Conceptualizing a local music scene in the contemporary cultural landscape is plausible, but it seems to romanticize days when local communities were actual physical communities. I don’t mean to say that the Internet is crushing all our hopes for face-to-face community interaction, but it is impossible to ignore the effect that digital interaction is having on popular music. It’s easy to get caught up in romanticizing places like Seattle, or CBGB’s, or Greenwich Village. These places were crucial in fostering particular attitudes specific to artists living within a particular space. Confining them to geographical locations often allowed these communities to develop on their own terms, without the influence of external factors.

With an expanded digital reach, it’s easier to find communities more tightly wound on message boards than in coffee houses. Not that this affects the quality of the musical output from individuals, but it leans toward negating the possibility for local communities to develop artistic conventions unique to a particular space. Traditionally, the Western world has valued these local developments through our frequent consumption of diasporic media. As we access music through a wide digital stream of distribution, community boundaries dissolve into one, all-encompassing digital sphere. This sort of reach accelerates the globalization process and grants us greater access to expand our individual musical palettes. Yet, in the process, we lose sight of the unique characteristics embedded in local music communities.

The redistribution of local sounds is already taking place with bands like Vampire Weekend or Dirty Projectors through the references to African sensibilities in their work. In a backwards way, the same is taking place with the musical project The Very Best, a band who infuses their sounds of frontman Esau Mwamwaya’s home country of Malawi with the electronic sensibilities of the Western popular music. Such work overcomes the restrictive nature of local scenes and locates the exotic output of foreign cultures through an extended digital reach. No doubt these developments are exciting, but in the process, foreign cultures appear as exotic sonic diversions thriving on their difference from Western culture. They function through cultural reference rather than cultural experience.

It is not that these developments are making local cultures extinct, it is that musically they no longer thrive on the unique characteristics associated with their self-containment. Globalization seems to facilitate the breaking down of these socio-political boundaries in favour of a culturally amalgamated expression. Sure, notions of community still exist in a virtual sense, but these concepts are more imagined and less tied to physical space. Any possibility for indigenous music yields to a larger virtual community comprised of distanced users rather than intimate and local collaboration. While this obviously extends the borders of musical possibility, it sacrifices face-to-face expression unique to a tightly defined time and space.

That is not to say that globalization destroys the notion of a musical community, rather, it often facilitates a musical connection between geographically separate communities. However, using the Internet as a primary vehicle for such global collaboration is dangerous as it removes the aspect of physical contact and therefore, any notion of local collaboration. One of the reasons Paul Simon's Graceland was such a powerful record was because it encapsulated the artist's visit to South Africa and the subsequent collaborations that took place there (half of the record is co-written by local artists, and the entirety is recorded in South Africa). Graceland thrives because it locates and unites two smaller, more local cultures and reconciles their seemingly disparate musical sensibilities (the choice of 'Graceland' is also compelling as it reflects the overwhelming American-ness of Elvis).  Such possibilities often lose their way in the globalized digital world, as the reach to foreign cultures requires far less labour. Locality succumbs to cultural appropriation as it enters the global sphere of ideas.

While the artistic possibilities of this expanded reach are no doubt exciting, they seem to reduce the possibility for music to express something unique about a particular place in time. One of the reasons Sufjan Stevens’ "Fifty States" project was so endearing was that it attempted to re-colonize American spaces through music. Sufjan chose to examine the often overlooked local cultural boundaries in an attempt to foster a new conception of Americana. However, when Sufjan denounced the project entirely in 2009 he claimed the whole project was ‘a joke,’ stating:

“I think maybe I took it too seriously. I started to feel like I was becoming a cliché of myself” (Paste Magazine. Nov. 2, 2009).

Perhaps this was because at some point, Sufjan viewed his project as an attempt to examine a cultural space that no longer exists. The differences between Illinois or Michigan are worth examining, but no longer seem to clarify any notable cultural separation. The characteristics that normally distinguish local cultures from one another now seem to offer nothing exclusive as they become more and more susceptible to outside influence. Perhaps for Sufjan, creating large musical compositions about these spaces was leading him to conceptualize boundaries that had become culturally superfluous.

As the digital world allows our reach to extend, locality becomes an illusion rooted in artificial political boundaries. Though it’s fun to attempt to recontextualize the music of a local community, if there exists a specific lack of characteristics that distinguish it from other local music spaces, then the project runs a terrible risk of imploding in favour of novelty music destined for cliché consumption. If the project were to continue, the album’s most compelling component would likely have shifted from the ambitious subject matter to the artist’s own personal development. In that case, why should Sufjan focus on subject matter that would force his artistic development into the confines of a seemingly inconsequential concept?

Its no wonder that Sufjan’s latest project focuses on something more definitive and concrete: the Brooklyn Queens Expressway. The appeal of such a space inevitably lies in one’s fleeting experience with it. The sentiment of The BQE lies in its inhabitability and its function as a transporter of separate alienated travelers. For Sufjan, it presents the antithesis of his former work; it presents a place devoid of the seeds of community and history. Said Sufjan in a 2009 interview:

“I intended to create a non-personal, non-narrative piece. I tried to reduce my own personal investment as much as possible, and I refused to incorporate one of my strengths, which is the song” (The Herald, Scotland. Oct 2009).

The BQE seems like a logical step forward for Sufjan, as it liberates him from community-driven music to a more confined personal expression. Though The BQE is itself a physical space, Sufjan finds solace in the traveling experience it creates. While The BQE is a particularly famous stretch of highway, its appeal is not predicated on a particularly unique American experience. Everyone understands highway traveling and in those moments when you may find yourself on the road - excited, desperate or just plain bored - the highway is a constantly emotionless path. Though rooted in history, The BQE presents nothing to the community of arts. It executes its essential purpose and strives for nothing more.

In denouncing the fifty states project, Sufjan proves that community-oriented music cannot be documented and reconceptualized by those viewing from the outside in. Sufjan’s first state project, Michigan, was remarkably effective because its subject matter was reflective of Sufjan’s bleak and sometimes hopeless experiences actually living within a struggling Michigan state. Illinoise, on the other hand, tends to overemphasize its subject and reads more like an observation of an unfamiliar place. Illinoise creates an exotic and exciting experience, however, it is one that reflects Sufjan’s inability to fully conceptualize a local space that goes beyond scenery and the history books.

For these reasons, The BQE and Michigan demonstrate remarkable similarities in the execution of their concepts. Both are not so much about the physical space themselves but the universal experiences one may find unique to a place. It is the same reason that a record like Post-Nothing­ by Japandroids is so fucking good. In short, it’s an album about love, despair, and partying in Vancouver. Post-Nothing is not specifically about Vancouver, but its identification of a specific geographical space allows the album to justify its emotional traits by locating them in local experiences. Though the music is definitively invested in the community’s culture, its appeal transcends its local roots by highlighting the universal emotions that have taken place within a given local space.

By not defining itself as specific place, Post-Nothing succeeds where Sufjan struggles. Post-Nothing does not strive to create a comprehensive description of its geographical space in question, yet its aesthetics carry enough emotional resonance for me to safely conceptualize their version Vancouver on my own. Illinoise, though exciting and ambitious, can become less engaging, as its effectiveness is predicated on a pre-decided narrative that forces us to judge the album based on how effectively it achieves its goals.

As a result, Post-Nothing emphasizes the significance of local cultures in one’s own personal experiences. Much like Michigan or even Graceland, Post-Nothing­ recognizes that music with a specific locality is effective not because of how well it translates a particular space, but how well it communicates emotion and experience as defined by that locality. Though digital technology facilitates expansive global interaction, it is never fully able to negate the local community experience. Albums like Michigan, Graceland and Post-Nothing boast their local characteristics as a means of translating their universal human experiences. While the internet’s lack of boundaries may seem to equate all music under one all-encompassing digital space, music will always originate from someplace tangible and therefore will always reflect the experience of people making music within a physical space.

What this essay is about: Your life as a cinematic experience, narratives as emotional crutches.

Question you may ask yourself halfway through this essay: How many times can a writer make reference to John Cusack while ostensibly reviewing a film starring Colin Firth?

Relevant quotation from my notebook from a couple weeks back: Bitten by the wind, turned around fast, and punched in the face. A frozen moment in a sea of time.

Legend: She/ Her=Ex-Girlfriend

I spent Tuesday in shock. It was 6 PM when my driver’s training class started and I was sitting ignorantly in the corner of the Starbucks inside the Indigo book store inside the Manulife center - I needed the layers of corporate/architectural protection - writing a poem about imagining the Apocalypse called Scorpio Death Moon Sonata in E Minor; a broody, broken up, rambling nightmare. When the poem was finished I took out my driver’s ed workbook and studied the four habits and sub habits of defensive driving. I had trouble keeping them all straight, I was distraught and my head was teeming with confusion and anger. By the time I got to the classroom it didn’t matter; I had messed up the times, I was half an hour late and was told that I could not attend the class. This is the second time that I’ve made the exact same mistake. She says I’m not responsible, I guess she’s right.

My girlfriend broke up with me on Monday night. I was blindsided, didn’t see it coming at all; we’d been together for almost two years, the longest relationship I’ve ever been, and I was happy. So Tuesday was a bit surreal. I hadn’t slept, felt like I’d been turned inside out, but still wanted to portray myself with the melancholy charm of depressed John Cusack in Say Anything and depressed John Cusack in High Fidelity. You see, I have a hyper-active imagination and sometimes think that my life is part of a film or novel, this owing to my addiction to these narratives that have sucked up so much of my time, and perhaps prevented me from focusing on more “serious” things.

When I got back out on the street I had a couple of hours to kill, it was 6:40 now. I walked over to the Cumberland theatre and saw that A Single Man was playing at 6:45. Let me explain something: also owing to my hyper active imagination, I tend to write the premises and stories for films and novels that I know very little about. The best example I can offer is that once, in a George Orwell class I was enrolled in, I decided that Keep the Aspidistra Flying (a mediocre early Orwell novel about a frustrated young poet) was probably a prequel to 1984. I decided that it was about a rebel airship called The Aspidistra and chose the book as the subject for my class seminar without having opened it.

On the one sheet for A Single Man, we see Colin Firth - the indomitable Mr. Darcy - looking sleek and sexy, and Julianne Moore in the background looking betrayed and forlorn. “I can only assume,” spouts my brain “that this movie is about a sleek sexy single man who lives a secretive life and romances and betrays many beautiful women” (Julianne Moore being one of these women). In actuality A Single Man is about and aging homo-intellectual who is mourning the death of his long time partner and contemplating suicide.

Right away, watching abstract images of Firth's George Falconer writhing and twisting underwater, kissing a dead man at the scene of a snowy car crash and hearing his introductory voice over lines: “For the past eight months, waking up has actually hurt. The cold realization that I am still here sets in.” I knew that this was not the film I thought it was; this was a film about loss, about horrible, horrible depression. I sat alone, in the dark, stuffing my face with popcorn and diet Coke (Tuesday is after all free concession stand voucher day at the Cumberland) and tried to open myself up to the transformative power of cinema.

When you’re young, you want narratives to make a grand impression on you, to help shape who you are. Youth is a time of such great confusion that the search for meaning through mediums outside of you becomes an urgent obsession. I’m going to take a leap of faith regarding the demographic of people reading this magazine and offer up JD Salinger’s Catcher In the Rye as a novel that probably shaped the way you saw the world when you were a teenager. It’s not that Holden Caulfield teaches us anything definite or useful about life that makes it such a compelling read, so much as it is the accuracy of Salinger’s articulation of adolescent confusion. Here’s the passage that the novel derives its title from, spoken by Holden Caulfield:

…I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of Rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody’s around - nobody big, I mean, except me. And I’m standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff... That’s all I’d do all day. I’d just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it’s crazy, but that’s the only thing I’d really like to be. I know it’s crazy.

Holden emphasizes the fact that he knows what he wants is crazy; he can’t figure out how he fits in with the rest of the world, he’s having a crisis of identity and he’s created an irrational poetic fantasy to escape into. You’ll notice throughout the novel that these irrational fantasies are recurring, such as the one where he moves to a small town, pretends to be a deaf mute gas station attendant and marries a beautiful deaf mute woman. Most of us, in our childhoods, experience this exact crisis; we don’t know what is going to happen to us, but we want to know and we create fantasies. Some of us in our twenties are still experiencing this crisis, myself included. Adolescents (especially awkward adolescents) can relate easily to Holden Caulfield because he is confused and angry and these feelings are manifest in his actions whereas they lie dormant in most youths. He can’t figure out where the ducks in central park go in the winter, he hates going to the movies. He helped us understand that our secret, individual anger and confusion was not so uncommon, we started to feel more at ease expressing them, and here we are.

When someone breaks up with you, it is as if you are returned to a state of adolescence. You start asking yourself clichéd existential questions like “Who am I?” “What am I doing with my life?” and, worst of all, “Is life worth living?” From the emotional crater that one resides in post-breakup, narratives, art, and music become more important because, as with adolescence, we are left searching for meaning, trying to piece together some understanding of what is happening. I spent two hours today trying to figure out how to play Without You by Harry Nilsson (arguably the greatest breakup song of all time) on a synthesizer, I find that the calm clarity with which Dostoevsky writes soothes my wicked anguish and I may or may not watch Say Anything (Cameron Crowe’s 1980s teen heartbreak masterpiece staring none other than Mr. John Cusack), depending on how bad things get. These capsules of human expression and emotion are objects that we need to cling to in difficult times. That is almost precisely what they are there for, to enrich life when it’s good and make it bearable when it’s bad.

The reason that it hurts George Falconer to wake up in the morning is that his lover is dead. George and Jim met, fell in love and lived together in a glass house for sixteen years. One night George gets a call, Jim has died suddenly in a car crash. George never got to say goodbye. What’s worse, although they shared a long monogamous relationship, George is denied the right to attend the funeral by Jim’s family, because they were gay and it’s the sixties. That scene, with Firth sitting in his chair, rain splashing down on his glass house and he is given the terrible news sticks with me more than anything else in the film because it is a hyperbolized version of what happened when my girlfriend looked me square in the face with tears in her eyes and said “I can’t do this anymore.”

Colin Firth and I, we fell apart. The feeling hits you right in the chest and the physical effect is extreme. I’ve never been shot in the chest before but I imagine that it might feel similar to getting stone cold broken up with… or being told that your lover is dead and you will never see them again (admittedly much, much worse). I couldn’t breathe - I started dry heaving, nearly threw up. In the film, Falconer runs to his best friend Charlie (portrayed expertly by Julianne Moore) weeping and gasping in the rain, like a man who’s drowning (a metaphor that the film needlessly spells out for you). What causes this physical effect is the sudden realization that somebody has been irretrievably removed from your life. When I was told that our relationship was over I was told firmly and decisively, even though she was still standing in front of me she was already gone.

The basic philosophy of recovering from a breakup derives from one simple fundamental assumption: things will get better. Right now I’m still in the immediate turmoil, feelings of inadequacy and jealousy reign supreme, so that it’s almost annoying when people who care about me uniformly offer up these sentences: “you’ll be okay,” “things will get better,” “it just takes time.” Often we wear our misfortune like a badge of honour, not wanting to get better, clinging to that pain like it means something. In the end it’s like Ron Livingston tells it to a heartbroken John Favreau in Swingers (a fantastic breakup movie): “one day you wake up and you don't think of it at all, and you almost miss that feeling. It's kinda weird.  You miss the pain because it was part of your life for so long.” I know, because rough breakups are familiar territory for me, that this is true, that I have a long painful but life affirming path ahead of me that I will feel stronger and wiser for having traversed. But for George it’s a different story; Jim is gone forever and eight months after his death it still hurts as much as it ever did. That last question on my clichéd post relationship checklist “is life worth living?” is something that George has been considering every day, and now he’s thinking that the answer is "no."     

Once we get the back-story the remainder of the film depicts a single day in George’s life, the day on which he has decided to kill himself, peppered with flashbacks of George and Jim in happier times. The film is essentially a series of ponderous sketches, conversations with different characters, some of which are loaded with poignancy, others that are simply amusing and a couple that seem to have no relevance or purpose whatsoever. The film is drop-dead gorgeous: the acting, the colours, the clothes and sets are all impeccable. The film’s director is Tom Ford, a gay man who is famous for his “turnaround” of the Gucci fashion house. With this in mind it makes sense that some of the actors look like models, everyone is immaculately dressed and some of the scenes look like a homo-centric Guess jeans advertisement. In one scene, George meets a beautiful Hispanic man named Carlos outside of a liquor store, he gives him some money, and Carlos follows him to his car, but George doesn’t want sex so they talk. The scene seems to be an excuse to include a shot of this beautiful Hispanic man (who literally looks like he walked off the set of a sexy fashion shoot), set against a smoggy pink L.A. sky. It’s an alright scene, but it clashes with the rest of the film - it’s sort goofy and campy. There are a few moments like this in the film that betray the fact that it was directed by a fashion designer.

The most important character in the film aside from George is a beautiful, mohair sweater wearing young man named Kenny, played by Nicholas Hoult (who as it turns out, played the kid in About a Boy, an excellent film starring Hugh Grant, based on the novel by Nick Hornby who also wrote High Fidelity [a fantastic break-up novel] which was adapted into a film starring John Cusack… haha!). George teaches English at a University and Kenny is one of his students, he is attentive to George’s eccentric class rants and wants to get closer to him, to learn from him outside of class and to offer him his friendship because, as Kenny tells a nervy George in the school parking lot, he looks as though he could use a friend. As we follow George through his day, we can see that he is overwhelmed by the beauty and pain of the world that he is leaving.

In a breakup, once the decision has been made, the problems that lead to the breakup seem to subside, there is a parting fondness, you may say to your ex something like “this is for the best, but we’ve been through a lot together. You really are an amazing person, I hope you live a long happy life, I will always love you.” If this is the final exchange before the initial radio silence, then it is a very happy thing indeed. If somebody picks up the phone the next day in tears it can be disastrous. Once George has decided to leave the physical world (which is precisely how George thinks of suicide, saying to Carlos as he pulls out of the parking lot, “I’m going away”), he is faced with a profound bittersweet sensation, everything becomes sharper and clearer. As with a breakup (and here we can even make the comparison that George is “breaking up with life” because things “aren’t working out”) the decision to execute makes it hard to walk away.

For a few years now, at least, I’ve been obsessed with the question of whether or not we are alone in this life. This is a bit embarrassing, but I’m going to drop a quote from an angsty short story I wrote a few years ago to illustrate my point:

As he stood, shaking on the bridge, he perceived the motion of the cranes, the splitting of the train tracks and the pink streaks that appear in the maritime sky in the evening. It occurred to him that these moments of experience, of beauty and harmony, individual or shared, these moments that flew from some frantic corner of his mind out into the ether, were all that he valued, all that he found any worth in. And yet there was no measure, no verification, no way in which he could properly convey the meaning of these moments, he could only assume and hope that other people felt them as well.

This question, of whether or not we’re alone in this world, is brought up incessantly in philosophy, film and fiction, a big ontological question that can never be answered correctly: is it possible in our mortal lives to break down the barriers that divide individual people and share something real? My undergraduate thesis presented a sort of theory that the author writes to try and create an object that contains within it truths that are inexpressible in the common language of everyday life. These objects, according to my thesis, refract infinitely in the individuals who read them, elucidating something that was on all of the their minds. But each reader is moved for different reasons, the same words always seen from a slightly different angle, triggering different memories and emotional reactions.

In my mind, I always think that the writer is trying to reach out to me and indicate a shared sentiment; that he is trying to usher me into the blind spot of his mind so that for a brief moment we can share something real together. When a narrative addresses in its themes what I suppose to be its originating purpose (when it does this well at least), it folds back on itself, over stimulates my brain and causes my heart to swell. I want to cry out to the solemn artist behind the curtain “yes, yes, exactly! You’re not alone!” A phenomenon that I’d be tempted to describe as post-modern, if only I understood that term a bit better.

According to George it is possible to conquer this barrier. Late in the film Kenny seeks out George at his local bar, they drink Scotch together, Kenny puts the question I was rambling about in the above paragraph concisely: “…we’re born alone, we die alone. And while we are here we are completely, absolutely, sealed in our own bodies… we can only experience the outside world from our own slanted perception of it.”

George disagrees: “you know the only thing that has made this whole thing worth while has been those few times that I was able to truly connect with another person.”

As the film advances we see something a of a “real” connection forming between Kenny and George, not necessarily anything sexual, more like an agreement that one should want more out of life than the status quo; they are both dissatisfied, but Kenny is young and appears hopeful while George is old and desperate. Kenny offers George a reminder of why life is worth living; they swim naked together in the ocean and drink beer back at George’s glass house, exchange words urgently, with great joy. A Single Man is jam packed with so many beautiful cinematic moments that are doubly, or exponentially, cinematic (I know this may seem like a bizarre statement) because beyond telling us a story, it seeks specifically to remind us of those clear, beautiful, time stopping moments that seem to exist outside of “everyday” or “common” life. I want to quote George Falconer one last time before coming down the homestretch, part of his final monologue (sorry to anyone who hasn’t seen this yet, but I think it’s almost out of theatres so you’ll probably forget all of this by the time its available on DVD):

A few times in my life I’ve had moments of absolute clarity. When for a few seconds, the silence drowns out the noise and I can feel rather than think… and things seem so sharp and the world seems so fresh. I can never make these moments last. I cling to them, but like everything else they fade.

I remember the first time I saw her, at the Value Village at Bloor and Lansdowne: she was looking at books and I was too nervous to talk to her. The time we were at the beach, it was sunny, and she said her mother thought she was difficult and would I be able to keep her in line? Early on, again, getting out of a rock show, drunk on a Friday night, hoisting her over my shoulder and spinning her around in a busy intersection. This past Labour Day, airshow jets screeching overhead, lying in Trinity Bellwoods park. She rested on my chest as I, too jacked up on coffee, wondered if her parents liked me, thinking about the apocalypse (it’s a strong preoccupation). It’s like a montage from Annie Hall, actions and events shared words, charming outfits, tender kisses, melancholy goodbyes (throw a little clarinet in the background if you like), it’s cinematic when I play it back alright, but does it mean anything? I’m left asking, did we share anything real? Did we really know each other? She tells me there are parts of her that she felt like she could never share with me… I’m left searching for the part of me I didn’t share with her. I think it must have something to do with narratives.

So this is it, the last scene. It’s the first thing I wanted to tell you, the thing that got me started thinking about all this but I saved it for the end. It’s 8:15 on Tuesday, the movie’s over, I’m walking east on King Street, going to C’est What on Front Street to play a show with my band. My head is all over the place, images of Spanish midnight cowboys and handsome dead gay guys kissing each other clouding up my brain and it comes to me, the cinematic moment, the moment of clarity, of sharpness.

It’s started snowing, small flakes but really dense, and I get to this street corner, and this light is coming through the snow from between two big buildings like some kind of celestial gift from heaven and I stop and I stand there and just stare for about thirty seconds. This light, and the white snow is just flooding into me, blocking out everything else, I am just standing on this fucking street corner, happy to be alive. I try and cling to it.

When I keep walking this bright cluster of lights hits me right in the eyes so that I’m squinting. I look down the street and I see that it’s a movie set. There’s hired city cops talking to onlookers, there’s foamy white snow mushed in with the real snow and they got these big lights up on the this crazy goddamn crane lighting the scene. But I don’t give a shit, I just laugh and keep walkin' down towards the park and I’m feeling alright ‘cus everything that day was just so surreal and life’s always got this funny way of hittin’ you with these moments when you don’t think you can take it anymore. Sometimes your life is like a movie, sometimes a movie is like your life. Where you want to draw that line is up to you, but don’t ask me, I’ve never been too good at it.

Comments

• February 16, 2010, B-Rad writes: Hey, Interesting article. I saw A Single Man in theatres as well, and the closing monologue by George really got to me. I felt that I could totally relate and knew exactly where he was coming from ( being a philosophy student, my mind never shuts off..). It's a very strange relationship, the one between life and 'you'. Studying philosophy hasn't made it easier to deal with.

The history of The Band is easily one of the most fascinating in the canon of popular music. We all know the story: four Canadian dudes and another American dude form under the banner of being rockabilly mainstay Ronnie Hawkins’ back-up band, have a falling out with Hawkins, become Bob Dylan’s band, go off on their own to become one of the most critically acclaimed rock groups of the late sixties (all the while achieving middling commercial success) and cap off their illustrious career with one of the most famous rock concerts ever. No big deal or anything.

I must admit, I only had a passing familiarity with The Band until only very recently when I found, to my surprise, that I had been largely ignoring one of the most interesting (not to mention best) rock bands of their era. The Band presents, in its story and in its music, many of the troubling issues surrounding art and culture’s difficult transition from the 1960s to the 1970s and represent a strange place in rock and roll’s canon for a number of reasons. In many ways they are perfectly indicative of that symptom of the culture we call Postmodernism.

The twisted mythologies, the clashing of egos, the displacement of cultural identity and the grasping at straws for the may never have been, ever-present quandaries in the frustrating process of figuring out just what happened to the counterculture, to the sixties, are permanently imbued within The Band’s own mythology, and never is this more prominently displayed than on the 1978 film The Last Waltz (dir. Martin Scorsese). This concert film documenting The Band’s final performance (at least with the classic lineup) in San Francisco on Thanksgiving Day 1976 is widely regarded as the greatest concert film of all time, and The Last Waltz is indeed one hell of a show featuring some truly spectacular performances all the while demonstrating Scorsese’s intimidating technical prowess. But what is important here is the moment in history that the film captures so brilliantly; it is 1976’s doomed love letter to that failed, vague thing that is usually defined only by its place in time.

The Last Waltz is not just a film about music, but it is a beautiful, frustrating tapestry where what is important to understanding the significance of the piece lies in what is not seen on screen. Context is everything in this case. It is a classic example of Postmodern film because of what it represents rather than what it does explicitly – it will not grab you to say what it is doing, its curiosity lies in its background and its mythology.

Seeing as context is key with this one, let’s discuss for a while the events leading up to The Last Waltz, and also what makes The Band so darned appealing. The most obvious points to bring up in the case of The Band are their flagrant use of wild pastiche, and the profound sense of cultural displacement that synthesized it.

It’s curious: a hypothetical band that is made up of mostly American members save for one Canadian guy will almost surely be referred to only as an American band, but The Band, despite having only one American member, can only be described as being Canadian-American. Why is this? Well there are two extremely obvious reasons: first, Levon Helm, the token Yank, has such a forceful presence within the group that is so utterly dripping with fiery American-ness that his being American is impossible to ignore. Second, The Band itself is a veritable encyclopedia of popular American music.

Incorporating an alarmingly wide range of influences from basically every genre of American music available to them, The Band created a bold, lively and surprisingly singular brand of music that led to their being one of the most respected groups of the time. Soul, Blues, Country, Rock and Roll, Bluegrass and Gospel pass indiscriminately through The Band’s hove of musical vision, collecting like particles on an ever growing dust ball to form something that was both oddly familiar and completely unheard-of.

The foremost reason for pastiche’s importance within the postmodern aesthetic is its relationship to globalization. Obviously with global communication becoming exponentially more efficient by the minute, cultural boundaries are being torn down at just as frightening a clip. As a result we see within art a growing diversity amongst works, with artists culling influence from any number of sources that will not have been limited to what would have been immediately available within a given region.

So The Band did the pastiche thing, and so was just about everybody else at the time; pastiche had reared its broad head over the arts as early as the mid-sixties and was inevitably becoming the norm. The Band is not special merely for being a good example of musical pastiche, but, again, because of how they achieve this.

How and/or why is it possible that a bunch of white guys, Canadians no less, managed to out-America the whole of working American musicians all the while being completely earnest in their pursuits? How were they the most soulful horde of crackers ever to come out of Toronto’s inexplicably booming mid-sixties rockabilly scene? It is a very strange case.

Of course, these problems can be tied to that omnipresent elephant in the room, CANADIAN IDENTITY. Bet you saw that coming. Nowadays, the typical thread is to say that we can draw our cultural character from cosmopolitanism, from diversity – from the cultural pastiche. Marshall McLuhan once described Canada as being the first twenty-first century nation because it is essentially globalization personified. The hodgepodge has become the standard in cities like Toronto and we have thus been able to turn nonidentity into one that is becoming increasingly strong. We were already prepared for the breaking down of cultural barriers through communications because we had already experienced this first-hand in our cities.

In the days before such cornerstones of contemporary Canada such as the Charter of Rights and Freedoms and the Canada Health Act were laid down, before Canadian embraced diversity to the degree that we currently have, it is very likely that American culture would have been a much greater cultural influence than it is today. Canadian music? What’s that? We had no regionally defined musical scenes in Toronto and Montreal as we do now, there is no way for a musician to make a large impact within Canada because there is little to compose a Canadian sound. Today our artists remain residents of Canada, but our leading musical luminaries of the sixties and seventies would have headed for the States very early in their careers. Leonard Cohen, Joni Mitchell and Neil Young haven’t lived in Canada for decades, but we still cling to them as being thoroughly our own.

And so it is with the Canadian members of The Band, who formed in Toronto when Hawkins (who apparently has since retired to Peterborough) and Helm moved there to take advantage of the city’s taste for rockabilly – a very, very American concoction of country, blues and boogie music. Shortly after their parting from Hawkins, heading south was a no-brainer and somewhere during the course of their tenure with Bob Dylan, they ended up setting up shop in Woodstock, New York, at a house that would bear the title of their first album, Music From Big Pink.

The Band’s Canadian members, Robbie Robertson, Richard Manuel, Rick Danko and Garth Hudson, would have almost an advantage in creating their music in that their being Canadian would allow them to detach themselves from their American influences and therefore indiscriminately link them all together. They would have been ideally suited to reinterpret American themes and myths into something unique because they were not directly a part of it. Of course, having Mr. Helm and his distinctive Southern personality didn’t hurt their credibility as the drummer/vocalist provided endless character with his powerful, drawling voice to Robertson’s songs about The American Civil War and Colonial American life.

The group’s primary songwriter, Robertson had little interest at the time in exploring his Canadian roots, instead he delved deeply into American history and mythology for inspiration not unlike with the wide majority of Canadian artists of the time. In his most recent solo work however, Robertson was last heard experimenting with sounds that reflect his own Mohawk heritage. It is widely known that Robertson was the primary orchestrator of The Last Waltz, and it is this fact that provides an important contextual note for understanding the importance of the event and the film.

While being interviewed in the film, Robertson cites his being fed up with touring and living on the road as the primary reason for The Band’s decision to stop playing shows and hold their final concert at the Winterland Ballroom in San Francisco, which was also the sight of their first concert as "The Band." Notably, none of the other members of The Band are seen in the film remarking on this decision. This is likely due to the equally well-known fact that the other members were not in support of it, particularly Helm, who has expressed his vehement opposition in his autobiography. This is problematic because to not tour would have been a less precarious situation for Robertson; holding songwriting credit for the majority of The Band’s catalog, he easily would have been able to live off of royalties whereas the other members had to rely on touring. Nevertheless, Robertson eventually won out and The Last Waltz became an extremely integral part of rock history.

Now, herein lies the rub: the whole of The Last Waltz is a tremendous clashing of various and enormous egos under the guise of a sixties-esque celebration of community and oneness. This is what I mean when I say that the majority of the drama around the film is centered around what the viewer is not immediately privy to, which only intensifies the alienation from the initial goal of Robertson and Scorsese. Throughout the film we see performances of The Band playing on their own and accompanied by a star-studded who’s who of 1976 rock and roll royalty including Bob Dylan, Neil Young, Van Morrison, Joni Mitchell, Eric Clapton, Dr. John, Ronnie Hawkins and Muddy Waters. The show culminates in a joyful, heartfelt performance of “I Shall Be Released,” a Band song written by Bob Dylan where The Band are joined by all of their guests for the ensuing sing-along.

The film is intended to be a great celebration of a storied career, a harmonious, ambitious festival of camaraderie and community, and on the surface it succeeds. We see the artists smiling, joking around and reveling in the experience of being together on such a monumental occasion, but given the very nature of the event’s birth, being formed in disagreement and disbandment, this sense of loyalty is extremely suspect. First of all is the aforementioned issue of the majority of The Band’s members not even wanting to participate; second is the choice of artists to be placed on the bill. Ostensibly a reflection of The Band’s influences and contemporaries, the issue of Neil Diamond’s involvement has been to subject of some debate. The most reasonable explanation to this puzzling addition to the lineup, which Helm, once again, was fiercely opposed to, is that Robertson had recently produced Diamond’s then most recent record Beautiful Noise. Diamond further caused controversy when he allegedly got into an argument with Bob Dylan backstage about his performance.

This clashing of egos is paramount to understanding The Last Waltz and also postmodernism. As in the sixties where culture is leaning toward a great sense of community and familiarity, the death of the counterculture and subsequent rise of postmodernism is fueled by the individual in opposition to culture; it is a harsh reaction to the failure of the sixties ideal where all of the cultivated unity is fragmented into the individual against the world. We see this in the dissolution of The Band in a flaming heap of ego nonsense, and the relation between the artists at The Last Waltz viewing the concert as a competition, rather than a celebration.

This is augmented by the notorious fact that The Last Waltz was in fact a gathering of more cocaine addicts in one place than may ever have been seen at the time. From Neil Young’s infamous coke nose to the alleged backstage room painted white and decorated with plastic noses and a tape loop of sniffing noises, The Last Waltz is notorious for its heavy blanketing of cocaine culture all over the film. Of course, while nothing is ever as it seems, it would appear extremely difficult to craft a tribute to artistic family when the only thing that is linking the artists anymore (including Scorsese) is a taste for powder, a drug which is often associated with alienation and excess.

The interesting case of Robbie Robertson – who produced the film – and his own role within The Band can also be seen very clearly within his status in the film. It is very curious that Robertson can be seen in the film even when he is not doing anything particularly interesting (such as when someone else is taking a solo) in almost every single shot of the concert footage. Robertson is rarely off-screen making the other members of the Band appear as sidemen for him. Manuel and Hudson on the other hand reap only miniscule camera time, including the notable example of Manuel’s being completely invisible while dueting with Bob Dylan on “I Shall Be Released.” Furthermore, there have been accounts that Robertson’s microphone was not even active for most of the concert, though he can very clearly be seen singing extremely heartfelt backing vocals in most of the songs. There are many shots where Helm, Danko and Robertson can all be seen singing, but only two voices are audible.

I am not out to demonize Robertson here, the man is an incredible songwriter and guitarist; I merely find it interesting for my purposes that the orchestrator of the event and producer of the film is also very clearly within the film posited as the focal point of The Band. I feel like this strange set of coincidences strengthens my argument regarding the importance of the individual ego within the postmodern aesthetic. The celebratory documentary as told from the perspective of the person who is most likely to be seen as the villain is extremely striking and indeed, Robertson’s fingerprints are all over the film.

Another curious aspect of The Last Waltz that ties in the fascinating Canadian angle of The Band is the timing of the concert. I find it extremely interesting that Robertson, the Canadian enthusiast of American culture, chose to hold the final concert by The Band on American Thanksgiving 1976, the year of the American Bicentennial. On the two hundredth year of the most powerful nation in the world, on the most thoroughly and distinctly American holiday, the Canadian-American encyclopedia of American music decides to hold its last show.

Richard Linklater’s 1993 film Dazed and Confused (a film that was originally supposed to have more than a passing mention in this essay), follows a group of teenagers around small-town America in 1976 through a world of boredom, confusion and nothingness. One character, a teacher, mentions near the beginning of the film to remember not to get too caught up in the bicentennial celebrations because one would be celebrating the fact that a group of aristocratic, slave-owning white men didn’t want to pay their taxes – ostensibly the groundwork of America. Later in the film another character laments the lack of character in the 1970s as an epoch, saying that the 1950s were boring, the 1960s were amazing and the 1970s just suck. Dazed and Confused, while essentially a high school/stoner film brings a number of questions to the surface about American life in 1976, now well into the decade spawned by the crash and burn of another. Staring at the harsh face of a new century within a nation that has become such a powerful, alienating machine in the wake of the failure of such promise, the uncertainty, the despondency and the paranoia of the 1970s are evoked wonderfully in Linklater’s film.

With that in mind, we see these same tones running through The Last Waltz as well. The grasping at straws, the yearning for something that may never had existed, but which was ultimately bound to fail regardless. In the joyous, climactic rendition of “I Shall Be Released” when the man singing the song isn’t even visible due to the even greater egos flanking him, we can see this death. We can see the shift from community to the individual. The Last Waltz posits itself as a communal celebration, a hearkening back to the 1960s before addiction and fragmentation, but like the idealism of the 1960s, it is doomed. It is a celebration in the vein of the 1960s, but that is all gone by 1976, it will never come back for Robertson and company – that unity that they all shared will never come back. The Last Waltz is continually reaching for that degree, for that feeling, or emotion – whatever was happening in the late 1960s, in the prime of The Band, in the prime of the counterculture.

Hunter S. Thompson may have described this feeling best in the famous “Wave Speech” from his Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, the 1970s yearning for what might have been:

There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda… You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning. . . .

And that, I think, was the handle—that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting — on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave…

So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark — that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.

Getting off the bus, we were pinned in between the sign that said ‘Welcome to Toronto’ and another that said ‘Welcome to Markham.’ Across the intersection’s two cold crosswalks was a mall. Now I know, Toronto has plenty malls. Dufferin, Eaton, Yorkdale, there’s plenty options of places to shop and overcrowd on Boxing Day. But there’s one mall that’s different, has an identity so to speak, which isn’t hard when you exclude a Banana Republic from your innards. It was a mall that me and handfuls of friends would venture to after the slower winter high school days. And despite the ethnic flair, it hugs the line of dozens of identical suburbs. Pacific Mall is Toronto’s most authentic attempt at a taste of Japan. You can bet your illegally bought swords it’s full of white anime nerds.

Karen and Curran join me on this hour-ish TTC pilgrimage. I promised them a swell lunch, my now surprisingly foggy high school memories telling me that the food court is the highest priority. We piledrive through the parking lot, the crowds, stores and escalators to the top floor. Passing through some pagoda frames and wacky dragon murals we make our way to an ambush of erotic smells. Sweet pastries and savoury soups conflict my senses with my wallet. The final nail is hammered in by the loud slapping noise of a chef subduing a worm of noodle dough. Each barrowing slam echoes like a masculine mating call. I shell out a fair seven dollars for a noodle soup and coca cola. The deal comes with a complimentary cold soy drink, which tastes exactly like it sounds, so I’m glad I grabbed a soda pop along side. Karen wanted to nosh on some spring rolls as well, whipping her head about to spot an ATM through the crowds. I ask an old white woman sitting parallel to where we were standing. She just tells us she’s also clueless, and that this is the first time she’s even been in the damn mall in the first place. I assure Curran that I didn’t ask her first simply because she was white. She was just the closest is all. That’s all.

The soup is delicious, and leaves all standard mall food court fare sore in the rain, totally earning the shrivelling laminated Toronto guide articles placed along the order counter. Finding a table was not necessarily as cherished a memory. The most scenic, pagoda themed ones filled the fastest. We settled with some just off to the side, at view of a Japanese magazine shop and “The Emperor’s Chair.” The lavish chair has a paper taped to it asking that people do not sit in it. I’m sure plenty jackasses on a regular basis make boorish spite to the modest piece of white paper.

Once we finish our meals we head back out of the most cluttered end of the mall back into the main circle. We rotate around booths clinging on to the elevator, selling swords and jade, all of questionable legitimacy. After closer inspecting a karaoke establishment so tightly built up we half expected a moustached dwarf to pop out and tell us no one can see the wizard, no one no how. We burrowed into the arcade. The arcade, like the food court, I more vividly remembered. One night, me and two other desperate nerds went all the way up to participate in a midnight madness, free play event. Endless attempts and headstrong import arcade titles. Dance Dance variations, horse betting simulators, but none so struck out as much as the Fist of the North Star punching game. The game, a stand up red box with a screen and deep indent, had you punch red targets that popped out of the sides of the hole as they frantically clicked in and about. You are supposed to be supplied with light gloves to spare your knuckles, but not knowing this I went bare Balboa and left my hands red, more scarred with adrenaline. Though upon this visit, I found that cabinet to be gone.

The arcade was now rebranded with Playdium, a slight shock because I had no idea that the dying establishment had the energy to spread. Many of the zanier imports were gone, though the Japanese style fighting cabinets remained, where foeing players sat opposite on separate screens. Curran asked me if I was going to go a round of Street Fighter IV, and after I wiped the drool from my lip I told him there were better uses for my money than to pay someone to beat me up.

While the top level is the most cramped, the main floor feels much more like an ambush. All stores are boxed in glass spaces. The retail doesn’t so much receive an abode as much as they get a cubicle, feeling much more like a trade show than permanent residence. To make up for the lack of solid walls, some stores get creative. Postering the glass with product, posters of pretty boys, hypersexualized booty shorts, and Gundam. There was an intense Disney fetish. While I may have forgotten Lilo and Stitch, Pacific still holds the zany alien runt near to their heart, making him plush at every opportune moment. One of the most outstanding oddities was a gemstoned Donald Duck phone, which struck Curran so hard he had to alert me and then wait for a post-shopping Karen to alert once again.

It’s easy to get lost, despite the layout being no more than rows. Competition must be fierce, as many story types repeat so often you feel as if you were walking through an animation cell. Dry ingredients that look so visually salty you get thirsty thinking about it. Computer part store that I can’t even chip any knowhow into. Bootleg DVD emporiums that so proudly post yellow “NO ENGLISH” signs upon the merchandise. Pink, cutesy girl boutiques and capsule toy basins. With the glass walls and hobbles of people, it’s like focusing on an infinite repeat.

The trip didn’t feel as much as a journey as it used to, though perhaps it’s because the sun remained up for the first time I’ve been. One thing that I can say has changed is just how much I noticed people enjoying the mall. With the one exception of a woman scolding her child, families and especially children had no trouble smiling. Kids dancing about a game counter while their dad played an exceptionally high definition NBA game. Teens pointing, noting and gagging about all the strange novelties. This is the mall for those who hate malls: where the shopping experience itself so often instills monotony, Pacific is like an invasion of an outside tradition. I’ve never been to Japan, perhaps for a Yorkdale to land there would stir the shit out of them. But here, I’m glad we have Pacific Mall.

Comments

• February 16, 2010, Riaz writes: Oh man, I totally want to hit up Pacific Mall for the DVD's alone.
• February 23, 2010, vickie writes: This place sounds really cool. I'd like to see that gemstoned Donald Duck phone.

Photos | Madd Hattere

The good captain Shaddock brought grapefruits to the sunny shores of Jamaica over one hundred years ago, and when Count Odet Phillippe planted the first Florida grove in 1823, he could not have foreseen the integral contribution the fruit would supply for the State infrastructure. With a number of varieties [Ruby Red, Pink, Thompson, Marsh and Duncan] and an absurd growing season that runs from October through to June, the Florida grapefruit company has a powerful impact on the residents of Florida; as an executive branch of State government, the Florida Department of Citrus (FDOC) actually generates multi-billion dollar profits annually for the US government.

Nancy Brown comes to Toronto twice a year in order to plan and attend a public relations event to promote the health benefits and versatility of their hybrid fruit to Canadians. In previous years, Nancy has traveled to Toronto for Florida grapefruit spa events, consumer sampling events held in parks and consumer shows such as Lifefest, in addition to the requisite sampling events in retail stores. But this year the company has taken a fresh approach to their promotion – Nancy and Toronto correspondent Golin Harris recognized an opportunity to reach a younger crowd in the Winterlicious festival.

“We begin our strategic planning sessions each year in February and then in July, after we know our annual budget, we meet in Toronto to discuss the strengths and weaknesses of the various concepts. The concept for this event was immediately a hit and the tie in with Winterlicious was brilliant. We felt that the idea had a lot of potential so I instructed the team to move forward with it.”

The team set upon planning a chef cook-off between three students hand-picked from different colleges in Ontario: Baker Lewis from Niagara, Corinne Babchishin from Humber and Mike Kowbel from Stratford Chef School. Each chef was given little over a month to devise an appetizer, entrée and dessert for three Torontonian judges.

An Australian native, the first judge Jennifer McLagan has received numerous awards such as three James Beard Awards, including Cookbook of the Year for FAT, An Appreciation of a Misunderstood Ingredient, with Recipes, a novel seeking to lift the negative connotations associated with the word. The second judge Alison Fryer has managed the Cookbook Store in Yorkville for over twenty-five years. She has won the CBA Bookshelf of the Year and WCN Woman of the Year, and judged cookbook awards for Cuisine Canada, James Beard Book Awards and International Association of Culinary Professionals. The final judge, Chef Teo Paul, was born in Toronto but has trained as a chef primarily in Europe. He's one of the lucky that opened his restaurant Union on Ossington before the city clamped down on all the restaurant openings on the street, and has also written for the Toronto Life blog.

“This was possibly the best event I've ever attended in Canada or Europe. The audience was so enthusiastic and I loved the interaction. The venue, SCHOOL, was perfect for an event of this type – the open kitchen and layout of the room allowed the audience to see everything happening.”

I enter SCHOOL to an event already bustling: the first dish is a smooth grapefruit guacamole laid out at tables with cassava chips, particularly sweet when I catch a large chunk of grapefruit in the mix. Nineteen clocks cluster on a wall, all set to point toward 3:30pm. Grapefruits and signage of grapefruits has been strewn everywhere, to the point that grapefruits have been scooped out to hold candles on each table. Black cubbie holes have been mounted on several walls that act as shelving for bottles, books, and various figurines. Walls of exposed brick and a wooden slatted ceiling supply the backdrop to stainless steel counters with black trimmings, which have been chalked above the kitchen with a mural espousing such catch-alls as “calculation,” “form,” “colour,” traits of the profession a rising chef should consider. SCHOOL has been built with a large windowed front, and festooned with a sleek black globe on countertop and vases filled to the brim with grapefruits. A large projector screen has gone unused for the evening, but fits right in with the surrounding school décor.

After a brief delay to allow the spectators to sit, the head chef of SCHOOL Brad Moore grabs a microphone to kick off the event properly, outlining the rules: each chef has 25 minutes to prepare the appetizers and dessert, and 35 minutes for the entrée, with a 10 minute break between each round. The contestant must use at least half a grapefruit in each dish. The competing chefs then announce all of their dishes to the audience:

MIKE: Scallops and grapefruit mascarpone in a grapefruit and civiche salad for an appetizer. Venison loin prepared in grapefruit brine and lobster wrapped in crepes and garnished with brûléed grapefruit for an entrée. Grapefruit bread pudding, brandy snaps, and a grapefruit and champagne sorbet on the side for dessert.

CORINNE: Ginger marinated seared scallops served over fennel-slaw and grapefruit beurre blanc accompanied by roasted fennel and parmesean tuile to start. The main course consists of pan roasted duck breast with caramelized grapefruit served with cranberry grapefruit glaze over a bed of puff wild rice and accompanied by celery salad and fresh mango. For dessert, a chocolate tortellini filled with vanilla mascarpone accompanied by grapefruit salsa with a hint of strawberry, and a miniature maple-grapefruit martini.

BAKER: Begins with a simple salad of roasted purple and golden beets, pink Florida grapefruit segments, shaved Parmesan, baby arugula, and finishing salt. Baker then serves seared sea scallops with chive rosti, zested rapini, and a grapefruit-vodka beurre blanc as an entrée. For dessert, Florida Ruby Red Grapefruit and Blood orange segments, and brûléed grapefruit ice wine sabayon, made with the Niagara college teaching cab franc ice wine.

The chefs waste no time from the start of each dish, peeling grapefruits with a ferocity and efficiency I am able to witness in full view. Yet the average spectator doesn’t get to taste these dishes: the chefs arrive early in the day to accustom to the space, for as they prepare all of their dishes in the short time limits given, Brad Moore has arranged for his staff to cook a six-course meal for the spectators consisting of his own grapefruit recipes. He also emcees the event, hovering in the background to update the crowd on the status of the dishes and casually slip in the key facts about grapefruits. Luckily, at the sponsor’s table I am able to sample many of the competing dishes. All of the desserts from the competitors seem particularly fancy, and all are delicious, but Baker's main dish sticks in memory: tender scallops and a tantalizing beurre blanc create a robust, clean-cut taste.

Grapefruit guacamole and cassava chips

After the guacamole and chips, the tables are served a Florida grapefruit salad with fennel, radicchio and toasted pine nuts, followed swiftly by the Latin-style chicken with black bean sauce comprised of avocado, black beans, grapefruit and mixed greens. The next dish is a halibut fish taco garnished with a few choice pieces of the fruit, set on a base of the same black bean salsa and spread with the same grapefruit guacamole. The final entrée is pork tenderloin served with a crispy popover, filled with mashed potatoes and a savoury sweet grapefruit gravy, which was my favourite garnish of the entire event.

The judges are often up and down from their seats, and stayed behind the counter during their tastings, masking reactions well and taking furtive notes on the meals they evaluate on the flavour, originality and presentation. The waitresses are quick to bring more grapefruit juice or water whenever necessary and to close the evening, they bring a thickly wrapped cigar-shaped crepe from Brad's menu filled with heavily spiced grapefruit and smooth cream cheese.

The judges are given a brief moment to convene after the final dish is cleared away, but stand up a few moments later to announce the winner as Nancy brings the oversized, pink-edged $2000 grand prize cheque. Alison makes the announcement, and the winner is Baker Lewis from Niagara - the judges substantiate their decision with a quick description:

“Simple is hard to do, and as a young chef to come out and show us simple, that was impressive.”

Speaking later with Nancy Brown, she admits that she would have trouble acting in a judge's role.

“I don't know that I could pick a favorite recipe. They were all so wonderful, and Brad Moore's creations tasted delicious. Having said that, I remember that Mike's venison and the fish taco [Brad's dish] were a pleasant surprise, and Baker's dessert stood out. All of the chefs did a fabulous job."

When observing the competition, I watched three people don the proverbial chef hat and embody the role, a portrayal that cannot allow any hesitation or self-consciousness during such a public preparation. But speaking to Baker later gave me an opportunity to speak with the person, and nerves are certainly a factor:

"The event was obviously a little bit nerve racking, as I had never taken part in an external competition before, let alone one in front of a live audience of foodies and celebrity judges. I visualized it in my head simply as any service at work: ordering and firing four salads, four entrees, and four desserts. That helped me focus a little more on the task at hand, and not everything going on around me. Luckily my plates were fairly straightforward so plating was not a 10-minute ordeal - there is nothing wrong with finishing a couple minutes early, as long as your plates are hot. I was treating it as if our cut-off times were a few minutes before they actually were, to ensure that I would finish solidly with a couple minutes to spare. Yes, the adrenaline was flying, but you have to control it, not let it control you, and use it to your advantage."

Contacting the contestants, the responses vary in regards to their approach to the event, and what the title "rising chef" actually means to their plans for the future:

Was there a specific style or vibe that you were aiming for in your dishes? How did you find the medium of the grapefruit to work with?

MIKE: "I came up with the ideas for the recipes based on my past experiences with food and working in restaurants. My main inspirations came from working at George Restaurant in Toronto. Executive Chef Lorenzo Loseto has a very interesting style of food preparation and presentation and I think that the way I view food and present it is strongly based from my time at George.

"I was aiming for an original and interesting style and vibe when I was creating my recipes; I thought that this being a competition, I could really showcase my talents and create something really different and amazing, something the judges haven't seen or tried before. Working with grapefruit was a great challenge. I really wanted to try and showcase the many different things you can do with a grapefruit – I didn't want to just put segments of grapefruit on the plate and say that I fulfilled my obligation to use grapefruit in the dish. So I used the juice to mix with mascarpone, I used the juice to flavor my dressing in the salad, I brûléed the grapefruit, I marinated the grapefruit, I used the juice to create a brine for the venison, and I used the juice to create a sorbet."

CORINNE: "I wanted to create very original, modern dishes, flavour pairings that aren't often seen. For example, my main course has a molecular gastronomie influence. Grapefruit is my second favorite fruit after raspberries, so I am used to working with them – it was easy for me to imagine what other food items it would go well with."

BAKER: "I spent quite a bit of time brainstorming, reading cookbooks, and consulting my chef professors for ideas to come up with the dishes. I wanted to keep it very simple and clean, because I find that simple and bold flavours leave a lasting impression on people. A balance of sour, bitter, sweet, and salty is the key to creating delicious food. Once you understand how to manipulate these basic tastes, and have a solid understanding of quality ingredients, your repertoire and skills as a cook grow exponentially and you can inject all the flavour you need into a dish. I think that the key to great food is balance and good fundamental techniques.

"I actually had a lot of fun playing around with grapefruit as I had limited experience with it beforehand. I was surprised at its versatility, and plan to incorporate it more into things I create either at home or work. It is sweet, sour, and somewhat bitter depending on the variety, so there is a lot to work with and so many directions to go with it."

What does it mean to you be a "rising chef"? Do you want to open a restaurant of your own one day? Or does the thought of being on television as a chef hold any appeal?

MIKE: "I don't really consider myself a "rising chef," I'm just a student trying to learn and take in as much knowledge as I can to hopefully be successful one day. I want to be a chef and I believe that it takes a lot of hard work and determination to do well in this business. I think one day I would like to open my own restaurant and have people experience food they way I like to. However, as of right now I am far away from anything like that.

"Becoming a TV chef would be another great way to showcase my view and thoughts on food and how I like to prepare and present it. I also think it would be a great way to educate people on food and food production. There are too many people in this world eating garbage - shitty prepackaged, canned, trashy food and it’s such a shame. Some people are uneducated and simply don't know any better, and TV would be a great way to help some of these people out. But at the same time, I wouldn't want it to affect my life as a chef and what I ultimately want to achieve."

CORINNE: "[The term "rising chef"] means that my passion for great tasting food will drive me towards becoming a excellent chef. At this time, I would like to open my own patisserie. I enjoy dealing with the public directly, being able to see the expression on peoples' faces when they eat your food, and receive their comments on the meal; therefore, being a chef on TV doesn't hold much appeal to me."

A focused Corinne portions grapefruit juice.

BAKER: "The term "rising chef" is flattering and the acknowledgement is nice. I have devoted the last six years of my life to kitchens, and it is very nice to receive this recognition - hard work pays off, eventually. This industry has a tendency to be quite frustrating and discouraging sometimes: long hours, little pay or recognition, and stress on relationships scare people off. A chef needs to really be passionate about food and love what they are doing to reap great long-term personal and professional satisfaction. It is a long road to success but tackle it head on if you want to do it, because if you don’t love it, don't torture yourself, find a different occupation. That sounds harsh, but I have found it to be true.

"Owning my own place would be nice one day, but the statistics regarding the success of new restaurants are frightening and could eventually scare me off, unless the economy takes a turn for the better. Total creative control and working for myself is very tempting though. I plan on running a few reputable kitchens as Chef before taking on the responsibility of being an Owner/Chef.

"TV is scary. People might not realize it, but a lot of celebrity chefs dictate how and what a staggering number of people buy and eat in North America. If I were to have the opportunity the be on television, I would like to deliver my own personal take on cuisine and ingredients, which is probably not entirely feasible, as you are fed a large amount of contractual obligations regarding product placement, promotion, and ingredient usage. I enjoy encouraging people to try to eat seasonally and support local farmers, growers, and suppliers if possible. We have phenomenal produce here in southwestern Ontario and the Niagara Peninsula. People need to take advantage of this and stop buying stuff from 3000 miles away."

Florida grapefruit has taken a different path in their promotional techniques this year, a move that directly benefits Toronto cuisine and has allowed three devoted chefs-in-training to present their work. The chefs had been given a tangible goal to achieve, competing for a prize that any student would slaver over: $2000! The cook-off itself provided everyone involved a great local event with delicious results. On my way out of the restaurant, Alison makes a final remark to me as I exit SCHOOL:

"The future of Toronto cuisine looks extremely bright."

Student chefs in Toronto have experience and skill that not everyone has access to and this type of event opens an outlet for presentation that otherwise does not exist. This year's Rising Chef Cook-Off is a prime example of how a restaurant can use the Winterlicious festival to its advantage: sure, a discounted meal can be a welcome change, but an event that draws so many Ontarians and restauranteurs to a single venue for the specific purpose of showcasing our local talent has a greater vision, and could be successfully reproduced at other locales around the city to bring together younger members of the food community.

“You know, we’re really like the coffee-and-cigarettes generation, when you think about it. You know what I mean? In the ‘40s it was the pie-and-coffee generation.”
Tom Waits

It was a dry and unseasonably warm February morning - though this is Canada, so unseasonable is a relative term - when I met Toronto author David Nickle in a café called the Tango Palace Coffee Company on Queen Street East. When thinking of how to describe said café, the word “cozy” comes to mind and sticks there hard and fast. Apparently they also do good business, as we learned competing over the buzz and clatter of a packed house and the music playing out of the café stereo system.

Though I’ve never been on a blind date, I suspect meeting for the first time someone you’re about to interview functions within a similar social dynamic. Or perhaps like the awkward meetings depicted in Jim Jarmusch’s Coffee and Cigarettes. S.B.’s photographer, Matt, made what is perhaps the most apt comparison. An interview is, perhaps, like a one-night-stand, of which I also have no first-hand experience, but let’s go with it. You meet someone you don’t know and then, when it’s over, it’s over, and you each go your separate ways after some brief morning-after awkwardness.

When David walked in, he was at once exactly what I had expected and not quite what I had expected at all. I suppose such verisimilitude is appropriate for the author of the bizarre and unsettling fictions found in the short story collection Monstrous Affections published in 2009 by ChiZine Publications. David cuts an imposing figure, with the dark and brooding appearance one might expect of a “horror writer,” maintaining a somewhat gothic bearing, with his tousled dark hair and a tall, bear-like frame draped in a long, black leather coat. His massive coffee mug, which would have looked ridiculously comical in my hands, simply seemed to fit the man as he sat down across from me. But as soon as he greeted me with a warm smile, it was obvious that the qualifier “teddy” would, with the stubbornness of water splitting stone, seep into the “bear." David Nickle is a classic gentle giant.

A little bit about David Nickle: as Michael Rowe writes in the introduction to Monstrous Affections, David is a practitioner of what some have called Canadian gothic literature. And his stories are often, though not always, evocative of the horrific. Notable of David’s work is that it is, yes, unapologetically Canadian, his stories often set in or making reference to Canada, at times proving that even Ontario can be a scary place. His stories are at once playful and disturbing, and perhaps all the more disturbing for their playfulness. The world of David Nickle is populated by witches, ghosts, vampires (not the dull, angst-ridden romantic vampires of Twilight), and the occasional Cyclops (turned into a homoerotic sex-symbol, which is awesome), as well as creatures and forces you won’t find anywhere else, and examples of just plain old human nastiness. For spare change, David “commits journalism,” writing for the Toronto Community News group of newspapers. He has been a recipient of a Bram Stoker award as well as an Aurora Award for short form work in English. For more information about David and his work, I urge you to visit his website. It was also recently announced that Monstrous Affections won the Reader’s Choice Black Quill Award for Best Dark Genre Fiction Collection. Buy it at a store near you! For Torontonians, Bakka-Phoenix may still have a few signed copies in stock.

I guess we’ll start with the obvious. How did you get into genre fiction and into writing it?

Genre fiction’s sort of always been my game. When I was in elementary school and high school I read Edgar Alan Poe, and finding that incomprehensible I went onto Stephen King, and H.P. Lovecraft, and finding that incomprehensible... went onto Stephen King.  So it’s always been a fascination with me. When I was very young, my parents worried about this and thought that it might be a sign of mental illness, and the jury’s still out on that, but like I said, it’s been a fascination with me. I find myself bored with imagining completely realistic scenarios that don’t sort of... transcend reality a bit more. And you have to have a pretty good story to keep me going. If a zombie doesn’t show up it’s, uh... yeah.

And what spurred the actual writing?

You probably have to go back to preschool. My mum has always been very supportive, and both of my parents are artists, so the idea of creating art that you would then make a living from and distribute to people was never foreign to me. So my mom would take dictations of little stories that I would tell at the age of three, and they weren’t that good. None of them have been published, but it got me onto the idea of stringing out a line of crap in a way that amuses people. And from there, I couldn’t say based on my early elementary school period that I had a real knack for it, but I realized that I had a hunger for narrative, for telling stories. And being a voracious reader sort of helped with that as well. I mean, realistically, when I decided to get into fiction writing as a career choice, I was probably in junior high school. And starting to write seriously, that came probably in my mid-twenties. I started to realize that when I was in high school and in college, I just didn’t have enough experience to do this seriously, so I committed journalism for a while, and still do.

Committed journalism. An interesting turn of phrase there.

Yeah, I’m a journalist. A lot of people accuse me of that, so it sort of sticks.

I noticed on your website that you refer to your stories as lies. That’s interesting because I know a lot of writers who do the same. They refer to themselves as professional liars. But of course, they’re not alone. There are a lot of professional liars like politicians, and journalists I suppose.

We’re probably abusing the term as liars, because the lie in fiction is a consensual lie. It’s a winking thing. The reader expects to be lied to, enjoys being lied to, as opposed to... we don’t really misrepresent, but...

I guess one expects to be lied to by lawyers, too, but what do you feel is the difference between, I guess, a storyteller as a liar and other kinds of professional liars, and I guess stories as lies?

The reason that lying works so well is... everybody fundamentally wants to believe. And they want to believe something far-fetched and beyond. It’s the reason that people still go to church as well. You want to be credulous about things, and I think that what fiction is... it’s a game of -- well, willing suspension of disbelief is one of the things that people talk about. That’s what you try to get people to do when you give them genre fiction. You get them to say, all right, I know that vampires don’t sparkle when they’re hit by sunlight, but I’m just going to believe for a minute that that’s what happens. What really happens is that they burst into shrieking flames, that doesn’t happen here. And I think that that’s... People want to be comforted, and to be discomforted, and fiction is a safe way to play that game. Would that all lying was consensual fiction. If I could put it another way, I guess we are at the moral top of the heap when it comes to liars.

The noble liars.

We’re the noble liars, yeah, that’s good.

I did a workshop, actually, with a horror writer, a guy named Mike Arnzen, down near Pittsburgh, and he talked about how there’s a fine line between horror and comedy.

That’s very true.

I guess that’s why a lot of bad horror comes off as comedic, because of that fine line. Is it difficult to... for you to tread that line?

In the words of Spinal Tap, it’s a fine line, and I cross it often, between clever and stupid. But no, I think that horror is fundamentally... well, it works best when it’s a bit comic. I find that the kind of horror that turns me off is that dirge-like misery where characters just discover the real discomfort in having one’s fingernails peeled off. That’s not what horror’s about.

Like the Hostel style stuff.

Yeah, like the Hostel type thing. That stuff can be unintentionally funny, but intentionally comic horror is another thing. I’m thinking of something like Stephen King’s story “Gramma” about this kid who as it turns out is the grandson of a Lovecraftian witch who’s about to die, and she’s looking to transfer her soul into a younger body. And she’s picked the grandson. So she organizes things in such a way that her daughter and all the family are away, and it’s just her and the grandson, and she’s dying. And the whole punch line comes when she gasps, “Come give Granny a hug.” Or, “Give Granny a kiss.” Because that’s how the soul transfers. That’s funny. It’s just funny. Because we all know how comically uncomfortable kissing the extraordinarily elderly can be. And this puts some almost absurd stakes on it. But at the same time, King in that story does a really good job of building up the horror and the real discomfort of kissing a horrifically old person. But it wouldn’t work without the humour. In fact, without the humour, it would be out and out creepy in the wrong way.

That’s true. And of course, you write horror, but in addition you write stuff that I guess would be more along the lines of fantasy and science fiction-ish stuff, like “Swamp Witch and the Tea-Drinking Man,” which was probably one of my favourites in the anthology. And I was wondering if... do you approach writing different genres differently?

Yeah. I guess. I mean... In fact, absolutely. I find when I’m writing fantasy or science fiction -- I’ve done a few science fiction stories as well, none in here, but -- yeah, you think about the language differently, the language works differently, the expectations of the reader work differently. When you’re writing science fiction, a lot of the things that might be seen as metaphorical in a horror story are concrete. The space alien is actually a space alien. And with realistic fiction you can play at different punch lines. With horror I find that there’s a need to draw things to a really sharp emotional and horrific point, and that’s not always the case in other genres.

With that said, I think that the one thing to remember about horror is that horror isn’t necessarily a genre. There’s a critic and anthologist by the name of Douglas Winter who said that what horror is, is emotion. Which means that all sorts of stories can function as horror stories. Alien is a science fiction film, but it is also a horror film. It is a horror film because you are scared out of your mind. And there are stories in Monstrous Affections like “The Delilah Party,” which is a realistic story, but it also functions as a horror story. So when I write horror it’s almost like you’re not writing in a genre. You’re going after a particular emotional effect. And I think with other sorts of fiction, you can broaden that to other effects and other emotions.

Also along the line of how you approach writing, do you have a particular process when you write a story? Is there a particular way you go about it, in terms of planning, drafting, stuff like that?

It is different for each one. I can say in common that blind panic and self doubt are the two approaches that I take the most consistently. You never know if you’re going to pull these things off. And...

Sometimes you don’t.

Sometimes you do and sometimes you don’t. If I could bottle the things that I did in what I think are the best stories that I’ve written, I’d write a bunch of stories just like the best stories that I’ve written.

And so there’s a whole bunch in a box somewhere.

Yeah, and you have a whole bunch in a box somewhere. And none of them would be good stories in themselves. In general, what I do is, I find that I think of an image and then build on that, often by drawing from experience. There are some checklists you can go through. You can think about, “Alright, I need me a protagonist. Who’s got the most to lose in this situation? What could they want?” In short fiction, the basic rule that I guess you follow is that you find somebody who has an aching need that can be fulfilled or not fulfilled through the course of the story. Until then it’s just an idea. And if I could remind myself of that more often, I would have far fewer false starts.

Yes, those false starts. They are killer. Where should we go next...? I guess with the theme of the anthology. The anthology itself, Monstrous Affections... the main theme of the anthology, even though they were all published separately is... well, love. Do you find that there are certain themes that you gravitate towards when you write?

I think again it comes to getting at fundamental needs in people, and I think that the need to connect and the need for real love... the understanding about what’s important in one’s life... I couldn’t say that there’s a consistent theme in all of my work. I mean, with the collection, I have to admit that the title Monstrous Affections came late in the game. I had these stories, and I literally went through them and thought, “O.K. What is a line that goes through this?” Which sounds like really shameless backpedalling, but it’s actually how I... it’s how a writer works. You know, when you finish a story, I find when you get to the point of revising it and actually making it work, you take a look at what you’ve written down and you say, “O.K. What did I just write? What’s this thing about?”

So teasing out those themes that are already there.

And, yeah, you tease them out in the revisions so that it becomes more solidified and all those red herrings and dead ends that you wrote down in the wee hours when you were sure that you were doomed... you take those out. And then it doesn’t look as uncertain.

Do you write to deadlines or anything like that?

It depends. It depends. Most of the stories, or at least, a lot of the stories that I’ve published have come from requests from editors, who say “I’d like to get a story for this anthology that I’m putting together.” And in that case there is a deadline. I try not to let a story linger around too long. With that said, sometimes that can be valuable. I remember with “The Sloan Men,” the older story, I started a couple of years before I finished it. I wrote the first few paragraphs... or the first few pages and thought, “Well, this is an interesting set-up. I have no idea what the next word is. I’ll put it away for a while.” And then I nailed it together later on. And I think that was necessary.

So, I should probably mention the cover of the anthology.

Oh yes, everybody does.

Yeah, I was on the TTC one day and there was this woman who sat down next to me. And I was reading this, and she glanced over briefly, she was looking around, and she did a double-take on the cover. And then she promptly stood up and moved to another seat on the TTC. Sat down somewhere else.

That’s great.

I’ve never actually had that happen before with a cover. What was your reaction to it?

Oh, I loved it! When I saw that... It’s funny, because ChiZine is a new press, and many of us are friends, and when it came time to do the cover, we had a meeting over drinks with the cover artist Erik Mohr, who’s fantastic, and he came with some sketches for the cover, and he wasn’t really sure what to do. He had one that would have been a really great mainstream cover. It would go well on a Chuck Palahniuk novel. So we were looking over this and everybody was a little bit... not sure if this was going to work. And I sort of said, in terms of tweaking it, why don’t you see if you can make that image look a little bit more like one of the things from “The Sloan Men.” Just for fun. And see how that works. So he wound up doing this completely different cover, emailed it around to us, and we had this furious email conversation. One of the people at ChiZine thought that it might be a bit too upsetting. And I just looked at it, and I thought “Well, there are certain people who are never going to buy this book because of this cover, but that’s not the people who would enjoy the stories, so that’s O.K.” Yeah, the cover has been fantastic. Almost all of the reviews that have come in that have been good on the book have mentioned the cover first. For example, there was January Magazine, they picked it as one of the best of 2009, and the reviewer said he had to read it after seeing the cover. I think it’s brilliant. I think that it’s up there with the initial cover of Stephen King’s Nightshift, a really classic horror collection that became iconic, so I’m really blessed with this hideous, hideous atrocity.

It really jumps out at you, even in the bookstore and you have all these covers around you, and you don’t know what to pick necessarily, until you see that cover.

Yeah, “Pick me,” it says.

Buy me!

[In a growling bear voice.] Hey Lady, come here!

So, uh, this issue of steelbananas is going to be coming out the day after Valentine’s Day, which is unfortunate in some ways because I was going to ask you if you would recommend purchasing this book as a Valentine’s Day gift? Perhaps for next year?

Perhaps next year. Well, we were actually thinking, and I’m not sure if we’re going to get this together, of doing downloadable pdf Valentine’s Day cards to put this on them. So yes. Well, it’s actually a good Valentine’s Day gift for those who are miserable about Valentine’s Day, because it’s about love, but it’s not so romantic.

I actually only have one more formal question. In the back of Monstrous Affections, you mention that you have a tragic affection for Tom Waits.

Oh, I do.

Which is your favourite Tom Waits album and why? And answer very carefully. Very carefully.

[David thinks... very carefully.]

Umm... I would say that it is... Raindogs.

Raindogs.

Raindogs. And that is for a particular nostalgic reason. I came to Tom Waits by a mix tape that one of my colleagues at a paper I used to work at played in her car. And the first song that I heard was nothing from Raindogs. It was the, um, the Waltzing Matilda song with a name I can’t recall [“Tom Traubert’s Blues”], which I’m embarrassed about... but I picked up Raindogs on vinyl, because that’s what the kids did in those days, and then when “Singapore” came on, I was hooked. Tom Waits is a funny guy. For the longest time I think that I was... I think that a lot of people listened to Tom Waits and loved the early stuff and find some of the later stuff hard to get. And I, too, found the later stuff hard to get, but all that it takes is really listening to it over and over again, also while you sleep, and you understand what he’s about. I would have room for more music on my mp3 player if I didn’t have every single album that Tom Waits has, even the ones I don’t like that much.

Good answer, David. Good answer.

And now, dear reader, the morning after is upon us. Let us awkwardly part. And don’t forget your under-things.

Installation view | The Taxali 300 at Narwhal Art Projects | Courtesy of Juxtapoz

The retro look of the materials, typography, and characters in Taxali’s work have attracted attention from a range of creatives, including critics and artists of the ‘Low Brow’ or pop-surrealist movement, as well as illustrators and design junkies of all stripes. Taxali certainly has an affinity for the American idealism of the first half of the last century. As Taxali tells us, advertisements from pre-war America “were selling hope in an age where the possibilities of technological advancement were exciting”ⁱ. Compared to the strained gardening metaphors of “shovels in the ground” and “green shoots,” wherein analysts betray the frail grasp we have of the complexity of our current financial circumstance, Taxali’s embracing of the frank, awkward solicitations of old logos is a breath of fresh air.

What has been lost in contemporary appeals to green futures and financial regulations, Taxali tells us, is not only the cheerful tone of Big Boy and the Monopoly Man, but their honesty: “In my work I attempt to show the awkwardness in the characters and logos to praise their humanity and innocence by purposefully highlighting their imperfections”ⁱⁱ. These characteristics of ‘humanity,’ and ‘innocence’ come through in Taxali’s work as a gentle nudge away from an insistence on control that some designers convey with “sterile imagery of water, the colour green etc.”, promising serenity and clarity in a more harmonious, fertile futureⁱⁱⁱ. For example, Taxali illustrates the slogan “eat local” with a smiley bunch of fruits and veggies growing out of a pile of dreary apartment blocks, and they’re doing this all by themselves, too! I don’t see the smugness of most greens, and I imagine that we are more inspired to tend our own garden by this jolly bunch than by swooping panorama shots of wind farms and solar panels. Furthermore, the happy food group doesn’t force a tenuous connection between global sustainability and my vegetable garden, but rather, captures the charm of the DIY mentality without taking on an air of self-importance.

From The Taxali 300 | Courtesy of Narwhal Art Projects

Taxali’s charm sets an important tone in our visual culture that has not gone unnoticed by other illustrator-cum-fine artists. Dan Perjovschi is another master doodler who has stripped his work of the sleek, sterile style of advertising visuals, and the sensational scale and gravity of most news media. Outside of Romania, Perjovschi is best known for his illustration installations. Using simple tools (indelible markers and projections) Perjovschi covers the walls of galleries with black and white cartoons. Perjovschi will be coming to Toronto on February 15th to create the next of a series of these installations, which have been commissioned by numerous prominent galleries, in the Royal Ontario Museum’s Roloff Beny Gallery. The coincidence of these two exhibitions will provide valuable insight into the value of artists who are able humanize an increasingly confusing visual world.

