Stars: A Prose poem
My family has a cattle ranch in the Rockies. It was there that I learned that the night sky has far more stars than anyone who lives in the city will ever see. It’s called “light pollution.” The light that the city gives off, the buildings, the streetlights, the cars; all of them combine to blind us to the lights in the sky above us. Apparently it fucks with the migratory paths of birds as well. Part of me likes to think this is why they shit on us from above, covering our streets, statues, and cars with a layer of discontent. They’re pissed off that, rather than wintering in Mexico, they’re stuck here getting rained on all winter like the rest of us Vancouverites.
These are the strange things I think about when I’m sitting on a bench in Chinatown at four o’clock in the morning and I’ve been awake for nearly twenty hours.
I look up and the night sky’s true awesomeness is hidden from me because of the light seeping into my eyes from all that surrounds me here on Earth. But you will not hear me complain. I have enough “stars” of the human variety that surround me here on the streets of this city I call home.
There will be plenty of time to gaze into the heavens when I am lying on my back, gasping for my last breath, in a piss-filled gutter somewhere. This is my city.
YVR: My city, ’tis of thee.
Open House at The Vancouver Burlesque Centre
There is no greater feeling than when the buzz in a room is created by the combination of giddiness, pride, and the satisfaction of a job well done.
Friday night I attended the opening party for the new Vancouver Burlesque Centre. The space is simple but it doesn’t need to be anything more than it already is. It consists of a reception/sitting area, the studio itself, and a maze of back rooms used for storage and workspace. I think it was the first time I’d seen a sewing machine and a mitre saw within ten feet of each other. Lola Frost, Burgundy Brixx, and Cherry OnTop made incredible hostesses. A little bar in the corner served drinks, a DJ spun, and Burgundy made the rounds with home-baked “boobie cookies”.
Boobie Cookies
Rather than write my typical “review” let me just say this:
It is hard for me to explain just how much these ladies have come to mean to me in the time that I have known them, Lola especially. It has been less than a year since we first met, and I am still very much only an interested observer in their world but I am happy and proud to regard them as friends. For my part, I have come to rely on them for daily reminders that the changes I made in my life have been good ones.
Cherry leads an interactive dance demonstration while Burgundy and Lola look on
I am intensely proud of all of them, not just those involved with the Centre, but all those who have chosen a path different from the norm, who exude passion and love, while still maintaining the cut-throat drive of the most jaded captains of industry. I wish them all the love and luck for the future of their project that I can possibly muster.
Miss Cherry OnTop with, well, a cherry on top. Photo credit: A slightly tipsy Lola Frost.
Halloween with The Night Owl[s]
The second night of my Autumnal Renaissance, the rediscovery of my Halloween spirit, came at The Night Owl Review. Nicky Ninedoors and the gang provided me with laughter, a tear, and three new favourite pictures to top the thousands I have snapped in the two years I’ve owned my current camera.
“Oh shit… She has a chair!” was my first thought as the stage was set for Lola Frost’s opening number. Sometimes, when Lola performs a chair routine, it is as though the music is an animal tamer, the chair is… well… a chair, and Lola is the whip that beats us hapless beasts into submission. There are also moments when she is the beast, seeking out her prey. Her routine that night produced a picture worthy of a National geographic spread on big cats. It’s now a favourite.
Nicky Ninedoors’ first routine could have been taken one of two ways: Firstly, it was Halloweeny in that it began with a ghostly, shrouded figure and ended with a flowing apparition. But, for me, it was also springlike. I saw a glorious, white butterfly emerge from its imprisoning cocoon.
If you are yet to see Burgundy Brixx perform “Sweet Transvestite” decked out as Dr. Frank-N-Furter, you are truly missing out. I was seated first row with a couple fellow blogosphere types. They drank coffee. I drank Pilsner. Good thing too. Had I been drinking coffee, I would have burned my crotch as my jaw hit the floor when Frank-N-Furter hit the stage. At the end of her routine, she produced a glitter-bomb she probably could have got onto an airplane with little or no trouble.
After the break, Crystal Precious made me cry. Granted, she didn’t beat me up and I wasn’t sobbing… exactly, but she did sing. I always say that I love to hear her sing. Often when she sings, she proves that vulnerability is not always weakness as her voice booms out the softest of notes. I did catch a tear and another favourite photo.
There has always been something very sexy about vampires. I don’t mean the sparkling Team Edward bullshit vampires either. I mean the murderous, fluid swapping, orgasm as death vampires. Nicky Ninedoors was sultry and coy in her second performance. Definitely suggestive too. Suffice it to say, had she been a real vampire, there’d be plenty of wooden stakes for the using around the room. She also gave me my third “new favourite” picture.
Burgundy Brixx took to the stage again with the only performance that could have topped her opener. The movement was more subtle to be sure, but her tongue was planted firmly in cheek and the crowd laughed themselves silly throughout. To try to describe it further would do it no justice. Let me say this: She sang “I Only Have Eyes For You”.
Lola finished the set with one of her “duck and cover” dances. Most of what I see Lola perform, a good 70%, is a steamy, maneater, predatory routine. But, every once in a while, Lola brings out a number, in which, her heels slam on the stage like a pneumatic nail gun and every movement is like a Soviet-era gymnast sticking her landing from the balance beam. At times like these, I don’t try to keep up. I just keep my eyes locked firmly upon her and say, “DAMN!” a lot.
I was saddened to hear that, for a variety of reasons, that night’s Night Owl Review will quite probably be the last in its current configuration. Fear not, however, Nicky Ninedoors can always be found performing around the city with Pandora & The Locksmiths, Lola Frost and Crystal Precious can be found every Thursday at The Keefer Bar’s Sweet Sip Thursdays, and Burgundy Brixx remains the Head Kitten at Kitty Nights, Sundays at The Biltmore Cabaret.
*UPDATE: I have been informed that The Night Owl Review will RETURN in January. Stay tuned!
Day One of my Autumnal Renaissance: A Late-Night Double Feature with Vancouver’s Spectral Theatre Society
I used to be a real Halloween freak. I’d start planning my next costume on November 1st, while still suffering the effects of the previous night’s party. I haven’t been that way for years. This year, I found myself reborn, rising from the pumpkin patch like a Great Pumpkin that finally arrived.
This Autumnal Renaissance began with the late-night double feature at The Spectral Theatre. The first performance was a wonderfully acted piece, titled “Clockwork”, staged as an old-time radio play, complete with foley artists and period dress.
The second play, “Succubus A Go-Go”, was a cheeky little piece about a gentlemen’s club with a dark secret. Over the past year, the phrase “dark secret” has become, for me, nearly synonymous with one person, Little Miss Risk. I’ve seen her wear (and peel off) many “hats” recently, but to see her and her co-star finish up with a Broadway-styled song and dance number was an enjoyable, and dare I say wholesome, surprise.
Okay, maybe I forgot to take a picture of the "wholesome" part...
Both performances took me back to a time when you couldn’t keep me out of theatres, most of them tiny local theatres, the times I saw Sartre and Beckett staged in rooms smaller than my living room and fed off the actors’ energy. I will be back.
So There’s This Couch: Fall Fashion Show at Scout Boutique
If you were at Scout last night, you would have seen this incredible couch. Maybe it’s a love seat. I don’t know. Settee perhaps?
Anyhow, I tried taking more pictures of it but all these people just showed up and got in the way.
So after the lovely models cleared the way to my wonderful couch, the room filled with lots of chatty people drinking wine and vodka coolers. Everyone seemed to be milling about joyfully despite obscuring my belov’d couch.
Soon the crowd parted. But alas, no joy. As soon as the path to the couch was clear, THIS guy sat on it.
