notably bassist Shahzad Ismaily – a Pakistani Michael Berryman – on drums. I’ll wager she normally performs with others. I’ll also wager that Canada Customs are douchebags. Nay matter! Pretty subdued at the starting gate, more befitting a coffee house than a hoochie booty palace, but damn, she gave it her all. Throaty and lovely and Celtic, I got caught up. She wasn’t even very cute. I sat on the fence until total hypnosis melted me during a lengthy two-chord dark epic monolith. My cerebrum unbuckled. My girlfriend shot me looks, and I couldn’t understand, but turns out Faun Fables were cutting an extreme rework-
ing of Roky Erikson’s “Cold Night for Alligators”, one of my favourite songs! Didn’t even notice!!! I’m such a phony. We talked about Roky afterwards, me and miss Fable. Anybody got tickets to Austin? - Dave Bertrand
CSS
Richard’s on Richards,Vancouver, BC Wednesday, June 6, 2007 Over the past year, I’ve witnessed a grand total of three CSS shows. Three! Which may not sound like much to you, but I rarely get out to the clubs (too loud!) and we can all agree that the best years for live music were wedged between 1989 and 1993. What? You want to argue with a fact? Well, that’s your problem. Look, I’m not here to fact argue with you, I’m simply required to relay events transpired. So, anyway, while I was relatively excited to see Bonde Do Role showcase its new material, I accepted the unfortunate news that DJ/MC Rodrigo Gorky had to be rushed back to Brazil for some emergency dental work.You can’t argue with teeth, either. Taking its place would be L.A’s Busdriver – known for his goofy rapidfire flow and occasionally brilliant beats. Would I accept the trade off? I didn’t have much of a choice, did I? After arriving in time to catch the opening act, we were forced to endure the sounds of some local DJ spinning stylish madefor-cocaine beats (if I cared, I would probably know the taxonomy for this brand of temporal music – but you know, the Ed Banger stuff, Justice, Simian Mobile Disco, Soulwax, whatever – which undoubtedly sounds pretty awesome now, but not too long from now it will be as dated and ridiculous as Fatboy Slim). But what do I know? The kids ate it up and were having a cracker of a time. Am I to argue with a packed dancefloor? Not likely. Maybe Busdriver felt he couldn’t compete with recorded music being tossed around, as dude failed to show up. No explanation – not even CSS knew of his whereabouts when the band unexpectedly took the stage. But such is life in rock ‘n’ roll: sometimes you kick, sometimes you get kicked. Opening with a new number, something about “taking you out” or “taking it out” (cheeky), the group certainly didn’t look or sound like a band that’s been consistently out on the road for over a year. Playing from the majority of its self-titled album, CSS brought it hard, albeit from the usual bag of tricks: Lovefoxxx stage-diving into the audience, disrobing into a full body leotard (or fubotard), etc. etc. But like I coolly remarked to the trendified hipster standing beside me, “it’s all good” – which led to an attempt to out me as a narc a few moments later. Anyway, CSS is a fun band, not a great band, or a band with a potential lasting legacy, but take it for what it is, would you please? Also, I suppose there should be some mention of the poor drunk girl that stumbled on stage during the apropos “Alcohol.” Homegirl could barely even stand: dumb glazed look on her face, swaying uncontrollably while Lovefoxxx tried to reason with her. After the song wrapped up, the poor thing wanted to stay on stage with the band but was literally carried off by a bouncer and right out the front door. As we were leaving, after a brief 45 minute set I might add, the same girl was trying to sneak and squeeze back into Dick’s like a wet cat coming in from the rain. It wasn’t so cute when she started freaking out (women!) and laying some serious boots to the exasperated bouncers. While it was kind of funny, it was
URGE OVERKILL
PHOTO: W. ANDREW POWELL / thegate.ca
Secret Chiefs 3 / Faun Fables
The Nerve July 2007 Page 21
LIVE REVIEWS
Eugene Chadbourne and Han Bennink The Cobalt, June 20th, 2007
Eugene Chadbourne and Paul Lovens The Western Front, June 22nd, 2007
The Aki Takase Fats Waller Project (featuring Eugene and Paul)
Vancouver East Cultural Centre, June 22nd, 2007 When Eugene Chadbourne heard that drummer Ron de Jong wouldn’t be able to make the Cobalt gig on June 20th, also featuring Robots on Fire’s Darren Williams, he was disappointed: then he learned that Han Bennink, in town for the New Dutch Swing series at the Jazzfest, had agreed to fill in (!). Not only did this obviate any need to rehearse: Fake Jazz Wednesdays attendees have likely never seen a drummer as wild, nor possessed of as huge a rep. Neat to note that Han can shift on a dime from hectic freejazz spatterings to fast rockabilly/bluegrass rhythms; it’s something Vancouver audiences haven’t seen him do before, though we have seen him drum on sheets o’ cardboard, play cymbals by string, and use his boots and elbows as drumsticks. Dr. Chad, dripping with sweat and visibly happy, drew whoops from the crowd of young’uns as he swung from guitar to banjo and invited them to sing along with classics like “Swingin’ Doors” by Merle Haggard (about a poor wretch who lives in a bar). Songs arrived at the end of longish improvisatory workouts that occasionally left one of the two sax players sidelined in awe. The highlight was a cover of the Flying Burrito Brothers’ “My Uncle,” which details the plans of a draft dodger, “heading for the nearest foreign border,” observing that “Vancouver seems to be my kind of town.” Dr. Chadbourne made his home in Calgary back when, but it was still pretty funny. A somewhat older and more highbrow crowd attended Friday’s duo concert at the Western Front. Paul Lovens isn’t as athletic as
The Queers / The Methadones / The Manges / The Jolts
The Red Room,Vancouver, BC Saturday, June 9, 2007 As the crowd sauntered into the Red Room around 7:45, I heard chatter that the Jolts’ opening set had been pared down to 15 minutes. Apparently, tonight’s headliners were held up at the border. What a surprise. The Jolts took things in stride as they ripped into their quarter-hour scorcher with the ruthless “Bloody Eye Socket”. Relentless riffs, instantly catchy hooks, and a fresh-faced ferocity kept the momentum slamming steadily along. An intensified set sharpened to a knife’s edge. Nice work, boys. The Manges are Italy’s answer to the Ramones, but with matching striped shirts. ‘Nuff said. It’s an honour to have veterans like the Methadones and the Queers come to town, but it almost didn’t happen. Methadones resident guitarist, Ken Ortman, did not mince words on the matter. “First of all… Canadian border guards are dicks! We almost didn’t make it in, but we’re glad we did. It was a fun show, great audience… We had a fucking blast!” I’m not sure whether or not Mr. Ortman (ex-Beer Goggles) is now a permanent fixture in the Methadones, but his performance tonight should guarantee him a spot. The band showed true grit as they blazed through tunes like “Bored of Television” and the classic “Say Goodbye to Your Generation”. This was a tight set played by a professional bunch of punks. The Queers, of course, were phenomenal. Their entire set was like taking a trip down memory’s back alley. With songs selected from a career spanning over 25 years, I don’t think anyone’s favourite Queers track went unrepresented. Despite the debacle at the border, the evening ran like clockwork and the bands managed to kick some serious ass. Let’s just hope they make it back. - Edward Dinsley
The Nerve July 2007 Page 22
I literally leap off the stool. “LETS GO!” We pile into my car, and I find out the venue is actually called The Emergency Room, and the entrance is the alley, go figure. It’s a warehouse on East Hastings converted from a jam space into a venue, and Les Taberfucks were mere seconds from performing when we arrived. I fucking made it! And this, my friends, was one that was worth the effort! The BC-grown ‘fucks have been stinging people for about five years with hardcore punk, currently composed of only bass and drums. Simply extraordinary! Bassistvocalist Kayla floored me. Finally, a woman who can wail better than all the boys! Her voice is ferocious. It was more performance than mere show. They even had costumes! Both ‘fucks wore replica Bubbles glasses. Les Taberfucks were absolutely brilliant and they smeared a small but riveted audience with their energy. In short, this was a masterpiece of chemistry and power that held all privileged witnesses in its sway. Any chance you get to watch these ‘fucks perform should be taken. They are the Broadway stars of BC punk. - Christina Paris
The Dandy Warhols / The Upsidedown
Commodore Ballroom,Vancouver, BC Friday, June1, 2007 The venerable old girl, the Fabulous Commodore Ballroom, was tonight’s venue for the third of four Western Canadian dates for the Dandy Warhols, the trippy, post-modern psychedelic quartet from Portland, OR. The dance floor won’t bounce any more and the reno looks kinda like Milestones, but so? It’s the Commodore, baby! Openers, The Upsidedown – also from Portland – played to a two-thirds full house (lots of early arrivals!) and were received warmly. To me, the Upsidedown’s sound oscillates between a ‘60s garage groove and hypnotic drone, kinda like Loop, if Loop were made up of six guys instead of four, and two of the guys were chicks. On to the main event: the house lights faded to reveal a massive blue curtain with a yellow DW logo, which announced the band. Courtney Taylor-Taylor was the obvious focal point, followed by drummist Brent DeBoer; their strong two-part harmonies were a constant and consistent highlight of the band’s sound. Kicking off with “Be-In” from …Come Down, the band lacked some of the spark that they’ve captured in the studio so often, but began to build steam as their set progresse, and mostly played familiar favorites. On the flipside, Taylor x 2’s lower register was occasionally lost in the mix and some of the keyboard hooks just weren’t there once or twice, but really, aside from a sludgy, phaseshifted odyssey (which sounded like a jam and which I took as a cue for a cigarette break), and a short continuity gap which saw the guitar tech scrambling around the back line like he’d accidentally misplaced his crack pipe, the band and fans were one. And the light show, man! Coolio! - T.C. Shaw
Plane’s Going Down”, one of YG’s strongest pieces, began with a stripped-down ‘70s groove; at times reserved, then emotional, rising from spare to epic, almost orchestral swells. In-Flight Safety followed, showing a more rock than indie side, but they did not fail to win over the mostly YG crowd. Their rhythmic and layered arrangements sustained Young Galaxy’s momentum, with hookfilled tunes, the smooth voice of singer John Mullane, and a wall of lush guitars and atmospheric keys. They finished the night on a driving and energetic vibe, keeping the crowd moving with their melodic manoueverings. A memorable show; you can’t argue with physics. - Kim Glennie
FAKE SHARK REAL ZOMBIE
LIVE Les Taberfucks
PHOTO: FEMKE VAN DELFT
HAN BENNINK
Bennink, but is no less versatile, and brought a shaggily bemused unpredictability to bear that was a delight to watch. He then joined Chad on stage at the Cultch for an evening of superheated oldtimey jazz led by Japanese piano virtuouso Aki Takase, showing Chadbourne no less at ease for having to subordinate his manic playfulness to more structured environs. If it sounds intriguing, you should simply buy her Fats Waller Project CD – Amazon.ca has it cheaper than Amazon.com. Dr. Chadbourne also has collaborations with Bennink and with Lovens on the House of Chadula imprint (www.eugenechadbourne.com), all with his delightful homemade packaging. We await your return, Eugene! - Allan MacInnis
PHOTO: MILES DE COURCY
take on Saturation stand-out “The Stalker” that ended the second encore in a curdled wall of feedback and a roomful of sated hipsters. Urge Overkill last played Toronto in 1995 alongside Thrush Hermit and Guided by Voices, and that gig was something of a fiasco. The latter’s Bob Pollard was Pearl Harboured by bouncers mid-way through GBV’s set and UO was in the midst of internal strife that would put the band on the shelf for close to a decade. Luckily, time has healed these acid scars and with a renewed sense of purpose, hopefully Urge Overkill can finally earn those props they deserved first time around. - Cameron Gordon
Pub 340 (or not), Vancouver, BC Thursday, May 31, 2007 I show up at Pub 340 to watch Les Taberfucks, and the door girl tells me they have been relocated to ‘The Alley’. Although she told me how to get there, her directions had me so backward that I ended up in Pub 340 again, sipping on some cranberry, pissed and unenthusiastic about seeing whatever wannabe AFI group was about to perform. Rubbing my forehead in stress, a Guelph (def: inhabitant of the late Guelph House) sits in the stool beside me and asks, “Do you come here often?” He then introduces me to Dr. Benway, who actually knows Les Taberfucks and where ‘The Alley’ is.