By constantly translating the ideas and issues that he encounters on his travels into cartoons, which he records continuously in notebooks, Perjovschi captures the attitudes and behavior of local communities as well as his reaction to changes in place^iv. Each installation is an edited and enlarged version of these notebooks^v. Perjovschi adds a humanized character to his work by taking such a personal approach to art making.  “Everything I see is linked after all with the way I see things, and with what happened to me,” Perjovschi tells us^vi. Art is a working out of everyday experience in Perjovschi’s practice, where drawing maintains the humility of a journal entry.

Installation view | Postcards from the World | Courtesy of Lombard-Freid Projects

The best example of this diaristic aspect of Perjovschi’s practice is his current exhibition New York, which bears a striking resemblance to the exhibition of Taxali’s work at the Narwhal Art Projects. Postcards from the World, which is currently showing at Lombard-Freid Projects, is an installation of small format illustrations by Perjovschi sprawled out across the gallery space like the cells of mammoth comic strip^vii. Postcards from the World brings together a work by that same name and a second work: Postcards from America^viii. Each piece is a collection of the notebook, scribblings that Perjovschi uses as the subjects for his installations^ix. Postcards from America is a record of Perjovschi’s first trip to America, which took place in 1994 after the Romanian revolution in 1989^x. A doodle of a man whose bulging bicep is also his head captures the flippancy and wordplay that pervade Perjovschi’s illustrations: the annotation ‘Be strong, be smart’ is lent a Kafkaesque humor when we see that the macho man showing us his ‘guns’ has actually metamorphosed into the might with which he’s conflated right. Perhaps this drawing captures an early encounter with the archetype of the American machismo.

From Postcards from the World | Courtesy of Lombard-Freid Projects

Perjovschi has created a personal account of his first encounter with America with hundreds of similar drawings in order to allow viewers to see the great struggle for understanding that characterizes an inquisitive, critical mind. If we consider the current installation at the Lombard-Freid Projects in isolation we can see that a time-based element of Perjovschi’s work is emphasized thanks to the comic-style hanging of these two temporally charged pieces. Each piece is the result of a journey, a passing of time and place, captured like a snapshot. Nuno Faria explores a second aspect of time at play in Perjovschi’s work by explaining how these illustrations act as an invocation of memory.

Not only are the works at the Lombard-Freid Projects a record of Perjovschi’s travels, they also represent a constructive act through which he organizes and filters his experience into comprehensible segments or episodes. Without outlining a clear psychological analogy for this process of constructing an image of the past, it is still plausible to suggest that such acts of willful remembrance are an important aspect of becoming conscious of the constant shifts in our understanding of the world. Faria suggests that a viewer’s response to the montage of works presented by Perjovschi can be understood as an act of remembrance^xi. This is not to suggest that we remember as Perjovschi would, but that the images someone ‘gets’ are the images that resonate for them. An installation such as the one at the Lombard-Freid lends itself to a kind of free association of images, and the weaving of idiosyncratic narratives present in the diverse array of subjects illustrated by Perjovschi.

Much like Taxali, Perjovschi presents a less serious or highhanded form of design. However, where Taxali brings a tangible sense of character to our visual culture through a sensitive attunement to a humble attitude present in the forefathers of the contemporary logo, Perjovschi has further developed the time-based aspect of his performances in order to tap into a similar vein of humanized illustration. The performance of the continual act of understanding and the subsequent redefinition of that understanding is a central element of Perjovschi’s work, through which he admits his own fallibility. Perjovschi must constantly revise his responses and adapt his illustrations to constant changes in the media environment, as well as other aspects of the local context, that he encounters on his travels. For example, while his macho-man could back a big mouth with a bugling bicep in 1994, by the second Moscow biennal, whether by virtue of a new setting or a different time, our meathead is all talk. His images have such rich character not only for their wit, but also for the development of themes that reoccur across the passages of time and place that Perjovschi captures in his notebooks.

Installation view | Footnotes on Geopolitics | Market and Amnesia at the 2nd Moscow Biennial | Courtesy of Dan Perjovschi

The humanizing affect of the temporal and commemorative aspects of Perjovschi’s illustrations is a vital aspect of his ability to maintain the role his work fills as a public art form. The way Taxali can capture our fallibility in his toons by avoiding the sleek, inhuman look of advertising is another valuable contribution to a public visual culture. Kristine Stiles has paid close attention to the status of print media and illustration as a public art form, and with direct consideration of Perjovschi’s practice. An outline of Stiles’ work on public art will flesh out the relevance of the term ‘public’ and help draw out the importance of the humanizing elements that I’ve identified in the work of Taxali and Perjovschi.

For Stiles, it was Perjovschi’s role as political cartoonist and the context in which he took on that role that were the most compelling reasons for calling his work a genuine public art^xii. After the fall of Ceausescu’s regime in 1989, Perjovschi soon began to create the illustrations for two new publications - Countrapunct and 22 - both avenues for critical voices emerging after the silence of the communist state was broken^xiii. Stiles argues that post-revolutionary Romania shared a history clouded by secrecy, and that a collective assessment of that past was essential^xiv.  Presented with a moment in which an entire country was faced with issues that would resonate throughout the population, Perjovschi’s illustrations could help focus the attention of the public on the complexities of the social consequences that would arrive in the wake of the revolution^xv. The presence of such shared interests is key for Stiles, and is what constitutes an identifiable 'public.’ Stiles is able to elucidate the value of Perjovschi’s work because she can explain the relevance of the issues that Perjovschi illustrates to a clearly defined group.

However, by focusing her analysis on the communicative brilliance of Perjovschi’s illustrations within the context of his practice as a uniquely Romanian artist in a Romanian moment, Stiles must end her treatment of public art on a wan note. If there is no public interest in an appreciation of our past, or a critical reflection on how that past resonates in our present, then public art does not exist because there is no clear public to engage^xvi. Though Stiles presents us with an example of a Western community within which public art has engaged successfully, she is concerned with the difficulty of defining publics within western democracies^xvii. Above, I have tried to articulate the means through which Taxali and Perjovschi have managed to engage people without a public that could plausibly be said to have the same invigorated sense of the importance of the past that Stiles believes to have been present in Romania after 1989.

Developing communicative tactics with the flexibility of those employed by Taxali and Perjovschi shows that illustration (within the context of print culture and installation art) may be able to engage with people despite a lack of a clearly defined public. The engagement that I’ve described takes place on a level of a humanizing of visual culture. The value of this humanization of visual culture is best understood in opposition to a misplaced faith in the role of news television as the centerpiece of the deliberative democratic ideal.

Laboring the supposed rationality of a democratic or economic sense of progress by employing a medium that cannot support the sustained thought required for such complex projections, i.e. television, is a misuse of our creative potential. Richard Anderson, in "The Place of the Media in a Popular Democracy", has shown us that the impact of ‘negative campaigning’ (read: mudslinging) and ‘agenda setting’ (read: sensational journalism) are enough to undercut a vision of a rational, well informed group of citizens being led by a visual culture. It is not visual media that we should look to for guidance in goal setting and decision making. The persistence with which we have done so reveals a misunderstanding of the potential of visual media. It is, perhaps, art that can help us understand a more valuable form of engagement with visual forms. When news television can only present us with so many uncertainties, vagaries, and abstractions, it seems strange that we have not given up the hope that visual communications might help us grasp the complexities of the early twentieth century. The work of Taxali and Perjovschi points to another, more valuable, potential inherent in visual media, the potential of an engagement with more basic aspects of human nature in a way that may help people understand how their shared humanity is iterated in the present moment.

From The Taxali 300 | Courtesy of Narwhal Art Projects

Fallibility is the aspect of human nature that Taxali has shown us so skillfully. Taxali has given us a renewed humility in the form of his jovial characters, which drop the pretense of a sleek, serene vision of a revitalized, green American economy. The self-consciously caricatured quality in Taxali’s work, which is achieved with a charming handling of the visual legacy of the American dream, not only makes the hubris of American finance laughable but also humbles contemporary attempts at easily encapsulating the flaws in our economic system. Taxali’s handling of the now-quaint mascots of the past reveals that both the new and old must stand together in their acceptance of their fallibility and the uncertainty of their grasp of present crises. Taxali’s Monopoly-Man-come-Uncle-Sam is perhaps the best instance of this humanizing tone. The star-studded hero of commerce looks on in disbelief as his bubble is about to be burst. This bubble could be the bubble of  ‘bubble capitalism,’ the bubble of our neighbor’s supposed economic superiority, and perhaps the deflating of a more collective personal fable: that ubiquitous visual media could bring the coherence promised by a dream of electric omniscience. No, no. The best we’ve got are Taxali’s chumps.

Perjovschi’s work is a performative and time-based rendition of our fallibility. The theme of fallibility is not an obvious one to relate to Perjovschi’s work when presented with his vibrant wordplay and the breadth of the thoughts that he stimulates with such simple drawings. One might imagine that if anyone can present a thoughtful or comprehensive view of the world, it would be this adept visual communicator traveling the world with no job other than doodling. But once you consider that Perjovschi has seen what it is too live in a place where images were elevated to the level of infallible icons, my proposal gains new weight. Perjovschi is embracing the beauty of a continual transformation of belief and understanding; an organic process that was perhaps denied him, or at least curtailed, by the limits placed on his access to information and freedom of speech. After he left Romania this process broadened in scope. Though Perjovschi’s practice as an illustrator may be addressed to a more nebulous public, the more fundamental exploration of the value of a constantly shifting imminent critique has enriched his practice by adding an inspiring characterization of the essential struggle we all face by virtue of our imperfect understanding.

- - -

ⁱ Gary Taxali Illustration Press, “Juxtapoz Interview”, http://www.garytaxali.com/press.php

ⁱⁱ Ibid.

ⁱⁱⁱ Ibid.

^iv Dan Perjovschi Official Website, Texts, “The Line That Speaks”, by Julia Friedrich, http://www.perjovschi.ro/line-speaks.html.

^v Ibid.

^vi Ibid.

^vii Dan Perjovschi Official Website, Current Projects, “Dan Perjovschi—Postcards from the World”, http://www.perjovschi.ro/dan-perjovschi-postcards-world.html.

^viii Ibid.

^ix Ibid.

^x Ibid.

^xi Dan Perjovschi Official Website, Texts, “Dan Perjovschi: When I’m working I see everything as a drawing”, http://www.perjovschi.ro/dan-perjovschi-when-i-m-working-i-see-everything-drawing.html.

^xii Kristine Stiles, “Concerning Public Art and “Messianic Time””, Google Scholar Search: “Concerning Public Art and “Messianic Time””, (accessed February 12, 2010).

^xiii Ibid.

^xiv Ibid.

^xv Ibid.

^xvi Ibid.

^xvii Ibid.

© Megan McKenzie

© Megan McKenzie

I tend to get sick of things quickly. This factor, in combination with a need to get my hands dirty, has led me to work in mixed media – everything from spray paint to collage to watercolour can be found in my studio. I have a strong fascination with intricate patterns, albino animals and the Dark Arts, and am currently in love with the work of Aurel Schmidt, Matt Leines and Shary Boyle. One day, I would like to test my hand at wallpaper design, and developing graphics for snowboards, longboards and skateboards.

Check out more of Megan's work on her website and in our Spotlight Gallery.

Comments

• February 15, 2010, Marshall writes: o_O !
• February 15, 2010, Taxali, Nickle, Dino Porn, Winterlicious and more! | >fruitlet writes: [...] David Nickle, whose recent release Monstrous Affections has been making quite a stir, and our visual art spotlight this month is a great illustrator from Toronto, Megan McKenzie, whose beautiful work really blew me [...]

Their second and latest release - edited and produced in collaboration with Leigh Nash and Andrew Faulkner of the Toronto chapbook press The Emergency Response Unit¹ - is an anthology of poetry and prose focused on a very curious theme. Apparently one of the co-founders was enamoured with a certain outré² novelty porn flick which inspired a story, subsequently bearing the anthology through collaborative hard work and home-made production. This isn't some typical literary erotica, either, considering this particular video depicted a ridiculously costumed dinosaur having gratituitous and seemingly very serious sex with two human women. It's Dinosaur Porn. Oddly, the video itself is not even remarkably explicit; all the common liberal porn tropes find their way into the perplexing celluloid without suggesting in the slightest that any of the bodies involved view their situation as absurd in the least. It's actually so awesomely ridiculous it's nearly impossible to find it any way sexually explicit, aside from the nudity and bizarre spirited sexual sincerity. Nevertheless, the concept found quite a bit of favour and momentum in creating the refreshingly absurd humour of the anthology, under which the press itself jovially mirrors the peculiar fetish in its marginal earnestness³.

The diverse selection of poetry and prose in Dinosaur Porn covers ground from the Toronto sex-culture radio-kitten Lousie Bak, to the dynamic voice of Gary Barwin, to the fresh voices of Corrigan Hammond and Christine McNair, among others. Encompassing a wide breadth of madcap variations on the theme, the anthology's combination of brevity, humour, and genuine home-made aura - wrapped into a couple hundred painstakingly produced packages - really made a thoughtful and interesting contribution to Toronto's contemporary literary playground. In times when we utter fear about the death of the book, we can be sure that projects like these maintain the  joie de vivre in the small press scene.

I sat down with the talented and remarkably modest Ferno House and ERU at Zoots Cafe to chat about the book and things. This group has been friends with one another for years, so it was my pleasure to sit over a coffee with them for a good laugh about their recent endeavour. Here's a taste:

Karen: So you use a special press for the covers, right?

Arnaud: Yeah, a Vandercook.

Spencer: It's like, 100 years old.

Karen: Where did you acquire that?

Arnaud: A secret cave. We go to a secret lair and do our printing. We try to avoid the dragon that lives there, but most times its safe.

Karen: Figures. You hear about books being made by hand and then you see these beautiful perfect bound things and wonder...

Andrew: Yeah, like what kind of hands do they have?! (Laughter).

Spencer: For the last book, the cover was done in a similar way, but the binding of it was actually by hand - like it was glued. It was clamped and then white glued, then we put the cover on, and then clamped again.

Arnaud: With a brush and shitty bulldog clips. Bulldog. We actually invested in a perfect binding machine, which makes the job a little quicker but more toxic I think. I'm not sure it's toxic but it smells really...

Matt: I get headaches and sick. (Laughter).

Spencer: Yeah I came home the other day and it smelled. It smelled so bad.

Karen: So what's the process for a single book?

Spencer: It would have been nice to do it with everyone, but the tasks for putting a book together are really one on one intensive. It's really a one man job; a one person job. You can't really divvy up tasks so well. It's sequential, too, so it would have been nice if it was just like a conveyor belt, it could have been done in a quarter of the time, but it's just this labour intensive, single activity. Andrew, Leigh, and I edited it. We took in selections, which was fun, and then they did a good copy edit on our almost good copy edit (Laughs). Then Arnaud designed it...

Arnaud: ...and typeset it...

Spencer: ...and it was corrected, then interiors were printed. Meanwhile the covers were being designed and printed, and then matched up with the interiors, then stacked together, cut, glued, and then finishing touches of brushing out bits...

Arnaud: I think that's the best part, where I ask Spencer to grab a brush and to brush off the dust. Well, not dust but the little chunks of paper that collect at the spine from the perfect binding machine. I'm like "Spencer when you number these, can you brush out all of the little paper bits?"

Spencer: It took forever.

Arnaud: We all share the workload, but I think it's just funny that we would go that far to... make a book (Laughs).

Karen: Just for the perfection of it?

Arnaud: Yeah.

Spencer: Anything that you make, that you put time and effort into it, makes a difference. That's just logical.

Arnaud: The new Penguin books have that kind of style, too: The deboss, two colour jobs. So it's kinda hard for people to really acknowledge how much work that went into them.

Spencer: It can never look really professional. Like it can't look all: "Wow that's perfect. Slick."

Karen: You guys don't think these are slick? (Picks up pretty slick copy of Dinosaur Porn.)

Spencer: Well, we have to charge a certain amount, like fifteen bucks, just to cover the labour, right. But I mean, going out to the store and picking up a mass produced book that's designed really well will probably last longer, ostensibly. (Laughs). So all the time going in is really aimed to match that, but done the slow way.

Karen: Well I'm sure that's all for you guys, right? For the love of it? Well, maybe not always - when you're covered in glue and such.

Spencer: [To Leigh and Andrew] Do you guys physically enjoy making books?

Leigh: Sometimes. Some days its fun, but other days its like a chore. Like those books (points at latest chapbook helping from the ERU) we have to make outside because we're using spray adhesive for the covers, so right now its hell to make them.

Andrew: We make them in 5 or 10 batches, but the pages are so weighty and wet, we have to set up a tarp over half of our backyard and huddle underneath it spraying and I'm trying not to get the glue in my hair. I go inside and stick to everything.

Matt: Well, in the end it's worth it, I'd say. The fact that you go through that...

Spencer: All the spraying...

Andrew: Well, I save on hair gel. (Laughter).

Matt: What I really like about the process is that feeling of time going by without noticing it. That's really rare, and probably the best part about making books like this.

Spencer: [To Andrew] It's interesting to see you make books, just because of your artistic abilities...

Andrew: Yeah, how I failed grade-school art?

Matt: So you're like, vindicating yourself.

Andrew: Yeah. But even the design for our stuff is all really natural. I mostly just kinda glue and fold. In the end you're right: we love it. Otherwise, we wouldn't keep coming back. There are moments where - while you're in the process of it - it's just like Why am I doing this... And then afterwards you're like Holy fuck this is awesome.

Karen: How do you think Ferno House fits into what's happening in Toronto right now? What kind of niche are you guys aspiring to fill?

Spencer: Hmm, what do you guys think about the niche that Dinosaur Porn fills in Toronto?

Andrew: I don't think we set out to fill a particular spot.

Karen: So you're making a spot?

Arnaud: Yeah, we're establishing it.

Andrew: I really like that on the call for submissions Spencer had the tagline "Just another Canlit anthology."

Spencer: Did I write that?

Andrew: So many anthologies have come out recently and I think a lot of it was that we wanted to be able to see how high quality of a thing we could make that was ostensibly so ridiculous. And we did end up getting tons of really excellent submissions; lots of things that stand alone, outside of the limits of an anthology called Dinosaur Porn. And the book quality is stepping up...

Matt: Well, you have to make stuff. And if you make it, make it good.

Spencer: In the recent radio interview I did, she was asking a similar question in terms of niche, but instead of Toronto she asked about Ottawa, because we're from there. It was framed in terms of chapbooks, and I was like: Well, this isn't really a chapbook.

Karen: Seems like a full-fledged book to me.

Spencer: Yeah, compared to the chapbook presses that stay in a place like Ottawa, it doesn't take the same kind of approach, I suppose. It's aspiring for something a bit more. Not in terms of content -  like take nothing away from anything being produced there in terms of literary merit, but in terms of production, they seem to be going the other way, with bows or really natural looking mulch paper. Really really intentionally hand-made. Still, that's definitely great, but we're just trying to go the other way.

Andrew: I know with Leigh and I, our chapbooks, and you guys with Ferno House, I think we're trying to make a package that stands up to the value of the work. I mean, we want to have a book that kinda shows off how good it is, as opposed to just being like: Well, the work will speak for itself. Why not also give it a really really awesome frame? I don't want to see really good work just being thrown together and stapled.

Spencer: Imagine we just took everyone's submissions for this thing, stacked them up, and stapled them together like that.

Matt: People would be like, "Whaaat?"

Arnaud: Yeah, like a staple in one corner, like an essay. (Laughter).

Karen: So when putting this together, what was your selection process like? I mean, it seems pretty diverse.

Spencer: We had no mandate. The only mandate was that it had to address the theme directly.

Leigh: We got things that were just porn, and just dinosaurs, and we got things with neither. (Laughter).

Spencer: And some of those things were really good, but not the porn. The pure porn stuff was - oh my god.

Karen: Pure porn stuff?

Spencer: One was a rambling paragraph, no breaks, called i like to wite porn. We thought it was a joke.

Karen: I like to write porn?

Spencer: Wite porn. Everything was messed up. It was so dirty. It wasn't just like an attempt at eroticism, it was so horrifying and awful and just went on and on with everything spelled wrong. Mattress was spelled m-a-t-r-i-c-e. That was my favourite. And then we had this group of guys from the States who are - I think it's herpetophilia - sexually attracted to snakes and lizards. They exploded over the site.

Leigh: Like "Rajasaurus".

Spencer: "Rajasaurus" and "Dilophosaurus" and all these guys. They're this little blogging community in Texas and they all talk to each other and are like: I just heard about this thing in friggin Canada, is this a joke? No? Well here's my story...

Leigh: They couldn't believe it. They were so excited.

Spencer: They actually went too far for us (Laughs). It was like a laboratory technician making love to a pack of raptors. It was dripping with detail, with all of the correct terms about their folds and how they get aroused.

Karen: Real, heavily researched Dino porn?

Spencer: Yeah, but it just didn't have that kind of be experimental with the theme thing. It was like: Hmm, Dinosaur Porn. What could that be? Oh. Someone having sex with a ton of dinosaurs. (Laughter).

- - -

¹ The Emergency Response Unit has been around since 2007, and has made 11 beautiful chapbooks so far. They have a launch for their most recent selection coming up on February the 22nd at The Magpie in Toronto, so you should head on out - it's sure to be a blast.
² If you really want to see the bizarre Dinosaur porno video, click here. I warn you, this is straight-up porn.
³ Don't believe me? Just check out the book teaser trailer. Yes, that is a member of the Ferno House sucking an egg. These people are serious.

Comments

• February 16, 2010, Devon writes: One word for the folks at Ferno House: "Heroes".
• February 20, 2010, Marta writes: In light of the onset of e-publishing and the evil kindle, this project seems really revolutionary. Kudos to people keeping the love of the book as a cultural object alive!
• February 24, 2010, Marie writes: Brilliant idea, but I'm sure they need a lot of patience!

Today I am writing because I want to tell you the adventures of how I saw half of the trailer for An Education, enrolled, finished the course, got pissed, dug up my invoice, asked for a refund, and got it. Damn right I did. I’ll also tell you the ins and outs and betweens in detail later, but first let me ramble about else-thing for just another bit…

Lately I’ve been (re)drowning myself in a pile of 60s French and Italian films by the likes of Godard, Resnais, and Antonioni. Eagerly, I wallow in this black and white puddle of film grain, chatting up stunning foreign ladies plagued only by alienation and existential angst. Oh, how romantic such woe is. They tell me tales of their doomed and surreal affairs, their natural succumbing to emotions that are undeniably human, the running away, the turning back, and the gentleman who turns out to be a criminal (changing just about nothing). Let’s use the term coined by critics and refer to these lengths of celluloid art films. Without going into essayist detail to distinguish art films from classical-narrative films, I will humbly attempt to pronounce what I personally feel to be the crux of art cinema:

That is not a documentation of reality. If this confuses you, or if because your own experience with art films has been one of senseless ambiguity, far from any depictions of what you see to be real life, allow me the opportunity to hold your horse. Try to remember Adaptation, the one with Kaufman locked in two Cages guarded over by Jonze. The film is essentially ninja-sliced in half, first half being an art film and second half a classical-narrative film. The film’s main character, Kaufman (Cage), is stuck in writer’s block and doesn’t know how to go about writing an entertaining feature-length screenplay about a bunch of stolen flowers. The viewer is presented here with aimless, episodic, and dialogue-driven (both external and internal) scenes of Kaufman’s hopeless despair for a seemingly impossible task, and what’s more, his own mid-life search for meaning. The external-material-worldstuffs Kaufman interacts with in this segment are clearly secondary to the intricate psychological dread he undergoes. The world behind the screen is vast and unlimited, unconfined to space or time (opening montage, the fantastic stripping waitress dream sequence). This segment climaxes with Kaufman at a Robert McKee screenwriting seminar, in which Kaufman bursts into a public outcry that is essentially a formal rejection of classical-narrative cinema’s irrelevance to reality.

Shortly after the film switches to McKee-style classical-narrative, characters are mystically implanted with clear-cut personality traits, and very material goals. Physical events in the world suddenly become primary as their mental and psychological selves become two-dimensional and seemingly automatic. The characters’ perception of the world diminishes to only the very obvious elements, objectives and obstacles. And if you recall, things get ridiculously out of hand and you end up with speeding cars, flying bullets and dying people.

Reality:

A. Disquiet over strenuous and ongoing expectations, the shortness of life, the complete absence of guidance from an absolute.

or

B. Disquiet over the headlights of a mad and perverted couple closing in, the loudness of gunfire, the death of your naïve and innocent younger twin brother.

Putting it bluntly, classical-narrative cinema films have nothing to do with your life. These films do not represent the reality of your life (if you choose to have your life represent the reality of a film, that’s something else). I love these films, don’t get me wrong, but there are various reasons for watching a film:

1. For entertainment and escapism (where you wish you were still escaping even after the credits roll, Avatar).
2. For expanding your view of the world, existence (escape until the credits roll, contemplation/realization takes over, 2001: A Space Odyssey, Synecdoche New York).

People that see art films as snobby and inapproachable are simply looking for something simple to enjoy, like after work, something that just washes over. Fair enough.

Unwittingly, I saw half the trailer for An Education and thought it was an art film, or at least a throwback to 60’s art films. It’s based on Lynn Barber’s memoir about a young British girl (Jenny) who meets a man (David) double her age and decides to quit school to go to Paris with him and be sexy instead. I was hoping for complex characters, an abundance of deep intense dialogue, wine, cheese, jazz, dancing, concluding with the absurdity of it all. I was hoping for youth revisited. Everyone fantasizes about a quick way out, an alternative lifestyle; to drop rationality for a just a bit and splash about in the randomness of our material plane. We just want it to all to make sense and be agreeable. Then we realize it can’t be, and never will. Hide these thoughts, dismiss it as nonsense. Escape, escape, escape. Watch the tube, everything’s okay. An Education shows you your boring life, shows you how awesome it can be, then shows you how messed up you are for even thinking you can attain such awesome.

Besides not being as fun as I envisioned, the film is acceptable until the very end. Jenny realizes David is actually married and therefore the life she imagined is suddenly a sham. She already quit school and missed her exams and can no longer get herself into Oxford. If the film ended here, it’d be closer to an art film where life’s unanswered questions remain unanswerable, and life’s desires remain desirable. The infinitude of life should be contemplated in accordance to where one stands. One cannot realize where one is standing unless they recognize this infinitude. Therefore, art films as representations of reality cannot provide answers, for that would be unreal. It would be likewise naïve to read a single philosopher’s work and proclaim to have it all figured out.

An Education ends with Jenny realizing her foolishness and then studying her ass off to finally get into Oxford. This sequence is rushed with a horrendous montage of her working hard (Rocky style). The film ends off telling the viewer it’s actually very easy in life, work hard and you’ll get there!  We’ve heard it all a thousand times and we certainly do not need another movie to remind us or convince us. It may help the few who can use such films as reminders, every time they want to slam that textbook shut, remember how Jenny did it, it’s all going to be fine. This is Lynn Barber’s life, she’s making money selling off her so-called mistakes, and the best part of the film is her mistake. Youth down the drain, oh how she wishes to relive it! Can you imagine how much pleasure she gets every time she tells it? Now imagine her awesome life minus that part.
Art films won’t make life easier, avoid them if you believe life should be.

- - -
You’ve made it this far just for this:
So some kids were talking and laughing at every scene of the movie, I went out, located the manager, and said the following:
“These fuckers in the corner won’t shut the fuck up.”
They shut the fuck up and eventually left. Upon exiting the theatre, an employee apologized and handed me two passes. Win.

Both are deconstructions of the superhero comic, picking through conventions to try and paint a “real” world setting while illuminating certain quirks and abolishing others. Neither story relies on the conceit that the bad guy will escape from prison every other issue to wreak havoc, nor will that story takes place in some limbo time where no character ever ages and the status quo is eternal.

Dark Knight Returns has an advantage in being about a character who is truly world renowned, and especially in having the campy 60’s Batman show in the public consciousness which perpetuated an image of Batman as a boy scout, a duly deputized guy who’s wholly adherent to traffic laws and whatever the guys in charge says. It was a show played for laughs (although to be honest I took it as completely serious while growing up) and as such Dark Knight Returns is all the more striking for its ugly, brutal action.

The motivation behind throwing on a costume and fighting crime is something that had been only sparsely explored in the past, and is a key element of these two stories. In Dark Knight Returns it’s implied that dressing up as a violent bat is a compulsion which goes beyond a simple altruistic spirit. Watchmen takes the idea much further, exploring characters who love the violence of it, the publicity, the eroticism, or they simply require an alternate persona to hide away from the ills of the world.

Whatever the reason, it’s a valid one as far as Watchmen is concerned - it helps that no single character is the focus (or “the one we readers are supposed to agree with”) and the complexities and contradictions of each character create a situation where we as readers are never comfortable saying “that guy’s the villain.” Each character is so beautifully constructed that any one in a starring role would be a triumph of creativity, but to have each character exist and interact, each giving their own views that bounce and mutate in relation to each other characters viewpoint, it’s like the difference between a single melody and a symphony.

An essential comic technique is the juxtaposition of images: say one panel has a guy carrying a ball, and the second has the same guy with his arm extended and the ball hanging in the air beyond his reach, the reader would decode those images as being “a man throws a ball.” Obviously different effects can be created depending on the contexts and images, and I’m particularly struck by the juxtaposition used in Dark Knight Returns and Watchmen.

Dark Knight Returns takes the panels and gives them to us out of order - we’re given a single panel that can stand on its own as a poetic testament, but then a page later we’ll find another panel that expands on the previous idea, fleshing out what’s going on and threading everything together. The effect is a re-creation of the real world perspective, of getting one part of the story on a single channel before getting more information on another channel. Who needs an omniscient narrator, right?

Watchmen takes an opposite tack where the images may differ one from the other and jump to other characters or subplots but with an overwhelming adherence to a particular theme which reinforces everything being expressed. Not only is this interweaving incredibly complex, but it comes together in such a way that the story could only end the way it does. Though you never see it coming, it makes perfect sense, and that kind of tight creation is what the best stories are all about.

I haven’t told you anything specific about what happens in these books, which is especially important for Watchmen seeing as it’s a murder mystery. I have to make sure you read these at some point, which means warning you that these aren’t easy books to read! I remember that the first time I read Watchmen, the prose backups to each issue felt like they take forever to get through. They aren’t really that long, probably the same as four pages of a scholarly magazine, but I know a lot of people that can’t deal with them. It sounds like they’d rather skip that section or stop reading the whole book. Don’t do that! If you’re tired, quit for now and pick it up later, rather than just skip over to the more fast paced images of the comic book proper (though even those are pretty packed with text - Watchmen is a dense read, no doubt about it).

Dark Knight Returns is comparatively a much easier read, it helps that it stars a single mega-star protagonist Batman, and is much shorter. If you want to jump into one of these books, start with Dark Knight Returns.

And now that I’ve piqued your interest in these two famous books, I’ve got to hold you back. Both of these texts engage thoroughly with established comic language and history. If you’re going to get the most out of these books you’re going to have to warm up a bit first. Read a couple of Archie comics, some old school Justice League of America, or something… and then dive on in and impress your friends.

Comments

• February 19, 2010, Jen M writes: Isaac.. I would like to read both. I have heard the same about the Watchmen and how difficult it can be to get through. I will take your word and start with the dark knight returns

How does one discuss sound in a medium that necessarily removes it?

Listening to music is so easy these days. Everyone knows about everything. Sure, things can still be under or over rated, I suppose, but the point is that no matter what you want to listen to, it will be accessible almost whenever the whim strikes you. But so what? What does it all mean? What does this constant sonic picture blasting forth from every corner of the globe say about humanity? How can we discuss these things relationally when they all form a constant and unbreakable feedback loop of structure and influence?

After seeing Beethoven’s second performance of his Fifth Symphony, notable critic E.T.A Hoffman had this to say: “Radiant beams shoot through the deep night of this region, and we become aware of gigantic shadows which, rocking back and forth, close in on us and destroy all within us except the pain of endless longing — a longing in which every pleasure that rose up amid jubilant tones sinks and succumbs. Only through this pain, which, while consuming but not destroying love, hope, and joy, tries to burst our breasts with a full-voiced general cry from all the passions, do we live on and are captivated beholders of the spirits” (Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung, July 1810).

Upon hearing this quote, Noble Bighorn transit columnist Curran Folkers had this to say: “That’s some pretty heavy music journalism.”

To discuss music is to skate the precarious line of meticulous over analysis of trite facts and abstract ambiguous theorizing. When discussing the techniques and situations leading to the creation of the music in question, everything seems relevant but nothing can satisfactorily encapsulate the experience of music consumption. Many music writers (though certainly not all) choose to file music into some sort of hierarchical ranking system based on arbitrary subjective criteria in an attempt to make sense of the whole mess. While it makes it easier to create “Best Of” lists and convey the writer’s belief in the importance of the music discussed in relation to the other millions of releases, this practice ultimately fails because it attempts to quantify an idea dependent on intrinsic quality. Hearing that MusicTunesRUs.com gave the new Deerhoof album 7 out of 10 iPods is helpful for the casual consumer who wants an uncomplicated approach to art in determining a potential listening path, but it can’t be a legitimate way of attempting to describe the quality and effect of the project of music creation, and its reciprocal relationship with music consumption.

The Questions:

1. So where does the discussion begin? Format? Does listening to the same album on different formats totally alter your perception of it? Does the tape become the music?

2. Locality? Does the place an album is created radiate outwards from its sonic contents? If many records come from the same place do they come across as different tourist photographs of the Eiffel Tower? Do they all depict the exact same thing regardless of weather or season or quality of camera?

3. Relationship with tradition? Is it important to consider what music sounds like in relation to pre-existing music that utilizes similar traditions and approaches? How does the irreducible weight of music history impress upon the music of the now?

4. Message? Does music that conveys something in a concrete form deserve different discussion than music that does not? Does lyrical tradition actually do anything different than instrumental tradition, or are we simply substituting the signifiers?

5. Conditions of the individual? Does the artist or artists in question have something in their history and relationships that makes a particular work weightier or more groundbreaking than others? Does motivation alter approach?

6. Does any of this matter? How does a piece of music attempt, whether acknowledged or not, to express Being as such and contribute to the already vast bridge of sound being constructed between us and ourselves?

Over the next few months I will be considering these question clusters one by one and attempting to constructively strive towards expressing something worthwhile about the experience of consuming music and attempting to reconcile the effect it has on our identities and relationships with the seemingly inescapable fact that all of this is just soloing into the void.

Comments

• February 16, 2010, Alexander Armstrong writes: Always remember to write with capital-B Being in mind. Good work, PJ.

So… it was a weird month for the TTC.

Off the bat I should point out that this piece slanders just about everyone involved in any recent TTC-related news, as well as a certain faction of TTC riders, and also the Toronto Star.

The moral of this story: everybody sucks.

Full disclosure: I suck too.

I see you eyeing that ‘Back’ button. I know: some jackass on the Internet has an opinion about something. Hoo-Ray. Just hear me out, OK?

OK.

So, in chronological order, let’s start off with the first in the long string of unfortunate incidents: the McCowan station ticket collector debacle. Alright, yeah, so our friend Mr. George Robitaille probably shouldn’t have been a-snoozin’ at his post; however, this was hardly worthy of the absolute rage and indignation it sparked across the city.

To quote Torontoist on the matter: “This news story wasn't just about one sleeping collector, as much as numerous commentators who wanted to pretend that falling asleep on the job never, ever happens in the private sector, and that in the private sector you get fired the moment you do anything that doesn't profit your employer directly… No, this story was really about people expressing their rage at the TTC for sucking in all the little ways that the TTC sucks to their minds, some of which are of course unjustified or simply silly, and others completely reasonable (not that a lot of those showed up on the internet).”

Like I said, Robitaille is one of the aforementioned people who suck. He clearly doesn’t care too much about his job and isn’t justified in his action at all; however I do have a number of problems with this whole situation:

First of all, and this is just me nitpicking, but Jason Wieler, the guy who snapped the shot seen round the world, posted his masterpiece on his Twitter with the following caption: "Yup, love how my TTC dollars R being spent..."

I’m not a Twitter user, but he easily had characters to spare to finish his “are”. Frankly, people who are too lazy to spell three-letter words fully aren’t aloud to have valid opinions about their fellow citizen’s lack of industriousness.

Wieler, in an interview with Torontoist as part of a different article had this to say: "I didn't want to get the dude in trouble...that wasn't my intent of course; I know that this guy's probably got a mortgage and kids. No one wants to take away someone else's work. But on the flip side, I'm still rubbed a bit the wrong way when it comes to the fare hike and I thought we got a raw deal on that. It's a fine line: you don't want to get the guy in trouble—that wasn't my intent originally to do that."

Which brings me to my next point: one thing that really rubs me is when people (on the internet or otherwise) explicitly refer to themselves (when referring to public employees) as “Your boss.” Like the first Torontoist article suggests, people are using this scandal as an excuse to get all huffy and entitled. I find it highly offensive that some people are under the impression that public employees – whose salaries are largely drawn from tax dollars – somehow owe them something personally. That because a small, miniscule fraction of your tax dollars went to form a small, miniscule amount of this bus driver’s salary, this gives him the responsibility (despite any x-factors, like, say, I don’t know, traffic) to have a perfectly timed bus with plenty of available seats, and you the right to chew him out if he doesn’t.

I’ve talked to a lot of people who are under the impression that all transit operators are surly and rude. I think this is ludicrous. For one thing, I’ve encountered way more rudeness and indignation from pissed-off passengers who take a late or full bus as a personal slight against them, as opposed to a relative few rude operators. For another, I’m sure the only reason that there are sassy operators is because they have to spend all day dealing with people who treat them like the help.

Anyone who has worked in the service industry can attest that the majority of people that you encounter in such an occupation are a swarming mob of hateful, impatient drones that are brimming with spite and hopped up on a combination of caffeine and radiation from their Blackberries. I’ve had plenty of jobs in the service industry, and the one thing you learn, and you don’t often learn much, is that most people aren't nice. The natural reflex is to throw the malice back. So yes, Robitaille fell asleep on the job and some whiny, resentful citizen of the universe thought it prudent to tell the world about his beef.

The guy fell asleep, it’s not like he was taking handjobs from people who were short a quarter on their fare. As though ninety-nine per cent of angry commenters haven’t ever fallen asleep at work, or at the very least sent a clandestine text message or surfed Facebook when they shouldn’t have been. As though, because Robitaille is a public employee, it changes the whole face of fucking around at work. Let’s be honest, the amount of people who are fucking around at work greatly outweighs those who aren’t. You’re not the only one who thinks your job is boring, just count yourself lucky that you aren’t being watched by every citizen’s avenger with a camera.

But, just when everyone thought that it was all going to blow over, some other jackass took that video of the TTC operator taking a liberal break at a coffee shop. OK, so maybe he didn’t need to take as long a break as he did, but he’s – and I can’t stress this enough – a human being with a tough job and a long night ahead of him. The man deserves a break, he’s a bus driver not your chauffeur. Furthermore, you have no right filming him without permission even if you do think of him as your “employee.”

So now we’ve got a bunch of would-be vigilantes with cell-phones running around the city snapping justice photos. True, the TTC isn’t what it possibly could be, and there are a lot of TTC employees that aren’t that great (as though any large company is made of entirely reliable and vigilant employees), but it is neither the right nor the responsibility of riders to police public employees. They’ve got supervisors like everyone else who are more than capable of dealing with these sorts of problems. One hopes.

Then there was Adam. Seriously, what the hell happened here? From total rock star to dumbass-of-the-year in just ten days. Baffling. I was at least eighty percent sure I was going to vote for Giambrone, but now I’m glad he’s pulled out of the mayor’s race; the man is spineless. Honestly, some stupid little girl with revenge in her eyes gives the Star an exclusive interview and the guy just packs it in without a fight. Pitiful.

A politician’s personal life should in no way determine their performance in office. That’s it. So he got himself some inappropriate tail: surely not something that the woman Giambrone lives with should or would want to deal with, but ultimately something that shouldn’t factor into whether or not I want to vote for him. It’s his life and he’s got to do what he’s got to do – shit happens. It’s the fact that he merely apologized and quit that makes him not worth voting for.

Adam, you were a young guy, with a brave, exciting vision and at least the façade of knowing what you’re talking about – you might have been a good mayor, had you any balls. Why didn’t you tell those vultures at the Star to go fuck themselves because that idiot you were sleeping with has nothing to do with  the campaign? Why didn’t you tell your opponents, such as that perfidious elfin neophyte Rocco Rossi, to stick to the issues and keep talking when their teenage girlfriends give scandalous stories to an even less reputable paper? Alas, you proved them all correct when you bowed out with a pathetic whimper: you aren’t a rock star, you’re another spineless politician with a taste for undergraduate ass.

That said, Kristen Lucas, the woman in question here, is no prize herself. Blabbing to the Star because she didn’t get her way – Giambrone rejects her, so she, being the worldly woman that she is, decides her only choice is to ruin his career. Awful. Though, once again, this can easily be construed as another poor choice on Giambrone’s part who probably should have known better – that getting involved with immature young girls when you are a politician almost certainly leads to calamity. Poor move, Adam; probably should have dealt with someone who isn't a fresh out of high school drama queen. And then there’s the Toronto Star, which has clearly lowered itself to Sun-level proportions of spectacular tabloid journalism.

Shortly after the McCowan incident, I made a journey out to the windy eastern limit of the subway, a purgatory where I’ve never been. McCowan really is a useless little blight on the otherwise mediocre face of the SRT. Proof of the TTC’s flawed nature – but let’s again be honest here, name a Transit System that isn’t cracked – McCowan has no reason to exist.

No buses go to McCowan – even the McCowan bus terminates at Scarborough Town Center, as does every other route that passes by the lonely station that doesn’t even have a bus stop for buses to not stop at. The RT ride from Scarborough Town Center to McCowan takes about thirty seconds if there’s no train on McCowan’s one operational platform. If there is a train on McCowan’s one operational platform, you will be stuck in a bottleneck between the stations for longer than it takes to walk the very short distance from one station to the other. In fact, McCowan is literally across the street from Scarborough Town Center. There’s nothing in the direct vicinity of McCowan station except for the Mall parking lot, a Price Chopper and a couple of condo buildings, so there is no reason to go there unless you shop at that Price Chopper or live in one of the condos. If you are going to Scarborough Town Center Mall, you’re better off at its namesake station which connects directly.

I counted fourteen people getting off the train with me when I went to stake out this dark corner of Scarborough. In the fifteen minutes in which I waited in the station’s concourse, I was able – due to the fact that McCowan has only one entrance and no connecting buses – to count exactly how many people were coming in and out of the station. Three trains came after mine: the first contained twelve people, the second contained six people and the third contained twenty people. Nineteen people boarded a train in fifteen minutes. This sampling was taken at rush hour on a Monday. The Robitaille incident took place late on a Saturday night. No wonder he fell asleep. Wieler was probably the first person to have passed through there in an hour.

The point is, in this month of scandal and debacle, there is no clear cut right or wrong. Everybody is right and wrong in some way or another, but they’re all to busy slandering and appeasing to look at the issues. We are a city of over two and a half million people, we are all facing a very important election in the fall, and we are all concerned about our infrastructure and our transit. We are a city, a community and we cannot let ourselves get bogged down with such trivial things: we must take the good with the bad and recognize that everyone has a part in making a city a good place to be.

TTC, sometimes your employees are kind of not great, and you haven’t always made the best choices in designing efficient ways of moving Torontonians, but as a public office it’s inevitable that you are going to take some heavy flak that you may not necessarily deserve, because we've all got to blame someone. I still think your heart is in the right place and you’re not out to screw me.

George, get your head in the game, buddy; I know taking tickets at the 66^th least busy TTC station (of 69) on a Saturday night is boring, but it’s still your job. That said, you didn’t deserve all of the publicity you got and were made a scapegoat when it really could have been anybody.

Jason, you really should have kept your mouth (and by "mouth," I mean camera) shut. You should know better: the internet is a harsh mistress and no place for photos of sleeping strangers. Also, learn how to spell. However, you didn't know that this would blow up as it did, and you have a right to be disgruntled and a right to be concerned.

TTC riders, you need to learn that if you want TTC operators to be nice to you, you’ve got to be nice to them. They aren’t your personal chauffeurs, and they're people too. It's called "public transit" for a reason. Though it’s true that there are a lot of things that could be better with the system, and we all need to be able to express our opinion. However, you should keep in mind that the customer is not always right.

Kristen, you’re a pretty serious bitch, and while you may have exacted your revenge, you still made a total ass of yourself in the process. Adam’s career may be more or less fucked, but you certainly don’t come off sympathetically at all -  you’ve merely exposed yourself as the child you are. But you are very young and were apparently given a false impression. The “what was I thinking?” moment you’ll have in a couple of years will be more than enough punishment.

Toronto Star, if you had any taste, you'd send that misguided fool of a girl home on a rail, and for that you made yourself no better than any other rag when some of us were under the impression that you were a half-respectable publication. But, it's a tough business, and these days especially, as a newspaper you have to really grab people to make them interested. I understand that it maybe will have been a good decision in the long run, but you still should probably have left this one for the Sun.

Adam, I have no sympathy for you at all.

Comments

• February 15, 2010, Riaz writes: Hilarious article, although I will add that Giambrone did have 'multiple' affairs. Sure, one could argue that a politician's personal life shouldn't have anything to do with his professional life. In some cases a personal decision doesn't necessarily reflect how you can do your job, I believe that Bill Clinton is a pretty good example of this. In other cases, some people can't seperate their personal lives from their work. Depends on the person. I do believe that one affair is too many, and the fact that he had 'multiple' affairs says a lot. Cheating on someone instead of being honest that the relationship isn't working shows a cowardly and immature quality, definitely wouldn't want someone like that as mayor. So even though he didn't strike back or say anything, I think it would be hard for him to make any type of argument considering the numerous affairs. Good riddiance. Good article.
• February 16, 2010, Karen writes: Whether or not Giambrone had multiple affairs is beside the point. The man folded at the first glimpse of PR trouble, which is pretty spineless. Of course, his chances for actually winning after such a heinous debacle were completely rendered null, but still, the larger shock is his inability to publicly stand up to his own decisions. He could have, at least, gone out with the dignity of defending his choices. Either way, he's definitely living with the consequences. Oooooh and Riaz, be careful with your stiff moral judgements. To construct a pathology for a person through the sensationalist tabloid info we're getting out of *ahem* respectable publications like the Toronto Star is also quite immature. Though we love to stoop to mud-slinging when public personas show their fickleness and stupidity, it's always prudent to remember that we are still outside of their context, and we really don't know enough to so vehemently declare the death of their dignity. I've never been to McGowan Station, but TTC operators are always nice to me, and definately alert. I take the TTC at least three or four times a day, and I really don't have too many complaints - it's cheap and surprisingly reliable. People who complain about the transit in Toronto are obviously fostering cushy suburban personal-car leanings, and should probably lighten the fuck up. Head out to Africa or South America and you'll find that people aren't complaining about a five-minute transit wait.
• February 16, 2010, Riaz writes: I get your point, there is always a grey area and we don't know everything, I just think that it shows poor judgement. I do agree that not confronting the media was spineless. The first thing we learn in pr is if you're receiving negative publicity you stand up and say something, or at the very least apologize for your actions if you feel that's necessary. In my personal opinion, I don't know how someone tries to defend such choices, which is probably why he just didn't say anything at all. Not saying that silence is a good choice, but it was a choice nonetheless, as was his infidelity. Again, just my opinion. if those opinions are considered immature, then so be it.

What is a conspiracy theory? Wikipedia defines it as a term “...used almost exclusively to refer to any fringe theory which explains a historical or current event as the result of a secret plot by conspirators of almost superhuman power and cunning." We have all heard of one conspiracy theory or another, perhaps the most famous and controversial recent theory is the one surrounding 9/11. The theory purports that the attacks of September 9, 2001 were an inside job, meaning the United States Government not only knew about the attacks but they were the ones who orchestrated it.

The Internet sensation film Zeitgeist (which I hate) helped to spread this theory and popularize it among the masses. Just type in the film’s name into Facebook and you will see hundreds if not thousands of groups devoted to spreading its truth. The theory and film try to show that 9/11 was an inside job by drawing upon ‘evidence’ (i.e. the buildings falling straight down as if having been rigged, etc). This method is the exact opposite of the scientific method. The scientific method starts out with a hypothesis and then sees whether or not the experiments fit the theory. Based on what their findings are, the hypothesis is either proven true or false, and a conclusion is drawn. Conspiracy theories on the contrary, start out with a conclusion (i.e. 9/11 as an inside job) and then seek out bits of factual data to support their conclusions. The 9/11 conspiracy theory is ridiculous. There are several conditions needed for this theory to be true:

i) bureaucratic organizations work 100% efficiently

ii) billions of dollars were spent and hundreds of thousands of people and corporations were employed to execute 9/11. None of whom ever got drunk at a bar one night and said to the guy next to them “Hey, I’ve got something to tell you…”

iii) the phenomena of political Islam in no way had anything to do with the attacks

It is crucial to note that perhaps the most astonishing fact about the 9/11 conspiracy is that it is wholly Americanized. What I mean is that the theory takes into consideration the U.S. government and its power, all the while ignoring the rise of political Islam (which is different from Islamic ‘fundamentalism’) as a social and political movement. So why do people buy into this theory if its more or less unfounded? The reason, I think, has to do with the function of belief.

Belief is a very powerful thing. Any form of ideology, whether religious or political, has the ability to provide a sense of certainty. Ideology is basically any system of ideas which provide meaning to our reality, for example science, religion, political outlooks, which all aid in explaining reality to us. Ideologies are psychologically necessary. It’s a myth to think one can be free of ideology for even that in-itself is a form of ideology! Are conspiracy theories ideologies? Yes, but the crucial thing to grasp is that some ideologies are more fashionable (i.e. religion or science) than others. The guy who thinks that the whole world is run by ten people who call themselves the La-Le-Lu-Li-Lo or The Patriots, sounds like he belongs in a video game. Yet the point is that he has a genuine held belief that this is the truth. So if conspiracy theories can be thought of as forms of ideology, does that mean that they have their own relative truth?

No. It doesn’t.

Most conspiracy theories tend to distort reality and grossly misrepresent society and culture. A film like Zeitgeist gained popularity not because it had any truth to it, but rather because it was able to seemingly combine religion, capitalism and 9/11 together into a related plot about how the world works. The issue with its analysis is that anyone who has ever taken an intro to political science or has any basic logical reasoning can figure out that what they espouse is utter nonsense. If what they do is nonsense, then why do so many people buy into it? Well I think one of the main reasons for this is the attraction to a theory that can weave together current events and make it somewhat coherent. Again, as an ideology, the film Zeitgeist apparently explains our whole reality and dispels and doubts we may have had, and there is something comforting about that. There is something comforting about not having to critically think about every single piece of information. That brings me to perhaps my most hated thing about conspiracy theories: they lack of critical thinking that goes into it. Take any conspiracy theory you like: Holocaust was staged, Moon landing was staged, 9/11, etc. They all seem to unravel the event or period in history they’re about right in front of your eyes and you do not even have to critically engage it. As soon as you start to consider their evidence you start to buy into their rubbish. Their motto is akin to something like: obey, don’t think! Next time you hear someone talking about 9/11 being an inside job, I hope you stop and think critically about what is being said instead of accepting it as truth.

So what does any of this have to do with Don Henley? For starters, check out Dave Longstreth's open letter to Don Henley.

One of the characters on Longstreth’s album is named Don Henley and is contemplating suicide, among other things. The above letter explains the themes of the album more than I could ever hope to. I guess the question that comes to mind upon reading it is this: isn’t it completely weird that Dirty Projectors seem so influenced by a band like the Eagles, as well as a peculiar solo artist like Don Henley?

Don Henley has the capacity to be a massive cheesebag. But I enjoy his massive cheese-bagginess because it lends itself to interesting analysis in light of his life, career and influence on music at large. It is not a coincidence that the Eagles are one of the most massively successful groups of the seventies and can charge upwards of $200.00 a ticket to see on one of their various reunion tours. Nor is it a coincidence that Don Henley had the most successful solo career of any member after the band broke up.

The Eagles originally formed as Linda Ronstadt’s backing band in 1971. Across their dramatic musical and legal career, Don Henley and Glen Frey basically ran the show. Henley, who is a left-handed drummer, was the vocalist and lyricist behind some of their greatest and most well known songs. “Hotel California?” “Desperado?” “Tequila Sunrise?” These songs have really endured the test of soft rock radio time.

The Eagles are peculiar because they’re not really considered as good, by my generation, as The Band or CSNY or Fleetwood Mac, but they occupy the same the cultural space both sonically and thematically. What is it that makes the Eagles cheesy? Henley’s lyrics are often dark and scathing (as you will see when I actually get to the record I’m supposed to be writing about) and passionately delivered over some seriously badass musicianship and vocal lines. Where is the line of authenticity being drawn?

Fast forward to 1984. Henley has enjoyed some success with the single “Dirty Laundry” off of his debut solo album I Can’t Stand Still. The record is decent but still feels like a natural evolution from the Eagles albums, albeit with a new 80’s chik to the sound. Henley is co-writing all of his material with Danny Kortchmar, noted session musician who played with such acts as James Taylor, Carole King, Jackson Browne, Stevie Nicks to name a few. Adding Heartbreakers lead guitarist Mike Campbell into the mix, Henley sets out to make what is probably his best solo effort, Building the Perfect Beast.

The record begins with “The Boys of Summer,” a melancholy song that’s nostalgically vague about selling out, personified in a sexual body. Henley’s speaker is doing his best to cope with the fact that a former lover, lyrically associated with summer, is as missing from his life as the streets and beaches are of people. The song is a struggle to adapt to the change of seasons, both literally and figuratively. Henley’s creative career becomes self-referential exactly at this point. What does it mean when everything that gave your life validation is as fleeting as good weather? How do you continue your life, creatively or otherwise, once you’ve become irrelevant to everyone but your established audience? True, Henley won the Grammy for Best Male Rock Vocal Performance for this particular song, but the Grammys aren’t exactly known for having their finger on the pulse of anything other than an artist’s bank account. “The Boys of Summer,” slick awesomeness aside, is Henley’s most enduring solo contribution to music. It’s been covered and remixed by a whole host of artists (DJ Sammy, The Ataris), and while there isn’t another version of the song that’s particularly good, it speaks volumes that so many people consistently want to put their own spin on it.

There are two other significantly amazing songs on the album. First is “A Month of Sundays,” the only song written by Henley unassisted. It’s a piano ballad about the degradation of postwar America: “My grandson, he comes home from college. He says: ‘We get the government we deserve.’ My son-in-law just shakes his head. He says, ‘the little punk, he never had to serve.’” I’m not sure if it’s relevant to point out the issue that plagues many great and not-so-great artists, that of rich people writing about lower class problems, but Henley successfully delivers a dusty old diatribe with a “things ain’t the way they used to be” bent that really hits home. His speaker never condemns the so-called progress that surrounds him but instead ponders quietly about what to do and how to keep going under the weight of obsolescence. This song was not included on the original album but was jammed in the middle for both the CD and cassette releases. It seems weird to think of Building the Perfect Beast without “A Month of Sundays” as the song that single-handedly illuminates the darker underbelly of Henley’s musical output during this period.

The other really amazing song on this record is “Sunset Grill,” which was the only single other than “The Boys of Summer.” The lyricism is pretty decent, touching on similar ideas of familiarity versus change in a local sort of setting (though it’s named after a diner on Sunset Boulevard) without being to harsh at any point. What really makes this song a sonic leap forward for Henley is the arrangement that Randy Newman provides on the synthesizers. Once the last hook is completed, the whole song turns into a glorious '80s electronic vamp out, keyboards swirling and crashing, painting a two-edged sword with their slickly sinister tone as effectively as Henley does lyrically.

The songs that really make this album interesting are the cheesy bad ones. “Man on a Mission” and “You’re Not Drinking Enough,” the album’s third and fourth songs, are both well constructed and brutally crappy. It seems like Henley is singing the kinds of songs people expect to be coming from his post-Eagles body rather than ones that actually contribute constructively to the album’s peculiar exploratory conservative feel. Or, taken as pastiche, they do exactly that; their trite pop feel is amplified and imbued with darkness when held up beside songs with a similar groove, like “All She Wants to Do is Dance,” whose infectious indictment of political ambivalence makes “Man on a Mission” seem like a joke about itself that the listener is not necessarily supposed to be in on. Maybe Henley isn’t even in on it. That possibility is what makes Building the Perfect Beast a beautifully dated expression of disquiet and uncertainty that can’t help but provoke thought the more you listen to it.

Longstreth’s The Getty Address is exactly the same way, except that the music couldn’t be more different. One of the first questions artists get asked is “Who are your influences?” With many bands it’s incredibly easy to tell (Vampire Weekend have their heads so far up 1986 Paul Simon’s ass that it’s a wonder Ezra Koenig’s voice can be heard), but in this case you would never, ever know by listening to Dirty Projectors that Longstreth is into the Eagles. Even if I’m making way too much of this peculiar connection (Tequila Sunrise = Temecula Sunrise?), it still illustrates a greater point. As an artist of any kind, every piece of other art you consume influences and directs your current artistic production. This is a not a lofty statement. We are all artists, every day, in everything we do and we’re constantly helping to paint each others’ pictures, write each others’ songs and place each others’ dead sharks in massive tanks of formaldehyde.

It is precisely for this reason that a weird prog-ish band like Dirty Projectors can be affected and changed by seemingly cheesy country rock. We are all singing the same song despite the when and where. It is verisimilitudinous (BOOSH) to say that we can only express ourselves; we express each other and everything without choosing to do so or even necessarily knowing that we are doing it.

Pedestrian:  Pe-des-tri-an (Puh-des-tree-uhn)
1. Walkers, jaywalkers, car-less wonders. Frequently mistaken for new-age hippies; this stems from the ecological aspect of their actions, though the aforementioned hippies are typically the cyclists of the city.
2. Pedestrian is a term referring to those who propel themselves forward on their own two legs, despite technological advances of vehicular support. Clenching their coffee cups and darting between traffic, the pedestrian commuter is at home in the urban jungle, and surprisingly they are not yet extinct.

The reason for pedestrian behaviour is varied among practitioners; for some it is exercise, for others it’s simply a lack of car, for some it is convenience, and still others believe it is an ecological choice. Whatever their reason, to those who drive safe and warm in the cars this winter, the pedestrian is a misunderstood figure.

In large cities like Toronto, there has been a kind of turf war going on between drivers and walkers for years. Despite all the developments in urban landscape, we’ve yet to find a satisfactory way of sharing the streets. Toronto is not a pedestrian friendly city.

At first the government officials were all for encouraging walking, a mode of transportation that is greener and healthier for you. (Now of course, they’re eager to have you on their poorly run, over-crowded, over-priced buses and subways - but that’s another matter). Drivers have always had a bad rep; their cars are unsafe, automobiles aren’t environmentally friendly, drivers try to dangerously multitask, driving promotes road rage and other stressful situations, and of course the ever popular adage, “more people die in car crashes than plane crashes."

But finally, it’s us pedestrians who are the bad guys. Those of us who walk have come under some severe finger wagging by government officials and the police force lately. Apparently January’s tragic 14 pedestrian deaths means that something needs to be done about all these unruly walkers! Jaywalking is the decided culprit of vehicle/pedestrian injuries, and the police force has spent the last month cracking down on these walking menaces. Some Torontonians have protested that jaywalking is a part of Toronto culture, which is true, but more importantly most “jaywalking” is also legal.

Yes, despite what you may have read in the Toronto Star what most people consider jaywalking is not illegal! Of the three kinds of jaywalkers in this city (listed below), only one of these groups tends to participate in dun dun dun… illegal crossing.

The dodgers: typically imbued with middle-class guilt, these jaywalkers dart quickly across the road in a half-walk-half-run hilarious fashion, after waiting for the same two minutes it would’ve taken them at a set of lights.

The cocky douchebags: jaywalkers who strut across the road like they own it, not bothering to see if there are vehicles in their way or not.

The zen crossers: jaywalkers who calmly and collectedly cross, believing that the one true path is here, not 60 feet away at the intersection.

According to the Highway Traffic Act, City of Toronto By-laws, and Ontario law: pedestrians may cross mid-block anywhere in Toronto as long as they yield to traffic and aren’t adjacent to a marked pedestrian crossing. And the definition of “adjacent” isn’t clearly defined in any of these texts. Technically as a jaywalker you are only breaking the law if a car has to slow down to avoid hitting you, or if you get hit by a car that is going the speed limit. The natural instinct of not wanting to get hit by a car ensures most pedestrians follow this by-law.

However, some of the actual pedestrian laws are flat out ridiculous! Did you know it’s technically illegal to cross at a light once the red hand has started flashing? At some crosswalks, that’s only seven seconds into the green light, and crossing anyway could cost you upwards of $35, especially during the recent pedestrian safety blitz.

For the first time in years, police are issuing fines for jay-walkers, and offering stern lectures to people even nearing a street mid-block. Sure, cutting corners, crossing a few feet from an intersection, or darting across a highway can be dangerous, but it was not the major factor in last month’s appalling high pedestrian deaths. In fact, the majority of this year’s pedestrian deaths were practicing “safe” crossing when the fatal incident occurred. What authorities fail to realize is that often times jaywalking can often be the safer choice. Crossing mid-street instead of at a corner means that you have a full view of the road and no cars will come zipping around a corner. Jaywalkers are typically less oblivious than other crossers and they take nothing for granted, this makes them alert and quick crossers. People crossing at streetlights adamantly believe they have the right of way, failing to realize that in the physics of flesh versus steel, flesh will inevitably lose.

Everybody walks, even if you drive or take the TTC. Drivers must eventually park, and all TTCers must eventually ring the bell - and these people will probably jaywalk too. Is the pedestrian really to blame?

Comments

• February 16, 2010, B-Rad writes: Lol @ The cocky douchebags.

A reasonably hip blue-eyed-neo-soul outfit coming out of Calgary? Growing up a music geek in Edmonton, seventeen-year-old me would never have believed it. Hell, I would never have allowed it. Which isn't to say that Calgary is devoid of musical talent - it is home to one of my very favorite Canadian songwriters, Chad VanGaalen - just that, and I don't say this as a regional rival, Calgary's music scene has never been recognized on the national scale. The Dojo Workhorse is a side project from one of the members of Calgary indie-rock institution, The Dudes, and I can at the very least appreciate the man's wanting to differ a little bit from his more well-known band's harder-rocking direction. Few things bother me more than a side project that sounds exactly like an artist's regular project - AC Newman, for example.

As I say, The Dojo Workhorse is not one of these projects and, judging from their first album, Weapons Grade Romantic, I almost want to say that Dan Vacon is on a much more interesting track than he is with The Dudes. Much more fragile, layered and personal than the raucous, boozy Dudes, Vacon here relies on his unique, reedy voice and gift for a good melody. All of this is set to very well-textured, emotive and smooth instrumentation that is evocative of the soulful, ornate pop of Elvis Costello. It is very easy to see that Vacon put a lot into this record; Weapons Grade Romantic is clearly an extremely deliberate and well-planned record and its production is quite lush to suit its tone. Vacon covers a lot of bases without spreading himself too thin and all of the record's elements fit together very nicely with equal parts rowdy blues and weepy balladry interspersed over the sweet, earnest whitey soul that Vacon is clearly aiming for.

In the end Vacon's Dojo Workhorse comes off as a sort of less eccentric Hawksley Workman, and while Weapons Grade Romantic is very charming, technically proficient and full of nice, sincere moments, it never at any point comes out to grab you. It lacks a show-stopping single and seems to be content to be very nice and largely inoffensive, which makes it a very passive record. There is nothing that forces the listener to pay attention, it merely asks you nicely. That said, I do think that this is a very promising project for Vacon; he seems to be on to something that could work very well for him in that it is giving him a chance to show off his very proficient technical chops, as well as his powerfully resonating voice. I will be looking forward to hearing what Vacon comes up with next, but until then I will have to settle for this solid, but ultimately not particularly enthralling first effort.

Karen Correia Da Silva
Editor-in-Chief
Steel Bananas
&
Starla Bontecou

For the first time, Hot Potatoe provides a solid catalogue of Bell’s constructions, many of which were shown as part of a solo show at the Adam Baumgold Gallery in 2004. These works are a departure from Bell’s busy works on paper. For those unfamiliar with Bell’s drawings, his works are obsessively detailed, pen and ink or watercolour doodles, which rely on a density of line, along with comical annotations and characters, to create the semblance of narrative in an otherwise random hodgepodge.

Marc Bell, Hot Potatoe (Cover) Source: Adam Baumgold Gallery

The constructions present a viewer with less visual clutter and constitute a simplified iteration of Bell’s humour. The critter’s you’ll find in the drawings stand alone in the constructions as collage inspired, cardboard sculptures. Rather than the dozens of obscure little jokes you’ll find in the drawings, Bell allows for one central theme to carry the comedic thread throughout the constructions, that thread being the presence of faux fountain-pop cups (from up-standing establishments such as ‘Hot-bun Parachute’ and ‘Gravy World’) in almost all of these works. This seemingly innocuous trope ties into an important shift in pop-bottle art from London, Ontario, and serves to flesh out Bell’s exploration of the inside joke.

A comparison with another London, Ontario fizzy-pop aficionado will help me link Bell’s love of soft drinks to persistent themes in the art of London. Greg Curnoe is the second soda-lover I have in mind. By drawing out the love of soft drinks shared by both artists, I’ll explain their shared sensitivities for our emotional connections with the mundane and cast relief on their respective attitudes toward the everyday.

Curnoe’s interest in pop is tied to his brand of Regionalism: a term now synonymous with Greg Curnoe in South Western Ontario. After a brief and strenuous period at Toronto’s Ontario College of Art and Design in the late fifties, Curnoe decided that the isolation and sense of community he found in his home town of London, Ontario was preferable to what he perceived to be an Americanized art world in Torontoⁱ. His rejection of the big city would snowball into a hyperbolic Regionalist ethos, which was most clearly articulated by Curnoe in terms of anti-American artworks and an often-autobiographical approach to recording the minutia of life in his hometown.

So intense was Curnoe’s love of London, even the simplest objects were infused by his loving eye with the richness of the relationships and inspiration that he found all around him. With Drawer Full of Stuff Curnoe was able to turn trifling keepsakes from his life in London into a readymade portrait in which those easily-sterile genres were infused with a life time’s worth of memories and emotionsⁱⁱ. “A metal spring from his father’s chair at The Farmer’s Advocate, part of an old ceramic towel rack from his parents’ house on Langarth Street, one of Grandma Curnoe’s teaspoons,” along with a meticulously rendered inventory of the Drawer’s other contents, are all piled by Curnoe into a worn wooden drawer lined with bus transfersⁱⁱⁱ. Curnoe’s sensitivity for the objects that denote his movement throughout London, the places and people who loved him, and the time he’s spent amongst these things are not squirreled away, but rather dignified by their caretaker's diligent affection for the signs of life in the everyday.

Curnoe’s pop-bottle collection is an important point of intersection between his obsession with daily recordings and his regionalist agenda. Curnoe gathered the collection of bottles from regions across Canada before the centralized manufacturing of brands like Pepsi-Cola would have created a uniform bottle design, and before the demise of regional brands such as ‘Twisty Cola’ and ‘Snow White.’ Idiosyncrasies in bottle design along with local brand names captures some of the charm of Canada’s retreating backwater towns. For Curnoe, the collecting and itemizing of the bottles might have preserved not only their form, but also the satisfaction that he may have found in cherishing such subtleties.

In View From the Most Northerly Window on the West Wall we find thirteen of the bottles (each labeled according to its province of origin) arranged in a row along a windowsill in Curnoe’s London studio^iv. Within the confines of his creative spaces Curnoe can force us to see the variety and colour that animates his world while lending permanence to that diversity by anchoring it in his paintings and collections^v. Curnoe is overt, even forceful, in his insistence that a viewer spend time with every detail of his hoard of memorabilia. The use of text — as annotations and lists — may inspire others to share the insights offered by such attention to details.

Greg Curnoe, View From the Most Northerly Window on the West Wall | Source: Greg Curnoe: Life and Stuff © 2001 by the Art Gallery of Ontario

Bell’s work is aligned with Curnoe in its use of text, but in Bell’s work a psychotic scrapbook replaces the faithful diligence of Curnoe’s commitment to recording the vitality of life in London, Ontario. For Bell the use of imaginary brand names like ‘Continental Stone World’ and ‘Gnostic Pizza’ replaces the verité of Curnoe’s antique pop-bottles. Tracing the source of inspiration for Bell’s pretend pop will reveal a possible affinity between the two artists being discussed, an affinity for recording the everyday and for demanding attention to detail. It is the details each artist chooses to preserve that will differentiate them and crystallize the importance of their fizzy-pop-inspired artworks.

Marc Bell, Greenbun, Canadian Aztec, Continental Stone World | Source: Hot Potatoe © 2009 by Drawn and Quarterly

Unlike Curnoe, Bell is a man of the world. Since his boyhood in London, Bell has spent significant periods of time in New Brunswick, British Columbia (where most of the construction were created), and now lives in Montreal.  A wandering quasi-bard, more a scruffy wanderer than wholesome small town champion, Bell records the smirks prompted by the laughable brand names and quaint anachronisms that he encounters on his trans-Canada meanderings. The inspiration for the ‘Continental Stone World’ cup in the Greenbun, Canadian Aztec, Continental Stone World construction is a custom countertop manufacturer in Vancouver, BC^vi. “Continental Stone World” sounds more like an amusement park for marble and granite enthusiast than “granite & marble specialists in marble finishing & installation of all kinds of natural marble & granite”^vii. The Walrus’ blogger Sean Rogers was keen to point out that Bell seemed to be a bit too obvious in All Day War With Paper by referencing an actual restaurant chain: ‘Lime Rickey’^viii. However, Bell tells us the ‘Lime Rickey’ soda in All Day War With Paper was inspired by a fountain-pop available at Sackville’s historic Mel’s Tea Room^ix, which you may know is not any old diner, but rather a longstanding fixture in Sackville society that was once honored by “the patronage of many of the ladies of Sackville.”^x.

Marc Bell, All Day War With Paper | Source: Hot Potatoe © 2009 by Drawn and Quarterly

Both Curnoe and Bell are archivists of a peculiar sort. Where Curnoe colours the objects that have invigorated his zeal as a collector, lending them the vibrancy of his keen attention through a bright palette and playful composed colour fields, Bell could be capturing his own disbelief. How could they not see how funny they are! Each encounter with the ridiculous is a cause for celebration. It’s not a commitment to a particular place that allows Bell to find inspiration in Canada’s backwaters and global pretensions; a good sense of humor is all he needs. Both artists capture the value of fleeting perceptions, but for Bell the charm of momentary encounters with quaint Canadiana is found in the laughter that we should relish when reminded not to take these signs too seriously.

If we look hard enough we’ll see that the laughable forefathers of sleek, twenty-first century uniformity are still all around us, waiting to give us a good laugh. Bell’s cardboard cartoons dramatize these encounters, playing up the awkwardness of our negotiation of logo-land. We’re usually caught between a shallow recognition of which signs are passé and an assent to those that remain new and therefore attractive, but in Bell’s hands a leveling occurs not in terms a formal uniformity of design, but in the uniformity of ridiculousness. There’s no need to draw out a moral here, some greater meaning in a shift away from Curnoe’s attempt to brighten and rigorously investigate the dignity of the soda pop of old and toward Bell’s homage to the pleasure in a near-juvenile chuckle at the expense of ‘Continental Stone World.’ But it is important to see the transportability of Bell’s humor. Every town, city, and province Bell visits must bow before his leveling humour. If you can agree that his quirky, mock cafeteria patrons are worth laughing at, that their calculated clumsiness and the abundant insider references can capture Bell’s immediate satisfaction with even the slightly-humorous things he encounters on his journeys, than perhaps you can find this vein of humor throughout his oeuvre, and maybe even practice it yourself.

*

ⁱ Sarah Milroy, “Greg Curnoe: Time Machines”, in Greg Curnoe: Life and Stuff, ed. Dennis Reid and Matthew Teitelbaum, (Toronto, ON: Art Gallery of Ontario, and Vancouver, BC: Douglas & McIntyre, 2001), 22, 51.

ⁱⁱ Milroy, “Time Machines”, 28.

ⁱⁱⁱ ibid.

^iv Milroy, “Time Machines”, 85.

^v Pierre Théberge, “The Studio”, trans. National Gallery of Canada, in Greg Curnoe: Retrospective, (1982) 5, 6.

^vi Lulu Peabody Sherman, “Hello, Is Peter Gabriel There?: An Overview of Recurring Memes and Utterances in the Marc Bell Oeuvre”, in Hot Potatoe, (Montreal, QU: Drawn and Quarterly, 2009), 18.

^vii “Continental Stone World Homepage”, http://continentalstoneworld.com/ (accessed January 12, 2010).