Turns out he’s a writer or something. Not only did he block my couch, he started reading. Suddenly, the couch was no longer the centre of attention. Silence fell across the room and the humidity started to climb. I could actual hear feminine thighs twitch. Poor couch.
So, as it turns out, the couch isn’t for sale. But the dresses sure are. And it’s almost office party season. If you’re looking for the dress that bitch in shipping will never find but the hunk in accounting can’t possibly ignore, swing by Scout (152 East 8th (@Main), Vancouver) and check out the Fall Fashions… and the couch.
PS: DAMN…
My Mama Done Told Me: Nicky Ninedoors and The Night Owl Revue
When I “checked in” on Foursquare at The Electric Owl Social Club last night, I jokingly wrote, “Burlesque, jazz, and beer… If heaven existed, I think I just arrived.” A couple hours later, Nicky Ninedoors did a white fan dance, and when she flapped them up behind her back, she did look like an angel. I leaned over to Lola Frost and whispered, “If all angels looked like that, I might actually go to church.”
Last night was the opening show of The Night Owl Revue. MC’d by the lovely, talented, and outright fucking hilarious, Crystal Precious with music supplied by, killer jazz outfit, The Locksmiths it was one of those evenings you’re really glad you decided to come out.
I arrived downtown around 7 o’clock. Door for the show was 8. I slinked into The Keefer Bar for a quick drink, having made it a rule that I can’t walk past its open doors. That took about 20 minutes off the wait and I was still a little early when I got to The Electric Owl Social Club, so I walked right past and into the Ivanhoe for another quick beer. My timing perfected and sufficiently numbed, I returned to the Electric Owl, paid my $15 ticket price, and grabbed myself a table.
As the room started filling up, a couple looking very “normal and lost” were searching for a place to sit. I offered to share the table. They accepted and after sitting down asked if it was okay if they had some friends join them. Somehow “FUCK” translated into “Sure” and I was swamped. About the time they’d finished their second glass of water, I was downing my third Pilsner and wondering if they’d like directions to Yaletown. Before all hope was lost, Miss Lola Frost made her entrance. Game on motherfuckas.
It’s not a glide, nor a strut, and it sure as shit isn’t a walk, perhaps it is “floating with intent”, but whatever it was Lola made her way to the table and Vancouver’s Rock and Roll Flapper took a seat. “Everyone, Lola. Lola, everyone.” Hellos were exchanged, jaws were dropped, and I was back in my comfort zone.
Rufio van Hoover and Lola Frost, slighly less than sober. Photo credit: Mrs. F
Crystal took the stage at 9, immaculately dressed (of course), and kicked the evening off. I’ve heard Crystal rap, but I don’t often hear her sing, so it was indeed a pleasure to listen to her first number. That girl’s voice could honeydrip the stinger off a wasp. Also, as a little side note, when she smiles at you, you get the warm and fuzzy feeling that all is right in the universe. That, or the passing thought that she’s thinking about eating cornflakes out of your skull. I’m pretty certain that it’s the former, but, as Nietzsche wrote, “The true man wants two things: danger and play. For that reason he wants woman, as the most dangerous plaything.”
Crystal Precious performing at The Keefer. Photo credit: David Denofreo
Performing to the solid background provided by The Locksmiths were Nicky Ninedoors, Miss Fitt, and Burgundy Brixx, the den kitten at The Biltmore’s Kitty Nights.
Nicky’s voice is insanely good. A recent article on Straight.com highlighted her musical training. To which one comment replied it was a shame she’d had to “resort” to taking her clothes off. Miss Ninedoors resorted to nothing. I sincerely hope “Anonymous” enjoyed feeding their cats leftover TV dinners last night while the rest of us were being thoroughly entertained by one of Vancouver’s most refined young women.
I really hate smartphone cameras
Try to imagine the white blur in the photo above looking more like this. Photo credit: Maria Peterson
Outside of the Empire State, when people refer to “New York’s finest” they aren’t talking about the NYPD. They are talking about Burgundy Brixx, class and sass with a wicked ass. I’ve seen her perform a handful of times and she is mystifying in the way she moves. Her motions inform that she has a great sense of space and knows where every cell in her body is at all times. Imagine Salome as prima ballerina at The Bolshoi.
Lifted this from her Facebook page. Will ad photo credit if supplied. BSC xx
The first time I saw Milaika Millions do her “Lime in the Coconut” routine, I almost peed myself. Last night, when Miss Fitt performed her last routine, she almost elicited the same reaction. It was certainly one of the more elaborate (group effort) routines I had seen. Magic mushrooms send a hapless go-go dancer off into a magic world where her stuffed animals come alive and dance with her. Backed up by the Locksmiths, Ninedoors, and Brixx (with the Purrrfessor if i’m not mistaken. Could be; I was drunk) giving the Broadway cast of “Hair” a run for their money, the whole bit ended with animals dancing everywhere and Crystal throwing handfuls of feathers from a bucket, while Miss Fitt danced her go-go heart out to Age of Aquarius/Let the Sun Shine. It was insane.
I apologize again to Miss Fitt for the crappy picture but you people ought to be getting off yer butts and checking out theirs anyway. Live is life people!
Here's one not taken by a smartphone.
After the show, Lola introduced me to DJ K-Tel, our meeting immortalized in pixels below. Maybe it wasn’t Stanley/Livingston or such but we had a camera; they didn’t. BurlyQ FTW.
Lola Frost: "Word poet meets music poet."
We go in search of a smoke to bum because I’m cheap and Lola doesn’t smoke. For some reason lost to time and dead brain cells, she figures there are smokes to be had across the street at The Cobalt. She takes my arm and we intently float out of The Electric Owl. Reaching the sidewalk, I declare, “Hand!” We clasp hands and make a dash across Main St. It was a pretty good dash considering the heels she was wearing. As for heels, I heard the other day that if her heels are higher than your cock is long, you’re not getting any. I wasn’t expecting any, but to be honest, I did size her shoes up the moment she walked in last night! (xo Miss Frost…)
Over at The Cobalt, smokes were to be found, doorman bribed with a wink and a smile. Miss Frost graciously bought my broke ass a beer and we watched and listened to Claire Mortifee perform. ‘Twas awesome.
Photo credit: Lola Frost
We grabbed a cab and Lola dropped me off at the bus stop (will the romance ever end?) on Georgia. She sped off into the night to wake up 7 hours later. I went home to fall asleep, after being told I’d been described to a friend as “dashing”. Heh… nice.
All in all, not a bad night I suppose.
How Much Is That Booty In The Window: An Afternoon Stopping Traffic At Scout
“…by watching her I began to think there was some skill involved in being a girl.” ~ Scout (To Kill A Mockingbird)
You can tell a lot about a person by their scotch tape dispenser. So it came as no surprise when I found this awesome little jewel behind the desk at Scout Boutique:
Specializing “in form-fitting, pin-up style clothing for all sizes of women,” Scout Boutique has become a regular, weekend pit stop for me when I’m on or around Main Street. I was first summoned to Scout back in June to deliver a coffee. At the time, I’m not sure the recipient realized I’d be travelling over 20km to deliver a coffee bought across the street from where she was, but I happily made the trip.
I don’t think it’s demeaning to say that Scout is a girly place, provided you keep in mind that the women of Scout are more likely to buff their nails with a switchblade than they are to collect and trade Hello Kitty stickers. It’s colourful, flirty, and fun and, as far as guys are concerned, filled with a lot of sighs followed by thinking, “I wish my girlfriend would wear that.” The clothing is very feminine, yet (and I don’t dare say “empowering” or Nicole will knock my teeth in) there is a feeling that the women who wear clothes like these have a better sense of self than most. The clothing isn’t too revealing or inappropriate in any way; it’s just obviously been designed for women to wear. Some of the prints are whimsical, all the colours are bright, and the accessories include: purses, earrings, and tasseled pasties.