Young Galaxy / In-Flight Safety
The Media Club,Vancouver, BC Tuesday, June 12, 2007 It was both a homecoming of sorts for Young Galaxy and the furthest from home for Haligonians IFS, with more moms in the crowd than your usual rock gig.Young Galaxy is a product of Montreal’s thriving music scene and the latest project from Stephen Ramsey (formerly of the Montreal band Stars) and Catherine McCandless (both originally from BC). They led off the set with their expansive boy/girl vocals, delivering their innovative baroque pop with ambient guitar and keys, driving bass and drums, and a flourish of tambourine and handclaps that had the audience dancing and singing along. YG then delved into one of their more elegiac, moody tunes, “Wailing Wall”, lush arrangements crescendo-ing, their hometown fans right there with them. With a name like Young Galaxy, adjectives such as stellar or celestial are almost excusable to describe their brand of sonically rich music. Artful songcrafters Ramsey and McCandless worked well with their collaborative live band, consisting of Steve Durrand’s technically impressive, evocative guitar stylings, bassist Steve Kamp’s and drummer Pat Sayers’ driving lines, and Susan Beckett encompassing keys. “Outside The City”, perhaps their catchiest tune, delivered its crisp beat with some strong, dark bass and drums, intricate guitar and expressive synth. “No Matter How Hard You Try” followed, with sweeping melodies and swooning vocals while the slower, more melancholy ‘The Sun’s Coming Up And My
Choke / Cortez the Killer / Carpenter / Daggermouth
The Waldorf,Vancouver, BC Saturday, June 2, 2007 I’m going to start this off by giving serious props to the chick whose job it was to keep people off the stage. Girl couldn’t have weighed more than 105 lbs, and somehow she managed to hold everyone back, preventing them from disrupting the show. This lady deserves some serious respect. Cortez kicked it off in true rock ‘n’ roll fashion by playing one guitarist short, having lost a man to a dislocated knee during load-in. In spite of this setback, the remaining members proceeded to rock. Check these guys out. Carpenter and Daggermouth played competently, but I can’t say that they really did anything for me. And anyway, this was Choke’s last ever Vancouver show, and that’s what everyone was here to see. Funnily enough, I initially didn’t recognize guitarist and lead singer Shawn Moncrieff without the scruffy hair and beard, but once Choke began playing “Far From True”, it was clear this was the same band I’d seen at many a flawless show. I’d forgotten just how fucking fast their drummer is. Even though everyone seemed to be in a really good mood, somehow one guy ended up with what looked like a nasty gash above the eyebrow. I hope that guy’s okay. Choke tore through most of the highlights of the repertoire it’s built over the years, employing a pleasant balance between newer and older songs. Seamlessly blending the more straightforward skate-punk leanings the band showcased in its earlier days, with the technically proficient, adventurous post punk/prog efforts found on more recent recordings, Choke testified to the fact that a band with the balls to forge its own musical path is infinitely more interesting than one that chooses to be confined to a single sound. Choke, you will be missed. People should have bought more shots for you guys.You deserve them. - Simon Illrote
Marnie Stern / Shearing Pinx
Pat’s Pub,Vancouver, BC Friday, June 22, 2007 After denying three offers for a street-side blowjob, I walked into the Eastside Vancouver venue only to be disappointed that the kitchen was closed due to a broken fryer. I was hungry, so beer, cigarettes, pot, and a bag of potato chips would have to do. Marnie Stern and drummer Zach Hill were also in a bind and would have to do without their other guitarist, Robbie Moncrieff, who was hospitalized with intestinal problems. But Stern and Hill were not going to let two months of fulltime practice go to waste. Plus the crowd was in
need of rock‘n’roll, so we could forget about the munchies. Sweetness subsequently arrived on stage, both in sound and character, as the duo kicked off their second show on tour with “Vibrational Match”. Watching Stern play her Fender Jaguar is like watching some sort of Daddy Longlegs dancing up and down the fret board and the fans, crowded four rows deep, reacted with seizure-like dance moves. “Logical Volume” then came ripping through the monitors after Hill adjusted the tiny, travelling drum kit. This would happen again and again, because Hill is too powerful for his own good. The fans also yelled for a louder guitar, and louder it got. Perfect. Stern admitted to the crowd they were missing Moncrieff big time, however, and it was noticeable during “Precious Metal”. She told me personally that Moncrieff will be back for later shows, but even without the help, the crowd finally blew up during “This American Life”. Things were finally rolling and the two musicians added five minutes to the four-minute epic. The last song, “Patterns of a Diamond Ceiling”, was truly the last song of the night. No encore. Seriously, who doesn’t do an encore? But even if I didn’t get a meal and my musical appetite was still raging, I still loved every second of this show. Huge props also go out to Vancouver’s Shearing Pinx and its “noise-making”, as the toothless, German, 40-year veteran of Pat’s called it. - Jon Braun
Bend Sinister / Fake Shark Real Zombie / Go Ghetto Tiger
The Plaza Club,Vancouver, BC Thursday, June 21, 2007 It should probably be a given that, as it was our party after all, this write-up will describe how orgasmically wicked the whole thing was. But, on the other hand, we’re talkin’ Thursday here, ok? Cheap drinx, decent staff and, mathematically, less than 82¢ per musician onstage! Go Ghetto Tiger opened with an enthusiastic set of synth-drive tunes, playing the mirror image to Skinny Puppy; more a “well-fed, happy puppy,” if you will. Next up was Fake Shark Real Zombie, who wore their high-schooltroublemaker attitude on their sleeve, which was risky owing to the presence of an actual high school teacher at the event (or so I gathered from the bevy of young beauties gathered at the Nerve table). Bend Sinister – what a great name – closed out the night by thrilling the crowd with a riveting set, punctuated by lead vocalist Dan Moxon’s manic, impassioned performance, very much as if they had the next day off. And the best part of the night? No one in the crowd suffered a career-ending maiming! Whoops, better check back next April to know for sure! - T.C. Shaw
ALBUM REVIEWS Me A Favour”. They try to pick up the pace again with “The Bad Thing” and “Old Yellow Bricks” but it is half-hearted at best. Boo to whoever decided on the song order of this album. I wonder, in these days of iTunes and iPods, does it mean anything anymore? - Devon Cody
Alley Dukes …Go Back to College Flying Saucer If your appreciation for all things juvenile and perverse knows no bounds and the mere mention of words like cunt, cock and boobies provides you with endless hours of entertainment, then the Alley Dukes will surely have you enthralled. Their second release sees the Dukes continue from where they left off on their debut, Northern Rednecks, namely, a rockabilly mission to further explore topics of cunt, cock, and boobies. They also touch - deeply - on the ever-popular theme of objectification of women (always a crowd favourite.) …Go Back to College is actually even more crass than their debut, with songs about cum-shot facials and busted hymens. How these guys sing about this shit and get the ladies at their shows to not only dance, but also flash them their tits is a fucking wonder, and an art. It’s not surprising that they draw inspiration from Blag Dahlia. You’ll even find a rockabillyfied version of the Dwarves’ “Pimp” here. Sadly, the record quickly gets redundant due to the same shuffle beat that drives almost every song, and - unlike their live shows - I don’t have the prospect of exposed boobies to hold my attention. - Devon Cody Ankla Steep Trails Bieler Bros. Ankla is going to be on this year’s Ozzfest; the travelling metal festival that made fans pay over a $120 for a single ticket. The Osbournes (Sharon, that is) actually had smaller bands pay over $100,000 to take part in previous years, guaranteeing that the headline acts would get millions as a result. Well, this year it’s free, so you don’t have to pay a thing to get in and watch Ankla. You will be bombarded with advertisements, however, and possibly forced to receive an enema that makes your poop come out with a corporate logo on it. But that’s a small sacrifice if it means these guys in Ankla (who are South American) didn’t have to buy their way in to the tour. Good for Ankla, I say. But what does Ankla actually sound like? Well, Ankla sounds exactly like any second stage Ozzfest band: bland, boring, and with a lot of screaming. But, since they’re South American, they have some bongos to make you feel cultured while you shit out a Pepsi logo. Sharon Osbourne, give Ankla some cash and die of cancer, please. - David Von Bentley Arctic Monkeys Favourite Worst Nightmare Domino And so, one of the most over-hyped bands of all time give us the dreaded sophomore album – relatively quietly, too, as far as the media’s concerned. Goes to show how quickly we forget. The music on the other
hand comes barreling out the gates. The first track, “Brianstorm,” is a wily, hurricane-force number with all the signature lyrical wit and clever tempo shifts that sets these guys apart from their contemporaries. “Teddy Picker” is a slick, groovy ditty with hints of surfinspired guitar. “Balaclava” is fast-talking and hard hitting and probably the best song on the album. Indeed, about half of this album is pretty goddamned good. Problem is, it hits a brick fucking wall at track six. All the energy that was built up on the previous five songs gives way to subdued, entirely forgettable tracks like “Only Ones Who Know” and ”Do
The Nerve July 2007 Page 24
The Bamboos Rawville Tru Thoughts Hip-hop may be based on embellished and boastful titles (lest Diddy ever live down his We Invented The Remix bullshit), but there is nothing exaggerated about Rawville. If you dig early ‘70s throwback funk as deep as my naval cavity (where goats doth forage), where tweakin’ bass-heavy party fuel-cum-soulful jive meets the boisterous ball-crushing of three female guest vocalists, you bet your ass it’s your kind of raw. It’s too raw for Ol’ Dirty Bastard; with a beefed up horn section and miraculously tighter grooves than The Bamboos’ debut, it’s designer-made to blast away memories of Kool & The Gang and the Average White Band, forever replacing them with retinal-burned images of the Lance Ferguson-led Australian six-piece jam band. It’ll blow your mind to hear how much Rawville cooks. Mind the salmonella, bitches. - Filmore Mescalito Holmes Bamboula Guilty Pleasures Kaiser I’d be the first - OK second - to agree that there are more psychobilly bands nowadays than you can shake a dead cat at, but don’t bury the genre just yet. Bamboula, though I kept getting their name wrong and just plain don’t like it, are fast, catchy, and more infectious than a zombie bite. Some bands have it and some don’t, but Bamboula, dumb name and all, have it in spades. If you don’t bust a gut over the hidden track then I will personally refund your money. Now excuse me, I have graveyards to rob, and werewolves to kill. - Chris Walter Bergraven Dödsvioner Hydra Head First off, fuck “ö”. I hate seeing letters from a Nazi-occupied country with nipples above them. It takes me about 57 seconds to find a way to get a letter like ö because my keyboard doesn’t have a ‘titty-insert’ button. So, while I’m trying to copy and paste nipples, I’m playing the record and I don’t hear any fucking music. Then, two minutes and 45 seconds later, a shit down-tuned power chord kicks in once with a coughing growl. I pause and leave the room. I was ready to punch a kitten in the throat. That is no way to start a listening session of any record. So after a nice glass of OJ and some Bukowski to calm my nerves, I decided to listen with an open mind. OK, it’s not all bad; it’s kind of different, even. All the lyrics are in German and the music is a blend of black metal with doom metal. Plus, I dig the shitty production; it’s cheaper than your whore mother. But these ingredients don’t equal a quality listening experience. - David Von Bentley Blitzen Trapper Wild Mountain Nation Independent It astounds me that records like this still exist. Despite my sheer wonderment, the six-deep collective hailing from the woods of Portland, known to the right few as Blitzen Trapper, continues their astonishing production of Steve Miller classic rock, beefed up by angular post-punk guitars. The self-released Wild Mountain Nation exhibits all the hang loose attitude, old school folk jangle lyricism, and anything-goes interpolation of classic country instrumentation and electronic effects that made Frank Zappa and the Byrds so righteous and fun to follow for all those years. Above all that, the most impressive aspect of this album, their third, is the fact that it’s self-released. Why? ‘Cause Blitzen Trapper’s got the goods. Believe it, man. It’s a wonder that they aren’t on a major. - Filmore Mescalito Holmes
