…And there we were, butt naked, standing on the school roof, and…
Got your attention, dear Internet? Thought so.
I went out on Friday 13th this month, to what was innocuously billed as a mere glo-bowling party. Begona was turning 19, and wanted to have a fairly low-key event, at least by comparison with previous events I’ve attended with her. (more…)
On Tuesday, I went to Thixal’s birthday bash, starting at the Islands concert at Plaza nightclub and then moving to drunken antics on Jericho beach.
I’d never heard of Islands before Thixal invited me, but I downloaded some, expecting usual Thixal fare, and instead found myself captivated by strikingly interesting music, with an odd sort of edgy tone to indie-pop fare that, well, was significantly more appealing than I was expecting.
Really, in all honesty, it was a fucking utter blast, and I’m choked that I’d not heard of them before. They put on a phenominal show, and despite being both all-ages and to an odd tempo, the crowd was rowdy and dancing and generally fucking awesome. Eventually, the night closed down and we all skived our ways out - I went to pick up Kurunta from work and return her keys. I’d spent much of my afternoon trecking from work to home and out again immediately to go get a house key from Kurunta in order to leave a briefcase full of booze in her house, which is near the beach that we were going to. Having done so, I needed to give her her key back and convince her to join our party. The plan had us meeting Thixal and co at Cafe Crépe before heading out. We got to Cafe, and they weren’t there. We looked around for a while, phoned a few times, and she took off home, with me promising to call her once I worked out what I’d planned. (more…)
So, uh, anyone seen one of these?
…The Yamaha “Vino” always puzzles me as a name choice for any vehicle.
Vino, of course, being the Italian word for “wine” … does naming a scooter after alcohol strike anyone as a good idea? Sure, it’s not going to immediately inspire riders to start swilling down hooch while driving, but there are still things that should not necessarily have name association, and I’m pretty certain that drinking & driving are exactly such things.
People, relatively understandably, seem to get the various roadside assistance groups confused. Mostly, they get us confused with BCAA, and ask us things our company doesn’t do.
In the course of this confusion, I’m getting increasingly familiar with BCAA’s various services, regardless of my incapability to provide them. One of the more common ones is the “TripTick”, which according to their website is a sort of map-type thing of the route involved in a road trip, with destinations and the like all pasted in.
Normally, this would hardly be worth comment, until I got a call this morning from an increasingly irate man demanding his “TripDick” … Honest to god, this gent had no accent, no speech impediment, and immaculate enunciation, other than on this particular request, which each time was flawlessly pronounced as a “TripDick.”
Were it not for his genuine fervor and bilious rage as I debated with him regarding the impossibility of arranging a service for him that we don’t, in fact, have access to; I would have figured he was trying take the piss out of us.
Upon noting that there are 38+ competing organizations, I figure it’s safe to concede that I’m working for a Roadside Emergency service.
I’d been concerned, and of the impression that there was Us, Road Star, and BCAA acting in the province, and worried about giving up my anonymity and/or my job, should my ass get noticed in the whole blogging thing.
I like my job, and have no cause to risk it.
I’m pretty sure Mother and I just saw one of our neighbours naked.
Or, well, a person in a house across the road from us. Naked. We were both very sure it was female, and very sure she was topless. We assumed bottomless ’cause we didn’t see any.
But enough on clothing, or lack thereof. That’s hardly why I’m writing, dear Internet, naked people are hardly thrilling or blogworthy (Contrary to what many entertainment bloggers seem to think. Honestly.)
What does have us puzzled is the basic fact that the nude person isn’t someone we know to live there. As in, it’s not the Crazy Lady, and it’s not her husband. It was a young woman. Their son moved out years ago and doesn’t visit. Also, there’s new curtains up and they had lights on after dark. The people we knew as present never did these things.
But we never saw evidence of moving, in or out, and have seen the husband within the past week.
Where did they go? Who’s in there now?
And why were they prancing nude through the living room with the drapes half-open?
Months ago, I got a message from Sthena on Facebook telling me that Cake was coming. Within the hour, I got another one, telling me that she’d bought me a ticket. I didn’t even have to reply and ask her to. She knows me, really.
For completely and utterly no good reason, I love Cake. It’s counter to pretty much everything about music that I tend to enjoy other than being odd, but I just adore their work. There’s very little they’ve done that I’ve not loved, and what there is comes down to one track a CD or so.
