Canada Music Post

The Bus Lament

2012-02-29T11:42:00.003-04:00

There is a bus strike here in Halifax:

I drove a bus down to the end of all things. The bus rattled and rolled down the streets through time and space. It was a shaking world of constant flux that parted ways with reason or sight. It was a place where people let go of them self’s. Here were rift rafts and trend setters alike. Young and old blended together in a cosmopolitan collage of clutter and missteps. The bus rattled on through the dust and dirt and got swallowed into the concrete jungle. I remember the sounds of the birds swirling out around my cap. I remember strange and disfigured animals that lived in the branches of the tall trees. There was a hum in the electricity lines that drew a pattern in the sky. This, I would follow to map out the route through the clutter of culture growing out of control across the landscape. Like a farmer, a kid would be pushing his metal plow across the nonexistent field. Like a businessman, a guy would be hunched over clenching his only possession of meaning with desperation. Like a dancer, a girl held out her hands as if to pull me up on her glorious strange world. Nothing more then an image stapled to the very confines of her brain. The audience gave a standing ovation, and she got her shinny award. Anything is possible within her. All of them shook with the movement of my I’ll fated bus.

Teenagers learned difficult lessons in the bus. They yelled and swore violently out of a sense of desperation and belonging. The pack had to stick together, and to do this they had to act the same throughout their hunting ritual. Any differences in behavior would be looked upon as a tragic betrayal of what it meant to be part of a system. Advertisers looked after their actions. They were supervisors and chaperones to a dance steeped in paperwork and computer models. The revenue was so attractive it was justification to leave all good sense behind. Old people were quite and nice. They shook their heads in shame. The culture was dammed, as the bus rattled on through the jungle.

I remember bad music as the bus turned this way and that through the black. Ghost drifted here and there through the alleyways and dark places. Their eyes glowed in the light streams that floated out from this hunk of rotting steal. Smiling teeth flashed and fluttered badly. Time and space blended together. No talking was the key at this time. Mostly it was the young and men with uniforms of authority that occupied the place. They all looked tired, angry, petrified, drugged, or drunk. It was best not to provoke as all were left with their own thoughts. Bad choruses were occasionally lipped, and a murmured “thank you” was sometimes the only thing that broke the fractured silence. Through the black the bus was swallowed up.

Girls plotting a broken direction headed down into the fire. They wore next to nothing to keep up with the shows that danced through the fog, and immerse themselves in the noise. My bus was mocked as I passed these places. With shame on their faces, they brushed back their pride, and took off into the mist. Time twisted these things greatly. Happiness will come about in the end. My bus pulled away from the curb only to find another soon after down deep through the trees and mountain ranges of this place.

I remember these things fondly now because I no longer drive the bus. The idiots in charge put a stop to it. Privileges are being fought over; the details have been lost within the thick of the concrete jungle. Their conclusion is far from being certain. So, I sit here by the fire and stare out to the stars thinking of better days. Sparks flip through the air and bounce off the current. They twist turn shake and shutter like a bus moving through to the end of all things.

Here are bus songs:

Shuffle Demons - Spadina Bus:

Dan Elson & the Rhythm Pixies - Wheels On The Bus:

Twitter Is What Twitter Does

2012-02-06T09:34:00.000-04:00

Just a bit of fun:

Twitter is a manuscript hater with a big noise, and sharp teeth. Twitter has pointy elbows that are made from steel and plastic. Twitter is a 1980’s wet dream that over extended its self hard and lonely like. Twitter is a grave stone made from conversations and sound bites pushed on by conservative computer geeks with greedy scummy hands and crocked feet. Twitter is a pop culture disaster made by twelve year olds that can’t wait to get laid. Twitter is a bad comb over. Twitter is a toaster that burns every slice. Twitter is warm beer, cheap condiments, rotten potatoes, and Yankee corn. Twitter belongs at the bottom of a digital mountain, and should be forced to claw up to the top by its own merit with nothing but an old toothbrush. Twitter is an expensive suite and tie. Twitter is a kid walking around downtown creeping everyone out. Twitter is an alien trying to keep hidden up in the sky. Twitter is a minivan built to take abuse and ridicule for suburb living yuppies with rugrats spoiled to perfection. Twitter is happy. Twitter is a computer programmer’s sexual fantasy. Twitter has tits and ass that stop traffic. Twitter has legs that go on forever. Twitter is a traffic light built to cause accidents; it works in reverse for the benefit of the hospitals. Twitter is a copout for the lazy.

Twitter is a friend to the friendless. Twitter is a smile suppressing a frown. Twitter is an exercise for the fingers. Twitter gets free advertising wherever it goes. Twitter is a corporate tool. Twitter is in bed with CBC radio. Twitter makes marketing people shit their paints; they line up soup kitchens and mumble about the future. Twitter is a 1990’s “alternative” band’s worst nightmare; they would never have stood for such a thing. Twitter is made from oatmeal and tears. Twitter makes babies cry. Twitter is humor personified. Twitter makes Johannes Gutenberg turn in his grave. Twitter is run by people with tinfoil brains; they live in mansions, and never concern them selves with serious issues. Twitter is a sound bite hell that makes Fox News executive’s foam at the mouth with envy. Twitter is an ant colony gathering twigs and rotten bugs. Twitter is a home made from coal and wood. Twitter is a halter top that diverts attention. Twitter is carpel tunnel syndromes best friend; they hang out together over by the servers and drink nice tall glasses of crushed up keyboard keys. Twitter is a lawyer trying to defend the un-defendable. Twitter is an old man with a speech impediment. Twitter is a god. Twitter gives English teachers hart attacks; all that hard work for nothing. Twitter is sad. Twitter is a happy place for the brain stem and the neck; they celebrate their new found freedom from the rest of the body. Twitter is a farmer with fields to farm. Twitter is a laugh with an abbreviated conclusion. Twitter makes dictionaries and encyclopedias very nervous. Twitter is an old quilt. Twitter is built out of a spider’s web.

I once had an actual conversation. Here are songs about conversations:

The New Pornographers - Sweet Talk, Sweet Talk:

The Weakerthans - None Of The Above:

REM - Pop Song 89:

Halifax Venues Revisited (or, Ghost In The Architecture)

2012-01-26T14:39:00.000-04:00

Halifaxhas suffered some major blows when it comes to its live music scene. For me, memories are funny things indeed, and I am getting older.

Out in thenorth end the old Marquee had an identity crisis, called its self the Paragon forawhile, and then promptly closed its doors. This was the best music venue inthe city by far. A large room that fit a lot of people, had a big stage, and agood sound system. Downstairs (when it was the Marquee) had Hell, and all its wonderfulmusic discoveries. When the Explosion happened every year, the place wasshaking. I saw the Rheostatics four times, Big Sugar, Local Rabbits, The fabulousSadies twice, Fred Eaglesmith, Hawksley Workman, Joel Plaskett, too many opening acts I can notname, and everyone else in between. The entire audience chanting “terrorist immigrants are goannakill us, long live Bruce Willis!” in the middle of that Michael Jackson song, thegirl bursting into tears for a Mid Winters Night Dream, the guy almost pullinghis hair out while watching Travis Good beating the hell out of guitar stringswhile his brother kept the pace. An old Friend yelling "this is a religious experience!”during Down At The khyber. The Dears left me speechless. I was privilegedand humbled to be there to watch the magic reunions of Eric’s Trip, ThreshHermit, and The Inbreds. Oh, what wonderful times. The floor moved and shookunder the uncompromising weight of a place packed past capacity.