actually sound like they’re hammered but always remember, studio time (and beer) used to cost so much less back then. What I’d really like to hear is Bobnoxious about four albums from now, gasping and wheezing their way through “Dumpsterholics”, the nolonger-fun drinking game, where the object is to get fed 12 times in only a single week! ‘Cos rock ‘n’ roll is a skinny, dying man’s game! Isn’t it? - T.C. Shaw Boddicker Big Lionhearted & The Gallant Man Banter Mississippi-raised Caleb Boddicker is a bona fide musical prodigy. At the tender age of 16, he self-released a 22-track demo recorded in his bedroom lab, which would spark label interest from the likes of Merge and Banter, among others. However, wise beyond his years, Boddicker held off signing until after graduation. Now, some four years after the first peek, we are finally treated to young Caleb’s debut album. As you would assume from his history, his exploration of lo-fi indie chill and reserved coming-of-age motifs are impressively mature in their execution. Working close with producer Brian Deck (Modest Mouse, Iron & Wine) paid off big time. Boddicker’s treasure chest of folk instrumentation tossed together at random is cleanly and richly recorded, but not at the sacrifice of the basement sheen that makes the kid so compelling. If he works on his hooks a little, he could be the scene’s next Sufjan Stevens. He’s still got a little ways to go, though. - Filmore Mescalito Holmes Bonde Do Rôle With Lasers Domino/Mad Decent When I see a chance to review an album that depicts Our Savior blasting some unseen target with death-ray laser beams coming from his consecrated sight balls, I’m reckoning there’s at least a sense of humour to get something out of, no matter what the actual music sounds like (always an afterthought here, anyway). Here, the trio of MC Marina Ribatski, MC and producer Pedro D’eyrot, and DJ and producer Rodrigo Gorky have become one of the leading lights of Brazil’s funk carioca (or baile funk) scene, which is going international as you read this. With their penchant for a hard-partying vibe and irreverent samples thrown in at unexpected moments (not to mention droll details like “all guitars by Freddie Van Halen”), Bonde Do Rôle are almost sure to annoy the shit out of us all with a one-off summertime hit, coming soon. - T.C. Shaw The Brains Hell ‘n’ Back – No Brain No Pain Stumble Well, if nothing else, the Brains give you your money’s worth with this bad boy. Hell ‘n’ Back – No Brain, No Pain is a compilation of 12 new songs from yet another Montreal band flying the psychobilly banner. It also includes their entire first album and four previously unreleased live tracks to boot, just in case you hadn’t gotten your fill. It clocks in at a whopping 25 tracks. If you’re a sucker for punked-up songs full of upright bass and B-horror movie lyrics, you’ll love this. If you’re looking for anything ‘billy, you’ll find it only in very tiny doses. The most ‘billy track (“Blood”) features lead vocals by rockabilly wildman, Bloodshot Bill. If you can get over the fact that there’s very little swing and swagger here, you’ll be treated to a whack of tightly wrought, punk songs resembling a less melodic, harder-driving Misfits. “Wow!” you say. “A Misfit’s-inspired psychobilly band? No way! Get right outta town.” Totally crazy, I know, but I kid you not. These are strange days indeed. - Devon Cody
the word “gazing” on to the end, and just sit back basking in the self-satisfied glow of my own cleverness. Then I remembered Adrian Mack, Nerve Music Editor, telling me - no, reminding me - to “actually listen to the disc you’re writing about, whenever possible.” So, for once, I did. And it turns out I was some damn right about Brown Shoe. And the hardest thing about writing about Vanity is this: because this album was recorded in Kentucky, these boys are almost completely surrounded by gun-totin’, Bush-electin’, truck-racin’, neck-reddenin’… well, you get the idea, doncha? ‘Twee’ is nearly as popular in the ‘Deep Sowth’ as ‘Anti-NASCAR’ (or, for that matter, pro-NHL) bumper stickers, no? I think it might be an uphill climb for Brown Shoe, the ‘Suthun’ answer to Red House Painters, fo’ sho’. - T.C. Shaw Buckle Up Russia The Black Spring EP Independent It’s been said before that Vancouver hosts far too many amazing bands that languish away from large-scale national attention, and this writer hopes that Buckle Up Russia rises above that with The Black Spring EP. An unsung supergroup featuring former members of Mystery Machine (vocalistguitarist Dean Young), Three Inches of Blood (drummer Geoff Trawick), and bassist Donovan Stinson (a supergroup unto himself), BUR hits the listener from the getgo with “Breakdown and Cry,” the love-song equivalent of a lacrosse player’s knee to the unsuspecting listeners’ balls. BUR isn’t afraid of the gentle swagger or the naked sentiment either (“Esponsibility”), and as a band they’re riding the fine lines between straight-up hard rock and the more intricate arrangements found in classic power-pop. It goes to show that stubbly beards and glowing hearts are not mutually exclusive when handled properly. These are the sorts of songs which make tough-ass jocks drop to their knees and weep crocodile tears, and bespectacled bookworms dash their milk glasses against the White Spot walls in cocky rage. - Ferdy Belland The Cinematic Orchestra Ma Fleur Ninja Tune If the ultimate goal of the Cinematic Orchestra’s Ma Fleur was to put the listener into a deep torpor, then mission accomplished. With little percussion or any track moving over the 20-bpm mark, you’d be lucky to make it through the first few minutes without drifting off into a pleasant slumber – but somehow, I don’t think that was the band’s intention. The story goes that these tracks were scored for an “imaginary film” (probably about falling snowflakes, or raindrops gliding down windowpanes - I don’t know, use your imagination). As pretty as the songs may be, they’re dreadfully lifeless as well. The tracks just seem to drift off, never really doing much more than sprinkling handfuls of magic sand on previously alert ears. And even the more interesting bits are pretty lame: “Music Box” sounds like the soundtrack to a reflective ‘Kevin Arnold moment,’ while “That Home” and its companion piece “To Build A Home” is thirdrate Cold Play-ing. Fit for the yoga studio or colicky babies, but the recommendations end there. -Adam Simpkins Clothes Make the Man s/t Independent Here’s a darkly moody, yet grippingly tuneful 13-song album from a very good young Toronto band that wipes modern-rock pretenders off the upper-echelon rock ‘n’ roll map with a chilling ease, recalling the Allemanni tribes wiping out the Roman legions from the Teutoburg Forest. Up-anddown dynamics which stop and start on a dime ornament the songs effectively and leave the album wide open to endless repeat listening, but these guys are far beyond the Nirvana / Foo Fighters ho-hummery of most modern rock bands, and they’re an imaginative song machine, no doubt. The call-and-response burr of the vocal tradeoffs, and the live-yet-tight feel to the album cause one to pay attention to what’s going on here. It’s almost as if the true late-90s ‘emo’ scene carved out by Sunny Day Real Estate / Promise Ring / Jets to Brazil were frayed tastefully along the seams by an almost Mark Lanegan-esque world-weariness that’s not quite driven beneath the balding tires of their rusting tour van. - Ferdy Belland
I was more excited to hear that album than any other new release to this day. I expected Mr. Cornell to bust out of that metaphorical rusty cage he was in during the fading years of Soundgarden. Nothing on Euphoria Morning came close, but it had its moments of brilliance. At that time the man was suffering through a divorce, an eating disorder, and a battle with alcohol. Fast-forward nearly eight years and Chris has brought himself out of the depths of emotional torment to become a happy father/husband, and, like all legends that triumph over their demons, the result is a mediocre album. After three disappointing Audioslave releases, his voice has clearly lost three degrees in the process, but I had a glimmer of hope that, with Carry On, Chris would be able to pull a few more gems out of his grungy bag of tricks. Alas, grunge is dead, and so is Chris Cornell to me, a champion no longer. - David Von Bentley Dappled Cities Granddance Dangerbird What’s most striking about Sydney’s Dappled Cities first North American release is its striking antipodean sound. While there is definitely an Australian feel to Granddance, it’s impossible not to hear the influence of Canadian indie bands like Destroyer and Wolf Parade; unfortunately, that’s the album’s glaring weakness. The songs that have more ‘traditional’ Down Under tones (think the Clean or Go-Betweens) are cleverly subtle and stand out as the best. But the album as a whole suffers when Dappled Cities spread their wings into the usual trappings of Northern indie-prog: the usual misguided art student territory with too many instruments and a surplus of ill-conceived ideas. But don’t let that turn you off because Granddance has some excellent moments (“Fire Fire Fire” and “Beach” for a start) and the band shows a great deal of potential – they just shouldn’t forget where they come from. - Adam Simpkins Dan Deacon Spiderman Of The Rings Carpark Baltimore fruit bat and larger-than-life Disneyland caricature Dan Deacon isn’t quite all there. Having performed over 300 times in under two years, the man’s sine wave, bentcircuit synth barrage (covered in Saturday morning cartoon hangovers and out-of-body summer camp memories), combined with the fact he self-released seven albums from 2003 to ’06, has all the markings of utter insanity or true genius. As always, the end lands somewhere in between. Dan’s music certainly doesn’t lend itself easily to any one classification of genre, as “live electronica” simply falls short of capturing the Looney Tunes showcase on this record. For the first time, Deacon has successfully attempted to lay his live vocal aesthetic down on CD, easily making Spiderman Of The Rings the most essential album in his expansive catalogue. You might call it a glorious new beginning, spastic as it may be. I calls it a gay old ‘Woody-Woodpecker-in-a-blender’ time. - Filmore Mescalito Holmes DOA Punk Rock Singles Sudden Death Once in while I forget what a huge impact DOA had on me as a youth, but when I play this, the feeling comes flooding back. Sure, there is a lot of good stuff out there today and some incredible bands, yet somehow none of them manage to capture punk rock the way that Shithead and Co. did back when Mulroney was king and a 12 of beer cost $4.15 (Holy fuck, that’s right! –Ed.). The first half of the CD is the great old stuff, but also included here are the singles from Joe’s many political causes, such as “Marijuana Motherfucker” from the Cannabis Canada benefit and Expo 86’s “Billy and the Socreds.” Punk Rock Singles will snuggle up nicely to your other DOA CDs, and I’m continuously amazed at the volume of quality music from Sudden Death. Joe Shithead Keithley is living proof that you can be your own boss and make your rules, a lesson that is not lost on me. - Chris Walter
ALBUM
Bobnoxious Bobnoxious Presents Rockaholics: The Fun Drinking Game Wannabee/Universal “Don’t try this at home,” warns Ontario four-piece Bobnoxious, referring to anyone who’d attempt to gulp down as much liquor as they’d like you to think they do. But even though the LP is supposed to be a background soundtrack while you play “Rockaholics” (A beer, a shot or both, before another 2½-minute songs ends; naturally, the “game” lasts 12 rounds, tastefully referred to as “Steps”), the actual music sounds way too organized to have been recorded whilst shitfaced. I mean, the Dayglo Abortions
Brown Shoe Vanity Independent Brown Shoe…yep, that’s one thrilling band name, there, boys. Doesn’t it conjure up some crazy images for you? Nope, me neither. Actually, my gut instinct was to tack
Chris Cornell Carry On Interscope When I was 17, I skipped school to buy Chris Cornell’s first solo album, Euphoria Morning.