^viii Sean Rogers, “Chegg it Oot”, The Walrus Blog, November 20th, 2009, http://www.walrusmagazine.com/blogs/2009/11/20/chegg-it-oot-an-interview-with-marc-bell/

^ix ibid

^x Canada’s Historic Places, “Mell’s Tea Room: Why is This Place Important?”, http://www.historicplaces.ca/

The B-Word | Photos by Matthew Filipowich

I have always been a bit hesitant towards the word myself. I thought brunch was a typically bothersome title given to a meal that didn’t fit within the standard pre-planned three-meal mold of childhood. My youth rarely gave me the opportunity for such late-morning explorations and when the word was finally introduced to me, I didn’t really understand the concept. I was confused that people would try to cram a meal in before lunch, and then have to wait until dinner to eat something truly substantial. Acclaimed New York chef and host of No Reservations Anthony Bourdain is a man who shares my doubt:

Then there the People Who Brunch. The "B" Word is dreaded by all dedicated cooks. We hate the smell and spatter of omelettes. We despise hollandaise, home fries, those pathetic fruit garnishes, and all the other cliché accompaniments designed to induce a credulous public into paying $12.95 for two eggs. Nothing demoralizes an aspiring Escoffier faster than requiring him to cook egg-white omelettes or eggs over easy with bacon. You can dress it up with all the focaccia, smoked salmon, and caviar in the world, but it's still breakfast.

Yet we must be missing something crucial, for there exists a veritable mess of devotees to brunch that cluster around several locations around the city that offer this meal. To properly understand this phenomenon, I decide to check out a few of the newer brunch locations in the city to discover why they set up shop.

Simply Nosh Bistro (2210 Dundas Street West):

In a hapdash arrangement of tables throughout the space, I choose a table at the front at the window that has a view out down Roncesvalle. Several pieces of local art hang on the wall, and a plush Scooby Doo has been placed inexplicably in the corner, along with other antique nick nacks that have been scattered in the space.

The menus are all loaded into old vinyl LP covers, and I’m given “The Plan” by the Osmonds, a Mormon concept album complete with passionate religious quote inside: “As man is, God once was – As God is, man may become,” right above my potential order. My fellow bruncher receives the Best of Earth, Wind and Fire, but perhaps due to the frightening hyper-pure photo of the boys on my menu, neither of us order from the menu, and order instead off of the board posting specials hung beside the kitchen at the back of the bistro. I order the ratatouille omelette served with herb roasted seasoned potatoes, organic salad and toast.

Oddly enough, I find out that when the owner of the bistro Steven Khor worked and trained in New York, he worked in a bistro called Les Halles, and Anthony Bourdain is one of the partners.

“Brunch is not for everyone, I agree, but it is huge in Europe and I'm surprised Chef Bourdain didn't accustom to it. You can't beat the price compared to fine dining and not many can afford fine dining. Besides, fine dining is not always healthy yet it is always expensive, whereas brunch on other hand is usually less than $10 and eggs have complete minerals and are a good source of meat alternatives.”

I’m not sure Bourdain would sympathize with any idea of necessary alternatives to meat, but I think Steven has a good point, and he certainly makes the comment from a solid foundation of fine dining. Steven has worked internationally in fine dining locations as far away as Kuala Lumpur in Lafite at the Shangri-la hotel, and at oft-touted North American locations the Plaza Hotel in New York, and Epic (formerly the Oakroom) in the Fairmont Royal York.

“The fact is that I wanted to make a fine dining location, but due to the recession I've decided to open a brunchy bistro. As I see it, many greasy spoons are being replaced gradually by more upscale healthy options, which makes it more interesting. I'm a nutritionist so breakfast to me is the most important meal and should not be missed. Portion size, vegetarian options and minimal use of oil are my style of cooking and hope I will make people realize breakfast comes with different variety.”

For the ratatouille omelet, Steven chops zuchinni, yellow squash, eggplant, red bell peppers, yellow bell peppers, and red onions, then cooks everything separately with seasoning, oregano and parsley, and then sautés the vegetables in olive oil and drains the juice. After baking the resulting ingredients he stuffs the ratatouille into the centre of the omelet and folds the ends. He garnishes the plate with potatoes that are seasoned with oregano, thyme, paprika, onions, peppers, and salt and pepper. The organic salad mix is drizzled with homemade garlic and Dijon dressing, and there is strawberry jam for the toast in a basket placed on the table.

“Delicious, simple food has always attracted me – basically, a one-page long menu with a variety of pastries that are made in house. Eggs can be cooked in hundreds of ways and can accompanied with interesting ingredients that are unimaginable. What brought me to Nosh's is what I dreamt for many years and has finally happened.”

Steven has won several awards in Escoffier competitions in Toronto and Malaysia. In 2007, he was awarded a designation as Canadian Chef de Cuisine (C.C.C). There are only 1600 across Canada and the position is recognized internationally. The residents in the Dundas West neighbourhood have had transit cut out for several months due to construction, but the Dundas west streetcar now takes you directly to this location: the service is extremely friendly and the food is certainly worth a trip.

Karine’s (109 McCaul Street):

Freshly baked at Karine's

I come to the Grange food court late morning, negotiating my way through standard quick-fry asian cuisine stands, a dingy bubble tea and the eventual fast-burger joint – in this case, McDonalds. Luckily, before resigning myself to a mistaken sense of direction, I stumble upon the location that Karine’s has taken over. Owner Maggie has created a more unique booth than their fellow in house competition: the owners chalk up the black underbellies of purple-speckled counters in order to display key menu items. Flowery pink and brown wallpaper supply the backdrop, supplemented by hanging black signs showing cropped photographs of the menu items. Silver ornaments hang off bejeweled silver lines, which seem more of permanent fixture of the booth than outstanding holiday decorations.

The menu prices here are extremely low, the highest priced meals on the menu ring in at $8.99, a short list that includes a smoked salmon eggs benedict and the AGO-themed King Tut special, with two fried eggs, sausage, regular and peameal bacon, and two pancakes or pieces of French toast, which the Egypian pharaoh would have eaten had he any accessibility to Karine’s.

However, I have read positive reports on their waffles, so I order the peanut butter banana waffles for $7.99 and sit down at a cafeteria table with immovable fixed chairs to wait for my order, served on a large green plate with a slew of fruit: orange, pineapple, watermelon, strawberry join the four large wedges of thick waffle covered with chunks of banana, and lambasted with fruit syrup and icing sugar with a touch of cinnamon. A dimly lit food court has never particularly put me at ease, so the ambiance around may be a little off-putting, but the shining center that Karine’s occupies successfully resists the void that the rest of the Grange occupies. I was disappointed that I was not able meet Maggie, the professed spunky entrepreneur that transformed this simple booth into a successful brunch spot, but I returned later in the day to find her available for a chat.

At Karine's, a splendid mixed berry and banana soy smoothie.

Extremely pleased that we had stopped in to talk, she immediately offers to make a smoothie, which turns out to be their special Vegan soy drink, made with a blend of mixed berries, bananas and soy. She sits down to share her opinions about the dank underground that constitutes the Grange.

“One problem is Karine’s is very hidden, students call it hidden gem. It’s like we are part of OCAD, the students are very comfortable with us. But I miss my restaurant – this is going to be the last one in a cafeteria. Like a caged bird, I want to be free again. But that’s not an issue these days, I made this place and I love it.”

The Grange actually looks at her menu to make sure she doesn’t sell anything too similar to any of the other vendors. Apparently the bubble tea people initially made a stink about her sale of the smoothies, but none of it hampers Maggie whatsoever. Fresh from the sale of her popular GTA mini-chain of breakfast diners called Maggie’s All Day Breakfast, she named the new brunch spot after her daughter Karine, who was in her last year at the Ontario College of Art and Design when she pointed her mother to the location across the street. Maggie has given the students from OCAD a local inexpensive brunch option and they are her primary business.

“This is Karine’s area, and I think that students are very nice people – this is our generation and I want to be part of it, otherwise I don’t like to be inside as much. I’m very lucky that I get to work with my daughters, we’re what I call ‘the women.’ Not that I have anything against men, we love men! But at this point I want it only to be us.”

Karine’s is actually an entirely family-run affair: Maggie’s mother acts as the cornerstone of the kitchen, and Maggie’s other daughter works as well. When I mention Anthony Bourdain Maggie lights up, for I had sent her the quote beforehand.

“Oh my god good luck baby, he’s hilarious whoever he is. Tell me again what he said about vegetarians.”

Even more despised than the Brunch People are the vegetarians. Serious cooks regard these members of the dining public - and their Hezbollah-like splinter faction, the vegans - as enemies of everything that's good and decent in the human spirit. To live life without veal or chicken stock, fish cheeks, sausages, cheese, or organ meats is treasonous.

So she takes a bit of a stab at Bourdain’s terminology:

“It’s different than Hezbollah! They eat meat but only Halal meat, vegans don’t eat meat period.”

But she is truly serious about her brunch business and as you can see from the rather meat-centric King Tut special, she doesn’t only cater to Vegans:

“I didn’t want to kill our breakfast from Maggie’s. Most of our dishes are gluten and animal product free, but our meat lovers, I have a big respect for them. When in a business like this you can’t say ‘This is how I am,’ I have to please everybody. We do the best we can, and a bit more.”

Charismatic owner Maggie poses with SB Ted Killin on the couch behind the counter.

Littlefish (3080 Dundas Street West):

As I walk into Littlefish, late-morning glare illuminates the front of the bistro, overwhelming what looks like the most comfortable seat in the house, a padded bench that wraps around a small window nook. Light purple cabinets in the front hall display the baked goods for the day. The bistro’s light-blue painted walls match a chair and couch, juxtaposing the primarily exposed brick interior. Small bulb lights hang overhead and a long metal exhaust winds around the ceiling. I take a seat closer to the kitchen on a plush bench that spans the back wall.

The daily scramble, a holdover from Carey’s days at his diner Okay Okay, contains polish sausage, peppers, onions, and fresh parsley, but I cannot pass up the highly recommended huevos:

The marvelously hand-crafted heuvos awaits eating at Littlefish.

Served with a slice of watermelon, the huevos is a whole wheat tortilla stuffed with three eggs scrambled with jack and mozzarella cheese, as well as spiced black beans, with three piles laid on top: one of fresh salsa, one guacamole and one sour cream, all laced with green onions. I spill the piles and sweep them into a single layer in preparation for a large, well-crafted portion of omelette-filled burrito.

As I’m finishing my meal, Carey Wesenberg enters from the kitchen and takes a seat with me. After starting out of school cooking French cuisine for the head of a prepared-food outfit that he had previously managed, Carey opened the Mockingbird, a bar previously residing on King Street West that he stayed with for ten years. He later opened the diner Okay Okay in Leslieville. He switched into breakfast because nowhere else satisfied his breakfast need.

“I only open places that I want to eat at myself. I feel that breakfast is the most important meal of the day and I love brunch items, I think they are the hardest things to cook well.”

When I mention Bourdain’s quote I ask if he’s being needlessly malicious, but Carey doesn’t seem to think so.

“I understand his point of view: for Bourdain, it is beneath him to cook eggs, because it is easy to throw an egg together and build the framework around it, but not everyone can cook eggs well. In high-end cuisine there is a certain brunch customer that expects more than a dish of eggs with eggs – they want a certain flair and a whole attitude, not just cooked eggs because of the money involved.”

Carrie describes a high-end atmosphere complete with cocktails, coffee, and great chef interpretation of eggs, and that takes time. At a café, it’s not necessary that you have a quick turnover, but you certainly need a consistent turnover to profit. In high-end, you get people who expect a two to three hour stay; brunch becomes more of an event. The café has traditionally not been oriented for long stays, rather a place to grab a quick bite. He explains to me that opening a neighbourhood bistro seems like the safest, most self-assured option in these economic times:

“The café has been completely obliterated: the café has turned into a coffee shop and the bistro has filled the vacancy left by the café, so lots of people are opening new bistros. You go to a bistro to grab something really nice and roasted, or a medium price hot meal and a glass of wine. This is when you see the success of places like Pizzeria Libretto, where people that have a high-end background end up doing more accessible food – high quality, but not necessarily the price. The high-end market is very saturated, and it’s hard to get people to come out for an expensive meal, especially in these economic times. Even people in higher income brackets are now more conservative and look for value.”

I certainly smirk a little when I note the $12 price tag on the heuvos, only one dollar short of Bourdain’s estimate, but the price is valorized in the quality of the meal: the guacamole is so smooth and not too heavily spiced, leaving room for the cheese and the stronger taste of the beans packed inside, a dish that unites several different factions into a singular, delicious whole. When I mention the quality of the guacamole, my server Dave tells me that the guacamole is Michael Ondaatje’s favourite guacamole in town since the days of the Mockingbird, and Carey fills me in on the story:

“There were so many different events and literary readings he would come to at the Mockingbird, and he really liked to be where the guacamole was. He was always surrounded with fans, but he just wanted to enjoy the guacamole. We would set up three or four stations so that he could move around, excuse himself from a cluster of people to talk to someone at the other side of the room, grab some guacamole there, always moving so that it was close at hand.”

Eggs, black beans and cheese on the inside, and a mixture of guacamole, salsa and sour cream on top

Carey could never stay away from the kitchen; even after exploring other post-secondary options, and despite the stresses and high-paced atmosphere that usually dominates the profession, he always came back. The manner in which he approaches his menu is markedly different from Maggie’s approach.

“The places we do are not for everybody, and we don’t try and make it for everybody, I make it as best as I can. Even if you are the worst, most obnoxious demanding restaurant customer, I can’t take it out on your food. I can’t make it rotten because the food did nothing wrong – I really just love food.”

The heuvos has been a patron favourite since he introduced the meal at Okay Okay, and one of his customers went so far as to liken the completion of the meal to the afterglow of an orgasm.

“It’s like sex: afterwards you’re completely satisfied but with the heuvos you don’t have to talk, deal with feelings, and you don’t have to ask them to leave. When you’re done, just push the plate away.”

I thought that was a worthy argument to justify the popularity of the meal, and finally one that a man as outspoken as Anthony Bourdain may finally accept.

Comments

• January 16, 2010, Nancy writes: I'm sad that I missed this! I love brunch.
• January 16, 2010, Neil vanLoo writes: I agree with your description of Nosh. Steven knows what he's doing and he puts his heart into it. Anthony Bourdain is also a great chef but Escoffier was also a supporter of simple meals like brunch.

Lovelace and Babbage

It all began one year ago, when journalist, blogger and social software consultant Suw Charman-Anderson spearheaded the first international Ada Lovelace Day. The objective was to celebrate and bring attention to the oft-overlooked women in technology such as Ada Lovelace: the word's first computer programmer for the world's first (if uncompleted) programmable computer, Charles Babbage's analytical engine (the successor to his difference engine, also uncompleted within his lifetime). Which is also, incidentally, the only legitimate child of "mad, bad, and dangerous to know" Lord Byron. Charman-Anderson's call was for at least 1000 people to blog on March 24 about a woman in technology they admire. Nearly double that number pledged to do so, Sidney Padua among their ranks.

Padua is a story artist and animator (or, visual effects artist, as they're sometimes calling them in these computerized times) native to Edmonton, but presently working in London. Her contribution to Ada Lovelace Day came in the form of a short origin story comic that absconds with Lovelace's already interesting history and returns bearing its oddball hyperactive twin, in which Ada Lovelace is trained up as a human calculating machine so that math may squash the mad poets' blood roiling within her. This short extended to the meeting of Lovelace and Babbage at a party over the model prototype of his difference engine (almost totally historically accurate!), and from there it was only logical that they should then team up over comic-book science and, of course, fight crime. Since then, Babbage and Lovelace have starred on the BBC's The Tech Lab, enjoyed a place of honour in Oxford's Museum of the History of Science "Steampunk" exhibit, and been generally well received wheresoever they wander on the internet.

The Thrilling Adventures of Babbage and Lovelace is presently an ongoing series of raucous episodes in which the two titular characters (based, of course, on the historical figures of the same names) fight crime, and try to keep their funding from being cut off, so as to support their cathedral-sized clock-work super-computer difference engine (and varieties of other inventive endeavours). It is all steampunk with substance and great levity.

Babbage and Lovelace is, essentially, a webcomic, but unlike most other webcomics, this one doesn't quite settle for imitating print comics in what just so happens to be a web-based form. No mind-blowingly radical features are explored, but the unusual effects that she tries are effective. The most immediate feature is that of the blog-posted jpgs of fairly straight-forward, black-and-white sequential art, but Padua surrounds her artwork with a mass of hyperlinked historical resources that twine with the narrative and make the wild antics of her cartoon characters seem more alive; nowhere near so strange or fantastical as they first appear, and far more interesting. This retinue of historical documents and expository commentary sets the whole endeavour a head and shoulders higher in my esteem.

For those of you out there whose sepia-toned education has ruined your appetite for history as if it were all one tedious list of violent squabbles between powerful people who nonetheless remain insufferably dull: if Padua's reference sources can't inspire any new interest in the past (at least, for the nineteenth century), then surely you're a lost cause — poor soul! For Padua, it seems, has a knack for digging up characters who, if I didn't know better, I'd expect to have fallen off the fiction shelf and into the history drawer by accident!

The spoils of those digs feed into the comic directly, informing characters and plot elements to a more historically accurate degree than seems plausible judging by the hubbub and buzz of the surface steampunk glaze. Not that this is in any way a comic to wink conspiratorially at history majors — no, indeed, for Padua's research channels the comic in a far less direct manner, via the aforementioned hyperlinked sources, and dense thicket of expository endnotes (which are often as funny as the comic itself). There is a great flexibility in the blog medium for diversions and multiple streams of information, and Padua works here with very simple, but very effective tactics. The comic-proper and its endnotes work together like two translucent images which, when overlaid, create a third, bolder, more complex image.

This intertextual conversation often functions as a reflexive lampshading as well and Padua has practically turned the lampshade into an artistic, narrative and comedic style. It is through this idiosyncratic interplay of truth and untruth that she has kept Babbage and Lovelace from getting too light and blowing off in a breeze of simplistic amusement.

If I have but one complaint, it is this: that what a tragedy it is that it would violate all reasonable codes of human rights if Sidney Padua were to be locked up somewhere, with a chute for food, a chute for library books, and an internet connection, where she might then focus on Babbage and Lovelace without that pesky timegobbler known as a day job. Updates are few and far between, and I find that the peaking of my anticipation for the next instalment has often passed over towards forgetfulness by the time it arrives. Nevertheless! As I write this, "The Organist," a story arc that has been a long timein the works has at last begun, and it is off to a most promising start.

I encourage you to check out The Thrilling Adventures of Babbage and Lovelace, Sidney Padua's own website and you can find out more about Ada Lovelace Day here.

I’ve spent three out of the last four New Year’s eves running off to Montreal so I feel obligated to show Toronto some love for 2010 by sharing some weird news that happened RIGHT HERE RIGHT NOW (or at some point in the past). I’m going to admit that this narrow theme will prove challenging and most of the news won’t really be as weird as that dead baby who came back to life and then died again or those scary Russian rapist ladies. But listen, Toronto has a bunch of wacky characters too and if you’re a good Torontonian, you’ll embrace our sort-of weirdness and love Toronto for it because the rest of Canada doesn’t seem to like us very much.

As a metropolitan city, Toronto is bound to be host to some well-known names. David Cronenberg, Lorne Michaels, and Neil Young come to mind. But I’ve never met any of these people (well, I had a dream about Cronenberg once) because they’re all big shots and left for Hollywood or something. I have met Zanta though. Who is Zanta? Zanta is one alter ego of David Zancai, a general contractor who suffered a work injury, started physiotherapy and apparently gained some kind of unexplainable superpower. Have you seen Zanta around? He’s famous for wearing a Santa hat, not wearing a shirt in subzero temperatures, and doing knuckle push ups. He wears the Santa hat as a tribute to his daughter whom he lost custody of many moons ago. I don’t know the reason behind the toplessness or the push ups but I saw his knuckles up close and they are HUGE.

Zanta has stated that he wants to run for mayor this year and that he is not bipolar or otherwise psychologically disturbed. He has had his run-ins with the law which caused him to leave Toronto for Brampton three years ago. But now he is back with a vengeance ... and a comic.

Toronto’s second interesting character probably smells better than Zanta but in my opinion is much more unsavoury. Are you an attractive female? Have you been approached by a man in a cheap suit and greasy hair? Were you more than a little bit afraid of being sexually assaulted? Congratulations, you must have met “Dimitri The Lover”! My basic qualm with Dimitri The Lover is the fact that his name/title is a complete fabrication. I believe that he is a hater not a lover, as evidenced by his misogynistic “Toronto Real Men” meetings that I am not even going to link out of disgust. Sorry, Dimitri, I am not a horny bisexual slut in need of a “real man” to sexually satisfy me no matter what your poorly-made animations tell me. And his name isn’t even Dimitri! His name is James Sears. Maybe he sounds vaguely familiar because you’ve read this. Yeah, he lost his medical license 16 years ago for sexually assaulting female patients and then became a quack until he began his new schtick as Dimitri. Oh, and he’s getting apparently getting a movie! Brad Goodman is producing it. My faith in the film industry is dwindling.

Oh, and for some typical weird news ... a study at the University of Toronto found that environmentally-conscious consumers are actually more likely to lie and steal. Morality is funny.

Comments

• January 21, 2010, Hannah writes: Toronto is a huge city, but thankfully people like Zanta have the ability to bring us together. I'm pretty sure everyone has a Zanta story and if not, they know someone who does. I've run into him a few times and never had my personal space tampered with. He's kinda like our Naked Cowboy.
• January 24, 2010, Francine writes: Thank you for alerting me to "Dimitri The Lover". I am in the film industry and what Brad Goodman is doing is disgusting. I searched "Dimitri The Lover movie" and found a clip of Brad Goodman bragging about it. What a jerk!
• February 5, 2010, concerned citizen writes: Dimitri the Lover is really James Nicholas Sears. He's a medical doctor who lost his license for INAPPROPRIATE BEHAVIOR with female patients! He even runs a medical advising company called The Second Opinion in Ontario, even tho his license was REVOKED. He was psychiatrically evaluated by the military as screwed-up, and still somehow got a license. He was ritually abused as a child by mentally unstable parents, and had a problem with masturbating over 10 times a day while on the job...BETWEEN PATIENTS. The link below are only some of many. The Toronto Sun has at least 4 serious articles on this scary excuse for a man: http://jezebel.com/5020419/dimitri-the-lovers-history-of-sexual-assault-weapons-stockpiling-and-psychiatric-evaluations http://www.dimitrithelover.com/ http://s.buzzfed.com/static/imagebuzz/web03/2009/7/9/15/dimitri-the-lover-flyer-23401-1247166969-29.jpg http://brokendoor.com/thought//media/blogs/all/dimitri.jpg http://www.dimitrithelover.com/toronto_real_men.html http://torontoist.com/2008/06/remember_dimitri_the_lover.php http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rfez6RxVWV0&feature=related http://www.blogto.com/tno/2009/03/dimitri_the_lover_exposes_himself/ Dimitri speaking at 15:15 showcasing his jerkish self http://www.the-peak.ca/article/4413 http://www.cpso.on.ca/docsearch/details.aspx?view=4&id=%2059651 revocation due to...sexual impropriety...disgraceful, dishonourable http://www.torontosun.com/news/torontoandgta/2008/12/31/7891486.html Also, his own website where he has crude cartoons shows him wearing a t-shirt that says "NO MEANS MAYBE". Wow. That's what we need to teach men today, huh? Last time I checked, date rape was a CRIME and also just a horrible moral wrong, leaving a girl permanently scarred. His August meeting topic per his own webpage was HAVING SEX WITH SLUTS WITHOUT USING A CONDOM! (Remember...revoked license..) here's an excerpt: "So the theme of our next TORONTO REAL MEN meeting is “I’D RATHER JERK OFF THAN USE A RUBBER”. It will feature Dimitri The Lover lecturing for 3 solid hours on how during the 1980’s, in order to obtain research funding from straight men holding the purse strings, homosexual male lobby groups propagated the MYTH that HIV was also a heterosexual male disease. The Prophet will explain how heterosexual males NOT USING A CONDOM have a ZERO PERCENT chance of catching anything other than HPV (which almost 100% of successful man whores are carriers of anyway)" http://www.dimitrithelover.com/toronto_real_men_august_2009.html And he's angry at any women who speak up, calling them FEMINIST C*NTS. What a prize. Who wouldn't want Dimitri the Lover aka James N. Spears. Gee, where do I sign up? Please. My husband wants to kick his ass. Too bad he's in Canada.

Trying to explain why things are better than other things makes things difficult for everything. Canada is home to more incredible talent than anyone is usually willing to admit and this decade has been an incredibly awesome one to be a Canadian, musically speaking. That being said, creating distinctions of quality and taste is a tricky business. There’s a lot to consider.

When it comes down to the brass tacks of the whole operation, it is important to note that all “supposed to's” have been violently discarded. We put albums we had heard up against each other and chose 25 of our favourite ones. There are certainly great albums that we have not highlighted, but we felt that the best way to make a list would be equally as fun to read as it would be to write; to ignore the myriad shoulds that continually bombard this sort of process and stick to the stuff we really loved the most. You'll notice there isn't much for hip-hop (though both Cadence Weapon and K'Naan were in the running until the very end), and there are a lot of other genres get little or no representation here - admittedly, this is pretty indie-rock heavy. There may also be other things that are under or over-represented on this list, but in all honesty, we can't help what we like. The important thing is not so much the records themselves as the picture they paint of our experiences with them and what that means in our day-to-day lives. This is just a part of the picture, the dots we’ve chosen to connect that meant the most to us. Some are obvious and some are marginalized but all of them are just plain dope.

You may notice that they are presented in order of release date rather than any formal ranking system. Establishing a hierarchical means of rating the intrinsic value of works of art is archaic and meaningless - instead consider each work on its own in the singing of our universal song.

Dig it, this was our decade.

Also, R. Nansen requested that we mention the 2007 breakup of the Rheostatics; they didn't make our list, but we salute them anyway.

ONWARD

2000

Umm...

2001

Hayden - Skyscraper National Park (Hardwood)

When Hayden first came out, he was heralded as the new Neil Young and was signed to Geffen. He’s one of those guys who nobody seems to listen to all that much, but when he announces a couple of solo dates at the Danforth Music Hall they sell out instantly. My roommate saw the National one time and they introduced him as one of their heroes and proceeded to rock the shit out of “Dynamite Walls.” The man himself is pretty reclusive; he doesn’t give many interviews and his releases (until recently) are always a couple years apart.

“Miles away
Just up ahead,
it doesn’t matter what
any of us are looking for,
we’ll never find it because
it’s not even there.”

Skyscraper National Park highlights everything that is wonderful about his songwriting. It is, in turns, beautiful and reserved, blissful and noisy, heartbreaking and hilarious. Hayden is one of the unique artists who successfully uses instrumentals to bridge his more vocally driven tracks. I also point to the fact that it might be the most amazingly titled record on this list. His guitars are so eloquently presented and rhythmic that they make my head spin on every listen. While he’s released records before and since, this album is so haunting and manipulating in its emotions and textures that it overshadows the others.

- Patrick

Hawksley Workman - (Last Night We Were) the Delicious Wolves (Universal)

Regardless of when you think Hawksley lost his way, it’s difficult to argue with his early albums. Originally For Him and the Girls was going to adorn this list but it’s listed as officially haven been released in 1999. Oh well. The subsequent album, while not as silky and confusing as its predecessor, only strengthens the points made earlier and takes Hawksley to a new level of insightful glam folk weirdness. It should also be noted that “No Beginning and No End” is one of the greatest ballads I’ve ever heard.

It’s interesting that this album is the only point at which Hawksley really got any rotation on alternative radio in this city. My first time hearing him was “Jealous of Your Cigarette” on Edge 102.1. I didn’t get hooked until much later but that was definitely my first exposure. I proceeded to be addicted to him and his live shows for several years. A little later (Lover/Fighter) he wrote some tunes that got played on softer radio formats and has gradually moved in the direction of slick pop music that’s being listened to by god knows who, but (Last Night We Were) The Delicious Wolves is a time capsule of a formerly great artist in his creative prime. I sincerely hope he makes another great album in the near future. Meat comes out next week.

-Patrick

2002

Godspeed You! Black Emperor - Yanqui U.X.O. (Constellation)

Semi-operational Montreal post-rock collective, Godspeed You! Black Emperor is all about tension. Despite their making completely instrumental music, they still manage to write some of the most decidedly political songs to come from just about any place. There is tension equally in what they do as in what they do not do and every pulsing, nervy millisecond is sure to fill any listener with a jittering anticipation of something unexplainable. And then come the crescendos, lots of them and they are still amongst the most ominous you are likely to hear. Even then it seems like there is something even more deadly lurking on the other side.

Yanqui U.X.O., the group’s last album before their thus far very much-extended hiatus almost immediately following its release (though apparently they are maintaining that they aren’t broken up) is an important moment for post-rock, to be certain. There is simply nothing for it, it is a journey of a record that is as angry as it is restrained and as pummeling as it is soothing. There is nothing out there that is more pissed off, and you can feel the rage without having to hear a word – or even read very many of them either as Godspeed You! are notorious for their general lack of any information about anything in their packaging. This record, regardless, features some of the most instruments making the least noise and some of the least instruments making the most noise, and any other combination of these things possible at some point during its hour-plus running time – it is what can only be loosely described as a maximum minimalist record and for the post-rock equivalent of a terrorist cell, that’s not a bad position to be in.

-Curran

2003

Broken Social Scene - You Forgot It In People (Arts & Crafts)

What is there to say about his record that hasn’t already been said? Or felt?

I’m 21. I grew up in Toronto. Broken Social Scene have been the defining band of my adolescence. You Forgot it in People is the sort of album that only comes around once in a lifetime with a very specific set of circumstances preceding its creation. It’s scattershot unity and overarching air of desperation and potential triumph, (b)latant sexuality and devotion to experimenting with what so-called “alternative” rock can be really resonated with my young mind.

And can we talk about the production for a second? David Newfeld’s use of the recording studio as an instrument is the reason this record is successful. It succeeds in being otherworldly while maintaining the obvious fact that the album is coming from humans. And they were local humans. Collaboration is at the heart of You Forgot it in People. This was before BSS became the Kevin Drew Experience (although Brendan Canning’s solo offering was much better than Drew’s). This was before the individual members of the band were able to split off into their various and sundry individual musickings with actual monetary backing and distribution. It was essentially the launch pad for Arts & Crafts as a label and thusly responsibly for the largest Canadian movement in independent music of the decade. Combined with the actual strength of the material and production on top of its significance, You Forgot it in People is more than a record, it’s a painting of Toronto.

A similar image would adorn the cover of their self-titled follow up to YFIIP (remember when it was going to be called Windsurfing Nation?), but the music on that album lacks the essential magic of the previous one. Not to say that’s bad, it’s just that self-awareness wounds some of the best bands. Not that they’re dead. Just in a sort of hibernation. Or purgatory. The question is whether they can adapt along with their changing role and already established musical legacy.

-Patrick

Caribou/Manitoba - Up In Flames (Domino)

With 2007’s Andorra, Dan Snaith gained himself a veritable boatload of utterly well-deserved fans and recognition for essentially making what is quite possibly the best 60s record since the 60s. That record is boss, I guarantee you it is one of the best of its vintage, but I make the even bolder claim that Andorra is an easy second best in comparison to his second full-length, 2003’s majestic, otherworldly Up In Flames. Back then when he was Manitoba (the record was later re-released under the Caribou moniker) Mr. Snaith was more electronic about his psychedelia, and indeed Up In Flames does prove to be a very successful blend of sunny IDM and ambling, equally sunny psychedelic pop.

Snaith can do it all: he sings in a dreamy, subtle tenor, he can program the craziest beats and the most outrageous synths and he also happens to be one hell of a drummer and those insane patterns you hear on “Bijoux” and “Hendrix With KO”: yeah, that’s all him. Top to bottom, this record is golden; not one second wasted let alone any tracks – there is only a massive pile of glorious, charming and immediately loveable electro-psych-pop tunes that ache of wonder and demonstrate an instrumental prowess rarely seen anywhere.

This is what bedroom recordings were made to sound like: not a dude with an acoustic guitar, Garage Band and his tortured soul, but a dude with an electric guitar, some seriously epic laptop software and several warehouses full of percussion instruments, amongst other various things that make noise. Back when Caribou was Manitoba (before that ludicrous lawsuit), Dan Snaith was a king of Canadian electronic music and while he’s still a king, sounds like those on Up In Flames make one yearn for the days when he picked up a synth every now and again.

-Curran

Constantines - Shine a Light (Three Gut)

“On To You” should be the national anthem. In my head I can very clearly hear it playing on loudspeakers as some very attractive Canadian athlete accepts their Olympic gold medal for something and they raise the flag to the rafters. I’m thinking it’s for swimming. Regardless of the plausibility of this strange fantasy, it is one hell of a song – and it’s not even the best one on this sprawling, ballsy indie-rock masterpiece. After recording a serious motherfucker of a self-titled debut in 2001, Constantines toured Canada extensively, added keyboard player Will Kidman to the roster and went to work on putting together what would be come their epic magnum opus, Shine a Light.

The record is a living thing. It breathes, pulses and grows; it is forever exposing its endless layers with each continued listen and appears to be more infused with life and soul than should be allowed. I don’t know who would stop them. This is an album that doesn’t make you feel, it makes you feel for it. When it fights, you can feel its black eye; when it longs, you understand its sentiment – it doesn’t project things on to you, it’s going to keep on feeling for itself whether you’re with it or not.

And those songs. Oh god, those songs. Each of the twelve tracks that feature here are pure gold, little howling slices of Canadiana that occasionally soar in anthemic glory or slum in a murky dirge. Singer-songwriter Bryan Webb has never been more fiery or earnest as his gutteral growl of a baritone leads an assault of indecipherable, gargantuan guitar noise and a savagely powerful rhythm section through the apocalyptic death of the city that seems to be occurring all around. There is nothing more sincere, more moving, more patriotic, than Shine a Light; it is raucous, barbaric and hopelessly free.

-Curran

Do Make Say Think - Winter Hymn, Country Hymn, Secret Hymn (Constellation)

Do Make Say Think are among the greatest post-rock bands that exist or have existed. The only one I wound really consider comparable at all is Tortoise, actually. That aside, Winter Hymn, Country Hymn, Secret Hymn is a wonderful example of the potential catharsis of the genre and the beauty of the intermingling of hope with lack and gentleness with darkness.

To go through all the songs and try to explain the emotional rearrangement one encounters (in the passive voice) would be impossible. The album seems to possess and inherent honesty that penetrates right into the spot that nothing other than music seems capable of reason. It’s Inner, Outer and Secret.

Charles Spearin is consistently one of the most interesting musicians to watch and listen to. The outright approachability of the man is what makes the music coming from his bass so incredibly compelling. He never seems like anything other than the normal human being that he is while living and breathing his passion as a day job. The man did his time and this is what he has to show for it. It’s wonderful.

Ohad Benchetrit is similarly compelling. His solo work with Years is so forward thinking that nobody will catch on for a while, but he changes what it means to make instrumental acoustic guitar based music. Combine this with the tasteful metal stylings of Justin Small and you begin to get a picture of who these people are and what they are capable of. Winter Hymn, Country Hymn, Secret Hymn is and extension of the devotion it takes to maintain sanity in a reality that demands existing outside of it. And it’s humble!

-Patrick

Jim Guthrie - Now, More Than Ever (Three Gut)

The songwriting, presentation, lyricism and arrangement of this album are brilliant. It’s difficult to approach from any critical standpoint because it’s almost distancing in its perfection. But every time you listen to the album, pieces of it reveal themselves to you. There’s an overarching idea of the blurring of the lines between objects. Perceptions are hazy, society’s suspect… but everything is charming and uplifting. There’s an immediacy that can’t be escaped. Owen Pallett did all the string arrangements. Bry Web plays the banjo. It’s one of the testaments to the gone-but-not-forgotten Three Gut records. What’s beautiful is that Now, More Than Ever is essentially a pop folk record that challenges with every breath without ever stepping totally out of line. The only album Guthrie has put out since, Human Highway’s Moody Motorcycle with Nick Thorburn, is good, but doesn’t approach the previous album’s majesty. Now, More Than Ever is so damn good that Guthrie himself has been unable to articulate anything as well ever again. He writes incredible commercial jingles instead.

-Patrick

Polmo Polpo - Like Hearts Swelling (Constellation)

I can’t understand why the universe didn’t lose its celestial shit over this record. It has as much in common with Do Make Say Think and Godspeed You! Black Emperor as it does with John Fahey and Throbbing Gristle. Organic ambient post-folktronica is the closest thing I can think of that sort of describes it. Or maybe the feeling when you think your cell phone is vibrating in your pocket but you realize that your body is feeling something that isn’t there and you vaguely begin to worry about tumours. Or when you look at the sky over a lake at night and can’t decide whether the stars are always there or whether you’ve been in the city too long. It’s dread and beauty married.

Sandro Perri remains the largest unsung musical asset to Toronto. His body of work as Polmo Polpo, with Glissandro 70 and under his own name is uniquely experimental and strangely accessible. Please go listen to all of his albums.

-Patrick

The Unicorns - Who Will Cut Our Hair When We're Gone? (Alien8)

Similar to Death From Above 1979, only with even less press (though with more quality and successful new projects) this is the lone full-length from this extremely short-lived Montreal art-pop duo, of which one guy is now the main guy in the good, but certainly less-good Islands and the other guy is now in a band called Clues. In terms of story, it is a pretty similar one to that of Death From Above 1979, sure; however, musically, in the Canadian-of-the-2000s sense, The Unicorns had much more in common with Chad VanGaalen, who still would release his debut a full year after this morbid hunk of weird hit the scene back in oh-three.

Who Will Cut Our Hair When We’re Gone? is whimsical, quirky, occasionally hilarious and, to be honest, quite a brilliant record overall from two guys playing a lot of instruments and singing largely in non-sequiters. Of all of the (millions of) bands who have had the notion “I’m gonna be like Neil Young, only weirder,” no one has ever really been able to do it better than the Unicorns. Brimming with songs that would be just as home on children’s television as in a horror film, Who Will Cut Our Hair When We’re Gone? is absolutely one of the best albums of the decade whose main descriptor is “eccentric” and with lyrics like “We’re the Unicorns and we’re people too,” and “drove up in my Bone Camaro thinking only ‘bout you,” you can see if you haven’t heard just what directions this record takes. This is a ballsy record, and it is as truly bold as it is surprisingly poignant as in the end, the whole messy, scattered and bizarre exercise has turned out to be a journey from fear of death to acceptance.

-Curran

2004

Apostle of Hustle - Folkloric Feel (Arts & Crafts)

Andrew Whiteman gets a tough rap. Every time he puts out a new ambitious fuzzy indie tinged with cool world music influences everyone just points out how white he is and says he’s unsuccessful. But MAN this guy can play! And his songs are beautiful! “Animal Fat” is absolutely magnificent! AND he’s responsible for some of BSS’s most ruthlessly cathartic moments.

Another reason why this record is definitely worth consideration is Dave Newfeld’s production, yet again. The choices he makes behind the boards in terms of the presentation of Whiteman as both a player and vocalist are accentuated perfectly by Julian Brown and Dean Stone’s rhythm section. The album amounts to a collection of immaculate and infinitely relistenable off-the-wall pop songs, stepping carefully and effectively. It’s difficult to describe the intensity of Folkloric Feel’s narrative succinctly because it possesses a quality that is so good precisely because it eludes articulation.

-Patrick

The Arcade Fire - Funeral (Merge)

Maybe this is an obvious choice, but didn’t you love Funeral when it first came out? I constantly make the argument for Neon Bible being the better album but that detail doesn’t begin to encompass why this band is so important and why this record especially expresses their triumph. It’s been said again and again and again, but irony is wounded and dying and this album put another bullet in its necessary systems.

Approaching songs that have a romantic and wistful zeal with equally romantic and wistful instrumentation just after the nineties are reduced to rubble and aching for something to replace them is a bold and interesting move. Funeral is a game changer, it an album of New Sincerity. There isn’t much more to write about it other than the fact that it flipped music on it’s head a la Music from Big Pink and it came from the lovely Montreal, in your lifetime. And don’t you forget it, honey.

-Patrick

Death From Above 1979 - You're a Woman, I'm a Machine (Last Gang)

The lone full-length release from the extremely short-lived noise-dance-rock duo of Jesse F. Keeler and Sebastian Grainger – both of whom have since moved on to painfully subpar new horizons – should be looked upon as one of the true gems of noise to be released (very frequently by two-piece groups) this decade. And, given the unfortunate fates of MSTRKRFT and Sebastian Grainger and the Mountains, it should also be seen as an example of two people bringing out the best in each other.

Indeed, Grainger’s propulsive, overwhelmingly-loud drumming and maddened, howling vocals coupled with Keeler’s harshly overdriven fuzz bass and occasional MicroKorg theatrics was a magical combination for the two or three years before they hated each other. Also, their cavalier, don’t-give-no-shit attitude about seemingly everything didn’t hurt their punk rock cred either, but You’re a Woman, I’m a Machine speaks for itself. A blistering spazz of an album that comes out of the gate thundering and ends in sex, this is truly one of the better albums by bands that only ever released one album.

I feel however, that it is extremely difficult to discuss this record without at least touching upon the group’s only other significant release, an EP released in 2002 called “Heads Up,” which is dangerously close to being better than the full album. “Heads Up,” composed of six tracks in about thirteen minutes is a musical drop-kick that creeps upon listeners unsuspectingly and ravages their naïve souls for about thirteen minutes and then just leaves abruptly. Listening to “Heads Up” is like being temporarily possessed. Together with You’re A Woman, I’m A Machine it completes a story of a band with endless potential that just couldn’t keep it together, and makes for what should prove to be the best blip of genius in the indie-rock canon.

-Curran

Feist - Let It Die (Arts & Crafts)

I know, heavy on the A&C content, right? Leslie Feist worked for years before this weird-ass bilingual lounge record came out. She was in By Divine Right. She toured with Peaches as a hype woman. This album almost didn’t make the list for whatever reason. Then I listened to it again and just realized that the strength of song choice and production on this album set it aside from anything that can be considered a peer to it.

The record was incredibly famous. Songs were in ads and shit. The thought of it makes most people ambivalent, despite the fact that The Reminder was also wicked, though less velvety. The fact that the album is mostly covers and rearrangements merely puts it in a different tradition of album making than completely original record. The choice to blatantly sing the same song as somebody else is the choice to participate in the river of song… or the building of the tower of song, if you will. On top of that, her original songs blend seamlessly and tastefully into the tapestry of the album. Needless to say, Feist has added some compelling river bricks.

-Patrick

2005

Buck 65 - Secret House Against the World (V2)

“Fighting with the neighbours, screwing the wife,
Hip-hop music ruined my life.”

Richard Terfry is a difficult guy to pin down. He is one of the few artists that has an essential Canadian-ness about him that is unavoidable. His work is so scattered across the board in terms of genre and timbre that it exists as a testament to the beautiful (and troubling) melting pot of our country. From his inception as an off-the-wall Nova Scotian hip-hop artist signed to Sloan’s label, working with the Anticon collective through to his most recent work, 2007’s devastatingly dope Situation, Buck has taken an avant-garde dance through a co-opted genre and adapted it to his own voice and influences.

2005’s Secret House Against the World represents the pinnacle of his artistic production. It’s as Tom Waits as it’s Gainsbourg… and it’s essentially a post hip-hop record. Oh, and his backing band includes most of the members of post-rock guru group Tortoise. Oh yeah. The only thing that I don’t understand is how exactly this record ended up being the way it is. It’s a little bit like Talking Honky Blues at times but other than that it really just exists in its own category. Despite his comfy position as drive time radio host on CBC Radio 2, I hope Mr. Terfry continues to shock and dazzle us in the coming decade.

-Patrick

Jason Collett - Idols of Exile (Arts & Crafts)

Idols of Exile is cool because it represents the greatest music achievements of both Collett and Howie Beck. In this writer’s opinion, they’re both better when they work together. Please do another record together.

Not that either are anything to sneeze at in their solo work. It’s just that this album fucking rules. Collett unleashes a voice so knowing that you feel like you actually know the guy. Like he could say, “Boy, you got a pretty mouth,” and that wouldn’t be weird. Like his lyrics come from something you’ve read before, or a story you heard in an unlikely social situation. Idols of Exile is also the perfect example of the BSS family playing on each other’s albums to maximum effect. Amazingly placed horns, “electrostatic” guitars and general folk rock intensity accompany Collett’s middle-aged free man badass groove. It’s always almost summer, yeah.

-Patrick

Final Fantasy - Has a Good Home (Blocks)

The first time I saw hide or hair of Owen Pallett, he was opening for the Arcade Fire at the Danforth Music Hall on April 26^th, 2005. I didn’t know any of his songs then, and the setlist is impossible to find, but I do distinctly remember several of the standout tracks from his debut record as well as a GREAT cover of Mariah Carey’s “Fantasy” with Gentleman Reg. I rushed to the merch table after his set only to discover that there was only one copy of “Has a Good Home” available there and it had already been sold.

I can’t remember where I actually ended up buying the record. I do know that since I’ve had it, it’s been played fairly constantly. There are few records on this list as engrained into my bones as this one. He Poos Clouds which, as the first winner of the Polaris, is nothing to sneeze at, lacks much of the essential charm that makes Has a Good Home so damn infectious. The combination of violin loop based pop song writing along Pallett’s classic vocal clarity and wry sense of humour remains peerless. It’s meaningless to determine which album is actually better, though; the relationship between the two of them (and now Heartland, which came out yesterday [Eds. Note: Holy fucking hell is it ever good]) is what’s important. Canada has spawned a large number of amazing songwriters but few that are as unique as Pallett. I feel privileged to have witnessed his rise to popularity over the last five years; for this writer, at least, he’s already changed the face of Canadian music.

-Patrick

2006

Destroyer - Destoryer's Rubies (Merge)

We had our list put together, but there were a few “yeah, that’s pretty good”s that ended up squeaking into the twenty-five. Well I tell you that isn’t good enough! I feel like when making a list, if you’re hesitant about including something, or if you doubt your decision to include something, get rid of it immediately or you will regret it so much when you return to look at your handiwork in the future. Lists are about bold moves and ballsy decisions, just get rid of it!

We got rid of some of the stragglers, but there was one more record on here that I really wanted to include, felt should be included, but had a nagging feeling like I didn’t actually want it there (or even like it all that much) as much as I had been insisting. Patrick put on Dan Bejar’s Destroyer’s Rubies and within about ten seconds I was able to say with great chutzpah “OK, this is such a better record than that other one. Already. Dan Bejar: welcome to destiny.”

And so it was. This quirky slice of theatrical avant-pop is clearly the best thing I’ve heard to come forth from the Vancouver New Pornographers crowd and indeed it is without a doubt Bejar’s strongest solo work; it’s glammy, it’s folky and it’s weird – Bejar’s voice is smooth and dramatic and his lyrics are idiosyncratic and at times hilarious. Sorry bananas, I’ve got a new source of potassium. And after an overly long anecdote, I am out of words: Destroyer’s Rubies is kickass.

-Curran

Junior Boys - So This Is Goodbye (Domino)

Full disclosure: this record is my own personal #2 Canadian album of the 2000s (and #4 overall). This record also gets my vote for Sexiest Ever. The second album from Hamilton-based electro-pop duo Jeremy Greenspan and Matthew Didemus is so icy-smooth and so cocksure in its delivery, it may very well turn out to be the 2000s-hipster equivalent of Can’t Get Enough.

So This Is Goodbye is without question the best electronic album to be released in Canada this decade, it is a serious, serious record in the “Man, this is some serious shit” sort of way. Between Greenspan’s breathy, crooning tenor and those sophisticated, pulsating beats and those glacial, crisp synths, there is precious little to compare it to. Too melodic for IDM and too clean for electro, this ultra-smooth arpeggiator-heavy sex machine is truly nothing short of the future of baby-makin’ music – it’s unstoppably fresh. So This Is Goodbye will make feel so dirty afterwards, you won’t know what to do with yourself – also, unrelated, there’s also a Sinatra cover in the mix.

This is a record of mornings-after, of suspicion, loss and bad things involving too much brandy; it is the album of hurtful realizations and difficult decisions – all wrapped in a wintery, ethereal sheen that coddles the hurt and turns it into hope. Very sexy hope. No electronic albums this decade had the same emotional resonance with the technical chops to back it up, none had such a duality as this with sounds that appear to be so solid, but could only be so frail. This is brave face music.

-Curran

Rock Plaza Central - Are We Not Horses (Outside)

A fabulous concept album from a very special group, this, the third full-length from Toronto’s Rock Plaza Central is, quite plainly, the most sophisticated and unique recording to come from the Jeff Magnum tradition. Singer-Songwriter (and also novelist) Chris Eaton’s powerful-but-understated lyricism and warbling, strained half-drawl coupled with fiery, intricate instrumentation make for what is without question one of the most exciting and emotionally resonating folk albums in years – and it’s about robot horses.

Yes. The album is a concept album about mechanical horses that don’t know that they’re mechanical and the subsequent revelation of which sparks an epic battle between good and evil. It gets pretty epic. Fortunately, as is the case with any concept album, an artist must bring the goods in order to pull it off and when I tell you that this is one of the finest concept albums to come out of any country this decade, you’d best believe Mr. Eaton and company most certainly did bring the goods on this one. Indeed, matching Are We Not Horses? equine-centric lyricism the whole way are some of the most lively, rollicking, galloping and workmanlike folk songs to be released – as I say – this side of In the Aeroplane Over the Sea. Third track, “My Children, Be Joyful,” as it happens, sounds like too good a Neutral Milk Hotel imitation to not be some lost outtake from Magnum’s top-secret vault.

Rest assured however that Rock Plaza Central are steering very much their own course and here we can hear a confident, original and technically mind-blowing band play one of the most warming, glorious and yes, joyful, records of the decade. One that is huge on concept and even bigger in delivery – a fist-in-the-air tale of redemption set to soaring horns and a novelist’s touch.

-Curran

2007

Joel Plaskett Emergency - Ashtray Rock (Maple)

Nostalgia is a motherfucker. It bleeds into our lives making us wonder what would happen if we had behaved differently or made different choices in the past without regard for how important it is that we live in the present. I can’t think of another record that deals so effectively with the way things used to be for a specific generation of kids raised on rock 'n’ roll in Canada. My generation, I guess. And the record seriously sounds like the Who.

Plaskett works best when he has an amazing concept (which he frequently does). Ashtray Rock deals with the soul crushing falling apart of a teenage friendship between two guys in love with the same girl. It sounds simple, but Plaskett’s description and presentation of the weirdness and anger and beauty of growing up is compelling enough to make it one of the most important albums on this list. He really taps into an essential part of Canadian adolescence that’s hard to put your finger on. It’s somewhere between shitty concerts, underage drinking, winter coats and awkwardness. It’s epic and unforgettable.

-Patrick

2008

Plants and Animals - Parc Avenue (Secret City)

Plants and Animals play a musical brew that they describe themselves as being “Post-Classic Rock,” which is probably about as accurate as a band can be in describing themselves. On the surface the Montreal-via-Halifax trio’s debut full-length appears to be heavily indebted to the psychedelic and glam rocks of the early 1970s – upon first hearing album opener “Bye Bye Bye” I must admit that my mind immediately went to Queen. However, there is something mysterious about Parc Avenue, something that very distinctly and very clearly sets Plants and Animals apart from any of the other classic rock revivalists (a term that all too often means “trying really hard to be Zeppelin”). Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that Plants and Animals chose some of the more tasteful elements of classic rock to model themselves around, elements that don’t revolve around epic guitar solos. Or perhaps it is the “post” aspect that they willingly apply to themselves that makes this looking back seem so fresh.

Rather than emulating a certain sound of the past, Plants and Animals build on it – they aren’t a tribute band and scarcely can they be called revivalists. It’s as though instead of aiming to play classic rock with a contemporary twist, they imagine themselves at the tail end of the peak of the music they are most interested in, ignoring everything that’s happened between then and now and set out to develop something that never really ended. Plants and Animals infuse their hazy psychedelia with elements of Afrobeat and Krautrock to produce not only one of the most effective and honest nostalgia trips of recent memory, but also an album – three years in the making – that is so utterly laced with life and warmth that, while it is easy to write about how it compares to certain things, when you listen to it, that it sounds like anything simply doesn’t matter.

-Curran

Chad VanGaalen - Soft Airplane (Flemish Eye)

Bizarre, hodgepodge, slightly silly and always obsessed with death, with his strained Neil Young-esque tenor, conflicting loves for both banjos and homemade synthesizers and haunting, morbid and eerily childlike lyrics, Calgary’s Chad VanGaalen crafted Soft Airplane into one of the most tortured, haunting and plain strange albums of recent years. Where his first two records, 2004’s Infinniheart and 2006’s Skelliconnection were composed of tracks culled from several hundreds of bedroom recordings from a period of many years, Soft Airplane marked the first time VanGaalen actually sat down to make a record for itself – and it turned out to be a near masterpiece.

Using a wide, wide range of instruments – many of them his own inventions – ranging from acoustic guitars and banjos, to ancient-sounding synths and drum machines to the odd orchestral arrangement, VanGaalen follows whatever whim that comes into his head to create a beastly, gorgeous folk-electronic-noise meditation that shimmers and soothes as much as it profoundly unnerves. For a note on VanGaalen’s whims, I point to “TMNT Mask” (the acronym stands for what you think it stands for), the most purely electronic-sounding track on Soft Airplane, in which VanGaalen takes a harmonica solo. That happens.

Where VanGaalen’s instrumentation is eccentric and scattershot, his lyrics are some of the most bizarre in the business. Completely and utterly fixated on death, VanGaalen’s free-associative, sometimes unsettlingly graphic and occasionally charmingly awkward verse adds endless levels to the writer’s music and serves to further the artist’s relentless originality. This is a record that occupies so many spaces, aesthetics, moods and shapes; it is eccentric and often aloof, but only in that sort of way where you know that he isn’t trying to be alienating, he’s just really, really into doing his own thing.

-Curran

2009

Jon-Rae Fletcher - Oh, Maria (Weewerk)

Jon-Rae fucking singing his mangled, bared heart out. Throwing his fucking soul out there for you to do with as you will, letting it all go to the sound of a lonely trombone. This modest, simple and largely unnoticed folk record from this relatively unassuming Victoria-via-Toronto-via-Vancouver-via-Edmonton (there’s probably more) singer-songwriter is, as it turns out, without a doubt the concept album of the decade.

Dig: serial killer living in the woods comes across a woman named Maria with whom he falls in love with as he murders her (“She must have seen my knife burning in the dark / and with that knife reflecting in her dark eyes I lost my heart”), which prompts him to return to society where he attempts, but ultimately fails to mend his wicked ways, leading him to drink, misery and ultimately release as he rides off into the sunset of death coming back to his precious Maria – the refrain is truly glorious.

Pretty cool, right? Though the concept would not nearly be as solid in practice were it not for Fletcher’s humble and brutal display of heart, which is splattered violently all over Oh, Maria and evidenced in Fletcher’s almost too simple guitar strumming, delicate songwriting and powerful, golden, heartbreaking voice. With only these things, a piano, a bass guitar and one oh-so perfect trombone, we see here what should be the new coming in the new decade: more with less. Passion, emotion and genuinely good tunes without gimmick, vanity or vexation: there is only that voice and that heart. Oh, Maria is little more on paper than a humble alt-country/folk record, but it is upon listening nothing short of titanic, and it digs deep.

-Curran

Japandroids - Post Nothing (Polyvinyl)

When you are speaking of Japandroid’s truly remarkable debut, Post Nothing, you are speaking of two things: concision and sincerity. The duality of minimum/maximum that occurs within this record is staggering and the sheer amount of quality that Vancouver’s Brian King and David Prowse mine out so few elements makes me want to believe that this may in fact be the most sublimely concise album of all time. The magnitude of the sound featured here is astonishing for only two guys and at just eight track and a running time of thirty-five minutes, Japandroids make absolutely every second count with their relentless hooks and King’s (no other word for it) majestic guitar tones – far and away one of the most well-produced rock records of the decade.

But despite Post Nothing’s technical prowess, what you really stay for is the fact that you can practically smell the sweat dripping from every note as King and Prowse make it abundantly clear from the getgo that they are playing with more than their whole ass. Very obviously disciples of the Constantines’ School of Being Just Really, Really Fucking Earnest, Japandroids’s eight songs about girls, Vancouver and girls in Vancouver (most of which have fewer than five lines of lyrics) are often some of the most affecting, heartbreaking and powerful of the latter half of the decade. No small feat for songs that are also, at heart, fist-pumpin’ party anthems.

This is a record about holding tight to youth, about chasing girls, hating girls and thinking about girls, about talking with friends about girls and drinking beer with friends while longing for girls – this is the teenage fantasy to the extent that J.M. Barrie could never envision. It is Post Nothing because there is nothing to be post about – nothing’s happened yet, we’re only thinking about those sunshine girls.

-Curran

Comments

• January 19, 2010, FRANK writes: Glad to see Polmo Popo on this. They're too good to be as obscure as they are. Good list.
• January 19, 2010, Nic writes: Curran, your piece on Up in Flames is great. I love that fawkin' album. And the Unicorns? YES! You guys encapsulated the best Canadian indie rock records. I can't think of anything I would add. Killer list you guys.

It may seem counter-productive to simply cut these companies loose once the festival is complete; after all, shouldn’t there exist a support system to aid the most successful shows in development and restaging their work? Of course there should be, and for participants in the Toronto Fringe Festival, there is. Enter the Next Stage Festival, on stage at the Factory Theatre from January 6-17, 2010.

Since its inception in 2007, the Next Stage Festival has been devoted to taking some of the most successful works of the previous summer`s Fringe festival and giving them an opportunity to restage their work after further revision and rehearsal. To me, this is a key aspect of what the development of Canadian theatre must be: a trial and-error basis for the most promising new works. The workshopping of new material and the presentation of these drafts to varying audiences is parliament to the creative process and the finding of the Canadian voice.

Over the last two seasons the number of attendees of the Next Stage Festival has risen drastically, an encouraging statistic for Toronto theatre practitioners. For the audience, it is another chance to catch that Fringe show that you missed in the summer, or a chance to see for a second time a show that made an impression. With individual tickets no more than $15 and multi-ticket discount packages available, it is also an extremely affordable way to experience a multitude of theatre in just a few days.

This affordability and availability is something that some major theatres lack; they frequently run only one or two performances at a time for weeks at a time. There are currently eight shows running in rep between the Factory Mainspace and Studio Theatres and most only an hour apart, making it easy for an audience to see multiple shows in one day. The McAuslin Heated Beer Tent is a comfortable and social way to pass the time between shows, affording the opportunity to discuss the work and possibly meet the artists involved.

Nowhere is the true community nature of the Canadian theatre felt than at the theatre festival. My short time in the ticket line gave me the chance to see at least a dozen reunions of old friends, mostly artists who were working on the shows. What we need is to get the word about these festivals out to a more general public. Artists supporting artists is obviously vital for the survival of our industry, but so is the inclusion of a new audience. Despite the increase in audience attendance and the size of the box office line up last Friday night, the potential for second-time-around festivals such as Next Stage is vast. Only a fraction of the audience of the Toronto Fringe actually attend Next Stage, so we must find a way to get new patrons interested in seeing the revised work. Then perhaps the development process will be nurtured and more plays will be given the chance to see a second run to a wider audience, to even greater success.

Next Stage is currently on stage at the Factory Theatre Mainspace and Studio Theatre, until January 17th. Tickets are $12 for afternoon performance (before 6pm) and $15 for evening performances.

Performances include:

BURIED by Tessa King – A dysfunctional family deals with the death of a wife and mother.

GAS by Jason Maghanoy – A revealing look at American soldiers defending gasoline in Iraq.

ICARUS REDUX by Sean O’Neill– A father, grieving over the loss of his wife, finds a way to connect with his son – and make him fly.

JUST EAST OF BROADWAY by Nicholas Hune-Brown and Ben King – A Hollywood has-been attempts to revive his career by breaking to the Chinese musical scene.

LIKE FATHER LIKE SON? SORRY. by Chris Gibbs – A one-man show
exploring the experience of new fatherhood.

THE MAKING OF ST. JEROME by Marie Beath Badian – A young man explores his brother’s brutal murder; based on the true events in Toronto in 2004.

THE RED QUEEN EFFECT by Seventh Stage Theatre Productions – A collectively devised piece about the corporate glass ceiling – and how to break through.

QUITE FRANKLY by Justin Sage-Passant – A solo piece about one socially inept man and his mother.

Comments

• January 15, 2010, Adam Kirkham writes: Great article, but I just want to clarify a couple of points. Next Stage presents both reworked AND new productions. In fact, 4 of 8 productions in this year's festival have never been performed in Toronto (or any Fringe for that matter). Also, any artists who has participated in a Canadian Association of Fringe Festivals' (CAFF) festival can apply to participate in the Next Stage Festival, either with a work they've performed within the past 5 years, or a group of "fringe" artists can submit a new work to be considered. Best, Adam
• January 15, 2010, Colin Fallowfield writes: Thanks, Adam, I realize I actually should have clarified that not ALL of the shows at Next Stage are remounts. I just wanted to focus on the ones that are as a dovetail off of a previous article. Thanks for the note and clarification, -C

By way of preface and disclaimer: I say you are the reason because without your interest and outrage, the childish and unprofessional behaviour of our country’s leader will never truly be heard. Sure, the ‘Canadians against Proroguing Parliament’ Facebook page has 90,000 some-odd members, but there are 33,000,000 people in this country. Even if we estimate that only, say, a quarter of Canadians are on Facebook, that’s only 1 per cent of the total Facebook population of Canada that is upset at the extremely un-democratic actions of our Prime Minister. I recognize that not only is this partially conjecture but I’m using Facebook-based statistics to make my point. And I don’t care. With so much young Canadian interest in American and global politics, too often many of us neglect the one country in which we can actually affect change, and whose changes affect us every day.

Let’s go back to December 4th, 2008, barely more than a year ago. The Liberal, New Democrat and Bloc Quebecois parties of Canada had just three days earlier signed an accord to form a Coalition against the Conservative minority government, intending to bring it down with a vote of non-confidence. At the request of Prime Minister Harper, Governor General Michaelle Jean declared that Parliament be suspended until January 26th, 2009. This was called a prorogue, not something that the Canadian public was all too familiar with. The idea that the Governor General, a non-elected official who merely represented the antiquated notion of the Queen, has some semblance of authority over Canadian Parliament and can effectively lock the legislature doors on a whim seemed ridiculous to most. It drew satire and criticism from the likes of Rick Mercer and John Stewart.

Harper prorogued Parliament then to avoid the non-confidence vote and the looming prospect of the second federal election in a year. By the time January 26th rolled around, Barack Obama had been sworn in as the first African-American President of the United States and Canadians had lost interest in their own political news. The Coalition had wavered and then fallen, and its supporters (including myself) were instead swept up in the seeming revolution south of the border. Harper and his cabinet continued to run this country as he had before, as if nothing had ever happened.

By December 30th, 2009, Harper was once again under fire. No, the left had not united against him again. Instead questions concerning the length of the current economic recession and the Canadian bailout in lieu of deficit were beginning to pile up without response. The revelation had come through from Canada’s top soldier, General Walt Natynczyk, that Afghan detainees whom Canadian soldiers handed over to Afghan authorities were being abused and tortured. More than this, Canadian officials were aware of the treatment of detainees, and handed them over anyway. Amnesty International was outraged; the Canadian public started to take some interest once again. Not enough, but some. The heat was on. Worst of all, five Canadian soldiers were killed on the same day in an effort to bring democracy to Afghanistan.

Now, as I understand it, a Prime Minister is elected through consensus to represent a people and be responsible for the decisions and policies that he and his cabinet enact. But when there were angry questions from the opposition in the legislature once again, Harper did what he does best: he turned tail and ran. Parliament was already on break for the holidays on December 30th, most of the MPs back in their home ridings across the country. There was no one to oppose Harper’s second request in just over a year to suspend Parliament. Michaelle Jean once again took him at his word, and a figurehead became the most powerful person in the country. Again.

And once again satire and criticism is being drawn from all over the globe; this time even the legendary British periodical ‘The Economist’ is noticing and ridiculing the pathetic state of our political system. Rick Mercer has asked the question, "why do we fight to bring democracy to Afghanistan when we don’t have it at home?" Of course, Parliament has been prorogued several times, by many different administrations. This typically happens, however, once most legislative business has finished and representatives can do more work in their ridings than on Parliament Hill. This prorogue has left several important bills on the table, and is roughly three times longer than the average Canadian prorogue in the last thirty years.

I call Stephen Harper a coward, afraid to face down criticism and accept responsibility for the decisions he’s made. This is the leader of our country? Not for nothing, but I like to think that Canadians have more mettle than our Prime Minister is letting on. We do not back down, we stand up. This can be exemplified throughout our history, from Vimy Ridge to the Liberation of Holland to the invention of Peacekeeping. In this tradition of standing up, I and thousands of other Canadians say we defend our democracy and show Mr. Harper that we demand a working Parliament that acts in the interest of the people, not the Prime Minister.

If you agree with us, there are nation-wide anti-prorogue protests being held on January 23rd, 2010. I encourage you to make your voice and your outrage heard alongside other Canadians who value the democracy for which we have stood for the last 1.5 centuries. I mean, no one stood up to Chancellor Palpatine, and look how THAT turned out (had to throw in at least ONE joke/nerd reference). Details on the Toronto protest will appear on the Facebook group ‘Canadians against Proroguing Parliament’ soon.

If you are fine with the suspension of Parliament, in the words of Evelyn Hall, “I disagree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.”

But you’re still a moron.

Comments

• January 17, 2010, B-Rad writes: Splendid article, sir. I couldn't agree with you more!

There aren’t many solo banjo players around – at least in my many years, I haven’t encountered too many, and I am a man who loves banjo, especially when it’s allowed to take the forefront of a piece – so when I first saw Old Man Luedecke (I quite figuratively stumbled into the middle of his set) just shredding banjo by himself, stomping his feet and grinning wildly: magic. This guy loves banjo more than most people like air.

“It [banjo] is a sound that I found thrilling and didn’t know much about – certainly didn’t know anybody that played much and just thought that the sound of it could move me in such a way that when I hear it and think “that… that sounds cool.” So then I found pretty quickly that if you want to tell stories or tell stories about your life or sing about anything really, the banjo is kind of a good propulsion for songs. It keeps things moving, it’s very rhythmic, it’s perfect for language.”

A resident of the village of Chester, Nova Scotia, where he lives with his sculptor wife, Old Man Luedecke has gained a reputation across the country for his riveting playing, distinctive voice and literate but humble songwriting prowess, to say little of his live performance which is one of the better one man gigs going in Canada or otherwise. He’s lived all over the country, and toured it extensively; he once lived in Vancouver for six months by accident (whatever that means) and is completely nonchalant about it. As a result he speaks of Canada with almost ferocious excitement and reverence.

“I’m into it. I have been quite interested in Pierre Berton books and all of the stuff that’s just – I tend to be, on average, about forty to fifty years behind the times at any given time when it comes to my interests. Like when Margaret Atwood was building up Canada like it was a real nationalist movement and there was a lot of Canadian writers and painters and such in the middle of the last century doing that. I really hate the “I AM CANADIAN” view of nationalism; you know, that beer can version, the sort of meathead, pseudo-American impersonations of what it is to be proud of your country.

“But I’m actually pretty starry-eyed about the space and the more I travel, the more I realize how much room we have. I think that’s a really exciting thing about our country and so many people have tried to tackle the space and that identity and now it just doesn’t seem important. I think most people have moved on and see that the cities are the key to understanding our national culture. And that’s fair, but I’m quite romantic for the part that people made when they decided that Canada was a good place to be. I like that.”

Being proud creator of three full-length albums, Mole in the Ground (2004), Hinterland (2006), and Proof of Love (2008), and the survivor of several years’ hard touring, you might very correctly expect an earnest folk troubadour to savor thoroughly his small pleasures. And indeed, his village life in Chester and the small moments in life are exactly where this particular folk troubadour draws much of his inspiration. His decidedly non-flashy and instantly hummable songs are completely stuffed full of life and joy in both their simple but memorable melodies and in Luedecke’s lively, introspective lyricism.

“There is a distinct theme on Proof of Love of hope in the face of fear; a lot of the songs are very optimistic and a lot of the songs come as expressions of great joy in spite of… I think the songs work because they are optimistic without being afraid to embrace the dark side a little bit. Also, the banjo is a really good and upbeat thing, so it does tend to keep things pretty up and then I can sing the darker stuff underneath it and it works.”

It is indeed all of this that has garnered him a surprisingly strong following across the country, not to mention critical acclaim and a host of awards to adorn his probably extremely rustic-looking mantle with, though he is surely more likely to keep his trinkets in a box hidden somewhere. Regardless, he is certainly excited for his success and I don’t believe that there are too many people that would ever wish anything but for this wonderfully talented songwriter.

“Well, I’m right into it. It was always going to be an uphill battle with what I do, so it’s nice when people are saying that they’re into it. And it’s funny, because you always think that what you do isn’t that out there, but on the other hand, there aren’t a lot of solo banjo players in Canada that are out there writing songs and paying close attention to what they’re saying in their tunes – I might actually be the only one. So it is a bit weird, but then you see people really liking the songs and singing along. I really like that.”

Old Man Luedecke hits Hugh's room in Toronto on January 20th - tickets are $16/$18

Check out his website right here

Recently the boys (in this case referring to Matt Marshall and Colin Fallowfield) and I went shopping for an upcoming Theatre Bassaris show (more on that next month). After hours of trekking through the city in search of chairs, the perfect apparently non-existent chairs, our feet were freezing, our spirits a little low, and our stomachs were rumbling… we were also far from home.

I'm not often in the east end of the city, which is a damn shame I admit, but we decided to trek up to the Danforth to check out a little café that opened last week. Armed with the name, the address, and no sense of direction, I led our tired party to the corner of Danforth and Jones.

Approaching the café, we see a sign out front that says “Hot soup and sandwiches,” with emphasis placed on the 'hot.' Let me tell you, after 5 hours of walking around in the slush, those words were akin to “Heaven, just step inside.” So we did, and it was.

The atmosphere at Teatree is calming. Serenely green walls, jazz crooning from the speakers, and not a hipster in sight! I have to admit, despite my love for coffee shops, I can’t stand cafés filled with scenester teens clamoring for attention, typing loudly on laptops, and drinking over-sugared over-priced coffee-like beverages. This is an adult café. I don’t mean that kids aren’t welcome, a small family with wee ones were coming in as we were on our way out, but there’s a sense of maturity about the place. And not “mature,” conveyed in a way that makes you feel like you’re hanging out with tea grannies… the atmosphere is just right. Between the reclaimed bricks, wood accents, and unique mugs its hard not to fall a little bit in love with the place.

If you’re a theatre person, you’ll fit right in. As we sat chatting about the sad state of not finding chairs for our show, the only other conversation in the room (I apologize to whoever it was that I eavesdropped on) was about theatre. It’s funny how the city brings people together…

But I digress. We order immediately, chatting with Ian who was manning the counter. Last time I saw him he was huddled in the corner installing the bar that now looks out the front window. The place has come a long way! It takes on more charm when you know how much work has gone into it. And they run the place like it’s effortless! Erin Pim, the owner and chef, was busy in the back filling orders. She comes out to tell us the soup of the day and we’re immediately convinced. I don’t think I’ve ever ordered something so enthusiastically.

“I’m pretty sure they could’ve sold us anything that was hot,” Matt remarks, which is true. I still can’t feel my feet, but my hands have thawed enough to hold a cup of coffee. Which is great, mainly because it’s warm. It’s isn’t phenomenal, but it’s much better then the junk at the Coffee Time across the street. As it turns out the soup is great not just because it’s hot, but because it’s delicious and filling. All the food at Teatree is filling. I made the mistake of going for a late lunch on a day when I had a dinner date… don’t do that, unless you want your date to be disappointed that you’re not hungry for hours upon hours.

The food verdict? Delicious. The boys and I all ordered different items so we could experience as much of the menu as possible (we always have business in mind…), and I would therefore highly recommend: the chunky hummus sandwich, the brie and baked apple sandwich, and the tomato avocado one too! The menu consists of all homemade items (including the bread!), and specializing in vegan options. Every choice is like a good home-cooked meal your mother used to make - only better.

The place even has WiFi, though it seems a shame to litter such a charming place with laptops. If you find yourself on the Danforth this winter, bring a book and come find a little bit of summer warmth at Teatree Café. And yes, they actually have a tree.

In the later months of 2009, the TTC announced the approved designs for four of the six new subway stations to be implemented as the Spadina Subway Extension. This past fall saw architectural plans for Highway 407, Steeles West, York University and Sheppard West stations brought to the table, which leaves the far less glamorous locales of Finch West and Vaughn Corporate Center still undetermined in their sure to be surprisingly colourful futures.

The champion of the bunch is, without a doubt, the completely bizarre Steeles West station design (pictured above), which is poised to deliver the industrial wasteland that is the area immediately surrounding York University some much-needed pink and baby blue umbrella-esque apparatuses. This absolutely astounding choice, courtesy of Richard Stevens Architects (the firm responsible for Downsview, Bayview and Don Mills stations) and Alsop Architects (the firm responsible for OCAD's semi-ironic, semi-iconic Sharp Center for Design) will no doubt provide commuters and York students with an endless supply of jokes for years to come. It's not that it's especially ugly, rather it seems more like something that is destined to become extremely dated within mere months of its completion. Which is overall a shame, because it is fair to say that, but for a few notable exceptions, the TTC has generally been quite commendable for their tasteful architecture and design decisions over the years.

The thing that becomes somewhat worrisome in all of this is - and this is a problem that has plagued the Spadina Subway Extension project since day one - is that the locations of the proposed stations begs questions revolving around whether the very sunny and bright pictures painted by the architects will be in any way translatable to reality. For example, Sheppard West station (pictured above): sure does look all green and happy. Lest we forget, however, the sun never shines on grey, drab Sheppard West. It is extremely difficult to imagine this welcoming scene attached to this intersection.