Downtownwas a place for smaller affairs. Gingers Pub brought so many great musicalmoments. Someone yelling to Old Man Luedecke “I quit my job!” and he promptly introducedhis clever song with something like “here is a stinker I've been holding onto allnight”. I’d never heard of the guy; I now own all of his records. The Olympic Sympodiumand Amelia Curran stand out tall in my memory. A small venue like that made theplace a home. They brewed their own beer too, and it was beautiful. Dave Bidiniwas nice when I came up to him to buy a book after his solo show there. Asusual, I tripped over my words saying “hockey” somewhere in there, and he said“ahh, Tropic Of Hockey” reaching into the big old box of books. I think I stillowe him a townie; I was short on change. I’m no good with first words. Myfriends and I hiked clear across the city that night under a starry sky. Thebook tucked under my arm. The friends have moved away, but the memories stillsmile.

TheAttic was a strange place. Propped up above one of the worst bars in the city like a beacon. It held treasures once inside; both great and terrible. I saw the Joel PlaskettEmergency a few times when Plaskett was just starting out with the band. Some weird song about hitting a robber overthe head with a bat (probably a cover I should know) everything from the first tworecords, and even some Thresh Hermit thrown in for good measure. “We’ve neverplayed this one live” he declared as the opening notes of “Radio Fly” hit ourears. Operation Infinite Joy achieved its namesake in spades. There was a big misunderstandingin the press before the show. Tielli’s record “Poopy Salesmen” was quite and mellow. So, the story the day before was that Tielliwould come by and do an intimate show for us all. It would be touching, small,and acoustic. They were dead wrong. Tielli and the boys came out hitting, loud,hard, strange, fast, and electric. Some guy yelled “these guys are amazing, they should be huge!”. “I know” Isaid. Awestruck is a word I hardly use except to describe that show. Magic wasin the Attic that night.

Stage9 was a crooked place that suffered a short life. Benefiting from other failuresit housed some great shows. Al Tuck, Luc Duceppe, Hidden Cameras, The Bicycles,The Woodhands oh my. Echoes of the past gone before their time.

Theseplaces are all now just stories. One by one the Halifax Music scene got punched,kicked, and beaten as doors closed under the defeat of mismanagement and changingaudiences of pop culture bombarded kids. Cover bands now rule the few venuesstill breathing. Cheesy delivery, cheep beer, and mainstream unresponsivecardboard cut outs are the way to small-town fame and minor fortune. But, thereare a few places left trying to stay above the tide; and that’s a proper thing.The Carleton is a small place with big aspirations and an always impressiveguest list, and The Seahorse still lives on in the basement providing a voicefor the small guy passing through.

The biggeracts don’t come around much anymore.

The echoesof bands practicing in basements and gig space still fills some streetsproviding hope for a future that is greatly uncertain. Let’s wish them well.

Hereare some ghost in the architecture that rocked:

TheDears - 22 The Death Of All The Romance:

Fred Eaglesmith - 18 Wheels:

Amelia Curran - Scattered and Small:

The Hidden Cameras - She's gone

Crying And Exploding Heads

2012-01-25T15:40:00.000-04:00

This is old but good. been busy; more music related stuff to follow:

Lets cry when our heads explode so we can be millionaires that declare bankruptcy and give a bombastic scare to the economic stability of modern affluence and agility that runs the flamboyant society that surrounds you and me. We will clap our hands quite conservatively at all the conversation made with perpetual hostility as it echoes in the air quite intrusively as we try to live our lives with pompous posterity. Lets smile when the joke is told so we can’t be accused of being left out of the fluxuating mood that moves and mobilizes the merical go round marathon laugh track tango that dances dangerously to avoid the devastation of a child like disease. So we will laugh with hilarity as the joker motions with uncertainty and laughs as his own insecurity shows through with a certain amount of ingenuity. Lets be the fools for all the passing smart people so we can mount a challenge to the stupidity of the ecological redundancy that supersedes all of this misguided ingenuity taking over the relevance of you and me. We will mumble with a certain since of inaudibility trying to create a response to the stupidity of paranoid creditability that always sounds void of sensibility.

A Fable For The Empire Of Fossils (Fractured, Broken, and rather unfinished)

2012-01-20T23:34:00.001-04:00

It may be beneficial to look back at this time. Our friends in the USA are hurting right now, and they may do something silly like put a fool in charge again. They wouldn’t do that again … would they? Anyway, lets look back. What follows here is an unfinished piece of writing I wrote about George W Bush. I meant to conclude it at some point (there are a lot of blanks to fill in) but perhaps it’s appropriate to just leave it as is. I like the part about the hawks:

On a Sunday afternoon at the edge of the universe in a coldbackyard, there are children playing. Laughter and yelling drowns out themature language. Time and the past have no meaning here where they run and playin the tall grasses. They chase bugs, build dirt buildings and castles madefrom garbage. They ware cowboy hats, and pray to god when their toys plungehead on into their imagination, twisting and turning their fragile reality intomany different shapes and sizes.

A beautiful thing to be behold. Children crating a world totheir liking by the inheritance of history’s cruel osmosis process. There areno parents to be seen, they all have given up and moved on to bigger things inthe tropical regions millions of miles away.

Time passed in a cocaine, smoky, alcohol-fossilized haze.Memories are snapshots frozen in ice cubs, drifting in an alcoholic river.

Now there is a simple child sitting in a cold office on theedge of the universe. His hair is gray, his skin is withered, and his face isplastic. He shakes uncontrollably like a leaf caught in an immense updraft.There is no humanity here

The dreams of a child are defended, and an impossible ideais twisted and broken.

His father doles out a whip from his ass made of wovenhistory books and cast it long across the bowels of the earth. He looks at hischild with copasetic eyes and sends a chill along his rubber spine. Togetherwith the living ghost of terror, they find unresponsive emotion across thelandscape.

There are men with guns proclaiming the will of god anddefending the empire of fossils. They are running amuck across the oceans.

They have the blessing of the great birds of pray that scanthe sky for the end of happiness upon the ground. Their eyes are sharp asknives, and they communicate with vibrations and covert whispers. In the sky,these birds swoop and sway in the currents pushed into the air by those in aculture bent on simplicity. They turn words and voices into echoes trapped inthe broken wilderness. Through repetition they twist brains into clay, to bemolded into any shape they chose. Fright, fear, terror, and beauty are on acollision course in a homogenized world. All the flavors of reality mixedtogether in a giant blob of candy, cream, mathematics, engineering, peanutbutter, potatoes, and plastic. Love is a disease clouded by laughter now. Thebirds oversee everything from great heights, conducting the orchestra ofhappiness and joy. It’s a blissful noise that dances from wire to wire acrossthe tattered landscape. Beautiful things happen when smiles are the only thingswe know or remember. In their spare time, they play games with each other inwide-open fields between the green trees. They may be found in the mists of thesea driving vehicles across the melodic waves. No limits confine these birds.They see the world as a massive chessboard of scattered and broken pieces.