Dream Theater Systematic Chaos Roadrunner Whatever I write here doesn’t matter. You either love or hate Dream Theater. They are at the peak of the modern prog rock totem pole and are content with that. The song remains the same with these guys, time in and time out. Each element of Dream Theater, from the drums to the guitar to the bass playing is performed by - probably - the most technically proficient musicians you’ll ever hear. Clearly, these bastards listened to too much Rush as youngsters (and had ivory
ALBUM REVIEWS complexions due to all the time ‘perfecting’ their skills with their instruments indoors). I can’t blame the guys, since I’ve perfected my playing of the skin flute, but at least I don’t put that on record, presented in the same way over and over again. But if you’re into these guys, you won’t be disappointed since you get all of the amazing licks, tricks and kicks that you’d hope for. This is prog rock at its modern best (aka for those assholes who work in the guitar section at Tom Lee). - David Von Bentley Brian Ellis Free Way Benbecula You’ve got to admire Brian’s commitment to a theme. Free Way is a thorough exploration of the thin, glitchy line that exists between free jazz and ambient electronica… just like it sounds, eh? Even though the Californian’s debut in Benbecula’s storied Minerals Series is supposed to showcase his more experimental side, this work of fluid art finds the uncharted territory Kieran Hebden (Four Tet) and Steve Reid were going for but, as close as they were, didn’t quite reach. Cascading keyboard noises/effects and airport hangar drums move in unrecognizable lucidity with rolling bass, sporadic guitar strums and solos, and haunting, disembodied saxophone to create truly dense textures but undeniably groovy jams. Almost makes me wish I didn’t have my Buick crushed into a cube so I could enjoy this the way the title makes me assume I should, almost. - Filmore Mescalito Holmes Fiction Plane Left Side of the Brain Bieler Bros. It’s been a wait for the sophomore album from England’s Fiction Plane, but it was worth it in the end. Eleven smartly crafted songs from the mind and muse of bassistvocalist Joe Sumner. Yes, he’s Sting’s son, but that doesn’t matter. This is by no means a case of Freddie Prinze Jr. having access to ProTools and a rhyming dictionary; it’s proven by the way the first half of the album flows seamlessly, with a long string of killer snippets of what ‘Modern Rock’ needs to be. Sumner’s muse runs the moody, passionate gauntlet of snarling anti-war rants (“Death Machine”) and clenched-fist revolutionary yearning (“Running the Country”); skill and taste, rather than masturbation, make the songs on Left Side of the Brain into true anthems in the sincere, non-ironic sense of the word. Rhythmically bouncy, lush and pulsing, it’s time to pass the reigning rock crown over to the young and the hungry. Bands like Fiction Plane actually inspire one to tune into mainstream FM stations again. - Ferdy Belland Hannah Fury Through the Gash Mellow Traumatic Hannah Fury is the ghostly result of a terrible car accident involving a Kate Bush tribute act, left to wander the earth without any of the tunes or character of the aforementioned artist, just the eerie pastiche. This is Fury’s second full length album, and she clearly hasn’t let up on her obsession with the occult and all things Victorian, and despite numerous production effects, her singing style still resembles that of a 108-year old grandma – whisper-warbly and on the very verge of torment. Not surprisingly, Through the Gash, along with all previous output, is self-released and the freedom this brings results in a very self-indulgent and overly long, morbid album. Interestingly, lack of record company input also means that Fury has never performed live, and just as well, because these tracks are multi-layered with all manner of music box and cabaret sounds, a real jamboree for the spookily inclined. - Stephanie Heney
source we know, and this one certainly lives up to its calling. Shine on, you crazy gas ball! - Filmore Mescalito Holmes Gallows Orchestra of Wolves Epitaph So I picked up my Tuesday/Thursday girlfriend from the methadone clinic on Carrall and Pender and popped Gallows’ Orchestra of Wolves CD into the stereo of my rustedout ‘85 Colt. The first thing she croaked was, “They sound like the Dead Milkmen, but they’re taking themselves way too seriously.” Then she turned to dry heave out the window. As I patted her shivering, pockmarked back in half-hearted comfort, I tried to listen closely to the CD, but it was difficult over the retching and the blown muffler. Gallows didn’t sound like the Dead Milkmen at all. It sounded more like something you’d hear on Revelation, not Epitaph, but maybe there’s a drought of lousy pop-punk in Orange County these days and Fat Mike’s not wanting to saturate the market. Or something. In any case, I traded Orchestra of Wolves to some crackhead in Victory Square for a dime bag and had a better time of it. - Johnny Kroll Jennifer Gentle The Midnight Room Sub Pop Italian ghost-house music - this is how a friend described the new Jennifer Gentle record. And I have to say, dude was spot on. The Midnight Room is the sound of a man lost in some cryptic, terror-filled nightmare, looking for escape at every turn, but with each step, delving deeper and deeper into the dream - and all the while, giggling every step of the way. To put it more simply, Jennifer Gentle’s sophomore album is one of the most compelling journeys into one man’s head since Syd Barrett put sound to tape. And all this emerges at the hands of Italian songwriter Marco Fasolo. With a guitar-drumpiano set-up, Fasolo recorded this psych-pop masterpiece on his lonesome in a rickety, old house in Northern Italy whose previous owner exited the world via a self-inflicted rifle shot. In such ghostly circumstances, it’s no wonder that this recording came out as bizarre, and yet entirely remarkable, as it did. Yes, Italian ghost-house music, indeed. - Brock Thiessen Go Ghetto Tiger s/t Independent Get ready to embrace your inner cheerleader! Go Ghetto Tiger has a new CD, brought to you by MarQuo blacQuiere, Super Jason, and Skoty B. GGT’s eclectic blend of guitar, bass, and synth interjects playful drum loops, samples, and melodic vocals which sometimes parallel and sometimes surpass their influences, among them the Faint or By A Thread, to Radio Berlin, MJ, and Prince. “Deluxe Deluxe” matches a sharp melody with percussive instrumentals, sparkly and frenetic. The spooky electronic babblings of “Kill City Kids” build into a delicate groove reminiscent of Soft Cell. “The Spy and the Machete” crosses punctuated bass lines and jagged gits with casually heated lyrics and tempo changes, from driven to diminishing, treading precariously on soft rock jams, but evading the chasm of cheese that made us leave ‘80s rock behind in the first place. “Touch Response” blends cold math-rock percussive precision with incisive guitar, mechanical synth, warm bass and vox, and the acclamation that ties it all together - this is dancing! Let GGT take you back to the future. - Miss Kim The Ghost is Dancing The Darkest Spark Sonic Unyon Before I proceed, let’s make one thing clear: I have little stomach for rock outfits describing themselves as “collectives.” And by collectives, I mean those that boast over half-a-dozen members in attempts to grasp some “epic” quality. There are a few exceptions, but generally, the whole approach ranks high on the gimmick meter. And with this bias declared, here comes the part that focuses on one of these so-called collectives: the Ghost is Dancing. On The Darkest Spark, this Toronto-based venture and its nine members try to pack a whole lot into their debut LP. And like most of these over-bloated projects, this is where it goes wrong. The overabundance of instrumentation, added to dueling vocal lines and build-up after build-up becomes one tired and overly active mess, stripping away any sense of detail or subtlety. If they could whittle all their half-baked ideas down into a few decent ones and actually focus, they might have something here. But unfortunately, they don’t. - Brock Thiessen
Gojira The Link Listenable I don’t know how the fuck this one shot past Von Bentley’s radar, but lucky me gets to sit back and fiddle with my barbed-wire catheter while listening to 11 excruciating tracks of admittedly well-performed screamo-arrgh shit that falls somewhere between Dimmu Borgir’s death metal and Tool’s metallic prog. And they do have the good taste to name themselves after Godzilla’s real name. But they’re from France, which means that underneath all the black wardrobes and the lowbrow snarls, they’re still a quartet of cowards who can’t defend their country from invasions from Britain or Germany, or stop their food from being drowned in thick sauces. This sort of shit might tickle the underside of the scrotums of the guys in Goatsblood or Infernal Majesty, but I think it’s time to move on, which is what I’ve been telling my deadass brother for weeks now, but the sonofabitch still won’t get off my couch. - Johnny Kroll The Hits Hello Everybody, We Are… Independent Ever wanted some early Stones with your Ramones? Do you find yourself sour over the fact that the Hives have been too busy propelling their own overblown hype to put out a decent album in the past seven years (check out their latest concoction with that shmuck Timbaland and then go throw up all over yourself). Need some good downhome medicine to remedy your woes? Well, the Hits could be your new favourite band. This debut is a collection of punchy threechord garage rock ditties that’ll have you cock-strutting your way to oblivion. Warning: Prolonged listening to this album may result in forfeited damage deposits, unpleasant encounters with the law, broken hearts and
one-night stands, nymphomania, pyromania, kleptomania, cirrhosis of the liver, and sweaty fits of tit-blistering joy. The Nerve Magazine will, in no way, be held responsible for any harm incurred (bodily or otherwise) while listening to this record. - Devon Cody Krum Bums As the Tide Turns TKO Damn, I thought I already reviewed this but here it is in a largish pile of CD’s begging for my attention. I’d toss it on the rubbish pile and let crows peck at it, but As the Tide Turns is actually a formidable hunk o’ polyvinyl. From the thrashed-out attack of “Fall” to the melodic fury of “Scratching On the Eight Ball,” As the Tide Turns is a ripper from beginning to end. This one works for me because it brings a punk sensibility to thrash metal, and it’s good and heavy without being too noisy to hear the vocals and lyrics. Even if I don’t particularly care what a band is singing about, I still like to know what the gawddamned song is called. Is that too much to ask? Anyway, this one stays with me instead of going to the record store to be converted into grocery money. Two horns up. - Chris Walter
groundbreaking or original since it’s a lot like their past records, but at least it doesn’t sound like In Flames. - David Von Bentley Make The Lion s/t Independent There’s still a lot of life left in the world of post-Radiohead prog-psychedelia, as the debut album from Make the Lion makes clear. Adam Basanta’s haunting murmur of a voice (imagine Thom Yorke guesting in Echo & the Bunnymen) floats above the dreamy textures of his guitar work, which is only about halfeffective; it’s almost impossible to tell what he’s singing about, but the melancholy mood of the record as a whole points towards a dour, almost retro-British world of gloom, disappointment, and defeat. Smokestack soot smeared on chipped brick walls and all that. Which is not to say that Make the Lion writes bad songs – quite the opposite, to be sure. Basanta’s inventive and interesting trio is rounded out by the melodic chops of bassist/keyboardist/vocalist Cole BirneyStewart and the skilled trapsmanship of Andy Hodgson. This is definitely intelligent rock for the thinking soul, and shows great promise of things to come from one of Vancouver’s more impressive young bands. - Ferdy Belland Jesse Malin Glitter in the Gutter Adeline Prior to this, I had never even heard of Jesse Malin, even though he fronted the allegedly “seminal” hardcore NY punk band Heart Attack and later achieved minor critical acclaim with the glam punk band D Generation. Given the fact that he managed to wrangle up the likes of Jakob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, Josh Homme, and Ryan Adams to contribute on this, his third solo album, he’s either got some serious talent or the right suits in his corner. Upon further listen, I’ve concluded that it’s probably a bit of both. The posse of contributors he wrangled up should tell you a lot about the kind of music Malin makes – lyrical roots rock with no shortage of love songs or ragged anthems of hope and freedom. Much of this album feels like it’s been manufactured for pop radio, but come to think of it, I’d take any of these songs over the crap that’s been pumped out of my radio these days. -Devon Cody Marco Polo Port Authority Rawkus This album is quite a feat on many levels. For one, Port Authority is the transposed New Yorker’s debut long player for the newly resurrected Rawkus, the label that once developed the likes of Mos Def, El-P, and Talib Kweli, among others. Marco just makes straight up old school boom-bap beats, but they’re already strong enough to deserve references to rap’s heyday. He’s already got the likes of Kool G Rap, Large Professor, Sadat X, Copywrite, Kenn Starr, and Kardinal Official (and the list of legends both current and future goes on) to grace his tracks with socially positive rhymes. Not enough for you? How about the fact this asshole is originally from Toronto. Granted, this isn’t the album to turn hip-hop on its head, but when you take in the whole package, you’ve got one of the most impressive hip-hop debuts in years. I know I sure as hell couldn’t have pulled it off, but, then again, I can barely tie my shoes without shitting my housecoat. - Filmore Mescalito Holmes Motherfuckers The Mother of All Fuckers Handsome Dan Handsome Dan must be like a shark who will drown if he doesn’t constantly release CD’s, even if it’s a collection of various singles and albums he’s already released. Either way, it’s hard to fault the guy, because this is a large collection of tasty skate-punk and it seems to me that there are a bunch of tracks here I haven’t heard before. Did I lose the press release, or did Mr. Dan not bother to send one? Oh, wait, it says right on the CD, “12 unreleased studio tracks plus the long-out-of print, If It Ain’t Puke It Ain’t Punk.” Well, there you have it, straight from the horses, er, Dan’s mouth. Beat me with a rhythm stick and call me stupid. - Chris Walter