Which isn't by any means a negative thing at all. The truly curious aspect of this whole scenario is how, or whether, the subway will or will not revitalize the neighborhoods that it will be henceforth cracking. Sheppard West is entirely surrounded by commercial and industrial projects on one side and Downsview Park on the other. The station, for all of its bells and whistles is being built entirely to be a GO/Subway hub, so should the design reflect its utilitarian functionality, rather than the neighborhood gathering place that is being depicted?

This is, however, the case for all of the forthcoming stations save for Finch West station: their purpose is one of practicality rather than being of any grand visionary nature regarding the future of forgotten neighborhoods. York University station's usefulness is self-explanatory; Steeles West station links to the Northern half of York campus, as well as serving the Jane LRT and Black Creek Pioneer Village; Highway 407 station (pictured above) was only ever meant to be a parking lot; ditto Vaughn Corporate Center Station. So, at this point we can hold out most of our hope for Finch West, the design for which has yet to be revealed - though it too is being handled by Richard Stevens Architects.

The big question surrounding this station is to what degree will it impact the still freshly-dubbed "York University Heights." It goes without saying that this station, being in an area with a high population density and a high percentage of transit users, is the station that would benefit the most from this space-age architecture. A fancy, wacky subway station could be indeed just what the doctor ordered to bring the neighborhood from scourge to "nice place to be." Truly, the introduction of a subway station to an intersection whose most notable feature is two competing Tim Horton's near a Lastman's Bad Boy and several refineries.

In some respects I say "yes!", thank god the subway is coming to York, it will be so wonderful for everybody. Even going to Vaughn isn't so bad because it might actually get the suburbanites out of their cars for a change. But in the end, subway technology is extremely expensive to build and to operate and both the city and the surprisingly powerful Steve Munro are pushing for more light rail to be implemented. This I have no problem with; it's just a little bit tough accepting that the vast, world class subway network that myself and other transit nerds dream of for Toronto will never get further than glorifying a bunch of parking lots and shopping centers. I like the Transit City plan a lot and I do think that it will do a lot of good for the city - light rail is, as they say, where it's at. Hopefully, as I digress, the TTC will be able to do well by placing their stations in suburban malls (Richmond Hill is next) and they can be as colorful as they can make 'em - how else are they going to make everyone forget about the Sheppard line?

Most theatre practitioners (and thus I assume most theatre-goers) like to drink. For most of us it’s a bit of a hobby, so naturally when Mirvish announced that they’re allowing alcohol in their theatres this season I was excited. This combines two of my passions, fine art and fine liquor!

Immediately my thoughts drifted to my favourite theatre in the city, Passe Muraille. Was Mirvish taking a page from this NPO? You see, Theatre Pass Muraille has the perfect set up. A traditional theatre venue downstairs, but upstairs there is bar amidst the balcony seats. One can enjoy the show, or enjoy the show and a good drink. Unlike most theatre concessions the bar also remains open after the show, allowing for patrons to mingle and chat instead of immediately shooing them out into the cold.

Mirvish theatres aren’t taking this approach - instead they’re allowing patrons to take the drinks they buy at the concession into the theatre for the duration of the show. So you can’t order one ticket to The Sound of Music and a pint (you’d need a stronger drink to get through the show anyway). The system is not perfect, but it does have its perks. This means shorter lines at the concession, and a chance to actually enjoy the $9 glass of wine you bought instead of knocking it back like a shot when the end of intermission chimes ring.

Apparently this brings up a few issues for the conservative theatre goers who worry about tradition, cleanliness, and other generally snobby issues… what happens if patrons drink too much? Isn’t it a faux pas to eat or drink in the theatre? Whatever will we do if someone spills a drink?

The press release assures the too-tightly white collared folk that over-drinking has not yet been a problem (who could afford it?!) and that in a crowd of hundreds people get sick for non-alcohol related reasons all the time. Heck, people have died of natural causes in the theatre! But no one’s saying, “don’t let old people in!” While I have taken some liberties in paraphrasing the press release, I do admire their PR’s tenacity.

Besides, alcohol and theatre have a long history together. When the Greeks invented theatre, they were allowed to drink during performances. The Greek god Dionysus is the patron god of theatre… and wine. His followers drunkenly reveled in the early arts scene; why not pay homage to our roots?

Reading further into the press release I discovered that alcohol is only to be allowed during some shows, specifically at the upcoming musicals but at none of the “serious dramas.” I find two things wrong with this statement: a) the discrimination against drinking during other genres and b) the fact that Mirvish productions thinks they have or ever will put on a “serious drama.” (Okay, okay, so they put on 12 Angry Men, but come on!) I wonder why drinking only applies to musical spectacles instead of (excuse my elitism) real theatre… does commercialist theatre really need to get its audience drunk before they dazzle ‘em? What does that say about the quality of the show? Has real theatre posed such a threat that they’ve finally had to up the ante?

Unfortunately I doubt that’s the case. Perhaps this is just a sign of the times. Though last time there was a recession they banned alcohol, and now they’re practically forcing it on us… that can’t be a good sign... Still, raising a glass to theatre (and at the theatre) is always cause to celebrate.

A woman was recently killed by an ancient driver who collided with her body on the streets of Toronto. She was a mother. She was walking her baby in a stroller as the car ran a red light and continued to roll towards them, full speed. In that split second, fate offered her a choice: save herself or save her baby. She saved the little one. She made the decision to save the baby and then she died. This is a tragedy.

What if the reverse were true? How would popular opinion differ if it was the infant who perished and the mother survived? The image of a dismembered baby is much more offensive to public taste than a mutilated adult. Why is this? Surely the death of an adult, already accustomed to the world of objects, is appalling and cosmically unjust. There is not a lot of loss in the death of a child. Truly, the death of an infant should be a cause for celebration; they shall not have to suffer through this upside-down woman-man world.

Cursed is the child who grows up without mother.

Blessed is the woman who can hear of her child's dying and say, “So be it.”

A mother dies and it is grim. A child dies and it is joyous. The infant spared on Toronto’s streets has a hopeless life ahead of him. The mother has tacked a senseless finale onto the already senseless narrative that is her life. Yes, it would have been much preferred if it was the child who had died. Either way, it is inane.

Some will read this and think I am a monster. Those people cannot speak from lived experience. Those people have never faced this question directly. I have. I am a father and my child has died. I have killed my own child, with a little help from my friends.

My name is R. Nansen. Your poets have written about me. They have said this: “blood on both hands/he walks amongst us/a fruitless orcharder/dressed in fraggled and frayed faux pas.” They have called me “a nihilistic mystic/with the powers of shaman.” (Poetry attributed to A. McLaren)

These words about me may be true, but firstly I am a creator. A father. You may have heard of my creation, my child. She is called SPAY, and she has died.

Have you not heard of SPAY?  Allow me to educate. Some have said that SPAY stands for the Students for Practical Application of Youth. Still, others claim that SPAY stands for the Silver Painter Anarchist Yodellers. Truly, I say this is false. SPAY stands for nothing but itself.

The history and practices of SPAY are amoebic at best, but to say that SPAY was a disorganization dedicated to the production and pro-life-ration of art would not be untrue. We were an art group founded on this dictum: EVERY MAN, WOMAN, AND CHILD IS SIMULTANEOUSLY A STUDENT, A PROFESSOR, AND THE AUTHOR OF THEIR OWN LESSON PLAN.

Using this as a curriculum we went boldly forth to reveal the disjunct between theory and practice in general. Through writing, visual art, and performance we spread our message of egoless individualism. Let it be know that R. Nansen started SPAY and intended it to be egoless. Let it be known that R. Nansen started SPAY and called for horizontal leadership, not vertical power struggles. Let it be known that R. Nansen failed SPAY’s cause precisely by proclaiming, “Let it be known that R. Nansen...”

Everyone who has ever made a proclamation in the name of SPAY has failed SPAY.

Yes, an overall silence on the matter of SPAY would be preferred.

After a performance or gallery show people would often ask me, “Is it art, or is it SPAY-art?” This is the same as asking, “Is it art, or is it bad art?” Somehow by proclaiming yourself a part of a higher cause, you excuse yourself from conversations and condemnations of the normal criteria for art. While this may be helpful in that you won’t be teased, it renders your work meaningless.

A student named Joshu once asked me, “Is there artist-nature in SPAY or not?” I said no. He clucked like a rooster. I said “Give me a word of practicality or I will kill SPAY!” He barked at the sun. So I killed SPAY.

Remember this, Dear Reader: The highest purpose of art is atonement. Good art contains both the sin and the repentance. The finest art is transgression, confession, and reconciliation concurrently. The artist wants nothing more than to become clean. In order to do this, the artist must first get dirty.

SPAY was born out of wedlock. SPAY was a bastard child. SPAY was the sin. Sometimes the murder of a child is the only way to hide the evidence. So be it. Now our child will be spared the suffering and embarrassment of canonization.

Should we mourn? That is up to the individual. I got over the death quite easily. In my house I have had installed a sensory deprivation chamber. Whenever I feel the need to think, or elsewise destroy my thinking faculties, I spend some hours in there. I float in warm water in a completely isolated tank and allow my thoughts to do as they will. Following SPAY’s demise, I climbed inside the tank and lay in complete darkness, stillness, and silence for a solid six hours. And then I was blessed with a vision. A voice came into my consciousness. It was a voice which was not my own. It sounded like some funny Italian. Over and over in steady rhythm he sung: “Zang-tum-tum, Zang-tum-tum, Zang-tum-tum, Zang-tum-tum,” in repetitive ecstasy. The sound then transformed into the roar of a car motor: “Zang-tum-tum, Zang-tum-tum.” In my field of vision came images of roads sprouting off in many directions, a rhizomatic array. A highway!

I arose from my chamber as if a newborn spat out of a womb. Soaking and naked, I made for the window, opened it, and made this decree: “One’s art should never be in service of an ideal! The ideal should serve the art. SPAY was an ideal which only lead to nihilistic knots and homogenized artists. I present to you that which has been moving us the whole time: The TransCanaDada MotorWay.”

And thus a new model was born for us shitheads. Allow me to break it down:
Trans=Transformative, Transgressive, Transgendered, Trans-anything, etc.
Cana=Canadian. Respond to your environment, people!
Dada=Dada=Dadadadadada
Motor=Motorik
Way=Tao

To reiterate: Make art which strives, which sins, which forgives, which atones. Make it unique to your time, your place, your person. Make it spontaneous. Keep it moving. Keep it natural.

Art creates these avenues for us as we create the art which creates these avenues which create us. Become the builder of that which will move you and move others.

Sure, SPAY is dead. TransCanadada Motorway Services lives. Still, there will be accidents.

Remember: a real body is easy to kill, all it takes is a strong will and a sharp knife. An ideological body is significantly harder to destroy. We have dropped the name SPAY, but the spirit continues to live. The spirit has migrated down different avenues. Let us follow the spirit and the spirit alone.

SPAY is dead. So Provide Alternate Yammering.

Comments

• January 17, 2010, Matthew Filipowich - Steel Bananas 15 writes: [...] Spay is dead – the art collective know as Students for Practical Application is no-more. They took the cover this month. I wanted to do something poetic with it. On their website, they mention the inevitable manifestation of Spay in new projects. That took me down the path of using the leaves from a dead tree in my office at The Medium. Leaves come from something living, but in this case they were dead, they will fall to the ground, where they will become composted, and turn into new plants – sort of like Spay. Atleast that’s how I saw it. I photographed the dead leaves as separate words on a white piece of paper with a shoot through umbrella, then composited them together in illustrator after masking them in photoshop. Anyways,  Here’s the Spay obituary. [...]
• January 18, 2010, Cassandra writes: Wider streets await!
• January 19, 2010, FRANK writes: R.I.P. and resurrect!
• January 19, 2010, CherryBlossomGirl writes: I'll never forget all of the times we didn't but could have had.

This is anti-autotune, death of the ringtone
This ain’t for Itunes, this ain’t for sing-along
This is Sinatra at the opera

In D.O.A. Death of Auto-Tune, Jay-Z makes his stance clear: he opposes how far technology has infiltrated music production and distribution. I would argue his connection to ‘Sinatra at the opera’ is rooted in more than just ego. Sinatra sang in an era in which crooners depended on microphones in order to highlight the subtleties of their voices. Similarly, Jay-Z’s persona reflects the ethos of the modern MC in which the artist utilizes the microphone as an amplification instrument that communicates his words across mass audiences. For both Sinatra and Jay-Z, technology is an aid to their authentic human qualities. The microphone is as an extension of the performer as it acts as a mediator between the performer’s vocals and the audience.

Consider the aforementioned verse again. The first line of D.O.A. finds Jay-Z stating that he is the “only rapper to rewrite history without a pen.”  So then, we can safely assume Jay-Z is referring to his tremendous grasp of the spoken word. For Jay-Z, all that is essential to the recollection of history is his human voice. Though the microphone aids this process by allowing his voice to reach large audiences, it does not impede on the quality of his voice or the message within it. Jay-Z distances himself from auto-tune because heavily treated vocals, he would argue, lack the aesthetic properties that base his work in an oral culture such as hip-hop.  It is not that auto-tune is or should be dead; it is that auto-tune should have nothing to say about the human experience. Artistic appeal in the music of both Jay-Z and Frank Sinatra lies in the transmission of the authentic human voice.

Auto-tune, as the name implies, is more than simply digitizing vocals. The idea of running vocals through auto-tune suggests a method of music production geared towards heightened efficiency. The very practice reflects the notion that vocal mistakes can be digitized into perfection rather than embraced in order to capture a spontaneous moment of authentic human expression. Auto-tune strives for a level of perfection that the human is incapable of. By nature of this very principle, auto-tune identifies a space in our world in which oral culture can be relieved of its human imperfections. As a result, auto-tune does not oppose oral culture; it views human vocal qualities as an impediment to the machine.

Though Kraftwerk were heavily into notions of mass production and dehumanization in their work, much of their music makes a conscious effort to maintain the qualities of the human voice. Their 1977 output, Trans-Europe Express, features untreated human vocals that are delivered as though they are devoid of emotion. Though the cover of Trans-Europe presents depicts the band in strikingly human poses, the members of Kraftwerk seem to appear as glossy, packaged products. With Trans-Europe, Kraftwerk create a space that reflects the principles of auto-tune by considering the existence of the superior being within the human.

Jay-Z’s declaration that auto-tune is dead is not merely an aesthetic opposition. His stance represents an opposition to the infiltration of a superior being into a world in which his talents stand at the height of popular appreciation. If auto-tune is supposed to impose its digital hierarchy on the world of popular hip-hop, Jay-Z lies on the outskirts. His vocals are those of a talented human who embraces mistakes and turns them into strengths. This is of no concern to the superior being, who achieves perfection rather than thrives in the pursuit of it.

The declaration of auto-tune’s death, however, is irrational. Though its practice exposes the imperfections of the human voice, its existence in the sphere of popular music allows for an understanding of the human condition that considers the machine essential to our very being. Daft Punk, for instance, replace their human bodies with robotic figures in order to emphasize the human’s connectedness with the machine. Their music demonstrates how the use of auto-tune does not always threaten to supplant the human. In Daft Punk’s case, the music wishes to acknowledge the fact that in our increasingly digital world, humans must consider the possible existence of a superior digital being.

Much like the microphone for Jay-Z and Sinatra, auto-tune is an instrument that requires human regulation in order for it to achieve its full potential as a possible mediator between artist and audience. While the microphone could have rendered the acoustic singer obsolete, instead it was able to enhance popular music by allowing singers to project their vocal subtleties onto large audiences. Though auto-tune may suppose a threat to traditional notions of oral culture, it also opens the door to an oral culture that includes the digitization of voices.

Photo by Leda and St-Jacques | SSENSE

This (Canadian) boutique is advertising Alexander Wang pieces (that name is only funny to people not interested in fashion, I swear to god) by pairing a female model and a dog in a sexually-charged scenario. Someone will point out that this is animal abuse. The dog does not care about the model. The dog is only interested in the peanut butter smeared on her thigh and it’s not fair to put him in that position. Yes, it’s not the most humane photoshoot animal-wise but that’s not really the main issue here. The difference between erotica and pornography is the presence of mutual respect and lack of exploitation. This editorial is blatantly pornographic and misogynistic. Can you think of another setting where you get to see a dog almost performing oral sex on a woman?

I am interested in other interpretations of this shoot because my opinion is that it’s about the degradation and humiliation of women. Imagine these photos without the sophisticated makeup, designer clothes, and professional lighting. It would just be a pantsless woman giving the camera a sultry look while straddling a dog. Classy.

I hope everyone gives SSENSE as much shit as they do American Apparel. At least their dogs are wearing clothes and keeping their tongues to themselves. And for the love of whatever deity you believe in, don’t order anything from that place when you click to see the photos! I hesitated about writing about this in fear of unintentionally becoming part of their advertising. You can get whatever they sell from other places, I promise.

Comments

• January 18, 2010, marshall writes: oh peanut butter.

I'm sure you're real jazzed about turkey and stuffing, and frankly I can't blame you for being jazzed about stuffing, but Thanksgiving falls right after the high holidays. Me and my people, by that point, are pretty exhausted on the whole grand feast front. This isn't anyone's fault, but those years when Easter eclipses Passover can be dreadful, while the good Christian folk get to lick the remnants of chocolate off their finger tips, me and my people struggle with the surprisingly compromising exclusion of sandwiches. Then comes Christmas.

"But you get eight whole days of presents!" says everyone in grade five. And while I would hold that up smugly back then, the reality was, 'eight days of presents' translates to two Mad Magazines, some chocolate bars, a Weird Al tape and a video game. Me and my brother weren't exactly sitting atop a mountain of Mighty Max playsets. My parents 'tried' Santa Claus once, but I became suspicious after opening the  stocking to find a product packaged Jurassic Park figurine. Having assumed Santa had elves build the gifts by hand, it was the last phase before I finally came to the searing truth that most others would learn from a teasing bully. I think the only thing I was actually envious of were Christmas trees, something about hanging a bunch of junk and chachkis on a tree once a year stroked the pack rat in me.

But I'm older now.

The shallow comparisons don't float anymore. I have other things to do on that oh so magical day of the year. Though not many things. My people roll differently. While you feast with family, showcase the haul of gifts between each other and hug or whatever you do, my people have a whole other set of traditions. It is known as a Jewish Christmas, and with or without family at our side, we will cherish the memories just as much.

Tis' the night before Christmas in New York City. My mother wanted a good ol' family vacation, somewhat jostled and distraught from me having just moved out of the house for the first time AND about to take a trip with friends soon after. We took a horse carriage through the park to humour my mom, we went to the Carnagie Deli, just so we could say we went to the Carnagie Deli and after that? It's Christmas Eve, and even though we were in exotic lands we, as Jews, had a tradition to uphold. We went to see a movie.

This was before an AMC had moved into Toronto's downtown core, so experiencing their brand of theater-going had a bit of a charm. The seats were clearly designed for the plus sized with plus sized expectations. You could liberally tilt the cushioned seat back and lift the arm rests up and down. Two brothers knowing not to miss an opportunity to goof felt obliged to pretend to be space pilots in hyper speed instead of obeying pre-movie trivia. As luck would have it we weren't the dumbest looking ones in the room. Down by the front of the cineplex were a bunch of kids, so jazzed about seeing Night at the Museum, they appeared to be taking vanity shots of each other in the near empty movie theater. It was also the days of proto-Facebook, and I know everyone would use any excuse for more photos to exploit them, but I'm sure most of us can agree 'OMG NU BEN STILLER' is kind of a low.

The movie was pretty good. I was expecting worse.

The next day, taking advantage of being in the city of the movie we had seen, and many movies before it take place in, we walked over to the actual museum we had seen Ben Stiller and Robin Williams antic around in. To our surprise, the museum was actually closed on the day after the night the movie was released, making it one of the most unfortunate missed advertising opportunities in recent memories. Plus we awoke to learn that James Brown had died. That day had all sorts of disappointments.

A different year in a different city, the home turf, and close to home to boot. We are bowling. The same crew, the same time killer holiday. Our parents call us over to start the game, though we still had two credits in the Lethal Weapon 3 pinball machine. We agreed we'd just catch up on it later, but after exiting that corner of the alley, the employees shut off the arcade's power, we lost our quarters. We could have made a 'thing' out of it, but in truth the machine kept giving us gutter-balls anyways. We were more pumped about the machine giving the player an option to choose either a midi ZZ Top or C&C Music Factory tune to accompany the skill shot.

Our Dad says it is still a warm up as long as we keep sucking, sometimes we'll be 'warming up' for the entire duration of the game. Halfway through our two game venture, the lights turn out, the disco balls turn on, and like no one warned us, because well, no one warned us, glow-in-the dark bowl has begun. "Aim for the middle" says my Dad, as if that was some ancient secret passed down in our family. He'll say it every time I get less than four pins. There's a mix CD playing now, some awful one. It sounds circa 99', but as me and my brother soon realize it's actually brand new, playing the newest Lady Gaga and Black Eyed Peas with so many needless additional beats and siren effects that it's like we've been teleported back ten years or to Eastern Europe. Dad wins, taking victory in the sort of way he wishes someone else could beat him. My brother, mother and self duke it out for the rest of the respected places.

We saw Benjamin Button. It was boring, I was expecting better.

It's raining on Spadina, not exactly a white Christmas by any means. In a fairly quiet town these restaurants are packed. The rest of the city may be celebrating, but Christmas truly comes to China Town. Like any other day, it's hard to go wrong. The large yellow Bright Pearl, the unfortunately named Kom Jug, but we have no fears settling with King Noodle. Tables are so loaded parties will without gripe seat with strangers. The chair and people sitting in them cover so much of the ground space, servers and trolleys are congested from movement. We will eat delicious, awful things. Soups, fried, fish, beef. Pork. Yes pork. I will celebrate Jewish Christmas but it's God's own fault he made the pig so tasty.

We saw Dr. Parnassus, it was okay. I don't really know what I was expecting.

After the movie, or, after Chinese, depending on our ordering, it would appear that now the city has come to a halt. Finally a silent night? No, my people know better. We don't have to listen to anyone else's holiday, the night ends when we say so.

We walk up the stairs to a bubble tea cafe. This time, we truly are the only white people there. We drink from large glasses of milky, fruity cold beverages. I don't get tapioca. What? I don't like it. We could play board games or we could play the complimentary arcade machine. "There's a Mega Man fighting game?" asks my sidekick. "Yes," I answer, "but I must warn you, it really sucks." And it does. We could have played Street Fighter. "I didn't know it was on there." says my sidekick. "How could you play the Mega Man fighting game and not assume that Street Fighter isn't on here too?" While sitting at the table, a gaggle of Asian girls approach me from behind. They tap my shoulder. "One, two... MERRY CHRISTMAAAAAAHS" they cheer to me.  They scamper back to their table, giggling.

Now we are home. We are in bed. There won't be any leftovers waiting for us in the morning, we ate all the General Tao hours ago. Snow probably won't be waiting for us either, knowing this city. No, we rest knowing something else. We know that instead of warming up by the glow of a TV special, we did something different. Not much different, but different enough. We left the house. We lived a little more. That's what my people do.

A Christmas Story is playing on TV. Now that's a great movie.

RETURN OF THE BEST GAME YOU DIDN'T BUY

... Because after all, it's not like there are efforts underway, you are all just really stubborn. Oh boo-hoo, it's not an first person shooter, there are only two multiplayer modes and... and... Offline?! You mean I'm actually supposed to have FRIEDNS?! Yeah, you can just rot and rot and rot asshole.

~ Pinball Hall of Fame: The Williams Collection (AGAIN)

So even after I gave it top nods for most ignored last year, Crave decided to do the noble but oh so foolish thing as to listen to the critics more closely than the gamers. And so, here we are. The Williams Collection made it's way, gracefully onto the next-gen systems for all the next-gen gamers to ignore. And ignore you did. Even after they added Medieval Madness, just for you. I can't trust you with anything.

~ Afrika

Ever have one of those days where you go out to buy a pair of gloves only to come home and, upon opening your closet, discover you in fact already have a pair of really good gloves. Sony had one of those days. In arguably the first year they've let their system relish in exclusive content and support, Sony seemed to completely forget they had already made an exclusive game years before, neglecting to port it despite having promised to do so oh so long ago. And then? Well, much like how they forgot it, so did you. Admittedly, you just take pictures of animals and nothing else. But that never stopped you from jumping on Pokemon Snap.

~ You, Me, & The Cubes

If I hear one more person say there aren't enough original games on the Wii without any hint of why that is, I'll.. I'll... D'ooohhh I'll post such a blog.

~THE WEEPER IS~

~ DJ HERO ~

Okay, so the turntables aren't quite like the real deal. But don't bullshit with me, no fake plastic instrument is going to bring you any closer to legit musical talent. This is about as original as Activision bothers to get these days, and they took a big risk on this one, and unlike Tony Hawk's RIDE, this one was kind of worth it. So maybe the price is higher than the average gaming outing, imagine how much it sucks for the developers to have these pricey lil' plastics gathering dust in their storage?

MOST OUTRAGEOUSLY FULL OF ITSELF

I'm all for artistic expression in video games, but some, and you know who you are, need a good bucket of cold water thrown at you. You aren't artists you're just not making Halo, let's make sure you know that. These are the games that are so high on concept they seem to forget what fun means. Or if not that, just obnoxiously pretentious.

~ Flower

Isn't a game eh? Just supposed to 'relax' eh? You know, Flower, for a game that isn't supposed to play like a game, you sure play like a video game. Oh no, you're pretty, you're a very pretty Flower, but you're still a video game. You have an objective, you even have a health system, and for a game that wants me to 'take it slow' you also seem to like throwing in a bunch of speed boosts. Face it, Flower, lean a lil' bit closer see, roses really smell like a vid-e-o game.

~ Half-Minute Hero

No More Heroes was a test of just how much we were willing to let the game be 'a gag.' But even beneath it's intentional irks, there was still a fulfilling game underneath it all. Half-Minute Hero, while fun, is almost entirely a gag. The main levels, intended to last only thirty seconds, are but constantly overshadowed by drawn out intro segments and sun setting outros. It's all good and fine if you like to laugh but, oh god, what if I didn't?!

~ The Path

What hopes to be loaded with meaning has around the same artistic ambitions as any given Suicide Girls shoot. Of all the entries, this is the only that seems to still be in high school art class.

~ Nobi Nobi Boy

See Flower? Now THIS is a game that really isn't at all a game. What do you do in this game? Nothing really, just goof around. How do you play it? You buy it. How do you win it? Everyone buys it. Gosh, and here I thought it was all in the name of art.

~ BUT WHAT IS TRULY A WINNER BUT A ~

~ Flower, Sun & Rain ~

Ahh Suda, of course you win. You'll always win here. Though this is only a port, not to mention probably your least popular game of them all, you still just had to make the most confusing and alienating thing this side of the touch screen. Like a map with no directions, and gameplay that seems to try really really hard to be confusing, you don't so much play this DS game as much as it just plays with you. Unless you be the bigger man and turn it off.

RETURN OF THE MOST UNINSPIRED

~ Section 8

I have as much to say about this bland team based shooter as it does to say about itself. No it's not based on that Neil Blomkamp movie, you're thinking of Halo.

~ Band Hero

Apparently the place to go once you run out of instruments is nowhere.

~ Ninja Blade

Well, in their defense, being mistaken for other, better video games is a really good marketing strategy.

~ Why Should I Come Up With Anything Witty Here Anyways?~

~ Science Papa ~

I guess the only thing Activision has to improve upon Majesco's creation is a more masculine figure and side stepping PETA's wrath. Though I actually haven't played this thing, anyone know if there's animal testing?

There Are Too Many Video Games About Zombies Acknowledgement

~ Left 4 Dead 2

No

~ Plants vs Zombies

Really

~ Zombie Apocalypse

There

~ Burn Zombie! Burn!

Are

~ Borderlands: The Zombie Island of Dr. Ned

Way

~ Too ~

~ Onechanbara: Bikini Samurai Squad ~

Many.

Return of the Dorkiest Game

~ The Secret of Monkey Island: Special Edition

You know how dedicated a nerd is when they purchase a game they have already bought several times before. For the achievement points alone.

~ Dragon Age: Origins

If it looks like Dungeons and Dragons and plays like Dungeons and Dragons it is probably played by the same weenies who play Dungeons and Dragons.

~ Blood Bowl

Though seriously, if you know what this game is based on without googling it, you are probably a virgin.

~ Uhh Excuse Me, I Think You Are Wrong, Let Me Tell You How I think You Are Wrong~

~ Scribblenauts ~

This inventive and totally broken little title is intended to be fueled by the player's creativity, but it in truth it is only fueled by two other things altogether. Dorks who want to see Lovecraftian monsters take on internet memes and nerds who wish Scribblenauts was a better game than it is.

Worst New Female Character

Now before your blood boils, make sure you know what I'm talking about here. I'm all for female characters in video games. As long as they feel like characters and not just female cut-outs. I understand that many male gamers may not know what girls actually act like, but games further illusioning them isn't about to help anyone. These are the obligitory love interests, the 'girl,' the tits and the ass.

~ Ghostbusters The Video Game

I know they couldn't get Sigourney to come back, but to just replace her with a much younger-than-Bill-Murray Alyssa Milano as the hates-Venkman-at-first-but-later-kisses-him only degrades both characters.

~ Brutal Legend

At first, Ophelia seems like a really rad chick who, well, if I was a roadie in hell would be an obvious courtship. But then halfway through the game the plot seems to really want to errupt, and then like a blood sacrifice throws her into the plot device pit and instead of say, anyone talking with each other, just has her abandoned, cries a whole lot then ambush you with an overpowered goth army. Though I guess I'm most irked by the cries a bunch part.

~ Bionic Commando

Arguably, there are two female characters in this. Less subjectively, they both suck. Appearing only in cut scenes for really hammed pathos, your wife and what's-her-legs make for rage fodder. The robot runner lady seems to only exist to get later killed, which makes you question why they bothered at all. While Mike Patton's wife only seemed to not exist in order to aggravate players with a cheap twist ending. His wife is... His arm... At least we can guess what he spent the honeymoon doing.

~ Oh Look, A Girl~

~ RESIDENT EVIL 5 ~

Whether it's being obviously betrayed by Albert Wesker in a failed attempt to screw him or doing nothing at all, Resident Evil 5 is truly the winner in losing when it comes to fleshing out female roles. It's only a bigger shame since the series used to have nothing but female protagonists. Alas. Sheva Alomar, your African sidekick, seems completely unfazed that the nation she's spent so much time in has become over run with drooling mutants. I guess Josh is supposed to bring Sheva out of her shell a little, but he, like it's some kind of achievement, does even less. He doesn't even die! And I had money on that! It only gets sillier in pivotal boss battles when her role, and any little brother playing as her, becomes to take a bunch of pot shots at Wesker, who seems completely transfixed on male leadier lead, Chris Redfield.

THANKS FOLKS, NOT GOING TO DO "MOST LIKELY TO GO UNDER" BECAUSE LAST YEAR I THINK I JINXED MIDWAY.

HOPE NEXT YEAR'S JUST AS AWFUL

NO I DON'T....

... Yes... Yes I do...

Since the age of 4, I’ve been in school. When I was in grade school I wanted to be a firefighter, a palaeontologist, or Batman. In middle school I just wanted to survive. By the time high school rolled around and my grades had led me into a math and science program called TOPS, my only certainty was that I would either wind up wearing a lab coat and spending my days in a synthetic wilderness of beakers and test tubes, my trusty pipette in hand, or I would transcend to a divine plane of derivatives, parabolas, and imaginary numbers whilst subsisting on chalk dust and rarefied air.

I then made the mistake of discovering Vladimir Nabokov and Neil Gaiman, both of whom inspired my writerly aspirations, and an obsessive Grade 12 fascination with Jean-Paul Sartre solidified my entrance into the humanities. Now, at the age of 21, a major choice is looming. Do I go to grad school or take my chances on the choppy waters of the job market? With a joint degree in Social and Political Thought and English Literature and no “marketable” skills to speak of, unlike my fellow TOPS graduates, most of whom I do not doubt are on their way to becoming engineers, doctors, lawyers, biochemists, physicists, the future leaders of tomorrow...  my prospects don’t look so hot.

But then I look at the institution I’m considering pledging my life and soul to and think maybe I should just get the hell out, if only to keep a clear conscience. The academy has gone down the tubes, penetrated at every turn by corporate culture and cancerous bureaucracy. Either you kiss ass or you register for Employment Insurance. The ivory tower is stained yellow, smells a bit off, and is cracked up the middle. And I think some punk detonated a stink bomb on the ninety-third floor.

Historian Howard Zinn once called the university “a playpen in which the society invites its favored children to play -- and gives them toys and prizes to keep them out of trouble.” It’s true that there are few academics willing to cause a raucous, which makes York University PhD student Tasia Alexopoulos an exception. An “atypical” case, if you will.

On April 16, 2009, Tasia filed a harassment grievance against one Dr. Linda Briskin, esteemed scholar and self-proclaimed feminist activist. Dr. Briskin has published such works as Women Challenging Unions: Feminism, Democracy and Militancy and Union Sisters: Women in the Labour Movement among many others. On her York University website Dr. Briskin writes about another area of her research:

"I have a long-standing interest in pedagogies and am currently completing a book titled Negotiating Power and Silence in the Classroom. It explores the potential for the collaborative negotiation of power between and among students and teachers. Such collaboration offers a vehicle to educate students as political subjects and enhance student agency; at the same time, it provides teachers with strategies for dealing with the increasingly complex and often fraught environment of diversities which exists in many classrooms."

So, dear reader, you are forgiven if Dr. Briskin’s complicit silence in the following transcript of a recorded meeting between Tasia, Dr. Briskin, and the then Undergraduate Program Director of York’s Social Sciences Division, Dr. Larry Lyons, seems a little confusing, a little incongruous perhaps...

Larry Lyons (LL) [addressing Tasia (T)]: “So let me say something general about grading. If we don’t offer the normal York grade, uh, rigor, we’re really hurting our students. They will not get into law school. They will not get into grad school. The York degree will be not... will be considered no good. So, this is extremely sensitive for us. You do the initial grading. The final grades are approved by Linda. After she approves them they’re reviewed by me. If they’re atypical I have to have them changed. Then they’re reviewed again by the Dean’s office. If they’re atypical they come back to me... have to go back to Linda. So. It’s a very sensitive topic for us. We really have to fight this. It is possible for students who aren’t the best to get a York degree--”

T: “I think it’s more than possible for students who aren’t the best to get a York degree.”

LL: “Right, but what’s absolutely crucial is that York good grades tell professional schools and grad schools that these students are exceptional or excellent.”

T: “And I have a group of exceptional students who some of them have been to--”

LL: “You may have, you may have.”

T: “--100% of the lectures and--”

LL: “Listen, listen.”

T: “--100% of--”

LL: “Listen.”

T: “--the tutorials.”

LL: “Listen, you may have, but that’s up to Linda [Dr. Briskin] to judge.”

T: “And I’m more than happy to--”

LL: “Good.”

T: “--give my work to Linda, to have it compared with the other TAs work to see the quality of my students in comparison--”

LL: “No.”

T: “--to the other TA’s.”

LL: “Linda is an eminent professor. She’s been teaching here for a long time. She’s a person who tells other people what the York standards are. It’s not up to her to compare to other TAs. She knows. She's an expert. She’s very highly respected. If I need someone to tell me ‘is this a proper grade or not’ given the York standards, I go to someone like Linda.”

T: “I know, and I greatly respect Linda and I--”

LL: “So it’s, it’s her...”

T: “--greatly respect her work.”

LL: “It’s her... to judge. It’s not comparison to other people.”

T: “O.K., so in great detail, I need you to tell me what I need to do for marking. In detail. So, I would need to mark lower?”

LL: “It seems to me that Linda has done that. She’s sent you quite a lot of email.”

T: “So the midterm marks are too high?”

LL: “All of those marks are too high.”

T: “All of my marks are too high?”

LL: “That’s right.”

T: “So for all of my assignments, without seeing them, without ever speaking to my students, without ever coming to a tutorial--”

LL: “They're atypical.”

T: “They're atypical? Right.”

LL: “And if Linda looks at them and says that you're correct, then you’re correct.”

T: “So you can tell they’re atypical just by the percentage of how many A’s there are.”

LL: “I’ve been teaching here since the 1980s. One year, in 1989, I was teaching comparative economics, and because of the situation in the Soviet Union, I had a thirty five student class with a bunch of people who came from the Soviet Union whose educational system was much higher than here. I had those kinds of grades, in that. Once. Just in terms of statistics it’s like a million to one chance that that would happen.”

T: “Right, but I think we're coming at really different perspective of what grades are for, and I think that in this sense you want me to grade punitively--”

LL: “No.”

T: “--and I think--”

LL: “I want you to grade properly.”

T: “--it's more important for my students that they’re rewarded for good work and coming back after a three month strike really dedicated to this course and really--”

LL: “Well let me tell you--”

T: “--excited about it.”

LL: “Well let me tell you how unpleasant this is going to be for your students. Because they won’t get the grades you assigned them.”

T: “And I was told before I submitted midterms, after Linda saw the grade profile, that the grades would not be changed, and you had seen the grade profile at that point and you knew how many As and A+s I gave away.”

LL: “I’m going to review the grades. I had this problem last year. A whole class full of people were... atypically high grades. They had to be reviewed. I had to bring in an outside reviewer. I had to get all those grades reviewed, and I had to lower the grades for all of these students. And it’s very, very hard on these students to have that happen. It’s much better that they’re graded appropriately.”

T: “Well, clearly they haven't been graded appropriately by your standards.”

The students “were... atypically high grades.” Interesting choice of words, Dr. Lyons.

I recently conducted an interview with Tasia in a room down the hall from Prof. Linda Briskin’s office. The topic: meritocracy. Dear reader, even if you didn’t attend university, do you remember the holy A+ from your school days? A grade that transcended reality! Transcended possibility! A+! Think about it too long and it could drive you insane. Many have pondered its meaning and have lost themselves in pursuit of it. Some have declared it a myth, a legend, an old wives’ tale told to bedazzle children. I, too, grew up hearing stories of it. It’s a concept so big you can’t hold it in your mind for longer than a third of a second. It is the very ideal form of Platonic form. The fingerprint of God. The holy A+.

Well, I have news for you. It’s no mere myth. Tasia has crossed over to the other side and she has seen it. What’s more, as Prometheus brought fire to man, Tasia dared to defy the gods to bring the A+ to her students. And as with Prometheus, the gods saw fit to punish her for her nerve. (I apologize to Herbert Marcuse.)

“It all started when we got back from the strike and we had a midterm that the students had had for three months,” Tasia told me. “They got a copy of the exam in advance, and then we didn’t know if we would go on strike or not because we were having a vote, but once the vote went through, we were on strike and we didn’t have another class with our students. So they had their midterm and they studied for three months, came back, and did really well on the midterm and got really high grades.”

The strike to which Tasia refers is last year’s CUPE 3903 strike. CUPE 3903 is the union representing TAs, contract faculty, GAs, and RAs at York. Among the union’s major faculty supporters: one Dr. Linda Briskin. So what happens when your employer is a big supporter of your union and you find yourself on her bad side? Well, for one thing, thus far Tasia has been fighting her battle alone, her union rep doing little more than encourage informal discussion to resolve the matter. And what is this matter exactly? Well...

“When Professor Briskin got my grade profile, she was really concerned that my grades were atypical, that I had a lot of A+s, and I did have a lot of A+s. I had a group of 24 students and I had about nine A+s. And apparently that doesn’t happen at York very often. So it originally started as emails back and forth saying that she was surprised that there were so many A+s and she would like to see photocopies of the best and the worst... but as she asked for the photocopies of the best and the worst, she changed her mind in the same email and asked for all of the midterms. She wanted to read every midterm, all 24, and see what I had done wrong, because there was a discrepancy between my profile and the other TAs’ profiles [8 other TAs]... The one TA whose profile was similar to mine, I had one more A than her and four more A+s, and I had more students in my tutorial...

“In the email she says, ‘I have another thought. If you have the exams at home I can pick them up on Monday or Tuesday since you live so close, or I’ll be out today so I could pick up today if you will be around. Then I can give them back to you on Wednesday. FYI, a lot of the grades on exams are high. What is unusual in your group is the number of A+ grades. Please let me know if you have them at home.’ I thought that was a little aggressive. That was on a Saturday. I don’t really know why I couldn’t just bring them in on Monday. Why she needed them that second on Saturday and that she would want to come to my house to get them. So I said no, that’s O.K., why don’t I bring them in on Monday. And I also said I don’t think it’s unusual for students who have had three extra months to study to do well. That’s how it started. I don’t know how to summarize what happened next. I’ll try not to go into too much detail, because there are a lot of details.”

Later, in a meeting with Professor Richard Wellen, the then Chair of Social Sciences and heavy-hitter for the faculty union YUFA, Tasia was told that this offer by Prof. Briskin to visit her home was just a part of York culture. “He says that I’ve misunderstood Prof. Briskin and that her asking to come to my house on the weekend is just ‘York culture.’ I’ve misunderstood the intent. Which is interesting because harassment isn’t about intent, it’s about how you perceive it, so any time someone is being harassed, you can’t say, ‘well, he wasn’t trying to harass her’.”

To define harassment in this context, the CUPE local 3903 Collective Agreement states in article 4.02 that employees have the right to “work in an environment free from harassment and undertake to take all reasonable and appropriate actions to foster such an environment.” According to this Article, “harassment in the work place includes, but is not limited to, threats or a pattern of aggression, insulting or demeaning behaviour by a person in the workplace, where the person knows or reasonably ought to know that her behaviour is likely to create an intimidating or hostile workplace environment.” To demonstrate a few ways in which Linda Briskin contributed to a hostile workplace environment, here are some of the details Tasia described for me.

“She [Prof. Briskin] started to send out a lot of emails to the rest of the TAs as a group saying lots of the grades are too high so we’re going to need to have a marking meeting. Which is brutal. Marking meetings are the worst. You sit around for five hours and show everyone your work and talk about how you graded it. And so we had to have a marking meeting because of me. And she made sure that everyone realized who was responsible for the marking meeting...

“She would also send out mass emails to the TAs to remind us of the ‘typical grade profile.’ A ‘typical grade profile’ is about a C baseline. You should start from a C. A good assignment is a C. And something that’s perfect is an A+. But that doesn’t happen often. Which is kind of bizarre, for me, to give someone who has fulfilled every step of an assignment a C. It seems like having done the assignment correctly is automatically a B. And in graduate school, a B is a low grade, a really low grade. This was a first year class so I understand the logic of where she’s coming from, her grading paradigm, but that everyone should fit into the same grading paradigm is not logical.

“What led to the actual harassment grievance was that I asked to meet with her about the way she had dealt with me so far, and when I asked for that, she totally cut off all communication with me and said, meet Larry Lyons, who was the Undergraduate Program Director of the Social Sciences division. That’s highly unusual. Generally, asking for an informal meeting with your professor is something that is just granted. As the first step to any conflict resolution is an informal meeting with your professor. So she sent me a one line email to meet with Larry Lyons, this is his phone number. Then Larry Lyons emailed me saying why don’t you come and talk to me and we’ll figure this out and hopefully bring about more cooperation between you and the professor. I cancelled that meeting when I realized Professor Briskin had no intention of coming to it. It was a meeting between the Undergraduate Program Director and a teaching assistant in a course who was having trouble with the professor, who asked to have a meeting with the professor, and was denied. So I cancelled that meeting until they would agree to both be there.”

And of course, we saw what came of that meeting, which ended in Tasia having to walk out.

“In between all this, there’s a lot of other stuff going on at the same time. Small things, like... for example, I can’t go to class one day because I am working on a paper so I email her and say I’m not going to be in class today, I’ll get notes, I’m really sorry. And another TA does the same thing and says I’m not going to be in class today, I’m doing other work, I’ll get notes. And her response to me is, it’s your job to come to class, your students were looking for you, I looked for you, you weren’t there, and you get paid to come to class. Her response to the other TA was, thanks for letting me know...

“After I had the meeting with Larry Lyons I received in my York U inbox, a bunch of emails from Prof. Briskin sent out to every listserv saying that there would be one or more positions available in the course that I was teaching for next year. This is in April. People don’t generally look for new TAs in April. I understood that to be bullying.”

During her meeting with Prof. Wellen, Tasia was even offered to sign a settlement form, to drop the grievance, walk away unscathed, and with full pay. Classic employer negotiation tactics. Tasia refused to sign.

A more fundamental concern, however, lies in the ideological war being waged behind all of the petty intimidation tactics and posturing: the notion of what grades are and that these professors are practicing the opposite of what they preach every day in lectures. We often hear about the division between theory and practice. A situation like this makes that division apparent.

“This whole group of people is coming from areas of the university that are historically progressive,” Tasia told me. “You have women’s studies scholars, feminists, union organizers, people who are active within the faculty union, people who used to be part of CUPE 3903. This is the left of the university in a lot of ways, especially in the administration, so for them to be upholding this grade curving, which they want you to do voluntarily... So many times I was told that York University does not curve grades, we don’t have a curving policy, but following the grading guideline to the letter is curving grades. If you’re only supposed to have a percentage of A+s, that’s curving grades. That’s making grades fall into a profile. That’s what’s really interesting. People who are not practicing their own work in academia. What you write and what you work on is your life, right?

“You know, as a TA you’re responsible for... you educate the students.  They see the professor two hours a week if that, if they come to lecture. Tutorial is where you learn. Any student knows that. We grade their work. We see the progression of their work over the year, so someone who writes a paper in September writes something very different in April. And you see that as you go along. Part of grades is supposed to be, I think, acknowledging that progression. In first semester, a student may have had no idea what something meant and they worked really hard and now they have a better understanding of it, and their grades should reflect that. I think. But according to this paradigm, it doesn’t reflect that. It just says, students are a grade, students have to fit into a grade profile, and if students don’t fit into a grade profile, force them to, otherwise you’re doing something wrong and you’re not teaching your students.

“In these courses, people teach activism. They encourage students to look at the structure that they belong to and look at the university and big institutions and the government and to deconstruct them, but when somebody does it in their own life and in the classroom, they get punished for it. If you’re teaching students about how universities are sites of privilege and how that privilege plays out in different ways and then students show that they know what that means and they can apply it and you still want them to get a bad grade even though they’re demonstrating their knowledge of the course... It just shows that the grades are important because they keep students in the structure. It shows that even the lefty professor, even they uphold the system because they get privilege from it. And so they don’t want to give up that power that they’ve gotten from controlling students and controlling their grades because then they lose something.”

And Tasia’s students did learn first-hand about the injustices of meritocracy. Having heard the recording of Tasia’s meeting with Larry Lyons, some of the students decided to compose a letter, which they signed and handed to Linda Briskin in class, applying knowledge they had gained in the class. While I cannot reproduce this letter for you in full, I have plucked a few of my favourite excerpts. For instance:

The professor and the Undergraduate program director only focus on the marking by the Tutorial leader as the problem and not focusing on the systemic inequity that is embedded in York’s grading structures.

We were encouraged to not accept claims of objectivity and 'truth' because they are always informed by the person behind the claim. In this situation, we find it interesting that [Larry Lyons] is using a truth claim to support his position. Assuming that the professor has no bias and that she can objectively know what the 'truth' based on her expert status is highly problematic.

Can the professor decide on marks without having any contact with the individual students?

It is very apparent that the male undergraduate program director kept interrupting the female TA and asserting his masculinity. As well, he kept talking at her not to her. During the whole conversation there is a tone of aggression and command toward the TA. The professor's collusion in such activity is an example of horizontal violence, of women who maintain privilege by reinforcing other women's oppression.

...throughout the meeting there is an implication that the stereotypical student will only get a baseline C grade. Professor Briskin said it best when she taught us about stereotype and stated that stereotypes are a subtle system of social control that justify forms of discrimination to facilitate the reproduction of dominance.

“Long story short, I filed a harassment grievance. I had a meeting about the harassment grievance. They didn’t concede the grievance. That means it goes to the next step. Because I didn’t take their minutes of settlement and I didn’t leave the course voluntarily they filed an article 8 disciplinary action against me. They investigated that instead of dealing with my grievance. So it’s retaliation for a grievance. Then the investigation was closed. They decided that all of the points in the article 8 disciplinary action complaint were true and that I’m dismissed as a TA. After I’m suspended from the course, they have a meeting with the students, that’s Richard Wellen and Linda Briskin. They go to a meeting with the tutorial and they tell them that I’ve been suspended from the course, which is actually a violation of the confidentiality in the collective agreement that we all signed. It’s a violation of 8.02.3. They tell the students that I was suspended with pay and that the order came from the Dean’s office, not because of my grading but because of bigger problems with compliance. They told the students that I had filed a grievance. But they said that they couldn’t give the details because I could grieve that... They said that they had tried everything to resolve the situation and that they had begged me to resolve it. They also told the students that I knew I would be suspended, and so I shouldn’t have marked anything, which I didn’t. They told the students that it wasn’t because I was a bad teacher, and they admitted that I was a good teacher, and that obviously we were all very close and that I was doing a good job with the tutorial, but I wasn’t compliant enough and so I had to be suspended. And I had informed my students every step of the way what was going on. They understood what was happening at that meeting. Had I not done that, which a lot of people wouldn’t... I played the tape recording [of the Larry Lyons meeting]. Because they’re adults and they pay for an education and their grades are important in the bigger picture to them and obviously in the system, I think it’s important that students are given as much information about their education as possible. They’re stakeholders in it, and if their grades are being threatened, I think it’s important that they know that.”

“And how did the students react?” I asked.

“The students were angry. I spoke to a couple of students after the meeting and... I don’t think they expected the students to be as informed as they were. And basically the students just called them on it and said ‘We have a month left of school. You don’t know us. You haven’t read any of our work. How can you do this?’ They were told that their grades wouldn’t change, and everything I marked stayed the same until their final exam and last assignment, on which I assume they marked them a lot harder because they wanted to make sure their grades would be typical. I just don’t understand why anyone would do this to students. First year students. They’re new at the university. And you get a new TA in the last month of your class who has never read anything that you’ve written. For a lot of my students, English wasn’t their first language, and I think it’s not fair to mark those students... I think a lot of people mark ESL students harder because they’re like, ‘Well, this is in your best interest. Because if we’re harder on you then you’ll learn faster.’

“So yeah, I was taken out of the classroom. They sent a lot of emails to my students saying that I had refused to give up their grades, that I had refused to give them any of their assignments, their grade profiles, that the students were going to get zeros if they didn’t re-hand in everything they’d ever done for the course to the new TA. I would get emails from students while they were in tutorial saying, they’re telling us that they’re going to give us zeros on everything and that you aren’t following directions and that you’re not giving them our materials, is that true? And no one asked me to hand anything in. And eventually, the day that I got the email from a student, I brought everything in a package. All they had to do was ask for it, but instead they just lied to the students about what I was doing to scare them. And I think that they wanted to turn the students against each other, because now they’re all fighting for grades, and turn them against me so that they would distrust what I did. So they would think that I screwed them over and that the professor didn’t screw them over.

“Filing a harassment grievance, getting a discipline letter, being suspended from a course, not being allowed to teach at York University... what do you have to do to have that happen? What did you do? Did you sexually abuse a student? Did you beat someone up? No, you give a few A+s and that’s it. And then you can’t teach. You can’t have involvement with undergrad students. All you have to do is give some good grades and not kiss some peoples’ asses.”

These are waters I don’t know that I want to be treading, when the very people I’m supposed to admire turn out to be slaves to the very system against which they claim to fight. By insisting upon competition in education, these professors only serve to uphold capitalist corporate culture and ideology. They promote the illusion that we are alone in this world. Everyone goes into an exam alone. Everyone produces assignments alone. Creativity is wholly independent. One acknowledges the ownership of ideas and the need for an inequality of intellectual resources. Knowledge, in a capitalist economy, can be bought and sold like any other fictional commodity, grades being a measure of that knowledge, a measure of the worth of a commodified discrete student unit. But how does one own an idea? It is a question that we as thinkers and artists, even those of supposed socialist or at least “anti-capitalist” leanings, do not ask enough. We fight so hard for our intellectual property rights yet claim to be against the very idea of property. We claim to be for equality yet uphold structures of inequality.

Do I want to teach at a university? After the things I’ve seen at York... not anymore. Not if I have to kiss ass to do it. But at the same time, how can I live within the system and simultaneously be apart from it? I have no answer to that question.

-- Soon to be bagging groceries at a store near you, Devon.

p.s. -- Tasia will be speaking about her case on the 25^th of January from 12-2pm at an as of yet undisclosed location at York. Her mediation is scheduled for Feb. 3^rd. More details will follow in the comments section of this article.

Comments

• January 17, 2010, Devon writes: The Graduate Program in Sociology Presents De-Grading: Sociological and Pedagogical Critiques of Grading and Alternative Teaching Practices at York University Monday, January 25, 2010 12:00 - 2:00 PM Sociology Common Room, 2101 Vari Hall
• January 19, 2010, Karen Correia Da Silva writes: I'm definitely going.
• January 20, 2010, amerie writes: fight the (corrupt) POWER!

© Yien Yip

© Yien Yip

I am a huge fan of Chinese brush work and Japanese wood cut. I enjoy using detailed lines and bold brush strokes to communicate my art work. I do the occasional screen print on t-shirts as well for a bit of a break from the paper. I am a huge fan of Jillian Tamaki, Sam Webber and Yuko Shimizu.

© Yien Yip

For more of Yien's work, visit our Spotlight Gallery.

In elementary school I had no taste. Who does? Probably you. Anyways, I loved almost everything I heard. When the boybands hit, I was down. I listened to the Backstreet Boys et al. mostly because everybody else did. These were not the bands I listened to at home (mostly) but they were pretty much omnipresent in the pop culture dregs that my friends and I existed in.

Do you remember when you first started listening to CFNY Edge 102.1? I do. Humble and Fred in the morning in my Dad’s car. I guess at the time I was pretty young, maybe 10 or 11. It wasn’t long before I was tuning in on my clock radio at home and I made a very important discovery: Alan Cross’ The Ongoing History of New Music. This was the show where I first heard The Smiths, The Clash, Kraftwerk and a whole whack of other important bands. For the young incarnation of me, Alan Cross was a godsend, someone who had access to years of musical knowledge that I had previously been unaware of. I spent my Sunday mornings (or early afternoons?) digging on his knowing voice explaining the origins of Goth music and why Robert Smith is so cool.

Cross was the programming director of Edge 102.1 from 2001 to 2008. While my formative radio-listening years were very important in my development as a music listener, the period of his reign over new rock radio in Toronto was directly opposed to the aesthetic initially offered on the Edge. During the mid-aught (yeah, I’m momentarily buying into that term) madness of the Canadian indie explosion, the station focused on “heavier” Candian acts like Alexisonfire and Nickelback. What the fuck? Why was the same station that taught me about so much great music ignoring the explosion of a movement in its own city?

I will concede that many great artists were played on the station as well, though not on nearly as heavy a rotation as the trite and superfluous ones. After some discussion with dudebros and colleagues (mainly fellow SB music stalwart Dennis Reynolds) the going theory is that Alan Cross mainly listens to music that is sent to his desk by record labels and whoever gets through the filters rather than actually actively seeking out good music, Canadian or otherwise.

His current project, Explore Music, is somewhat brutal. His website is a glorified blog (irony?) and his talk show on AUX TV is a joke. He interviews a panel of random indie musicians and legal label representatives, asking semi-relevant questions about minor legal and royalty issues at the most corporate level of the music industry with regards to digitization, album making and live performance. Truth be told, I think his heart is in the right place but he no longer has the capacity to keep his finger on the pulse of what is important and irreducible about the creation of music. I appreciate his contribution to the Candian music scene but I draw the line at hearing him introduce the new Michael Buble album at HMV. He lost the beat somewhere.

This is not so much an article to hate on Alan Cross as it is a request for great grassroots music coverage in Canada. So much is happening; beautiful and remarkable music is made and performed every day and it slips away every second we don’t spread the word. Our media outlets have failed us.

That being said, if there is any amazing music that I should consider and listen to, e-mail it to me at pjg@steelbananas.com. Real talk, brother.

Comments

• January 15, 2010, Devon writes: Amen, Pat. Amen.

Well,

we survived 2009. I guess this warrants a sentimental retrospective of what has made this year so awesome for SB, but I'll leave it to the eager archive scrollers and search engine fiends to familiarize themselves with the oodles of fun we've had for the last twelve months. Instead, I want this love-packed monthly meta-snippet of the SB project to take a graphic look forward to 2010, a year that is already positioning itself to own all of our hearts:

Ah! So much room to grow! Thanks to everyone for reading the zine and supporting local art for all of 2009! You've made us all look way more hip than we actually are.

By the way, this issue is also awesome.

LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE.

I mean it.

Karen Correia Da Silva
Editor-in-Chief
Steel Bananas

Comments

• December 17, 2009, Elysium writes: I love the theatre section!!

I am not a big fan of Shakespeare. Being a dramatist myself, this probably strikes a lot of people as... odd. After all, Shakers is the biggest figure of all time in Western theatre and every word ever spoken on stage since has been somehow connected to the man. Regardless, I still find myself passing on most Shakespeare productions and I don't sit down to casually read Shakespeare that often. I acknowledge its artistic and canonical value but it has just never pulled me in. Necessary, Angel's Hamlet has led me confront and question this particular disinterest in Shakespeare.

Obviously, there is something to be said of Peter Brook's Empty Space (a necessary text for any theatre artist) and his thoughts on the deadly theatre. The deadly theatre constantly finds a cozy home in the stagings of Shakespeare: dreary productions with high production value that barely entertains and is better qualified to be a museum piece. I have seen these productions and the only interest I took in these pieces was as an artist who had read, critiqued and analyzed the play, comparable to a surgeon watching another surgeon perform an operation in one of those big operating theatres: the observing surgeon is aware of what is happening and the decisions the performing surgeon is making. Without prior knowledge of these plays I might have been bored to nosebleeds.

There has been another movement to try to save Shakespeare from the deadly theatre by changing the world that surrounds the words of the play, such as Merchant of Venice set in Las Vegas, or Hamlet in the glass towers of corporate America. Some of these productions and adaptations have achieved some success (it is hard to ignore Baz Luhrmann's Romeo + Juliet), but even this process of world-changing has become tired, even deadly. Yes, I see what you are trying to say by setting this play in Afghanistan, but I can still only appreciate it as a fellow surgeon. Necessary Angel attempts to break free from that and claw its way to the beating heart of Hamlet. And it actually does a pretty sweet job.

This is not a formal theatre review and I don't want to reveal details - this play operates with suspense and surprise, and I would hate to take this away from any reader if they have a chance to see this production in the future. It is exactly that suspense and surprise that made this show feel different than any other Shakespeare I've encountered. It is an incredible feat to stir these emotional states in the audience when the majority know the play, know the plot and know the underlying questions the company must address. To an extent, Necessary Angel has cheated a bit with it's extensive dramaturgical work, nailing the play down to two hours, but the overall arc and structure is maintained. I am by no means an expert on the work of Antonin Artaud but this production borrows from the Theatre of Cruelty and it works. It doesn't just work for Hamlet, it could work for any Shakespeare: draw visceral responses from the audience and let them leave their critical surgeon's caps in the dust. That is the direction Shakespeare must go, into the world of Antonin Artaud, Jerzy Grotowski and Eugenio Barba.

Is this a perfect production? No. There are still a lot of kinks to be worked out dramaturgically, some roles don't feel as detailed and unique as others, and I still wonder if the one guy in the audience who doesn't know Hamlet is wondering what the hell is going on. I also contemplate what this production would be like in a theatre space that isn't acoustically awful like the Enwave. But is it new and exciting? Hells yeah. From the moment you walk in the door to the theatre you can sense something special about it (the best sound design I've ever encountered really helps).

It would be rude to single out Necessary Angel's Hamlet as a revelation to the world stage. Radical productions of Hamlet and other Shakespeare plays have been done before (Peter Brook's A Midsummer Night's Dream, Heiner Müller's HAMLETMACHINE) and I do not wish to take any credit away from those shows. Necessary Angel's Hamlet is just another good example of Shakespeare being special again, which is the effect I would hope to come out of trial separation of Shakespeare. It's not killing Shakespeare, it's just letting him have some time off to go into the woods and rediscover himself.

Necessary Angel has presented a production that isn't about pristine costumes and big soliloquies. This is a production about blood, sweat and decay. Strangely enough, I think we all knew this is what Hamlet was about all along.

Comments

• December 16, 2009, MikiU writes: What strikes us odd? Being a dramatist and not "a big fan of Shakespeare"? YES that does strike us odd! Ten year moratorium on everything Shakespeare? YES that does strike us odd too! At this time we advise you to go back to your planet!
• December 22, 2009, Matt Marshall writes: So every theatre artist needs to be a Shakespeare groupie? I don't think you even read the article because there's a whole planet of theatre artists (and scholars) who also contemplate some time away from Shakers. So I say YOU should return to your planet of museum theatre.
• December 26, 2009, Sarah Beaudin writes: Here here, Matt! As both a theatre practitioner and a writer, I think the world needs a little less Shakespeare. Yes, he was great, changed the face of both theatre and poetry forever, and continues to influence works today... But just because someone is awesomely genius doesn't mean their form should be dictating the future of these arts. Returning to Shakespeare once in a while (a rare while) is fine if it's done well, but that's the probelm: it's virtually never done well. There is so much else to be discovered, to be developed, to be created! Why is it that artists and art lovers can accept that other arts and movements have passed, but no one can let go of Will? We appreciate Picasso's work and his influence, but not every visual artist is expected to like him and copy his style. Modernism (capital M) has passed, and no one's crying that postmodernists have rejected that... Why is Shakespeare seemingly holier than every other artist?

My chilling legs stamping up and down along Sherbourne street, breathing the fresh new ghost out of my mouth into the cell phone.

Devo was in Toronto tonight. I could not miss it, I’d be dishonouring myself and everyone who thinks they know me. I couldn’t deny it any longer, friends. I must come out, I cannot live this lie anymore. I am Devo. And so are you.

“Hey Alex, I’m here. Sorry if I’m late, unless you are late, then I regret nothing. I’m in line, are you also in line? I’m standing next to this British guy in a striped sweater. He says he’s seen Devo before back in the UK, so I guess his return trip is a vote of confidence.”

“Yeah King, I’m just inside. I’m standing by a bunch of tall people. You probably won’t be able to see me. Oh wait there you are.”

“Oh, there you are.”

And sure he was, strong, sturdy, mustachioed. Excellent.

I was wondering how much the beers were, and whether it was worth it to squeeze my way through the crowds towards the bar, and while there`s one at three of the four ends of the Phoenix`s room, all seemed miles away from my vantage point peering over the landscapes of human heads. I had never seen the Phoenix so absolutely packed with living human people before. Every time a new sliver of space opened up between us and the stage I would motion Mister Armstrong to move ahead.

So then we waited and I relaxed, having absorbed the orgones.

“How much for that plastic energy dome? Got it at the merch booth?”

And we continued to wait.

“Thirty bucks? Man, that’s moulded plastic. That is a profit margin.”

And then the opening act came on.

Instead of a band of middle aged miscreants dabbled out a single soul in a blue suit and fake beard. In a corny fake voice he addressed us, thanked us for coming, and taking full advantage of our confusion led us into his act. He was JP Incorporated. He ran a fake TV station. Which ran fake TV shows. All which have fake TV theme songs. And fake TV advertisements. With fake TV advertisement jingles. All of the aforementioned which requires rhapsody he sang live for us on stage with the accompaniment of a screen to his left.

“Wait, the Phoenix has a screen?” I would long later question after the screen rolled up.

“What do you want?” Huh? “You want it all!” Well yeah. “You want a cool new TV show” Of course.“But that’s not all. It’s gotta have a monster truck” Yeahh. “That robotically transforms” Okay. “But since we’re adults shouldn’t it transform into something more mature and sophisticated?”

“LIKE JAZZ”

I found myself compelled to holler and fist pump to a photoshopped image of a monster truck with flaming saxes for horns. Like I had suddenly become a puppet to this man’s reality. He sang songs about shows about transgendered basketball coaches, time traveling breakfasts and the people who work at the internet. Every individual in every video had the same face, JP Incorporated’s face. While these sort of off kilter gags make for good Youtubing, marathoning the joke in front of an impatient crowd waiting for their fifty dollar band caused a storm. A cold front of old no nonsense goers started to indirectly clash with the warm front of open minded youngsters/weirdos. JP Inc is brave. As half the crowd booed and hissed, the other half tried to overpower the singes with cheering and woots, JP had no delusions. He knew the shriveled up had no patience for him. He thanked us all for having him. Each and every one of us. Then he finished with a song about spicy noodle hot ramen and left the stage. Then we waited in the well lit darkness.

While waiting some real tall Devoid motherfuckers came and stood right in front of us average-heighted dudes.

I remember that one specific dude, with the Devo glasses and brown leather jacket, fate dealt him an obnoxious height.

Obnoxious as well, or maybe just noxious, were the buxom spudbabes he carried on his right and left shoulder, who were not quite as tall, but equally Devoed and Devoid.

“Do you think people dressed like this in the 80s or is Flickr lying to me?”

“Are we close enough to the front? There are a lot of larger people in front of us.”

“I don’t know, maybe a mosh will break out, there are some rock and roll looking dude’s squeezed in around here.”

“A mosh pit? Here?”

“Alex, ‘balding’ isn’t the same thing as ‘pussy’.”

And eventually.

"Hello Booji boy, do you have the papers the china man gave you?" Robert Mothersbaugh, Sr., says to his son Mark wearing a baby mask and orange jumpsuit.

"In the past this information has been suppressed, but now it can be told. Every man, woman, and mutant on this planet shall know the truth about de-evolution."

"Oh Dad," the son replies, "We're all Devo!"

This lead to a bizarre boardroom performance of the band's signature tune, Jocko Homo, in which they chant hypnotically the title of the album that we were there to see: "Are We Not Men? WE ARE DEVO!"

Surprisingly, the band did not take the theatrical distraction to sneak out on stage, and in fact, there was still some dead air in between the video and the set, but not much. The massive light stands came to life, finally. The room erupted in illumination, as a million eyes were blinded by luminous flow and a million ears tingled to a harmonious welcome.

And thank spud, the band rushed onstage and jumped right into their car-commercial hit, "Uncontrollable Urge." This tune always excites the Freudian in me, with its sense of urgency and id-driven chorus: "yeah yeah yeah yeah YEAHYEAHYEAHYEAHYEAH YEAH YEAH!"

YEAHYEAHYEAHYEAHYEAH

I’M OUT OF CONTROL NOW

They were dressed in clean yellow jumpsuits, separated by black belts, black glasses and gray hair. They seemed jazzed about everything. I hope they were jazzed about being in the city. It’s been 25 years, said the paper. I don’t want to date myself, but that’s longer than I’ve existed.

If I was high on the orgones of the audience before, the energy leaking out of their powerdomes, I was completely ripped at this point. The air vibrated. The audience jerked like robots. King Frankenstein belted many brash laughs at the onstage hijinx of the band.

“Who wants to see in 3-D?” Shouts out Mothersbaugh. The whole cabal tosses out their glasses in sync, hands fluttering about to be the lucky grip. Mark would toss out giveaways like Halloween treats. Guitar picks were scattered about like confetti. Each Devo member shredding off slivers of their shirts, though given the momentum cloth gains in the air, it tended to be the same row of people scoring each time. Eventually Mothersbaugh gave away himself, diving into the crowd, jumping about, being touched, acting like an ape while two roadies awaited on stage to help him back up.

One change (or possible mishear) I particularly liked during their cover of "I Can't Get No Satisfaction": "I'm watching my TV/and a man comes on to tell me/how white my CHICK could be." For the rest of the show Mark punctuated his best lines by smoking an invisible cigarette.

Mark appeared to have rehearsed being freaked the hell out. He would constantly press his hand against his head until it lifted his hair like he had been slowly struck by lightning. Though it would make sense, he was probably keeping the sweat out of his eyes. The guys were sweltering more than me. I was wearing three layers, while they had it whittled down to one (if that).

Praying Hands, a song which accurately connects masturbation guilt and organized religion, roped the audience into a game of body-echolalia. The best Devo lyrics come off like instruction manuals for strange actions: "You got the left hand diddling/while the right hand goes to work... Okay, relax, and assume the position/go into doggie submission/Wash your hands three times a day/Always do what your mom and dad say/Brush your teeth in the following way..." The praying hands of the song refer to a particular style of pleasuring oneself. But maybe I am now getting too far away from the review at hand.

Devo got to their first two singles, Mongoloid and Jocko Homo. Mongoloid sizzled and said some un-PC things. Jocko Homo sent the crowd into a full-on punkoid frenzy. And of course we all responded to "Are We Not Men?"

“We are Devotes”

It usually doesn’t feel this good to sing along. All other times you have to drink away that guilt of being a total dweeb. Maybe it was how the words came out like a motor function, maybe it was paying fifty bucks to go, but there was nothing stopping me from jabbing the punch lines along with everyone else.

All of the songs that they played were written over 30 years ago. These songs are older than the King and I. Not our ages combined, mind you. The point is, Devo knows what they are doing. They know exactly how to do these songs so that they are awesome every time. They have been doing it for years. This is what their reputation is built on. The problem is that once you've done something for this long, it loses its edge. The concert was great, but obviously Devo-by-the-numbers. In the 70s and 80s these guys were raw and somewhat dangerous. Now they are nearly a nostalgia act. I will give them credit though, they did rearrange some of the songs and are certainly more fresh and relevant than most "comeback" bands you see touring around these days.

I don’t want come off as soggy, but there was something about the whole affair that felt too well practiced, too by the books. Maybe I haven’t seen many, if any other acts who had been at it this long and I can’t even construct in my head doing the same thing for so long. But there wasn’t that grizzled filter that you see in most other acts. They came, they rocked, they did just that, but only that. I wanted to throw a wrench in the system, I wanted something more personal or reflexive. It was more Harlem Globetrotters than new age. There’s something about the song "Gut Feeling" that feels more like a “classic rock” song now, rather than something “weeeiiird” of yesteryear. Maybe it’s the pace, or progression, but while amazing live, it suddenly felt like a trucker’s ambiance. What happened to oddity? God, what standard am I holding things up to...

Nowhere was it more apparent that the boys of Devo, and most of their fans, are old men than the concluding song, "Shrivel Up." This song, which closes their classic album, serves to remind the listener of the facts of life, death, and decay. Devo was looking a little gray, there's no denying. It's a good song, and maybe I was thinking too deeply about the lyrics, and maybe the orgones were hitting me hard, but I was left depressed.
And so came the end of the album, Q: Are We Not Men, which was what we were going to get, promised by the ticket.

And then

Luckily

Yessss

There was an encore, which kicked ass.

I waited for Alex to get his ticket before I got mine. Even after transacting I felt torn between the two nights. Both albums have so many stellar songs, but they weren’t coming to the city just to play my customized set. Or so I should think. Oh Devo, you cards. You took one of the songs I was feeling shamed to miss, and another no one saw coming.

It was only two songs, but in my opinion, it was the two best choices they could have made. The first was "Smart Patrol/Mr. DNA," the epic centrepiece of the aforementioned and unplayed "Duty Now For the Future," which posits Devo as a band of time bandits set to save the world. Following this, and closing the show, was "Gates of Steel," a fantastically catchy tune from "Freedom of Choice." I am very thankful they played it, considering that I could not make the following night. This song hit King Frankenstein so hard he danced like there was no tomorrow, nor nerdlingers surrounding him.

I did this shoulder jerk I saw Mothersbaugh do in an old live recording during the chorus, though he didn’t.

I left the show feeling disoriented.

I left the show and lost Alex, being washed around in the masses of Devo funneling through the Phoenix’s narrow exit halls like a flushing toilet. The old people kept popping up again, popped up on other things. I’m pretty sure for some of these seniors it was the first night on the town in a while. Uncles and aunts, slurring about, high on whatever for the first time in decades. Laughing with the kind of hysteria that looks like they only now discovered joy.

As we were walking down the street, a fat monkey-ish man in a powerdome was hiding behind a fence. He scared the spunk outta me.

We spent hours trying to get it back.

Comments

• December 15, 2009, Sarah writes: Sounds good. Woulda loved to be there.

Me and site familiars Nancy and Jakub had been successfully seeing a movie once a week for the past month. Almost as if it was in the stars, the movie we decided to see a screening of next was Good Hair, and it was only playing at the Carlton. We saw it on the last night of the venue’s existence.

For we the movie goers, walking in seemed like no different occasion than many other outings. I should take into account that even the people we saw there may have only come out to see the place as it was one last time. I got a different feeling about the staff though. Five odd youths, wearing the employee short sleeves, tattooed half sleeves covering the rest of the arm, nestled in behind the tiny concession stand. I can’t say how long they had been working there, as I had only been in the building for ten minutes, but even they may have wanted to juice the final hours. Nancy and I split the biggest popcorn they serve, if only for the memories sake. It was way too big.

Walking down the hall to the cinemas, the walls were still lined with “Coming Soon” posters. I half mocked the concept that The Lovely Bones would in fact not be about to play here. We hit the tiny junction where the hall swiftly spitfires into the dozen odd separate theatres. At first we didn’t even spot our own theatre, Nancy said the door looked like it was meant for the closet. The theatre itself, not much bigger than the average person’s basement pad, was at best a quarter full. It was upon visual recognition that I remembered this is where I saw Kill Bill with my dad. The screen curtain creaked down on a pole instead of parting sides from the middle. Jakub said that it was very ghetto. I responded saying ghetto would be a staff member coming in to remove the curtain manually.