It sets the bewildered chess pieces into action. They haveno emotion anymore, for that would be a waste of effort when you face thecowboys of god’s false witness. There may be a commanding voice somewhere inthe cracks in the nonsense that pours out in a torrent from the beaten earth,but drowned out by the thundering synthetic noise that shakes up the fracturedfoundation Cooperate compassion turns us into a wonderful collage of hate andeconomic stability.

Eyes are gouged out of the dead who are scattered about inthe chard desert landscape. In the rubble, they pile up the bodies from theempire of dust, and find tragic humor in its twisted malfunction. Engineeringis a dream personified. Blood is makeup. Camouflage covers up everything in thechaotic wasteland created for the further development of personal utopianbeautification. It takes various shapes molded in plastic and controls the momentumthrough vessels forged into metal. Time is an insignificant inconvenience.There are comforting sounds pulsating through the air, directly into the brainsof the beautiful walking dead.

There may be a commanding voice somewhere in the cracks inthe nonsense that pours out in a torrent from the beaten earth, but drowned outby the thundering synthetic noise that shakes up the fractured foundation.

Opening Lines (or, hey you, READ THIS!)

2012-01-17T21:22:00.000-04:00

I love opening lines. First impressions are like earthquakes. They need to shake you to the core in order to find a permanent place inside your head. Writers have always emphasized the massive importance of the opening lines in their stories. In a world of books by the millions, the art of grabbing a reader from the fist couple of words can take a life time to master.

I’ve had a try at this myself. The best opening lines from this blog are listed here, along with the dates and titles they come from. I have a lot of fun with this kind of thing. Please take a look at my pieces of writing; you may find something you missed before. Come for the dissertation on the world today vs the world as a kid (Keys Of Fire), or ships in the harbor (Ships Ahoy), or my warped view of the early days of the internet (Snow Bank Politics), and stay for my take on Amy Winehouse (Wine In The House):

“Four excuses sit in an alcohol haze with little things dancing in their brains.” To The Demise Of Their Daughters (January 11, 2012)

“A good guitar rift makes you swagger like a drunk.” Sonic Swagger (January 10, 2012)

“A good chorus glues its self to the neuron passages of your brain.” Collaboration Through Repetition (December 29, 2011)

“Your daughters are under attack.” Attack Of The Daughter Snatchers (December 20, 2011)

“This is where we stand in the middle of a complex besieged fortress made out of tin and bone.” Something I Scraped Off The Bottom Of My Shoe (November 28, 2011)

“And then they stood in one place, refusing to move from the positions they choose to stay in.” Snow Bank Politics ( November 20, 2011)

“The sun is a crime today after the playground incident.” The Playground Incident (November 1, 2011)

“Try to feel eyes on your wide-open Mickey Mouse theme park gathering for the TVs.” Theme Park (October 26, 2011)

“Remember the grass, trees, dirt, coffee machines and covert operation planning?” Intoxicating Memory (October 23, 2011)

“I stood on the edge of the bay and watched the monstrosities of industry float in on history's thumb.” Ships Ahoy, A Harbor's Lament (October 20, 2011)

“I have been torn by liability up here where the fools walk in the sky.” Self Parody Rip Off Attempt (October 1, 2011)

“Lets keep it down. There are millions of voices screaming out.” Keys Of Fire (September 29, 2011)

“They propped her up and sent her out into the vertical world with a microphone.” Wine In The House (September 26, 2011)

Also, songs with great opening lines are always fun. Here are some of my favorites:

The Inbreds - North Window. “I wish my heart were harder to save me from all your sticks and stones”:

At The Airport - Old Man Luedecke. “The static of our phone calls comes crumbling down like brick walls, and you're so beautiful I can barely see you”:

The Weakerthans - Left and Leaving. “My city's still breathing (but barely it's true) through buildings gone missing like teeth”:

Serious Things (or, Where Are The Angry Young Ones?)

2012-01-16T00:04:00.004-04:00

Songs about society, news, and culture don’t get much airplay. There is very little feel good content here, and the audience is not used to it. The machine that pushes music upon us has no money and no time for such songs. Seriousness in music seems to have been pushed to the margins, forced to corners of the internet, only played in secrete by people with headphones sitting in front of the computer. Canadian musicians are not much help. They mostly gave up on writing and singing about this kind of thing long ago. What a sad defeat.

Echoes from the 1960’s, 1970’s, and 1980’s remind us of what could be. The blending together of strong voices created an art that aimed to change minds, to move people, to bind listeners with a common sense of purpose. On top of that, many of the songs were hits. Played on every radio station, and sat on the top of every chart. This is very telling indeed. Songs that have endured and will be celebrated centuries from now. These were not songs about trivial subjects; they issued a direct challenge to the listener. “There's something happening here, what it is ain't exactly clear, gotta get down to it, soldiers are gunning us down, if I had a rocket launcher, Some son of a bitch would die.”

No longer is this challenge issued. The contract with the listener has been thrown into the sonic sewer with the bad radio signals by all those strange people who run the official show. They echo off the remains of your brain. I can only assume the artist in this country are happy with the current government, the current state of the environment, the current state of the support of art, the current state of our foreign policy. Our current state of health. All is right in the world. I feel happy with everything, and so should you.

Lucky, I spent some time on the margins, forced to corners of the internet, I sat in front of my computer with a headset. Here is some of what I found:

Wax Mannequin - End of Me:

Sarah Harmer - Escarpment Blues:

FemBots - Good Days:

Rheostatics - Bad Time To Be Poor:

To The Demise Of Their Daughters... (or, Money Not Morals)

2012-01-11T10:06:00.000-04:00

Four excuses sit in an alcohol haze with little things dancing in their brains. Time runs fast as they raise their glasses to the demise of their daughters. It was a good way to the bank through the skin of the young, and drastic times call for measures undefined. Grotesque manuscripts wield us into a divided frenzy, as creativity gets beat to hell along with our children's dreams. This is the cold age, and the tycoons of the past struggle hard to transform us into utter stupidity. I think it has been a successful capitalist campaign so far. I turn my radio on to commercial pursuits and it melts away, I turn my television on and it burns heavy through the tube, I pick up a magazine, and it implodes into a firry inferno of bad communication. The excuses live in their high places outside of reality over by the vending machines, bad coffee, broken records, tattered guilty dreams, and titanium lies. Love is no longer a hit list reality within their convoluted brains.

And then …

Jamie, Lionel, Richard, and Billy Ray embrace in a cosmopolitan mess. Their guts start to melt together as lights emerge from their tugs, which intertwirl. Rocks began to swearurl into the air, and the alcohol spews up a geyser impossibly high above the United States.

The paparazzi look into the air with massive smiles across their cardboard heads. They simultaneously shit their paints, and run out into the scene. Dust covers the land, vultures move in, and eagles come close. It stinks of their children's corpses. The paparazzi lick their lips in anticipation. They hear moaning, squeaking, roars of masculinity, and a babble of advertisements somewhere in the dust. And then out comes an incomprehensible blob with arms sticking out in different directions. Green tentacles twist and bend methodically. Legs have been fused together into one propelling the creature into the same direction.