Last Friday, I was in the neighbourhood and popped in to harass Nicole for a while. I’d just finished a meeting and didn’t have anything to do until an appointment in Richmond a few hours later. As we chatted, she asked if I was available Sunday to come down and take some pictures. I said it was my nephew’s first birthday party and I probably couldn’t make it. She explained there’d be a group of burlesque performers from the Screaming Chicken Theatrical Society Go Go dancing at the store…
I told her my nephew would be too young to remember how long his uncle stayed at his birthday party and I’d see her on Sunday.
As part of Scout’s Sunday-Funday Sale, the SCTS was down at the store promoting swimwear as well as the upcoming production of Terror at Rock Out Beach: A Burlesque Strip-sical at the Waterfront Theatre on Granville Island.
I learned early on that guys need to stay alert need to stay alert when visiting Scout. Men who aren’t used to dealing with pure “sass” need to take care. Just before 2pm, Melody Mangler crossed 8th Avenue, walking towards the store. You could hear brakes lock up for miles. The two families eating at the diner beside me stopped to watch, mid-meal, the food hanging off their forks. She flashes me a smile and walks into Scout. The little girl at the diner, still in a state of awe, coos: “I love her tattoos.”
Moments later, Nicole asks, “Does this look slutty?” I turn to face her and she’s wearing a little black dress she was born to wear. “Um, no,” I stammer as my brain merely answers, “GUH.” “Maybe after five?” she asks with a smile. She walks back inside and I follow like a moth on a pheromone trail. We stand by the mirror. “You don’t think it’s too tight?” she asks. “Nah, you’ve got curves; use them.” My brain again answers, “GUH.”
As I turn to get some fresh air I notice that Goldie Monroe has taken to the window. I know that clothing retailers often take great pride in window displays that are well put together. Goldie Monroe certainly doesn’t disappoint.
Surf music fills the store, Goldie Monroe dances in the window, Nicole gives a yea or nay to a customer popping in and out of the dressing room, and Melody Mangler has hit Main Street to hand out fliers. Again, I am certain I can hear brakes locking up for miles. She returns about half an hour later, then she and Zachary Wood (also from the SCTS) relieve Goldie and take their turn dancing in the storefront.
Goldie hits the street with Karly Palmer and I tag along.
A blue pick-up truck stops in the middle of Main St. The driver leans his head out the window towards Karly and Goldie. The young woman in the middle of the bench seat glances over and laughs. The passenger on my side has seen me dogging them from across the street and gives me a thumbs up. “Holy Fuck!” he says with a grin. It’s probably safe to say that the young woman between these two has never shopped at Scout but given the chance, she probably will now, having learned that you can make a dog drool or you can make a dog heel. Both is preferable and anything is possible when you’re dressed by the women at Scout.
Hair-brained Year-long Project #18284-F: The dress
Okay.
I have decided I am making a dress (not for me, thx).
I’ve always liked fashion. But I can’t sketch, stitch, cut, or sew.
I am starting from scratch. But with my library card, my passion for ridiculous ideas, and my mom’s sewing machine, I’m giving myself one year, 365 days, to design and make a dress. Why? Why the fuck not?
Repost: “Leave the Gun; Take the Cannoli”: The fun and foibles of live music
This entry was originally posted on the Baron S. Cameron Blog 13/11/2008. I was just giving it a read and thought I’d throw it back out there. BSC.
“Leave the gun; take the cannoli” is possibly the greatest throwaway line ever. Delivered beautifully by Richard S. Castellano, as the affable but deadly Peter Clemenza in The Godfather, I consider it to be one of the best lines in the history of American Cinema. But what does it mean, and, perhaps more importantly, why would I bring it up in an article about live music?
When Paulie, Vito Corleone’s ex-driver, is murdered, Clemenza and his cohorts don’t dwell on it. Paulie is never mentioned again except when Clemenza lets Sonny know that the job is done: “Paulie? You ain’t going to see him no more.” Essentially, the dirty work is behind them; they move on. The gun is the awfulness of the immediate past. The cannoli is the anticipation of a sweet future.
As a medium, live music can be as exciting as it gets. There is a thrill of instant creation, a rush. It may not easily liken itself to skydiving or bungee jumping, but there is still the anxious possibility of a moment of glory and, equally, of a mistake. Luckily for musicians, such mistakes are rarely physically fatal. The death of one’s career, however, is sometimes a very real possibility. Unlike NASCAR though, very few people attend live music shows just to see if someone fucks up; they go to see a performance. And, provided that the mistakes are small enough, people rarely notice them. It is usually the solo burden of the musicians who are often the only ones in the room who know that something has gone awry. They should never be too hard on themselves though. We, the audience, are waiting for the next note, and, perhaps more importantly, we are waiting for the musicians to supply it, which they won’t if they are dwelling on the note that didn’t quite make it.
It is physically impossible to play the same song twice performing live; humans are not exact enough to do it. Even if a song could be perfectly replicated, the live moment originally accompanying it would be gone. The art of creating is fleeting. The effect or result of the moment of creation can be recorded in some fashion (tape, canvas, ink) but the actual moment is gone forever. It is a point in a dynamic process that exists for an instant and is then disappears to whatever realm it was pulled from in the first place. Creation moves forward. Where we were is not as important as where we are going and this is why live music forgives our little mistakes: what’s done is done and rarely remembered as it actually happened. Humans are also pretty lousy recorders of history, especially when our passions are aroused. So unless the DAT’s rolling, don’t sweat it. This of course is not to say that a musician doesn’t need to try on the previous note, only to make it up to us with the next one – we’re talking about small mistakes here, not shoddy musicianship. Also, if you really can’t play, you’re doomed. “They suck” is a pronouncement more difficult to revise than “murderer” or “whore.” Changing a crowd’s mind is simple enough with some practice but getting a crowd out to see a band that “sucks” is nigh on impossible.
But the mistakes can be glorious too. Most scientific discoveries don’t happen with a “Eureka!” but with a “How the hell did that happen?” Take Radiohead’s “Creep” for example: the seemingly out of place guitar crunches before the chorus are, as guitarist, Ed O’Brien, explains, “the sound of Jonny [Greenwood] trying to fuck the song up.” In the final cut, however, it is Jonny Greenwood’s “fuck ups” that end up being the most memorable part of a very memorable song.
So here is wisdom: If you flub a note, don’t sweat it. We’re waiting for the next one. In short, “Leave the gun; take the cannoli.”
Design V. Documentation: “What Is Art?” and my problems with photography
Every society and culture that I am aware of, has garnered my awareness through their desire to be remembered. Those who want to disappear, persons or societies, often do so. But I believe that we can logically assume that most would like to leave some type of legacy or, at least, a dent in the wall somewhere to show they existed.
A classical studies professor I had at UBC once suggested the reason we have the ancient literature we do is because it was popular and mass produced thereby greatly increasing its chances of surviving the ages. Does this mean that our society will be thought of as a society of Dan Brown readers and Justin Bieber fans? Well, truth be told, we are a society of Dan Brown readers and Justin Bieber fans, but we are also much much more. Unfortunately, that “much much more” is rarely as well documented as the other. When was the last time you saw major media outlets spend a week discussing the latest tattoo acquired by the lead cellist in the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra?
So, my contribution to pot is documentation.
I review, promote, provide, and take pictures. But are the pictures art?