We watched the Chris Rock documentary, which I would recommend as it is interesting, but entirely besides the point.

It was as we left that the theatre suddenly sparked to life, far more what I expected from the last living evening of the Cineplex. People standing around in small divisions, conversing, mingling and snacking. If the theatre always looked like this, it probably wouldn’t be closing.

We left the doors, swooping by these now plenty strangers. Jakub wondered where he would now go to see Antichrist. I was wondering how I was going to convince Jakub to take the popcorn off my hands.

Comments

• December 15, 2009, Sarah writes: So sad, it closed :( I guess it doesn't surprise me either.

Photos by Zach Hertzman //

Through performance and body painting, Adrian Cohen-Gallant and Sophia Ilyniak have negotiated their relationship with several issues central to the artistic representation of sexuality and the gendered subject. The early successes of this artist couple are related to two tensions in their works. One tension is the conflict between the alluring symmetry of the marks that adorn their canvases and the distance these suggestive marks create. The imprints Cohen-Gallant and Ilyniak leave behind are both enticing abstract compositions that draw the viewer in and, at the same time, incomplete figurative images that resist the satisfaction that a clear identification of the partially portrayed bodies would allow. The second tension is related to the live performance of the painting process, and arises from the status of the body as an unstable symbol. This tension is between the performance of sex as an erotic act and the performance of sex as an imaginative exercise aimed at negotiating gender relations. Tracing these tensions will help reveal a space of thought opened by these two artists. This space is best understood as existing in opposition to images explicitly designed for sexual arousal.

Amelia Jones has explained the importance of works of art in which enticing formal elements (striking colours, rich materials, exquisite detail etc.) and symbolic elements related to gender politics coexist within the same work in her article ““Post-Feminism”—A Remasculinization of Culture?” We can simplify these terms slightly and explain them as the coexistence of the sensuous and the political or critical within the same artwork. Jones has suggested that, according to some critics, female artists who create works that can be enjoyed for the visual pleasure they entice are somehow relinquishing the critical potential inherent in their gendered position in favor of creating things that people enjoy looking at[i]. Jones suggests that critics who do not recognize the compatibility of sensuousness and criticality in the work of female artists may be willfully ignoring the polemical intentions of an artist in favor of their own surface oriented preferences[ii].

Untitled #1, from the Grey Series

Jones mentions this point in an effort to chastise male critics who ignore the importance of an artist’s gender in favor of emphasizing the beauty of an artwork. It is important to recognize that the visual pleasure that works by female artists create is an important aspect of understanding how a female artist has negotiated their relationship with visual pleasure. This negotiation is especially important because women are so often considered to be the site of visual enjoyment. Nonetheless, as a male critic, I’ll have to be careful not to privilege any purely surface enjoyment I find in Adrian and Sophia’s work in an effort to avoid removing the work these artists have created from the context of the sexual relationship and emotional connection that has been central to the realization of these works.

The gray series, in contrast with the colour series, presents the most interesting examples of the tension between the sensual and interpersonal aspects of Cohen-Gallant and Ilyniak’s work. In the gray series, Cohen-Gallant and Ilyniak use the same paint colour on both of their bodies. Hands, feet, knees and forearms, printed in black paint on grey broad cloth, create roughly symmetrical compositions.  The sparse markings combined with the clinical execution of the poses distances a viewer from a clear perception of the poses at work and the actors who have performed those poses.  Furthermore, by sharing the same colours, Cohen-Gallant and Ilyniak seem to have leveled-out the markings, making any connection between them or speculation about their interconnectedness tenuous. However, there are two sets of hands and feet, and the space between them, rather than being a vacant negative space, reverberates with a tension that almost demands that the connection between the disparate points be drawn out.

Activating a negative space in this way is of the utmost importance because it may move the viewer’s focus from the marks themselves to a more curious engagement with the absence of an insistent, comprehensible representation of the two naked bodies. If you accept that curiosity is propelled by the activation of the grey field, and not just the fact that there are two sets of hands and feet, then you might imagine along with me that this field gestures toward the context of the encounter implied by the fact that it is a couple who have marked the canvas. The gray field is not just a pictorial space, but also an imaginative space that engages a mind that seeks to see the place where this coupling was realized. Viewed in this light, Cohen-Gallant and Ilyniak might not be using austere pigments to sanitize their bodies, sapping them of the liveliness of colour. They may be gesturing toward a connection with their surroundings, a connection that is such an important part of understanding the significance of any specific sex act. The heightened importance of the negative space in the grey series is made even more obvious in contrast with the coloured series.  In the coloured works the negative area remains important, but the vibrancy of the colours, and the more easily deciphered poses, draw attention to the sex act being depicted, rather than allowing for a more subtle use of colour and gesture to create a respectful distance between the pair and the viewer. The gray field may entice the viewer to imagine the context and exact articulation of the act, but it also presents an insistent distance or privacy.

Untitled #1, from the Coloured Series

Cohen-Gallant and Ilyniak are currently struggling to achieve the thoughtful tone that they have accomplished with two-dimensional pieces while performing the painting process for a live audience or for the sake of documentation. However, their understanding of the symbolic and sexual charge that their bodies carry during a performance may allow them to avoid a potential pitfall that is present in some performance work. This pitfall is also articulated by Amelia Jones, this time in her work ”Presences” in Absentia: Experiencing Performance as Documentation.

Jones explains how some performance artists insist on the importance of their presence during a performance: the actual physical proximity of the performing artists to the viewer. This insistence on the importance of physical presence, according to Jones, is sometimes meant as a radical act that supposedly allows the artists to avoid the possibility that their work could be misinterpreted[iii].  Jones quotes Catherine Elwes analysis of performance art as one example, amongst many, of the idea that “Performance is about the ‘real-life’ presence of the artist. […] she is both signifier and that which is signified. Nothing stands in between spectator and performer.”[iv] On the contrary, there is a great deal standing between the performer and the viewer: an indeterminate and fluctuating set of memories and cultural norms that mediate a viewer’s understanding of the piece regardless of whether it is a performance, a photo, or a painting.

The danger that the difficulty of interpretation presents an artist also implies the possibility of success. That a given object, pose or scene does not have an indisputable meaning suggests that there may be room to maneuver these symbols in favor of the artist’s intentions. The intentions that Cohen-Gallant and Ilyniak bring to their performance piece highlight the positive potential of symbolic instability. Those intentions are to distance themselves from a sexually arousing performance, and instead to highlight the shared responsibility and comfort that they feel are essential aspects of their relationship. Cohen-Gallant and Ilyniak are particularly concerned about their ability to avoid eroticism when it comes to their performance piece, which is a concern that justifies Jones’ insistence on the instability of the body’s symbolic significance in the context of a performance.

Untitled #2, from the Grey Series

Cohen-Gallant and Ilyniak are so concerned about their performance piece because the presence of their naked bodies brings with it the danger that their performance could be viewed as pornographic, especially because their poses are sexually charged. When discussing the performance that Cohen-Gallant and Ilyniak did for the sake of the photographs printed with this article, Ilyniak expressed her reluctance to use a certain pose: the doggy style position. She explained that:

“…when we were trying to decide what we were doing for you guys [during the photography shoot], and we thought about the doggy style position, and we wondered if we should do it; it’s different of us.  It’s something we’ve talked about a lot, there’s less of a connection happening because we’re not looking at each other.”

The motivation for using the position, as they both explained, was that it allows them to leave behind a beautiful set of marks on the material. The difficulty in using the position is that it lacks the intimacy and connectedness that Cohen-Gallant and Ilyniak try to convey in their works. The solution, as Cohen-Gallant explains, is a simple gesture: “I did feel awkward in the doggy style position, so I decided to hug her because I felt that that was the least erotic thing I could do in that position.” The spontaneity of this gesture is a poignant moment that points toward a less fractured model for sexual intercourse, even in the doggy style position. Cohen-Gallant’s spontaneous act also expresses the urgency with which he confronts any anxiety that he may feel to be connected to his treatment of his partner’s body.

Cohen-Gallant and Ilyniak have negotiated their relationship with sexual images and acts in a way that bodes well for any future exploration of the subject that this couple may undertake. They have been able to create balanced, pleasurable images with their bodies without separating themselves from their marks, and without deleting reference to the setting in which these pieces were created.  Though the situation in which the coupling depicted in these paintings takes place remains ambiguous, the curiosity aroused remains respectful due to the careful use of colour. It is gesture and ad lib not colour or composition that allow Cohen-Gallant and Ilyniak to distance their performance from the sexually arousing. Finding new and equally casual ways of enacting their loving embraces may expand and reinvigorate the range of poses they are able to transform in performance.

[ii] Ibid.

[iii] Amelia Jones, ““Presence” in Absentia: Experiencing Performance as Documentation”, in Art Journal, (Winter, 1996) 13.

[iv] Ibid.

Comments

• December 15, 2009, Melanie writes: This entire review is overrated - if you were to know these two people, you would know their personalities. Sorry, the work is unimpressive, over done - stop trying to find meaning behind it.
• December 16, 2009, Karen Correia Da Silva writes: ^ Eep. Personal vendetta? The interpretation of art is a rather personal exercise, so art that is not within your realm of taste is not necessarily bad.
• December 17, 2009, Dolores writes: What an engaging review! I have never heard of these artists before, but I am extremely intrigued by what can be evoked through such simple artistic means. Bravo for being so unabashed!

Do Not Add More Fodder For The Discount Bin (TRUE CRIME)

Remember True Crime everyone? No, that was Dead To Rights. It was the one that... No that was Saint’s Row. You’ve got the... No that was NARC, and don’t pull that bullshit with me I know you didn’t even play that one. Okay, so True Crime is no heavy hitter. It was among the many that rushed through the door GTA opened, and it wasn’t even one of the better ones. Giving it the spotlight next to the Halo prequel was probably finger crossing that it would reign in on some of that glorious glory. Call it my gut, but I’m getting the ol’ feeling that True Crime, like the True Crimes before it, will be making buddies in an a red marked shakey cage.

Do Give Us What We Want Even Though We Didn’t Know It Existed (ARKHAM 2)

Yeah that was a slow clap. The last Arkham Asylum still has that tingly feeling, and I’m willing to bet the farm that goes for myself and many others. So colour me clown face and call me Batman Jones, sometimes it ISN’T too soon for another go. And it wasn’t even a shitty teaser! It was a good teaser! We see a new scenario, a new location, a sick Joker! And unfortunately the same store bought nurse costume! Okay so you have to take the good with the bad.

Do Not Look Desperate (MEDAL OF HONOUR)

Poor Medal of Honour. Once the flagship for war games, people grow to realize we just couldn’t learn any more fake things about WWII. Then came along mean ol’ Call of Duty, changing things up, giving people super lazer missile weapons. It’s not fair, I admit it, Medal of Honour was given a bad hand. But come on bros, don’t come back grovelling. If you took someone who didn’t know, had them watch that trailer and edited out the title screen, they would probably guess it’s the next Modern Warfare or something, which is either really flattering or totally depressing. It’s just troublesome that it seems we are about to slip down that awful road again, where instead of a bunch of different games we’ll be subjected to the same game made by several different parties. And in some cases not even remade, here we have it demade.

Do Affirm That You Are In Fact Getting My Letters (DEADLIEST WARRIOR)

I wish I could make a bylaw that demands every debut game trailer has someone throwing some sharp things into someone else’s eyes. Of all the stupid mindless entertainment Spike TV dishes out, Deadliest Warrior takes top radical spots. Pirates fighting Shaolin monks, gladiators slapping around yakuza, Shaka Zulu taking on the IRS. Doesn’t that sound dumb as hell! Doesn’t that all sound great! Don’t you want to do that?! GUYS?!

Do Not Make Your Trailer “We Don’t Have A Trailer” (GREEN DAY: ROCK BAND)

It doesn’t help that you are launching a title that will already have mixed reactions with your audience, I mean, Harmonix really couldn’t find a band culturally significant between The Beatles and Green Day? But to make your trailer, “thanks for watching but we didn’t have time to make a trailer” is kind of like spit on dirt. Green Day was too busy doing other stuff to plug a game that plugs them. Meanwhile half a year ago Ringo and Paul walk around an Xbox booth, bringing two widows with them. Meanwhile right now Tony Hawk defends his shitty new game, his shitty game that he stands by! I bet Dookie era Green Day would have been all over having a DOOM mod made after them, the Green Day that wasn’t so easily distracted by the hunt for matching ties.

Avatar – Dec 18

A few months ago I wrote up a movie that was presented in 3D. At the time I mentioned how the new trend seemed to baffle me. The fad of the third dimension was a novelty that had been kicked around to sell tickets since the 1950’s, every time claiming to be the wave of the future. Time and time again it was proven to be false.

However this new wave seems to be different. With the upgrades in technology we are seeing more and more mainstream film directors jumping on board. Instead of getting cheap horror films, we are getting serious action and animated features presented in the marvelous third dimension. The culmination in this fad is the latest from filmmaker James Cameron known only as Avatar.

Avatar follows an interplanetary war being fought on a distant planet between the indigenous creatures and us, the human invaders in search of fossil fuels. The main story involves a crippled soldier (Sam Worthington) who is placed in control of an alien body or avatar in order to infiltrate the resistance movement. Obviously he finds that it seems to be the human military that is wrong ad is inevitably forced to choose between his species and his new found friends.

Alright, I admit that the story sounds a little bit like Fern Gully on acid. However, this film is going to be worth it for the eye candy alone. All of the images I have seen from Avatar have just blown my mind. So often when you see CGI mixed with live action in film there is some inexplicable quality about it that makes it look wrong. With Avatar it seems that James Cameron has figured out how to blend the two almost seamlessly. This is all before you take into account that the whole thing is in 3D.

I don’t get out to the movies as much as I would like to these days but I think Avatar is well worth my time and money.

Alvin and The Chipmunks: The Squeakquel – Dec 23

“Christmas, Christmas time is near,
Time for toys and time for cheer”

– Alvin and The Chipmunks

Yes with the holiday season right around the corner, now seems like as good a time as any to release mindless kid friendly drivel. What better choice could there possibly be besides a live action sequel to Alvin and The Chipmunks? How about an original idea once or twice?

For those with no direct contact with anything in popular culture, the titular chipmunks are a fictional music group comprised entirely of (surprise, surprise) chipmunks. There is Alvin - the troublemaker, Simon – the nerd, and Theodore – The Fat one. They would sing covers of popular songs which are now hilarious simply because their voices are so high pitched. Fun fact: it is almost as funny when you huff helium and pretend to be a munchkin from The Wizard of Oz

Somehow this premise was so unique for 1958 that it spawned all sorts of merchandise, several Saturday morning cartoons, and of course the inevitable live action movie with CGI woodland critters. In my opinion, the fact they made the first one is baffling enough. I can’t possibly imagine what more there is to say for a sequel. Sorry, my mistake, Squeakquel.

I suppose my biggest issue with this is not the film itself or even its inane premise. No, it is the fact that the family movie is so rare to find these days. Just because something is made with a younger audience in mind doesn’t mean that it can’t appeal to their parents. While it is true that most people grew up with some form of The Chipmunks in one form or another (I very clearly remember watching the cartoon as a kid), the thought of listening to the high pitched voices of three grown men for two hours is enough to make my ears try to stab my brain in retaliation. A movie for the family doesn’t have to feature inane talking animals, a fact that certain studios just cannot seem to grasp.

Sherlock Holmes – Dec 25

Speaking of adaptations of ancient franchises, how about a gritty reboot of Arthur Conan Doyle’s famed investigator? As a Christmas present to all of us Guy Richie has divorced Madonna, taken the most famous detective of all time and tried to prove that he still has what it takes to make a good movie.

Sherlock Holmes features Robert Downey Jr. as the classic sleuth with Jude Law as his faithful companion and biographer Watson. This version, unlike any other, tries to show Sherlock in a way that has not really been seen before. While he does retain his masterful abilities of deductive reasoning, it shows him to be a man not afraid to get his hands dirty. This Holmes is rude, abrasive, has poor hygiene, and enjoys bareknuckle boxing (a Richie staple).

My immediate thinking is that not everything needs a gritty, 21^st century reboot.

It is as if reboot is the new fancy term for remake. Again simply because an idea has been done before does not mean it needs to be done again. I feel like this is no exception. Sherlock Holmes is a character that is adored by millions and has had fanboys before there were moving pictures.

Despite my low expectation I will one hundred percent go out of my way to see this movie. The reason? Robert Downey Jr. Mr. Downey happens to be one of my all time favourite actors. I would go and see him in a film where all that happens is Robert sitting down and shaving a cat for the entirety of the picture. While Guy Richie may have forgotten how to tell a compelling story, Robert Downey Jr. is more then enough to redeem this film.

Daybreakers – Jan 8

Vampires. Dear lord they are everywhere these days. I am so sick and tired of freaking vampires that I want to go back in time and strangle Bram Stoker for inventing the modern concept of the vampire. Seriously, when it comes to current media vampires are quickly becoming the most loathed thing I can possibly see on screen. In fact, I am not even going to say the v-word any more in this column. From now on they will simply be referred to as “OUPDs” (Over Used Plot Devices).

Daybreakers follows the story of a futuristic civilization run by OUPDs. They are facing a food shortage crisis because they have eaten just about everybody. All remaining food sources are kept in farms where they are rationed out to the remaining OUPD population. Searching desperately for a solution is none other then Ethan Hawke who finds not a solution for what to eat, but instead a cure for OUPDism. Naturally his cure is resisted by the luddites in charge and madness ensues.

Hollywood, please stop, I get it. OUPDs can be used as a metaphor for just about anything. Need to show the struggles of a person coping with identity? OUPDs. How about some sort of forbidden romance angle? OUPDs. Daybreakers is trying to prove to all of us two things. The first is that all corporations are evil puppy killing monsters who will literally suck the life out of us. The second is that we should all be vegetarians.

Not enough proof that this movie will suck, and not in the OUPD way? The trailer to this film shows us, the viewing audience, the entire plot of the movie. This is one of the fatal sins that many trailers are guilty of, and one way to pick out a dud. A good trailer should just tease at certain pot details, not spell them all out for me like I’m an idiot. That coupled with a January release date doesn’t bode well for this OUPD flick.

Other Films

What other potential flicks are coming out between now and the next issue of Steel Bananas? Take a look at some other options of things to avoid/see.

Crazy Heart (Dec 16) – Jeff Daniels is getting Oscar buzz for his turn as a country music singer. Who am I to argue with buzz?

Did you Hear About the Morgans? (Dec 18) – Trust me, you will wish you hadn’t heard.

Nine (Dec 18) – Daniel Day Lewis in a musical? It might be worth it simply for the novelty of it

The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus (Dec 25) – With Terry Gilliam and Heath Ledger in his final onscreen appearance how can it possibly go wrong?

Its Complicated (Dec 25) – Great cast, probably not bad. It is just not my bag.

Leap Year (Jan 8 ) – Yet another RomCom appealing to the lowest common denominator.

Youth in Revolt (Jan 8 ) – Watch Michael Cera play himself in yet another movie

Comments

• December 15, 2009, Daniel writes: Curse you Emoticons!!!! The release dates for both the january movies below are January 8th Although January "Smiley with shades" is an awesome day too.
• January 11, 2010, Isaac writes: I know I have the advantage of being in the future and have gotten to see these movies but Holmes was really very faithful to Sherlock stories of the past. The gritty drugs and hygiene are all par for the course as far as it goes. The only thing that doesn't quite jibe is going out for bare knuckle boxing. Cool though. And, as embarassing as it sounds, I went out to see the Chipmunks movie and has a ton of fun. So that's how much my opinion is worth.

Photo by Zach Hertzman

I met Adrian Cohen-Gallant and Sophia Ilyniak at Gallery 1313. They were performing as part of a live Internet broadcast hosted by In My Bed Magazine. The artist couple has created a series of body paintings since their senior year at the Etobicoke School of the Arts (ESA). Together they position themselves on sheets of broadcloth, linen or burlap to create quasi-symmetrical imprints with their mud-covered bodies. The suggestive forms left behind allow Cohen-Gallant and Ilyniak to draw a viewer in with a sparse and graceful composition, while maintaining distance from intentionally arousing representations of sex. Since their performance at 1313, I have learned how the reception that these works received at ESA, and the intimacy Cohen-Gallant and Ilyniak foster, help cast light on the potential these two artists share.

￭

Will: Lets start at the beginning. When were and how did you guys meet?

Adrian: I didn’t necessarily have the greatest high school experience in my first four years of high school. I went to a school called Metro Prep [Metropolitan Preparatory Academy]. I actually started in grade eight, before I really had an opinion of my own about schools, my parents just put me in that school. In grade nine, I ended up getting into a drug addiction. In grade ten it had sky rocketed into terrible, terrible drugs. So, I ended up going to treatment in Utah. Spent a year in school there, got incredible marks because Utah’s academics are terrible. I got like 100% in most of my classes. And I was basically two classes, from my understanding when I was in Utah, away from graduating. And then I come back to Canada, transferred my credits over, and they transferred basically into nothing; they transferred into a pile of electives. So I still needed so many mandatory classes. I had basically spent no time in school as far as they were concerned.

Sophia: That’s when things get really kinda screwed up I think. We were friends most of the school year, and then I went to a treatment program for eating disorders, so I was gone for most of the year. And in the middle of that I lost my boyfriend, who I had been with for over two years. That’s when he kind of came in, and became my best friend. Took care of me pretty much. You were there everyday. And that’s just kinda how things happened. It was an OD [referencing the passing of her boyfriend], so he totally understood what happened.

Adrian: So I just told her 'I can be there for you.'  And I just talked to her about things after her program everyday.

Sophia: The last thing that was on my mind was getting into another relationship. I was so content with being single for the next however many years. A month later we were already together. And I felt so terrible. It was a really, really hard time because I wasn’t supposed to be with him. I wasn’t supposed to be with anybody. I was supposed to be grieving. It was just wrong and some people had issues with it. Anyway, after a while we started making art and started doing really fun stuff together.

Will: Tell me about the initial idea and how things developed as you guys started working together.

Adrian: Initially, I feel it’s a little bit cliché, but it was just how incredible the little things are, and how art is held on this pedestal but our daily life is below it. Such a beautiful part of our daily lives is artistic in every way; there are so many facets of it that are incredible. How could I actually express that? The next obvious conclusion was getting covered in paint and leaving the remnants of it behind on a canvas.

Will: Why does the naked body represent the opposite of  ‘elevated’ art for you?

Adrian: Where I want to go with this was to show how other things are sacred and ritualistic that people do but are, especially at the age when we first started, very kept in the shadows. We refer to making love as sleeping with someone because it’s supposed to happen at night behind closed doors. It’s a hush-hush topic even though we’re supposed to be a liberal society.

Sophia: Especially during high school; we are [supposed to be] a-sexual beings in high school.
Adrian: It’s really hard to visualize what it’s going look like until you actually do it.  Once we actually did it and saw the first print we stood holding one another as if we were looking at our child.

Sophia: The first thing that we really liked about it was that it was a 2D sculpture.

Adrian: Yeah, its an imaginary sculpture. It’s not a performance piece; we were making love on them, and a lot of them you can really see the passion in them. There is a lot of motion and movement; you can actually see the passion of what happened. The ones that aren’t like that area whole lot cleaner. They almost have a completely different message in them. The whole gray series, I almost find it too sterile, but at the same time it is an interesting look at lovemaking. It’s really sterile: here’s where your hands go, here’s where your legs go, here’s where your body goes.  It really isn’t that far of a stretch to go from what we do to a performance piece. We’re not opposed to public nudity.

Sophia: It’s amazing that I’m doing that right know, when you consider where I was last year.

Will: [to Sophia] Was it important for you to be able to do these [performance] pieces? Was that a step forward for you, it terms of you being comfortable with your own body?

Sophia: I’m in a way different place now. I’m just really happy that I don’t have any anxiety about that at all.

Will: Do you think your performance pieces convey something completely different than the finished works themselves, the canvases.

Adrian: I feel like the finished works are really open to interpretation. You see one and you don’t necessarily link it to sex or anything of that sort. There is a whole lot more risk involved in the performances to be interpreted as erotic or just in a less wholesome way, because we are naked and on display.

Sophia: We’re showing how comfortable we are with each other.

Will: That’s an important part of staying away from the erotic in my mind: just how comfortable you guys seem with one another. Is that a big objective for you: staying away from the erotic?

Adrian: We were afraid of In My Bed [Magazine].

Sophia: We checked it out, and did some research, and checked out what the magazine is actually about because we didn’t want to put our stuff into some porno crap. That’s not what it’s about at all.

Adrian: Our culture absolutely disgusts me with the way sexuality is portrayed and woman are portrayed.

Sophia: That’s another reason that I don’t shave anything on my body. It’s about equality, and I think the symmetry in some of the pieces conveys that.

Adrian: So many people will see my ass or my back on the canvas…

Sophia: And they instantly think its my body!

Adrian: Just because it is a sexualized object, but yours or mine looks exactly the same on the canvas.

Will: Has it’s been difficult to overcome the association with the erotic when it comes to your body art?

Adrian: I find that the finished pieces do a much better job of avoiding that than the performance. And I think in order to achieve that same distinction with the performance it will take a lot of thinking. Doing it and finding out what happens is a big part of that. It wasn’t interpreted that way at Gallery 1313, but it could have been. I find I have to think about where my hands are because where my hands are can change it from being ritualistic to erotic really quickly. If I have my hands on your breasts it is all of a sudden erotic because your breasts are so eroticized by our media.

Will: You describe it as a ritual, that it’s a ritual act for you guys. Can you explain what that means?

Adrian: In our culture it’s a means to an end, its not part of an everyday ritual that you share with someone you deeply care about. And as cliché as that may sound, it terrifies me to think that something as fundamental and animalistic is viewed in the same way as people view alcohol and drugs. The top three addictions are gambling, alcohol and pornography. It’s insane to think that we view sex in the same way as we see a mind-altering substance.

Will: How was the first series received at ESA?

Adrian: Every year the grade twelves have a gallery show. Last year it was at the Whippersnapper on College. Our big assignment of the year is due before then so we have a chance of getting into the show. It had to be a series of seven works.

Sophia: We had seven of these ones [the coloured pieces]. Our stuff was up. It took hours to put it up. Everybody was so stoked about it. The day of [the opening] we come to the gallery and ‘Sorry guys.’

Adrian: We get there early, the teachers came up to us and told us ‘you guys have to take this down.’  I feel like they were more anxious than they needed to be about it, they had made it a bigger deal than it needed to be.

Will: What were their concerns? How did they explain things to you?

Adrian: Well, it was explained to us that the board of education, the TDSB [Toronto District School Board], and the teachers union were in conflict at the time, and they explained to us that a gallery show is something that most high schools don’t do. It’s really a privilege that you get from going to ESA. And most kids in the fine arts program don’t get into the show. The teachers select those who get in based on the caliber of art they’re producing. And it would just take one parent whose kid’s art didn’t get into the show to complain and get our teachers fired. I’m skeptical about that, but that’s how they explained it. There was no arguing, but at the same time as an artist I felt I should be behind my art 100%.

Sophia: After the Whippersnapper Show we were both so upset, but after that we thought about how awesome it is that after completing our first body of work we’re already being censored. We’re doing something right if we’re already out their doing something that’s not accepted.

Will: Do you think your teachers felt that it was impossible to avoid the erotic aspect, or the potential for you art to be interpreted as being erotic? Or was it just that any comment on sexuality was not allowed?

Adrian: I think they were just being oversensitive. They were more afraid then they needed to be about it. They already push it a lot at an art school. It is far from the norm of a high school. Getting us into a gallery is something that high schools just don’t do. They’re already going out on a limb. And you push it even further, and it’s scary to them. When people are scared they’re less rational. I don’t know if it really is a question of whether they didn’t think it was possible to avoid the erotic aspect, it’s just the fact that there is the chance that someone would view it that way and make a complaint, and that was just too much for them to risk at that point. Like we said, they gave us 100% on that assignment. They viewed it as a completely successful series. It was totally what they were looking for in the context of the assignment, but it was just too much for them to put it up I guess. And then you take it out of the high school setting, and we’ve shown in a couple of different shows since, and it’s not even taboo in the slightest, it’s not even that risky.

Sophia: It stands out to people, but people don’t giggle about it that much, it’s not really that out there. Until they see us naked in the gallery. That’s where things get a little different.

Will: (to Sophia) As a woman do you think people’s reaction to your involvement in the performance is different than the reaction that Adrian might get?

Sophia: I have thought about it; being the naked girl in the gallery. It makes a big difference that he’s there. Him being there and being comfortable, and not being sexualized in any sort of way, changes things.

Adrian: It spreads out the responsibility onto two people. Like I was saying, I feel responsible for where my hands are, I have to think about it, I have to make sure that I’m not sexualizing your body. There’s less focus on one person, it’s a focus on the ritual and not on the individual.

Sophia: That’s why, when we were trying to decide what we were doing for you guys [during the photography shoot], and we thought about the doggy style position, and we wondered if we should do it; it’s different of us. It’s something we’ve talked about a lot, there’s less of a connection happening because we’re not looking at each other. We did it though.

Adrian: In the finished piece doggy style makes a really interesting composition, but in performance that posture suggests many things. I’m not looking at her. It sexualizes her body a whole lot more.

Sophia: I’m on the ground, and on my knees. That’s kinda what we were trying to stay away from.

Adrian: We did research before we started doing this art. We cracked open the Karma Sutra and read up on their explanations of every position. We tried to pick ones that were interesting and lead your eyes into the piece, but ones that also avoided eroticism. While we were doing the performance, I did feel awkward in the doggy style position, so I decided to hug her because I felt that that was the least erotic thing I could do in that position.

Will: Do you think it’s important to work with other artists? Was that a difficult step for you, sharing the creative process with someone, when usually it’s all about you and your ideas?

Adrian: It’s a double bladed sword. To be sharing it with a loved one can be easier, but at the same time it can be harder. You really have to avoid the competition. I feel like if I was working with a friend, and not necessarily a lover, there would be a little bit of a battle of ownership because there isn’t the same level of commitment, whereas here there is the commitment. We do share this; we share a lot of our lives together so sharing our art isn’t that big of a step. At the same time when it comes to diverging into our own artistic endeavors we do have to avoid any competition, we have to view ourselves as one artist and compliment each other.

Sophia: Which recently has been a little hard. We just really like to work together.

Adrian: Combine that with art school. We want to work together. But at the same time if one of us is getting crazy good marks and the other wasn’t it would become a competition, and that’s where art could interfere with our relationship.

Sophia: It’s been an amazing thing to be able to make art with another person.

Adrian: It’s a little microcosm of the grander relationship. We do compromise and we do accept each other’s decisions and tastes. I think its something you should value and hold onto if you find it.

Will: Would you hope that people see that collaborative side of the project? Is that something you are trying to convey to others?

Sophia: Definitely.

Adrian: That’s one of the pillars of it. There isn’t a single artist. There isn’t an individual. It’s cooperative. At the beginning, when we did the first series, I didn’t know whether you were okay with the whole school knowing that you were involved with me. And we wanted a critique from Mr. Varey [the art teacher at ESA]. At any rate, I brought it in [the coloured series] and it very quickly became my work because I wasn’t mentioning Sophia. And that was tough. It was tough for me, and you were pissed about it.

Sophia: Well yeah, it’s mine too. It was tricky. We were in a difficult spot. I had just lost my boyfriend, and I thought that I wasn’t supposed to be with Adrian. But eventually everyone knew.

Adrian: It had to happen. I couldn’t handle this being my art, it is our art, and we produced this together. Taking responsibility for it all made me feel guilty. I really cherish the fact that it’s ours and not just mine. As much as it was the case that I came up with the concept, I feel like I couldn’t have done it with anyone else. And that’s why I didn’t. I wasn’t sure whether it was going to work between us when we first did it, and it worked so well that it became something I had to hold on to.

Sophia: It’s one of the reasons I stayed in the city. I was going to go to Concordia, but we had this thing going. We’re on a roll here and I thought we can take this somewhere.

Comments

• December 16, 2009, Frank Levey writes: very beautiful and thoughtful young folks. Its difficult , in our overly sexualized age, to view the other as an object. Very refreshing to see their connections as love expressing itself as joy and endearing friendship.
• December 16, 2009, The Blog for the Webzine | steelbananas(dot)com writes: [...] William Lockett for Steel Bananas: I met Adrian Cohen-Gallant and Sophia Ilyniak at Gallery 1313. They were performing as part of a live Internet broadcast hosted by In My Bed Magazine. The artist couple has created a series of body paintings since their senior year at the Etobicoke School of the Arts (ESA). Together they position themselves on sheets of broadcloth, linen or burlap to create quasi-symmetrical imprints with their mud-covered bodies. The suggestive forms left behind allow Cohen-Gallant and Ilyniak to draw a viewer in with a sparse and graceful composition, while maintaining distance from intentionally arousing representations of sex. Since their performance at 1313, I have learned how the reception that these works received at ESA, and the intimacy Cohen-Gallant and Ilyniak foster, help cast light on the potential these two artists share… [continue reading on Steel Bananas] [...]

Looking back, the success of the LP record in the latter half of the century proved that music fans were okay with paying for music and asserting some sort of ownership over their records. Music fans have been able to overcome this apparent loss of ‘aura’ or simply do not subscribe to Adorno’s beliefs. The tangible qualities of the record itself do not undermine aura, they reinforce the notion of music as cultural artifact. Think of The Velvet Underground & Nico, in which the banana on the album’s cover can be physically peeled and removed from the cover entirely. Or America Eats its Young by Funkadelic, which actually folds out into a giant American one-dollar bill. These records draw attention towards properties external to the music and force user engagement with elements outside the music itself. They want to establish the notion of the vinyl record as an experience of multiple senses. The digitization of music has not made the album obsolete, but it has challenged its elements as a both a physical and audible experience.

Digital music reflects an experience of a lack of physicality and transplanted sense of ownership. Undoubtedly, these characteristics thrive in our massively space-biased, postmodern world. Digital forms seek to liberate the listener from the confines of the album and open up new possibilities of customization.

We are the creators of our own playlists.

There need be nothing tangible, because here in the palm of my hand I own everything. It is not the album one must purchase in order to hear music; it is the playback device, the digital mediator. Adorno feared that the culture industry would equate all commodities according to their exchange value. He believed that capitalism’s all encompassing nature would prevent the production of meaning outside the realm of capitalism.  While capitalism thrives on the ability to commodify goods, the Internet thrives on its inherent lack of value. When Smashing Pumpkins (Machina II), Wilco (Yankee Hotel Foxtrot) and Radiohead (In Rainbows) began releasing albums for free online, their point was not that music ought to be free from the constraints of exchange, it was that music was essentially valueless. While Adorno believed that culture could not exist outside of capitalism, these bands suggest that nothing exists outside of the Internet.

So if nothing exists outside of the Internet, the next logical step for the record format is to embrace this apparent lack of thingishness and move towards something that thrives on virtual perception and intangibility. For the album format to sustain itself, it must transcend physicality and suggest that the physical album is redundant rather than obsolete. The digital copy will no longer lack aura, it will create a new digital aura.

With an album like Merriweather Post Pavilion by Animal Collective, there exist a few elements that suggest we are moving in this direction. The cover of Merriweather is pretty mesmerizing, but only on the computer screen. In its physically packaged form the cover is massively underwhelming as it attempts to recreate the virtual experience. Here we have an example of the album’s virtual experience providing a superior experience to that of the physical album. It seems as though prior to such an album, the digital version always attempted to replicate the physical experience, even when iTunes began to allow users to include cover art with their digital albums. Here, the digital world is acknowledging the physicality of records, but providing only a sub par representation of this physicality (the cover of the Beach Boys’ Surf’s Up looks much better in vinyl sleeve than its puny pixilated version on my iPod).  With Merriweather, this gets spun around, placing the virtual representation in the optimal position of consumption.

Merriweather presents the listener with the opportunity for a fully mediated experience. More so than In Rainbows or Yankee Hotel, Merriweather strives to capture aura by emphasizing its appeal in the digital world. Their use of the Internet was to liberate music from the constraints of physical commodities and exchange value. Merriweather strives to place itself under the umbrella of all digital experiences.  In a way, Merriweather adopts Adorno’s belief but with a more optimistic spin. Yes, everything on the Internet is valueless, but sometimes it can also be beautiful.

Comments

• December 15, 2009, Devon writes: Monsieur Reynolds! Welcome to the fold... or the bunch of bananas... or something. :-) Good article. Though I do hope I exist in a world outside the internet... and that said world continues long into the future. Best, D.
• December 15, 2009, Kimberley writes: I still buy records. I like to think I am more concious when I am purchasing something now - after learning of alfuenza. I look at 1) packaging, 2) the music on it, 3) if I actually have the money, 4) how bad I want it, impulse shopping is forgivable. Even more so when the record is actually good. Downloading is a brilliant advantage. However as you stated it does not garner the satisfaction that buying a record does. I share a lot of ideas that Bradford Cox does - he said somewhere that you lose the joy of anticipation, expectation and excitement as you would waiting for a release, it's almost a fetish. Additionally, downloading is poisoning the music industry in a sense too - where the entire Deerhunter album was leaked against the artist's wishes... So naturally they followed it up with an additional record. Total tangent. As a student I have to download because I simply can't own EVERY album I want to listen to. I sure do try though.
• December 16, 2009, James Chow writes: Dang, I never thought of Merriweather Post Pavilion's artwork this way. I still love my hard copies of albums but your article gives me a lot to think about and a theorist to add to my arsenal. I look forward to reading more of your work.

I admit it, I’m a bit of a holiday cynic and a theatre snob, so you can understand my natural disdain for these things. I call them "spectacles" because they certainly can’t pass for theatre. Theatrical yes, but lines have to be drawn. I’ll appease the musical theatre lovers out there and say I draw the line at pantomime, as too much is crammed into one show, the costumes are gaudy and the acting campy, the plot doesn’t actually teach you anything, and the only thing you take away from it is a headache.

Actually, that seems kind of like Christmas dinner with the family… Wait, am I allowed to say Christmas? I mean, “seasonal” dinner… What’s the multicultural Toronto standard greeting? Happy Holidays?

Perhaps what pantomimes have in their favour is that they’re the one festive tradition that is relatively all-inclusive and remarkably non-religious. In fact, they follow a rather strict formula that prevents them from being religiously insufferable or offensive (or terribly interesting). The basic recipe for a pantomime is as follows:

The Almost Perfect Pantomime
Ingredients:
1 Theatre space
1 Old school fairytale - the Disney version, not the Brothers Grimm one (please follow this instruction carefully as it will effect the entire outcome of your panto)
1 Young woman
1 Young boy
1 Middle aged man
1 Old woman
1 Beautiful damsel (“in distress” is recommended, but if you can’t find this try substituting with “dumb but pretty”)
1 Nasty villain
3 Dollops of evil
3 tsp of good intentions (can be substituted with pure good extract)
6 Dollops of pure good
5-10 Songs (amount varies based on size of panto)
5-10 Dances (amount varies based on size of panto)
3 Moments of slapstick comedy
3 Moments of completely topical jokes
100 Servings of Cheese (preferably bad political jokes, campy acting, and audience participation, but any kind of cheese will do)
A dash of sexual innuendo.

Directions:
Sell tickets that cost a ridiculously large amount of money.
Begin telling the fairytale.
Mix young woman and young boy to produce the hero of the tale (and subsequently confuse the hell out of children who can’t understand why Peter Pan looks like a girl).
Mix middle aged man and old woman to produce the traditional dame.
Blend in beautiful damsel and nasty villain. Whip together with songs and dances for taste (add enough so that it’s not good taste).
Add good intentions and evil in a separate bowl, gradually stir the mixture into the main batter with equal parts of pure good.
Add the slapstick comedy, beat on high for 2 minutes, continue beating on low speed for 8 minutes.
Add topical jokes to taste.
Fill the theatre with talkative families and crying babies. Pour pantomime over entire audience and top with cheese.
Sprinkle sexual innuendo over the heads of the younger audience, and add more cheese.
Serve to a willing (and now penniless) audience.

While it’s arguable if pantomimes and similar spectacles are good theatre, they can (I grudgingly admit) be good fun. But do yourself a favour, skip Ross Petty’s pantomime at the Elgin Theatre and check out one at your local community theatre.
And, to help you get through seeing such ridiculous shows, here’s a recipe for a different kind of pantomime that you're likely to need during this holiday season:

The Perfect Pantomime
Ingredients:
1 Egg white
3 Drops of Grenadine
1.5 oz of dry vermouth
3 Drops of orgeat syrup

Directions:
Fill mixing glass with ice and ingredients
Shake, and strain into a chilled cocktail glass.
Voila! Instant holiday cheer. Drink before Christmas shopping, attending family functions, or seeing pantomimes.

The tour begins in the entrance hall. At the foot of a sweeping circular staircase, a tour guide tells the story of how a box of documents, pertaining to the estate, landed on The Grange's doorstep. Among these documents were found the detailed Pantry Books of Henry Whyte (the butler who served the Boulton family in the 1840s and 50s) and a strange sketched map of the house, with certain places marked, like a treasure map. In his Pantry logs, Whyte describes the odd behaviour of one maid, a young Irish immigrant named Mary O'Shea, who he observed illicitly collecting candle wax, and hiding mysterious objects in the architecture of the house. Anthropological Services Ontario was brought in, and under Dr. Chantal Lee, the excavations began. The tour moves through the house, from excavation site to site as the story unfolds.

Many of those marked spots on the map denote the hiding places for some very curious objects: balls and bricks and plugs of wax and clay, fairly crude, moulded mostly by hand, and containing objects and substances that invoke homesickness (a bundle of letters, a flower from Ireland), and folklore and witchcraft (a child's tooth, a rabbit skull, flakes of human blood...). A wide selection of these artefacts are displayed in a laboratory set-up in the Library, and in glass cases, labelled like museum pieces, all tentatively attributed to "Amber" (Whyte's code-name for O'Shea). The grand finale of the tour is in a small secret chamber in the basement: O'Shea's plastered-up work room, hidden until Dr. Lee began knocking on walls and measuring floorboards for mysterious draughts. The tours are participatory, and visitors are encouraged to chime in with observations of their own. Afterward, visitors are handed a small leaflet and encouraged by the guide to contact Dr. Lee should they have any comments, questions or insights into, perhaps, heretofore undocumented folk practices.

It's enough to switch any third grader's career goal from astronaut to archaeologist in a blink. It's also a lie.

The leaflet is titled "Excavation Notes 03/2009" but the message is a meandering, soft-footed letter of disclosure, signed "Iris Häussler." Häussler is the non-fictitious, contemporary artist behind this whole elaborate theatre of an art installation. Its official title is "He Named Her Amber." The only clue during the tour that all may not be as it seems rests in the Library, in an out-of-the-way display case of 1850s-period items: three rosaries are draped so as to spell "A R T."

Born in Germany, Häussler studied at the Academy of Fine Arts in Munich. She has lived and worked in Toronto since 2001. In 2006 she gained local Torontonian recognition with "The Legacy of Joseph Wagenbach." I had the pleasure of hearing Häussler talk about "Amber," her working methods and inspirations, back in November when she visited York University. Tall, thin and intense, Häussler never does anything by halves.

"I am not a set maker, I have to feel things, know their structure, I want to bite into things." Her interest includes, to the point of obsession, the whole of some thing, not only its surface. Though embedded in a fiction, her creations are physically real through and through. All of the artefacts in "He Named Her Amber" are true to their placards in all but age and parentage. All their odd contents are all exactly as described. With 700 lbs of Manitoba beeswax in her studio and weeks as a social recluse, Häussler went into character as Mary O'Shea. "You feel you are betraying history by using an electric heating pot" she laughs, but apart from the twenty-first century transport from studio to the AGO, that heating pot is about all the anachronism she allowed. There is a shamanistic aspect to Häussler's work, like a novelist channeling various characters, but instead of into words, it is into her movements, into her physical creations.

In fact, she describes "He Named Her Amber" as a novel in three dimensions. This description invokes up the matter of "willing suspension of disbelief." With a novel, suspension is always willing; with "He Called Her Amber," the only will is that of the artist, and subservient to that, the curator, and the tour-guide actor. In short, belief is tied up with the dynamics of authority. In some respects, this feeds into a sensitive interaction with the space, yet in other respects becomes a breach of public trust that isn't neutral or kind.

"He Named Her Amber" investigates the myth of The 1817 Grange as Toronto's oldest house. When Häussler prospected The Grange for "Amber," she was surprised to find drywall. Further surprise came in the form of slides documenting the gutting and re-modelling of the entire building's interiors during the 1970s to better fit the idea of an "historical" 1840s manor house. It was then that the Bolton family's square-cornered staircase was replaced with a sweeping, free-standing steel structure deemed to be more historically "accurate." All but a few furniture items are "period," not from the original house, the basement kitchen floor is new wood over a concrete slab... and yet, the Grange has a history of presenting itself, without disclosure, as Toronto's oldest house, with actors in costume giving tours and baking bread for visitors. There are no records of the servants prior to 1857, and after all the house has been through, the practical likelihood of anything like O'Shea's creations surviving is so slim as to be ridiculous. What Häussler does with the house is reach through those promotional myths to dig fingers into the very clay the house stands on.

"He Named Her Amber" has a clear goal to provoke challenges to authority. By tricking visitors, Häussler underlines the trust they placed in the curator and administrators of The Grange, in A.S.O.'s appearance of professionalism, and in the tour-guides. This comes, at least in part, from Häussler's own cultural background in Germany: "with my parents and grandparents, I have to challenge authorities—it's just part of my inner task."

However, she approaches this task from the position of an authority, and so any resulting challenge is, in part, to her own authority. She distanced herself from the work by sending the woman who plays Dr. Lee to the opening, and her name did not appear on the list of artists commissioned by the new AGO — the effect is only to solidify Häussler's control of the situation. The power dynamic is rigged, and the audience is subjected to a bait and switch.

There is a fundamental difference between experiencing this artwork with or without prior knowledge of its fiction. To those who have prior knowledge, the presentation may not be very convincing, for the key issues are contemporary art issues of direction, redirection, directness of experience and site-specificity. The idea is that the visitors find some more direct engagement with the art because they do not know it is art.

For those who do not have that prior knowledge, the core issue is of deceit — for above all else, the installation deceives the uninitiated. There is no "more direct" experience, only different frames. To approach "He Named Her Amber" as contemporary art is to see it after the illusions have been stripped away. To approach it as an archaeological presentation is to be "had," to be the butt of a prank. A very smart and elaborate prank, but a prank nonetheless.

This is not to say that it can't be fun to be tricked. I myself did not mind it. Nevertheless, I know a great many are not so pleased, and I think their experiences should not be dismissed out of hand under the umbrella of "they didn't understand" (as is to often a tendency of art officials, alas). In fact, I think it would be quite contrary to the intent of the piece to do so.

The buzz of getting caught up in this mysterious story does not come without a cost. Glee may be killed by disappointment, and "He Named Her Amber" is a set up for disappointment. Häussler sets her audience up for a fall and as much as I adore the installation, as much as it has been some of the most interesting art I've seen in years, and as much as I enjoyed being tricked, I am not certain that it is dignified, respectful or right. I am not certain that this glorified prank is not, in fact, unjustifiably cruel.

In spite of all my reservations, I'd give "He Named Her Amber'" a big high-five if it had hands. The craftsmanship is exquisite, the story is captivating, and I highly recommend taking a tour as a piece of truly excellent site-specific theatre.

The exhibit is slated to be open until April 26, 2010.

Comments

• December 16, 2009, MikiU writes: Thank you, I enjoyed your article! I must declare my immediate bias and obvious subjectivity being one of the narrators that Iris trained (created more like it). Beautifully clever and sensitive analysis of the installation I do disagree though when you say that Iris "sets up the audience for a fall" ... As I see it, the audience is part of the piece, they play their own role and, it is never the intent to deceive in the long run, just to challenge and the audience reactions: from boliing outrage to sublime bliss is part of the piece too.

Synopsis – Spoiler Warning

Jingle all the Way tells the story of modern day, overworked father Howard Langston (Schwarzenegger) near Christmas time. He cares about his family, but is so busy with his business that he is consistently missing events in their lives. After disappointing his son Jamie (Jake Lloyd), he promises to get him an action figure of his favourite super hero, Turboman. Unfortunately for Howard, it is Christmas Eve, he forgot to pick up the doll weeks ago like he should have, and of course Turboman is the must-have toy of this holiday season. Howard spends the entire day doing everything in his power to obtain the coveted doll and is mostly unsuccessful. Along the way he must deal with crazed crowds of parents, a slightly psychotic mailman (Sinbad), an angry motorcycle cop, his sleazy next-door neighbour (Phil Hartman) who has sights on his wife, and a counterfeiting ring led by department store Santas.

All of his wacky adventures lead him to do terrible things to other people all in search of Turboman. Harming children, starting fires, blowing up a radio station, and of course punching a reindeer in the face all seem par for what Howard is willing to do for his family. Howard and Myron the mailman end up crashing the Christmas parade as Turboman and his arch nemesis respectively. After an action packed sequence involving a real supersuit, Howard is successful in awarding Jake with Turboman doll from the parade. However, Jake proves that children are wisest and ends up giving the doll to Myron, explaining that he doesn’t need it since he has a real Turboman in his life. In the end, the Langstons live happily ever after… until Howard remembers he forgot to get a present for his wife.

Sarah

Oh a holiday movie! The only thing people love more than holiday movies is sex (which is different kind of movie all together…). Jingle all the Way is more than just a holiday film though; it’s a family action movie chockfull of morals.

What is with the family drama of the 90s? It seems almost every PG movie from that era revolves around an absentee dad (either divorced and over-worked, or on the verge of divorce because he is over-worked) and his struggle to win back the love of his family. Apparently dads in the 90s just sucked, and Arnie is no exception, proving once more that the Governator is a man of the people.

I get it: it’s an endearing tale about the importance of family, after all, the perfect family is a quintessential part of the American Dream. What better time to address family problems than at Christmas? However, while the onscreen wife is there to chastise the father figure for his douchebaggery, the audience is expected to develop a soft spot for this unexpected hero. I’ve never understood Hollywood’s message in this. Only your wife should be mad if you suck as a parent? Love is measured in the one time you don’t fuck up? We’re meant to laugh when the patriarchal hero drinks, gets violent, vandalizes, and practices identity theft, and we do (even if it’s only funny in an ironic sense). What is that teaching the kids? What did that teach those of us who were kids of the 90s?

Daniel

Okay, so Arnie can hardly be considered to be the father of the year. He is overworked and largely absent from his family’s life for the most part. But I would like to think that his heart is in the right place. True, he completely forgets about his son until the last minute, but all the crap that he goes through on Christmas Eve proves his undying commitment to his family. If Hollywood has taught me anything it is that a big stupid gesture is the perfect thing to win the affections of just about anyone.

None of this really matters to the kid though. All he cares about is getting his Turboman and maintaining his status in whatever social hierarchy that exists for a ten year old boy. Indeed the entire film is a commentary about our tendencies towards consumerism. The parents in the film are willing to do just about anything to get their hands on Turboman simply because the doll was marketed towards children as the hot new toy of the year. And when I say anything I really mean it. There are depictions in this movie of adults turning into animals. Trampling, fighting, dirty tricks, counterfeit toys, breaking and entering, animal abuse, arson, and assaulting children are all things that the freaking protagonist does all to get his hands on a simple little doll. The sad part about all this is that shit like this happens in real life. Every year after “Black Friday,” you hear of several people that were injured or killed. It just shows what a person is willing to go through to buy someone’s love.

Sarah

I think you’ve got that a little backwards Dan. You’re right, this film is about consumerism, but it’s also about the American dream, and there’s an innocence in it. All the parents care about is getting the Turboman doll and maintaining their child’s status, but all the kid cares about is actually having his dad around. Every time the kid is disappointed it’s not because he doesn’t have the right toys, it’s because his dad isn’t around doing the things that all the other dads are doing.

Speaking of dads, that "father of the year" award apparently belongs to Ted, the Langston’s neighbour. He seems to be the perfect dad (his child’s Turboman has been safely tucked under the tree for weeks) but isn’t in an ideal family situation. Having recently been through a divorce, Ted is on the prowl for a new Mrs. He manages to impress all the neighbourhood mothers, and even weasels his way into Arnie’s house and starts putting moves on his wife. While it’s tempting to villainize him for his over-the-top actions and pompous attitude, for his creepy nature, and hitting on someone’s wife… I feel a bit of pity towards him. After all, he’s only trying to make a family whole again, and a perfect family is only slightly less important than consumerism

Daniel

I agree, it is tempting to cast Ted as a villain. So, that is exactly what I plan to do. He isn’t really concerned with the well-being of his family unit. In fact, he only uses his son as a prop to score with the neighbourhood MILFs. He can be contrasted almost directly to Howard. While Howard is willing to do nearly anything in order to make his family happy for Christmas, Ted is willing to use his son in order to achieve his own happiness. The man goes out and creates a hallmark Christmas, complete with nativity scene and reindeer in order to improve his own status.

It is the other villainous father in this movie, Myron, who is much more sympathetic in my humble opinion. Myron, the psychotic postman, is in much of the same place as Howard. His devotion to give his son a good Christmas is simply more intense than anybody's should be. He too resorts to dirty tricks and child endangerment in order to obtain a coveted Turboman. His difference is that he doesn’t seem to know where the line is. While Howard is not above buying a cheap counterfeit knockoff from a group of angry Santas, Myron goes ahead and tries to blow up a radio station. This situation all comes to a head when both Arnie and Sinbad crash the parade playing the literal versions of hero and villain.

Sarah

Isn’t it strange is that Arnold’s “heroism” in the end is based on a lie? Great, he dressed up in a parade and rescued his son, but that wasn’t part of his master plan as he leads his family to believe. That was a fluke, he just happened to be there with the psychotic postman (it should be noted: Myron didn’t receive the gift he wanted as a kid, and thus grew up to be an alcoholic and troubled father) when things went wrong. The amount of dishonesty here kind of irks me. Of course everyone’s distracted from the fact that he lied due to fancy jet packs, a rooftop rescue, and a big shiny musical score to accompany the epic adventure.

Wait, how did we get this far into the discussion without mentioning the fact that Arnie punches a reindeer in the face?! Pure awesome! And a little bit tragic, especially given that it’s the Christmas season. Normally I don’t condone animal abuse, but taking on a charging animal with your bare hands is pretty impressive. That, and he kicks the flaming head of a wise man through a window. Maybe Arnie isn’t a poor dad, he just has reclusive tendencies, can’t relate to authority, and has unresolved issues with the social pressures of Christmas.

Daniel

Maybe all these terrible things that the characters end up doing throughout the movie is not indicative of whom they are really. Maybe we just caught up with them on a really, really bad day. It is my opinion that it is Christmas that brings out the worst in people. With everybody so obsessed with obtaining presents, decorations, and the plethora of other holiday schwag, people ignore their fellow man. The obsession that people seem to have with making their own family’s Christmas perfect has allowed them to feel it is okay to destroy anyone else’s Christmas. Perhaps the real moral of this ridiculous Christmas fable is that the holidays really do bring out the worst in people. So for this holiday season, try not to set your sights too high and just enjoy the company of others.

Lessons Learned

1. Christmas makes people do terrible, terrible things.
2. Consumerism is a bad thing, but still less important than family.
3. Its Turbo Time!!!
4. “Going Postal” is not just an expression.
5. If you don’t buy the toy your kid wants for Christmas, he will grow up to be an alcoholic and a bad father.
6. A big stupid gesture near the holidays can heal all wounds.
7. The best defense against a reindeer is a closed fist.

Comments

• December 15, 2009, rp writes: Awesome article :)

￭

A few years ago, my family home was under renovation, and I got to talking with our contractor, Tyson. As it turned out, we were both into science fiction.
“Have you ever been to Bakka-Phoenix?” he asked.
“Bakka wha...?”
“Bakka-Phoenix. Best independent bookstore in Toronto. It specializes in genre fiction. They’re located at 697 Queen Street West. Their phone number is 416-963-9993, and their website is bakkaphoenixbooks.com. You should check it out.”

Alright, so maybe those weren’t his exact words, but that was what he meant to say.
Fast-forward to December 12th, 2009:

One store, a bastion of dignity, in fair Toronto where we lay our scene. It’s a frigid winter afternoon, though SB editor Curran tells me this is nothing compared to Edmonton. He proceeds to insult my manliness and the thinness of my baby-soft, well moisturized skin. SB’s photographer, Matt, dashes gallantly about, snapping photos of the shelves packed with colourful book spines for this article’s cover, navigating the bustle of regular customers and newcomers at Bakka-Phoenix’s Christmas gathering. There’s free food and drinks. Curran and I munch on cookies and watch Matt work.  Local author Paul Chafe signs books at the back of the store.

When things finally begin to calm down and the crowd has thinned out, store manager Chris Szego leads me into the back room, which could easily double as a meat freezer. We clear books and winter apparel off two chairs and the interview begins.

￭

Bakka Phoenix manager Chris Szego loves Sci-Fi books, and yes, she even reccommends a few.

But first! A little bit about Chris. Chris Szego was a regular customer of Bakka-Phoenix before being hired as the manager in 2000. Her interest in genre fiction began as a childhood obsession with fairy tales. Chris is also a writer. She has published genre and non-genre fiction, poetry, and non-fiction. She writes a regular column for The Cultural Gutter on romance novels, because the fantasy and science fiction column was taken. She writes regularly for the Canadian Booksellers Association. She has also written for Gardening Life, Realms of Fantasy, Strange Horizons, and a number of other publications. In 2008 she won the Toronto Star short story award, which funded a lovely vacation to Italy. You can read her winning story “Cry Wolf.”

￭

[My interview skills being unmatched in the realm of reporting, I begin by stating an obvious fact advertised on the Bakka-Phoenix website.]

Me: So, Bakka Phoenix is Canada’s oldest Science Fiction bookstore.

Chris: That’s very true.

[When my statement yields the obvious answer, I move onto a figure from my Wikipedia research.]

Me: Yeah, since... What is it... since nineteen-seventy...?

Chris: 1972. Yes. In fact, there aren’t even all that many left. As far as I’m aware I think that the White Dwarf is still out in Vancouver, but the other ones... Nebula in Montreal is gone, and there was House of Speculative Fiction. That’s gone. But we’ve been around since 1972, and it’s changed hands three times. In 1980, it was purchased from the original owner [Charles McKee] by John Rose, who owned it from 1980 until 2003 when it changed hands and Ben Freiman [the current owner] came on. That was when we added the “Phoenix” so that it is “Bakka-Phoenix Books,” and that was something new, something reborn. But we have been continuously in operation. We are probably one of the oldest in North America, although that I’m not entirely certain about, so... but I do know we are the oldest in Canada.

Me: Cool. And there have been a number of big Canadian sf writers here who... [...who have worked at Bakka-Phoenix.  I articulate this inarticulately.]

Chris: [Chuckles] We used to joke with John, the former owner, that for someone who had no desire to write, he was sending out into the world a... you know, his army of minions, science fiction minions, to spread the word of John everywhere because, you know, Rob Sawyer, Tanya Huff, Fiona Patton, Michelle Sagara, Cory Doctorow, Nalo Hopkinson, Karina Sumner-Smith, Leah Bobet, yeah, it just goes on and on. And... you know, did I mention Cory Doctorow? He’s someone that people may have heard of: a young up-start named Cory Doctorow [sf writer and co-editor of Boing Boing.] Yeah, so lots of people have, and it’s partly because writers are often drawn to bookstore work. Frankly, I think that for many people who want to make a living writing fiction, it should be required. It should be like a class you have to take. This is the year you spend working in the bookstore.

Me: I still have to take that class.

[We laugh at my dazzling wit and subtle plea for paid employment. In the background, Karina Sumner-Smith’s cell phone begins to ring in her purse.]

Chris: It’s a good class! If nothing else, it teaches you about the book as product. Which, while not soulless and heartless, particularly not in an independent setting, it is also fact, and you need to be aware of that, as your book isn’t... As a writer your book is your baby, it’s your precious [obligatory Lord of the Rings reference], you’ve spent the blood, sweat and tears etcetera, etcetera. It has meant everything to you for so long. It is, however, one book on a shelf, you know? And there’s a hundred other books on that shelf and five-hundred more on the bay and sixty bays in the store. And just learning that, and learning to be comfortable with large stacks of books, and with the process of publishing, of getting the hardcover into paperback, length of time between books by certain authors, length of time between books by the same author, at certain publishers versus other publishers -- just the cycles of the publishing industry. You just begin to absorb them in the same way you absorb the cycles of the academic year just by being a student. You don’t have to study that. You just get it. And I think that’s really valuable. I think more writers need to know that. It would certainly save them on some of the heartbreak of “Oh my God!  Why is my first book not an instant bestseller!?!”

[The backroom door opens behind me. Someone enters the scene. Cue foreboding music.]

Someone: Sorry, Chris! For parking, they say they’re only supposed to park for three hours? Do they need to try to find another parking spot?

Chris: No, they can stay in the same spot. They just need to get a new ticket.

Someone: O.K. Thank you!

Me: I’ll cut that out, don’t worry.

[Laughter.]

Chris: Ah, the glamour!

Me: Yes, the glamour. So, as you mentioned, Bakka’s of course an independent bookstore. What do you feel about the current environment for independent booksellers right now, and the future of independent bookstores?

Chris: That’s a good one. [For the record, I only ask good questions.] It’s one of those either-or’s. [Karina’s phone starts to ring again.] On the one hand, it is a really good time for independent bookstores, largely in the sense that the ones that were not well run are dead now. They were culled. [The following may disturb some readers. Reader discretion is advised.] When Chapters first came on the scene, a lot of independent bookstores got chewed up and spit up. When Indigo came on the scene and the two of them went directly head-to-head competing with one another, bookstores dropped like flies. It was a horrible time. I actually left Chapters for an independent [Bakka] when Indigo was just starting up.

[Someone Else enters.]

Someone Else: Knock knock! Hi!

[Oh, it’s Paul Chafe. The sub-plot thickens.]

Paul: Hey, I’m just looking for my coat.

Chris: I hung your coat around the corner. At the end of that coat rack.

Paul: Right on. I just have to move the car.

Chris: Oh, you don’t have to move the car. Just get a new ticket. You’re not on the north side, are you? You’re on our side of the street?

Paul: Yes. We have the perfect parking place actually. It’s right in front of the store.

Chris: Then all you need is a new ticket. You don’t have to move the car.

Paul: Right on. Just have to find some change... Where’s my change? Here we go. Cheers!

[Exit Paul Chafe.]

Chris: Um... independent bookstores.

Me: Yes.

Chris: Yes. Tough times. Lots of wonderful independent bookstores disappeared, because they are often a labour of love. You don’t make a lot of money. You do not go into bookselling to make a lot of money. In the same way, you don’t go into a career writing fiction, particularly... well, actually, not particularly genre fiction, but you don’t go into it expecting to make a lot of money. You do it because you love it and if you make a lot of money that’s a nice bonus. However, after... well, the first big blow was the advent of GST [Goods and Service Tax for all you non-Canadian readers] to books, because when they brought in the GST they always swore that it wouldn’t apply to books and then suddenly it did. Right at the end. That caused a huge drop in... for instance, with Bakka-Phoenix it caused a huge drop in our used book sales. Like, huge. Eighty-five percent vanished pretty much overnight. [Karina’s phone starts to ring again.] Then came Chapters, the rise of the big box store, then came Indigo, and it was bloody in Toronto, the in-fighting. They would open stores directly across the street from one another and kill every independent in a kilometre radius, because nobody could afford to discount everything forty percent. And then Indigo emerged triumphant and swallowed Chapters and things levelled off. Then Amazon came online and there was another big, uh... readjustment. But in many ways it has stabilized, which means that many of the bookstores that are still here are here, and they do so by specializing. You can find way more books on Amazon than you can find in my store, but you can’t talk to anybody about them. You can read online reviews, but let’s face it, an Amazon review is worth only what you choose to let it be worth. You know, people write “This book sucks,” and they spell book “B-U-K” and sucks “S-U-X,” and you know this is something you don’t need to pay attention to. You can’t ask the friendly staff person. You can in the sense of the algorithm that they program. You can get suggestions for “if you liked x, y, and z you might also like 1, 2, and 3,” but that’s based on math rather than language, and books are all about language.  People come to us looking for recommendations all the time, and speaking of math, we do try to triangulate to get a sense of other things that they have liked.

Me: Yes, I’m familiar with the “pick three books” system at Bakka, or “pick three authors.”

Chris: Yes, I shouldn’t downplay the math entirely, but it’s also not random, and human beings are still good for that. Also, it fosters a sense of community, which, in a city, is easier to do then... If you live out in a small town in the middle of nowhere you might not have access to these books anywhere now, except online. And for that I think it’s great.

[Enter Karina.]

Chris: [To Karina.] You’ve been chiming like crazy.

Karina: I’m sorry.

Me: Karina, how dare you.

[The cell phone is beaten. Its cries are silenced. Exit Karina, stage left.]

Chris: But in Toronto, you have access to pretty much any kind of bookstore you want. You want all business books, we’ve got that, you want science fiction, we’ve got that, you want mystery, psychology, feminist literature, all of that, we have it. Again, we’re a large urban center, so it’s made possible that way. But you’ll notice, the independent bookstores, they pick one thing that they do well and then they do it. So yeah, as I said earlier, if you’re still around, it’s likely because you’re good at what you do, and if you are good at what you do, you will likely be around for quite some time. I hope.

Me: And speaking of being around: the move.

Chris: Yes, exciting! We moved into this location on Queen West... it’ll be five years ago in February since we moved. It was a hellish process. We had a very short period of time in which to find a location, grab it, and move into it. It was not without excitement, but it was also a huge amount of work.  Really frightening.  And I swore that the next time we moved, just the notion of moving would be a sign from the gods that I needed a new job. And instead I’m really looking forward to this. We will be moving in the spring to 84 Harbord St. It is the north-west corner of Harbord and Spadina. We will have at least twice as much space. Possibly more. And one of the things I’m really excited about, and Ben is, and all of the staff is, is that some of our space will be dedicated to... space, so that we can actually begin to have a formal physical community in the same way that we have a mental and emotional community.

Me: Chairs!

Chris: We will have chairs! We’ve already had one gaming group approach us saying they would like to have their gaming club there. That will be once a month. We would like to have a place that a writer’s group could meet. That a book club could meet. And our new space will offer that. So yeah, it’s exciting.

[Exeunt.]

￭

The new Bakka-Phoenix will open sometime in the Spring of 2010 at 84 Harbord Street. It will have two floors (the current location has one). Plus it will be a five minute walk from Spadina subway station.  Keep updated via the Bakka-Phoenix blog.

I know that no one feels really comfortable describing their own art, but if you happen to be privy to the genre-bending glories and technical brilliance of Muskox, you’ll no doubt agree that it would take a music writer of Herculean literary prowess, with monstrous prose of steel in order to tackle the very surface of this Toronto-based sextet. And with this chaotic yet monolithic concoction made from the finest Americana, Jazz and Avant-Garde Minimalism, to listen is to be as rewarding as it is baffling.

“Essentially it’s just whatever I’m hearing that’s interesting me,” explains an exacerbated Mike Smith, chief composer and banjo-player for this unique outfit, “But also within the shackles of that group of instruments that I’m working with and going by the music I’ve written already. But in terms of where it started, I started this project initially the first time I started hearing things like Steve Reich. And this was years and years ago, but I started thinking about taking that and applying it to a jazz equation.

“At the time I was interested in writing large-ensemble jazz music, like jazz orchestra stuff and looking at how the rhythm section functions within that, like piano, bass, guitar. I thought, ‘OK, their job is to provide harmonic accompaniment, what if I make these constructions minimalist pieces and have that as sort of the engine that the melodic stuff can form over.’ So it keeps the same function but does it in a much stricter way; it’s a heavily dictated way, but it’s also a lot freer rhythmically, it’s a little more floaty. So I was playing off of that idea but at the same time got really into Captain Beefheart and listen to the jagged, irregular rhythms and basically played around with that kind of stuff for quite a while trying to find something that worked.”

You see what I mean? Muskox is not an easy act to wrap one’s head around; though let’s be honest here for a second, that is not something that any Steve Reich fan would really want of his audience. Unfortunately, or perhaps extremely fortunately, the plot only thickens from here as Reich and Captain Beefheart are only the beginning for this, the mysterious case of the perplexing, gorgeous Muskox. Smith continues:

“And then I saw a band called Town and Country, from Chicago, they’re this sort of crazy, I guess kind of improv band but that did really slow, long pieces with a very similar instrumentation – that’s where I first saw someone really use a harmonium. They had a couple of bass players, they were all playing hand bells; just a lot of stuff from the same sort of pallet that I was into and that sort of got me thinking that I could do this too. Since then the music I’ve written doesn’t really – well, there are similar characteristics, but it’s a lot faster, a lot more rhythmically active. Just hearing music like that inspires me, now it’s the same thing: I’m listening to tons of calypso now and really drawing a lot from those rhythmic textures.”

Utilizing an extremely idiosyncratic lineup of instruments and musicians – banjo, upright bass, cello, vibraphone, saxophone and harmonium – Smith is able to gain access to sonic territories that most have rarely experienced, and without fail these powers are used exclusively for good. Five Pieces, the first full-length release from Muskox after a slew of EPs over the past three years, released by local boutique label Standard Form, is a dense, intelligent and technically magnificent record that stands as both a fear of musicianship and composition. Smith’s composing is erratic but deliberate and his band is here in top form as they navigate Smith’s uncompromisingly demanding rhythmic and melodic feats of strength.

Each of the record’s five pieces stand out individually as being perfectly-crafted and isolated incidents of unheard glory (the tense, immediate “Slinger” is especially able to run on its own two legs as it pulses and churns with almost paranoid urgency), but taken together Five Pieces is a workout, an intense marathon of intricacies and wonder. It is a challenging album, but it is also an extremely rewarding one and it is a record that matches its own skill with an ever-present sense of whimsy and discovery.

“In some ways [switching to the full CD as opposed to the 3” mini-disc which all previous Muskox offerings have been released on] it was to get away from writing twenty minutes of music in one chunk,” Smith says of the new form of Five Pieces, “It represents stuff I’ve written roughly over the last year whereas on the three previous EPs it was more like a single idea stretched over three or four parts. This one is five distinct… pieces, or whatever, really trying out different concepts for each one.

Recorded at 6 Nassau, a relatively new studio in Kensington, Five Pieces certainly marks a distinct turning point in Smith’s composing. But as the soft-spoken, quirky banjo-player notes, his career with Muskox has hardly been constant.

“It’s funny because I never studied banjo, I studied double bass, that’s what I played at school and that’s what I played in this band for the first year and a half. Originally the group was just four and it was people who were really interested in approaching the type of music I wanted to make and one of them was a friend of mine – great banjo player. After a while – and everything’s written down, it’s all pre-composed, everyone just gets music in front of their faces and he was the only one who wasn’t a trained guy and he ended up getting – I don’t know if he got frustrated, but he left the group in any case.

“But I had all of this music I had written with banjo and just didn’t know anyone who could sort of play this stuff; but I knew the part so I said ‘OK, I guess I play banjo now.’ But in terms of where it fits in with the music… it’s definitely the oddest one, from the core of it and that’s because it has a fairly percussive sound, but it’s also very melodic so it fits in with the mallet percussion really well and with piano too, it’s a similar sort of sound. It’s suited to doing these really repetitive, kind of minimalist textures and then it’s just about countering that with long sounds as well, there’s the harmonium and the saxophone there now. Since then it’s only grown so I think we’re going to cap it at six people.”

So, I came up with a term for Muskox of my own and I’m going to try and coin it here and see how that goes. I’m not entirely confident about it, but I feel like it’s going to be the best we’re going to get for now: Post-Folk. I think Post-Folk is a pretty good way to go as far as Muskox is concerned, much in a way that the better Post-Rock groups blended elements of jazz and minimalism in with rock and roll instrumentation, so here does Muskox (to a degree) do with traditional folk. What we are left with is long, meandering (but always purposeful) pieces that utilize instruments – such as banjo – more commonly associated with Americana and fit them very successfully into an avant-garde mode. It isn’t easy doing your own thing against anything even resembling a grain, but with Muskox and their Five Pieces, Mike Smith is treading new territory hopefully, cheerfully and never without a sense of wonder.

How did your act get started?

Randolph- Dropping out of Bible College.

That inspired you to begin a music career?

Randolph- Yeah, that and free beer. Naw. I don’t know. I’ve always been making music. I just don’t know how to do anything else.

Adam- That’s a good answer.

That’s a much more modest answer than I’m used to. Not exactly a calling of art or drawing of swords...

Randolph- Well maybe that developed out of it but at first it’s like I just want to... Make music.

I read an online blurb that said you aspire to write the sound track to a space odyssey of some sort, is there some truth to that or is it just flavour text?

Randolph- It’s really just flavour. Everyone’s always coming up to me and asking, “Oh are you influenced by Nintendo or outer space?” and things like that. But how can you be influenced by Nintendo? Well I guess you can be influenced by Nintendo... But you know what I mean. I’m not basing all my music on outer space or Nintendo.

Well that’s a relief because when I’m listening to your music I’m thinking of fantasy unicorn.

Randolph- Yeah, that’s more along the lines of what I was going for.

But you have to admit, you are kind of asking for it. Your Myspace background is a wonderful collage of Sega Genesis sprites. Did you make that?

Randolph- Yeah I made that.