Out from the moth of the horrible beast came the mangled corpses of Britney, Nicole, Paris, and Miley. The paparazzi move in to poke them with pointy sticks trying to make it look like they are still alive. Their illusion is complete.

Sonic Swagger

2012-01-10T16:38:00.000-04:00

A good guitar rift makes you swagger like a drunk. Or something along those lines; I don’t quite remember. It’s got to have style and originality. Let’s face it; the guitar has been around for a long time, so to find something different to do with it is probably quite difficult sometimes. A good guitar rift makes you stumble and stop for a moment. In mid conversation you many fid it hard to form the next words out; so they stay in and listen. Mixed with all of those other instruments, there is nothing to stop it. Here are some fun guitar rifts. Watch your step:

The New Pornographers - Moves:

The Sadies - Flash:

Bruce Cockburn Live - Call It Democracy:

In The Day (Or, I watched some of New Year's Rockin' Eve)

2012-01-03T21:35:00.000-04:00

Back in the day we would not have tolerated this kind of behavior. We would have taken to the streets, smashed the radios, kicked our Airwalk's through the TV screens, and thrashed our long glorious locks all around. Our plaid shirts would have cloaked out the nonsense. Our air guitar would have drowned out all the bad sounds.

Back in the day we would have turned up the volume, and turned down the noise. Oh yes, we would have done such wonderful things. Our soundtrack would accompany our actions at all times. It was our guide through time and space. It fed our ideas, and drove our passion. There was no limit to life; there was no life span to the limit.

Back in the day we would have thrown our support behind the things that made us reckless and beautifully fierce. Alas, in this day we have grown cold in our conspired unity. We are scattered and divided. Our Airwalk's long rotted in landfills, our locks receded, our hands riddled with paralysis from air guitar madness, our plaid shirts cloth the third world. Our sounds digitized, but not forgotten.

Back in the day we would not have tolerated this kind of behavior. Back in the day better music prevailed:

Sloan - Underwhelmed:

The Hardship Post - Watchin' You:

Buffalo Tom - Tree House:

Thrush Hermit - On The Sneak:

Matthew Sweet - Sick of Myself:

Collaboration Through Repetition (or, All Together Now!)

2011-12-29T12:32:00.003-04:00

A good chorus glues its self to theneuron passages of your brain. Its repetitive behaviour tolerated in meaningfulbliss. The rhythm is played out over and over again, sometimes in differenttones. Sometimes the words aren't quite there, so others crowd in forreplacement. Sometimes the emphasis is wrong. These things do not matter much.Emotion is a strange and unpredictable mistress that always has a monopoly onus, and a good chorus manipulates this greatly. Life experience draws the wordsout, but none of this business is easy. Song writers may spend decades tryingto perfect the art of chorus creating, agonizing over every word and syllable;it may drive them mad. Others come easily, when walking down the street,sitting in traffic, or staring at the movement of the ocean.

Here are some songs with greatchoruses from Canadian songwriters. The poor basterds went through this oftenagonizing process to bring you their best, so the least we can do is enjoy thework.

Neil Young has brought us many goodchoruses over the decades, but this one takes the prize for me. Perhaps thegreatest chorus ever penned. There are very few other lyrics to the tune inbetween, which make the long drawn out verse chorus all that more special.Small town Ontario never sounded so beautiful: "Blue, blue windows behind the stars, Yellow moon on the rise, Bigbirds flying across the sky, Throwing shadows on our eyes. Leave us, Helpless,helpless, helpless"

An amusing video from Luke Doucet whonever seems to disappoint when it comes to lyrics. The chorus is no exception.This one features a nifty background vocal that makes the song much moreunique: "It's not the liquor I miss, But the days are so long (little redwagon's got a new jet engine, little red wagon's got a broken wheel) solong."

Nothing more to say here. One of thebest. To pen this would have been magic. It's true, we never know what we'vegot: "Don't it always seem to go, That you don't know what you've got tilit's gone, They paved paradise and put up a parking lot"

The New Pornographers have always hadthe talent to write good hooks, and a fine chorus. Here we find them withsomething simple but extremely effective. Sometimes a little repetition is allyou need. What’s love indeed: "What's love? What's love? What's love? Whatwhat turns up in the dark?"

Good luck trying to pry these wordsfrom your neurons.

Attack Of The Daughter Snatchers (or, Better Influences)

2011-12-20T18:59:00.003-04:00

Your daughters are under attack. 2011 was no help at all to combat this,and therefore should be scrapped all together. Let’s move on from here with aclear goal to insure they have something better to look forward to. All thosebad influences be dammed I say. Lindsey Lohan’s cry for help in the pages of adead magazine, Britney Spears doing impossibly stupid things, Lady Gaga tryingfar too hard to be different, Nicki Minaj pretending to be a musician, Katy Perry teaching everyone how to be a drunken party animal, the sadblatant exploitation of Will Smith’s daughter. The auto tune’s best friends.It’s all madness. Your daughter is soaking it all in, and your letting her.These people and the machine around them are taking your money, and drinkingand snorting up the profits. Amy Winehousecan't tell us she is sorry now; but if she was here, I bet she would. Let’sstrive for something better shall we? Better role models for music loving youthmakes for better youth. Because, they aren’t going to mimic you.

From the time we crawled out of the swamp and began hitting stuff andmumbling a tune, our youth have been influenced by music and the people who makeit. Their effects are profound. Their fashion, look, and attitude are mimickedon mass. Their influence may bring us down a different path, or expose us tonew and exciting things. I hopped on a plane a few years ago, and traveled partway across the country to see the last show of my favorite band. I didn't thinkI could at the time, but no regrets have come from it, my life was changed forthe better, and I'm very glad I went.

Your daughters are perfect sponges. They are easy targets. So muchfashion, so much pop culture outlets, and so much disposable income. Where arethe good influences? The ones that will give your daughters a positive outlookon life? No drunk, drug ridden, foul mouthed, partly clothed, train wreck, exploited,desperate, auto tune dependent cry for help cases anymore. How about creative,stable, nice, intelligent, fully clothed, pure talent influences form now on? That mightmean a better path to follow.

I've got some suggestions. However, it’s a shame this whole article isfor naught. The machine that is in place to influence the actions of yourdaughters is big and powerful. It’s almost impossible to go up against.Commercial radio, Vevo, Twitter, Facebook, The new sad Muchmusic, and even dinosaurslike magazines all have their assaults locked down tight. They form a wall ofpop culture and garbage; nothing seems to break through very often. All I cando is try.

Here are somestrong female influences from this country your daughters should be hearing:

Kathleen Edwards - Change The Sheets:

Jenn Grant - Getcha Good:

Jill Barber - Hard Line:

Basia Bulat - Gold Rush:

Feist - Caught a Long Wind:

Sarah Slean - The Cosmic Ballet:

Let’s combat this thing together. 2012 is just around the corner, and Iwould hope we can all evolve a little more from now until then.

The Tree And The River

2011-12-11T17:38:00.001-04:00

I made this.