that’s passing itself off as the real deal (read: failed rock bands who have made a positive career move by wearing shitkickers, Stetsons and shirts from Brad Damsgaard’s wardrobe). The miles that Mark has traveled hasn’t yet adversely affected her voice, although it is possible to hear a slightly more whiskeyand-nicotine-damaged “Linda Richman”-style timbre creeping in there, which - in its’ “lost weekend” sort of way - adds more authenticity to the whole shebang. Amid strong competition from Diona Davies’ emotive violin - er, sorry, fiddle - and guitar/mandolin yeomanship from Paul Rigby among others, Mark’s voice is still the main instrument in this sonic gumbo. Just don’t expect to hear it on a, y’know, real C&W station any time soon. - T.C. Shaw Jenny Omnichord Cities of Gifts and Ghosts Label Fantastic! A touchingly quaint batch of toe-tapping and smile-inducing synth-pop minimalism courtesy of the lovely Jenny Mitchell, who, as her stage name suggests, accompanies her deadpan-yet-melodic art gallery vocals with her trusty omnichord... with surprisingly cool results. “Gone So Far” is 2007’s “Friends of P.,” and that’s only the first song; “Ghost Flyers in the Sky” and “Nintendo City” are just as fun (and serious) as “When All My Days are Through” and “Skeletal Love Song.” This is thrift-shop urban folk music at its quirky Guelph finest, you bet. - Ferdy Belland Pig Destroyer Phantom Limb Relapse A fantastic acid-induced vision of death’s head sensibilities, replete with Art Nouveau renderings of skulls, body parts, flower petals, insect larvae and motifs based on organic forms found in nature, not unlike the familiar and well-known Alphons Mucha posters that originated in late 19th century Paris and which have since gone on to define a style of art worldwide. Well, so much for the cover artwork. Now, what does the music sound like? It sounds like this: “Yaaarrgghhh! Hoola hoola mnyaay! Uuuuurrgghhh! Arararararrrrghhh! (Boodly-boodly-boodly) Eeeyaagghhh! Nya-nya-nya-nya-mla-mla-nyaaahhh! (Shug-dug, shug-dug, shug-dug, boodly-boodly PSSSHHH!) Bee-yarrghhh-unghhh!!!” And maybe go to a bait store and pour a can full over your naked body as you read this again and again and again (preferably, under a strobe light). And take lots of speed. It’s like that. Thank you and good night. - T.C. Shaw Pissed Jeans Hope for Men Sub Pop It was only a matter of time before Sub Pop stopped pissing around with the indie pop and comedy records and got back to its rowdy and grungy roots. Hope for Men is the second record by Allentown, PA’s Pissed Jeans – a band that wouldn’t have been out of place in the angst-filled early ‘90s. Calling to mind some of Seattle’s flannel-clad elder statesmen (Mudhoney, Tad, Nirvana, Melvins, et al), this album is a welcome relief to those disenchanted by the overall lack of rawness in today’s popular indie music. And like all good post-hardcore/pre-Alternative Nation records, Hope for Men has brawn and humour. Like Black Flag and the Butthole Surfers who came before them, Pissed Jeans can blast deep, dirty riffs one minute only to preach mini-sermons on such varied topics as the joys of flipping through photo albums (“Scrapbooking”) and the banality of the middle-upper class (“The Jogger”). Could this be the start of a grunge revival? Probably not, but worse things could happen. - Adam Simpkins
REVIEWS
Fridge The Sun Temporary Resistance Six years and well worth the wait, the first Fridge full-length since 2001’s Happiness is destined for indie best-of-year-end-list glory. The lengthy hiatus wasn’t fear or a lack of creativity, you know. Kieran Hebden has released several incredibly buzzed albums, both under his given name in conjunction with the legendary Steve Reid and as the folk-tronica guru Four Tet, while Adem Ilhan found release for a couple electronic folk albums on the influential Domino label. With drummer Sam Jeffers rounding out the trio, they don’t just pick up where they left off, but delve headlong into a new realm of aural barrage. The field recordings, frozen folk samples, and abstract, ambient electronic noodlings Kieran has become famous for meet with Adem’s downplayed post-rock sensibilities over Jeffers’ backbone drums to forge a weapon of unimaginable indie power. The sun is, after all, the greatest power
Lake of Tears Moons and Mushrooms Dockyard 1 Well, goth-metal fans, Lake of Tears is back with their first album in three years and, well... it’s Lake of Tears. Not really sounding much different than Black Brick Road, but that’s not really a bad thing in this case. As far as I’m considered simple is in, and complex wank-off riffs are out. Moons and Mushrooms is full of simple catchy riffs that never delve into doom territory – thankfully - and is a welcome change from their many Swedish counterparts. Also, on the plus side you get some Hammond organ that always makes a spicy Swedish meatball in musical terms. But like most Swedish bands, their English lyrics are pretty weak, and the singer (Daniel Brennare) drones on with an almost comically painful tone. But it’s nice to hear simple, catchy metal come from Sweden once in a while. I’m not saying that this album is
Carolyn Mark Nothing Is Free Mint This is the fifth solo effort from Sicamous, BC’s answer to Tammy Wynette, and is described by the (unusually helpful) accompanying hype sheet as her most “woodsy, introspective” album to date. Generally speaking, the vibe is a sort of throwdown to the nouveau-pseudo-C&W
Queens of the Stone Age Era Vulgaris Interscope There’s been something missing from the Queens’ music since Josh Homme canned his right hand man, Nick Oliveri. It’s been tough to pin down until now, but Era Vulgaris makes it apparent that the groove is mostly gone. The opening track is a blend of what we’ve come to love from the band – unconventionally catchy rock, and what this album eventually brings to the table; namely, a leaner, noisier, more mechanical sonic beast. It’ll keep you listening – even if it is with some apprehension - but with some exceptions, Era Vulgaris is an experiment in chunky, robotic percussion, clunky renegade guitar riffs, and still more falsetto vocals from Homme. Even the most loyal fans will have to grit their teeth and take a leap of faith to get into this one. One is inclined to wonder if Era Vulgaris is a concerted attempt to challenge the mainstream, or just the product of a band that needs to rediscover some
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ALBUM REVIEWS is just so… I dunno… impotent, kinda like a snarling, frothing pit bull, but with, y’know, no legs. Or, picture a massive, roaring Harley Davidson that your neighbor sits on and revs constantly, but never rides anywhere. I’m sorry to say it, but for all the lowbrow potential this disc offers, they’re more like a choking bird. - T.C. Shaw
sense of direction. - Devon Cody Rocket Fins C’mon Flying Saucer There’s something immediately likeable and familiar about the Rocket Fins debut album. It’d be easy to try dismissing them into the lump of rockabilly bands that have all the originality of a second-rate Elvis impersonator but this is not the case. It’s the modest approach these guys take to their music that wins me over – rare, in a genre that boasts more self-absorbed egomaniacs than the US senate. Aside from some fucking amazing guitar work it’s obvious that C’mon isn’t aiming to be all slick and cooler-thanyou. Rather, it’s rough around the edges and therefore bears a hell of a lot more similarity to the proper rockabilly born out of Sun Records in the ‘50s. This is music with soul. Singer Nen Jelicic may not have the best vocals but there’s no doubt that he’s singing from the heart. I’ll take that over some stuttering, soulless, reverb-soaked jerk any day. - Devon Cody Tim Ross Blue Sky, Green Grass Blue Leaf Music With his debut solo album, Buffalohead vocalist-guitarist Tim Ross steps somewhat aside from his trademark rip-roaring electric blues-rock and ends up here with an enjoyable 15-tune collection of storytelling songs that keep true to Ross’ rural-loving yet urban-sophisto worldview. “Plastic Life” and “Dream House” are knowing sneers towards clueless upper-crusties, and the one-two punch of “Day After Day” and “Work Time” gives the annoying slacker ethic a well-deserved boot to the ass. Ross’ witty humour comes forth through slices-of-life like “Fish God” and his rewrites of Hank Williams’ “Settin’ the Woods on Fire” and Ray Davies’ “Lola” (offered here as the antihippie ballad-rocker “Granola”). The album’s spiced up with some uptempo rockers that wouldn’t be out of place on a Buffalohead album (“My Sister’s Friends,” “My Baby Won’t Ride”), covering a broad span of styles which showcase Tim Ross as a songwriter for all seasons. A solid debut from a solid Canadian songwriter, unsung no longer. - Ferdy Belland
Society’s Parasites s/t Hellcat At first, the vocals threw me off, being somewhat harsher than I prefer, but after a few songs I began to warm to the all-out attack. I’d like it better if I could make out a few lyrics now and then, but who really gives a fuck what anyone has to say anyway? If adrenaline and speed is what you’re after, along with admittedly good musical chops, then Society’s Parasites might be the vermin for you. Fifteen super-fast songs, most of them less than two minutes long. - Chris Walter Sonata Arctica Unia Nuclear Blast Chris Walter says: Every once in a while, the music editor will slip me something like this just to mess with my head. Over the years, I’ve found many innovative things to do with CD’s that I don’t know how to review, but since I already have enough coasters to host a Shriner’s convention, I thought I’d send this one to my son Max in Winnipeg. The boy likes his metal, unlike boring old punk rock dad. Here’s what Max had to say… “The release of Unia marks the long-anticipated return of Sonata Arctica after their last release, Reckoning Night in 2004. This album provides a crisp melodic sound with excellent composition, an assembly of heavy guitar licks, signature keyboarding, powerful bellows and enchanting melody. Many tracks on the album deserve considerable recognition. “In Black and White,” “The Harvest,” and “Paid In Full” are sure to grab everyone’s attention. Among many instruments played are the bouzouki, chromaharp, cavaquinho, and the Q-chord. While Sonata Arctica evolve into a fresh musical style, they would sooner sacrifice record sales than compromise their true metal sound. Unia proves that Sonata have always, and will always be, a staple in power metal.” - Max “Metalhead” Marak Three Inches Of Blood Fire Up the Blades Roadrunner After a long, tense three-year wait, we finally see Vancouver’s favorite heavy-metal warriors release the follow-up to the brilliant Advance and Vanquish, and how does it sound? To use the academic critical approach of the ruling class: it fucking kicks major ass, bubba. This is a chilling breath of fresh air from the craggy icebound peaks of Niffelheim which sweeps away all the foul, corruptive nu-metal / metalcore bullshit that has mongrelized the purity of the heavy metal scene for over 10 long years. This sort of astounding chops-ridden metal madness hasn’t been written, performed, and recorded in plenty since the halcyon days of thrashmetal yesteryear, circa 1988. It’s difficult to convey the heart-thumping thrill one gets when drinking in sheer lyrical genius like: ‘Impervious to fire / impervious to steel’, but the strength and spine of any solid metal is the convincing fantasy-escapist suspension of disbelief and I am a true believer. Death to False Metal! Mount your steeds, draw your gleaming falchion with the hissing rasp from the scabbard, and howl screaming into the shivering, huddled masses of the black bangs and the white belts! Woe to you, of Earth and Sea, for Three Inches of Blood sends the Beast with wrath, for they know the time is short. If any album of 2007 threatens to stake Gerard Way’s bloody, mascara-smeared head atop the diamond gateposts of Hell, it is this one. - Ferdy Belland
JUST LIKE IT at my disposal. If nothing else I’ll give him points for consistency. Talk about rock steady. - Devon Cody
Sanctuary”, and the Minders’ spin on ELO’s “Don’t Bring Me Down”. Did I mention this was for a charitable cause? - Devon Cody
Two Hours Traffic Little Jabs Bumstead While Two Hours Traffic may not understand the mechanics behind punctuation, thankfully they’ve grasped those of the pop song. On their second full-length, Little Jabs, this Charlottetown band stirs up the sort of folk-infused power pop that packs as many punches as it does hooks. Produced by Halifax’s man from the back of the film, Joel Plaskett, the album possesses a distinctly East Coast sound, at times, reminiscent of Murder Records’ in its prime. And like the producer, Two Hours Traffic show a great sense of balance and diversity, playing many rock-based numbers like “No Advances” off slower, groove-oriented ones, such as “Arms Akimbo.” However, occasionally the band’s sound sticks too much to the straight and narrow, making certain tracks, such as “Heroes of the Sidewalk” and “Jezebel,” a bit too dorm-friendly for comfort. Nonetheless, Two Hours Traffic does a decent job of turning Little Jabs into a tasty little pop nugget. - Brock Thiessen
V/A Oppression Disco Compilation OD Magazine Another compilation from Maple Ridge, who sources tell me is fast becoming the new East Van. This one features a host of Vancouver bands, many I recognize, and some I do not. Musically, this is more varied than the Canada/Russia compilation, ranging from the skate punk of the Excessives, the pop punk of the Bad Amps, the ska of the Furious, and much more. Along with a few bands who must be from Italy or somewhere, there are also a few tracks from bands that don’t exist anymore (Offday, Lancasters). Overall, Oppression Disco is a well-rounded and entertaining listen. Good shit. - Chris Walter