Sssoo cool.

Randolph- Yeah man. There’s some cool visuals out there.

Do you have a space for your own personal art as well?

Randolph- Yeah, I make art.

You make art?

Randolph- I attempt to make art. One kid said that it looked like something his little brother could draw with better ideas. That’s pretty accurate I guess. Like I’m not a good drawer at all, but I just put a lot in, draw a lot.

I had trouble finding you here because all the reference photos I’ve seen of you have your face obscured by masks and fog. I heard you mention you ran into some trouble at the border over that.

Randolph- Yeah the lady told us that ah... She pretty much was like... Y’know, saying that we were... We were crazy. She was saying that we were abnormal, I think that was the word she used.

How did she see those photos?

Adam- She looked us up!

Randolph- Oh yeah, she looked us up. She looked at our band page. She checked out where we were heading and was like, “Is this a bar?” And we know that yeah, this is a bar. And the other venue was also a bar. But we told her it was an “art space”. “I think it has something to do with the Toronto Film Festival.” “Oh really?”

Adam- She wasn’t having any of that.

Randolph- Yeah she wasn’t having any of it. My nickname when I was a kid was Eddie Hassle because I’d always get my friends to stay over for like a week, and I’d trick their moms. I’d sweet talk their moms when I was nine so that my friends could stay over. I thought those skills could come in handy at the border, but they didn’t.

What do you want to progress with your sound? What do you want to evolve?

Randolph- I think I want a better group of people to tour with. It’s sort of what I want to focus on right now.

Which I guess would be a good moment to talk to you Adam, since you’ve just joined up. How is this first outing going for you?

Adam- This is actually my second outing.

Oh, second?

Adam- Yeah, I toured with these guys in the summer too. It’s been a dream

Aww yee, the rock n roll life style maaan.

Adam- Livin’ the dreeem.

Party ev er ree day.

Randolph – Our parties are usually like, us staying at home, reading sci-fi. Talking about how we hate people.

For you, is it just that you want to bring some friends on the road?

Randolph- Well I do want to make really good music, but I think in the future we are going to try to go a lot more live, get rid of the laptop and stuff like that, set up a synth player, we’re looking at a four piece band. Aiming to record a new album in December, it’s going to be a lot darker.

But you used to tour alone?

Randolph- Yeah I did tour alone. I toured alone for about a year. And then I had a drummer, and then I had four people, then one quit and Adam joined full time.

Was the road lonely?

Randolph- No the road wasn’t that lonely, but it’s better to be with people to share the experience with. Plus I want to be done with working on a laptop, I don’t want to go solo anymore, I’m not into that kind of style. I’ve felt like I’ve taken it as far as I want to take it, so now it’s time to change it.

Changes?

Randolph- Yeah I think it’s going to change a lot. I’ve been listening to a lot more music for the first time in my life. I didn’t listen to a lot of music growing up so now I have these opinions about what I want and what I like in music. I feel like that more represents where I’m at as a person.

Any words for aspiring new artists?

Randolph- Uhhhm... Don’t write that much music.

Keep it concise?

Randolph- Do what you love.

And if you love Super Nintendo?

Randolph- Yeah that’s fine.

The seascape of this installment of Killin Food is ever a-changing. In the fish and chip scene in Toronto there have been some notable changes in the last few years: local Queen East favourite Wood Green has capsized permanently; Danforth and Broadview location Deep Blue has also abandoned ship, a location previously serving some of the more unique varieties of fish and chips that you were likely to find anywhere, including Jamaican Jerk Battered Cod and Corn Meal Battered Sea Scallops; British Style Fish and Chips at Coxwell and Dundas has reportedly changed management since opening, compromising the original reputation that the location had accrued through its previous tenants. Even the new location in Kensington Market, Somethin’s Fishy, did not last very long at all, apparently scraping bottom on the shallows of the current Torontonian economy.

With all these floundering locations in constant flux, I decided to plunge into the depths of the waters of Torontonian fish and chips to check which locations are still serving the top fish in the city.

Harbord Fish and Chips (147 Harbord Street)

Taking in the view from the outside while I wait for my compatriots, I have initial reservations about this: an older, grungy white painted brick building that filth seems to cling to from the outside, standing unconnected from its neighbours, a tarnished teal sign on the front affirming the location. Looking inside, there is practically no indoor seating besides a few miniature bar stools shored up to a counter by the tall front window, but customers do not seem interested in ordering and sticking around. As I wait for Me and the Real Ted Killin, no fewer than five people enter the tiny shop and leave with their meals, people ready to wait in line for this neighbourhood fish and chips.

The purveyor of fish stands behind an aluminum paneled counter, wearing a Nike ball cap and a teal apron that very nearly matches the sign out front. There are strangely two menus posted for such a small store, one above the counter and one against the front wall. There are potatoes deskinned in the sink, prepared for the final transformation into fresh chips. A batch of batter and a pile of newspapers to wrap to-go orders are always on hand, ready to be used at a moments noticed. A poster gives the customer the low down on the advantages of eating fish: “strong hearts help fish to overcome obstacles. Eat fish and imagine what you can do!”

The Real Ted Killin and I order a round of the higher priced halibut while Me orders a small order of six deep-fried shrimp. The cashier is very easy going and tosses Me a few fries to go with the order, even though they aren’t regularly included with the order itself; he just didn’t want Me to be left out!

All three of us take our offering and sit in the stands of a nearby high school track to eat. The newspaper was a great receptacle for the fish, and contributed to the ambiance of the meal, although I am slightly disappointed in the prepackaged vinegar and tartar sauce that Harbord serves. The fish itself is extremely well prepared: a lighter, flakier crust than I expect, bridging the gap between a tempura and a classic greasier coating, the fish and crispy chips able to retain their heat even in the high winds until I had finish gorging myself, the only remaining evidence a few blotches of grease on the newspaper.

Chippy’s (490 Bloor Street West and 893 Queen Street West)

After the disappointment of finding out about the absence of Deep Blue, a large group of diners ship out to descend upon the Bloor location of Chippy’s, a downtown eatery idolized by the common downtown resident to the point that there are now two locations. The Bloor West location looks very similar to the original Queen West location, but is more condensed and already dressed for the holiday season with black, red and silver bulbs dangling in the window.

The rest of the décor inside is fairly standard: the floor consists of black and white tiles, bulb lights hang from the ceiling and on several vintage coke adverts hang on white walls, in addition to fairly kitschy, fish-inspired porcelain models on small shelves that portray scenes of bears clasping fish and pairs of fishes in various poses. A counter runs around the outside edge of half the shop, offering bar stools as seating, and behind the wood grain cashier counter are several fryers and counter space which the employees use to prepare their fishy goods. When we order, I watch as he slices my salmon fillets, a fish that I have never before attempted in a deep-fried format.

Which, as it turns out, was a slight miscalculation. The dense quality of salmon does not fry as well as a lighter fish such as halibut or cod, and although the crumbly fish itself was fresh, the amount of grease involved is far too much: the thin paper plate offered for dining in soaked through long before I had finished, which is a little unnerving. However, the chips themselves are phenomenal: very thick, crispy and fresh, but I am glad that I did not take this meal to go, for while I unwittingly would wait to arrive home and eat, I would run the risk of the dense fish soaking the quality right out of the fries stacked in the thin container.

Reliable Fish and Chips (954 Queen Street East)

With such an audacious name, of course I have to test the claim. Will a fish and chippery named Reliable deliver every time?

I leap out of the cold into a small store on Queen east with massive fryers, the ample menu hung above. Across from the front desk the condiment stand holds dangling aluminum cups that contain peripherals such as straws and napkins. The owner addresses me immediately, but after I tell him I am having a sit-down meal he pulls out two sets of utensils and shows me to one of the few tables in the place. While waiting for Nuke, all I have to do is swivel my head around to take in the entirety of the chippery.

Metal sailboats and fish adorn the white walls, with framed pictures of sailboats sailing smoothly on calm waters, pictures of Queen east from 1959 and other newspaper articles are scattered around Reliable. The wall behind me has been stacked with empty screech bottles relabeled with the Reliable store logo, with a few left bearing their original label. A strong scent of vinegar pervades my table, the source of which is a spray bottle on a mist setting to lightly coat the fish. A final, large model sailboat sits atop a large fridge filled with drinks and condiments. In addition, behind my head are several fish and chip ditties that proudly declare love for this necessitous dish of the English, evoking pride, synaesthesia and hilarity all at once.

Nuke arrives and the owner is anxious to feed us, visiting several times within the span of five minutes. I grab the rainbow trout, which I have not seen at any other location yet, Nuke orders a haddock, and we grab a breaded clam dish to share for only $2.50, which arrives in no time at all with a side of shrimp sauce – I now prefer this chewy snack to deep-fried shrimp. When the fish arrives, I spray a fine mist of malt vinegar on the offering, while Nuke peppers his haddock, preparing for a well portioned sit down meal.

The haddock is always a good, subtle fish that responds well to the battering, and the rainbow trout has a stronger flavour, allowing the fish its independence to flourish while the same time lending itself well to the fryer. Yet after tackling both these dishes Nuke and I are still a mite peckish, so we decide to split a New England seafood chowder: bacon, fish, shrimp, clams and veggies (celery and carrots) in a light broth. Although Reliable has no business calling this dish a chowder, for the broth is so light that it must be a soup, the “chowder” is a blend of several interesting tastes with good texture nonetheless.

As I leave, I read a framed article that outlines the history of the fish and chips stand started by one A.W. Mongour (1886-1960). He had already owned a chip store, and named his second fish and chips stand Reliable when he moved locations to 258 Carlaw in 1934, which gives the claim to the Reliable brand as the oldest fish and chippery in the downtown core. And yes, the Reliable namesake holds true to this day: a friendly staff, a solid deep-fry and a comfortable atmosphere would keep Mongour proud to this day. For great eat-in fish and chips, Reliable should be your destination every time.

The poster inside Hardbord fish and chips shows a little fish escaping the bowl to swim into the bigger bowl, which turns out to be the perfect image for the Harbord location itself. Although the building itself is nothing special, the product alone is worth the trip. This niche store serves a veritable slew of customers and encourages you to take your fish to go, wrapped in a newspaper ala classic Britain, and the mountain of chips offered (my favourite chips of the lot) will sail delicately across your taste buds and challenge the capacity of your stomach.

Chippy's has turned out to be bit of a touchy subject for the fish and chip market, because in the middle of a number of capsizing fish stands, Chippy's has managed to thrive and actually expand to a new location. Yet I am not quite sure it deserves such reputable outlook. It is certainly the most expensive location. The salmon was fresh but certainly did not react well to the fryer. I have visited the Queen West location several times, and while I believe the higher priced Halibut to be the perfect fish for the fryer, the Chippy's price sits at a whopping $11.99, far more expensive than $8.99 at Harbord and just $6.95 at Reliable. There should be spectacular quality above the competitors to justify such a price, but I do not find the heavier, greasier batter to compete with the lighter, inexpensive offerings at the other fish and chip contenders. Chippy's surely is the most successful fish and chips downtown, but that certainly does not make it the port that I will frequent when my stomach hollers for fish.

Comments

• December 15, 2009, Kimberley writes: Have you been to the Fish Store on College. They're really great.
• December 24, 2009, Matthew Filipowich - It’s been a while writes: [...] Had fish-n-chips with Steel Bananas’ Mr. Ted Killin for December’s Steel Bananas. [...]

My name is Dani Crosby. I am a graduate of the Sheridan BAA Illustration program and am currently based in Oshawa Ontario. I put my personality, emotions, and twisted sense of humor directly into my work to create strong visual messages that words alone cannot convey. Through my work I love to make people from all walks of life think, and smile, and understand.

Visual communication touches people, crosses barriers and brings us together. I believe visual art is powerful enough to change anything from a person's perception of a brand to a person's perception of the world. I enjoy the building process behind each illustration, communicating with clients, listening to and fulfilling their visual communication needs. This is my passion.

I am grateful to work with clients who have challenged me to create a wide variety of illustrations for use in the production of: t-shirts, booklets, posters, buttons, magnets, cards, package art, the web, concepts for toys, 3-D sculpture work, logos, album art and editorial.  I enjoy creating my own products, participating in group and solo shows, and have also instructed art classes privately and through the local college and galleries.  I love it all, the people I meet, the things I experience, and cannot wait to see where this line of work takes me next.

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Bruce.

For the past three volumes, it’s been the mandate of this column to shed light on the unrecognized, uncanonized albums of the past that, for whatever reason, have been excluded from critical praise, relegated to classic/oldies radio formats or have been obscured by the frame they’ve received by societal perception. This month’s record, Bruce Springsteen’s Darkness on the Edge of Town, may or may not fall into this category. Based entirely on the thousands of conversations I’ve had with people (fans and non-fans alike) about the Boss, I can genuinely say that this album is typically both a fan favourite and an unknown blip on the radar of those free from Bruce obsession. It should also be noted that, while it barely cracked any best selling list when it was released in 1978, it has been very favourably reviewed in retrospect; there’s tons of journalism about this record.

But fuck it. I’ve often said that Born to Run is my favourite album of all time while Darkness… is my favourite within Springsteen’s catalogue. How can this be? Isn’t that a bit of a paradox? I guess the reason is that Darkness… plays out the necessary underside of Born to Run, the subject matter that’s only alluded to in the narratives of “Backstreets,” “Meeting Across the River” and “Jungleland.” Yes, it’s true: Bruce’s speaker can’t maintain his friendships, is in financial dire straights and is eventually gunned down by his own romantic ideals. But these (insanely condensed for the purposes of brevity) plot details represent the potential failure that makes the joyful victory hanging over Born to Run so powerful.

The two singles off of Darkness… were “Prove it All Night” and “Badlands,” the latter of which is the leadoff track of the album. “Badlands” has always occupied a weird space in Bruce’s catalogue for me because, as a child, a teenager and now, I guess sort of an adult, I’ve never really liked it. I mean, it’s okay. It’s anthemic. There’s a great build up and some cool humming. Oh, and a badass guitar solo. In a live setting it turns into a crazy soccer chant kind of thing with middle-aged women dancing and clapping all over the place. But I never really understood “Badlands” or its relationship with the rest of the record until this week.

“Badlands” is a joke about Born to Run. It’s the first piece of music released following “Jungleland,” the melodramatic and cryptic finale of Born to Run, but from the get-go it changes the game laid out three years previously. The song starts with the full band going at full steam, Bruce’s guitar growling in with his sinister 1978 tone. (We’ll get to an in depth description of the guitar tones on the album later in this piece.) Musically, the song is an anthem for the sake of an anthem, lacking the hope of Born To Run’s anthems. Lyrically, it does the same: he ends the first verse with the lyric “spend your life waiting for a moment that just don’t come, so don’t waste your time waiting.” The paradox is that in the bridge, he sings: “I believe in the love that you gave me / I believe in the faith that can save me / I believe in the hope and I pray that one day it may raise me / above these Badlands.” So which is it? I maintain that Bruce is paying lip service to the discursive tactics used on his previous records, the uplifting linguistics that made him famous and undercutting them with hopelessness that pervades.

While it may lack hope, “Badlands” doesn’t lack effort. The song is about physical and emotional work, the work that Bruce embarks on for the rest of Darkness on the Edge of Town. If you don’t believe me, stick around for “Adam Raised a Cain.” It begins with a shredding guitar lick situated on top of a deep dark groove that is untouched by any other part of Bruce’s catalogue. It’s pretty much Bruce’s most soulful vocal performance on top of the funkiest and grooviest the E Street Band ever gets (which is really saying something.) The song uses Biblical references to deal with the idea of dreams dying. Interestingly enough, Bruce still uses the rhetoric of dream in almost all of his music even though he’s very thoroughly revealed it’s fallacies time and time again: “In the darkness of your room, your mother calls you by your true name.” The idea of being unable to hide from your past, origins, etc. is problematic for Bruce, considering he’s constantly on a mission to inspire rising above real living conditions. The relationship with the mother seems to imply that there’s no way to escape an enforced history, familial or otherwise. The name she call you is your true one: “You’re born into this life paying for the sins of somebody else’s past."

The next song is the first of two companion pieces on the album, “Something in the Night.” The track that appears later in a symmetrical position is “Streets of Fire.” Both songs are organ and vocal driven, working towards a satisfaction that seems unknown to their speaker: “Nothing is forgotten or forgiven / when it’s your last time around / I got stuff runnin’ round my head / that I just can live down” from “Something…” works nicely with “When the night’s quiet and you don’t care anymore / and your eyes are tired and there’s someone at your door / And you realize you wanna let go” from “Streets…” The impossibility represented by both lyrics is ambiguous in context but not in philosophy; it’s obvious that Bruce’s speaker is defeated by the contents of his own mind.

I don’t wish to beat you over the head, fair reader, with the hopelessness of Darkness… if I haven’t done so already. Instead I will take a few moments to discuss Bruce Springsteen as a guitarist. The usual state of affairs in his recorded music favours nearly every instrument other than the guitar. But with this record something breaks. The E-Street band is still an extension of Bruce’s voice and passion but the weight of content is heavily contained in his vocal delivery and guitar solos. Each solo is, without fail, totally vicious in its distorted velocity and really solidifies Bruce as an amazing classic rock guitarist despite the fact that his big band aesthetic is not typically guitar heavy. My brother told me once that he was quoted as saying that he wouldn’t have made Darkness… such a guitar heavy album if he hadn’t been in such a low place in his life; I’ve never been able to find this quote anywhere, but I’m sure it must exist because of the role his guitar plays. You’ll be sure too if you listen to the record.

It’s fairly well documented that Bruce’s follow up to Born To Run was delayed by three years because of his lawsuit with former manager Mike Appel who fucked him out of a whole bunch of money following his success. The basic gist is that Bruce signed a contract with him as a friend, a young impressionable musician who never believed that the man that helped him get the success he felt he deserved would ever take advantage. Bruce seems reluctant to talk about it in the following interview, but he does make some interesting comments regarding the state on singles on the album:

(check out the interview here)

He says in this interview that he wants to hear “Badlands” on AM radio and that “Born to Run” wasn’t a particularly big hit. I’m not sure whether this is true. I mean, there are radio stations that have played it every Friday at 5pm since its release to signify the start of the weekend. I’m also not totally certain that he wanted there to be a great single on Darkness… more than he wanted it to be a great album. At the time he was frequently playing the songs “Fire” and “Because the Night” (recorded by Patti Smith but written by Bruce) live on a regular basis. I recommend listening to these songs to understand exactly what I mean. They’re basically guaranteed hits: sexy, swanky and anthemic. Rock n’ roll as all hell. Left off the record.

Then again, I guess it isn’t really cool to say in an interview that you don’t give a rat’s ass whether there’s a single on the record when you’re on a major label and doing some of your first TV interviews. I still think it’s indicative of growth in Bruce’s song writing and album construction that there isn’t a choice for marketability among a ten track record filled with unbelievable tunes. The truth, if there is one, doesn’t exist in the happy-go-lucky world of pop radio, where love and loss are just fodder for casual consumption. Darkness… represents the real existential crisis of wanting to grow beyond the expectations and illusions of everyday living without knowing how or why. It’s also not surprising that the Jersey Shore Magic Rat persona of Springsteen’s earlier records becomes obscured by a troubled masculinity that doesn’t know how to sing about emptiness and loss without metaphors involving vehicles, highways and street races. Everything in life cannot be earned by wishing and dreaming; it must be taken by force if necessary: “You hear their voices telling you not to go/ they made their choices and they’ll never know/ what it means to steal, to cheat, to lie/ what it’s like to live and die” (from “Prove it All Night”).

I guess the reason I wanted to write about this record is the fundamental ambiguity of its goal. No speaker ever has specific aims and the music wavers between near ambiance and borderline big-band punk. Springsteen is still completely non-political; the causes of frustration haven’t been located yet, they’re only alluded to, hinted at, vaguely revealed, a silhouette in smoke. Happiness dissolves in the air and something else must be burned in the hope of finding it again. This is the cost “for wanting things that can only be found / in the darkness on the edge of town”: the loss of narrative, the loss of goals, and the need to find hope in something fundamentally flawed and ultimately unrewarding.

It can be hard to build a relationship with an album whose catharsis is in loss if it isn’t found early. If you don’t listen to Nirvana when you’re a teenager, you’ll never like them. I remember scrawling lyrics from “The Promised Land” on my bedroom wall when I was 15 and my first girlfriend broke up with me. “Blow away the lies that leave you nothing but lost and brokenhearted” will always mean more to me than it will to someone on their first listen. And knowing the albums before and afterward helps too. But give it a chance and I’m sure you’ll find something. Other Springsteen records may be epic, inspiring and impressive, but Darkness on the Edge of Town will always be the most relatable because it can’t quite express what it’s looking for.

Comments

• December 15, 2009, robe lowson writes: The Light in Darkness Bruce Springsteen's Darkness on the Edge of Town broke new ground for The Boss in 1978. A counterpoint to the operatic elegance of Born to Run, the album was an angry, raw record that burst forth after a three-year hiatus. Because of its darker tones, some might call Darkness a difficult album, but despite this, it's a cherished gem for many. Collecting stories and photos from hundreds of fans, The Light in Darkness celebrates this classic record, allowing readers to revisit the excitement of that moment when the needle found the grooves in that first cut and the thundering power of "Badlands" shook across the hi-fi for the very first time. Or the uninitiated, but soon-to-be-converted teenager, brought along by friends and finding salvation at one of the legendary three-plus hour concerts - shows that embodied all the manic fury of a revival meeting.
• December 16, 2009, James Chow writes: Bravo. I can't wait for the deluxe edition of this album next year. I guess I'll just enjoy it on my computer for now. Keep up the good work.
• January 5, 2010, Danny G writes: Little brother. I finally read this. Very well done. The quote in question was actually a story told by Little Stephen on an episode of Underground Garage, before he played Adam Raised A Cain, funnily enough. He was discussing great rock and roll guitarists and how some of the best guitarists aren't the guitar heroes like Hendrix, Page and Van Halen, but rather guitarists who play with purpose in each note. Thus he reached Bruce and told an anecdote about how even though he (Bruce) only really grew guitar centric for one album, that being Darkness, he later told Stevie that if he could change one thing about the album, it would be not the guitar parts themselves, but the rawness of them. I think the album must remind Bruce of a pretty emotional place in his life.. It was recorded afterthree years of nonstop touring and legal battles (with Mike Appel, as you mentioned) and Bruce has publicly forgiven Appel now and even thanked him in his Rock and Roll Hall of Fame speech, at which Appel was present. It must be hard when some of your best work was driven by anger at a person you still consider a friend. However it's the rawness that give the album such vitality and honesty and a personality unlike any other Bruce record. It was the first time Bruce was writing about how he was feeling RIGHT NOW, not how he wanted to feel or thought he should feel or how he was seeing other people feel or even how he felt in the past. The album is present tense, as is pretty much all of Springsteens work after that point. The Born to Run ronnection is a subtle one and would have been even better if the album closed with The Promise (the bitter bookend to Thunder Road), as it was intended to. The live versions of the song are unreal, with Bruce alone on piano... the recorded version released on 18 Tracks in 98 is just ok. It seems like a one take cut. But with that rawness in 78.. it would have been a pantheon song. anyway homeboy, well done again. Darkness and the River butt heads for my favourite Bruce record but I totally understand where you're coming from with Born to Run as your favourite all time record and Darkness as your favourite Bruce record. Born to Run is seminal. it's genius. you could play that for any music fan and they'd be blown away. but Darkness is... well... it's about something that can only be found... in the darkness on the edge of town. whammy.

And occasionally it works. Sometimes the bus lane pulls through in a clutch and shaves off a little bit of time. But in the end, while the new bus lane sure is fancy, it remains as unpredictable and volatile as the old route – just with the heightened illusion that because there is no traffic on the bus lane that it’s going to cut down on the commute by vast leagues, slicing away at those minutes like they were blades of grass at the mercy of the TTC’s fancy cement lawnmower. That said, the University is still the same distance away from Downsview regardless, and while you can control the traffic, or lack thereof, on the fancy new bus lane, you can’t control the traffic on the sections of the route not on the fancy new bus lane. That Northern stretch of Dufferin is just as chaotic as it ever was, so if you hit the York Rocket at the wrong time, you can be sure to be taking the exact same amount of time you would have before.

Ain’t that fresh asphalt so fancy though? I’m not going to lie, I’m more than slightly concerned that this concrete monstrosity is, when all of the construction dust settles, poised to cause commuters a lot more harm than good. Most of this worry comes from the nagging feeling that those powers that be, those who decide where the money goes are going to look at the TTC’s absolutely glowing statistics saying that the fancy new bus lane reduces trips by upwards of fifteen minutes on average and deem the subway extension void because, well, we already built them a fancy new bus lane.

I’m pretty sure that this is a more distinct possibility than even I would have you believe. The Yonge-University-Spadina Extension project has been controversial from the very beginning, with politicians and TTC brass musing publicly and at length about how they don’t know where the money is going to come from to run the thing once its built; not to mention all of the brouhaha surrounding the, admittedly, asinine plan of the Highway 407 Transitway and Vaughn Corporate Center stations, which are likely to go largely unused.

The demand for a subway is certainly there for a subway in the West-North York area, and in particular York University. It has retained for some time the dubious distinction of being one of the handful of pockets of the city to have an unusually large population density and yet not to be served by a subway, not to mention that it also has one of the larger population densities of likely transit riders. Furthermore, the 196 York University Rocket has remained one of the TTC’s most profitable (and because we are referring to public works, I use the term “profitable” loosely) routes for years, holding the extremely prestigious honor of being one of the few TTC operations to regularly make back a substantial amount of the money put into its running.

That said, ours being a largely bureaucratic culture, and also one where compared to, say, Europe, infrastructure and in particular mass transit technology is – as it so sadly turns out – mind-bogglingly pricey, demand is not always the key in deciding where the TTC should fix its almighty gaze. I am just speculating here, but given the gag-reflex-triggering price tag of the Spadina Subway Extension (for the whole thing, about $2.6 billion) I am going to go out a limb and say that extension to York University would have been entirely contingent upon breaking that old sound barrier, and by that I mean crossing Steeles Avenue into the ‘burbs where no one is likely to use their expensive new toy anyway.

And politicians know this, which is why the whole project has been problematic since day one. The money would be there to operate a subway to York, given that the 196 carries more people in a day than some of the lesser subway stations that already exist, however, getting the provincial and federal governments (these days, usually opposed to anything particularly Toronto-centric) on board would mean breaking Steeles, thus operating costs after construction skyrocket.

But I digress. The other downfall of the fancy new bus lane lies in the fact that the city doesn’t know just what they’re going to do with it when the subway happens. It seems like a no-brainer – add a lane on either side and use it as public concession road from Dufferin to Keele – but it’s being treated like a benign tumor that will have turned out to be the biggest waste of public dough this town’s seen since the Allen. I should point out that the money for construction is there (though let’s be honest here, the amount that it will inevitably go over budget will be atrocious) and construction has (sort of) started; my concern is not so much that Harper is going to pull the rug out from under York commuters because, well, they already have that fancy new bus lane, but that once it starts running, the bus lane will be used as an excuse to cut costs once they’ve realized that they’ve gone far, far overboard with this project.

TTC chair Adam Giambrone already threatened to shut down the Sheppard subway a couple of years ago when the TTC fell way, way under budget, so what’s to happen when the subway opens and they were all right when operation and maintenance of the Vaughn stations begins to weigh down the entire extension? We go back to the fancy new bus lane and those glorious fifteen minutes we’ve saved.

Comments

• December 15, 2009, Alexander Armstrong writes: The 196 bus route no longer goes down Sentinel Road. If you live anywhere in the village, Four Winds, Murray Ross Pkwy, or Atkinson, you can no longer get off in front of your place by taking that bus. If York wasn't so notoriously dangerous this wouldn't be a huge deal, just an extra 10-15 minute walk. However, it obviously is not ideal for a young person to be walking home late at night in the dark. This new bus route shaves off six minutes at best. It fucks over a lot of people who live down Sentinel (which is a majority in the York U community)
• December 15, 2009, Kimberley writes: If you went to U of T, this simply wouldn't be a problem.
• December 24, 2009, Matthew Filipowich - It’s been a while writes: [...] Chased Curran Folkers on the Bloor subway line looking for a suitable stop to photograph for his new... [...]

It is Alain Badiou’s conjecture that, what he appropriately names The Communist Hypothesis, needs to be rethought for the twenty-first century. Badiou holds that during the closing decades of the 19th century, the eternal idea communism was hypothetical (i.e. simply meaning, the very notion of positing a society without class and without inequality). In the 20th century, however, things were different. For Badiou, the 20th century tried to implement communism as a social system, rather than trying to posit it. It is important to note that Badiou rightly rejects the failed attempts of the 20th century, and holds that even though there was merit in their effort, they were disastrous. We are not entering a moment in history where communism as an idea, needs to be posed yet again. That is to say, like with the 19th century, the 21st century needs to reformulate the how of trying to implement communism. This means something very specific, for Badiou, who writes:

“In many respects we are closer today to the questions of the 19th century than to the revolutionary history of the 20th. A wide variety of 19th-century phenomena are reappearing: vast zones of poverty, widening inequalities, politics dissolved into the ‘service of wealth’, the nihilism of large sections of the young, the servility of much of the intelligentsia; the cramped, besieged experimentalism of a few groups seeking ways to express the communist hypothesis . . . Which is no doubt why, as in the 19th century, it is not the victory of the hypothesis which is at stake today, but the conditions of its existence. This is our task, during the reactionary interlude that now prevails: through the combination of thought processes—always global, or universal, in character—and political experience, always local or singular, yet transmissible, to renew the existence of the communist hypothesis, in our consciousness and on the ground.”

When he concludes with “…to renew the existence of the communist hypothesis, in our consciousness and on the ground,” Badiou suggests that for those who still seek an alternative to global capitalism that is not founded on right-wing reactionary religious movements, the question of communism must be put on the table once more. But what does this rethinking of communism mean for revolution? Is the concept of an armed revolution something of the past, or can it be reformulated and rethought? It can be argued that given Badiou’s position on rethinking the how of communism, revolution as a final push to overthrow the system belongs to the 20th century, or in Badiou’s own language, it belongs to the second phase of the communist hypothesis.

I think it's safe to claim that Badiou’s position is more or less concerned with late capitalism, that is, capitalism as it exists in Europe and North America. For Badiou, the Third or underdeveloped world does not necessarily come into play when the notion of rethinking communism is at stake. To this, Badiou replies:

“Confronted with the artificial and murderous division of the world into two—a disjunction named by the very term, ‘the West’—we must affirm the existence of the single world right from the start, as axiom and principle. The simple phrase, ‘there is only one world’, is not an objective conclusion. It is performative: we are deciding that this is how it is for us. Faithful to this point, it is then a question of elucidating the consequences that follow from this simple declaration.”

Badiou’s courageous act is to reject the false division of ‘West’ and ‘East’ that is so redundantly advertised by the politically correct, proto-fascist Liberals and postmodern thinkers such as Butler and Laclau. Against them, Badiou declares a ‘single world’. For Badiou, differences among people, their cultures and views do exist, but this does not negate a single, universal world:

“The single world of living women and men may well have laws; what it cannot have is subjective or ‘cultural’ preconditions for existence within it—to demand that you have to be like everyone else. The single world is precisely the place where an unlimited set of differences exist. Philosophically, far from casting doubt on the unity of the world, these differences are its principle of existence.”

For his rejection of the politically correct mantra of the multicultural liberals, Badiou’s proposition is the only serious rally call to the defeated and exhausted Left. At a time when many Leftists have either changed their political views and assimilated into the system, or have joined the ranks of those who purport the Rainbow Coalition (i.e. identity politics of gays, African Americans and other minorities) thereby forgetting any anti-capitalist thinking, Alain Badiou and Slavoj Žižek stand opposed. Even Hardt and Negri's misuse of Gilles Deleuze only serves as an interesting way to think about our postmodern capitalist world (i.e. immaterial labour, potential of liberation through technology, etc), yet it does nothing to properly rethink the eternal Idea of communism as a viable society, as an alternative to what we have here and now.

Badiou’s entire Oeuvre, then, is one concerned with revolution. The key is, for Badiou who calls the notion of revolution an Event, revolution occurs in different forms and in different fields: the political, the scientific, the artistic and the amorous. His entire philosophical project is concerned with the outburst of the event and the subjects which must have a fidelity towards said event. Badiou’s intervention into the Left is itself an event, it is simultaneously an event for philosophy and politics because it seeks to entirely rupture and rethink both fields. Also, as a subject to this event, my fidelity for Alain Badiou remains strong.

Badiou, Alain. The Communist Hypothesis. New Left Review 49 (2008). New Left Review. Jan. & Feb. 2008. Web. 12 Dec. 2009. <http://www.newleftreview.org/?page=article&view=2705>

Comments

• January 8, 2010, Kevin writes: Borna, As you have stated -- "Even Hardt and Negri's misuse of Gilles Deleuze only serves as an interesting way to think about our postmodern capitalist world (i.e. immaterial labour, potential of liberation through technology, etc), yet it does nothing to properly rethink the eternal Idea of communism as a viable society, as an alternative to what we have here and now." The following condition(s) of a Revolution immediately abort the Event of its very happening. This all due in part to an activity/event of H&N 'immaterial labour'. We cannot simply lay out bond and exchange to the eternal idea of Communism, as a revival to our current capitalistic mode within the U.S (or any division of the world at that). And although we have witnessed the failed attempts and outcrys of a Communistic expression. Revolution above all rest with a delirious tongue, this being said we must work on the other side of time. That of which naturally disassociates itself with the image of history as the time-image itself.

It’s easy to see why China’s name renders many a fan-girl (and fan-boy) weak in the knees.  But China is far more than a face, a set of hoop earrings, and a chiselled six-foot-something body.  His work has effected a profound change upon the landscape of contemporary science fiction and fantasy.  I’ve often heard him referred to as the god of British steampunk, though China shies away from this label, preferring to call his work “weird fiction,” and I presume he makes no claims to god-hood.

I first discovered China’s work in my final year of high school when, by serendipity alone, I plucked Perdido Street Station off a bookstore shelf.  Perdido Street Station was the first in what has been, so far, a three book cycle of stand-alone novels all set in his “Bas-Lag” universe.  I know what some of you are thinking.  “Oh no.  This is why I can’t take sf/f seriously.  The silly names of made-up places.”  I honestly have no response to that other than get over yourself.  Most names sound rather stupid.

I’m actually hesitant to call China a science fiction author, as his work tends to tread the thin line between science fiction and fantasy, and with a liberal dollop of horror.  His novels are not set in some near or distant future, or on some far-off colonized planet.  There are no spaceships.  The technology tends to be “low-tech”, often pseudo-Industrial Revolution, but so damn strange as to be barely recognizable as such.  His fantasy is “gritty” in the best sense of the word, and his Bas-Lag books are populated with a phantasmagorical array of monsters and “alien” stand-ins, the likes of which I’ve never seen elsewhere.  China does not settle for giant spiders.  But any attempt on my part to describe China’s inventions here would do them a disservice, so I’ll hold off.  A large part of the wonder of China’s work lurks in his adept, raw, visceral prose style.  He is not, at least in his early work, a minimalist.  He is a Brit, after all.

His Bas-Lag novels, while primarily about the cool monsters and the grim atmosphere that his stylized prose evokes, also feature deeply political undercurrents.  In the book Iron Council his Marxist politics almost overshadow the work, but in the other Bas-Lag books, the politics are there more in the form of lingering, open-ended questions for the reader, provoking thought, not dictating it.  It would be a mistake, I think, to divorce China’s work of its politics, and a greater mistake to condemn his work for it, as many have.  All fiction is in some way political, even if those politics are unconscious in the text.  How one’s characters react to certain moral or psychological situations, how the author represents those situations, those characters, their actions, thoughts, and feelings, how good and evil are represented, if they are represented: such choices are always politically tinged.  Nothing is divorced of political meaning.  As a reader, I find that when politics are treated well in a book, the writer seems to be self-conscious of those politics while allowing the reader, if they should so choose, to also become conscious of those politics, but without imposing upon the reader.  The line of imposition is difficult to gauge.  At the same time, it bothers me that so often we read books and watch films that allow us to question the way we see ourselves or our world, yet we do not take that questioning into the world with us when we leave the realm that the narrative constructs.  It is as if we’ve insulated ourselves against the transformative power of art. And is that not the point of art: to make us question our various assumptions and to transform us?

To give you a smattering of background on China, he wears his politics on his sleeves.  In 2001 he unsuccessfully ran for the British House of Commons representing the British Socialist Workers Party.  He is also an academic, with a PhD from the London School of Economics, and has published non-fiction including the book Between Equal Rights: A Marxist Theory of International Law in 2005.  I met China briefly at the end of my second year of undergrad studies at York University, when he visited Toronto for the first North American Historical Materialism conference.  He was an engaging speaker and an all-around cool guy.  Slightly in thrall, I stood there shaking his hand for far too long, just repeating the words “thank you,” over and over again as he indulged my gaping fan-boy wonder.  But moving on...

In no work has China hit such an overtly political chord as in his most recent book, The City and The City, which is not a Bas-Lag novel but set in an alternate version of our world.  The City and The City, however, succeeds in a way that Iron Council largely fails, in my mind, to provoke a political discourse with the reader as opposed to smacking the reader over the head with China’s politics, which only serves to alienate readers who oppose those political views as well as readers who share them.

To summarize the concept of The City and The City, it’s a detective novel, set in two fictional cities that are topically and psychologically superimposed somewhere on the edge of Eastern Europe.  The protagonist, Inspector Tyador Borlú, lives in the dilapidated city of Besźel.  He and every other child of Besźel have been taught to “unsee” the other city, the wealthy Ul Qoma and its residents, just as those of Ul Qoma have been taught to unsee Besźel.  This unseeing penetrates deeper into the psyche than taboo.  There are geographic areas that belong to one city or the other, but there are also areas that “crosshatch”, that is, where the cities share physical terrain but not perceptual terrain.  In order to travel between the cities, an intensive process of psychological reconditioning must be undertaken, but one can never exist psychologically in both cities at once.  To do so would be “Breach,” and Breach protocol is upheld by a mysterious force called... well, Breach.  Naturally, there are also fairy tales of a third city, a secret city called Orciny.  Inspector Borlú begins an investigation into the murder of a young woman who seems to have been tied up in the bizarre political intrigue between the two cities and surrounding this mythical third city.

If you read my article on Michael Chabon, or better yet, read The Yiddish Policemen’s Union, the fundamentals of this plot should seem familiar.  Yet the particulars of China’s twin cities allow him to take the story in drastically different directions than Chabon takes The Yiddish Policemen’s Union.  Yes, there is room for variation even within so-called “formula.”  Infinite room, in fact.  Just as we may journey forever outward we may delve forever inward.  The thing about sf/f, or any fiction for that matter, is that every author can take the same idea and spin it in a completely different direction.  Even the same author can take the same idea and spin it in different directions.  Storytellers only ever retell stories in different ways, in different contexts.  Or as Jim Jarmusch famously put it, and this is quoted way too often, but hell, he says it so well: “Nothing is original. Steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration or fuels your imagination... And don’t bother concealing your thievery -- celebrate it if you feel like it.  In any case, always remember what Jean-Luc Godard said: ‘It’s not where you take things from -- it’s where you take them to.’”  That’s right, I quoted an over-quoted quote, and I do not feel ashamed!  But I digress.

The concept of the twin cities is pretty fraking cool, and it is the elegance of this concept that makes The City and The City more politically sophisticated and nuanced than any of its predecessors.  One cannot read the book without drawing associations to Berlin or to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict or even to the South African Apartheid.  The connections are numerous, but at the same time, the situation presented in the book is unique and separate from any of these, with its own particular context.  This serves to combat a rather dangerous trend in contemporary discourse in which it has become popular to render all particular situations ideological.  For example, we often compare all genocides to the Holocaust, as if the Holocaust were some sort of template for genocide, thus rendering “Holocaust” synonymous with the word genocide.  This does an injustice to the particular victims of the Holocaust as well as the victims of the genocides we file under the word “Holocaust”.  In our attempt to understand such horrors, we often fall into the trap of rendering them all alike in the abstract and thus overlook the particular cultural situations with which we proceed to engage.  Only by situating his story in a fantastic setting is China able to escape establishing one particularity as a generic template.  No matter what one’s political context in the real world, upon entering The City and The City, the reader faces a cultural history so alien that they cannot wholly relate to it.  The reader of the text can only approach the text with an outsider’s perspective, thus uniting disparate readers as “outsiders”.  In a similar fashion, those “outsiders” within the text, various characters predominantly from Canada and America in the story, cannot quite comprehend the force that separates Besźel from Ul Qoma.  And yet, it is precisely and only this utter separation that unites Besźel and Ul Qoma.  When people visit the cities in the story, they must undergo rigorous conditioning in order to pretend to “unsee” one or the other city, but as Borlú often repeats, these outsiders cannot possibly understand what it really means to “unsee”.  Only those who have grown up in either city understand, and it is this understanding that Besźel and Ul Qoma share.  The conclusion of the story complicates this notion of the outsider, but I don’t want to spoil anything.

The story raises issues of nationalism in an era of corporate and ideological trans-nationalism.  It examines what separates people and the role of collective history in forming identities.  It grapples with the possibility of escaping history versus the inescapability of history, and asks if we should even seek to escape history.  To phrase it in a different way, it looks at the role of cultural and collective memory and asks what we are capable of forgetting, if there are things we should and shouldn’t forget, and if so, what should we forget and what should we remember?

Where the book fails to deliver (for me) is on a more personal emotional level and on the level of narrative flavour.  On the emotional level, the character development just wasn’t quite there.  I didn’t really give a damn about anyone in the book.  Though perhaps China did his job too well here, and I was too much of an outsider to be capable of sympathizing with a cultural history not my own, or perhaps the characters of the twin cities themselves overshadowed the individual human characters inhabiting them.  I don’t know, but I didn’t really connect.  On the narrative level, while intellectually compelling, the book lacks something of the flavour or feel possessed by earlier books like Perdido Street Station or The Scar.  Perhaps this is a result of my expectations as a China fan.  The prose, for one thing, is as stripped down in The City and The City as China’s prose has ever been.  Instead of striking that bare-bones noir feel, though, this attempt at minimalism took some of the flavour out of the work.  That’s not to say it was bland.  I enjoyed the book thoroughly.  But it didn’t quite feel like a book by China Miéville.  Perhaps this is a good thing.  It shows that he is growing as a writer, and there are bound to be some re-birthing pains.  Regardless of those pains, I look forward to what he has in store next.  But for newcomers to China, I would highly recommend starting with either Perdido Street Station or The Scar.

You can read the first chapter of Perdido Street Station here.

For those wanting to tackle The City and The City, amazon.com allows you to sample the first chapter as well.

In 2005, Texas made an amendment to their marriage clause banning not only gay marriages but also civil unions for same-sex partners. This is not entirely surprising because well, it’s Texas. What is giggle-worthy is that they didn’t really specify the “gay” part of that ban so on paper, no marriages have legal status. I doubt any judge would take this technicality seriously but it got me thinking... are there people who are homophobic enough that they’d be willing to sacrifice their own heterosexual marriage standings just to prevent same-sex couples from getting married? My lack of faith in the deep American south says yes.

I think straight men should embrace their gay (bi, pan, queer, etc.) counterparts because researchers at the University of Montreal have discovered that all men share one thing in common: pornography. The original plan was to compare porn viewers with non-porn viewers. On what? I don’t know, the article didn’t specify. I’m going to assume it was something like aggression. Or penis size. Anyway, their research came to a halt when they couldn’t find any men in their 20s who have never watched porn.

It’s all about sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll. I wonder how many men in their 20s have never tried drugs. Is the straightedge movement still holding strong? Apparently not for these wallabies in Tasmania who are getting stoned from eating poppies and making crop circles as they hop around trippin’ balls.

Speaking of Russian women, remember that hairdresser who held her would-be robber captive and raped him for several days? Well, she should start some sort of club with Valeria K. aka “the Black Widow,” a woman who was on trial for drugging and raping ten men. She would lure men to her apartment (presumably with candy and promises of an electrifying game of Monopoly), serve them roofied drinks, and wait for them to pass out for 24 hours. Then she’d stimulate their penises to erection, tie a rope around the end (do they not have cock rings in Russia?) and rape them. The punchline to this story is that though police know of ten victims, only nine of them are pressing charges. The last one is mostly upset that he was passed out during the whole ordeal and couldn’t remember having sex with the hottie rapist. What a big slut that guy is.

Speaking of Russian women, Kira V, a Russian woman, blew up her boyfriend’s penis with firecrackers because he was considering leaving her. That is all I have on Russian women and their strange relationships to penises.

My gift to you for the holidays is this piece of advice: don’t inject butt implants into your posterior because the liquid will travel into your lungs and brain, cause a pulmonary embolism and kill you. Just ask former Miss Argentina, Solange Magnano. Oh wait, you can’t because she’s dead.

What drew you to art in the first place?

Escaping from society.

Escaping from society?

Ahhh, I think so, yeah.

So why did you decide to broadcast it?

Because I got sick of escaping from society and being an introvert so I needed a way to interact with people again. I did a cycle where I became a monk, and then I got tired of being a monk and now I need to express myself in public. In a healthy way.

How did the treadmill come in?

That happened in '05. I just sort of brought that in and I sort of saw it visually as an interesting idea and then developed it as such. It came in as a visual, but also sort of an accident of sorts. It was an experiment. I experimented with it in my studio, making paintings without broadcasting it. I likened it to being outside in the public painting landscapes, because I paint landscapes outside anyways. What I like about the treadmill, as I answer the question and move on to another answer, what I like about it is how it gets you into the painting process really fast. Your endorphins and breathing get going. There’s a hurried aspect to your application of the paint, and a lot of people when they start off painting, they’re so careful and they’re so slow and deliberate and with this you just can’t do that. You’re forced to go for it and just throw everything down.

Would you say it’s just a good technique for an artist to experiment? Perhaps not just with a treadmill but the exercise of multitasking?

Yeah, maybe it’s a far-fetched idea, and maybe it’s just silly for anyone to even, y’know, try, but at the same time we all have these issues of having to feel like we’re doing everything and like we all have these issues, sometimes we feel like we have our heads cut off like a chicken running around... with blood squirting out. So, in that sense, I’m showing that it’s okay to be in that position where you’re running around, crazy, doing it all, and not necessarily doing it great or well, but you’re persevering. And ironically, at what point of embracing failure are you not failing anymore? It’s a valid point, and I’m starting to think about it more. Mostly because now, it’s starting to become successful.

So what does it mean to embrace failure?

Well look, the other day, I’m in Brooklyn, I did a performance and I didn’t “fall” off the treadmill but as I got off the treadmill I tripped over something else, like an amplifier namely. I didn’t know I injured myself, and I continued on with the program. Then the next day I felt like shit, I realized I bruised or did something to my rib, I got a fucked up rib right now. Shit happens! Stuff happens and you just gotta keep going! It’s a failure right? Well make adjustments and keep on going. That’s what I’m doing right now. I’m havin’ a beer. That helps. As long as I can still do it, I’m gonna do it. Maybe a doctor would say, “Y’know you probably shouldn’t be doing it.” But, well, I did slow the treadmill down, I hadn’t been running as fast.

I don’t think anyone’s going to hang you up on that one.

No, and in the process of doing it I’m not in any pain FROM doing it.  So I feel relatively safe. But if there was a position where I was doing it and I was feeling pain, well at some point you gotta be reasonable.

You emphasized safety up there.

Yeah I know! It’s a big deal for me because I’ve been doing this long enough to know that it is dangerous, what I’m doing. To be honest it’s not good to be drinking beer and stuff on the treadmill. Not safe at all. But again, I definitely don’t do it when I’m drunk.

When you were on cable access and even up on Stickam, anonymous strangers seem very hostile and angry. Why do you think the stranger is so obnoxious?

Well because they can hide behind their phone. Wherever they are. They are usually clever enough to have an undisclosed call. They can hide in their house, in the safety of their homes without saying who they are. I liken it to the idea that everyone has a little bit of Tourette's, on their part. I still think that all of us, we all have variances of these mental illnesses in our brains. Some of us have obviously way too much, it prevents them from doing anything. We all have moments. And so they hide, this is like an escape valve for them, to do that kind of stuff. It’s juvenile, I suppose, maybe that’s all it is. Probably is.

Probably is.

Yeah it probably is. Really, that’s probably all it is. But I just found it more fun to imagine they all just have Tourette’s, just laying it out. I felt good about that for some reason. I’m not an expert about that stuff. I shouldn’t actually say that.

What would you suggest to an artist that is “stuck”?

Try a new experiment. If they are really stuck, or wasting a lot of time on one project, just stop it maybe. Maybe just take a break. Take a break! There are so many variations you can do. It really depends on all the possibilities. Stop, take a break, take a walk around the block, take a vacation. Or, on the other hand, just jump in there and screw it up. Throw a wrench into the system and clog it, get it messed up, fuck it up, delete everything, throw paint on top of it. Times ten it, I like to say, whatever you were going to do?  Make it even more outlandish. Times ten it.

Comments

• November 16, 2009, Patrick Grant writes: This is easily the greatest interview ever published.
• November 16, 2009, Ted Killin writes: Hilarious, straightforward guy to be sure.

Finding a good, reasonably priced chunk of cow in the downtown sprawl is no simple task. A couple of bars may have specific steak nights that allow for cheaper meat, combined with pitchers of cheap beer, but more often than not such events turn into drunken flops that end up serving rather lacklustre meat. And places that have customarily served the cheaper steaks in the city, notably a local favourite called D-Ganz, no longer exist, in this specific case replaced with a nondescript Indian restaurant.

There are tonnes of steakhouses around the city, and surely there are varying degrees of quality and service, but most of these steaks are certainly out of price range of any waning student wallet – you often have to give up an arm and a leg simply to get a piece of cow flank which, quite frankly, does not align with how the food chain works. In an attempt to restore the natural order of things, I have gone out to try and find the finest affordable beef in the city.

Czehoski (678 Queen St. W):

I walked into Czehoski on a cold night, the long narrow dining room quickly filling up during the dinner rush. I meet Franz Pökler in the front room and proceed to check out the digs, interesting to note the vestiges from the original tenant, a butcher shop back in the 1950s. A bar spans the front half of the restaurant, complete with espresso machines and a long old-fashioned refrigeration unit built in directly. The front dining section offers green plush booths for seating and strong butcher-block tables. At the end of the bar, the opening to the kitchen juts directly out of the wall, a chalkboard on the back displays all the daily specials. A fancier dining room at the back hides a small stage with a long black curtain, comfortable plush booths available for various performers and karaoke nights held at the restaurant. The original hardwood floors and ornate white ceilings are still in service and the walls are actually plain white, with no artwork hung whatsoever. Large disk lights hang from the ceiling, bolstered from small tea lights on every table.

A casually dressed waitress comes to take our orders, which is unanimously cow: steak frites, which includes a flatiron steak from Cumbrae farms soaked in red wine jus, hand cut russet potato fries and Roquefort (blue cheese) aioli, for the low price of twenty-five bones. There are no appetizers, but the steak arrives with fries fresh from the oil covering the plate. We have no need for a steak knife, as the steak has been pre-sliced and laid on top of the fries, the juices running out and adding flavour to all the surrounding fries.

The Roquefort aioli steals the focus of the meal; I take the fries soaked in steak juices and dip them in the aioli over and over again. The cooks spice the meat simply, the cow rubbed in salt pepper and olive oil and flipped about thirty times, a technique that works well because neither side has enough time to absorb too much heat when on the element, nor does it lose too much heat when facing away; the cook therefore achieves a more even, gradual spread of temperature throughout the meat.

Seniors Steakhouse (1397 Yonge St.)

I walk south down Yonge towards Seniors, a location accentuated by a large yellow cloth sign that spans the entire side of the vertically stacked restaurant. The downstairs entrance has more of the diner appeal, but I ascend the stairs to find the proper dining room: a dim, carpeted dining lounge with heavy red curtains. When I sit at my table, a lady immediately lights my candle as I disassemble the cloth napkin, folded into a cone, for more practical use. I have asked for a table for two, but am brought a stack of complimentary appetizers that could easily feed four, including bitter dill pickles, a basket of garlic bread, and small bowls of black olives and cottage cheese; I do not touch these bowls throughout the entire meal. Fabricated pink flowers are placed beside me in a skinny black vase. Bianca Erdmann arrives and we look at the menu, preparing to order the steak.

For a working definition of cheap steak, I specifically sought out steak that is priced in and around the $25 dollar mark, as I could not find a cheaper price for a proper steak dinner. However, my research failed after I find that the smallest steak on the menu, a mere ten-ouncer, comes to $29.95 before tax and tip! A little disappointing right from the start, but I swallow my misgivings along with another bitter dill, as the service and the atmosphere work well thus far – that is until Bianca realizes that the ear-grating Beyoncé single, “Single Girl,” plays in the background of an environment that noticeably caters to an older crowd through subdued, old-fashioned décor and an older waiter dressed up in a black vest and white collared shirt. When I heard a line of such intentionally youth attracting music, the entire atmosphere ceased to compute.

The server brings the garden salad first, but the lettuce has been over-soaked with dressing and I only pick a few choice leaves before putting the salad aside. The steaks arrive soon after, served on small wooden plates, which should absorb those flowing juices that might otherwise create an unwanted broth pool for the steak to swim in, a surrounding moat theoretically acting as a second line of defense. The steak has been served with grilled mushrooms scattered on top and rubbed with garlic, pepper and salt, and turns out to be a pleasant surprise in the end: the garlic was extremely prevalent and the mushrooms were well grilled, the steak cooked medium rare and with enough fat on the trimmings to bolster the flavour. The waiter then brings a baked potato, presented with small squares of butter and sour cream laced with green onions. I gladly accept both offerings, and the tender potato finishes the meal agreeably.

I had no real qualms with the meal itself beside a few minor letdowns, as the mushrooms and the garlic compliment each other well on the medium-rare steak, but the atmosphere and the peripherals at Seniors do not deliver. For the price of their steak, although still notably one of the cheaper steak dishes in town, a patron could easily spring the extra ten dollars to seek out a higher end restaurant.

The Tulip (1610 Queen St. E)

I enter the restaurant with Gryphon and a waiter greets us, motioning us to sit wherever we please, so we choose a woven leather booth on one side of the restaurant. Large mirrors line the walls of the Tulip, interspersed with hooked sconces, and framed photos of tulips and city of Toronto paraphernalia. One corner of the restaurant displays framed articles and other praise that the restaurant has received over the years, including a signed photo of the former east-ender Mike Myers, paying tribute to a restaurant that has resided at the Queen East location since 1929. Wooden gold-trimmed ceiling fans dot the ceiling and regulation square tables with a red chairs are scattered around the dining room. The light yellow walls contrast a general red-furnishing motif and warm wooden trimming; tall red plush chairs line a simple brown wooden bar, complete with a coffee section and an open faced dessert fridge.

Looking at the menu, Gryphon and I have a chuckle at the attempted linguistic flair of the restaurant (“Roasted Prime Rib of Beef, au Juice”), and as such have not decided upon which cut of steak to eat when the server arrives. He inquires if we have dined at the Tulip in the past, and when we inform him that we have not he immediately recommends the cheapest steak on the menu (what a champ!). The small sirloin, a popular top cut, is twelve ounces of meat for only $16.95! We are both immediately sold, and order the steak served with a garden salad, mashed potatoes (baked and fries are also options), and an order of grilled onions and mushrooms for the steak, the extra three dollar charge a trifle considering how little the Tulip charges for steak.

The salad arrives first with four slices of pre-buttered bread. Soon after finishing, we are served a solid rectangle of cow about an inch thick, served with two scoops of mashed potato and gravy, with a side of broccoli. We are also given a circle of raw onion topped with a tomato, which I can only assume was added for some colour. I munch on some of my steamed broccoli as I stack as many fried mushrooms and caramelized onions on my steak that it can possibly hold. The pepper and salt are seared directly onto the surface of the sirloin, and a crispy outer edge juxtaposed with the soft interior does the trick, the steak turning out to be one of the best that I have eaten in quite some time.

Well folks, the Tulip has done it for me, delivering a gorgeous slice of sirloin for the cheapest price in the city. The server was beyond helpful, and the only complaint I reserve for the food would be the lumps I discovered in my mashed potatoes, but if that bothers you order fries or the baked potato instead.

Czehoski has been one of the more interesting restaurants I’ve visited recently, the appealing layout of the restaurant spacing the tables nicely, which allows the background noises to disperse and creates a welcome ambiance in a narrow space. I was unable to access the upper levels due to a private party, but the weather may be getting too cold for a garden patio anyway. The service was friendly, the quality of Cumbrae farms comes through and the aioli was one of the more unique dips I have ever encountered. Check out this well designed website for more information: http://www.czehoski.com/

Seniors steakhouse is a bit of an anomaly for me. While I complain about the pricing because of the strict eye I keep on my bank account these days, the quality of the meat still came through. But for all you north-of-Bloor-phobes out there, there is no reason to head to midtown to get a good cheap steak; if you spring the extra cash there are better high end steak places to go to in the city and surely better, cheaper places to go along Queen street.

Comments

• November 18, 2009, Kimberley writes: This is brilliant. You are brilliant.
• February 15, 2010, Pepper » links for 2009-12-08 writes: [...] Steel Bananas ” Heifer Hunt, a carnivorous crusade through …Another Rovian Conspiracy: March 06, 2005Crazy Days and Nights: 7/29/07 – 8/5/07Best Vacation Spots Guide: Top 10 Spring Destinations89169 Travel Guide || VegasChatterSingapore Cars: February 2008Metropolis – Dining & Drinking | Jaime Pastor2003 October Archive at purrgatoryShort and Sweet NYC: April 2009Stag weekend in Amsterdam – DIY guide | Amsterdam Travel Guide Post tags: spanish guitar, steel string, yahoo | Comments (0) [...]

Snow first gained notoriety outside of the New York graffiti scene when his photography began to appear in the pages of Vice magazine. Alongside the work of Ryan McGinley and Jason Nocito, and in the context of the jam-pack photo spreads of the ‘Vice Pictures’, Dash’s work fits seamlessly into the garbage dump of cast away culture. In Vice Vol.8, No.10 many of the photos found in Polaroids make their first appearance. The images are shrunk down and lined up in order fill an entire page with debauchery; a buffet of naughty nighttime memories served up for our viewing pleasure.

Courtesy of Vice Magazine

Ryan Bigge in his work Hiding in Delight: Transgression, Irony And the Edge of Vice summarizes the effect of the photo spreads found in ‘Vice Pictures’. Bigge sees spreads by Nocito and Snow as easily digested and easily disposed of ‘anti-photos’¹. Rather than polished, arty images which seek out a careful look, photo-spreads of work by Nocito and Snow can be quickly consumed en masse as if they were some kind of perverse eye candy².

Bigge might be too quick to imply that Snow’s work can be viewed as casually as Nocito’s. Nocito’s photos are often less shocking than Snow’s (an image of some guy taking home a fake dear after a night of drinking rather than a punk covered in gore or piles of coke and money). But continuity exists amongst the photos of both artists in the context of Vice magazine: a flippancy pervades them all when arranged so casually and in such abundance. This flippancy is almost entirely absent in Polaroids.

Snow decided that two pages of Polaroids should be dedicated to each shot. On one page you’ll find a scale reproduction of the polaroid centered on a matte black backing. The second page is filled to the edge by a close-up of the photo on the opposing page. Rather than relying on the impact of a chaotic collage, Snow thought that each polaroid should stand alone. Maybe there just aren’t enough good Snow polaroids to make a book of Vice-style spreads. On the other hand, I find a more generous reading to be appropriate to the new context in which we find Snow’s early works.

Courtesy of Peres Projects | Berlin | Los Angeles

First of all, I believe that Snow’s photos deserve to be considered as works in their own right.  The Polaroids have not been done wrong by Vice’s photo editors and designers, but Snow has done well to help differentiate his work from every other this-is-me-drinking photo. Any web-junkie knows too well how polluted the net is with this-is-me-in-a-cocktail-dress and this-is-me-drunk photos. They’re a genre in their own right! Any facebooker with more than a couple hundred photos is sure to have countless duplicate photos of bleached-white smiles and frenemies in their ‘photos of me’. In many ways Snow’s work is proto-The Cobra Snake etc. But rest assured, I will nail down the distinction between Snow and dslr-wilding photo-bloggers without setting up a pissing contest for who is the most reckless partier or, worse, most ‘authentic’ badass.

Many critics of Snow’s focus on an autobiographical reading of the polaroids. Many of his friends and other art world aficionados have stressed the authenticity of Snow’s escapades³. Others have found an echo of troubled times in the anarchistic images⁴. I have no way of relating to these claims, no desire to romanticize Snow’s reckless behavior, and no inclination to explain away his photos as symptoms of degenerate times. Instead, by focusing on the intimacy lent these works in Polaroids, I’ll look for a more private reading of Snow’s work, one that leads to an understanding of the qualities that activate the sadness evident in his photos.

The vapid party animal attitude that pervades so many blogs and profile pics is rarely present in Snow’s polaroids. His choice of medium lends itself to dodging the glossy finish that saps the life from all party photos. The grainy, white-yellow light of the built-in flash seems welcome in these polaroids; lending quietude to even the most boisterous scenes. For example, featured in Polaroids are several renditions of the ‘hamster party’: a party taking place in a hotel room filled with ripped up newspapers and phone books that ends in gratuitous levels of intoxication.

All three ‘hamster party’ scenes are completely childish grown-up slumber parties: three sleepy pairs of toes poking out from under the nest, a game of ‘doctor’ that has gotten way out of hand, and the aftermath of a pillow fight. In two of the three photos the pinks and yellows take on a warm and welcoming glow in the fuzzy yellows of the camera flash. There is nothing cuddly about the threesome, however. It is the warm softness of this flash that can bring sadness to the shower of down in the pillow fight scene, and which adds pity to absent minded caress in the orgy scene. The low resolution also instills a tangible sense of the numbed and gritty headspace to which our three sleepers will awake.

The photo of the Shell logo that reads ‘Hell’ has one obvious connection to the sorrow I’m speaking to: the reference to urban malaise in this work that at first seems a bit heavy handed. But this reading does not account for the sense of the ‘you should have been there’ that nags me when I consider this image. Snow was just in the right place at the right time. It’s just too haphazard. The transiency of this chance meeting with corporate decay lends another layer of complexity to this photo. A layer that adds sadness linked to a chronic sense of doubt I feel when seeing these works.

Courtesy of Peres Projects | Berlin | Los Angeles

It is when I doubt the characters in Snow’s photos, when I distrust them and the other visions provided in these works, that I find the source of the pity I see in them. That the feeling of pity is not patronizing is what makes it beautiful. In the ‘hamster party’ series any tendency for condescension is made tender by the bashful light; the tranquility it inspires is filled with an intense sadness for anyone touched by the same effect of the blurred and softened shapes. In order to see the sadness in the Hell station, the viewer must move past the surface fuck-you to corporate America, and recognize the implicit hope for a lost American dream.

I will compare Snow’s Hell station to a series of photos dedicated to gas stations in order to help explain where the pathos lies in Snow’s photo. Ed Ruscha documented twenty-six gas stations along Rout 66 between LA and Oklahoma in his artist book Twentysix Gasoline Stations. Ruscha does not mince words: the book consists of twenty-six pictures of gasoline stations. Ruscha’s series is a clinical catalogue, a leveled-out version of the right of passage romanticized by Kerouac, Kesey and Cassady⁵. In Ruscha’s work a disconnect between the individual and a liberal ideal is calmly laid out through a documentation of the flat, impersonal landscape in which people must enact that idealized freedom⁶. There is a satisfying, levelheaded approach taken by Ruscha in Twentysix Gasoline Stations. The novelty of Ruscha’s deadpan design captures perfectly the quaint sense of independence that he parodies with his homage to the flattening of culture. His cleverness mimics the American spirit of ingenuity and independence that he daintily derides in his series.

Courtesy of Peres Projects | Berlin | Los Angeles

Snow, in contrast to Ruscha, only finds a voice because of a series of random occurrences: the light in the ‘S’ goes out, one goes on in Snow’s head, and there you have it!  As Thomas Micchelli notes: “Snow took the pictures and the art just happened”⁷.  What’s disconcerting about Micchelli’s observation is not that Snow isn’t trying hard enough.  What is troubling is that I am unable to perceive the coincidence that Snow has captured as some sort of epiphany.  Beyond the stunning colours (the operating room metallic green, traffic light red, and a flattening black) there is only a haphazard contention.  In this case, rather than being found in some quality of the photo, the pathos lies in the randomness with which the polemics of this photo are realized.

Associations of oil with the end of the world, or of car culture with urban sprawl nightmares, are not the source of the sorrow I find in this work.  The surface message of the Hell Station is just too neat and tidy.  Snow has captured the notion that the heaven of Chevys and cheep gas has turned into a Hell on earth in a way that is too simplistic and random to be taken seriously.  That it is impossible for me to accept such a crisply reified notion in the form that Snow has provided points to the chronic doubt I spoke of earlier.  Snow envisions a world where any insight that I might happen upon could be just as random and limited in scope as a snapshot taken from the window of a moving car.  Seen in this light, the invasiveness of the night and the imposing colours of the station’s lights mock those who believe that such crystallizing moments could ever simply reveal themselves in the darkness.

I have claimed that I would leave the biographical out of this review. However, it could be argued that my insight into these images could only have come after the death of their author. I would agree, in part. Snow’s death may add an element of loss to my understanding of these works that wouldn’t be apparent to a viewer imagining the living artist acting out these images elsewhere. When he was alive there may have been a more palpable sense of Snow’s presence in these works. But now, especially for an outsider, the pathos found in the low-tech feel and chancy attitude of these works may have become more pronounced. Despite the element of the biographical that may have found it’s way into my writing, I think that I have managed to avoid any appeals to Dash’s persona in my efforts to bring extra dimensions to these works.

Internet Debut | Courtesy of Peres Projects | Berlin | Los Angeles

My efforts have surely been assisted by the thoughtful format of Polaroids. Without the access to Snow’s early work provided by this collection the polaroids might have remained in the obscurity of the Viceland archives, unedited and jumbled together. Or they could have been left online in the Saatchi gallery in their Digital C-Print format. A second glance at this work lends new life and new facets to the spectacle of random contemporary en masse artistic realism, creating an unexpected and undoubtedly memorable connection.

Polaroids was published by Peres Projects, Berlin | Los Angeles, in 2008.

Notes:

¹ Ryan Bigge, Hiding in Delight: Transgression, Irony and the Edge of Vice, (Toronto, ON, Ryerson University, 2007), 19.

² Bigge, Hiding in Delight, 120.

³ Ariel Levy, “Chasing Dash Snow”, New York Magazine, January 7, 2007, http://nymag.com/arts/art/profiles/26288/.

⁴ Alan Feuer and Allen Salkin, “Terrible End for an Enfant Terrible”, in The New York Time, July 24, 2009, http://www.nytimes.com/2009/07/26/nyregion/26dash.html.

⁵ David Hickey, “Edward Ruscha: Twentysix Gasoline Stations, 1962—photographer”, in ArtForum, January, 1997.

⁶ David Hopkins, “Blurring Boundaries: Pop-art, Fluxus, and their Effects”, in After Modern Art: 1945-2000, (Toronto, Oxford University Press, 2000), 118.

⁷ Thomas Micchelli, ‘Dash Snow’, review of Silence Is The Only True Friend That Shall Never Betray You, at the Rivington Arms September 7–October 15, 2006, http://www.brooklynrail.org/2006/10/artseen/dash-snow.

Photos by Madd Hattere //

Are You Man Enough? - Phil McAndrew

I sure hope so. This 18-page mini-comic by Syracuse, NY-based illustrator Phil McAndrew is quite possibly - and I am pointedly not one for hyperbole - the funniest thing I've ever read. This is the sort of silly absurdism that holds up to multiple, multiple readings and, after showing this thing to almost everyone that has crossed my path while I had the book handy, is not looking to get old any time soon. The story here, spoiler free, revolves around a young artist who seeks the permission of his sweetheart's burly alpha-male father to marry the aforementioned generic love interest. After that, the title pretty much speaks for itself.

McAndrew's illustrations here are fantastic and perfectly compliment the story with his old-timey vaudeville-esque characters being mixed in with a grungy, Ralph Steadman sort of aesthetic. Of course, the added touch of the book itself having a mustache is very good and indeed, that little strip of fuzz protruding out of the otherwise nondescript red Xeroxed book only contributes to the charm of this hilarious, well-made little comic.

Check out Phil's website here.

-Curran Folkers

The Gladstone at Canzine Photo/Madd Hattere

I'm Crazy - Adam Bourret

Discomfort is a concept to rest on here. Especially after meeting the author, who really is a pleasant guy, reading what is a rather vivid diagram of his personal issues can leave you a little shaky. Even if you haven't met mister Bourret in person, many of us know a few people who share his problems. The title covers the contents within, Bourret has constructed not an apology but sort of a manual to his disturbances. His handle on reality, his connections to friends, strangers, partners and family and his fear of losing his morality to chemical imbalances. If this sounds too much of a publicized confession, and if that bugs you, Bourret does introduce the series of tales in a clever moment where his boyfriend simply asks him talk about himself, so he does. I liked that. I like that Bourret also balances the woes of his problems with the celebratory moments of overcoming him. He has some very dark thoughts, but you still like him because you know that's not what he wants to become.

I think what impressed me most about the book is how clearly he can describe what I'm sure are dense, difficult and lucid concepts. There is a chapter that is just a guide for others on how OCD feels, and it's discussed in such a way that anyone can easily relate and sympathise. What impressed me the least was the art, which felt rigid too often in my eyes, but to focus on that aspect would be me missing the point. This book is personal, deeply so, and you'll feel the connection. If you are the type who enjoyed graphic novels about the dysfunctional lifestyles of fictional characters, I openly suggest you try your hand at an existing person.

- King Frankenstein

Take Away It's Wings and Force It To Fly and Logo/Schema/Centric - Mark Laliberte

Mark Laliberte has created some my favourite possessions. Last year, at Canzine 2008, I bought a very unique red necktie, designed with the graphic of a skull and its descending spinal cord, a scientific drawing labeled “Fig. 3.” Over the course of the year the tie proceeded to make repeated social appearances, spurring both praise and uncomfortable glances wherever I went. This year, at Canzine 2009, I found myself back at the same booth, and lo and behold my tie was once again on display with a few other interesting designs.

Mark Laliberte is a working artist in several fields and, according to the lady watching his booth, the survivor of a civil suit against the explicit content of his first independent zines that he produced out of his parent’s basement. He continues to produce zines to this day, working as the managing editor of Carousel magazine, but also create his own graphic art, a few items of which I snagged from the booth. TAKE AWAY ITS WINGS AND FORCE IT TO FLY is a graphic novella in which a perspective of time becomes hard to confer to the piece. Fractured, microsecond frames pass quickly with minute image changes that often jumble with little to no explanation; the only dialogue is disjointed and confused, the characters themselves unsure of the action in the continuous, snap changes of intrusive imagery. The other item I pick is LOGO | SCHEMA | CENTRIC, a collection of graphic collages that are diagrams of disconnected, strange machines. The gathered images loosely conform to an anthropomorphic theme, and the disconnected body parts are scientifically labeled in a similar fashion to my necktie. This collage work is incredibly detailed, and has been published in Carousel, Broken Pencil, Descant and Wegway.

Mark Laliberte continues to create exciting images and emotive writing, so check out his zine and his bio.

-Ted Killin

Born in Belleville, Ontario, Nicholas Di Genova is a young up-and-coming sort now living and working in Toronto. Educated at OCAD, he pays homage to golden age comic books, dangles his roots in street art and boasts a solid list of gallery exhibitions both in Toronto and internationally. He has published three books of fantastic drawings, Wunderkammer No 1 being the most recent, and the most likely to fit inside your toaster. (Not that I'm suggesting you try anything of the sort—in truth, I urge you not to!) Wunderkammer No 1 is an itty-bitty, unassuming book measuring 5.75" x 7.75" and clocks in at a slim 24 pages long. Inside, its illustrious pages bear a concise selection of Di Genova's black and white drawings from 2008 and 2009. It is the first in an intended series of WunderKammer booklets.

Di Genova first garnered critical attention back in the early 2000s with his post-apocalyptic visions of mecha-animal hybrid armies duking it out over absurdly round, green hills and pink cartoon clouds, all masterfully drafted in ink and animation paint on mylar. These were couched within an absurd epic narrative of comic-book-grade evolution and land vs sea creature battles over the newly green Earth. It all very much sounds like a selection of ancient creation and apocalypse myths thrown in a blender with a hearty serving of Transformers memorabilia and an old Hard-Boiled Detective comic or two. Splendid, if simple-minded work.

Lately, Di Genova appears to have shucked the narrative to focus on increasingly organic hybrid creatures. His colour work, while not always eschewing the silly landscapes of earlier work, nonetheless situates the peculiar creatures against less obtrusive backgrounds. In black and white, Di Genova's monsters float against the white of the page; a fertile departure that opens up the conceptual environment and allows room for more complex ideas to play. While I do adore Di Genova's delicate handling of colour, WunderKammer No 1 is no weaker for lacking it. The very starkness of these line drawings is striking.