A lot of photojournalists have had their pictures declared “art”, won awards, etc… But are photographs always art? No. Where is the line? What is a good picture?
We (well anyone with a Facebook account) know what a bad picture looks like: over exposed, poorly framed, out of focus, poor use of subject… But what about a picture that is perfectly exposed, framed, focused, representing the subject as intended but the subject is a printing press you’re photographing for a technical manual? Is it art?
Another problem very evident in the world of Facebook and MySpace is the word “photographer”. I have owned cameras for over 20 years, but does the mere fact that I take pictures make me a photographer? According to a dictionary, yes. A quick glance through 99% of Facebook albums and the answer is “no”.
So let’s look at these:
Click me; I get bigger.
The Olympic torch bearer running through West Vancouver. I was prepared for him to arrive. I was able to run along side. I like this picture. If my flash had gone off, as I had intended it to, the picture would have been ruined. So… means, opportunity, and dumb luck. Am I a photographer yet?
Click me; I get bigger.
Serena Ryder, arguably the most famous person I have photographed. People see this pic and recognize her, see her. Is it well framed, exposed, focused? This was also the first time I was told by a stage manager that I had three songs to shoot before I had to pack it in. Other people were shooting pictures, flashes popping on their little palm cameras… The stage manager thought I was a professional: Three songs. No flash. Am I a photographer yet?
Click me; I get bigger.
Jeff Myrfield of The Stumbler’s Inn. I love to photograph these guys and have a lot more access to them than most. I like this pic. I was trying to take it. However, it is very dark. Jeff is backlit. To get this shot I needed to ramp up the ISO and got “noise”. I shot this with an f1.8 lens. If I had a lens with a bigger aperature, would this be a better photo? Could I have brought the ISO down and decreased the “noise”? As a non-professional, despite my desire, I can’t afford lenses that won’t eventually pay for themselves. Also, I’m asking a lot of questions about technical aspects of shooting. This time I had a plan, access, but wasn’t entirely sure if I was using my gear to the best of its abilities. Am I a photographer?
Click me; I get bigger.
Walking back from a live show, I stopped to take a picture of an escalator being repaired. As I turned, I saw this. Click. This picture led to this:
Click me; I get bigger.
This picture is an interesting one. It is the first time complete strangers have let me pose them so it is a step, for me personally, towards taking the kind of “people” pictures I’d like to. But this picture is also a big disappointment for me.
I shot it in black and white. I didn’t think to switch my camera back to standard. That graffiti is vivid and amazing. In this picture it is dull.
This picture isn’t in focus. I suck at manual focusing and the autofocus on my 50mm is sometimes worse. Plus, I’d been drinking, which is never conducive to focus… heh.
Here’s the thing. Could I have kept my subjects there while I changed lenses and reset my camera? A fun idea can become an imposition pretty quick sometimes.
Art cannot be dumb luck but dumb luck can contribute to art. Art is talent but cannot be restricted to only trained thought. Art is knowing your tools but not confined by them…
So what happens with a guy who just wants the world to know how cool his friends are and how much fun this city still has? I don’t know if I’m a photographer let alone an artist.
The History of the Hipster
The common mosquito, in its current form, is over 95 million years old. Despite its many eons of bothering the hell out of others and the sad truth that it probably isn’t going to go away any time soon, we still feel the need to complain about it, them. This is not hard to believe of course; they are annoying as hell and generally don’t provide a whole lot in return. Some would argue the same could be said of hipsters. I’m deciding. Granted they haven’t been around for 95 million years. Contemporary hipsters can be traced back a decade or so. But, as I will explain, there have always been hipsters, the parasitic culture gentrifier.
A Time article, written almost a year ago to the day, outlines the modern hipster. Dan Fletcher describes them as “smug, full of contradictions and, ultimately, the dead end of Western civilization.” This may be a bit harsh, but it’s not the first time it has been said.
Herb Caen, a columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle, coined the term “beatnik” in 1958. Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg were not amused. If you read the Beat writers’ work, you’d know they almost always had jobs and worked very hard to play very hard. Kerouac was admitted to Columbia on a football scholarship, a strange crossover for the King of the Beats. They did not create a scene, but drew attention to it. This is the invitation, the opening of the door that beckons to all the hipsters. In a letter to the New York Times Ginsberg wrote, “if the beatniks and not the illuminated Beat poets overrun this country, they will have been created not by Kerouac but by industries of mass communication which continue to brainwash men.” When Ginsberg wrote of “Angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,” I suspect he was referring to those who came before, those who were the scene, not the ones who made it. Even the French Revolution was going along swimmingly until Maximillien Robespierre hijacked the Committee for Public Safety and kind of ruined it for everyone. Hipsters have existed everywhere.
The term “hip” is from the jazz clubs of the 30s and 40s. Before that, the etymology becomes a little hazy. Suffice it to say, to be “hip” meant that you were in the know. To be “in the know” now is not very difficult, especially in the digital age, when music and image are swapped like so many hockey cards. I think what angers a lot of people is that the hipster culture isn’t a culture; it’s a flea market where culture is bought and sold. Fletcher writes, “…instead of creating a culture of their own, hipsters proved content to borrow from trends long past.” Indeed. I once had a 15 year old kid tell me that I was responsible for Kurt Cobain’s death because I “didn’t appreciate him.” I didn’t have a calendar on hand, but simple math revealed that he would have been two years old when we killed Cobain and not even an egg-seeking sperm when “Bleach” was released. That’s probably why I don’t remember seeing him at a show.
You would never go to the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, D.C. dressed as a veteran if you were born in 1987. The Black Label Society had to cancel a show in Manchester because of threats of violence from a local motorcycle club. The club argued that BLS’s use of “rockers” on their jackets was an insult to any 1%er who’d actually earned them.
So is there anything actually wrong with a parasitic subculture intent on the lifelong search for cool? If there is, I blame Henry V. His Saint Crispin’s day speech called out all the “gentlemen in England now abed” and called their “manhoods cheap.” Essentially, if you’re not at the party, if you’re not hip, you suck and should think yourself “accursed.” Maybe that’s a bit of stretch. We are a society of consumers, of course, but cultures are supposed to produce as well. The true danger of a parasitic culture is not what it feeds on but how it feeds.
If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, a sentiment first expressed in the 3rd century BC by some Greek guy, then it doesn’t actually exist except in the abstract. We must see it for it to exist. This would also imply we should look for it. But if our search only extends as far as what someone else has told us is beautiful, the buck stops at the “industries of mass communication” Ginsberg railed against.
Candace Pert was responsible for discovering the opiate receptor in the human brain. In a 1981 interview with OMNI she stated, “Heroin bludgeons the opiate receptors into submission, functionally shrinking them.” In other words, if we keep outsourcing our opiates (she also stated that most drugs have less potent, natural analogs within the human body) our bodies can lose the ability to use our own; if we never leave the house, we become dependent on the deliveryman. This is the danger of the cool-seeker who doesn’t actually look. Hunter S. Thompson takes a similar stab at Leary’s Acid Culture in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, calling them “a generation of permanent cripples, failed seekers, who never understood the essential old-mystic fallacy of the Acid Culture.”
I too am a cool seeker. I too am a hipster in some aspects. But I want to believe that I replace that which I mine from the depths of culture in equal measures. I write about culture and society not to hand down truth from on high but to inspire you to take up the search as well. As Shakespeare wrote in Love’s Labour’s Lost, “Beauty is bought by judgement of the eye, / Not utter’d by base sale of chapmen’s tongues.”