Tyler Read Only Rock & Roll Can Save Us Immortal When Tyler Read (which, like ‘Jethro Tull’, ‘Max Webster’ and ‘Ozzy Osbourne’, is not a real person), tell us that Only Rock & Roll Can Save Us, they mean only rock & roll can SAVE us. As in soul, sinner. ‘Cos these five believers are full-on Christianos, hombre. And there’s likely not much horseplay goin’ on in this particular Bible camp, what with this band’s extremely busy, multi-layered, almost “first Queen album”-like sound. Did I mention busy? I mean, how could these guys could find the time to get into anything resembling trouble with such a full palette of guitars, overdubbed vocals and drumming fireworks goin’ on, but at the end of the day, the songs start to collapse under the sheer weight of their own ambition. Somewhere, there’s a perfect balance between balls-out fury and technically accomplished virtuosity (with a side order of unvarnished art in there somewhere), but this ain’t it. - T.C. Shaw V/A The Black Crow Project Independent I’m immediately struck by the irony of indie bands making a CD in support of the DTES, since whenever any group gets their gear stolen, somebody from the “War Zone” is most likely at the bottom of it. The other thing is, almost nobody I know likes crows. That notwithstanding, the Black Crow Project deserves kudos for its altruistic intent, as well as a decent offering of music. Lots of these kinds of things are made up of discarded outtakes from other album sessions (in other words, songs that didn’t make the cut on some band’s own album), while the “cause” in question sometimes comes second to the goodwill props and exposure (read: career boost) that can result from inclusion on such a disc. Since this is such a particularly local situation, the motives are less in question here, although it’s worth noting that the tracks are – while not exclusively – mainly acoustic-based, almost as if any electric group the Project might have approached had said something like, “No way, man! We got our P.A. ripped off just last week! Fuck them!” - T.C. Shaw
V/A First Breath of Defiance (Canada/Russia compilation) OD Magazine I got this from a guy in Maple Ridge who puts out OD fanzine (Ominous Defiance). They must be putting something in the beer out there, because this is some fucked up shit. I’m just guessing, but I’ll bet it wasn’t easy to get this thing together, what with the language barrier and all. I’m not sure which is more barren, Russia or Maple Ridge, but at least they have that in common. Maybe not so coincidentally, both sides are also on the crust/grind side of things, with little variation in the barrage of fury that poured forth from my speakers. I’m probably biased but Vancouver bands Jones Bones and the Likely Rads were the standouts here, though I’ll have to give this a few more listens to see what else emerges from this sludge pot of growly vocals and “Evil D” guitars. Impressive. - Chris Walter Laura Viers Saltbreakers Nonesuch/Warner Judging from Viers’ earnest gaze (gracing the back cover art, flanked as she is by her band of three beardo-weirdos, in suits, no less!), you’d expect the disc to be a collection of ethereal dirges with lyrics that sound like Emily Dickinson outtakes. And, to a degree, it is, but to be fair, there’s more to it than mere bookish whining (not that it hurt Morrissey’s career at all, come to think of it). The arrangements change the texture of the fare, if not the flavour. Behind Viers’ angelic voice are strings, percussion, pianos and wistful, childlike voices (provided by the Cedar Hill Choir), all adding depth and persuasive atmosphere to songs one suspects were originally worked up on an acoustic guitar in a one bedroom loft filled with books, scented candles and Hummel figurines. But then, at this point, I can write practically anything I want, since most of you probably stopped reading this when you hit ‘Emily Dickinson’. - T.C. Shaw
womb alive. One has to give it to Epitaph subsidiary Anti for having a sharp eye for tastefully resurrecting lost songwriting treasures like Wagoner. If one enjoyed Johnny Cash’s American Recordings series of 1990s albums and/or Loretta Lynn’s Jack Whiteproduced Van Lear Rose, it’s not a long shot to guess that one would also find much to love about Wagonmaster. Now get cracking on eBay, get those out-of-print Porter/Dolly duets, and take those goddamned George Canyon CDs to the pawnshop right fucking NOW. - Ferdy Belland Wax Mannequin Orchards & Ire Infinite Heat The fourth album from the eccentric genius Chris Adeney shows just why he, as Wax Mannequin, is the indie-rock pride of Hamilton ON - and one of the brightest talents in Canada. Orchards & Ire strikes with the screaming, shattering impact of a killer asteroid, which might just be Adeney’s master plan. “Animals Jump” is a three minute 7/8time sweat-shaker about beasties fighting to their favorite songs; “Robots, Master, and Lady” kicks things up in a fine display of Adeney’s powerful vocals, stellar guitaristry, clever arrangements, and brilliantly bizarre wordplay (much in the Don Van Vliet school of hokum hyper-intelligence) – the hallmarks of any Wax Mannequin album. Topics found here include pencils, war, the daily news, and more animals. Whereas his previous work was mostly handled by Adeney himself, this time he’s backed up by fine musicians, and the album’s overall production is lush and full and huge, a big step up from his first recordings. If you thought that The Price was your favorite sleeper-hit album for the college dorm and the art gallery, think again. The new Wax is he’s better than ever. Could someone please remind me exactly why Chad Kroeger keeps being awarded Junos? Hello? - Ferdy Belland The White Stripes Icky Thump Warner White Stripes fans may have balked when the duo dropped the rushed and sonically bereft Get Behind Me Satan in 2005, but Icky Thump should sweeten the soured and maybe even help accrue a few more fans along the way. For starters, this is a loud record: almost every track here grabs a huge arena-ready crunching chorus and puts it to good use. But Icky Thump is also the most audacious the band has ever been. “Conquest” is replete with Mariachi horns and Jack’s booming war cry, while “Effect and Cause” takes the heart and soul of Schoolhouse Rock! in order to teach the tenets of romantic causality. Arguably the band’s best effort to date, album number six emphasizes that the White Stripes are truly in a league of their own; don’t expect former peers the Von Bondies or the Datsuns to ever reach a plateau like this. - Adam Simpkins
ALBUM REVIEWS
Sea Wolf Get to the Rive Before It Runs Too Low Dangerbird Each time you think we’ve reached the maximum number of wolf and wolf-related bands, another comes along, the latest being Sea Wolf. But Sea Wolf isn’t actually a band per se. In fact, it’s one of those singer/ songwriters who adopt a clever - or not so clever - band moniker, only to drop it years later for his true name. So in this case, we’re really talking about Alex Brown Church. For a few years, he’s been releasing home recordings where he sings all sensitive-like over an acoustic and one found its way into the hands of producer extraordinaire, Phil Ek (Built to Spill, the Shins). Ek was so taken by the disc that he helped Church land a deal and recorded this EP. So, any good? Well that depends on you. If you regularly find yourself saying, “Yes, I am a Shins fan,” and refer to Sufjan as “the messiah,” then you’re going to be all over this. If not, you might want to keep your distance. - Brock Thiessen
Smoking Bird Naughty Little Girls Independent Who doesn’t love sleazy, bad-ass rock & roll? You? Well, why are you reading the Nerve, then, Brenda? Anyway, how can you not like an album cover of a hot chick in a tight skirt poking her ankle with a shot of dope-diddleyope? It’s nasty, anti-social rebelliousness to the extreme. How could the music fail to deliver? Here’s how: even with the promising musical premise of a Black-Crowes-meetsMotorhead sound (replete with its attendant “who gives a fuck?” attitude), Spanish rawk export Smoking Bird just can’t kick out the jams. It doesn’t help much that lead vocalist Pablo “Chazz” Lalanda is almost totally lost in the mix, but more importantly, the disc
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The Toasters One More Bullet Stomp There are few genres in which a band can stick to the exact same musical formula and maintain a fan base for 25 years. Ska is one of those genres and as far as American purveyors of this music go, the Toasters are dinosaurs. They paved the way for the American ska movement in the ‘80s and 2007 sees them further avoid extinction with the release of their 15th album. One More Bullet really doesn’t sound all that different from their debut Skaboom. If you like that, you’ll like this. I’m amazed at founding (and only original member) Rob Hingley’s attention span. How a person doesn’t get bored of this stuff after a quarter of a century is a marvel. Don’t get me wrong. It’s fun, peppy, goodtime music. But there are 11 other albums
V/A Bridging the Distance – a Portland OR Covers Compilation Arrco This compilation was put together as a benefit for p:ear, a non-profit program for homeless and transitional youth. It features 19 covers by the likes of the Decemberists, the Dandy Warhols, Death Cab for Cutie’s Christopher Walla, and Spoon’s Britt Daniel – just to name a few. The songs covered range from a fucking terrible version of the Doobie Brothers’ “What a Fool Believes” (I wouldn’t have dreamed you could make this song worse) to Jimmy Cliff’s “The Harder They Come” and Heart’s “Crazy on You”. Given the charitable intentions of this project (check out www.pearmentor.org), I’m probably taking a step closer to eternal damnation by saying this but I would rather listen to a bunch of pasty indie rock gaylords sing bad karaoke at some sushi joint-turnedexclusive-scenester-spot-of-the-month. The Snuggle Up’s synthed-up version of Springsteen’s “Dancing in the Dark” deserves to be especially shat upon. Some tracks that deserve praise are Whip’s Neil Young-inspired take on Billy Idol’s “White Wedding”, the Dandy Warhol’s spacey version of “She Sells
Von Südenfed Tromatic Reflexxions Domino God, Mark E. Smith can make anything sound good. If someone had pitched to me an album of German electronica, the chances of it getting a good review would be somewhere slightly above naught, but add to the mix god-like genius and all round miserable sod Smith, and it becomes great stuff. How does that happen? Von Südenfed is collaboration between the aforementioned Fall mainstay and Jan St Werner and Andi Toma of Mouse on Mars. The disparity between their banging techno punk and Smith’s vocals is so wrong in concept but so right in sound that it makes you wonder if there’s anything Mark E. Smith can’t pretty up with a bit of his Manc nonsense chatter. When you hear (on the track “Family Feud”) “I am the great MES,” you know there’s no arguing. Oh, and the photo of Smith on the cover has taken 20 years off him. - Stephanie Heney Porter Wagoner Wagonmaster Anti It’s such a warm, fuzzy feeling to see fresh new albums of strong, smile-inducing material from the grand old men and women of the long-gone classic era of country music (that is, the pre-Urban Cowboy era). Such a grand old man is Mr. Porter Wagoner, best known as the silver-maned skinny fellow who discovered Dolly Parton and turned a young Gram Parsons onto rhinestoneencrusted Nudie suits, and even though he’s pushing 80 he’s written a 17-song collection of instant classic-country anthems of solemn heartbreak and Southern Gothic revelry that make it seem as if Alan Jackson and Keith Urban never should have made it out of the
Wrinkle Neck Mules The Wicks Have Met Lower 40 Richmond, Virginia’s Wrinkle Neck Mules have their hooves firmly planted in old-style country, and mix foot-stomping tunes with traditional pedal steel, mandolins, banjos and both electric and acoustic guitar. This is their third full-length release in the eight years they have been together, and it is entirely self-produced and engineered, (although on previous releases they have worked with Chris Kress, Dave Matthews’ engineer). A good few of the tracks on The Wicks Have Met are perfect barroom sing-along boozy favourites and the band’s talent for harmonizing their vocals works particularly well for this type of Americana roots music. Although proud of their traditional country aesthetic, they aren’t afraid to mix in some rock elements, and Mason Brent, lead guitarist, has Led Zeppelin inclinations, while the rest of the band are unashamed Bonnie “Prince” Billy devotees. These elements in particular are what keep the Wrinkle Neck Mules apart from the slightly duller tradCountry pack. - Stephanie Heney
CD / DVD REVIEWS
WORST CD OF THE MONTH
Bon Jovi
Lost Highway Island/Mercury/Universal The opening track of Bon Jovi’s 14th album contains the line, “Say goodbye to mediocrity,” but even before it’s over, I can’t help thinking, ‘Goodbye to mediocrity!? More like hello, doncha think?’ I mean, given their penchant for hyper-polished, overwrought power balladry and sonically manicured, fist-pumping rock anthems - or, rather, ‘soft-rock’ anthems, none of which seem to sound out of place on any radio station that positions itself as ‘my music at work’ (read: nothing that would actually distract anybody from such tasks as ‘dental lab technician’ or ‘sandwich artist’ or ‘rock writer’) – who’d be crazy enough to expect something beyond 32 flavours of vanilla from Bon Jovi, albeit rich, overpriced vanilla? It doesn’t take much effort to brand them