The Fire from the Rheostatics record Night Of The Shooting Stars. 2001. Not much is heard from the later years of the Rheos, but here is a gem buried in their Night Of The Shooting Stars record on track 8. They opened with this tune when they came through Halifax on the tour, and everyone went silent. I have never seen a band command a crowd's attention like that right off the bat, and probably never will again … not like that anyway. Ok, lets not speak of this band again :) Some shots around the house, and the province:

Something I Scraped Off The Bottom Of My Shoe

2011-11-28T08:38:00.001-04:00

This is where we stand in the middle of a complex besieged fortress made out of tin and bone. The place is flooded with sound drowning out complexities of an over simplified attempt to listen. On the ground we stumble through the rock and plastic incoherently expressing our love for beauty and grotesque loan sharks that prowl the high seas. Look out! Here comes one now with his bug eyes and oblique smile. He looks like god wasted on cocaine and culture. Run! Hide in the coral reefs that grow out of the dumpsters. It’s where the philosophers and the relics are. We can hide out there until our courage comes back, or when we can finally breathe under water: which ever comes first. We are far better then the biodegradable flirtation devices that pass us loudly proclaiming their allegiance to the industrial waste that contaminates this place. They’ve got teeth and they can smell our insight from millions of miles away.

As for a music pick of the day, I give you lucky Mr. David Myles:

Snow Bank Politics (or, The Technological Spider)

2011-11-20T12:02:00.001-04:00

A piece of writing that went titlelesswhen it was published a million years ago for a universitypublication. It was edited by professionals. Originally written as anintroduction for a website as a kind of over the top description of theinternet it's self (er, sort of). A hodgepodge of everything everyone expels;that's the internet for you. No matter how much it evolves (this waswritten near the beginning of the internet remember) the internetreally hasn't changed all that much. I liked this piece back in theday, and I still like it now:

And then they stood in one place,refusing to move from the positions they choose to stay in. The callwent out for change and all people looked to the sky in a sober way.What they saw made them shake with tremendous waves of fear as thebirds turned to stone and fell to the ground. Because it is rude tostare, the sky suddenly became embarrassed and turned red. The carstook the place of the birds, and after reassuring the old men, tookto the sky, turning fluorescent colours, kicking out the drivers,flying like flies towards the sun. The lions looked up from theground and began to run across the wide-open plains, panting andsweating, making trails for the chipmunks to follow. They ran to theedge of the water and floated out into the sea where the fish rot andstart to stink, and lay belly up.

The children came out from their cagesand just as they entered the light their heads split open. Thewitnesses near by stopped in amazement. They later reported that allthe endangered and extinct animals flew out of the children's heads.They took to the sky, the water, and the air, speaking in all kindsof different languages. This created a collage of sound that filledthe air all around the world. So the rats saw this and prepared forthe disaster, they bared themselves underground to shield themselvesfrom the body parts that flew through the air and travelled in thewind across the shattered landscape. Someone out in the middle of thesnow bank heard the commotion and put a hand up in stark protest.

All the people changed their minds andlooked out over the ocean, while the remains of the children whotried to run away and were gripped by the rocks and pulled down intothe earth with the worms and the ants. So the people, not knowingthis, watched closely (some even put their ears down close to thewater) the water, looking for some kind of sign from the animals who,by that time ripped up the ground when they started to invade thecities. With incredible strength, they gripped the buildings withtheir huge hands and tore them from their places, heaving them acrossthe sky towards the mountains. Each one plunged into the melting rockthat was created when the serpents dug deep caves into the mountainsin an attempt to catch them as they started to break down. When theydid this, all the human material flew up into the air, colliding withthe cars. They came down with a crash and changed into raindrops, andall the hippies smiled and took another puff. They knew what wasgoing to happen. By this time (about 5:00) movie posters andchesterfields came falling to the ground so the cats could have aplace to sleep. The person on the snow bank then raised his handswhich turned into birds. They departed from his arms and took to thetrees which grew ferociously from the newly made ground. This causedthe insects to run along the forest floor searching for thereassuring old men who by that time were staring at the sky withinfinite wonder. They swore that their reflections lingered in thesmog that filled the air. At that moment all the people fell asleep,dreaming of better days. The fish came alive and wandered up theshoreline of every coast knowing that the people were gone.

The other animals such as the horsesand the muskrats went to say "hi" to their neighbours andthey all smiled and laughed, turning their eyes towards the man faroff in the distance (he's on a snow bank) who had his finger to hismouth. He was making a "shhhhhhhh" noise. Not knowing whatthis meant, all the animals (even the lions who were bored of thewater) began to charge that annoying man. They made a terrible,defining rumble that filled the earth, killing all the endangered andextinct animals, and the trees.

The old men suddenly realized thestrange visions depicted in this story contain a moral. You see, asall the animals charged, the ground behind the man on the snow beganto pry up and scream out a piercing yelp that shattered the clouds.They blew apart in the winds. From the ground came a giant spiderthat was sleeping. It looked like every thought and every emotion.The animals turned to stone and crumbled into a billion pieces. Thepeople stood paranoid and petrified of what they faced. The uglyspider gargled, spat, farted, and let out a huge, massive web thatcovered the entire world. It covered over everything. As all thepeople struggled to rip free, it tightened around them, and then theyall started relax. All of them were stuck in the fray of the web . .. So the man that was on the snow bank looked up to the sky, sighed,and decided he'd better make the best of it.

34 (Soundtrack For A Birthday)

2011-11-16T15:54:00.001-04:00

34. Holly molly where does time go? It never crawls does it? It is a race car speeding down the tracks ripping up the numbers long and fast. Know one can make it go back, no matter how hard they might try. Some are misguided by a tragic sense of entitlement. See the famous folks with money to burn spend it all on plastic shielding, make-up, and toys. None of it works in the end. It is how you find happiness that will bring you through. That is all you got. Here I am finding more with life. A home, good friends, a love, a son. This is the place to be let me tell you. As for the soundtrack, I offer you only the best on this day...

The first is from the greatest record ever conceived by any musician in this country. It is Kind Of The Past. A fitting song for ones birthday I think. It is about a flat land of beauty, about loss, about being small amongst all the big things going on. Small is better; when you understand this you tend to get it. It is also about history and a country so big. Brilliance drives this tune from beginning to end. When those strings hit at 3:16 with the perfectly executed guitar, I always get a tingle and a tear. This is high end stuff, only reserved for the most appropriate times. People often ask why I bother listing to this band. This would be a good answer for them. What a stunning song:

I live in Halifax. It is a good town with many good folks. Sure, it has its issues. Bad problems with the health care system, a dinosaur city council that is afraid of change, a tragic history of environmental neglect (see below). But there you have it; you can't have everything going your way all the time. Here is a tune that takes a lighter view of the city. A date by the lake. Time going nice and slow on the sweet day. Jenn Grant makes everything better with this mellow song which stands on her immense talent. It is from one of my favorite records. I never get tired hearing Orchestra For The Moon. An epic record that continues to shake the foundations of Canadian music:

34. What a time. I hope to have more. I hope you do too. Numbers fly out and about. Keep looking all around, keep moving forward. Keep listing.