So we continue to swat at the hipsters buzzing around us. They’re not going anywhere though so get used to them. As for yourself, art can be art for art’s sake but cool shouldn’t be cool for its own sake. Cool is the blind faith of the unoriginal. At least that’s what I heard.
Musician Profile: Kalvin Olafson
Kalvin James Richard Olafson was born and raised on a farm just outside of Morden, MB, about two hours south of Winnipeg, but calls Vancouver home as an adult. He plays guitar, but mostly a 1971 Ibanez electric and Ovation acoustic but owns several others. He’s in the Vancouver Based band MINTO.
First instrument was the piano which I gave up unfortunately to play baseball I was 8.
First public performance as an ensemble was a music version of the little mermaid. Solo, was playing a song I wrote in a coffee shop at 15.
First Minto (formerly The Smokes) show was at the media club opening for my first solo album I think or it was at the Astoria in 2003.
Stage fright: not anymore unless I’m playing for family.
Favourite show I have a few… Saskatoon at Lydia’s Pub: we didn’t know what to expect but the place was sold out and we played our entire catalogue three times and repeated three songs it was a blast!
My favourite band right now is Monsters of Folk and Huron/Ian Blurtons happy ending. I can’t stop listening to their albums on repeat.
Favourite live performance in the last year was Fucked Up.
All time favourite bands would be The Band/Rolling Stones/Beatles in that order.
Ten years from now I will be touring the world with Minto working on our 4th album and dating super models.
Ten years from now (probable answer) I will be touring North America with minto working on our third album dating cougars.
Next gig is June 24 at Brixx in Edmonton, followed by The U of C on the 24th (@ 2pm) and Banff at The Devils Gap (@ 8pm) also on the 24th, and the Hi Fi Club in Calgary on the 26th. For more tour info and dates click HERE
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Two Weeks of Vancouver Fun: Femke van Delft, The Pack AD, and Shiloh Lindsey
I wish I could tell you I’ve been really busy but, truth be told, I’ve just been sluffing off, watching TV, and gaining weight. Joy. The last two weeks have actually brought a few things that I should have been writing about so I will do that now.
Thursday before last (June 3rd), I was at the Railway Club for the opening party of Femke van Delft’s exhibit, “The F-Stops Here”. If you couldn’t figure it out from the clever title, it’s a photography exhibit, specifically concert/live shots.
Femke is the first to say hello when I get there. We take a moment to remind each other where we know each other from (standing too close to the Railway Club stage on a few occasions) and she thanks me for coming. Femke works the room, saying hello to anyone and everyone who doesn’t say hello first, with the self-deprecating yet strangely confident air of an artist. Later on, she sits with me (while her salmon burger gets cold), flipping through a portfolio of her work. Her photos require little or no explanation but the little stories behind the photos are great. These are the pictures I want to take. They are not just a case of access; she certainly has an eye for this. Paparazzi in LA get paid for badly framed pictures of Jennifer Aniston buying sandals whereas photogs like Femke don’t get paid for taking amazing shots of not-so-famous people doing what they do best. It is a real shame. That’s why it is so good to see local talent have nights like this. It’s a chance for friends, acquaintances, and strangers to get a first hand look at how good they really are. A friend had gone to see Ricky Powell at the Fortune Sound Club the night before and said he was a drunken, stuck up mess. Femke is by no means sober; this is her party and she enjoys it. Unlike Powell, however, when she gets up to address the crowd, she is funny, welcoming, and above all gracious.
Femke introduces the first musical act for the evening, Alexa Bardach (who also plays guitar for the East Vamps). I have no idea what to expect when the music starts and my first reaction is, “Oh… Okay.” To me it’s not so much music in the “record store section” sense; it’s more of a sound poem or picture. It’s about choices: why this sound with that effect. If you surrender to it, and just let it be what it’s going to be, it washes over you like a warm wave and is nearly trance inducing. I would be very interested to watch (hear) the process of putting this piece together. I assume it might be like my afternoon sessions in my kitchen, playing with tastes in a dress rehearsal, a week or so before the dinner party, finding what does or doesn’t fit together. It’s cool stuff.
I wish that I could stay longer but I must be off. I say goodnight to Femke and give her my congratulations again. We promise each other it won’t be another six months before we see each other again.
Friday (June 4) finds me sucking back cheap cans of PBR at The Biltmore Cabaret waiting for The Pack AD to take the stage. The Biltmore is sold out tonight and slowly begins to fill. For those of you who still haven’t made it out to The Biltmore for a show, for gawd’s sake, go! It’s still dark and downstairs but by no means the cesspool dungeon it used to be. It is a venue with a bar, not a bar with a stage.
The Pack AD start their set around 9:45. They’re awesome, okay? I’ve seen them play a few times and they keep getting better, closer, tighter. I know what you’re thinking but your wrong. The more a band plays is not always a guarantee that they’ll get better. I’ve actually seen bands that get worse the longer they play. I once said before that where most people eat, sleep, and drink, “The Pack AD tour.” It’s true and their stage act has been honed into a well-oiled but thunderous Rock ‘n’ Roll machine. They have a new album out, We Kill Computers, and the new songs are awesome.
Watching these ladies play live is something of a marathon. Maya’s kick drum and snare work alternately as artillery and infantry and get right into your skull. And I’m still trying to imagine how such a large sound (guitar & vocals) manages to erupt from such a slight package as Becky Black. Becky, I’m certain, is the reason sound guys/gals bolt their gear into racks. Every compressor in the room wants to run for cover when Becky leans into the mic and gets ready to let loose. The Pack AD slay and there are no two ways about it.
Again, I have to ditch before The Sadies play. It’s nothing personal of course. If it weren’t for my ongoing battle with North Shore buses, I’d of stayed to catch what I’m assured would be an awesome set.
After a less-than-entertaining downtown footrace, I manage to catch my bus at the last possible stop because a couple of tourists don’t take the driver’s word for it that the fair box doesn’t accept bills. My favourite part of the night? Sprinting, two steps at a time, up the immobile centre escalator at the Granville Skytrain station (yeah, that one) and still missing my freakin’ bus by 30 damned seconds.
The next few days pass uneventfully except for painting a bar one night. Let me tell you: beers, shots, and wood stain make for one hell of a hangover.
Thursday (June 10) and I’m back on Main Street headed to the Anza Club to see Shiloh Lindsey play for her record release party.
Eldorado kicks off the evening with a great set. I’ve missed seeing them by five minutes a few times. Tonight I arrive early enough to make sure I see the whole thing. I’m glad I did. The music is fun. Now, I don’t mean “fun” in the “church groups wearing matching shirts singing Jesus camp songs” fun. I mean put a smile on your face and enjoy your life fun. The bass player is so relaxed he reclines on a stool. That’s what it looks like until I kick myself for not noticing he’s got a broken foot. Yay me. By the end of the set I have convinced myself I’m in love with Angela Fama.
SWANK! takes the stage as The Swank String Band. Kirk Douglas makes his way out from behind the drum kit and joins the rest of the boys of the front line. It’s a loose but energy packed set. Swank are incapable of “phoning in” a set; they’re too good to be bad. But with all the smiling and impromptu banter going on, one soon gets the impression that The Swank String Band are here tonight to have a great time with their friend Shiloh on her big night. If you’re looking for one hell of a party, make sure SWANK! rsvp’s. If you’re looking for the best damn campfire sing-a-long known to human existence, invite The Swank String Band. Also, for the record, Bone Rattle Music is not the place to go to swipe sunglasses if you’re so inclined.