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as lame, but keeping the reasons why down to a manageable 300 words or so, now that’s a task. First off, it’s bad enough when music made by our favorite iconic delinquents of yore is co-opted into becoming background music, used to sell everything from new cars to life insurance to the baby boomers who grew up with it, but to make so-called “new music” that sounds so seemingly calculated to blend effortlessly with a deep, reassuring voice-over that says something like “Prudential. Because it’s your life.” (visual image: happy Republican-voting mom and dad open-armed, about to embrace their 2.5 kids and black lab who are running towards them, in slow motion), well, it’s enough to make you wish that the band’s home state of New Jersey enforced the death penalty for this sort of thing. And I haven’t even mentioned this yet: this is a fuckin’ country album, anyway, and as bland as the scenery on the album’s cover. Well, not country in the Johnny Cash / Hank Williams / Patsy Cline sense – that music doesn’t really exist any more – it’s country in the sense that it’s cliché-ridden pablum that’s so slick it’s friction-proof, and when you watch the trite imagery pile up like spent missile shells in a Baghdad vacant lot, you have to ask a question about what kind of people blindly accept this kind of soulless, cookie-cutter dreck, even if it is well done (which it is, but so what?). God bless Bon Jovi, but it’s a vain hope at best, because they are, without a doubt, going to Hell for making this painfully artless shit stain of an album. On a scale of 1 to 10, I give it a Mairead Ashe. - T.C. Shaw
The Charlie Daniels Band Volunteer Jam DVD Eagle Rock
They’re best known for a certain ‘80s crossover hit concerning a fiddle competition between the Devil and some good ol’ boy, but the Charlie Daniels Band were a well-above average roadhouse band of talented bubbas whose Volunteer Jams, I’m told, are “legendary”. This is the second Volunteer Jam, captured on film in 1975, and subsequently released as “The First Full-Length Southern Rock Motion Picture”
in ’76. If you’re not familiar with their music outside of The Big Hit, “Birmingham Blues” is an early surprise, being a proggier, niftily syncopated take on the ol’ 1-4-5, while keyboardist Joel di Gregorio makes a strong impression in “Whiskey”, barking the back-up vocals, and framed against a whirring Leslie speaker as sweat drips from his overgrown side-beards. The avuncular Daniels does a lot of between-song talking but fuck knows what he’s saying with that crazy accent. He’s emerged as something of a caricature of the brain dead reborn Christian redneck in the last few years, calling for the destruction of the Muslim world or something equally retarded, and you should keep that in mind during the outlaw country of “Long Haired Country Boy”; a hymn to free-thinking, and dope-smoking, augmented by shots of the portly Daniels riding a horse. I think there’s a guest guitarist on this, but I’m not sure. Daniels says something like, “Thank yer, they’s a raang darn ding dang a-darn ‘n’ o’ farn darnin’,” or something. Subtitles would have been nice, thanks, Eagle Rock. On the other hand, there are generous shots of Daniels’ fat, Wrangler-clad ass, so never let it be said that Volunteer Jam has nothing for the ladies. There’s a song called “Funky Junky” that sounds like “La Grange”, and has lines about “muskrat BBQ” and sleeping on the railroad track. Daniels breaks out the fiddle
for the sped-up western swing of “Texas”, providing a nice break from the endless soloing. His fiddle is NOT shiny, nor is it made of GOLD. “The South’s Gonna Do it (Again)” name checks ZZ Top, the Allman Brothers, and Dickie Betts, who joins them later for Billie Joe Shaver’s “Sweet Mama” (“writteng by a good freend ‘a airs…” - Betts) The flute player from the Marshall Tucker Band, and the sax guy from Wet Willie join the band for “No Place to Go” (cracker jazz/exotica). I wonder what it was like being a flute player in the southern states, in the ‘70s? A little quiet, for the most part? Not that this isn’t a great tune. Actually, this isn’t a great tune, but what do you want? It also has an utterly pointless bass solo, but dude, it’s 1975, in Musfreesboro, Tennessee, and you’re either down with this shit or you’re not. Snakeskin, denim, buckskin vests, cowboy hats, ugly, ugly people, all of the Marshall Tucker Band onstage by the end. Completely fuckin’ awesome in other words. I wish I was there, right now, ‘cause I could listen to this fine garbage all day long. Dope, whiskey, two drummers, and southern militia-hippies playing guitars? You know who you are. Volunteer Jam gets a 91/2 out of 10 if you’re me or Steve Newton, and a big fat zero if you spend the majority of your time blogging about the new Frog Eyes album. - Adrian Mack
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SWM seeks SWF who remembers The Boz. A+ in Anatomy. But college isn’t all activism and vengeance: the H.O.T.S. girls know that the key to successful higher learning isn’t all studying & tutorials—it’s also winning wet t-shirt contests at Club Climax. Ultimately, H.O.T.S. teaches the audience that education is all about balance—especially not losing yours during the big strip-football game. -Robyn Dugas
Movie Pick of the Month
The Abandoned (2006) Dir: Nacho Cerda
Stone Cold (1991) Dir: Craig R. Baxley
I can’t think of any good reason why this movie was re-issued except that someone must have been on extremely powerful drugs. Look no further than the top billing in Stone Cold, Brian Bosworth, if you don’t believe me. ‘The Boz’ was a terrific college linebacker known for having weird hair and running his mouth off a lot. He got drafted by the Seattle Seahawks in the late 80’s and was signed to the biggest contract in team history. After three disappointing seasons he suffered a career ending shoulder injury (the highlight of his career was getting run over by Bo Jackson). He was also in the WWF and a colour commentator in the XFL if memory serves me correctly. What I’m getting at here is no one wanted to see a movie starring this guy in 1991. Why the hell would anyone want to see it in 2007? In Stone Cold he plays Joe Huff, a bad-ass police officer with a bleach blonde mullet and a pet komodo dragon—think of him as a beefier Dolph Lundgren with inferior acting chops. He’s recruited by the FBI to go undercover in Mississippi as John Stone to takedown a ruthless biker gang called ‘The Brotherhood’ run by Lance Henriksen. These bikers are bad and they do insane shit like shooting cans of beer off each other’s heads with Uzis for fun. The Boz is able to infiltrate the gang in a few days by winning a fight, winning a motorcycle race, threatening a bunch of people and pretending to kill a guy. After earning his colours, he enacts a convoluted plan that will see The Brotherhood and the Mississippi Mafia wind up behind bars. But shit goes sideways when the guy Stone was supposed to have killed resurfaces. The film climaxes with the brazen assassination attempt of a gubernatorial candidate in broad daylight that sees the bikers taking over the Mississippi State Capitol building and Lance Henriksen killing about eight judges with the single pull of an Uzi trigger. Everything about this movie is extreme. When people get shot they fly 20 feet through the air. When people trip they fly 20 feet through the air. When people get punched they only fly five feet through the air but tend to do backflips. If you look at a car funny, it will explode. If you make eye contact with a female, she’ll whip her tits out. This is the kind of R-rated action flick that doesn’t get made anymore and I love it. I’m pretty sure Stone Cold is what The Simpsons’ writers were watching when they came up with McBain. I really wish this DVD had a commentary track though. I’d like to know what director Craig R. Baxley (Action Jackson an, I Come in Peace, and Left Behind 3) was thinking when a motorcycle is ghostridden out a window into an airborn helicopter which causes an explosion and as the flaming wreckage falls on a parked car another explosion happens. That just doesn’t seem possible. This is the most insane movie re-issue in the history of time. If you’re reading this and you know about this movie and you enjoyed it, please contact me as I think we’d really get along. If you’re reading this and were in anyway involved with the financing of the re-issue of Stone Cold, I also request that you get in touch with me as I have some business opportunities I’d like to discuss. -Michael Mann
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There’s been a fair amount of hype surrounding Nacho Cerda’s debut feature. Sadly, most of it is unfounded. Cerda’s previous claim to fame is making a short called Aftermath. It bore such a close resemblance to that Alien Autopsy video that Cerda was accused of being the director in that Fox Alien Autopsy Expose that was hosted by Commander William T. Riker. With The Abandoned, Cerda tells the tale of Marie, an orphaned American woman who inherits a plot of land on an island in the nether regions of Russia. She treks out there to find out the true story of her parents and is… abandoned… by her guide. As she explores this rustic Russian cabin in the middle of nowhere, she sees her own doppelganger, so she runs and screams and falls into the water. When she awakens, she meets Nicolai, who claims to be her twin brother and that their mother had been murdered in the very house they’ve inherited. Nicolai also has a doppelganger lurching about and quickly discovers that when you shoot your doppelganger, you get shot too (a concept pioneered by Cheech and Chong in their opus The Corsican Brothers). The bridge is out. Marie can’t swim and even if she could, this island is impossible to escape. To make matters worse, it seems like Marie and Nicolai can’t even die no matter how hard they try. The longer they spend in the decrepit old cabin the more they’re haunted by ghostly specters. What does it all mean? I wish I could tell you but I don’t have a fucking clue. Cerdra spends the entire film creating an eerie mood and to his credit, The Abandoned looks wonderful. But while he’s doing this, the action is slow, repetitive and derivative, the story is difficult to follow and the movie, as a whole, is kind of boring because nothing really happens. Cerda is definitely a talent on the rise but this movie won’t keep your attention for very long. Perhaps he should have written in a part for Brian Bosworth or at least made a reference to him. That would have made The Abandoned way more entertaining. -Michael Mann
Stephen King DVD Collectors Set Okie Noodling (2001) Dir: Bradley Beesley
Okie Noodling is a short ‘n sweet documentary exploring the world of catfish handfishing. (The term having just been trademarked for my next punk band, so step off.) Handfishing, or “noodling” is a hobby/sport/conversation starter wherein some Southern guys get naked in a lake and wriggle their fingers until a 50 lb. catfish latches on, and yeehaw, we gots dinner! Due to the secretive nature of noodling and the so-earnest-it-hurts approach of director Bradley Beesley, the doc runs out of gas at about the 40minute mark. Still, Okie Noodling provides just enough history and context for the casual observer to sound really insightful at parties. Beesley, an Oklahoma native, treats his subjects with genuine awe, and I was pleasantly surprised/secretly disappointed that the film wasn’t a series of condescending vignettes a la Farrel in FUBAR. Instead, the noodlers featured were downright insightful especially about shared tendencies towards manual labour and the things forsaken in the name of noodling (cult fame on Letterman and children’s sporting events, to name two hilarious examples). Forget the promise that there hasn’t been anything this “funny and outrageous” since Jackass: the real genius lies in riddles like this: “I think I’ll noodle ‘til I die… unless that’s what kills me.” -Robyn Dugas
The Sergio Leone Anth. H.O.T.S. (1979) Dir: Gerald Seth Sindell
Don’t let the titillating title fool you: H.O.T.S. is a unique look at gender relations and class wars on the American college campus. Sick of being mocked by rich bitch Melody Ragmore, Honey Shane and friends decide to rise up and fight injustice using the time-honoured military tactic of seducing the enemy’s boyfriend. Not content to merely show it to the uptight bluebloods of Pi House, the H.O.T.S. girls also take a stand on important social issues. They rally for animal welfare, especially vulnerable species like their roommate Slinky the seal, and bears addicted to moonshine. They raise money to restore a heritage home on campus, through creative fundraising (kissing contests, topless skydiving). They even turn the tables on the scientific canon by showing that just because you fail the exam doesn’t mean you can’t get an
His first film, A Fistful of Dollars, was single-handily responsible for spawning what became known as the “Spaghetti Western” genre. Shot in Spain with an almost entirely Italian crew, the film was unlike any western before it. Leone’s cowboys were dirtier, his landscapes were darker, his narratives were more complex and morally ambiguous. His film also showed a stylistic departure from the traditional Western. His cinematography was unconventional and cleverly interwoven with a slick and sinister Ennio Morricone score. The movie also, famously, introduced Clint Eastwood as the ice-cold anti-hero “The Man with No Name”. The film would go on to become a huge success not only in Italy but in America as well, where the director and crew took fake American names in the credits of the film. Clint Eastwood would go on to reprises his role in the next two Leone’s films For a Few Dollars More and The Good the Bad and The Ugly to complete The Dollars Trilogy with each title becoming more internationally successful than the last. And while each film escalates in narrative ambition and scale of production, both stay remarkably true to the style of the first film. With the release of The Sergio Leone Anthology, MGM packages all three of the The Dollars Trilogy as well as Duck, You Sucker! (a/k/a A Fistful of Dynamite) into one beautifully packaged box set. -Danny Fazio
A Fistful of Dollars (1964); For a Few Dollars More (1965); The Good, The Bad and The Ugly (1966); Duck,You Sucker (1971) Dir: Sergio Leone
As the 60’s began, American film audiences began to tire of the classic Hollywood western with it’s antiquated notion of good and evil. It had become all too predictable, the good guy dressed in white, the villain dressed in black, the plots were trite morality plays which no longer seemed relevant to the times. But just as the Hollywood Western was in decline, the American West was re-invented in the most unlikely of places, Italy. While westerns had fallen out of favor in America, the Italians still had a thirst for the genre, and began producing their own. Sergio Leone, a young director who cut his teeth working on big budget sword-and-sandal epics at Cinecitta studios in Rome, became the foremost directors of this new cinema boom.