… Oh, here is a bonus birthdaysong from Danny Michel. It’s from a live performance on the CBC. Just for fun.It starts at 1:18. He’s right you know:

Two Songs Occupying My Brain

2011-11-10T10:48:00.001-04:00

The brain cells are rattling around a few tunes these days. Things trigger thoughts and chemistry drives it all out. Sonic refreshments for the soul. These songs put time on hold, where it often belongs. You’ve got to tell it where to go sometimes. Here they are all broken and sorted out into little packages. In the meeting tapping a finger to the beat, or replacing a conversation with thoughts. Granted, you may get into some trouble doing these things. "Sorry, what was that you said" is greeted by an unconstituted scowl. But, the songs still march on. You may change the lyrics. You may not know the rhythm. But, these things never matter. It’s a tune stuck in the deep reassesses of who you are.

For me these days, Royal Wood gets the nod. "On Top Of Your Love" is a sprawling rock anthem that sets up camp inside your face, pulls at your ears, and garbs your chest hard. It cuts in quick with an opening line "You scare me half to death, But you bring on my best". It reminds me of an ocean. Always shifting in every direction, never boring and predictable, always bubbling up, and violently crashing into the shores of the Earth. A man trying to live for the beauty of a woman brings us a tune that stands on the shoulders of time.

The other for me is like a smooth surface. A silk desert of verbal bliss at a perfect pace. Blackie And The Rodeo Kings's "Black Sheep" breaths and shifts between time and space. The words wonder out into the wilderness, through the stench of the city, over the jungles, and through the sea. They transcend the new world of electronic cosmopolitan trash that seems to do its best to pry open our ugliness. This kind of thing is unnecessary; I think the King's know this well. Linden's guitar melts your brain, and Fearing and Ryder harmonize the very essence of your heart. The chorus breaks you hard. You can not resist singing these terrifically, terrifying, beautiful words. "I'm looking for love".

Nothing To See Here

2011-11-08T15:56:00.000-04:00

I made this.

So, The US government saysthey have no knowledge of Aliens. Click here for the story.

Regarding this subject,here is Souvenir from Danny Michel's record Welcome Home. 2007. if Aliens areup there sometimes you just feel like inviting them to take you away; TV andsociety fuels this invitation. Nice little tune from a fantastic songwriter:

The Playground Incident

2011-11-01T14:54:00.002-03:00

Written shortly after September 11, 2001:

The sun is a crime today after the playground incident. We are the fools that get ferociously mad when the ball is pitched and the batter misses in anger. There is too much of that. Look! An airplane and a skyscraper!! I’m just an ordinary target with a love for the smile, don’t mind me if I stare at you in the dark. Just look up and keep an eye on the sky for the next metaphorical school yard bell that calls us all to attention. Lets all run towards the entrance in anticipation of the sop opera plot thought up by old people with a vendetta against history. Gathering and hunting has now become a fashionable exercise in the frontier where cowboys show us that Africa was not a complete disaster. Lets do it again and see if we were all paying attention to the nonsense. Remember the lesions learned by Charlie Brown as he sought advice and guidance from his most brilliant teachers. And always remember the sound effects written out in comic book bubbles representing the real thing. Never forget the real things like reading between the lines and not the words directly from the page. Look up to the sky when words are spoken in anger by politicians that have no choice but to sound like idiots because we create the atmosphere that keeps the smart people from coming out from under the table that is in the field behind the box factory manufacturing production units that clash with the intelligence and complexity of the blue bouncing ball that bounces around the fire. But who’s paying attention to all that when the morons are kept at such high regard here in this party crazed fun house packed with life. Me? I lost all interest in the allegorically denied paranoia that supersedes the relevance of this catastrophic conundrum. I guess I’m just silly that way sometimes. Much like a clown or a politician. One in the same, but torn by the environment. Anyway, if you happen to see the man with the brutal plan for the future of this cosmic conundrum, please kick him in the head for the rest of us. Perhaps he will then see the error in his ways, and ring the schoolyard bell to call his minions back across the desert, through the water, and over the mountains away from the animals that will soon be left to take over the technological world of false wonder. Cows farming the fields, birds piloting airplanes, roosters manufacturing alarm clocks, fish operating submarines, and moles digging our graves. What a beautiful road to follow. I can hardly wait for the party at the end when the guns are fired and the missiles sore across the air. No doubt I’ll be there watching the show eating peanut butter, carrots and drinking a tall glass of pink lemonade with a happy smile on my face. Keep up the good work!

Theme Park

2011-10-26T16:17:00.001-03:00

Something old on something new ...

Try to feel eyes on your wide-open Mickey Mouse theme park gathering for the TVs. On mars they train the lovers to bring peace backed by religion and angry morphed versions of storybooks and sugar candies. Look into the eyes of the liar and get the truth that brings us forward through existence. The bugs will conduct the orchestra from now on, and so the cars will berry themselves underground with the flashlights and the conspiracies. I think Goofy will take charge of the consumer products, and the stripers will be our accountants. They know everything. Hide behind magazine racks and marriage when you’re angry at the grass. Go to sleep when your playing bored games, and don’t forget to cough. I think money makes sense when we drown in the queen’s backyard. I live in Canada where the flags are burning and the heads explode. Maybe they just don’t feel like smoking and killing people with pleasure. You are far away on an island with Ralph and the boys, playing with twiddle winks down by my backyard, over by the snakes and vending machines. It’s a wonderful sediment that we are part of. The horses are angry at the carpet because the vacuum cleaners piss them off, and so do the cars. I believe in solders that determine the outcome before we get a chance to protest madness. Let’s kiss and get into our discussions before we get old and silent. I have no chance to make this my last words. If the baseball players got together and traveled to the moon, disease and sickness would travel to Africa and settle down a start a family. I think the giraffes are lucky the dinosaurs are dead because they would have competition for the leaves that grow on the higher branches.

So instead of sitting around and watching movies about things that are so far removed from your life, the prospects of puppy love, killing bugs, and destroying your TV is more appealing to you. This world is full of bands and music lovers that we need earmuffs just to get though the different sounds that destroy our eardrums. When we grow up the sounds get worst and more annoying, this is upsetting to the producers and the guys who sell chocolate bars at the supermarket. We need closure on the minim amount of insults we reserve on a daily bases and we also need better movies if we are to move ahead through the next phase. We can swim to the end of the world and be really tired if you want, or we could go down to New York and taunt the police and the drug dealers and the hookers. We will call them all kinds of names until they chase us to France where we can kiss the Eiffel tower so we wont look strange. Or maybe we can stare at each other and then go our separate ways instead of going out together and getting ice cream. Then we could go off to the movies and take off into different worlds together rather then doing it alone. Yeah, that would be the best, but now it just makes no sense so I’ll just watch you by the pool in a blurry haze. Did you know that the world was full of a bunch of mingled lawmakers and fake scenery? The armadillos have my vote; they can beat up anyone or hide into a ball until their enemy goes away. If we did that we would get beat up and that would be very bad. The site of your blood is far more important than someone else’s. It’s all scarier. All this commotion is nerve racking. I think I will hit myself until someone pats me on the shoulder and tells me young mc has a new album out. That would mean I would be complaining that my chest hurts for days, or forever.

Intoxicating Memory (or, Bad Intelligence)

2011-10-23T20:52:00.003-03:00

Remember the grass, trees, dirt, coffee machines and covert operation planning? I think boots and superheros were the most important things, as were cars and paper penmanship pens and popularity. I seem to recall stupidity was high on the order of things to the chagrin of the two denominational paper cut out noise makers. They had wooden staffs with numbers and lines. They held them up like fictional historical characters from holly books, and conducted the parts played within the pages of a verbal history. Remember snow suits and suitcases triggering a travel time situated in a global conspiracy?