Earlier in the evening, I hear Shiloh discussing “the dress” and whether or not she’s going to wear it tonight. She wears it. It’s a beauty and a throwback to the days when Country & Western music had royalty, unlike the jesters that seem to be holding court these days. Shiloh’s set is the best I’ve heard from her, and that is saying something. Shiloh’s voice has always been able to cut through me and tonight is no exception, but there is a point in “Figurines of Faith” where her voice takes a tone I haven’t heard before. One name jumps to mind: Melanie Safka. Yes, she’s the one who sang that ridiculous “Rollerskates” song, but I’m thinking more of the deep tones of “Candles in the Rain” here.
Up until tonight, I would never heckle Shiloh onstage, but after watching how a rowdy “fan” was wrestled into submission by The Switchblade Sisters (burlesque performers Villainy Loveless and Lola Frost), I’m seriously considering it. Shiloh uses the comedic interlude to change into the more recognizable jeans and western dress shirt. She apologizes that the costume change took longer than expected and explains, “There’s boys in there,” with a nod over the shoulder to the backstage area.
The rest of the set is pure Western romp. James Wood and Graham Myrfield join Shiloh on stage to sing background on “Tired of Drinking” and Chad Taylor lends his trumpet (which any Ennio Morricone fan can tell you most certainly is a western instrument) to add the ghosts to “Head In My Grave”.
The Switchblade Sisters make another appearance and I can’t figure out why, as I look at the rear display on my camera adjusting the settings, my auto-focus servo continually whines as it locks and unlocks, until I look up and see two sets of pasties swirling in front of the stage. I can understand why the camera can’t focus as I seem to have the same problem at the moment. I think I just fell in love again. Sorry Angela.
I hit the road after Shiloh’s set (apologies to Rich Hope). Us West Vancouver boys don’t turn into pumpkins at midnight but our buses sure as shit do. As I walk down Main Street towards the Skytrain station, I ask myself the same question I always ask on this particular and all too familiar walk: Why the hell don’t I just bite the bullet and move out here?
It is certainly food for thought.
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My Country ‘Tis of Thee: In the studio with Shiloh Lindsey
Somewhere in Nanton, AB, a cowboy is without his hat. I know where it is. Well, that is to say, I know who has it. And from what I’ve heard, she more than deserves it.
If you ever visit Nanton, you’ll find the Auditorium Hotel, “The Odd” to the locals. It is filled with stuffed animals (taxidermy, not Care Bears) and old logging and farm tools. It smells dusty along with the combined homey bar smells: spilled beer and cleaning products. Built in 1902, it supplies its patrons with “cozy rooms, [...] home-style meals, and regular live music.” On a Thursday night in 2009, Shiloh Lindsey was the live music. Towards the end of the night, a local cowboy apparently took exception to Lindsey’s urbanized cowboy hat and insisted she take his. The locals were shocked. His daughter could not believe her eyes. From what I understand, the act was analogous to Clint Eastwood handing over his Navy Colt to an up and coming gunslinger.
How do I know this? I asked.
Sitting in Kirk Douglas’ studio, Sound Lounge Productions, I ask Shiloh how her brand of Country Music was received in those places where you still find more cows than concrete. She answers with the story about a hat, its brim worn down in the spot where a real cowboy tipped it with his work-stained hands to countless passing ladies over the years.
It makes perfect sense to me. When Lindsey sings, she sucks you right in. There is an honesty in her songs that is absent from a lot of music today. This is not a deliberate attempt to fight against what Lindsey and Douglas refer to as “the machine,” that place where some music originates where there is “no real honesty.” I say that this isn’t deliberate in the same sense that breathing air into your lungs is deliberate; it just has to happen. Lindsey writes from a place where her music could not exist without its inherent honesty. Honesty is the quantum particle Lindsey’s music is built from.
We break to listen to a track from the new album. “Six 6ft Skids” is a piece of pure Concrete Country. Listening to the song, I am transported back to the night I first stumbled west down East Hastings after ingesting too much of too much. The lyrics relate a humorous story we can all understand even if the chorus, “Six 6ft skids,” is slightly cryptic. I ask Lindsey about the meaning of the chorus (pounded out in gang vocals by some of the local lads) and she smiles. If you didn’t already know, you never would. Suffice it to say, if you’ve ever worked in a liquor store, you’d get it. The song itself, feels a little disjointed after the first chorus, but as it settles on you, everything falls into place, literally. I ask Lindsey and Douglas about this and we start discussing how Shiloh “build[s] a song.”
For Shiloh, song writing is therapeutic and cathartic. It starts with “writing out some stuff,” progresses through the “talking and therapy” stage, and finishes with “a whole box of Kleenex” sitting empty in a corner of the studio. Despite having all the raw emotion of the average 14 year old’s first attempt at Emo poetry, Lindsey’s lyrics and music aren’t weepy or self-pitying. Other than the obvious difference in talent, Lindsey’s writing differs from overwrought, teenage angst partly because she’s not an angst-ridden teenager, but mostly because she doesn’t want you to feel sorry for her. She’s not looking to bring you down; she’s just telling you a story. If she hits a nerve it’s because all of us can place ourselves in her shoes, no matter what size we wear. This is the sign of a true songwriter: someone who pours so much emotion and honesty into a song that the song in turn draws an equal amount from the listener.
Listening to another track on the album, I am struck again by another component of Lindsey’s music: her delivery. I first heard it in “Whiskey and Rum” on her first album. Sometimes, she rambles. A lot of singers pain themselves to enunciate every damn word. When we’re upset or excited, we don’t break off into a pseudo-Shakespearean soliloquy; we ramble. She vocalizes emotion and it adds to your overall experience. All this is also part down of her stripped down approach to recording. “We wanted it raw,” is how she explains the mindset for recording her latest album. When you see her play live, how she could walk into a studio with anything but raw, is a mystery.
The next time Shiloh and I meet, we’re at The Five Point on Main Street. I known her for a few years, seen her live more times than I can count, and sat in with her working in the studio but this is the first time Shiloh and I have ever sat down and just talked about nothing. As the conversation, and beer, progresses, we share stories we’d never have expected.
Far be it for me to ever view Country Music from an existentialist’s point of view but I think I’m about to.
There have been moments in Shiloh’s life that were anything but happy. I won’t get into details as they really aren’t mine to share, but I will say the honesty and emotion in her music now have a genesis as far as I’m concerned. But rather than shy away from the stories of her past, she writes and records them for us. She doesn’t ask for your sympathy but just hands you a note for you to read and pocket.
I brought my camera today to take pictures for this article but don’t. Once you start chatting with Shiloh, you find you don’t really want to do anything else. We take a small tour of the neighbourhood, including a stop at her job, The Brewery Creek Liquor Store, where we restock for our travels. We end up back at her place, where we keep talking about everything and nothing. One of the boys formerly of No Horses is on his way over for rehearsal and I find myself taking pictures of everything, everything but Shiloh. She’s a beautiful young woman but conversation supersedes image until she finds a book of old poetry. It’s that book of old poetry, the one every writer has sitting around somewhere and is always embarrassed to find. She flips it open and starts reading. My shutter finally clicks. No posed picture could ever tell you who Shiloh Lindsey is but when I catch her flipping through a book of old poetry, she is just a human who loves life and words and has this amazing talent to share them with all of us.
The release of Shiloh’s new album, Western Violence and Brief Sensuality, is Thursday, June 10 at the ANZA Club (3 West 8th, Vancouver, BC).