Carrie (1976) Dir: Brian de Palma; Misery (1990) Dir: Rob Reiner; The Dark Half (1991) George A. Romero; Needful Things (1993) Dir: Fraser Heston
When the market for one of its films has dried up, I imagine that a studio sees two remaining options. Either A) we can give this film up for lost - no one liked it anyways, so why continue to push something nobody wants? Or B) sure, on its own, nobody is going to buy this movie…but if we package it with one or two films they do like and charge a discounted price on the whole, we might just be able to squeeze a few more nickels out of this crap. I believe studios overwhelmingly prefer Option B, and in support of my theory, I present to you MGM’s upcoming Stephen King Collector’s Set as Exhibit A. Brian de Palma’s Carrie is easily the feature attraction of the set. As it’s been referenced in films and TV shows for a good 30 years, I will assume that all are familiar with its plot. Just in case, here’s a quick primer: Carrie White is an awkward high school senior who just doesn’t know how to fit in. Then something happens that turns her life upside down - the most popular boy in school asks her to the prom. She’s hesitant at first, but with the help of one of her teachers she gains newfound confidence, gets dressed up, and even puts on makeup for the first time in her life. Suddenly, the ugly duckling has become a beautiful swan! Does she get named prom queen? You’ll just have to watch and find out. Carrie was the first film adaptation of a Stephen King novel to hit the big screen, and without question is one of the best. De Palma keeps it stylish throughout, the acting is great, and the payoff is rivaled by few films, horror or otherwise. Also, human hair factory John Travolta is comedic gold. Director Rob Reiner has proven especially adept at bringing King novels to the big screen. Following four years after the success of his Stand By Me, Misery tells the story of pulp writer Paul Sheldon (James Caan), who, after a gruesome car accident, gets to spend the winter hanging out with his “Number 1 fan.” Kathy Bates is excellent as the emotionally retarded superfan, a woman who gushes over Paul’s writing one second, and cripples him with a sledgehammer the next. Though the final act is not quite up to the rest of the film, Misery still contains enough dark humour and suspense to make it a worthwhile addition to any King collection. The idea of a writer forced into writing to save his own life comes up again in George A. Romero’s The Dark Half. Romero’s willingness to embrace all the ludicrous elements of King’s plot - in which a writer’s fictitious alter-ego, who may or may not have been an unborn twin removed from the writer’s brain as a child, comes to life and starts killing people – firmly entrenches the film as a straight-up B-movie. As such, it has its successes – the acting’s not bad, the gore starts off strong, and there are one or two winning bits of comedy (notably the scene in which the killer makes a slow getaway on a window cleaner’s lift.) All in all, though, the story is too ludicrous, the killing too repetitive, and the scares too, what’s the word? Not scary. The final (and least essential) addition to the S.K. Collector’s Set is 1993’s Needful Things. Famous for being the worst film ever shot in Gibsons (sorry Beachcombers Reunion), direction this time is incapably handled by Charlton Heston’s son Fraser (on sabbatical from filming TV movies starring his dad). The less said about this film the better. Both Needful Things and The Dark Half show that when Stephen King movies go wrong, they can really go wrong. If there’s a “Number 1 fan” out there who really wants to collect the whole set, I hope for King’s sake he never has to meet them. That would be one sick individual. -Steven Evans
A Violent Professional: Luciano Rossi By Kier-La Janisse FAB Press
Author Kier-La Janisse, a righteous absorber of Eurotrash, is probably the best thing to ever happen to Vancouver film appreciation. She founded the Cinemeurte Horror Film Festival, Big Smash! Music-on-Film Festival, Bloodshots 48 Hour Horror Filmmaking Contest, the Criminal Cinema, Cannibal Culture/Cinemeurte Magazine, this list don’t end... Somewhere during Janisse’s tireless journey through European ‘sploitation (around Violent Naples) she got hooked on one peculiarly handsome, tough guy blondie popping up almost everywhere – only to be quickly dispatched! - so she writes a book.
Luciano Rossi, our man, is a recently deceased Italian bit part character actor. He’s blond (unusual for an Italian...), kinda short, hunchbacked in later life, and appears in 70+ genre films of the 60’s and 70’s. Westerns, particularly, but careens through horror, historical epic, poliziotteschi, spy flicks and more like any good Italian, often playing the sleazy villain’s even sleazier henchman: the thug who tries to rape the leading lady but gets shot by the hero. His standard on-screen time? Probably 2-10min. And in North American prints, he’s always dubbed. Never heard of him? Obviously! Doesn’t matter. KierLa is unusual for cinema essayists, in that she gets to the point quickly, so even Joe Hollywood who couldn’t give a flying fuck about Red Nights of the Gestapo can pick-n-browse with pleasure. A Violent Professional is a unique tribute, as removed from ‘serious’, analytical, detail-specific eurotrash bibles like Eyeball or Killing for Culture as it is from goofier, joyous fanzines like Cinema Sewer and Rick Trembles’ Motion Picture Purgatory. It’s a perfect-sized, full-colour 128-pager, and gorgeous to behold, with stark splashes of primary colours, blocks of Rossi film stills, and intoxicating vintage pulp poster art packed to the gills. And no surprise – the designer is Rob Jones, poster/album artist for the White Stripes, the Raconteurs, and the Strokes. The book, “a hard-bound Tigerbeat magazine dedicated to Luciano Rossi” (Kier-La’s words) is actually an awesome experiment in recapping an actor’s career. Rossi never ‘made it’ – his biggest role might be The Rover, alongside Rita Hayworth and Anthony Quinn – so film summaries are necessarily tangential. Is Rossi murdered in a memorable set-piece? Does he speak? Does he have a cool sneer? For Death Smiles on a Murderer, Janisse observes, “This is one of the most satisfying roles of Rossi’s career. His hair is great, and he dies a spectacular, gory death courtesy of a hand puppet.” Ha! There are star ratings for how much screen-time he gets (not for the film’s quality!), and a heart meter rates his cuteness. A Violent Professional is also a defense of the Great Character Actor – “The Al Pacinos of the world would be nothing without the John Cazales”, notes Janisse – and for any film geek in training, it’s a tight, sexy little guide to Euroobscurities you’ve yet to uncover... My favourite line? “Rossi plays a bespectacled Nazi doctor who looks at pregnant whore Sirpa Lane’s crotch close-up, then says, ‘Heil Hitler’. The End.” May the glory days of Italian Genre Cinema live forever in our hearts and toilets. -Dave Bertrand
Top Secret Tourism By Harry Helms Feral House
Made holiday plans yet? May I suggest the ionosphereigniting HAARP array in Gakona, Alaska? In Top Secret Tourism, Harry Helms has compiled a list of potential destinations including ICBM installations, chemical and bio-warhead depositories, proving grounds, bunkers, spook-training facilities, military schools for legendary third-world despots, space-war labs, homicidal private security outfits, and other clandestine amenities related to what he calls ‘Top Secret Government’. Broken down by state, Helms provides maps and plenty of advice about how to comport oneself when, for instance, approached by the fabled ‘Cammo Dudes’ who patrol the perimeter of Area 51. Helms also provides lucid summaries of the legends – true or otherwise – that surround the places he describes, making Top Secret Tourism a pretty useful compendium of American parapolitical hanky-panky. The Mena Airport in Arkansas, for instance, might be a pretty boring place on the face of it, but its role in Iran-Contra gives the isolated airstrip some almighty bad juju. It’s to Helms credit that he smuggles so much information into a brisk bathroom read, especially concerning matters such as the terminally underexamined Iran-Contra affair; a crime of almost unimaginable scale and evil, perpetrated by people that have not only escaped justice but have entrenched themselves even further as America’s political elite. This is the book’s great strength, in the end. While appealing to our fascination for Ian Fleming-sized supervillainy with the likes of Area 51 and NORAD’s truly mindboggling Cheyenne Mountain HQ (and believe me, Auric Goldfinger, Dr. No, and Blofeld combined had nothing on the US military/defence/intelligence establishment) Helms, meanwhile, provides a quiet and ultimately terrifying lesson in the gradual subversion and death of American democracy thanks to the National Security Act of 1947, and the various Constitution-shredding Executive Orders and black budget programs that came in its wake. I challenge anybody to read about the National Security Agency (NSA), or particularly the very sinister FEMA – about the furthest thing possible from a benign and incompetent disaster response outfit a la Katrina – and not suffer a mild reality-shift breakdown and attendant attack of life-altering paranoia. Which in turn means that any Canadian crossing the border with this
book lying on the dash has not properly internalized it. Helms strenuously advises American readers to keep their noses clean when checking out where untold gazillions of their tax dollars have gone, lest the Nazi mindset behind most of these places should be awakened and its full force brought down upon the head of some poor idiot who thinks it’s a gas to flip the bird to a Wackenhut stormtrooper, for instance. In fact, knowing what I now know about the NSA, I would assume that the simple act of holding this book will put you on a list. Not only that, the fact that you’re even reading this review means you’re probably being watched, RIGHT NOW, so you might as well go all the way and throw down 20 bucks for the fucking thing and embrace your fate. And happy (chem)trails, if you do! - Adrian Mack
Shouts From the Gutter By Chris Walter Gofuckyerself Press
I have to admit I wasn’t expecting what I found when I opened Chris Walter’s new book Shouts From the Gutter. Short stories? About 34 stories in total, interspersed with short poems written during various moments of Walter’s life. I was quite distraught at the thought of having to detach myself from his likeably flawed characters 34 times. This is always one effect of his writing I love - the way you can’t help but cling to the poor, battered beings in his books as they experience their highs and lows. Once I got over my initial shock, it became clear that Shouts From the Gutter shows Walter writing on a new level. The stories here range from experimental fiction, to more traditional Walter fare of junkies and whores, to snippets of first-person non-fiction. It’s a bizarre peak into the author’s head as you try to comprehend where and why he came up with some of these stories. In One of Us, Walter chronicles the lives of enslaved clown-creatures, captured and forced to be in the circus. Bask in the Bluish Light explores the insanity of television junkies and Flowers will have Red Deerians scoffing at the thought of one of their own buying used underwear online. More adventurous stories where Walter stretches his imagination and technique are Colossus, Call me Guinea Pig and Motel 99. Colossus talks of one man trying to find one bolt in a massive chain retail store and how it pushes him to the brink of insanity. Call me Guinea Pig talks of tainted water and over consumption and Motel 99 is an odd take on roadside motel horror. Walter’s more-often visited subject matter such as gritty street life and tales of homelessness and addiction shines through in Shave and a Haircut Parts 1 and 2, Under the Bridge,The King of Stanley Park, Buick Moon, Alfie & Kate to mention a few. From the creation of a homeless haven, pay-per-view Mecca and a war of power and retaliation between a pimp and a prostitute, to rape, numbness and addiction, and a crushing tale of junkyard-love – these short stories are tastes that will leave you craving more. Add in some (of what I believe are) non-fiction tales with This Ain’t No Basketball Diaries, Pain and Wastings and Fucked Up,Tattooed, & Toothless, and Walter completes a pleasing triangular experience for the readers. In these, he talks about the evolution of his neighbourhood, darker days in back alleys and the awkwardness of volunteering to help the homeless when he realizes how easily he could have ended up in their shoes. Once you start reading, Shouts From the Gutter - like
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Walter’s previously published works - will be one that you simply won’t put down. I found myself wanting many of these stories to go on for more than the five or so pages they often took up. Unfortunately I found the poetry got lost between the stories and I didn’t pay much attention to it though some stood out to me, content-wise, more than others. Shouts From the Gutter feels like Walter is transitioning into a whole new realm of writing possibilities. Some of the experimental writing I found harder to adapt to, but once I got more settled into the book, it became apparent that Walter’s style still carried over successfully. It’s exciting to think about which of these stories might be used as a basis for new novels. I also can’t help but wonder what might come after Shouts… considering that with this book, he has proven he’s willing to push the boundaries of his already outlaw-styled writing. - Amie Lesyk
By Dan Scum Across 1. Aliens 4. Price 8. That girl 11. Hike 13. Free trade pact 14. Tankard of Ale 15. Terrance and Philip hit song (pt.1) 18. American Nursing Association 19. On the run 20. He ruins Dominos™ pizza 21. Boy band on South Park 25. K-O connection? 27. Endomorph, mesomorph and _____ morph 28. Standing Room Only 29. Like Tartans 31. Aries 34. Bumsex 36. Genetic material 37. Pt .2 of Terrance and Philip hit 42. Psyche component 43. We in French (not oui) 44. Generalizing suffix 45. Mr. Garrison’s puppet on South Park 47. Allow 49. LSD 53. Poetic contraction of “over” 54. Body of water on South Park 57. Evel Knievel prop 59. 3 in Roman #’s 60. Utah Athletic Association 61. “Oh my god ____ _______ _______ !”(You Bastards!) 66. Flee 67. A Titan 68. Love’s Antithesis 69. So far 70. Whimper 71. Tango Yankee Romeo Down 1. Culturally distinct 2. Absent one 3. Between ready and go 4. Aveo or Aerio eg. 5. “Let’s make like bug spray and be ____!” 6. Entrapped by narcs 7. It’s shell is soft or hard 8. Underwear unpleasantry 9. Female bird 10. I believe it came first 12. His mom is a big fat bitch on South Park
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13. Deadens sensation 15. Out of harm’s way 16. Rower’s need 17. Put 6 ft under 22. Tipper or Al 23. Eurasian body of water 24. Not any 26. IX 29. + 30. Disgraced Lethbridge Alderman Heatherington 32. Dad’s sister 33. L-P connection 35. Songs of Sorrow band 37. Opp. of masc. 38. Physically antagonistic 39. Sober and Cognitive 40. Heaven’s Gate,e.g. 41. English “dude” 46. _ ___ of hope or sunshine 48. Rugby goals 50. Hazzard e.g. 51. More banal 52. 06/06/44 54. Malice 55. Offspring of 51A 56. One with a Turban 58. Expression of Mr. Mackey on South Park 61. Attempt 62. Color 63. 12th letter x 3 64. Place for a dance 65. Consume
Last issue’s answers
kingshit.ca
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