Name Play

2011-10-22T10:36:00.001-03:00

I made this.

Tuck My Blues Away from the Al Tuck's record Food for the Moon. 2009. This is a fine tune from the veteran Canadian songwriter that everyone should know.

Shots from the harbor, the old red barn at the old farm house, an old homemade Foosball table, the shores of Cape Breton, and other things for good measure come together here for a song from a favorite records from the last few years:

Ships Ahoy, A Harbor's Lament

2011-10-20T12:43:00.001-03:00

A new Ship Building contract for this part of the worldwas signed yesterday with the government of Canada. They are going to build 21shinny new war ships here in the city of Halifax. Irving gets more money, andsome folks will get a new job. It’s a nice thing for this area. The governmentof Canada has thrown a lot of abuse and insults at this part of the country foryears because of the way we vote. Politics at its best indeed. Defeatistattitude memories revoked for now. The little guy be dammed. This is a citythat was built on the backs of men and women with hard helmets, fishing boats,suits, skinny ties, guns, and guitars. Halifax is also a city sitting on amassive harbor. On the waters edge I often look out at all the boats and thinkabout the strange, crazy, bizarre, busy world out there. Stuff is brought here fromevery unique corner of the world on the decks of hulking monsters. Their hornsshake the city’s downtown. The goods and services of a global economy gone mad.It’s also a sad harbor polluted by everything expelled. Regurgitated andliquefied. One day I wrote the following piece about the very harbor that willgive birth to a shiny new Canadian Navy someday soon. The busy world keepsoccupied, the monsters keep coming, and the people keep building:

I stood on the edge of the bay and watched the monstrosities of industry float in on history's thumb. Twisted scientific experiments walking on the thin surface of God's mirror, shouting out a blasphemous sermon. I saw others around me clap their blood soaked hands and chant their musical chorus. As the hulking reincarnation of natures past approached, my eyes focused on the water below. Down in the depths of the sky's saliva there were expelled extremities from civilizations historical shame. The current seemed frustrated and reckless as if to suggest that it has been deceived. Agreements had been spat upon here, and words have been meaningless. The water breathed out recycled livestock mashed up in a chunky soup mix for the creatures of a liquid world ancient time forgot. An insult swept aside by necessity and short cited greed.

As the pliers of the easy life floated by my eyes, a sudden flash of pain and unfairness shocked my cells. Up in the rusted metal door of imagination, there were children on a cold floor weaving garments for clowns that were eating burgers, communicating through electrified air pockets, dancing in their running shoes, embracing dreams covered in plastic. They sang fossilized music and bellowed hardy laughter. Down in the damp basement of damnation, there were grownups on a warm carpet mashing money for the cats who were rolling around in their own filth with the pigs, speaking in tongue, while the plastic army men cut up bodies and tossed them into a boiling melting pot all in the name of love and perfection.

The road to stupidity floats across this reflective complex simplicity. I shook my clouded hands as the recycled pliers of the earth crept by. I hang my head with gilt and walk back up the ancient hill. There was grass peaking through the aching rocks.

A Song For The Times

2011-10-18T16:25:00.001-03:00

I made this.

Woe Betide The Doer Of The Deed from Old Man Luedecke. A song for the times from the Nova Scotia based banjo picking singer songwriter. It’s from his record My Hands Are On Fire. 2011. A fine track from the brilliant songwriter. Random shots from random walkabouts about town, with a few odds and ends thrown in.

"The gravy train has thinned out in the rain of wall street washing down the drain …"

The O'Leary Downgrade - A Letter To The CBC

2011-10-17T14:52:00.002-03:00

So, I've never written to complain about something on the CBC before, but today I wrote this, and sent it to them. The whole sad interview in question is also posted below:

Hello CBC,

I know you want to attract viewers, I know your on a dwindling budget, I know times are tough. We all feel it. But I don't understand your apparent desire to compromise your integrity by replacing your content with unintelligent stupidity. I don't want to be stupid CBC. I want to learn things. I want people to have smart discussions about smart things. It makes me feel better about things, it makes life more fulfilling, it helps my infant son as he makes his way through the world. It helps my country and the world become a better place.

CBC, I don't want bad YouTube videos on my news, I don't want a National “newscast” that mainly focuses on a Bollywood awards show for the vast majority of the hour; that one was the most terrible and sad newscast I have ever seen. I've got news for you CBC, there is no such thing as a slow news day. There are 7 continents in the world, and 196 countries. This means that every day is a vastly busy news day. Please do a better job in decoding it, and sending the important stuff our way. Please be intelligent about it, please treat your guests and you audience the same way; with respect and honesty. Don't insult, and don't talk down. Your the Canadian public broadcaster which means you have the highest standard by default and everyone else should follow. Please be more cautious of this in the future.

Was a sad defeat of ones apparent principles to have an intelligent man like Chris Hedges on air, and then get Kevin O'Leary to insult him, and effectively toss him aside like a piece of talking head trash. Hedges is right to not come back. Such a common thing on the tragic malicious, evil, garbage dump monster that is Fox News, or its sad clone Sun News. Do not fall into their terrible trap. if I were to go around openly insulting our clients at work, I would be sent packing for a new job. Please remove Kevin O'Leary and replace him with someone more qualified, someone who treats people with respect, someone who doesn't talk down, someone who knows whats going on out there, someone who put people before money. Your reputation depends on it. Good luck, I'll be watching.

Self Parody Rip Off Attempt

2011-10-01T10:47:00.002-03:00

I have been torn by liability up here where the fools walk in the sky. There’s birds the size of cars floating around like rain drops weakening in the cold air. There are flag waving juveniles wearing red and white parkas and old men with fedoras upon their shaking heads, wondering where the path went sideways. I'm there in a commercial glow with my tattered shirt and comical sense of perpetual daze. Don't mind the badly quoted movie lines, and keep your image in the freezer down below where the grass grows longer in the fields.

Pull yourself out of a self-denial trance and comb the group for trouble my friend. Toss your electronics out into the street, and dive into the world talking a breath of steel. Remember to brain freeze the complaints, and kick the enemies of good feelings and unmask them as something much more sinister. Kick the static out of the unrealistic decoys. This time do it right, and don’t pretend. Grab her and don’t let her go until she laughs hysterically and reverberates the air with magnetic intensity. Show her why this rock is here. Take the things laid out before you, and mold them into the useful.

Keys Of Fire (or, Gigantic Childhood)

2011-09-29T08:29:00.004-03:00

Lets keep it down. There are millions of voices screaming out. They all wear hats and gloves and capes and steal toed boots. They all have technology to see them through. There are millions of troops moving across the oceans and beautiful girls with tinfoil brains. There are animals with wooden feet and people with bombs made of nails and household cleaning products sucked from the earth. There are buildings run by people made of glass. They have eyes made out of trees and plastic hair and shimmering skin made from copper. Such and strange retreat, coming in on magnetic code, driven by keys of fire. Open up the plastic ground and dive in with your head full of coal and your oil-laced hair. Do a triple back flip as you splash into the melting pot of juvenile paradise. Make a show of it; get the crowd all hippied up and terror induced. Whip them into a frenzy and get them to rip out their minds in a fit of fantastic furry and fabricated fascination. Get them all confused for they are the sheep and you are the shoulder to cry on for a comfort only known inside their outlet container ships that fight the silver seas of anger dividing them from the supercharged worriers from the dark side fighting on in a cartoon animated by a sasquach in the rainforest.