Shiloh Lindsey, James Wood, and The Devil Falls @ Cafe Montmarte, May 20, 2010
The tables don’t match. The chairs don’t match. Three tricycles, a pram, and an old-school banana bike hang from the ceiling. The Cafe Montmarte (4362 Main St. (@28th), Vancouver) is an anti-Starbucks. The absinthe posters covering the one wall are perhaps a tad obvious, but hell, why not eh? I don’t actually eat, not wanting to interfere with the buzz I have going, but they have a full menu starting at $5.95 and topping out at $13.95. Appies, salads, crepes, gourmet pizzas, and a couple of entrees fill the menu (along with deserts, specialty coffees, and two pages of hootch). There is one salad, “La Parisienne”, that I’ve decided I’m coming back for: grilled sweet peppers, lettuce, cucumbers, tomatoes, fresh herbs and cubed mozzarella w/ balsamic vinaigrette. Sounds delish.
The Devil Falls (Chelsea Wakelyn)
Over from Victoria, James Wood introduces her as one of his “favourite song writers.” She is unassuming in her presence but her songs will work you over if you let them. She sings the songs a bird would sing if it wished it could walk like us, while we all dreamt of flying like it. They are beautiful in their search.
James Wood (w/ Murray MacDonald)
It is really good to hear James play again. It is the first time I’ve heard the Hotel Lobbyist’s songs played in their original form. Afterward, Wood asked me what I thought of the raw songs. I couldn’t help but answer, “Weird.” Wood cannot be continually defined as the “friend we almost lost”, but he left a lot back on that Manitoba highway and he’s come a long way to reclaim it. My favourite of all Wood’s songs is a bona fide heart breaker but the intro always gets a laugh. “The Letter Never Written” is, as Wood puts it, “the prettiest song written about suicide.” He quickly adds, “I had to tell my wife not to worry.” It is the prettiest song written about suicide. Wood’s songs are some of the prettiest songs about a lot of things and his accoustic set is not one to be missed.
Okay, there are 1001 things I can say about Shiloh Lindsey; however, I said 1002 things about her in a feature article that I will run in ten days. Suffice it to say, her set (minus a patch cord that was acting up) was nearly as wonderful as the way I feel when she and I share a laugh. She has a new album, Western Violence and Brief Sensuality, coming out on June 10. You can catch her at the album release show that night at The Anza Club.
Wood finishes off the night by reminding everyone that this is hopefully going to be an ongoing thing, once or twice a month. I’ll be sure to keep you posted. He thanks the owners of Cafe Montmarte for the venue to play. Referencing No Fun City, Wood reminds us that too many live venues in this town are closing (an all to familiar refrain) and it is always great to find people with the courage to provide a home for the many talented performers and artists this city has to offer.
Granville Pt. 2: fashion
I’ve always been interested in people’s sense of style. This is just a sampling of the people who walked past in the hour or so I was sitting on Granville. I once heard that if you sit in one spot for long enough, the entire world will pass you by. Really quite boring when you think about it. Heh.
Granville Pt. 1
First thing, I need a new lens; people hunting without a good telephoto can be problematic. Candid shots are always the best shots (for my dime) but when people find out you’re taking their picture one of two things tends to happen: either they pose or they get pissed off. The later creates some good pictures but the resulting mayhem isn’t always fun. Keep in mind, however, that so long as you’re on a public street, The Charter favours my camera over your privacy.
The day starts with a pack of smokes. Jump off the bus in Dundarave to stop into Harry’s. Harry is long gone but Harry’s remains. Any stop in Dundarave means a visit to Jim’s Hardware. It’s got more soul than the Vatican and very likely any weird thing you need but can’t find in that kitchen drawer.
Next stop, Granville.
Granville, as per always, is jumping with people. Let the hunt begin…
File this one under “Things You Don’t See Everyday”
More to follow…
Enough about f*cking Avatar already…
The year I was born, three great things were brought into this world: me, The Godfather, and Atari Pong. Thirty-seven years later, people still watch The Godfather, people still love me, but not a whole lot of people are still playing Pong. Thirty-seven years ago, Pong was the shit, the highmark of videogaming. Today it is an obselete joke, admired only by retro-fanatics and garage sale enthusiasts.
Enter Avatar.
Sigourney Weaver feels that James Cameron didn’t win the Oscar this year because he had a penis. She told a Brazilian publication that, “Jim didn’t have breasts, and I think that was the reason. He should have taken home that Oscar.” I sincerely doubt that such a commanding actress as Weaver would ever suffer from penis envy. Cameron on the other hand sucks and gets the lifeblood for his scripts from others so it is entirely possible that he does have breast envy.
Weaver then goes on to compare Avatar to Ben-Hur: “In the past, Avatar would have won because they loved to hand out awards to big productions, like Ben-Hur. Today it’s fashionable to give the Oscar to a small movie that nobody saw.” Well, it’s 51 years later and people still watch Ben-Hur.
Avatar and its stunning production values are not the future of moviemaking. It is the future of videogaming. Hurt Locker won the Oscar because it is a well-written and well-acted film. Like The Godfather and Ben-Hur, good movies will never go out of style; cool, movies on the other hand, disappear into gimmickry pretty damn quick. The remake of Clash of the Titans and Alice in Wonderland have proved that already, much quicker than I would have anticipated. A bad movie in 3-D is still a bad movie in 3-D.
Dances With Ferngully may have grossed an obscene US$2,712,444,933 compared to Hurt Locker’s pittance of US$42,079,220 but Hurt Locker will stand the test of time. Good stories always do. Speaking of good stories, track down a copy of “Call Me Joe”. If you liked Avatar, I’m certain you’ll love it. It’s a science fiction story by about exploring the surface of Jupiter using remotely controlled artificial life-forms. It focuses on the feelings of the disabled man who operates the artificial body. Sound familiar? Fifty-two years after it was written, people are still reading it. Well, we all know James Cameron has.
Relationship advice
I don’t ACTUALLY freak out
it’s fine until I start thinking and thinking about it
I’m actually insane
Sitting Inn: Band practice Stumblers style
To say that Alec Myrfield is a poet is not too much of a stretch. When he sings, he takes you through his stories with the all-knowing, backwoods voice of a hunting guide who, though he scares you shitless, you trust to bring you home alive. Tonight, I am sitting in, interloping, on one of The Stumblers Inn’s rehearsals. Al composes the beginnings of a song on his accoustic and “then it morphs into its own when it leaves the accoustic and the boys get their filthy mitts on it.” I’ve come to watch and listen to that happen.
The “boys“ are his brothers, Graham (bass/vocals) and Jeff (keyboards), and honourary Myrfield, Chuck Dupuis (drums). Chuck and Graham are starting a fire in the living room when I arrive. Graham’s house is within walking distance of Vancouver General which is a fact I find very comforting. It seems everytime I even think of the Myrfield brothers, I end up fucked three ways from Sunday and staggering down a street somewhere. Graham opens the door, still in his work clothes, a reminder that successful musicians in this city are a rare bird indeed, and welcomes me in with a smile that few can beat. He changes into something less “work” and crashes down on the couch. Looking at his bare arms, I get tattoo envy. I have three from local singer/songwriter, Val Grahams’ gun, and Graham’s arms sport much of her work as well. Graham and Al have more ink between them than the pages of the Oxford English Dictionary, including the word “Stumbler” written across their knuckles. Their arms, like The Stumblers Inn, are storytellers. We head downstairs to the basement when Jeff and Al arrive. Everybody takes their post, and Graham kicks off the night hammering at the piano keys. Jeff starts on the keyboards and Chuck keeps time.