Now, when I called these drawings fantastic back there, I wasn't just being enthusiastic. I meant fantastic according to just about all the dictionary definitions of the word. The work takes imaginative leaps well away from the grounds of reality; they are bizarre, grotesque and their method of construction is a touch eccentric (but more on that aspect later). The fantastical, organic nature of Di Genova's WunderKammer creatures draws them into conversation with the realm of myth, where composite monsters, such as Chimaera (whose name has become the umbrella term for this class of creature) are legion. And this engagement with myth and fantasy mates very well with the book's title and format.

Wunderkammer is literally German for "wonder chamber." Around the sixteenth century, Wunderkammern came into their prime. They were rooms in which the rich and powerful stored and displayed all manner of curiosities, everything from items of antiquity to works of art, artifacts of far-off cultures, and interesting specimens—both real and fabricated—of "natural history." The Wunderkammer was, arguably, the batty grandparent of the modern day museum. Displays in Natural History museums of great arrays of butterflies or birds or insects all make a yearly pilgrimage to place flowers on the Wunderkammer's grave (or they would were they anthropomorphized). But the chamber of wonders dates back well before Darwin was a half-fleck in his mum's fallopian tubes. Back then, collectors arranged their stuffed specimens and skeletal fragments however they saw fit—as does Di Genova. His WunderKammer is a smorgasbord of taxonomical illustrations, ignoring the distinctions between plant and animal, and lining-up images according to very non-evolutionary logic. At the center of WunderKammer No 1 is a two-page spread of butterflies. 702 unique butterflies, all unnamed, many probably fictional, that fill the pages in a grid, the only detectable purpose to see how they look when thrown in all at once and so close together. It is a very Wunderkammer-like collection. On other pages, animals and plants are placed next to each other according to a logic of physical similarity. A frog's open mouth becomes a flower with an elaborate stamen on either side: a grid of frogs' heads and a grid of flowers. On one page, Di Genova places a bear's head next to the head of a bat, next to the head of an ape, all with mouths gaping wide. Next to each other in this way, their physiological similarities come to the fore, and they seem to be jokingly illustrating a very peculiar kind of bogus evolutionary chain—as if to prove that the black bear is the ancestor of the ape. On another page, the faces of various rodents are mixed in with bats and felines. Mixed in this way the predator-prey hierarchy is ignored; order, species, and genus are ignored; logic is ignored, and the viewer is left to muse on the mostly formal similarities and differences in these animal drawings.

All images © Nicholas Di Genova 2009

While I'm on the subject of evolution, let me return to the word Chimaera. This term refers not only to a kind of fantasy creature, but is also the term for (warning: over-simplified layman explanation!) a kind of genetic hybrid, where an organism has DNA from two or more different embryos or organisms. It is something of a playground for modern science. So far I've been discussing WunderKammer No 1 in historical terms, but consider the Chimaera in all its forms, and Di Genova's menagerie takes on sci-fi connotations that are both humorous and troubling.

Di Genova's style of drawing is a peculiar fusion of realism and geometry. His tools are dip pens and the occasional felt-tip. He draws diagrammatically, describing volume in terms of small planes that connect and oppose each other through direction in shading. Nearly all shading is accomplished via thin rectangular sections, filled with fine, cramped hatching. As if that weren't time-consuming and carpal-tunnel-inducing enough, he stipples. This here is what I call a myopic approach to drawing.

Minute detail is privileged over the sweep of the whole form. The result is an incorrigible flatness, and an awkward lilt that's under strict control, as if wearing a suit a few sizes too small. Details add up to a whole that looks weirdly flat, mechanical, diagrammatic, and more often than not, a little awkward. And I really like it. There is a slightly stoned naivete to these drawings that I find endearing, and the awkwardness is itself visually interesting.

My favourite pages concern birds. Di Genova's approach is well suited their sharp and brittle angularity. Also, they do not have teeth. If I am to have one small criticism, it is that his method for drawing teeth is far better suited to his colour images than to black and white. Sometimes it works well enough, but more often than not I find these teeth distracting. These teeth are too deliberate, they ignore too much the natural shape in favour of the idea of a tooth. Dogs and bears and bats with wide open mouths appear to have antacid tablets and uncoated vitamin supplements instead of teeth. Yes, I am nit-picking, but that is one aspect that consistently throws me off, and I expect better from someone with an otherwise astute formal sensitivity.

To tie-off my analysis, I have one final observation: there is a little bear with cloven hooves and a snare drum!

I look forward to future WunderKammer numbers.

You can see more of Nicholas Di Genova's work at his website and blog.

--

WunderKammer No 1 is published by Koyama Press. You can pick up a copy for $8 plus shipping from Di Genova's site, or from Magic Pony. Or, if you're in Toronto, you can save yourself the cost of shipping and pick up a copy at the storefront location of Magic Pony at 694 Queen St. West.

Photo by Matthew Filipowich //

Sitting at the counter at Zoots Cafe on Dundas West, recorder running, I'm baffled by how vividly Pelee Island emerges in my mind; a small, isolated, forgotten place, low buildings and open land, log cabins and Victorian homes, trading posts filled with teacups. I lean my head on my hand, listening to Melanie Janisse speak, picturing the wrinkled face of the 82-year-old poet who sells bicycles, or the log cabin full of Scottish sweaters with silver clasps, saucers and old china. The dark, shadowy landscape emerges from her words, fraught with history and legend, evoking a sense of delay, waiting, longing, saudade, upon which the voice in her new collection of poetry stands; a modern woman reaching in to the isolation of the island. I've never visited Pelee Island, nor seen any photographs, but something in Melanie's poetry and bare description creates a lush landscape of natural shadowy mystery, images so peculiar to a city woman like myself. This is exactly what makes Melanie Janisse's first collection of poetry, Orioles in the Oranges (Guernica, 2009) something to linger over; a dark kaleidoscope of a place so unlike the city, in which a modern voice traverses the strange complexities of both physical and existential isolation.

The collected prose poetry in Orioles in the Oranges uses the Pelee Island legend of Hulda - a Metis woman whose broken-hearted longing compelled her to sacrifice herself to Lake Eerie - to haunt the poetic voice of the modern woman in Pelee Island."There are so many sad ghostly women wandering around Pelee Island" Melanie explains, "The main character desires to be one of them; desires to be there, ghosting."

"The collection is inspired by impossible love, longing, saudade, and the recognition that there will always be something to long for. Though the modern voice chooses a different path than the legend, the two brush with the sorrow of love that is unavailable."

Unavailable, delayed, lost; all of these impressions permeate the images crafted in Melanie Janisse's poems. Inspired by the Pelee Islands since childhood, Melanie stockpiled images and extensively researched local history when writing.

"There was just something about it as a kid that really just stuck in my brain. It’s a very magical place, a very forgotten place." She intimates, continuing to describe the people and places that inspired her work.

"When I was a kid, my Dad used to take us to Pelee Island, and the whole place mystified me. We'd often take the ferry over to Sandusky, Ohio, to go to the Cedar Fair amusement park, but I hated the candy and stuffed-things, I loved the strangeness of the island."

Returning alone in 2003 to live on the island in an old Victorian farmhouse with her cat and dog, Melanie spent a year researching local history and taking medium format photography. "I spent so much time researching the history of Pelee Island," she explains with a chuckle, "that they gave me a job giving bus tours."

On top of the tour gig, Melanie Janisse was invited to read her poetry at the recent Hertiage Weekend in Pelee Island, celebrating the rich history of the area.

"The people choose the island for a reason." She elaborates, "It's beautiful and has such a rich history. Dark, but rich."

With a background in visual art and photography, Melanie Janisse understands images, and how to create them in words with strange and evocative results. "I'm a Concrete poet in spirit" she says with a smile, "I want to create something that can be imagined again, just as vividly."

I truly believe that she has succeeded, as the coffee shop closes for the evening and Melanie packs up her things. She invites me to her monthly vintage sale before saying goodbye and I leave to drift down Dundas Street, images of ghostly women reaching out from misty shores, teacups and old wooden porches lingering in a blur of the island I have never met, which now, since reading this collection, clings to me with its beautiful, mysterious, shadowy longing.

---

Orioles in the Oranges launches at Bar Italia on College Street in Toronto December 6th.

A graduate of both Concordia University in Montréal and the Emily Carr University of Art & Design in Vancouver, Melanie Janisse is a poet, multidisciplinary artist and shopowner living in Toronto.

Comments

• November 17, 2009, Cherie writes: Wow! This is a wonderful and well deserved review. I have had the pleasure of hearing some of her fantastical stories and also hearing Melanie read poetry. She has a truly magical way of making you feel like you have been there. Can't wait to read it for myself. Lovely photo too!
• November 22, 2009, Paulette Kupnicki writes: I have been to the island and love it. However, seeing it anew through the eyes of this brilliant author is a delight. The push and pull of past and present is so real and compelling for me. Thanks for this gift sweet niece. You are gifted and a gift to our family. Aunt p

Kids are just growing up too quickly these days. Maybe I spent my high school years with blinders on but I can scarcely recall anyone with a drug problem. This is certainly not the case for a high school in Doylestown, Pennsylvania where the vice-president of the school board was recently pressured to scrap plans of subjecting random students to drug tests. Originally, students who tested positive for drugs could continue attending class but could not participate in extracurricular activities or use on-campus parking. I am sceptical of plans like this. While it is admirable that a school is taking initiative to reduce a growing problem among young adults, I doubt that drug tests would reduce the number of students who use. And to refuse their participation in extracurricular activities sounds like a great way to socially isolate students who already have a problem. Then, there’s the issue of privacy. Students go to school to learn, not to have to randomly pee in a cup. Like in almost every other situation involving minors, I blame the parents.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from fifth grade, it’s that schools really like banning things. My school banned pogs, yoyos, crazy bones, Pokemon cards, regular cards, Tamagotchi pets, laser pointers, and probably a host of other things that I didn’t notice. Danvers High School took it up a notch and banned a four-letter word that anyone who watches a certain cartoon would be familiar with: meep. No, it doesn’t mean anything new now. Teachers at Danvers High felt threatened by the repeated use of the word and the principal eventually banned the word, stating that any student who utters it will be suspended. I say that the students should replace meep with a word like “read” so that when the principal tries to ban that, they can get teachers in trouble for inevitably saying it at some point.

As I write this sentence, November 5th is one hour and seven minutes away. Soon it’ll be Guy Fawkes Day, which some young people do remember these days thanks to the comic book stylings of Alan Moore and David Lloyd. Perhaps in the U.K. it’s different, but I for one would not have known a thing about Guy Fawkes if it weren’t for the graphic novel V for Vendetta. As you read this, of course, that day will have passed, and I somehow doubt anyone celebrated the day in its true spirit, myself included. I mean, I feel pretty safe in guessing that I won’t wake up tomorrow to find out that someone blew up the Ontario Legislative Building.

I can tell you what will happen tomorrow at the Ontario Legislative Building. Not much.

However, at around four o’clock p.m., a slightly chubby politician in a tailored suit will look out the window and be surprised to notice that the lawn of Queen’s Park is lined with neat rows of young people holding shiny, expensive, mass-produced picket signs, chanting loosely modified camp songs almost loudly enough to be heard over the traffic. “Oh!” the politician will say. “Was that today? I thought that student thing was scheduled for next week!”  Don’t take my word for it.  Check out the flier I picked up at York University this afternoon:

Having studied the photograph on this flier for some time, I’m not yet sure if those three students are trying to catch snowflakes with their mouths, astonished by the sudden appearance of U.F.O.s in the sky, or exclaiming “We love you!” at a Nickelback concert.  One thing is for certain: the guy with the cool shades, backwards Nike baseball cap, and accessory headphones is definitely wearing a poppy.  How good of him!

Every year, the student associations at the campuses of York University and the University of Toronto launch a pricey advertising campaign (with a portion of the student tuition money allotted to them by the Universities) to mobilize a student demonstration at Queen’s Park in order to convince the Ontario premier Dalton McGuinty to lower post-secondary school tuition fees.  If that sounds like a ridiculous and self-contradictory paper trail, that’s because it is.  In 2003, McGuinty campaigned on the promise of implementing a freeze on tuition fees, a freeze he only maintained for two years.  Not the first time a politician has broken a campaign promise, of course, so it hardly came as a surprise.  Ever since, tuition fees have been climbing faster than the rate of inflation, students have been working more jobs at longer hours to pay for classes they’re unable to attend, and student benefits have dissolved one by one while the Universities invest in such wonders as flat screen televisions hanging from hallway ceilings around campus displaying such useful information as... the weather.  No doubt our government-subsidized post-secondary education system is cheaper than, say, the system in the U.S., but then there are a number of developed nations (e.g. France and Northern Europe) with free post-secondary education of superior quality to our own.  I concede that the goal of these protesters may have some merit.

I’m currently a fourth-year student at York University, hoping to graduate this year, and I distinctly remember the excitement in my first year surrounding the November 5^th student demonstration.  That year I collected signatures for a petition that one of my classes sent to McGuinty along with scathing letters about how we’d all lost faith in his leadership.  Ah, to be young-er and naive!  Our efforts went unheeded.

Flash forward to this year.  I walk onto campus this morning to find the pathways lined with plastic lawn-signs declaring November 5^th a “Day of Action” and calling for the reduction of tuition fees, which have only continued to climb since my first year.  A school bus picks up students from the University and ferries them downtown.  You can now send an email of support if you can’t attend.  The York University Senate even grants amnesty for those students wishing to attend the rally.  We may as well have the day marked down on the official University calendar as “Protest Day.”  It’s the day when we learn what it means to be a good citizen.  It reminds me of that episode of Arrested Development where Lindsay decides to protest the Iraq War, and the protesters are taken to the “free speech zone,” which is a cage in the desert.

In his lectures on parrhesia, the Ancient Greek word for the practice of “truth-telling”, Michel Foucault tells us that the truth-teller “says something which is dangerous to himself and thus involves risk” (13).  It is for this reason that the Greeks knew “real parrhesia, parrhesia in its positive, critical sense, does not exist where democracy exists” (83).  If one is permitted to tell the truth, the truth loses its potency, its power to affect any sort of positive change.  It’s the dilemma of free speech.  Freedom isn’t freedom if some entity like the state “gives” it to you.  By virtue of it being given it puts the giver in a position of authority.  Freedom is permitted.  It makes freedom a thing, an object, a commodity even.  Nations begin to compete for whose subjects are more free.  They trade freedom.  Free trade is the freedom to trade freedoms freely.  Freedom is Coca-Cola, Nike, Goldman Sachs, Walmart, MacDonalds, Monsanto, and the rest.  We are free to live in the world as it has been structured for us.  We are free because we are told that we are free.  I am free to write this.  Thus what I write here loses all meaning.  I often wonder why I even bother.  It’s no wonder our generation is so notoriously cynically.  The very system we protest allows us to protest it, as long as that protest is within reasonable bounds, within our rights, and we are ungrateful if we stray beyond those rights, ungrateful to a system that allows us to live within it, that allows us to change its mechanisms, allows us to reprogram the software of its applications though the operating system remains inviolable.

It is for this reason that philosophers like Henry David Thoreau in the 19^th century differentiated between rights granted by the state and more fundamental rights that cannot be contained in any constitution or granted by any governmental of super-governmental body (e.g. the U.N.).  “All men recognize the right of revolution,” Thoreau wrote in Civil Disobedience “to resist the government, when its tyranny or its inefficiency are great and unendurable.”  Certainly, ours is debatably not a tyrannical government, but inefficient, I would say yes, it is.  The world is heading in many dangerous directions and we’re doing little of anything to step on the brakes or to plan for a world different than the one we know.  We’ve built ourselves a home without doors or windows, a pleasant home, with luxuries and amenities, but at some point the home caught fire, and we are quite adept at ignoring this fire.  Now I sound like a mad preacher, heralding the end of days.  Don’t even get me started on genetically modified foods, monocultures, the loss of genetic diversity in food crops, the omnipresence of carcinogens in our human-made environments, and how bleak that future looks.  Let’s get back to the topic at hand.

So if we can’t be granted freedom, for Thoreau, we simply have to be free, which means we have to act freely.  The thing that these student protesters don’t seem to get is that they have no power, no leverage of any sort.  We whine a lot, but what do we do?  Well, perhaps we are asking the wrong questions.  Year after year, our lovely protesters are intent on asking what their government and the university can do for them, mistakenly believing these bodies to be benevolent.  Like petulant children, we seem to think that if we bug Daddy enough he’ll give us what we want, a form of behaviour taught to us by advertisers to obtain certain commodities.  Perhaps we should instead ask what those in power want from us?  Even labour unions seem to have forgotten this: that the whole point of striking was to deny employers the labour they needed, to remind employers that the workers had power, and that this, not the monetary gains that resulted from striking, was the very point of striking.  To remind the system of its mortality.  That’s why the notion of a legal strike is so baffling and contradictory.  We are so blinded by what we “want” from the system that we seem to forget the system wants us to want what it can give us.

So what do Universities want from students?  Well, our money would be a good place to start.  What do they care if we protest as long as they have our money?  So don’t pay.  What would happen if we all withheld our tuition fees indefinitely?  No concessions.  This isn’t a bargaining table.  Either the system wholly changes or it crumbles.  If everyone did it, they’d been a jam.  They would have to change or expire.  Of course, this is a fantasy.  There will be many students of proper conservative upbringing, who have faith in the system, who will vehemently refuse not to pay, and most would be too frightened of the consequences if they did it and no one else did.  Moving a mass of people to act as one for a brief moment has always been the challenge of revolution.  Those like Thoreau say fuck everyone else, do what you think is right as an individual and take the consequences with pleasure.  There is, I’m sure, some sort of masochism underpinning Thoreau’s thought.  Thoreau was less concerned with changing systems than living morally as an individual and accepting your unjust punishment as an individual.  Perhaps he’s right in giving up on mass change.  I mean, imagine this scenario.  A few people are dissatisfied with the way government works, so they decide to violate the basic tenant of democracy.  They decide not to vote.  They decide to launch a campaign of their own.  The “don’t vote” campaign.  If the system is broken, don’t participate in it.  If enough people don’t, either the system changes or it collapses.  Actually, this is kind of what’s happening now with us youth voters.  I’m sure you’ve heard the moral outrage of older generations, that young people don’t even care enough to vote, a right that so many fought so hard for.  Well, there’s a reason that fewer and fewer people vote, especially those of younger generations.  Why would someone participate in a system that they’re disillusioned with?  How dare we call such people apathetic?  That’s something I’ve gotten up on my high horse of the apocalypse to proclaim on occasion, that my companions are ungrateful and apathetic.  I regret that now.  How dare we proclaim it a moral obligation to participate in a system we don’t think adequate?  Refusal to participate is refusal to legitimate.  It’s why Thoreau chose to protest slavery and the Mexican war by not paying his taxes, and he was glad to be arrested for it.   There’s no such thing as a perfect system, but systems have to change, and if a system refuses to change, fuck it.  All life has to change.  Life adapts to survive.  It adapts or it dies.

Comments

• November 15, 2009, B-Rad writes: Your comment about the system allowing us to 'protest' is exactly the paradoxical nature of contemporary capitalism. We protest, demaning our right to a better educational system, thus satisfying our need (i.e. we say: "Yes, I went there and protested, showed them I cared! I did my deed!) all the while the government and the system are also satisfied (i.e. they claim: "Yeah, let them have their day of action, we might eventually let up and give them something..but for now, let them have their fun."). Both sides, as it were, are satisfied. Welcome to ideology.
• November 16, 2009, Patrick Grant writes: ^and in the mean time we can worry about hand sanitizer and Mars bars! Great article De-von.
• November 16, 2009, kSilk writes: Good piece. I'm not a university student, but the message I found to be somewhat universal, so right on. Though, the Guy Fawkes references at the beginning seemed superfluous. That aside, right on. Keep it up.
• November 29, 2009, SPAY writes: Free is when you don't have to pay for nothing or do nothing. WE WANT TO BE FREE! FREE AS THE WIND!
• November 30, 2009, Andrea writes: But was anything suggested here? Should we go Thoreau's route, which is to say, individual action? Or was nothing suggested and my request for suggestion a revelation of apathy (I must be told what to do) when the point of this article was more towards "information." Of which much of it was lovely. Thank you. I've been looking for a way to change society. The only option clear at this point? Grow old, have a job, vote.
• December 1, 2009, Devon writes: Thoreau's route has its own problems, as one person acting alone is just a nutter. (As most thought Thoreau was.) At this point, at least where North American culture is right now, I don't see any social movements of decent scope happening anytime soon. We're too enamored with the idea of "progress" among other things. And of course, my feelings toward "apathy" are not solidified or certain. I mean, it says something, to me at least, that the current generations of youth are so cynical -- but I don't want you to think that I'm saying because voter apathy is a sign of disillusionment that "apathy" in general is a "good" thing. At some point, apathy has to provide the ground for feeling. Apathy in this case is more of an indicator, I guess? Or rather, a step towards social self-consciousness. I would like us to be aware of why we are apathetic and cynical, that we are apathetic and cynical because the current social structure is not adequate and it's not getting better. The problem of how to move people to overcome their fear and dependence - and we have become, or believe ourselves to have become, incredibly dependent upon the very system that perpetuates our alienation - and to convert apathy into something constructive is... well, who knows it it's even possible. Your frustration, Andrea, is one I share. But it's not one that everyone else shares, which is a shame. However, apathy may be a stepping stone toward that frustration. We're not there yet. Not by a long shot. But these days, you have to look for hope in unconventional places. (I apologize for the incoherent and repetitive nature of this response - I am operating on 0 sleep. Best, D.
• December 1, 2009, Devon writes: Oh, and there were technical difficulties, so this got deleted from the end of the article, but the Foucault I cited is a book called "Fearless Speech" (1983). Ed. Joseph Pearson. Los Angeles, California: Semiotext(e), 2001.
• December 2, 2009, Devon writes: I guess another question that this spawns is how to turn apathy toward devices of 'change' within the system into a passionate need to make changes beyond what is permitted. This while realizing our limitations, that complete social overhaul is a pleasant fantasy. However, I would differentiate between apathy with regard to the surface mechanics of those who wield power, and apathy with regard to what is really going on behind the smokescreen of partisan politics. The former can lead to good, the latter is dangerous. By participating in the mechanations of partisan and permitted politics we lose sight of real political meaning that people, who claim they don't care about politics, might actually care about. Though that still leaves the obstacle of fear, which is the greatest obstacle for positive change in whatever form. Hopefully this clarifies what I wrote in the comment above.

I think there's one thing I need to talk about first before going any further: Audience. Evil Dead The Musical sold itself to Evil Dead fans by staying true to the material (well, as true to the material as you can be when even the material didn't keep true to the material). With Toxie, after all was said and sang, I had a sinking sensation that, and I mean this, the writers of this production may have never actually seen The Toxic Avenger. But that isn't actually a bad thing. I mean, we aren't talking about the holiest of work here. You have a big green mutant dismembering people on stage and then harmonizing about it. Okay, he's missing the mop, the tutu, the janitorial duties, the mystic-never-really-elaborated-need to kill evil doers, the unruly kids that get kicks from running over kids in their car and a nearly naked, obese community leader, but to the average theatre goer that will hardly be an issue. What I'm saying is that this isn't one for purists, for any Toxic Avenger purists that actually exist out there. If you have never seen the films before, you are at no disadvantage at all to walk into this production to have a good time.

What awaits you inside the radioactive Danforth Music Hall? First I gotta say, the set floored me. Incredibly elaborate and creatively used throughout, I started to wonder if the design team had a larger budget than the original film's production. Second, and I'm continuing on my honesty streak, it starts pretty slow. The first third drags on a little bit, the cast digging their heels into playfulness as the regular showcase of "Welcome to our weary city" songs take the stage. But things begin to pick up the pace around the same time that Toxie scores his first decapitation, and a joyous thing pans out. More and more players are introduced, almost indulgently, and it's here I'll note there are only five members of the cast. While Evan Alexander Smith does a good job as the jabbing, singing, brutish hero and Brittany Gray pumps a lot of fantastic visual gags into his blind peppy girlfriend, the show is surprisingly taken by Jamie McKnight, Daren A. Herbert and Louise Pitre, who play the plethora of minor roles.

The play is at its best when it is self aware. This usually consists of not just characters, but the actors taking on the task of filling Jersey city with only five people, two of which reserved for specific characters. Eventually things hilariously melt down, as an homage to costume changes goes underway, the actors soon find themselves hilariously disheveled. Pitre has a fantastic scene where she juggles an on-stage argument between two of her roles, and near the end Herbert and McKnight seem to have lost track of what exact character they are anymore. The deeper into the production you go, the more surprisingly subtle visual gags play in, which will greatly reward the attentive.

Toss your expectations into the garbage heap, it will aid you. I say that especially to those who have previously seen the films. You will be happy you went to see this play, even if it takes time for the poison to spread through your veins. I predict a solid future for Toxie in Toronto, as both a city that caters to the stage, and shitty fucking movies.

For ticket info, viseeet:

http://toxicavengertoronto.com/

Synopsis – Spoiler Warning

Angela Bennet (Bullock) is a hacker and system analyst for Cathedral, a large software company. Angela works entirely from her home, and her interactions with other people are limited to her Alzheimer’s stricken mother and the people on an internet chatroom. One day she stumbles upon a strange piece of code hidden in a securities program known as Gatekeeper. Before she has a chance to truly examine this, she goes off on vacation to Mexico.

It is here that she meets the seemingly charming Jack Devlin (Northam). Devlin wastes no time seducing Angela before revealing that he is a member of the Praetorians, an organization attempting to take over the world and the one responsible for Gatekeeper. Devlin then tries to kill Angela who narrowly escapes death.

When she comes to in a hospital a few weeks later she finds that her identity has been stolen and been replaced with that of a woman named Ruth Knox. Angela frantically tries to reclaim her life, only to find it blocked by Devlin and the sorid facts that he makes up about Knox and places on them internet. In desperation, Angela turns to the only person who knows her, an ex boyfriend and former therapist (Miller).

Devlin remains one step ahead. After murdering the ex-boyfriend and getting Angela set to prison (then breaking her out to toy with her), Angela finally snaps and breaks into Cathedral where she finds the real Ruth Knox pretending to be her. After some clever computer work, Angela manages to regain her identity, eliminate Devlin and Knox, and destroy the Gatekeeper program. She lives happily ever after, taking care of her mother and generally staying away from mysterious chatrooms.

Borna

The Internet is an amazing creation. Who would have guessed fifteen years ago that sites such as Youtube, Facebook, Google Earth street view, and of course Steel Bananas could exist? The answer: not Sandra Bullock in the ’95 cyber thriller The Net. Bullock plays Angela Bennett, a computer nerd who somehow stumbles upon a conspiracy bent on controlling people’s lives via the Internet. Granted, this film came out just when the Internet was starting out and for this reason there are many out-dated assumptions about what the Internet can and cannot do.

This aside, what interested me in this film is the over-projected claim that our lives are wholly determined by digital information. That is, most of us do our banking online, we buy things from amazon.com and other various sites. Nearly all of our personal information, SIN number, credit card, etc, etc exists online. This is the fear that propels The Net, the fear that our lives could be absolutely controlled by external manipulation.

I realize that we have viruses, and identity theft and so on, but we have also been able to account and prevent these problems using the very technology which creates them. Yet, what is the film trying to say? Identity theft aside, isn’t the film preying on our insecurities and fears about technology within the social setting? This makes me think of the hype about iPhones, how some are saying that sooner or later our whole lives will be dependant on one small piece of technology. Is this a correct hypothesis, or are we merely repeating the fear found in The Net?

Daniel

The Internet truly is a terrifying place. In my humble opinion, however, it has little to do with the amount of cyber crime and quite a bit to do with the depraved minds of its users. Something about this wonderful anonymity has allowed for unspeakable horrors if you go looking hard enough. In fact, most of the time, you simply stumble on some grotesque abomination. Today Angela would be more concerned about accidently stumbling onto 4chan as opposed to a secret plot to take over the world.
The Net does present us with another conundrum about the nature of identity. After stumbling upon the secret of the Praetorians, Devlin goes out of his way to steal Angela’s life and manufacture a new one.

While this seems far-fetched, it seems to work because Angela is a bit of an antisocial recluse (like most computer geeks). As it turns out, there is actually nobody in her life that would recognize her besides her asshole ex-boyfriend. However, a person does need to leave her house at some point. It is a bit disconcerting that none of her neighbours, or even her landlord can remember what she looks like.

More importantly it ultimately raises the question about what it is that makes a person unique. The film seems to suggest that we define ourselves by our interactions with other people. By stripping away those relationships, we are left with a self image that may even be surprising to ourselves.

Borna

I agree with you about the lack of recognition by her neighbors. The film seems to suggest that we have gotten to a point in Western culture, where if we live a virtual life, then our actual, real life will cease to exist. This seems to be what happens to Angela in the film. She essentially lives her life on ‘the net,’ and so even her next door neighbour does not recognize her. The utter stupidity of this aside, it has a meaning. This has to do with the film’s assumption that computer data (via the Internet) will have the last say. In one scene of the film, Angela goes to check out from her hotel, and the hotel database says she has already checked out.

Angela tries to argue with the hotel clerk and explain to him that she has not checked out, yet the clerk insists that the information on the computer is correct and final. This is rather, well, stupid. Or even out-dated. This depends on the presumption that computer information is never falsifiable, and always right, no matter what the situation. When Angela’s identity is stolen and she is given a new one, it is all done over the Internet. Again, no one takes her word for the information that is available on his or her computer screen.

This strange elevation of computer information over everything else is key in the film, yet it just goes to show how out-dated the film truly is. Today, we know that the information on computers can be false, altered and hacked.

Daniel

What seems truly odd to me is this attitude of blind trust. I don’t know anybody that simply goes along with what anybody says, even when that somebody isn’t a new and largely untested piece of technology.  Even so, we now know that identity theft is largely used to steal credit card numbers and buy all sorts of cool shit without having to pay for it.

Besides having this entire plot about the evils of modern technology, The Net also seems to have a subtext of tolerance. In what has to be one of the most bizarre subplots ever, the entire film has an “AIDS is not so bad” feel to it that you often see in afterschool specials from the early nineties. At the beginning of the film a powerful government figure takes his own life because he is homophobic and is led to believe that he has HIV. Later, Angela is able to escape from Devlin by running through a candlelight vigil for AIDS victims. Coupled with the main plotline this seems to suggest the message that the sufferers of the virus are still people, even though their identities are largely anonymous to us.

Borna

Certainly the AIDS message is very strange. Angela, trying to run away from Devlin, not only runs through the vigil, but she runs against the grain. What could this mean? Is the subliminal message of this scene that sometimes we have to stray away from conforming to social norms (i.e. public vigils) in order to unravel the greater truth (i.e. government conspiracy)? What is also interesting is the not-so subtle binary play on good vs. evil. The protagonist, Angela (i.e. Angels, God, Heaven, etc) must run away and fight Devlin (i.e. Devil, Satan, Hell, Evil, etc).

This rather lame and poor use of good and evil just goes further perpetuate the film’s commitment to the idea that technology is evil. Devlin seems to have connections everywhere, even in the FBI, whereas Angela’s own mother cannot even recognize her (thanks to the plot device of Alzheimer’s at the beginning of the movie). For once, I’d like to see a conspiracy film where the binary of good versus evil wasn’t so... well… evident. Why not throw in some grey characters? In the words of Nietzsche, "why not go beyond Good and Evil?"

Daniel

Grey characters? What kind of movie do you think this is? One that is complex and makes any lick of sense whatsoever? If there were any characters that had any streaks of grey whatsoever, we the viewing audience might get confused and be unable to tell who we should be rooting for. The Net makes it really simple for all of us. The big corporation that is attempting to take over the world using the internet is evil. The innocent hacker who is a bit isolated from the rest of society is good.

I think that at its core The Net isn’t just a conspiracy film warning us all about the dangers of new technology. It is a conspiracy film warning us all about the dangers of corporations.

Lessons Learned

• Corporations are evil and trying to take over the world.

• Social interaction will keep you from being erased from the world.

• Chat rooms can lead to anonymous sex with hitmen and identity theft.

• People who have AIDS should be accepted for who they are.

• Identity is more than just our interactions with other people.

• Never trust a guy named Devlin.

The Twilight Saga: New Moon

Stephanie Meyer is the worst thing to happen to vampires since Anne Rice. I know that I have said this before, but I feel like I need to say it again and again and again. I will maintain my stance until we are free from the terrible grip of the wimpy vampire phenomenon.

Seriously, what happened to vampires? They were once considered to be nothing more than blood sucking demons that feast on human flesh. There was nothing wrong with that. This notion that we were not the top of the food chain was truly a terrifying one to behold. Not only that, vampires were charming and deceptive. The very definition of the boogie-man. Now we have vampires that are poor analogies of human beings. Folks who are hopelessly emo with their struggles, and who are really vampire in name only.

The latest chapter in this crime against humanity is being released in just a few weeks, and it will be sure to draw throngs of tween girls with low self esteem and delusions of escape from their mundane lives. If the new film is anything like the first (which I watched for this very zine) it will be a horrifying and painful two hour train wreck full of horrendous dialogue, inane plot twists and, of course, sparkling vampires.

Do yourself a favour and skip it. Skip all references to it. Ignore any trailers and change the channel any time a commercial comes on. Do anything that you possibly can to avoid any contact with this film.

The Blind Side

Ah, Sandra Bullock. My arch nemesis when it comes to finding good cinema. Her name in the marquis of a film is usually an indication for me to skip the film. Her latest, The Blind Side, is no exception to the rule and I felt it deserved a special mention.

The film follows the story of a wealthy upper-class white woman (Bullock) who decides to help sponsor a kindhearted, high-school aged black boy from the wrong side of the tracks. Due mostly to her help, the boy ends up accepted by everybody and takes a real shine to football where he is able to turn his life around. Naturally everybody is thrilled and they all live happily ever after.

This is the definition of feel good schlock. I have no doubt that the family will overcome all sorts of adversity before making it to their happy ending, but it will be reached nonetheless. Also I am not the most politically correct person but even I find something terribly condescending about the white family needing to save the black boy. Just once I would love to see it work the other way around. I am convinced that the only reason this movie was made, or any movie like this for that matter, is because it comes with the wonderful “based on a true story” banner. I am glad that it worked out for this young man but please, don’t make me suffer through it.

The Road

I once heard that there are two different schools of thought when it comes to Cormac McCarthy’s apocalyptic novel The Road. About half the people that read it are unable to put it down and will swear up and down that it is one of the finest stories ever told. The other half is unable to make it past the first fifteen pages. I am sorry to say that I am a member of the latter group. I have tried unsuccessfully to read it on three separate occasions.

Despite this I have very high hopes for the latest film adaptation of The Road. The movie takes place primarily on a highway, after some global disaster has wiped out most of humanity. Traveling down the road are a father and son, identified only as ‘The man’ and ‘The boy.’ Both are trying desperately to survive and avoid the groups of roving cannibals that are the remains of human society.

Post-apocalyptic films have a tendency to go one of two ways. Either it is a stunning and frightening new vision of our own mortality, or it is a heavy handed abomination that makes you almost wish the world would end so you wouldn’t have to sit through the rest of it. In this case I really am hoping that The Road is a member of the former. Viggo Mortenson is a fantastic actor and if anyone can pull of the task off he can. Coupled with the fact that the release date was pushed back means that not only is a quality film, but it is one with real Oscar potential.

The Princess and the Frog

Gather around everyone, it is time for your dear old bitter film critic to tell you a story. Once upon a time there was an animation studio known only to the world as ‘Disney.’ Now Disney didn’t just make simple cartoons. No, they made some of the most magical and memorable full length animated movies in the history of cinema. However things rarely last forever, and this is no exception.

About five years ago Disney closed their traditional animation studios. It seemed that all was lost.

However their latest release, The Princess and the Frog, is a return to traditional animation that I feel is long overdue. The film follows in traditional Disney fashion by very loosely telling the classic story of The Frog Prince. The differences are subtle and with a traditional Disney twist that in this case, upon kissing the frog, the princess turns into a frog herself. What happens next is sure to be a musical adventure for the ages.

Good for Disney in this case. With computer animation becoming so widespread and so inexpensive, traditional animation has pretty much gone the way of the Dodo. It is a bit concerning, considering that most animated kids movies that come out these days feel so half baked and rushed that any change to the current mold is a welcome one. This applies even if the change is one back to the way things used to be done. That, and the choice to finally have a African American protagonist in the usually whitewashed world of Disney, are both changes that I feel are long overdue.

Other Films

Just a few words about some of the other films that are appearing in theatres this month.

The Bad Lieutenant – Nicholas Cage…. Why?

Planet 51 – This is an example of poor CGI that I spoke of earlier

Ninja Assassin – Might be good in an “awesome I’m a man” sort of way

Armoured – Desperately failing in the “awesome I’m a man” sort of way

Transylmania – Twilight meet Disaster Movie. What do you think?

Up in the Air – Wow George Clooney is everywhere these days, isn’t he?

The Lovely Bones – Marky Mark trying again for an Oscar. Who knows it might be pretty good.

Granted, riding a bike in the city, especially when it’s your primary means of transportation is pretty tough; and yes, potholes suck and most people in cars are douche-bags, that’s all very true and well and good, et cetera and so forth. However, while it is one thing to merely complain about the reasons why riding a bike in the city is a pain in the ass, what is really important is why the reasons are reasons to begin with. In other words: yes, the government has not generally been overly supportive of bicycle initiatives and yes, a lot of motorists do little else but complain about those crazy cyclists – but why is this? In all simplicity, the way our culture is designed and the way our modern cities have been built is centered around the automobile.

Vast networks of highways cleaving neighborhoods into pieces, apartment buildings divided from each other from pedestrian-unfriendly roadways and a relatively non-existent bicycle system: pretty much, right? Even the way that roads themselves are arranged are extremely disadvantageous to bicycles, with the bicycle lanes - if they are there are all - sandwiched between the rush of the traffic and the ever-present possibility of getting blind-sided by a car door. Often bicycle lanes are built as an afterthought -  a crude concession, tacked on roads that have more room than is necessary for cars to operate functionally, and even then, there's very little to stop automobiles from swerving into the bike lanes.

I only caught one event at this year's International Festival of Authors and it wasn't even a reading. It was a panel discussion between David Byrne, Jack Layton, the president of the Toronto Cyclist Union Yvonne Bambrick, as well as architect, urban designer and theorist Ken Greenberg. The event was titled Cities, Bicycles & the Future of Getting Around and it turned out to be extremely insightful and illuminating.

I found out much later that Cities, Bicycles & the Future of Getting Around is actually an event that Mr. Byrne has been touring around North America with a rotating cast of local panelists (the template calls for a civic leader, a cycling advocate and an urban theorist). Each speaker does a fifteen minute individual presentation followed by a group discussion.

Unfortunately for Mr. Byrne, however, while his piece was pretty interesting, he was largely overshadowed in his own event. Bambrick was really good and Uncle Jack can always counted on to be Uncle Jack, but it was Ken Greenberg who stole the show and ran away with it. Greenberg, of Greenberg Consultants, is a fiercely accomplished urban designer who has been at the forefront of many fascinating developments all over the world and through his presentation I learned quite a lot about (even in fifteen minutes) just how auto-centric our cities truly are and the ways in which many cities are becoming more bike-friendly.

Recognizing that at some point the oil upon which we so heavily rely is going to run out, cities are being forced to acknowledge that the automobile may not be the dominant form of transportation for much longer. From eliminating street level parking spaces in favor of bike racks, to creating bike-specific street lights, cycling is becoming a much safer practice all over the world. Many cities such as Copenhagen are implementing meridians to separate bike lanes from car traffic, with some going to even bigger extremes and making three-lane roads that are not three lanes strictly devoted to cars, but three meridian-divided lanes: one lane for cars, one for bicycles and one for public transit.

In Toronto, the opposite seems to be the case. While Montreal has been praised for its bicycle-friendly initiatives, Toronto has been fairly resistant to the bicycle in general. Over one hundred kilometers of bicycles lanes were supposed to have been in place all over the city something like by right now, but as of this writing barely a fraction of that has occurred.

Furthermore, as Vit Wagner in his interview with Byrne for the Toronto Star points out, Toronto City Council is becoming increasingly backward with regard to bicycle legislation. Councilor Michael Walker is proposing increased strictness with bicycle helmet and gear laws and motioning that cyclists should be licensed. While helmets are certainly useful and indeed a much safer choice than nothing at all, forcing people to wear heavy-duty protection is somewhat beside the point.

As Byrne points out in Wagner's article, "'Instead of the city making biking safer, cyclists are being told to armour up,' he says. 'That's the wrong approach. If you're expected to wear a helmet, let's at least have a trade-off of more security to protect bicyclists from motorists.'"

And that is really the entire point of bicycle advocacy in the first place: making people and local governments aware that bicycles are just as valid a mode of transit as anything else and as such - especially with the automobile on its steady decline - the people who choose to ride bikes are entitled to the safety and space as any other mode of transit.

• Click here to read the Toronto Star article.

• Click here to check out the Toronto Cyclists Union.

• Click here to check out the work of Ken Greenberg.

A few moons back, I visited local game developers Capybara who had given me two recommendations of things to hit up. One was a ramen noodle place that is apparently behind city hall. The other was The Hand Eye Society. They seemed to bring up this mysterious organization quite a few times in our little sit down, hammering in their importance to the point that I began to wonder if they were some shadowy Illuminati type that ruled over our local game makers with invisible vices. So, stricken with fear, on one of the many nights during a why-am-I-doing-nothing spells I decided to take a deep breath and several finger-steps forward and, ah, googled them. And what good fortune! I saw that they were holding another meeting but just a week away, so I put on my hat, grabbed some business cards at Kinko's, and headed off to The Unit Bar to see this gaming underground.

I had never actually been to Unit Bar before, and because, like so many other establishments in the area, Unit Bar has no sign, I had to ask upon entry "You guys are a bunch of nerds right?" They nodded their heads, I shook their hands, things got underway. I was one of the few "outsiders," not because it was my first time being there, but because I had no formal place in the game making community, indie or not. I tried to pass myself off as "press" or even "aspiring" but alas, none of that really seemed to matter, for you see, they did not care. I mean, they did not care that I did not work on video games. As long as I could keep up in conversation on such grave matters as video games, which I'm sure by now you NERDVENTURERS have come to some grasping that I indeed can, I was welcomed into this bar with open bottles. Holy damn, Unit Bar serves La Fin Du Monde? And discussions of Metroid Prime? Hello second home!

"A bunch of us - Raigan, Mare, McG, Jon, Miguel and myself - were interested in supporting and bringing together the varied game culture things that were going on in Toronto, and we committed to each hosting a Social," says Hand Eye overlord Jim Munroe, "We program some demo or talk each Social which is pretty interesting. But mostly it's a small bar, so it's hard to not overhear or accidentally fall into an interesting conversation about games."

The demos and presentations began. Metanet was first up to bat. The Toronto based duo, yes there's only two of them, who were responsible for the runaway hit about a running ninja, N+. They announced a new upcoming title, Office Yeti, which much like it sounds will be a game about a regular bloodthirsty Yeti looming around in an everyday office. They didn't have a working demo, but they did have a working copy of a Skool Daze fan-remake, the original a 1985 Commodore 64 game. I kept silent to the fact that I had not yet even been born at the time of the originals release, but appreciated that I learned more of my geek tribe's history.

Next came the guest of honour, Alex Austin, one of the creators of Gish. He had to be the guest of honour, of course, the trooper came all the way down from Cal E For Nai Yay. If only the computer was aware of that, as when he tried to demo his first new project, things didn't seem to go exactly according to plan. The room, packed with people who were BORN for this kind of thing, started to publicly unravel the error. Opening up DOS lookin' windows of numbers and codes, pointing and yelling at zeros and ones, like a techie stock market. "CHANGE THAT ZERO TO A ONE. THAT ZERO SHOULDN'T BE THERE THAT'S A ONE'S PLACE." They couldn't get the thing working, but it didn't kill my buzz, hell I have to throw my laptop off my roof about three times before iTunes will start, I'm impressed they even knew the first step to recovery. But Faust didn't make a deal with the Devil just to pull a quarter out from behind his nephew's ear and Austin didn't hop country just to show off one game. He had not one, but several mini-games, all delivered in one package, like a showcase. Each title was basic, from destroying a city made of blocks with another block to another game where you try to successfully land on the moon, each used a similar engine and I can imagine any sprout like myself wasting endless time with each.

I ran into some Hand Eye folks again at Canzine. They were displaying their Torontron arcade cabinet. A gorgeous machine, that while to the naked eye appears to have been dug right out of Flynn's, was actually jam packed with local indie games. I played one where you played as a man in a business suit ducking out of the way of miscellaneous falling objects objects, like balls, anvils and open top cars. I would have tried out more titles, but behind me was an anxiously awaiting child, writhing his hands to grasp the joystick. I remember little me, I remember how no matter where I was or how far from home. The second I saw any video game to play, I would simply succumb to my will to play it. I would not deprive little me of that moment and I would not deprive little this guy of this moment. Instead I investigated another going on in the Toronto gaming scene. From similar minds that brought you Hand Eye, I give you a new event to mark on your calendar. Ladies, gents, orcs, introducing Gamercamp.

"Jaime and I created Gamercamp because we're big, nostalgic video game nerds. Over some food one night we started talking about the old Funland arcade on Yonge St and how awesome it was. As we traded our early gaming stories we realized that retro games were never more relevant than right now. The early Atari and NES games, for example, were hardware constrained and had to be fun because the graphics alone sure weren't enough to keep your attention. Modern platforms like the iPhone, PSN and XBLA similarly have constraints that require designers to distill down to what makes the gameplay fun. There's something really beautiful about a game so simple you can't believe you didn't think of it but so fun you can't believe you're still playing it at 3 in the morning," says Gamercamp organizer Mark Rabo, also member of Hand Eye, "We also created Gamercamp to be accessible to everyone, not just those in the Toronto indie dev community, but also those who are curious about game design or just enjoy playing them. Whether you're elbow deep into code, just enjoy iPhone games or anything in between, there's something for you at Gamercamp. Learn what makes games fun, see how they're made, even give feedback on indie games in progress at the demo sessions. And of course there's the unlimited freeplay on classic arcade machines at our 1UP closing event. No quarters required!"

I know Summer is long gone, and going back to camp would feel weird, but these are video games we are talking about. Video games! The camp takes place on November 21st at the Lower Ossington Theatre. More of a conference and full day event, Gamercamp will be more publicly focused, with speakers representing Toronto's indie game makers and playable demos to get yer mitts on, all wrapped up by a bumpin, bleepin, afterparty. Early bird tickets are fifteen bucks, a worthwhile alternative if meeting indie devs in a small unmarked bar makes you shaky that your inquiries won't be answered by a drinking, poutine craving nerd.

More info and tickets can be found here:

Gamer Camp

Hand Eye Society

Comments

• November 16, 2009, kSilk writes: What I love about this edition of Nerdventures, is that you left me curious about that ramen noodle place, which is apparently behind city hall. Old City Hall, or the science fiction one!?!

• DO make it hell (MODERN WARFARE, MEDAL OF HONOR)

War is not a fun place to be, so why are we so entertained by grim depictions of mortality? I'm not making a statement, I'm just stating. Millions of Halo fans decided to subject themselves to playing as a puppet government head on the way to his public execution, and then be executed. These same gamers were then killed slowly and painfully in the dusts of a nuclear bomb. While saying these depictions are realistic is a stretch, there is something to be said about games that, while fun to trudge through virtually, make the field of war somewhere you'd prefer to stay far away from.

• DO NOT make it exxxxtreeeeme (SHELLSHOCK: NAM '67)

Making it hell is one thing. Trivializing human death as a selling point is another. From the makers of Killzone, a hyper exaggerated space Nazi invasion, came Shellshock: Nam '67. When a game hinges it's entire selling point on how "edgy" it's being, you probably aren't looking at something that's going to be that fun to play. Or respectful to human life for that matter.

• DO twist the war around to the point I personally forget what war this is supposed to be (CONTRA, ADVANCE WARS)

Okay, let's quit being grim here. Games are fun, have been since they were little bits on our fuzzy screens. It's hard to recognize the brutality of war in 8-Bit, nevermind recognize what is a man and what is a dragon, so I'll forgive the old-schoolers for making things hard to identify. Contra started out as a blazing tag team shooter that didn't so much take place in a war but a bunch of war looking places. Destroyed city landscapes, trenches, dark tropics, all seemingly in walkable distances from each other. Before you know it you're fighting aliens or aliens possessed by Satan, so fuck it, who cares anymore.

DO NOT... Do... Wh... Whatever the hell you'd call this (VALKYRIA CHRONICLES)

Now, I did say twist the vision till I can't recognize it, but come on Sega, you can't go half way. There's something very wrong about a game that turns WWII... Into an anime. And not an anime that looks like a war but a war that looks like an anime. I don't really like having a century's greatest tragedy easily relatable to catgirls. I guess both have a fondness for using belts, but at least the soldiers used them to tie things.

DO take it to the skies (1942, BATTLEFIELD, CHUCK YEAGER'S AIR COMBAT)

Maybe the best way to avoid dishonouring the fallen would be to depict it from a perspective that all the carnage just look like tiny little ants anyways. Dog fights are fast, frantic, fun and full of rewardable tricks. They are everything games should be. They are great in space and great on earth. They can be straight forward tackling of waves of bogies, or just an alternative form of combat in a polished experience, it's hard to think of a bad way to do air combat. Unless it's tirelessly realistic and boring as hell.

DO NOT forget that thing I said last month about movies (HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER, PLATOON, NAVY SEALS, M*A*S*H, PLATOON AGAIN)

I don't know why they made two games out of Platoon. I don't know why they made a game about Platoon. I don't know why they made a game of Navy Seals but that's for an entirely different set of reasons. The best films about war are remembered for their message. These messages usually don't make it to the Game Boy version of these ventures.

Lights up on a MAN, jeans, scruffy plaid shirt, brown jacket, either drivers cap or short-brimmed fedora perched on HIS head. Suspenders.

HE speaks with the drawl and hard ‘R’s of a rural boy from Northern Ontario. HE is 21.

HE must picture this GIRL. SHE is burned into HIS mind forever. States between Devilish and Sweet. Brutal honesty.

It’s impossible to masturbate in a bus station. All hours of the night people are comin’ and goin’, from all points of the city, the province, the country. A cross-section of Canadiana. It happened in Simcoe County, at the bus terminal in downtown Barrie. I was on a lark of a journey that started out in St. Catherines and I didn’t know it yet but would end up takin’ me all the way to Plum Point Newfoundland and the edge of the continent. I was sittin’ on the red-wire benches outside, having me a dirty Native cigarette surrounded by the denizens of the waterfront community shifting my rucksack back and forth between my knees and waitin’ on my 6:20 transfer bus that would supposedly take me down to the Big Smoke. I was goin’ there to catch a Lenny Cohen show at the Massey (or so I thought) and I was running late as it was.

And then out of the rabble of homeless and destitute and people like myself just passin’ through, through that out walks this gorgeous blonde beauty queen. Fuck queen; goddess. I mean, creamy, brown-coated skin with a tan like she’d just come up from the beach not far. Hair the colour of hay in a prairie dawn just as the sun hits the first stalks. Legs on this girl that looked like they could straddle a grain harvester, no hands, and hang on with ease. Hips a-plenty, behind like a great fist o’ back bacon fresh trimmed and firm. Face like an angel, tits like the devil. You could balance a glass of water on them things and not spill a drop. You could take all you own and move in that cleavage comfortable with enough space to rent out to boarders. She had on this flowery summer dress, strapless, the digginest little outfit I ever did see. Looked like a little Southern belle who’d walked out of the wilderness into the big city first time, face all a-glow and eyes bigger than saucer plates.

She tossed her hair back in the low sun setting over the water there, and I swear my boner done just about leaped out my pants and entered her, right then and there. It’s like at the sight of this gone chick my brain dislodged from my skull, floated around my insides awhile then landed up somewhere in the head of my pecker. I wasn’t thinking with my brains no more. I was thinking with my Johnson. I thought it was going to explode. I could barely stand up with my member stickin’ out so strong (lucky I was wearin’ denims) and I shoved my hands in my pockets and held it down best I could and waddled around tryin’ to find the commode. Occupied, of course. Then she turned around, like in slow-movin’ in a picture, and tossed her hair around and caught eyes with me. She smiled so sweet I needed salt to stay conscious.

And that done it. Damned if I didn’t bolt to the nearest dark corner, whip it out, and start beatin’ it right then and there. I finished up quick (you can imagine) and when I turn with a handful of my own baby juice, there’s the entirety of the crowd of people waitin’ for the very bus I was to be on starin’ at me, not sayin’ a word. And smack in front? The goddess with the blonde hair, of course. She runs away screamin’ like I’d shit a demon child or some such. After that they wouldn’t let me on the bus. Run me right out of the station. I never got to that show at the Massey either. I had to sleep a night on the rocky sands of Lake Simcoe and hitch a ride out of that town early the next morning with a trucker heading to London or somewheres. I never saw that goddess again. But I never forgot her neither.

If you had a time machine, you could go back to November 12th and witness Colin perform this monologue at the Tightrope Books launch for GULCH: An Assemblage of Poetry and Prose.

Photo by Matthew Filipowich

She's inspired by strange people, old hats, cars from before 1930, terrible movies, weird mythology, and eye-searing colours. She has found herself in such varied situations as a brief internship at the National Post, illustrating children's travel guides for Paris and Amsterdam, doing an animation for the United Nations World Food Program, and redesigning brochures originally made by a colour-blind engineer.

She's starting to get really uncomfortable with referring to herself in the third person.

--

Check out more of Kim's work in the Spotlight Gallery.

"What a swamp the world could become without the call of socialism, the hope of socialism, and the 'danger' of socialism." -Mansoor Hekmat

What is going on today? The on-going global financial crisis signalled the fragility of liberal-democratic capitalism, not just in the West, but also on a world scale. Yet the mainstream consensus is that the social order will continue, that the crisis was merely a momentary hiccup that can be fixed and patched, that capitalism will go on. The question is what reform changes will be made to the global market to allow it to continue?

At the Marxism 2009 convention, Slavoj Žižek made the point that if there is anything we can learn from the on-going financial meltdown it is that capitalism as the way it has processed to exist up to this point cannot go on. Something needs to drastically change or else, according to Žižek, we will suddenly find ourselves in a society with new forms of ghetto slums, new social barriers and walls.

The central question, then, is what can be done? There are some who reject that we are on the road to disaster, those who claim that with reformist policies and regulations we can make society better, in short: a capitalism with a human face. To these one should make the point about the tremendous issues that liberal democratic capitalism faces: religious fundamentalism, ecological disaster, world hunger and poverty and so on. The point is that liberal democratic capitalism simply cannot account for these tendencies. What is the alternative, then? Can we not simply try to make the best of the situation, dealing with economic crisis after crisis, while we live relatively happy lives?

One is reminded here of the line by Winston Churchill, who once said of liberal democracy that it is the worst form of government except all the others that have been tried (i.e. socialism, fascism). Yet who still believes in genuine democracy today? The last Canadian federal election had the lowest turnout in Canadian history, a startling 59.1%. What is this, if not an indication of the lack of belief in the democratic process?

Now, many will be quick to bring up the example of the Obama victory, where even apathetic youth turned out to vote for the first black President. Certainly, there must be some democratic force here? The simple answer is: yes. The Obama victory was not only historic in terms of anti-racist struggle and black history in America, but also for its attempt to restore faith and hope to millions of Americans that had lost assurance.

The cold truth is that Obama, being one man working within the framework of the already established capitalist system, cannot accomplish all that he himself has become a symbol of: freedom and equality. This is the realization that is it in fact the inherently flawed social order itself (capitalism) which must be altered.

In his latest book on politics, Žižek states in the introduction “Critical Leftists have hitherto only succeeded in soiling those in power, whereas the real point is to castrate them…" This is aimed, of course at the intellectual scene of the 80s and 90s, where the Left was dominated by post-structuralist and post-modernist forms of thinking.

This is perhaps best exhibited by the multi-cultural political correctness that has plagued the liberal and Left intellectual scene for the past twenty years. While their goal is admirable (i.e. respect for various cultures and identities), their method of employment is not. Companies, Universities and other institutions take up sensitivity training programs and initiatives in order to create a more equitable work environment. Equality is replaced by toleration. That is, I do not need to think of you as my equal, but rather I sure simply tolerate the differences I see between you and myself, between your culture and mine and so on. Žižek’s criticism of this is that it is not radical enough, it does not take capitalism by the balls, so to speak.

Communism must be put back on the table as the only viable alternative to modern day capitalism. I am not advocating violent revolution, I am simply saying, along with Žižek and Badiou, that as we approach the end of the first decade of the 21st Century, we have witnessed the death of capitalism both ideologically and economically (the financial crisis was a shocking reminder that the system is inherently flawed). For this reason, a fidelity to the Idea of communism, an idea which embodies equality, prosperity and liberty in the strictest sense, must be kept.

The 20th century was witness to the first attempt at realizing actual communism in the form of the party-State (Soviet Union, China, Cuba, etc), we now know that this attempt failed, and while it was a valiant try, we cannot repeat its mistakes. So, we are in need to positing the communist hypothesis yet again. For, in the words of Beckett: “Try again. Fail again. Fail better.”

Žižek, Slavoj. "What does it mean to be a revolutionary today?" Speech. Marxism 2009. London. 8 Nov. 2009. Youtube. 6 July 2009. Web. 8 Nov. 2009.

Žižek, Slavoj. First as Tragedy, Then As Farce. New York: Verso, 2009. pp. 7

See the Wikipedia article found here

Comments

• November 17, 2009, Johnnyman writes: What do we make of the fact communist sympathy and working class agitation has appeared to be (almost ridiculously) low during this recession? It seems that the most common political reactions have been calls for regulated capitalism--people seem less interested in actually overhauling things than every before. I can never help feeling that communism is an old, dead idea that isn't relevant to the 21st century. The way things are going, it seems like everything's just going to accelerate into some kind of hyper-capitalism where the economy is sustained by a small mechanized workforce exploited by a small elite, and the rest of us just leech off the refuse. I did, however, pull that theory out of my ass in the last 5 minutes, so I could be wrong.
• November 17, 2009, B-Rad writes: Communist sympathy is certainly low amongst the mainstream media and the majority of the populace effected by said media. But the issue is then what we mean by the term 'communism'. If you're referring to the Soviet Union and the experiences of the 20th century, then that is separate from the idea of communism itself. If we take the experiences of China and Russia, then I myself do not want to see that repeated again, and as do many people. It's interesting that you think communism is a dead, old idea. Coming from a philosophy background, I can tell you that ideas never die off. Even the most backward, absurd ideas are still 'alive' in discourses. Now, 'the way things are going' doesn't necessarily mean that the idea of communism is irrelevant. As Zizek point out, if anything, our way of life cannot sustain the 'way things are going'. We will soon find ourselves is a form of society that is best portrayed in the movie 'Children of Men'. The very notion of communism, as the human strive for social equality in its entirety is something which dates back to Plato. So long as there is social and economic antagonisms, the idea of a classless and prosperous society will never fade. I recommend looking into Zizek's short book, cited below if you're interested.

Saving Gigi

895 Bloor St. W @ Ossington

I walk into Saving Gigi and sit at a small table at the side to plug into an available outlet. I find that the wireless signal is so omnipresent and not password protected that I can actually feel it crawling up my spine.

I approach the counter, order a medium latte and snag the last muffin of the day, strawberry banana coconut, an extremely moist muffin with the coconut baked right into the surface; a goddamn fantastic muffin! I nibble on the muffin, waiting for my coffee to arrive, and gaze at a single oscillating fan and the large domed paper lights that dangle from the ceiling. One framed chalkboard contains the drink menu, and the sandwiches, smoothies and bottled drinks are posted on the opposite wall. There is one long table in the middle (with no charger access), and several tables set up against the walls. A nook at the front of the restaurant contains two more tables, and a long bench that surrounds the tables.

The barista apologizes for the wait, which was non-existent. I look behind the counter and bear witness to a series of narrow shelves, where products, mugs, cups and necessary ingredients are stacked in a controlled jumble that allows the workers to quickly fulfill any order that comes their way, more than happy to deliver the product to the table and have you pay on the way out. The employees have an ample stack of vinyls on hand beside the counter, ready to be busted out at all times. The medium latte is a light blend that I bolster with the natural cane sugar on the table. Upon finishing my latte, the barista offers me water, which he serves in a personal, tiny green bottle, and hands me a small glass. Enough said, go to Saving Gigi.

A theatre is a building, a space, a warehouse, any physical structure in which an act of performance occurs (as Peter Brook calls it, an "empty space"). The theatre, however, is simply the act of putting on a play. It does not need to exist in an auditorium to be deemed theatre, and in fact (as I have theorized in previous articles) some of the best Canadian theatre has not occurred in a traditional theatre space. Commedia dell’Arte had its wagons and town squares, The Farm Show had its barns, and guerrilla theatre has its… anywhere. Anytime.

This is the point where you ask, “guerrilla theatre? What is that? Tell us Fallowfield!” But let’s skip that and just let me give you an explanation. It’s simple: guerrilla theatre is a spontaneous (to the audience, not the actors) performance of original or existing work without the spectators’ prior knowledge of the event. Often highly improvised (and frequently illegal), these performances provide some of the greatest examples of the true immediacy needed to create effective theatre that I so strongly advocate.

Probably the best-known guerrilla theatre troupe in the world is Improv Everywhere, a troupe from New York which pulls harmless ‘pranks’ in public. Now I ask the obvious question: is this theatre? Well, is it immediate? Yes. Is it performative? Yes. Is it witness by an audience? Yes. But I do not think that these questions can accurately summarize what an act of theatre constitutes. As I’m sure my avid readers have noticed so far, I am what you could call an ‘artistic idealist.’ I believe in the purity and the power of true art to move people, to inspire them. Improv Everywhere entertains, but is the art relevant?

According to founder Charlie Todd, Improv Everywhere is meant to "cause scenes of chaos and joy." I believe that the idea of spontaneously bringing a little happiness and wonder into people’s normal lives is certainly a noble cause, as happiness is something that seems to be in short supply these days. Anything that can make people’s day a little brighter in our troublesome world, I would deign to call art of the highest order. These effects are extremely important.

(Cut to: Colin ceasing all writing and watching Improv Everywhere videos on YouTube for half an hour or so when his column is already tragically overdue. Seriously, they’re hilarious. Watch’em.)

Now to contrast guerrilla theatre, a theatre which can happen anywhere, with another form: site-specific theatre. This is by its nature a form of theatre which must exist in the space in which it is created and cannot possibly be staged anywhere else. The very architecture of the location, its history, its found objects, all of these become an intrinsic part of the piece and cannot possibly be divorced from its performance. Now, I’m not talking about something like CanStage’s annual Dream in High Park; that is the outdoor public performance of a piece of theatre (the deadliest of all versions of Shakespeare, I might add) which already exists and has existed comfortably in auditoriums for centuries.

The interesting thing about site-specific work is the nature of the immediacy in the performance; it is not necessarily an immediacy of time but of place. In this way, the venue itself actually becomes a character in the piece, with its own personality and its own relationship to both the performers and the audience. These pieces are truly special when done properly, not merely needing to exist in a time and place, but a very specific place, one that cannot be altered lest the play be altered forever. The necessity of its being an original work of theatre also invites a greater possibility toward collaborative work. The more artists involved in the creation of the piece, the greater exploration of every aspect of the venue chosen.

Having recently done some site-specific work, however, I am not blind to the possible setbacks in the creation of these types of work. For example, permission to utilize these public spaces can be exceedingly difficult to obtain. The show in which I was involved was actually denied permission well after we had begun to devise the piece. We had to find a new location and essentially start all over again. What is desperately needed (in the city of Toronto, anyway) is more public support of the arts, even in the altering of City ordinances to allow greater access to spontaneous public art. As Improv Everywhere demonstrates, spontaneous performance art is a welcome addition to the cultural climate of any urban centre. Like the buskers who routinely bring their acts to our city streets, theatre artists must be allowed to do their work in order to provoke thought and emotion from its audience, even if that audience does not know they are about to see a show. Because if we can’t do it legally, our passion is such that we will do it anyway.

Improv Everywhere has an annual ‘pantless subway ride’ in Toronto. Google them for details. That’s right. I said Google them.

Comments

• November 15, 2009, Jeremy writes: Have you considered the possibility that these "guerilla theater" organizations have been used to play pro-tennis? My take on Improv Everywhere is that they're mostly pro-tennis, but they may have played a part in psychological warfare campaigns against NBA JAM 94' - and the participants would play pro-tennis. http://areyoutargeted.com/2009/11/15/army-of-losers/ This kooky lil' message has been altered by the Steel Bananas pro-tennis club. ~ "If you ain't pro-tennis, then we're anti-friends."~
• November 16, 2009, Colin Fallowfield writes: A cryptic comment... with literally nothing to do with the article. Still funny though.

According to my macbook’s built-in dictionary:

gam-bol

verb (-boled, -bol-ing; Brit. –bolled, -bolling) [intrans.]
run or jump about playfully : the man gamboled toward Connie.

noun [usu. in sing.]
an act of running or jumping about playfully

“I guess this explains why I don’t really dance, I confuse running and jumping with dancing. I like to call myself a Song & Dance Man; I tried to explain that to Chris Eaton [Rock Plaza Central] – he had me and my fiancé over for dinner at his house the other night. Other friends of his were there and they asked me, musically, what do I do and I said ‘Well, I’m a Song & Dance Man.’ Chris says ‘You don’t dance.’ So what do I do up there? I guess shaking and stomping your feet doesn’t count as dancing anymore. I don’t know. Who’s he to be the dancing police?”

This man is Kenneth Farrell. He is also known as Gravity Wave. He is a Song & Dance Man.

Of Singin’, and of Dancin’, and of Taking a Bite of Your Kumquat

Gravity Wave is a curious entity, that’s for certain. Sometimes manic electro-pop madman, sometimes bouncy showtune crooner, occasionally quirky funk party leader and most often, purveyor of eccentric, assorted and extremely catchy pop tracks. The music of Gravity Wave takes the outlandish genre-bending junkyard eclecticism of early Beck and tosses it through a lo-fi electro blender to create a witty and fun set of party anthems that are sure to get all of you bookish-types grooving thoroughly.

Gambol, the new record from this loose collective based around Farrell, their first release with local label Fuzzy Logic Recordings (The Bicycles, Peter Project, Prairie Cat), moves distinctly away from Farrell’s days producing tracks on his Playstation and into broader and bolder new territory. From the opening lounge-funk of “Bangs” through to the acoustic jam of the final track, “HSGAS” (spoiler alert: this stands for “High School Girls Are Sluts”), listeners are treated to a set of tunes that, propelled by Farrell’s tongue-in-cheek songwriting and aloof, gravely voice, are just as likely to make you chuckle as make you dance.

“Gimme Every Love You Got” (a shoe-in for the Best Song Title I’ve Encountered Lately) is a menacing and downright filthy Waits-esque carnival/lounge lust parade that hypnotically lurches around its slow, festering groove with depraved, giddy joy. Meanwhile, “Kumquat” finds Farrell in a much more playful mood as here, he laces his Song & Dance routine with strings, horns and bizarre glitches that makes the song act as a kind of perverted companion piece to the Beatles’ “Piggies,” however much more suggestive.

“There’s always that one idea that when it comes together, it lays out the rest of the song for me,” he says, eyeing the bottom of his empty tea cup, “The minute I heard the word ‘kumquat,’ I knew that I had something where if I said it enough times as a chorus, a live audience wouldn’t be able to just turn their heads and ignore it.

“And, I think I was right, because we’ve started to test the new songs and play them at the live shows and every time we do it – and I love the mothers when they’re at the shows. Every time you look a mother in the eye and sing ‘Baby, let me get a bite of that kum-quat,’ she’s convinced you’ve said something just nasty to her.

“She’s embarrassed a little bit, she’s kind of shy. But you know, me instantly thinking about how she’s going to react to that gives me an idea of what I maybe want to do with the second line of the song, to maybe diffuse the situation. To make her feel like ‘No, I’m not just going to pull out my penis and show it to you, lady; we’re just going to have some goofy fun with silly words.’”

The Twenty-First Century Song & Dance Man

Of course, it is here in Gravity Wave’s stage performance where Farrell’s Song & Dance Man image is very much apparent. While he occasionally plays with a band, a typical Gravity Wave show is most likely to consist of Farrell, in true crooner mode, singing live to pre-recorded instrumentation. The image of bearded, laid-back Farrell in his leather jacket and flamboyantly patterned shirts on an otherwise bare stage, shaking and stomping, can indeed be considered the modern update of the classic pop singer – big band, minus the big band.

“For some shows I am able to travel with a drummer, a bass player and a DJ; when I go out west it’s going to be just me and the iPod, I’m going to go back to the very first set that I started with. Just be that stand-up, hold-the-microphone crooner that has disappeared from pop music. Well, disappeared except for your Britneys and your major American Idol pop stars, but to revive that: let’s see if those guys can’t be punk too because there’s something inherent in the genre that just forces you so far into the middle of the road that you can’t possibly bring anything new to it. I don’t really think that’s the case and I’ve been through this, I know it’s going to go pretty well.”

And really, it is fairly safe to say that there isn’t anyone doing quite what it is Gravity Wave is doing, whatever it is that might be. For a guy who started this musical project creating tracks on the Playstation game MTV Generator, Gravity Wave is a totally different beast than it was a few years ago and Gambol is certainly a big step by any measure. Graduating from the game console to Ableton Live, the sound is bigger, sleeker and more well-rounded than ever on this record with a wide range of instrumentation and concise, clever songwriting.

“Well, the new record is kind of the next logical step in my grand plan of eventually getting to lead a Lawrence Welk television orchestra on a variety show. If I’m going anywhere, it is to be the curator of an orchestra on a television show that can cull songs from all of my favourite writers and be performed not only as musical pieces but as theatrical skits by all of the talented people I know.

“So, first I had to make a record where I orchestrated everything by myself, which was the Playstation record. Then a producer friend of mine joined the project, so we had the Diamond Stud make an appearance on Twin Prime Conjecture which came after the Playstation record. From there we felt that we had enough to go ahead and try to make this kind of record that worked backwards from the orchestrating of digital sound and replacing it as much as possible with live players.

“There was an arranger, who is studying to be a composer, that came on board for this record to help me flush out these simple songs with melodies and counter-melodies into more complete symphonic parts. And he rounded up some volunteer musicians and we sneaked into studios that Finley has access to, paid for only what we must and got a pretty good record out of it."

Wherein Kenneth Discusses at Length the Philosophy of Hockey

So what does a twenty-first century Fred Astaire do with himself when he’s not busying himself with programming beats and trying to frighten middle-aged women? Farrell, a native of Fort McMurray, Alberta, spends time writing a column for a hockey magazine.

“It’s fun, you know, the guy asked me what I wanted to do for him – and I have a hockey background, so it’s not that I don’t know the game, I know the game as intricately as anybody.”

“Being from Fort McMurray,” I suggest.

“Yeah, I played for the Oil Barons and then I got the scholarship to go to school in the States [at the University of Massachusetts] and then I moved to Toronto and did my thing, worked as a hockey instructor. So I’ve got my pedigree, I’ve got my hockey resume to the point where I can talk about the game with anybody.

“But at the same time, I don’t write about the day-to-day who-got-traded, who-got-injured, who-scored-and-when kind of stuff. I’ve been writing these – well, I’ve been writing lies and writing stories that kind of use that common vocabulary of hockey where you talk about winning battles, competing and the game being ninety percent mental and trying essentially to extrapolate that philosophy outward. I guess I’m trying to write to hockey players what their game and what the lifestyle that it advocates actually extrapolates outward to as a culture with people who become leaders in business and such.

“Most of the kids that I work with, as much as they adore the game they don’t go on to be draft picks and superstars. Most of them play until their mid-teens and then they play in recreation leagues for however long they want, but they take these formative years from like four to sixteen and then they use a lot of what they’ve learned as an athlete to kind of inform their decisions for the rest of their lives. And it’s backwards, it’s stuck in olden times and it doesn’t change – it’s not that it doesn’t change, it’s that it’s resistant to change, it’s very entrenched and as a culture, it has some growing to do. And it’s fun to be pushing those boundaries but at the same time, the guy who’s editing it, isn’t always happy with what I’m writing. I submitted one that said, well that there is no absolute truth; that everything is perception – trying to talk to these people about the individual perspective.

“And so I promised them in one sentence, that everything I write will not be the absolute truth and then in the next line start talking about whose cock is the longest, whose cock is the thickest to explain that these are the things that don’t get said, nothing we say here is true, all we can really do here is enjoy it, let’s have some fun and say some stupid shit.

"Well, it turns out that’s not what he thinks is going to get us enough sponsorship to keep going. What can you do?”

Back to Bullshit: A Brief Conclusion

The twenty-first century crooner, an interesting niche for an interesting man; though surely it is a position that has begged to be filled. Really, what does our culture need more than a guy whose music oozes Beck, but who performs like Frank Sinatra? A dry, aloof man shaking manically about a stage by himself, looking like he just came in from the Jimmy Buffett convention.

He demands your panties. Throw them at him.