There are kids with heads full of dirt and people with camouflaged eyes made of copper and dogs with teeth carved from the backs of urinals and shaped by the remains of used toilet paper. There are teenagers with their heads cut off running around the barnyard of paranormal self-continuous confusion. They weave in and out trying to doge the moving pylon manikins made from linoleum and broken dreams and bad mathematical equations calculated by children with large heads. They are happy and care free like a brick. Take the original soundtrack and re master it with bad communication and literature written by the idiots carved into the stones of terror and confusion and false fame in a stupid attempt to have a name in this ocean of allegations and ignorance.

When you’re down there in the pit of juvenile paradise remember us the way we were back in a different time. A wall of flesh and bones a thousand miles high blocked our eyes and ideas, reinforced by bad drawings and poor sound quality in a plausible cold universe ruled by a gang of immortal Christ Like figures. There were magnificent musician machines spinning tricks of colossal destruction leaping amongst the starry universe. Some had physical strength so powerful it shattered our imagination into a billion pieces. Some had values so perfect it was like crimes against the battle lines we lost and the oversimplification of complicated cost. We found peace in a perfect world made of feathers. They had fire and weapons made from toasted brain cells and drug induced giants seeking revenge on their past oppressors who shuffled slowly away or hid in the shadows. They had minds made of oatmeal and tears.

We struggled to find shelter and happiness down there where the ants governed the asylum with chaotic efficiency. They had iron heads and scientific eyes made from locks of hair. We had skin made from water, and we showed no fear against the wall of flesh, which in fact crumbled, in our hands like ice, cold and temporary. Dreamy and unresponsive after time burns it up. When you’re down there, fight for the tragedy within us and find an escape beyond the brain cell barren universe currently being held hostage by a band of Penguins who play gulf on the weekends, and eat people for supper at night, marinating them with barbecue sauce and money. The stink chokes us out, and makes us old.

So lets find a way of bringing things to a calm propelled by elbow grease and heart. We can drown the keys of fire under the ocean, and demagnetize the code with beautiful communication over lapping the sound of camouflaged machines. You can wash your oil-laced hair in the sea of time and shake off the stink of coal in the prevailing winds of purpose. We will move in slow motion, and we stay quite and calm. Our eyes will clean out the children’s brains, our teeth will regain their purpose. The memories will overcome and forgive the wall of flesh and bones, and find pleasure and comfort in the open concepts of the future. The terror will be forgotten, and the masses will find comfort in the ideas of the superhero association formed in the spirit of cooperation. Or not. Lets keep it down.

The Outsider Of Canadian Music

2011-09-28T15:12:00.008-03:00

"I went lookin’ for my voice in a strange and haunted place ..." Kyp Harness. We should all know his name. A chance listen on the CBC many years ago brought me to his music. Sadly, I never heard him on the radio since. I like the CBC, but they often miss the mark. If someone does not fit in a certain mold, they tend to ignore them. Shame all around. Commercial media be damned; they never see brilliance when its coming, and they often miss it when its long gone.

But, this guy is still here. He has been recording records since 1991. That's longer then the majority of the bands from Canada still kicking. This guy goes back to the music renaissance of the 1990's. When Barenaked Ladies, Lowest Of The Low, Sloan, Ron Sexsmith, Rheostatics, and many others ruled the day. Say it with me people, Kyp Harness has 9 records out … 9 full length records.

He is one of the greatest song writers in the world. There you go, its been said. This guy has a way with words that transcends normal comprehension. You or I could not write the same; nor should we try. We should celebrate the uniqueness of the tunes, and the realness of the voice. His songs brings us up, pull us down, make us think, and make us cry. They are sometimes silly, sometimes serious, but always good.

His 2003 record Floating World should be considered one of the greatest records ever recorded in this country. But, when the list come out every few years, there is an injustice committed every time. His new record is also a masterpiece. I have taken it upon myself to shoot a couple of videos from his new record, and one from the past. There are also a few others on YouTube, oh yes. "By the billboard execution, by the soundbite masquerade In the economy of suffering where progress is always bein’ made ..." (song quote: The Voice, Kyp Harness):

Passenger. 2011:

Wandering Heart. 2011:

Your The One. 1998:

Wine In The House (Watch Her Go)

2011-09-26T08:57:00.000-03:00

They propped her up and sent her out into the vertical world with a microphone. They kept her liquefied and over time her ego solidified to a frozen wasteland obliquely personified. She was like a molded clay made from the simple things in life. Simplicity that could be reshaped into any fantasy growing in a young mans brain. As a result they sometimes made her sing and dance in nothing but her underpants. But she proved to be simply complex in her sonic approach, and everything was conceived in a creative terror driven forward by beauty. Image controlled by an ugly machine, and opposed by a weak infrastructure that once surrounded her and brought her up. That infrastructure never stood a chance against the machine which drowned it out and pushed it away. Hands were thrown up. Heads were shaken. The show went on rain or shine. So, they gave her fuel, and watched her go. Pushed her to the brink and watched her dance on strings made from dirty things.

At least from outside here, she seemed to be way over there on the edge of anything real. Perhaps in there, she thought nothing was. They edged her on fast and cruel like. Most celebrated every drink, and laughed at every hit. She danced through the laughter into a hysterical disaster. Some closed their eyes, some had enough. Most pointed and laughed; and toasted the spectacle, desensitized by it all. They killed the reality, and replace it with make-believe. So, perhaps she was right; nothing was indeed.

Her past came back in jumps and spins, but it was always her past. it could not find a proper place in her present, and never could be a future. There was always a rummer that echoes from the past would resonate in the performance of the present. Like any rummer, it had no basses in the total truth of things. Her past became a haunting monster for her. Always in her grasp of recognition it seemed, but never real in her mind along with everything else. Advantage of this was taken by a fool who grabbed her hard and pulled her down far into his pit of mysterious grotesque stupidity. Her love for the shattered brought her to her knees. He found comedy in the novelty. They found an industry in the idea of simpler times.

Their eyes blinded by dollar signs, they couldn't see the good in the calm waters of her youth. They shook their fist at her jiratting conversations, and yelled hard things when she wouldn't find the strength to fulfill their expectations. She was lost in their paper pushing frenzy in a suite driven noise propelled shinny machine of brutal fun. People found comedy in the alcohol, and normality in the drugs. A puppet to the rest of us, with strings dangling high above. Many puppet masters fought over the strings.

When the certain was closed, they all looked stunned and stoned on their own creation. Back stage they were counting the cash and crying for mercy for an uncertain future. They snorted up the profits, and played the music that made them who they wanted to be, who they felt they needed to be. Outside the sober past came back to the minds of the few who stuck around. Wine was spilled in their crooked house. There was an image in the static, purified in the electricity of the vertical world.