The Stumblers Inn are returning to the studio soon to record their next album so the purpose of tonight’s session is to hammer out the notes and disagreements. I get the impression that a lot of the creative tension in the band resides between Al and Jeff. Jeff is an amazing keyboardist and quite possibly the most talented of the brothers musically. Graham shoots me a wink and a smile before telling Jeff the last take “fucking sucked,” a move designed to get under his brother’s skin. Jeff turns to face his brothers and when he sees Graham’s smirk, he can’t help smiling himself before getting back to business. Jeff wants the song in G, Al pushes for B flat, Graham doesn’t seem to care, and Chuck waits patiently, fully aware that his drums have nothing to do with the discussion.
Al’s raw songs are the starting point from which the band works. As the song moves between them, all The Stumblers add their piece. Jeff’s keyboards are probably what Ray Manzarek would have sounded like if he moonlighted doing the sound effects for 1970s Sci-Fi movies. I had the privalege of sitting in on a jam with Jeff the night before last year’s Green Mountain Music Festival in Nanaimo, and when that boy starts to play, he’s gone. I once described The Stumblers Inn as “Blue Rodeo tied to The Doors, soaked in whiskey and set gloriously ablaze in a marijuana patch.” Jeff’s carnivalesque keys certainly lend a Doors quality to the band, but when the four of them play together, it is pure Stumblers.
It is amazing to watch them work together. The bickering persists, but brothers will be brothers, and in the end it is for the best because all their needling about keys, changes, tempo, and arrangement produces a quality sound. I chime in with my two cents here and there and unwittingly open an old can of worms by bringing up the accordion. I ask Jeff if he can play one and I’m sure I see a slight wince. Uh oh. Al and Graham jump on Jeff with comments about accordions. Jeff fights back claiming that the one accordion they’d ever supplied him with was a piece of crap and completely unplayable. “Accordion-gate” quickly passes with smiles and laughs all around and I decide to keep my mouth shut from that point on.
As the evening moves on, I am reminded just why these musical ruffians are so dear to me. The music is top notch and contains both a darkness and sense of humour that many bands today are either too lazy or too inept to pull off. Graham is one of my favourite bass players in the city even if he does insist on wearing his band’s shirt on stage (heh) and he never seems to mind when I remind him (constantly) that I’m not-so-secretly in “like” with his wife. I’m glad he knows I’m kidding, because his hands are large enough to crush the life out of me with one snap of his fingers. As for hands, I’ve often remarked on how Al holds his guitar. Al is a very big boy, and god help you if you ever demean his kith and kin in his presence, but he holds his guitars with the heart and soul of a poet, even if he gives you a shot in the arm for saying so.
The Stumblers Inn play The ANZA Club (3 West 8th Ave, Vancouver) on Friday, March 5th, 2010. Tickets are $10 in advance and $15 at the door.
You can view their MySpace page HERE.
Did I mention I love mail?
Somewhere in New York, two women are laughing themselves silly. Maybe it’s because of the Valentine’s Day card – “I think the best time to get cards is a week or so after the holiday for which they are intended… It adds an element of surprise… Surprise!” – but I have a sneaking suspicion that it has more to do with the other contents of the package. The drawing, poem, and letter were greatly appreciated but their service to our wonderful city did not go unnoticed. Seems they, like everyone else in the world, have perceived that Vancouver is having a little problem with the “Winter” part of our Winter Olympics. I love mail.
the great letter writing campaign of 2010
Keep your eyes peeled and watch those mailboxes. The Great Letter Writing Campaign of 2010 has begun! I am going to try and write a letter a day to all my friends on my penpalio list for at least a few weeks. Some of you will be getting postcards from Toronto even though I am not longer in Toronto. I had some left over and didn’t feel like wasting them! If you’re not already on my mailing list, you can send me an email to baroncameron@gmail.com with your address and I add you! Snail mail rocks!
The Cheeky Tiki Luau: Mermaids, grass skirts, and drinks with little umbrellas at The Rio Theatre
I was invited to The Rio Theatre for “Cheeky Tiki Luau: Scout Boutique Retro Fashion Show, Tropical Party, and Pop-up Shop”. Taking my shoes off at the beach is about as “tropical” as I get. When I saw on the invite that “Aloha and tropical wear is STRONGLY encouraged, vintage or not just make it island style”, I wasn’t sure what to wear. I ended up choosing my combat shorts; jungle warfare, by definition, is “tropical” and one really wouldn’t want to be wearing a grass skirt when the napalm hits.
I’ve been to a handful of these fashion shows now and they are always a lot of fun. DJ K-Tel was spinning luau tunes in the foyer and the usual suspects were milling about. Slightly less usual was Oceana the Mermaid. Gracing a bench by the entrance, she was convincing enough to think maybe Hans Christian Andersen might not have been a fiction writer.
Oceana the Mermaid and Lydia DeCarllo
The show was hosted by Evil Bastard with the aid of two “Hula Hunnies”, Coco Cinders and Lincoln Electra.
First up on the bill for the evening was Meg A Tron as “Island Girl” with her backup, Fred from Brazil. She opened with a traditional dance that I believe was about a boat and love, though I can’t imagine many Hawaiian songs being about something other than boats and love. Then she broke out the ukulele. I’ve heard her play it a few times and it always makes me smile. Her too. When reviewing the pictures from that night. I couldn’t find one that Meg A Tron wasn’t smiling in.
Next up on the bill was a burlesque performance by Melody Mangler. Melody’s routines are insanely good. She is the consummate Classic burlesque performer. Her costumes are always ornate and her routines filled with grace and seduction. Of course, it never hurts that she is also one of the most charming, personable, and stunningly beautiful women I have had the pleasure of meeting.
It was time for the fashion show. First up – Riot Clothing
And then it was time for Scout Boutique to take the stage.
And last, but certainly NOT least, Melody Mangler Designs.
After the fashion show, Evil Bastard returned to the stage with his ukulele. Playing his own rendition of Israel Kamakawiwo’ole’s version of Judy Garland’s “Over the Rainbow”. It was a sincere and endearing performance. It came across as a lot more vulnerable and honest than many of Evil Bastard’s fans might be used to. He set aside his classic timing and biting humour for a moment and it was worth every note.
The burlesque performances continued after Evil Bastard’s ukulele piece. Ruthe Ordare stepped in at the last moment to fill the spot of one performer who was unable to make it. As per always, her grace and that wonderful wonderful smile make her a joy to watch every time she steps onto the stage. Before the show, I watched her rehearse the piece, the music playing only in her ears. It was spellbinding.
Closing the burlesque for the evening was Voodoo Pixie. Evil Bastard introduced her piece as “strange” but I found it to be magical. The piece was a fun and fluid number that reminded tourists in New Orleans if the dark alley you’re in smells like candle wax, burning herbs, and chicken blood, get out of that alley.
Island Girl and Fred from Brazil closed off the evening with a fun little interactive set of music.
After the show, I made my way up to the balcony to check out the “pop-up”. Local retailers set up tables to ply their wares.
Evil Bastard helps Oceana the Mermaid to the little girls’ room.
As with any night at The Rio Theatre, a great time was had by all in attendance. We all had what Corinne Lea referred to as “a kitchen party” in the lobby while we waited for the screening of “Psycho Beach Party”.
May 25, 2012 | Categories: Art, Fellatio, and Other Heady Subjects, So yeah, I'm into fashion. Sue me., Straight from The Bear's loud mouth (insane ramblings disguised as social commentary), The Loudmouth Bear Reviews (books, music, movies), [re]Discovering Vancouver | Tags: Baron S. Cameron, Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, writing, loudmouth bear, humour, humor, photography, music, art, fashion, burlesque, Scout Boutique, Lydia DeCarllo, Rio Theatre, Melody Mangler, Meg A Tron, Evil Bastard, Voodoo Pixie, Oceana the Mermaid, Ruth Ordare, Riot Clothing, DJ K-Tel | Leave A Comment »