Comments

• December 2, 2009, Matthew Filipowich - November Issue writes: [...] I had to meet Curran and Ken from Gravity Wave at a little cafe downtown somewhere on a rainy Tuesday night a few weeks back. Every time Curran and I interview a band it rains. Diamond Rings, Hopeful Monster, Schomberg Fair, and now Gravity Wave. I think its our thing. Anyways, I think the cafe was on Delaware street, by the TTC yard on King. There was construction and the bus had to take a detour. Some random old drunk man started getting upset we were taking a detour, and how it was the immigrants fault that we were not following the typical route. How they come to Canada and take all the jobs. Some weird shit like that. Anyways, I got off a stop early because I got disoriented and had to walk to the cafe. On the way up to the cafe I noticed an empty laundr-o-mat. Perfect. I met Curran and Ken at the cafe and told them about the laundr-o-mat. It wasn’t empty – there were the old Portugeuse owners there. I asked them politely if we could take a couple of photos for a magazine, and they were really cool about it. As I was setting up my lights, a man came in and put in a load of laundry, which worked out perfectly – his laundry is in the cover. I took some photos of him sitting on the chair infront of the washing machine, the Curran commented on how much he loved Ken’s shirt. So Ken took off his jacket and posed with out his jacket – our lead in title shot. Then I thought it would be cool to shoot from the street into the laundr-o-mat through the big front windows. So we brought Ken to the front, and I kindly asked him to start unbuttoning his shirt like he was about to take it off to put it in the wash. I know it sounds weird, but he obliged, and it turned out pretty cool. All in all a good shoot. Curran: we’ll see if it rains in this month’s interview adventure. Read the article by Curran Folkers here. [...]

When was the last time you heard someone describe a type of music as “rock,” “rap” or “country?” In most cases, these delirious characters are the sorts of people, in the words of Rowan Atkinson, “one emigrates to avoid.” Overly general descriptors are for big-budget record stores and radio formats; in short, they denote passive consumption.

Equally annoying are the overly complex explanations of genre (although I’m guilty of this folly myself). “Neo-classical art funk implosion” and “post-rapture ambient electronica” sound more like ice cream flavours than descriptors of sound. Genre distinctions seem to elude linguification more than most signified because, on the most basic level, music expresses that which words cannot.

These were the considerations on my mind when I stomped my way to the Delaware House to meet up with the Wilderness of Manitoba, for this, the second installment of the Hinterview. In the early summer they began harpooning the local folk scene with their beautifully tuneful, harmonically driving arrangements; now barely half of a year later, they have an EP, Hymns of Love and Spirits, and have toured Ontario and Quebec.

Talk about industrious! These guys make beavers look lazy. (Although any beaver I’ve ever seen has had some pretty serious love handles, but I digress...)

Consisting of Will Whitwham, Stefan Banjevic, Melissa Dalton, Scott Bouwmeester and Sean Lancaric, the Wilderness of Manitoba are an apt representation of what is being dubbed a 21st century folk revival. On the grander scale, bands like Grizzly Bear and Fleet Foxes occupy the forefront of the movement. While other local bands and artists inhabit a similar indie sphere, the Wilderness of Manitoba possess a self-awareness and an uninhibited approach to song writing that sets them apart from their peers.

I know what you’re thinking (read: clairvoyance). “Patrick, you insufferable jackass, folk music never went away. How can there be a revival?” I know, right? Throughout the 1980s and 90s, there were loads of folkies making records and touching fans everywhere. So why is this a revival, all of a sudden? What does it mean to be folk, a genre typically associated with acoustic instruments, plaid shirts and pastoral imagery, in our technologically dependent and urbanite society? I’m not sure I have the answer. That’s why I asked the Wilderness of Manitoba!

The general opinion, as summed up by Will, seems to be that “that label can be very confining.” Scott elaborates: “We’re really just making music to the best of our abilities in every sense. We’re recording with the technology we can afford ourselves. We’re writing songs and playing as many instruments as we can get our hands on and learn how to play. That, to me, is folk music.”

While that seems like a decent description to me, it also seems indicative of the dissolution of genre conventions in the music of our time. Folk ceases to be defined by old-timey beards and troubadorian leanings (though there isn’t a shortage of these things this band or the culture) and shifts to a definition more reflective of the conditions of the music’s creation. Or, more simply: Folk music changes along with the folks making it.

This isn’t a surface transformation, either. The Wilderness of Manitoba utilize the same social utilities as everyone else; when asked about their song writing process, Stefan revealed that e-mail and digital recording technology are useful tools for pitching songs to one another (though they do craft them face-to-face!) “I literally record something in my room, send it the next day and at work people have a listen. It might sit for about a week, but the next time we’ll get together someone will say ‘Hey, I heard that song you recorded, let’s try that out.’ That’s happened a few times.”

While it isn’t surprising that folk musicians function just like the rest of us, it is interesting that where basic communication technology mediates our social interaction, coupled with the accessibility of recording equipment, it can be ingrained in the creation of music that is romanticized for its association with a lost age.

I guess what all this leads to is a recognition of the never-ending steamroller of context. To play a banjo in 2009 means something entirely different than it meant in 1920, than it meant in 1820, and not just because of its retrospective reference point. It isn’t chosen because of limited technological options or the sonic tendencies of the now. It’s a specific choice to fill the space around Whitwham’s guitar lines with singing bowls and ambiance, much as it’s a choice to do four-part harmonies or incorporate dissonant cello and unconventional drumming.

Sean puts it nicely: “Players who explore sound are the best ones, in my opinion. You just need to be musically minded. It always has to be moving forward.” Melissa posits that “it’s more of a resurgence of that kind of thing because there were tons of psychedelic bands in the ‘60s that were doing exactly that… It’s just funny that it’s coming out in this specific genre, I guess, because it’s associated with more traditional sounds.”

I am in no way implying that there is anything wrong with traditional music. What I am probably beating you over the head with, at this point, is that in order to truly understand and connect with music to its fullest potential, be it folk or otherwise, you have to pay attention. Everything is always changing, even when it seems like it might be the same. It isn’t an oxymoron to say that The Wilderness of Manitoba are on the cutting-edge of folk music, because like any good band they make use of the past to decode the present and make way for the future. In short, they’re totally fucking legit and they deserve every bit of success and critical praise that comes their way. I look forward to their new record (which is untitled as of yet, but is in the works) and I leave you with a quote from the poem “Indian Spring,” taken from the inlay of Hymns of Love and Spirits.

“We seek and capture the moment
Before it destructs
Shattering
Into one thousand little pieces
That became
The stars of our memories
And live only for experience
And not for what
Has been experienced.”

–W.A. Whitwham

P.S.

• Check out the Wilderness of Manitoba on myspace here
  

• You can purchase “Hymns of Love and Spirits” on iTunes or at Soundscapes, Sonic Boom or Criminal Records in Toronto.

• Check them out at the Holy Oak on November the 21st at 9 o’clock. I’ll see you there.

Comments

• December 2, 2009, Matthew Filipowich - November Issue writes: [...] I also shot The Wilderness of Manitoba for an article written by Mr. Patrick Grant of Body Electric. That was a fun shoot. We had to get to their band-practice house somewhere by a subway station that I cannot remember the name of at the moment. Again, it was a rainy night. When I got to the house, I noticed they had a really cool front porch. I’ve never shot a front porch, so we were set. But I didn’t have an umbrella to defuse my flash – so, no word of a lie, I used the carved halloween pumpkin that was on their porch. Weird – definitely. Successful – for sure. I set up a little stool on their front lawn to give me some height and shot over the porch railing. it was a little hard to focus because it was dark, but everything turned out all well. I didn’t end up using that shot for the lead in because it was a wide shot, and the SB website is very narrow. Portrait oriented shots work better because I can get a larged sized photo in there. So instead, I got in close and shot them all bunched together – I know you’re not supposed to put heads on heads, but I did it anyways. So there.  Read Patrick Grant’s article here. [...]

In my experience with televisual media, there’s a lot of credence and attention given to jingles, to full bodied orchestras playing news themes, to the soundtrack of popular dramas, to the animated penis frog that infiltrates the minds of children by recycling a song named for an Eddie Murphy character. Music establishes tone and mood, comforts, excites, builds tension, expresses relief. It segues. It communicates with a subversion worn on the sleeve.

Soundtracks do horrible and brilliant things to songs. I have a laundry list of my favorite song choices in film, established mostly because I can never hear the song without picturing the scene to which it’s married. The reason Peter Sarstedt’s 1969 self-titled debut has fallen By the Wayside is because it conveniently illustrates the phenomenon of audio-visual marriage and the problems therein.

In 1969, Sarstedt released Where Do You Go To (My Lovely)? the lead-off single from the album. It reached #1 in England and 13 other countries (not the U.S.). Pretty hardcore, right? Unfortunately, it’s likely that you would only associate this amazing pop song with Natalie Portman naked.

Allow me to explain. In 2007, Wes Anderson released The Darjeeling Limited, a pretty kickass movie. The prologue to the film, Hotel Chevalier contains a peculiarly established portrait of a dysfunctional relationship between Jason Schwartzman and Natalie Portman. Repeating throughout this scene (and a few times in The Darjeeling Limited) is Where Do You Go To (My Lovely)? Needless to say, I can’t help but picture Natalie Portman in full profile leaning nakedly on a peculiar dresser in a peculiar French hotel room, Jason Schwartzman approaching barefoot, fully suited.

“You’re in between twenty and thirty/
A very desirable age/
your body is firm and inviting/
but you live on a glittering stage,
yes you do, yes you do.”

-Sarstedt

While this is probably a great thing, monetarily, for Sarstedt, who is still very much alive and making music, it puts his early work in a precarious position. The album itself is a very dark psychedelic folk record with tinges of jazziness here and there. As with many of the records released on the brink of the seventies, there’s disillusionment just beneath the surface of the sometimes haunting and sometimes downright silly pop songs. (“Lollipops.” Trippy. ‘Nuff said.) Where Do You Go To (My Lovely)? comes at the end of the first side, occupying a symbolic middle space between these two extremes. It combines seemingly sincere emotions with irony and pop cultural reference to a dizzying degree: “You talk like Marlene Dietrich/ and you dance like Zizi Jeanmaire/ Your clothes are all made by Balmain/ and there are diamonds and pearls in your hair, yes there are, yes there are.” The first three lines of the song make three valid European cultural references, pinning the object of affection in a specific class, talent and attitude. It vaguely antagonizes while maintaining unwavering attraction. Other tracks on the album allude to this double-edged sword (“My Daddy is a Millionaire,” “Many-Coloured Semi-Precious Plastic Easter Egg”) but the song that represents his largest success carries the most lyrical weight.

But all of this is rendered interestingly unintelligible when the song is played behind Natalie Portman. And this technically represents exposure for the artist, who really hasn’t been seen anywhere lately other than late night infomercials for a straight to video concert series. Does the interweaving of Where Do You Go To (My Lovely)?, all pop culture references included, as a pop culture reference diminish its value by making it a side-dish to the perpetual unattainable?

Supposedly it was Brian Eno, when asked about the far-reaching success of his production work and Oblique Strategies, who said: “A part of me has become immortal, out of my control.” The double lacing of content into other cultural products produces mutation and removal from the to original form and placement. For anyone who enjoys Wes Anderson and has seen The Darjeeling Limited, Where Do You Go To (My Lovely)? ceases to exist as the centerpiece of Peter Sarstedt’s self-titled debut and becomes the wallpaper for something entirely different.

The record is available in a 2 in 1 format with his second album, As Though it Were a Movie. Do yourself a favour: Examine the spaces between what you see and what you hear and the way they work together to produce feeling.

My, my!

November has been a crazy month for SB thus far! We started off the month at Canzine 2009, we just launched our first print project, GULCH, with Tightrope Books on the 12th at the Trash Palace, and we're looking forward to the third installment of the Monthly Eggplant Reading Series this upcoming Tuesday. It's amazing to be able to interact with the artistic community so often, outside of these digital characters, in the realm of readings and basements and Pabst. Check out a few of the photos of the exploits:

This issue finds Steel Bananas all over the city: In a laundromat with Gravity Wave; in a cafe with poet Melanie Janisse; in jam space with the Wilderness of Manitoba; in cheap steak diggs with Killin Food, and even on the street with John Kilduff of viral Let's paint TV fame. As winter closes in, we're all compelled to get at least a few more wears of our fall coats, spending time in public spaces that we'll soon avoid.

On the exclusively digi-front, we have a wicked review of Dash Snow's Polaroids, featuring an exclusive selection that hasn't yet been published on the internet (until now).

This issue rocks (if you haven't already discerned so, have you seen the cover?!) so enjoy the fruit of our labour. The SB kids are all awesome and I always always feel privileged to have so many fantastic people around me on a daily basis.

BOOSH.

Karen Correia Da Silva
Editor-in-Chief, Steel Bananas

Good evening kiddies. I hope you weren't enjoying your stroll along the internet too pleasantly, because I have some... Horrifying news for you. Yes kiddies, the air is getting colder, the leaves are swirling to the ground, the air foggier, the moon more full and rotund. You know what this means kids? Ah, yes. The GHOULS are coming out to play.

It is after all, October, the fffffffffffffffffffreakiest month of the year. So what better time than Steel Bananas to have their first ever Ex-Spook-A-Scare-Boo-Scream-A-Fright-Horror-Ganza. If you thought that title was horrifying, just wait till you see what's in store. There are plenty of treats for those who DARE to read them.

Our writhing writers explore the city's haunted histories, from the AGO to the Elgin, from Frankenstein to the devilish Schomberg Fair, we cover much ground in our glooming trail. A vampiric double dose, from an indie bloodsucker of a film to a woman who knows all there is to the creatures of the night. We have words from a director, smothered in blood from capturing slashers. We reflect on our first year anniversary party and our first Eggplant reading, which I guess isn't that spooky at all but what if I go ooOOOOOooooOOOooo~?

Plus more entries in all your favourite series! Slandering of Linda Hutcheon gets more than a mouthful with Pontypool, Weird News goes all dead babies on you, and my new NERDVENTURE shows haunting for pros.

Oh and how can I forget? We have even collected a most bone chilling gallery of ghost stories from our contributors just for you.

So read on, fair souls.

If.

You.

Dare.

~King Frightenstein~

Yes, a healthy dose of skepticism is a good thing; I’d argue that it’s necessary for survival in today’s dog-eat-dog world. But can’t we just enjoy the Halloween season? So whether you believe in the paranormal or not, take a moment and indulge. Ghouls and goblins and ghosts, oh my!

Theatres have long been considered favourite haunts for ghosts and spirits, both on stage and off. And being that Toronto is filled with some of the oldest theatres in country, it only seems fitting to explore the paranormal possibilities in its older playhouses. Here’s a look at three of the city’s spooky stages…

The Theatre: The Royal Alexandra

The History:

Commissioned in 1906 by Cawthra Mulock, and designed by John M Lyle, this playhouse was built with extravagance. Imported marble, hand carved wood and crystal chandeliers adorned the space, ensuring it was grand enough to be titled “royal” by charter of King Edward VII, lovingly named after his wife.

As the city changed over the years, the Royal Alex followed suit. It kept its Edwardian appeal, but the shows gracing its stage changed with the times. Unfortunately, the building itself couldn’t keep up, and soon the theatre once situated in a park was found in the centre of the industrial sector. Once home to Rex Harrison, Gertrude Lawrence, Orson Welles, and many more, this iconic building suddenly seemed unsustainable, and was scheduled to be torn down in 1962. Mere days before it’s slotted demolition, Ed Mirvish bought the property and began its restoration. The Royal Alex that you see on King St today is still thriving under the Mirvish Company.

The Haunting:

In a theatre this old, it’s inevitable that deaths occurred in the space, both accidental and natural. It is said that in the early years, a man fell from the fly gallery while rehearsing a show. Paranormal investigators (yes, this is one space that has been “officially” investigated) claim to feel his presence on the fly deck. It is rumoured that in the early years of the theatre, a man plummeted to his death while working the ropes during a dress rehearsal.

Another spirit is said to haunt seat C8 in the house, where a lady quietly passed away in her seat during a performance twelve years ago. Guests who sit in this seat, located wonderfully close to the stage and rather near a heat vent, are always complaining of feeling chill. The chill of death perhaps?

The final and most jovial ghost in this playhouse is Vic, a man who spent his life care-taking for the Royal Alex from the time of its renovation until his death in the late 90s. Vic is rumoured to hang out by the old stage door, and keeps an eye on the building and its patrons. Those who wander out for a smoke break will never be locked out even if the door catches in the wind, somehow it always swings back open- and yet stays securely locked at night…

The Theatre: The Elgin and Winter Garden

The History:

The Elgin and Winter Garden theatre complex is a unique building. Not only is it one of the few remaining vaudeville houses, but it is also the only double decker theatre to ever be built in Canada. Commissioned by Marcus Loew, and designed by Thomas Lamb in 1913, the idea of the double theatre was purely economical. The Winter Garden (upstairs) and the Elgin (downstairs, originally “Loew’s Yonge Street Theatre”) played the exact same shows, but the top level had higher ticket prices and reserved seating. As the vaudeville era came to an end, it was impossible to maintain both theatres. The Winter Garden closed in the 1920s, but the Elgin remained open as a cinema.

Finally, in the 1980s the building was declared a historical monument and a restoration was in order. When the workers unsealed the Winter Garden they discovered a virtual time capsule. When the upper floor had been sealed nothing had been removed: ticket stubs were found on the ground, scenery was still on stage, costumes lay on the floor where actors had dropped them... it was as if time stood still for fifty years. Both theatres were reopened in 1989, and have been well supported ever since.

The Haunting:

This theatre complex is said to be filled with ghosts, many of which are said to have experienced rather horrific deaths, but by all accounts the spirits are said to be friendly, emitting positive energy in the space. The most famous ghost is known as Sam, a vaudeville musician who haunts the Winter Garden. Discovered in the 1980s as the theatre was being restored, Sam had apparently fallen from the stage into the orchestra pit during a performance in the 1920s. Since the theatre has been reopened, Sam enjoys the limelight on a regular basis, and can be heard playing his sax throughout the empty space.

The staircase of the Elgin Theatre is home to the spirit of a little boy, who died after falling from one of the audience boxes. He is often found running up and down the main staircase. Staff have reported hearing the pitter-patter of little feet long after the theatre has been closed for the night.

The most mysterious ghost is the Lavender Lady, who haunts the Winter Garden. The young woman was apparently stabbed in the washroom, but managed to stumble into the lobby seeking help. She pressed the button for the elevator, but when it arrived she was dead. Now when the elevator reaches the top floor, it is said to sometimes fill with the scent of lavender, a sign of this young lady’s presence. It is possible that this is the same spirit patrons often see in the lobby, a young woman in Edwardian dress… Patrons who visit this theatre may get more of a show than they bargained for!

Comments

• December 21, 2009, Carol writes: I think you are missing one of the stories (Opera House seems to be missing). I'd be interested in reading that one as well if you repost it. Thanks for sharing!

After graduating from Sheridan College's Illustration program in the spring of 2005, Justin experienced three years of success as a freelance artist before landing a dream position as a Graphic Designer for Rue Morgue Magazine where he has been gruesomely creating, along-side Art Director Gary Pullin, ever since.

His success in the illustration and graphic design fields have won him praise from such notable names as Photographer and Digital Artist Chad Michael Ward and Film Director and Owner of Rue Morgue Magazine Rodrigo GudiÒo.

Like all creatives, Justin turns to a number of sources for his inspiration. His love for vintage art, famous monsters, and (predominantly) the bizarre world we live in have all fueled his desire to put stylus to tablet and produce some of the most charming pin-ups to ghoulish nightmares your eyes and mind will ever behold.

As well as the standard visual stimulus Justin has also cited musically charged inspiration from such bands as Skinny Puppy and Nine Inch Nails. This should come as no surprise to anyone familiar with his images, which blend organic shapes and forms with the industrial.

Check out the spotlight gallery for a selection of Justin Erickson's work.

Comments

• October 15, 2009, Sean writes: Rue Morgue rocks!

As long as there has been literature, and even theatre, there has been horror. Fear is, after all, one of humanity’s most primal emotions, and we seem to have always enjoyed making up stories to conjure forth this state of being. The Legend of Beowulf was the first piece of literature written in recognizable English, and it could certainly be considered a horror with its abundance of monsters and violent scenes. The early Greek stage was rife with horror: who could deny the graphic image of a horde of sexually frantic women tearing Pentheus apart piece-by-piece in Euripides’ The Bacchae? Or the sheer horror as Oedipus emerges from his palace in the final moments of Oedipus Rex, having torn his eyes out with the brooch of his hanged wife, Iocasta? The theatre, it seems, was built on the release of ecstasis caused by witnessing horrifying events.

(I feel I must, at this point, make a clear delineation between what I consider to be horror, and terror. ‘Terror’ is what we normally feel these days when we should he ‘horrified’. If someone jumps out of a closet with a knife, we are momentarily ‘terrified.’ When we watch as a mother and grandmother are shot to death trying to defend a baby from barbarous savages, we are ‘horrified.’ Get the difference? Terror has to do with shock, horror has to do with a gut feeling of wrongness.)

The Horror genre survived throughout the ages of theatre; the Elizabethans explored the evil and macabre with Marlowe’s Dr. Faustus and Shakespeare’s Macbeth. Both plays examine horror from a supernatural perspective, as did their Greek predecessors. The later Jacobean theatre explored a more humanist perspective of horror with Webster’s The Duchess of Malfi, featuring lycanthropy (the mental disorder, not the folically-charged disorder) and several brutal murders of honourable people. However, the genre has recently all but disappeared from the theatrical medium; we are left with stage adaptations of Stoker’s Dracula, Shelley’s Frankenstein and Stevenson’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (starring David Hasselhoff – talk about horrifying). What do these shows have in common? They are adaptations! Can we not, in all of our creative ability in the theatrical world, create a horrifying original story?

Too often in the recent horror-themed theatre that I have seen, directors depend upon visual conventions to create horror onstage. Amid such stylization it is extremely difficult to coax an authentically terrifying moment out of the audience. I am reminded of a recent production I saw entitled Nevermore (a musical based on the life of Edgar Allen Poe – yes, it was as ridiculous as it sounds) in which the audience actually laughed at some very inappropriate moments which, if staged effectively, could have roused fear. This particular production relied on Burton-esque German Expressionism to create atmosphere, yet was safely contained within the proscenium arch. Why does the genre of horror fail in the theatre if, unlike film which has two, we have literally all five senses available to us to manipulate fear in the audience?

More pertinent to the horror theatre than any other theatrical convention, I would argue, is Antonin Artaud’s theory of the Theatre of Cruelty. In direct opposition with Bertolt Brecht’s Verfremdungseffekt (alienation effect, forcing the audience to experience a play intellectually rather than emotionally), Artaud argued that emotional connection is the chief characteristic that sets a theatrical event apart from other forms of art. He proposed what I consider on some level to be the emotional torture of an audience, to generate in them a visceral experience of ecstasy and agony. Chief to this effect is the breaking of the ‘fourth wall’ that safely divides audience and action in a conventional theatrical event. Why bother making the audience safe? If they have come to see a horror show, they implicitly desire to not feel safe. It is our duty as theatre artists to honour that desire to be terrified (or horrified) and go full-board with our ‘creative cruelty’.

The modern ‘Haunted House’ that we frequently see pop up around Hallowe’en is what I consider to be the closest thing to what horror theatre should be. What need have we for seats? Let the audience stand. We are much more vulnerable when we stand. Light only what needs to be lit; all humans are inherently afraid of the dark (even if we say we aren’t). Strobes can be used for flashes of what we want them to see, but be wary of showing too much. The true horror, after all, is in what they don’t see. Let the terror grow in their imaginations with sounds coming from all angles and at all volumes, near and far away. A rush of air, a breathing on the back of the neck, an unexpected blast of heat; do not neglect the sense of touch. By no means should an actor touch an audience member, as that is too much a breach of the audience/actor relationship, but be inventive in the ways touch can be utilized. A splash of water to simulate blood or mud or elixir, a sulphurous smell to conjure images of hell or a boggish scent to aid with setting; these are the tools with which we should aspire to frighten our audience.

There is no excuse for the decline of the horror genre in theatre. I would put the best of cinematic horror up against a well-crafted piece of horror theatre any day of the week. It stands to reason that audiences watching horror films wish to be frightened for some reason or another. When there is an infinite number of ways to manipulate your audience’s senses into being frightened, rather than a limited experience, it will undoubtedly provide that audience with a greater, more visceral experience and serve their purposes much better than film or novel. Never one to sit idly by and merely watch the decline of a genre I care passionately about, I call to arms all horror-enthusiast theatre practitioners! Let’s fight to make the horror theatre all that it can be! To be frightened is to be human; how will we explore our basest humanity without an authentic experience drawn from live horror theatre?

Comments

• October 16, 2009, B-Rad writes: Very well written article, sir! I agree with you points about the fact that theatre can and ought to) utilize its organic live performance to instill fear and horror. It can be done, but I suppose the staging and overall production have to be, well, of a dark nature? That is, the creative team (i.e. director, actors, production designers, etc) needs to be in the right mindset, they have to feel the horror in order to produce its effects. Does that make sense to you? It's an interesting question..

Photos by Matthew Filipowich//

Steel Bananas’ Photo Editor, Matthew “The Pro” Filipowich and I are sitting at some ill-lit corner booth at the ancient West End haunt, the Lakeview Restaurant on a dark, wet and miserable evening. I’m wrapping up the “official business” section of our meeting with Toronto’s the Schomberg Fair, a band that can very loosely be described as playing psychedelic-folk-rock-blues-gospel-country-punk. The singer-songwriter/guitarist/banjoist/harmonica player of this demonic, ungodly outfit, one Matt Bahen, has ducked out of the interview to get another beer; thus, naturally, the conversation has steered in his direction.

“When Matt’s trying to tell us that he wants us to be on blogs and stuff,” says drummer Peter Garthside, attempting to suppress an enormous grin as bassist/vocalist Nathan Sidon pre-empts the anecdote by laughing boisterously beside him, “he says ‘The computers need to talk about us.’”

“’The computers need to talk about us,” repeats Nathan.

“I think that Matt should have been born in like 1840.”

“Or we should create a society where it’s 1840 for him to live in, like in that M. Night Shyamalan movie. He’d fit in perfect in that village,” Nathan concludes, chuckling.

“He told me today,” says Peter “he was referring to a conversation he had with someone, a very brief conversation as ‘He had a good jaw-wag.’ They wagged jaw. Sometimes I think he doesn’t belong in this time at all, he’s a timeless guy.”

When I heard this information about Mr. Bahen, something kind of clicked in the way I understood how this group and the music they play operates. They run on a completely different plane from everyone else: they sound like everything and nothing you’ve ever heard at once; they are both painfully old-fashioned and at the same time, tremendously unique; they weave fluidly between genres, tones and scenes and resist any and all attempts to be pegged into categories.

They, quite sincerely, evoke a time and a place that may never have existed – that of rolling trains, chain gangs, bar fights, hard work, hard times, cheap whiskey and cheap women – and do this so believably because they don’t try to emulate anything verbatim. While there are heavy, thick traces of pre-war blues and traditional American folk, bluegrass and gospel in the music of the Schomberg Fair, there are equal parts searing punk rock and hazy, rumbling stoner rock involved in this raucous, fast and explosive hodgepodge. This is the new outlaw music.

“The early blues guys, they were the first outlaws and the punk rock guys considered themselves outlaws. Why wouldn’t they get along?” says Matt matter-of-factly.

“I was listening to punk first, but when I was in my mid-twenties I got into like Robert Johnson and the pre-war blues,” says Nathan, “and that’s much heavier than what even most early punk songs were doing. They’re talking about going for a walk with the devil and all of the terrible things they do and they aren’t really saying it in a bad way, they’re just saying ‘I’m a bad man, and this is what I do.’”

“The narrator of the song is morally suspect and that’s what makes it so interesting,” says Matt.

Nate continues, “I think we’ve go the same kind of thing going on. We’re not really saying what’s wrong and what’s right, we’re saying ‘This is something that’s happening.’”

“Who doesn’t love the anti-hero?” adds Peter.

Indeed, for just three guys, the Schomberg Fair make one unholy amount of noise, playing their blues with extreme speed and ferocity. Their live show is an intense, sweaty and primal ordeal. Even in the most decidedly indoor of venues, you can’t help but imagine that they’re playing in the middle of a torrential thunderstorm; a great black cloud floating around the ceiling, a savage wind blowing through the bar. Their sound is gigantic and powerful and the men themselves are menacing and imposing as they pound audiences into submission with their workmanlike, wild music.

Photo by Matthew Filipowich

Between Bahen’s rugged, fiery howl and galloping banjo and Sidon’s distorted, thundering bass guitar and chilling, ethereal bass vocals – not to mention the muscular drumming of Garthside, it is quite apparent that these men are an extremely well-oiled multi-genre machine, geared toward the ultimate pulverization of any listener unfortunate enough to stumble into their dark, twisted midst. The Schomberg Fair are the barbarians of the Toronto music scene, the mad preachers of the indie apocalypse, sliding effortlessly around multiple local circuits.

“It does sort of seem like Toronto is very much an indie-rock kind of city,” says Nathan, “we play with a lot of indie-rock bands and we like them. But it’s not what we’re doing. We keep an open mind toward them and for the most part, they keep an open mind toward us.”

“The nice thing about the band is that we fall kind of in between a couple different genres,” says Pete, “so it gives a lot of versatility when it comes to our live show. We can play with a lot of different sounding bands, and we can always kind of fit.”

Matt adds, “We’ll play a show with the Warped 45s and the next night play with Parlor and Whale Tooth and while those guys couldn’t be further apart, we can do both. I think just as long as the energy is there, then it’s fucking awesome. And people are so open minded these days that you can listen to Ella Fitzgerald, and then the Dwarves, and then Mariah Carey and everything – well, everything except the last one, is totally fine.”

“You listen to a lot of Mariah Carey. For the record,” says Nathan.

“She’s got a three-octave range. It’s incredible,” Matt retorts.

Alright guys, I’m going to tell you what’s up now. We’ve been dicking around for nine hundred words already, let’s cut the bullshit here. The Schomberg Fair are fucking badass, you know that; I know you guys aren’t stupid. But this here, this is the goods: the new album.

Gospel is the Schomberg Fair’s first release with local imprint Hi-Hat after self-releasing their last record, 2007’s Dark Was the Night, Cold Was the Ground, which is a blistering thirty-one-minute ride through every corner of the band’s expansive musical universe. From breakneck speed-blues hell-rides (“Angel’s Wings”, “Tall Grass”), to gentler, more subtle folk tracks (“Strange Kind of Grace”), to traditional gospel spiked with hazy, swirling psychedelia (“Satan, Your Kingdom Must Come Down”, “Trouble Will Soon Be Over”), Gospel is a clean, powerful record that is as earnest as it is feral. A mix of traditional songs and original compositions gives the record an interesting flavor that establishes the legitimacy of its creators; that they can so impressively rework old standards and blend them seamlessly with their own songs is a rare feat – it is very difficult to determine which are which.

Having listened to the record several times now, I’m quite delighted to find that it has unfolded for me in a different way with each coming spin. Despite its brevity (it comes and goes in a blink), there’s so much texture and meat to grab on to with Gospel that it becomes pretty clear that the record was designed to be a concise thrill-ride rather than a slow-burning epic, which is easily the direction it could have taken. Recorded at Chemical Sound in Toronto’s East end docks, the latest from the Schomberg Fair is an album that has the band very proud.

Says Matt on recording the album: “It’s really nice when the guys recording the album and the band are on the same wavelength, it’s really helpful. I think almost, at least most of the time, musicians – the band, doesn’t quite have the vocabulary to articulate what they want it to sound like. So you kind of have to trust the guy making the record, because playing a show live and making a record are not the same activity. I know for myself, personally, it was a bit weird to go in there, so it’s good to be able to trust everyone.

“I think that this record is different from the last one in that I think we had a bit of a better definition of ourselves. Just from playing one hundred and fifty shows and touring so much. Whereas before, a lot of those songs were songs that I had before even the band was started, so then it was a lot of work and ‘this is what we had, let’s go cut it.’ It’s not like I’m embarrassed of the last record or anything, but each record is kind of a snapshot of where the band is at, at the time. So a year-and-a-half, two years ago, that’s where we were and now we’re in a different spot. I would hope that we would be and I hope that we’ll be in a different spot next time too.”

“The sound’s evolved a lot,” says Nathan, “Before, there was a lot of country, and now there’s very little country. We’ve got a new drummer, Pete, who’s a lot different from the last one. He’s a fantastic drummer, totally different style than what we’re used to.”

“He adds a lot of dynamic,” says Matt.

“He adds a lot of dynamic, so the record incorporates a lot of new things; there’s a lot more kind of stoner-rock in it – I think it’s a stronger record and we’re really proud of it.”

“The writing on this record was a little more collaborative than before, I think,” adds Peter, “Before, I think Matt would bring in a lot of songs and music for those songs, but now Matt will have a really good song with a structure and then Nate and I will flip it around, come up with some new parts and really make it our own.”

The Schomberg Fair seem incapable of not making anything their own because frankly, there isn’t really anyone around that’s doing what they’re doing right now. The scene for grimy, gospel and blues inspired stoner/punk rock is not exactly burgeoning these days, which allows the Schomberg Fair to occupy a niche I wasn’t even aware needed filling. I’m glad they’re doing it anyway, though. Interestingly, many of the original compositions on Gospel, dark tales of lonely junkies and drifters, are partially inspired by the real stories of people whom Bahen has encountered in his day job as an outreach worker.

“They’re all kind-of true stories, snippets of things that I’ve dealt with directly, or things that someone told to me. So most of it is based on actual events and people.”

“That’s what the lyrics are about,” Nathan jumps in, “The kind of dichotomy and juxtaposition is in the lyrics being about that and the music is really punk rock and fast and rousing. “

“I’ll write the tune,” says Matt, “so I come in with a pretty finished song, more or less, but then, if I was playing it by myself, which I’m not. So I bring it to the band and I’ll say ‘Here man, what do you guys think?’ And it will either be dismissed out of hand, in which case I’ll go do another one; or if there’s parts that the guys like, they’ll work on it and it becomes something else entirely.”

It’s funny that the Schomberg Fair, who are so intense on record and so intimidating on stage – Nathan Sidon’s voice alone, I’m sure, has the ability to inspire nightmares – are, and full disclosure on this one gang: like the nicest guys ever. Though I’m sure they will deny this up and down (being outlaws after all) and accuse me of slander. Really though, Matt, Nate and Pete are just a bunch of seriously good guys, just solid, personable, down-to-earth guys who are really passionate about what they’re doing. It’s great.

We chatted with these guys for over three hours, and I have to say that I have rarely enjoyed doing an interview more, or at least not for a very long time. All three of them are so likeable and easy to talk to that even Matthew “The Pro” Filipowich got in there and maybe – just maybe – dropped his cool for a second. Though I’m sure he will deny this up and down (being The Pro and all) and accuse me of slander.

After having something of a bad taste in my mouth lately with regards to the whole music journalism thing, it was very refreshing to sit down with some good, sincere guys. The Schomberg Fair is a great band, Gospel is a great album and I am pretty well spent.

-The Schomberg Fair totally rule. You can check out some of their tunes on their myspace.

-The 'Gospel' according to the Schomberg Fair is now available in stores and it's a gooder.

-The Schomberg Fair are having their CD release party for 'Gospel' at the El Mocambo in Toronto on October 24th. I'm going.

Comments

• October 15, 2009, Sean writes: Sweet! The Schomberg Fair are a class act.
• October 22, 2009, Devon Wong writes: Is it ever not a dark, wet, miserable evening when you're at the Lakeview? That's what I want to know.
• November 5, 2009, Matthew Filipowich - The Schomberg Fair! writes: [...] 1840s Contemporary: The Schomberg Fair Set Free Fresh Hell [...]

"So why write about the AGO in the season of spook?" you ask; or, less politely, "What the hell kind of article are you trying to pull here?"

But read on, dear readers. Read on! Trust in me, for I was once like you — unaware of the stores of ghostly and ghastly artifacts hiding in plain sight in Toronto's largest art gallery.

It is a popular opinion that one of the main properties of art is to get the viewer to see things in new ways. "Things" is an appropriately vague word that refers not only to "things" of the everyday world around us, but also, of course, refers to works of art. It prefigures this that a significant chunk of the art experience is in what you bring to it and so, in the spirit of art and Experiment, with Halloween on the brain, I went gallivanting through the AGO to see what I could see.

To begin with, there is The Grange: first home of the AGO which presently appends the gallery like a Georgian-style polyp extending into the thusly-named Grange Park. Bequeathed to the Art Museum of Toronto (which later became the Art Gallery of Toronto, and finally, the AGO) in 1911 upon the death of Goldwin Smith, an Oxford Scholar who used The Grange as his personal home and library, this house has seen its fair share of history and supernatural occurrences. The Grange was restored and reconstructed with period and original furnishings in 1973, and now hosts tours for schoolchildren and other visitors. It is said that a shadowy figure roams the library at dusk. A cleaner working late after visiting hours observed the figure of a man standing at the top of a staircase, observing her (she never returned to The Grange). And in 1990, a tour guide reported seeing a gentleman in a yellow velvet coat walk out of one wall in the Conservatory, brush past her, and disappear through the opposite wall.

To my knowledge, no such eerie phenomena are associated with the new AGO building, but I like to think that the glass umbilical from The Grange to its descendant gallery allows the passage of a geist of some sort...

It's a matter of mood. To set the timbre of my visit: as I walked up Dundas street, I spied a tall dark figure looming in front of the Henry Moore sculpture at the foot of the entrance ramp. This resolved into a monumental Anubis, approaching three stories tall in moulded black and gold plastic. To promote the upcoming King Tut show (which arrives in Toronto in late November, and questions such as why this show is not coming to the ROM where it wouldn't otherwise pull resources away from possible exhibits regarding artists who didn't die thousands of years ago shan't be discussed here) the AGO has erected a crass replica of an ancient Egyptian figurine of the sort that usually disgusts me with its utter disregard for the harmonious formal beauty characteristic of ancient Egyptian art. I say "usually disgusts" because while the upwards of $20 price tag on this kind of figurine in gift shops simultaneously fills me with the urge to play "hot potato" and enables me to resist the urge lest I be forced to buy it and live with that glued-together junk on my shelf, but when it's planted on the street corner for a few weeks in twenty-times life-size scale, I'm happy. In fact, I'm positively delighted that come All Hallow Eve, the AGO will be guarded by a campy icon of the jackal-headed usher of the dead.

Inside, I work my way down from the fifth floor in search of all things eerie, ghostly, ghastly and horrible. At the top, anyone taking the stairs is greeted by Juan Munoz's "Painted Hands," an unsettling, child-sized sculpture of a grey man who sits on a chair high up on the wall and laughs at everyone below. Or perhaps he is screaming; the tense, smile-like rictus of his expression is ambiguous that way. Next to him, continually surrounded by unnerved gallery-goers like a dead worm surrounded by milling ants, is Evan Penny's "Stretch #1," a terrifying trompe l'oeil sculpture of the bust of a man, stretched along his vertical axis as if in Photoshop. This sculpture looks impossibly real and physically impossible at the same time, and gets you in the gut — I expect that all of you who have already seen this sculpture know exactly what I'm talking about.

Also worth a look up there are a few pieces from the "Beautiful Fictions" photography show (which is up until January 17th and has no additional entrance fee, worth a look for anyone interested in the history of photography). In an astute curatorial move, "Portrait (Nine Faces)" by Yasumasa Morimura (after Rembrandt's "The Anatomy Lesson") is set  opposite two Janieta Eyre prints, and they echo each other on matters of the clone, the mask, and the grotesque. In another room, Cindy Sherman's gross-out "Untitled #315" presents a rectangular photograph of grey-green corpse-like flesh, punctuated by a small red gash and a human eye about to pop out of its socket. Genevieve Cadieux's "Illusion #6" is a beautiful, life-size sculptural photograph so ghostly it aches to look at it. Last but far from least, there are three wet collodion glass plate negatives by Charles Nègre, housed in a glass box like delicate revenants from the Paris of 1855.

On the fourth floor, seek out "The Butcher Shop" by George Segal. This 1965 tableaux in plaster has menaced the AGO since long before the renovation, and terrified me in the first AGO visit that I remember.

Allow me now to skip a floor, in the name of word economy and leaving a little mystery for all of you who care to try this tour yourself. The spirit of Halloween has two flourishing colonies on the first floor: Shary Boyle's mythological ceramics and David Altme Jr.'s "Index."

Boyle's work adjoins the Christian art room and plays off of two Foggini bronzes, which dramatizes Greek and Roman myths. There are two ceramic sculptures by Boyle, "To Colonize the Moon" and "The Rejection of Pluto." These are beautiful, delicate and thoroughly creepy arrangements of blushing figures, mirrors, and the organic borders between life and death. The texts on the walls are interesting, but do not do justice to the complexities of Boyle's work. As an aside: these two pieces were commissioned by the AGO last year and in my view, evidence some of the very best qualities of the AGO, some of what the AGO should be.

"Index" brings me back to The Grange. Altme's piece cavorts at the back of the gallery, a bee-line from the front door of the AGO and directly in front of the short corridor joining the AGO to The Grange. On a key node in the traffic flow of the gallery, I'd be surprised if anyone who has visited the AGO has not yet seen this elaborate scene. This love-child of a museum display and a surrealist rift in space-time between our world and the universe of drive-in horror flicks happens to be a favourite of mine. This is how Halloween at the AGO goes: the werewolves from Ginger Snaps II contract a disease of alien crystalline growths that tear them limb from limb and transform the strings of their nerves into gold chains looped about an incomplete geological museum display by birds with human eyes and ropey coxcombs last seen rocking the national spelling bee. Meanwhile, chicken-headed men in suits look on and celebrate the victory of the crystalline life form.

In closing, a very arty (but not too arty) Halloween, to you all.

Source on The Grange:

Colombo, John Robert. Haunted Toronto. 1st. Toronto: Hounslow Press, 1996. 95-97.

How did a film like Strigoi get started?

Over a period of time I really wanted to make a film in Romania because I had been over there a lot over the past ten years or so. The idea came together slowly while we figured we could make something that looked great on a smaller budget. All the right elements came together over a long time.

This is sort of an oddball film with your subject mixing...

Completely oddball.

So which of the stories, be it the vampire story or the murder mystery story came first?

Probably the monster story. The original idea was that the villagers would kill this guy and then he would come back. They thought they could, y’know, get rid of their problems by killing him.

The ultimate skeleton in their closet.

By killing him, by killing this corrupt person they were actually kind of corrupting themselves and they couldn’t get away from that. That was all the original concept.

I thought it was interesting that the fact there were undead all over did not make the already developing issue any more intimidating.

Yeah, it’s not just what the villagers did in the first place, but the way they react to these monsters sort of make them monsters themselves.

Did you get any unusual reactions from filming a story about Romanian superstition in Romania?

I don’t know... I suppose so. If you look up the folklore on strigoi you’ll find about fifteen different versions and they’re all contradictory. What was really good fun was that everyone, and I really loved the cast, everyone had their own idea of what it was all about. Even by the end I hadn’t totally sorted out who was a strigoi and who wasn’t a strigoi and everyone in the cast and crew had their own ideas on who was a strigoi. We’d be talking about the film and someone would say, “Well no you’re wrong! You think three people are strigoi? No, four people are strigoi!” I liked that everyone really invested themselves, being surrounded by all these people with their own interpretations and being really opinionated about the subject.

For us it’s cute and foreign but I guess over there you’ll have people pointing across the way going, “Yo that strigoi?” “Ehh yeah I know that strigoi!”

It’s also funny that so many people associate the Dracula legend with Romania and yet the Romanians think it’s a joke. The Romanians think it’s cheesy and that it’s a joke. So the strigoi thing was more fun, it was more real to them, it wasn’t so much of a joke.

Do you really... WANT this film to be associated with vampires, given their current popular connotation?

Y’know its funny. When we started there was no Twilight, there was no True Blood or whatever. When we started we were actually thinking, “Boy, y’know no one’s really done a vampire movie in ages!” So now we turn around and wonder, y’know, is this a good thing or a bad thing that there’s all these other vampire movies going about.

Judging by the novelty vampire t-shirts I’ve been seeing on the street, I guess you just mention your picture has vampires and they’ll be inclined.

Yeah... Which is weird... And we do wonder if that will somehow get people involved. Then again we could also call it a folklore, mystery, comedy, horror type of thing.

That’s a much broader summary.

Yeah, it’s a bit more complicated. It’s good though, to go back a bit and do more research and learn things you don’t know about. The vampires that came before Dracula.

Old school vampires, none of this new age shit.

These are the real ones, or at least they’re more real to me. I think it makes for a more realistic film, with an older backdrop it makes it more believable to me. You know, with the Dracula myth you have these romantic outsiders, almost the dashing anti-hero where as these older ones are part of the fabric of their community, like this poison that infects everyone. It becomes a totally different subject matter.

I was really floored by just the production qualities alone, you keep saying you had a low budget but the film sure fooled me. And just because I know our readership like I do, this is as good a time as any to name drop Beirut being involved on the soundtrack.

Heh, yeah okay. That was one of the ones we really wanted from the start. Again it’s really interesting, sometimes we have this culture myth about authenticity but so many of us have these inputs, come from many different cultures, relationships with so many different countries and what was interesting about Beirut’s stuff is the influence European culture and sound has on their music, and while it’s also very American you take it back to Romania and people love it! It’s great. It speaks to so many different people in so many different ways.

Having such a good looking film, if I say so myself, any gems of wisdom for anyone else hoping to debut? Romanian or otherwise.

Just get on with it. Just go with whatever is at your disposal. And of course get good actors, I’ve worked with a lot of other first time film makers and the worst is when they just pass the roles on to their friends. So just go with what you got, and cast appropriately.

For more information visit: http://www.strigoimovie.com/

Fear the Reaper is a kung-fu/slasher/superhero film shot guerilla style over the course of about three years. Because of the disparity between having virtually no budget and having genres that necessitate special effects, blood work etc., the capacity for the film to come out looking like a cheesy attempt at something with a bigger budget was astronomical. The result, however, is a gritty look at post-feminist masculinity through the guise/guys/eyes of a self-appointed serial killer.

While the concept of this character-type isn’t new, Fear the Reaper strives to uncover new depths by reconstructing an archetype: “…it’s about a vigilante serial killer who targets bad guys, but the way we go about it is a lot different… there’s a darkness that is fun to explore in extremes. What I tried to do is create a character that has a psychological basis that is grounded in the reality of person who grew up reading comic books and playing video games, who then decides to go out and be a serial killer.

But he views it as being a hero, I guess.” As is always the case with vigilante movies, there’s a running commentary throughout the film on what exactly it means to commit a crime: “Every character works in grey areas of morality in regards to how they abide by the law.” The narrative takes a solid look at the nature of crime through the eyes of petty thugs, drug dealers (and the difference of their product), murderers and the police. While most of the main characters are male in Fear the Reaper, there’s a conscious effort to reveal the effects of socially constructed heroism and sexuality in the minds of both men and women throughout the film.

Whether from the perspective of three (ass-kicking) activist schoolgirls with delusions of adventure and responsibility or from the Reaper himself, so tied up in the idea of sacrificing his life to the act of murder that he can’t have normal relationships, the characters weave a complex web of confusion and nobility. You’ll have to see the movie to decide whether the perspective of the movie is a rewrite of heroic masculinity or another contributor to the problem it critiques.

Whichever is the case, the social and moral perspectives of the film are as mosaic as its genre. Boggio and his team’s influence are far reaching: “[the movie] pays homage to zombie movies and video games and Jean Claude Van Dam films from the ‘80s. Also, movies like Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Black Christmas…”

He also cites Robert Rodriguez’s “Rebel Without a Crew” as his handbook for guerrilla film-making: “Don’t get around your problems with money, get around them with creativity. There are a lot of great-looking blood effects in the movie that myself or a member of the crew just threw on in thirty seconds with some corn syrup. You can get away with that if you don’t show too much. If you’re going to make a guerrilla film, spend more time getting better with your hands then worrying about renting dollies and cranes.  You’re the thing that you always have with you.”

And indeed, Boggio’s DIY special effects and camera work are what lend Fear the Reaper much of its gritty style. POV fight sequences and neo-realist pauses on seeming mundane splatters add an artistic element to the film that, at least from this writer’s perspective, seems to be lacking in many horror-influenced films. “It’s like when a comic book has a full page photo after a sequence of smaller frames. You accentuate one your images to tell the story better, to drive the emotional point of your story home. Raven Ink started out as a comic book company, but none of the people involved for the vast majority of it could draw. So now we make movies, and we’re pretty good at it.”

Fear the Reaper will be available in Summer 2010. To get your fix for the time being, check out www.ravenink.net .

Comments

• October 15, 2009, Emilie Jackson writes: Marc! You are truly an amazing person and such an inspiration. Patrick, I think your article does him justice. Props.
• October 19, 2009, Michal writes: GREAT working with all the crew! LOVE the film!!! Cant WAIT till its ready to come out for ALL to see!!! Brace yourselves Horror Fans...EVEN this will knock your socks off!!!
• October 20, 2009, Andrea / Diana writes: We've always known Marc was a talented writer and creative director. Great work! Looking forward to the film! Congrats :)
• October 26, 2009, Anita Galbraith writes: Congrats Marc!! It is a lot of hard work, but will pay off in the end. Keep working on your dreams!

Once the baby’s born, you’ve got to worry about it being healthy and stuff. For example, if it has a foot, hand, thigh, and intestinal pieces in its brain, you’ve got to get on that and have it taken care of. Doctors first thought that 3-day-old Sam Esquibel was born with a brain tumour but turns out it was just (just?) some random body parts. (Here is a gross picture that doesn’t necessarily relate to this story) They’re not quite sure why that happened but one theory is Fetus in Fetu which occurs when a fetal twin grows within a developing fetus. This was probably the case with a baby boy born at Tianjin’s Children Hospital in China who had a second penis in the middle of his back. (I know someone’s about to crack a joke about Asians and penises but come on, no one wants a penis on their back of any size.) There was also a baby born in South Africa with three extra limbs – two extra legs and a third arm.

In Paraguay, a baby born 16 weeks premature was pronounced dead by doctors. Dead babies are equal parts tragic and creepy but this one takes the cake. He must have been some sort of Jesus baby because he woke up during his funeral and is now in stable condition. A similar situation happened in Israel except this time Jesus dies twice. A stillborn baby girl spends six hours in the morgue, wakes up for a day, and dies again. I don’t suspect the devil was involved but there is one Texas mom who definitely would have jumped to that conclusion. Otty Sanchez stabbed and decapitated her 3 ½ week old infant claiming that the devil made her do it. I would argue that if she were to take a religious standpoint, it was God who asked Abraham to kill his son, not the devil. The devil was too busy advising John Milton on a poem.

Am I being too hard on babies and childbirth? There must be something good about pregnancy. Well, for one thing, you can eat placenta. Here are two recipes from the September 1983 issue of Mothering Magazine:

Well, that makes me want to avoid cocktails and lasagne for the rest of my life. But wait, there are other uses for your baby’s placenta. How about a nice teddy bear? Designer Alex Green cured placenta with sea salt, treated it with a mixture of tannin and egg yolk, and crafted it into a hideous teddy bear that I hope no baby will ever have to play with, touch, or look at.

Happy Halloween!

Comments

• October 24, 2009, Wellsomeonehadtopost writes: Jesus babies nowadays are all imitators. 3 days is the standard, hear? 3 days!

Synopsis – Spoiler Warning

The Terror follows the story of a young French officer at the start of the nineteenth century named Andre (Nicholson). Andre finds himself separated from the rest of his unit and hopelessly lost on a beach. He is heat-stroked and delirious when he first encounters Helene, a beautiful woman. He follows her and as a result he almost drowns in the ocean. When he comes to, he finds he is in the care of an old woman thanks to the help of a local of the village named Gustaf. When Andre inquires about Helene, the old woman tells him that she is not real but Gustaf claims that the answers lie in the nearby castle of Baron Von Leppe (Karloff).

Determined to find out the truth Andre ventures to the castle where he meets the Baron and his servant Stefan. It is here that he is told that the woman he thought was Helene is actually Ilsa, the baron’s deceased wife. Throughout the rest of the film Andre repeatedly attempts to find the woman that has captured his heart only to be met by resistance from all sides. As it turns out many years ago the Baron caught Ilsa in bed with another man, who happened to be the son of the old woman. The Baron in a fit of rage murdered both of them and is now haunted by Ilsa and his own guilt. The ghost of Ilsa is the result of the old woman, who is a witch, attempting to get the Baron to kill himself.

What the witch is unaware of is that the Baron is in fact Eric, her son. (Complicated, I know.) In the end, everybody gets killed in spectacular fashion. A falcon tears out the eyes of Gustaf, the witch gets struck by lightning, and the baron and Stefan both end up drowning in the crypt beneath the mansion. Finally, Andre is proven that he was wrong all along when after finally saving Ilsa, she melts, revealing that she was a ghost the whole time.

Matt

A French military Officer gets separated from his unit. Officer discovers spooky castle. Officer discovers conspiracy in spooky castle. Officer runs around breaking down doors, kissing ghost women and punching mean-spirited birds. If anything, we are looking at the chaotic, and perhaps even existential nature of life manifesting itself on the screen.

Lt. Andre Duvalier seems to fit the bill of an existential hero: smashing and punching his way through Baron Victor Frederick Von Leppe's castle with the emotional range of a brick, not giving a fuck, with the ultimate goal of making out with some ghost chick. He's a man who wants to live life passionately and to hell with those who get in his way. Once all is said and done and he gets his cherished make-outs, the object of his desire melts like a block of cheese in a microwave and he trudges off down the road - probably to punch more birds.

How like life. Nicholson (whose French-ness is under review) might as well have muttered "hell is other people" just to complete the painting of how life is shit. Life can take you all kinds of crazy places, like when you go out for Pickle Barrel but wind up at Moxie's instead. Nicholson's life simply took a chaotic and unpredictable turn on a night out at Pickle Barrel. Did I mention that Jack Nicholson punches a bird?

Daniel

I think that the bird punching has been mentioned once or twice before. As much as I would love to say that the bird represents Andre’s mother and he punches it due to an unconscious desire to stand up to her, I think it has more to do with the latent badassness of Jack Nicholson. That’s right, no falcon will ever stand in his way. Despite these certain rare moments of brilliance, Andre is a piss poor excuse for a hero. He manages to accidentally stumble into a bad situation and make it worse.

The Baron Von Leppe is a poor deluded fool who is doomed almost from the start of the film. His own actions, as well as the actions of Katrina have assured this. His only potential salvation is Andre who is determined to stick his nose in where it doesn’t belong. While Andre insists on attempting to unravel the mystery of Helene he misses all the clues that she in fact may be the one who is the agent of doom. The result is the death of not only The Baron (who was pretty screwed anyways) but every other character in the movie.

The only person that Andre tries to save is the girl who is already dead, a fact that he ignores despite all the obvious signs (Not having a pulse and being able to walk through walls were what tipped me off). Perhaps this is another case of love making fools of us all.

Matt

Yeah. Andre is hardly heroic. The term "existential hero" just sounds academic-like. He definitely seems confused about what he wants. He wants to be back with his unit for awhile. Then he wants to get ghost-laid. Then he wants to solve some crazy curse conspiracy in the kooky castle. He seems to be a very confused man - possibly even some kind of quarter-life crisis. Andre-Nicholson also took a few turns behind the camera, so perhaps he felt very deeply about this quarter-life fuckery?

There is something wondrously abstract about how he finds himself in this whole situation. He just wakes up on a horse on some beach (crazy night at Pickle Barrel) with no clear idea how he got there or where the hell his buddies are. Suddenly, a ghost chick is beckoning, then disappears. Andre-Nicholson passes out again and wakes up with some old lady and Gustav. I think it is plausible that we are being taken on a crazy romp through Andre-Nicholson's deranged mind like some sort of unholy inflated bouncy castle.

So, what do we think of that? It's all a dream and Andre-Nicholson is confused about becoming a man? Maybe he's confused about his sexuality?

Daniel

There it is. The underlying issue with this movie. Why oh why does Andre care so much about what happens to the ghost chick? As far as I can recall there is no real reason that he would become so enamored with her besides her beauty. Now I will admit that while she is a looker she is certainly not worth the obsession. If this were the modern day (and she was alive) Andre would be slapped with a restraining order then deported back to France where he would have immense difficulty with the actual French speaking citizens.

I do feel like I need to point out that Andre isn’t the only obsessive personality in this fine little picture. Every single person is just a little bit off-kilter. Most notably is the Baron Von Leppe who as it turns out was really Eric, Ilsa’s lover. The fact that he had snapped so many years ago without anybody knowing is really indicative of how society sees the mentally ill. It is much better to wall yourself off in the castle of the man you killed then to face your problems.

Matt

So everyone is a little off-kilter in Andre-Nicholson's bouncy castle from hell? I also found it strange that for a Horror movie titled The Terror I didn't feel horror or terror. There's something strangely calming about the whole affair. This is border-lining on criticism of the film, but they must have consciously known that this movie was not scary? "Life gets crazy and deranged at times, but everything will be okay." I really don't know what else to poke and prod at in this film. Maybe a Marxist jab by looking at the class structures in the movie?

For awhile there I thought the crazy old lady was going to drop to her knees and start tending to the mud crops when the Baron's sidekick butler came to kick her off the land. The antiquated class structure is crumbling and everyone inside it is deranged as they desperately cling to the way things used to be. The Baron wants to be with Ilsa again. The Old woman wants her son back. Andre wants to get drunk with the boys again. Just like the good ol' times.

Daniel

Be honest, when was the last time that a horror movie truly scared you? We are so desensitized these days by the mountains of torture porn dumped on us that a simple little ghost story is tame by comparison. However the film does feature all of the classic signs of a horror movie and so I believe it is correctly categorized. As for Marxist overtones, I believe you might be on to something. The old lady, living without permission on the Baron’s land, is the one who is pulling all the strings. She is the one who has summoned Ilsa from beyond the grave in order to drive the Baron mad.

The cruel twist is that in the end even she is screwed over. There are no happy endings for anybody here. The only person alive at the end is Andre who finds that he should have listened to what everybody was saying to him. That in fact it is pointless to try to save a girl who is already dead. It is simply another case of an arrogant man not paying attention to the world around him.

Lessons Learned

1. Love will make fools of us all.

2. The French sound remarkably like Jack Nicholson.

3. Beware of ghost women who lure you towards the sea.

4. Never, under any circumstances, get separated from your unit.

5. Live life passionately because other people are hell.

6. If everybody tells you that the chick is dead, they are probably right.

7. The best defense against a falcon is a closed fist.

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Comments

• October 15, 2009, Sean writes: HA ha ha
• October 17, 2009, B-Rad writes: Good read, boys, good read indeed!

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(Digital Fingerprint: ISSN 1918-9249)]]> http://www.steelbananas.com/2009/10/lessons-learned-the-terror-or-the-best-defense-against-a-falcon-is-a-closed-fist/feed/ 2 http://www.steelbananas.com/2009/10/matts-monologues-hey-dude/ http://www.steelbananas.com/2009/10/matts-monologues-hey-dude/#comments Thu, 15 Oct 2009 06:49:08 +0000 Matt Marshall http://www.steelbananas.com/?p=4157 A desk. A man. A radio. Come Together by the Beatles (Aerosmith cover) is heard.

I’m telling you, I’m telling you, this is not the Beatles. No, listen – it’s not them! Does that sound like Lennon? Is that John fucking Lennon?! No. You’re a smart man, but you don’t know jack shit about music. Lemme guess, lemme guess, you grew up listening to Aqua or some shit? Hanson? Whenya gonna grow up. You’re in College now, buddy. You need to get your head out of top 40 land. Well, I guess Beatles was top 40 back when. But now it’s classic. It’s like an old sweater to keep you warm. You wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a big wool sweater in fucking high school, but life is different now buddy. Not only does the sweater keep you warm, it’s also friggin’ stylish. The Beatles keep you warm on the inside and respectable on the outside. You think someone is going to give you hell for blasting Hey Jude out your car windows? I want to meet the asshole who comes up and starts yelling at you for that, because as far as I am concerned he doesn’t exist.

Now where were we? Whatdya mean you don’t remember? Did all this Beatles talk blow your mind? I’m sorry buddy if it was too much for you, maybe I’ll introduce it gradually next time rather than letting it swallow you whole. Yeah.

So, back to it. Where do you see yourself in 5 years? Do you see yourself here, working with us? Maybe you see yourself in my chair, at my desk, wearing the sweater (He smiles). Or maybe for you this is just temporary? Hey dude, that’s fine. We realize that because of the nature of the company we may not are not the most lucrative of employers. Long hours, minimum wage, no benefits, tough work. Tough tough work. But you seem like a guy who can handle tough. We’ll have to work on the Beatles thing, but you’ve got a shot.

You want to know why some people stick around? People like me? This place is like a family. We are a family. These guys who just come in here for a few months while the job market sucks? They don’t get it, and they don’t become a part of the family. But those who do get it, they are family. Like the Beatles. The Beatles were like a family. I guess you wouldn’t know that would you.

What?!!! The Beatles didn’t break up! They never broke up! See, you don’t know the Beatles like I do, but you come in here making bizarre accusations, trying to impress me so you can get the job, but you’re false man. I see right through you. I see right through your cover letter (reading) “DEAR SIR” blah blah “LOOK FORWARD TO HEARING FROM YOU” blah blah (he rips it in half). I see right through your resume (reading) “BA 2004” blah blah “VOLUNTEERED READING FOR SICK CHILDREN” blah blah “ONTARIO SCHOLAR” (he rips it in half). I see through you. You are a man with no family and no aspirations. You know the Beatles had aspirations? You need to go listen to the fucking Beatles if you want this job. You hear me?! Get out of my office before I rip you in half.

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(Digital Fingerprint: ISSN 1918-9249)]]> http://www.steelbananas.com/2009/10/matts-monologues-hey-dude/feed/ 0 http://www.steelbananas.com/2009/10/trailer-trashin-vol-9/ http://www.steelbananas.com/2009/10/trailer-trashin-vol-9/#comments Thu, 15 Oct 2009 06:49:06 +0000 Daniel Bernstein http://www.steelbananas.com/?p=4354 October is here and that means that Halloween is right around the corner. Let's be honest here, Halloween is probably the greatest holiday ever invented ever. It encourages people to dress up, wander the streets at night, and indulge in both candy and liquor. You show me a person who does not like Halloween, and I will show you a person with acute agoraphobia and a weird compulsion for licking stamp glue.

With O Hallows eve getting closer every media outlet will soon be turning their attention the festivities. For me this means horror movies. I freely admit that I love watching the macabre come to life on screen. While never truly scary, the spectacle alone is enough to send the testosterone in me pumping. The result is often giggles of pure guilty pleasure.

It isn’t all good news though. It is unfortunate to report that we are in a drought of the worst kind for new scary movies. This year it seems to be no different. In this Trailer Trashin’ I look at the worst trends in movies today exemplified in this case, in the horror genre. This month all there is a remake, a sequel, a half-baked adaptation, and paranoia about the end of the world.

The Stepfather



Somewhere along the way the term ‘remake’ was replaced with ‘reboot.’ It is easy to see why the change was made. Remake simply reeks of a producer who is out of any good ideas and simply wants a cheque. Whereas reboot usually involves a deeper thought process. I have no illusions, both really mean the same thing. It is euphemisms like this that have George Carlin rolling in his grave. However, for the sake of this month’s article, let's pretend that there really is a difference.

That being said, The Stepfather is a remake of the 1987 film of the same name. The movie stars Dylan Walsh from Nip/Tuck as the titular stepfather. He marries into a new family and everything seems to be hunky-dory. That is except for the fact that he is insane and likes to murder people whenever they do not meet his high expectations. So as it turns out he is just like every stage mother.

The problem this film will have is the same one that all remakes have to overcome, the original. Terry O’Quinn played the stepfather in the 1987 version of the movie and is considered to be one of the creepiest on screen characters of the genre. O'Quinn has the bar set very high for Walsh and quite honestly, I don’t think he will make it. Still, a film like this might be fun to rent months later for a large group.

Saw VI



The process of making a sequel in Hollywood usually works the same way regardless of the film. The first movie introduced us to a new and unique concept. Somehow the filmmakers were able to catch lightning in a bottle and the result was a box office hit. Then some producer in Hollywood decides to milk that concept for all it is worth and pump out so many sequels, prequels, and now the wonderful reimagining. By the time we get to the sixth (to pick a number at random) movie in a franchise the concept is boring, stale and has truly overstayed its welcome.

Saw IV is the latest title in the somehow popular Saw franchise. The premise, in case you have been living under a rock for the last five years is as follows. A deranged cancer patient abducts strangers and tries to teach them the value of life. He does this by placing them in nearly inescapable deathtraps and watches the blood fly.

I am sorry to say that I have seen every other film in this franchise. I do have to admit, when the first movie came out the premise was unique and truly something that made my skin crawl. While the execution wasn’t fantastic, Saw does pass for a fairly decent horror flick. That being said it is now six years later and no amount of twists or turns or inane ‘time-jumping-ha-we-got-you” moments are going to get me out to a theatre to sit through this piece of fecal matter.

If given the choice to saw off my own leg or sit through the latest installment of the poster boy for the torture porn genre, I would seriously consider the former option.

The Box



In addition to the myriad of movies that I watch, I do spend more than my fair share of time rotting away in front of the boob tube, I am hardly ashamed of this. The truth of the matter is that some of the best story telling happens on television. You also see some of the worst but for now let's just pretend that only the good exists.

It is no secret that I have a bit of a fetish for good science fiction/horror/tales of wonder. Some of the best of the best was The Twilight Zone. Many great stories have come from this wonderful little show and many are burned into common knowledge without us even realizing it. One such story is the upcoming and unfortunate adaptation, The Box.

The Box is the story of a struggling young couple, in the film portrayed by Cameron Diaz and James Marsden. Their lives are changed forever when a mysterious stranger (Frank Langella) shows up with an offer and the titular box. Inside the box is a button. The stranger explains that he will give the couple a large sum of money if they push the button. However, by doing so, a person that “they do not know” will die.

That is the entire premise of the story. In the original short story, the couple spend the bulk of their time arguing whether or not they should or should not push it and the ethical ramifications of that choice. Needless to say there is hardly enough material to fill a feature length film.

2012



Admittedly this isn’t really a horror movie in the traditional sense. However, if you are anything like me, you consider sitting through anything by Roland Emmerich to be a terrifying experience. This man has depicted the end of the world on celluloid more times than I care to count. Among the most ridiculous have to be the end of the world due to aliens, giant lizards, and global warming.

In 2012 Emmerich decides to depict how the final days might look according to the asinine Mayan prophecy. According to the ancient Mayan calendar, the world will end on December 21, 2012. My first thought on this is why the Mayans couldn't get more specific with it. I prefer my doomsday theories to include not only a date but also a place and time. December 21 isn’t good enough. I was hoping for December 21, 2012, at 8:17 pm EST, in a little motel in Mount Vernon Kentucky. That way I know exactly where not to be at the end of the world.

Getting back on track, the film stars John Cusack as the over protective father who is most likely the only person that saw this whole mess in the film coming. He tries to keep his family safe and if I know the formula, he will be able to pull it off. Millions of people will die all around him as a major metropolis is destroyed but somehow they will all survive. Not only that, John will also manage to save the family dog. In the end the human spirit will overcome adversity and blah blah blah happily ever after blah.

Okay in all seriousness, I want to talk to Roland for a moment. Roland? You there? Good. How are you? Doing Well? Great. Now stop it. Stop making these movies. I get it, really I do. You like to see the world end. I can’t take anymore and if I am right neither can millions of people who like me would rather suffer the apocalypse than sit through another one of your boring disaster epics. They aren’t exciting, they aren’t even unique anymore. Just please, for the love of Kinich Ahau (the Mayan sun god) try something new.

Other Films

Believe it or not, they aren’t all horror movies this month. Some are even worth seeing.

Law Abiding Citizen – I say that is enough of Clive Owen already.

Where the Wild Things Are – Looks like a successful adaptation of the children’s book

Antichrist – promises to be one of the most disturbing movies in years. I can’t wait!

Astro Boy – Another pointless adaptation of an over the hill anime

Boondock Saints II: All Saints Day – Too little too late for these Irish vigilantes

The Men Who Stare at Goats – Clooney is at his best when he plays a buffoon

The Fantastic Mr. Fox – Wes Anderson meets Roald Dahl. Too bad Anderson hasn’t evolved as a filmmaker in ten years.

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Comments

• October 15, 2009, B-Rad writes: Clive Owen is not in Law Abiding Citizen...its Gerard Butler...unless you knew that and was being sarcastic.
• October 15, 2009, Daniel writes: You're right. I made a mistake here. What I meant to say was I have had enough of Gerard Butler. Quite honestly though I have had enough Clive Owen as well
• October 15, 2009, Colin Fallowfield writes: Also, I think you're talking about 'Saw VI' but you say 'Saw IV' in the article. tsk tsk
• October 15, 2009, Kyle Bernstein writes: i do love Mt Vernon, Kentucky
• October 16, 2009, Daniel writes: six, four, quite honestly they all run together at this point.
• October 16, 2009, B-Rad writes: Dan's right, they do all run together. It's kind of ridiculous actually. You should review the movie 'Legion' next, the one with fallen angels with machine guns fighting of heaven's wrath!
• October 19, 2009, Aaron Cincinatus writes: At this point I've given up on sequels and movies based on books and tv from my childhood. Apparently where the wild things are wasn't all it was hyped up to be. As for astro boy, I recall just the last oomph from it in the 1990s but hardly remember why astro was a hero character.

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(Digital Fingerprint: ISSN 1918-9249)]]> http://www.steelbananas.com/2009/10/trailer-trashin-vol-9/feed/ 7 http://www.steelbananas.com/2009/10/nerdventures-house-on-forest-hill/ http://www.steelbananas.com/2009/10/nerdventures-house-on-forest-hill/#comments Thu, 15 Oct 2009 06:49:06 +0000 King Frankenstein http://www.steelbananas.com/?p=4015 My aunt used to have the best Halloween decorations. They were both the highlight and most dreaded part of my childhood Halloweens. I often wondered how much of the design she based solely on the elements that irked me. After all, that would explain why it began to feel like a gauntlet of my personal terrors. Usually I would just have my Mom guide me by hand to the door while I shielded my little eyes with my little dinosaur to Super Mario mitten, so that I could just sit inside the house, eyes fixed on the sounds from the window, wondering if I could dare walk back out with my lids peeled back. And when I did gaze, and there were certainly those times, it would leave my gut so shaken that I would actually consider skipping my peanut butter cups.

There were life sized dolls of dead bodies, strewn up through the trees and peeking out from under piles of leaves, their suggested wounds oozing with Scooby Doo pasta. A strobe light seemed to claw at the trees and the black gate that hugged the front yard, nay courtyard, making it the perfect candidate for such a haunt. My whole family would get into it, my grandfather, or zadie if you will, would park his twenty year old van, which if called a tin can would be a compliment, dressed up like a madman, waiting to pop out the side door to scare oncoming kids. In retrospect, that was extremely uncharacteristic of my zadie, which is a tribute to the spirit of this most blessed holiday. My uncle always stole the show though because he knew how to get me, he knew the one thing that would send me reeling. He would wait at the door in this gorilla suit, a gorilla suit that scared the soul out of me. I was so terrified of this suit that if at non-Halloween related visits, I would so happen to notice the gorilla mask to be visible in an open closet, I would dash away to the nearest floor to request a grown up to remove it from sight. My uncle loved that I hated that suit so much, I could always hear it in his gruff snicker. Even when I was past the gauntlet, sitting safely inside the undecorated interior, he would sneak up on me to initiate the jungle terror. And man, I miss the things that scared me. I miss those Halloweens.



Everything since then has felt pale in comparison, scary sound effects tape and a headless scarecrow just never cut it. It's been years since my aunt put up the grand haunted house, she said she just didn't have the energy for it anymore. As time goes on I find myself more starved for the Halloween spirit in my suburban environment. From the declining amount of TV specials to the disappearance of enthusiastic trick or treaters, year after year I worry that it may be the last year I see a bag of candy. Then last year I learned that I'm just blind as a bat. The internet, of all places, informed me that less than a block away from my current abode was in fact a delightfully, frightfully, enthusiastic haunted house.

Every Halloween night, Rachel Brown transforms 164 Old Forest Hill Rd into THE HAUNT ON THE HILL. A treat for the senses and a treat for the tricksters.

"I think I got bored of handing out candy and I was too old to trick or treat, I saw a few decorations in a store and it kind of took off from there. Now I make everything myself. I like to make everything myself, because when you go into the Halloween stores, as much fun as they are to look around, you see ten people buying the same thing and not really doing anything unique."

What was before a common home (well a common home on Old Forest Hill) becomes a graveyard, strewn with open caskets, a mad laboratory, littered with leftover skeletons, and a giant arachnid, spinning its web above the heads of visitors.

"Usually I start by fixing things I broke the previous year and making them more sturdy. Then I just get new ideas off the internet or things I've always wanted to build."

The inside of the house was not nearly as gloomy (though I bet myself I could make it look legit haunted tweaking the right settings in Windows Photo Viewer), but instead has the level of organization and cleanliness that makes me wonder how such homes are possible. She told me the bulk of decorations were in her garage. Only debatable clutter was in her living room, a skeleton, err, not literally, like a frame for some new construction. I thought about asking what it was going to turn out to be, but judging by the eight long spindly legs and large orb body, I, well, I hope you follow. It's not just in the decorations alone - anyone can nail the grim reaper to a tree and call it a day - but Rachel aims for a more specific aesthetic than just flatout flatlining kids.

"I've seen things and houses where people just take anything they think is Halloween related and throw it anywhere. Like, here's a devil and witch and a skeleton and a mummy and they're all next to each other, and there's Freddy Krueger and Jason and there's just no reason. When I put something out I make sure everything fits together, and I really think where I'm going to place them. I also lik