So I went. It was a horrifically expensive show, but utterly worth it. I’d never been to a show at the Vogue, so that in itself was a bit of an experience. It’s a giant, opulent neoclassical theatre that, regardless of the apparent permanant renovations, seems to ooze class and distinguishment in the same manner a salesman exudes charm. This veneer of distinction seemed to exist in a state of constant conflict with the very contents of the building, swarms of uppity scenesters enrobed in thin veils of feigned irony and affected un-cool, all smelling strongly of cheap cigars, mediocre beer, and mothballs; because for all that no one is quite sure how, everyone knows vintage is trendily ironic right now. The monstrous edifice’s aura of dignity seems to constatly be reeling slightly, under continuous assault from ranks of identically disaffected scene kids, all of which are carefully try not to be cool, for truely, everyone who’s anyone knows that the genuinely hip don’t care about status. How deliciously, appallingly ironic that the affected un-cool should succeed so marvellously, robbing those trying so hard by effort of trying to not try and be cool of any chance they might’ve had to receive the acclaim of their peers, either for their hip-ness of lack thereof. In the face of this, the only truely uncaring, apathetic cool is the mildly affronted stately dignity of the old building, seeming to merely tolerate the legion of otherwise unremarkable uppity children filling it’s belly for an evening.
Oh, the poetry. So many people, all craving to posess those qualities of hipness, and the only entity present truely possessing such, lacks even the consciousness to note or care about it’s own status.
But my train of thought has been waylaid. I was there for a concert, not to deride my peers. Though that also amused me.
Cake, dear Internet, puts on a phenominal show. They have a somewhat laid-back stage manner, for all that John McCrae is a marvellous speaker and continues an excellent banter, is somwhat at odds with their surreal, near-frenetic music. They did, it must be said, play all their major songs, and the only track missing from my ideal Cake experience was “Hem of Her Garment;” which was completely unsuprising, given that it seems to be a mysteriously underappreciated track from their repetoire. Sthena, her friend, and I sung gleefully along, rocking out to the extent that we could while seated. (The only other thing preventing this from being a perfect Cake experience, by the way, was it being a seated show.) The band apparently doesn’t use a setlist, so they would play two or three songs before having to take a brief break while they all bickered about what to play next. Oddly, no one was shouting suggestions and requests during this period. Then, they’d resume playing, and get back to it. We spent much of the show puzzled regarding the small tree sitting on the stage, until mr McCrae announced they were giving an apple tree (”This very apple tree, in fact!” he proudly mentioned, while explaining.) to the oldest person in the crowd willing to admit their age. Despite the ancient geezer behind me, the tree went to a man near the front in his late 60’s, who was made to promise to take a photo of himself every year with his tree, so the fans could see the tree grow and strengthen while he aged. Ironic, and somewhat cruel, but fascinating regardless. Such depths of existential metaphor would, normally, be out of place at a rock concert, but interludes of sucha philosophical bent manage to parcel themselves into Cake’s show perfectly.
I loved it, really. We did get up and dance during the encore, and had great fun partying the way a concert was meant to be enjoyed for a few of the tracks. I didn’t know nearly as many words as I’d thought I did, but had a blast mostly singing along regardless. And I did manage to be utterly shamefully fanboyish, naming the songs as the opening bars played, competing with Sthena to name the song correctly first. Faugh. Despite loathing them so, I really am such a scenester. I wonder if all the others also share my utter contempt for our own kind?
…
Oh, Cake, see what you do to me? Such philosophy, all set to a catchy beat, sets hold in the mind and corrupts other, simpler ways of thinking.
The number of wrong names I get from customers is hialrious - I get Colin, Paul, Jim, James, and John all the time.
I don’t mind much, it just amuses me that no matter how cleatly I enunciate my name, the callers still garble it.
The only ones that really bother me, though, are the ones that shorten it for me. I just introduced myself as “Earthman;” seriously, if I wanted to be called “Earth,” I’d've said “Earth.” This one gets me ’cause it’s plain that they heard me and consciously shortened it for me. I’m not your pal yet, I’m not the kid down the road. If I fucked with you name, called the Stevens “Steve,” the Rebeccas “Bex” and the Richards “Dick,” I’d get so many complaints so fast that I’d be out of a job.
But somehow they think it’s allright to do it to me.
Seriously, Internet. How fucked up can you get?
Like, I’m not shocked that this crap is on here; I’ve ceased being appalled that this is out there long ago. What I’m shocked at is that this is what gets produced when I search for a torrent of a band I’d heard a while back and was curious about. And not one with a particularly out-there name. How does “Friendly Fires” produce results like these?
Expand and read the “Popular Tags” - those are usually suggestions of tags that may relate in some way to the search. Here; however, well… You can read as well as I can.
These guys played a show at Richard’s on Richards on the 27th, and there was no way in hell I was going to miss it. They’ve been one of my favourite bands since I discovered them about two years ago; and I’ve checked regularly for tour dates involving Vancouver (or Waterloo, while I was there) and seen nothing.
Really, If I hadn’t happened to see a posting for tickets in the window of Red Cat Records on Main there, I would have missed the show entirely - I’d not seen posters or anything. Last.fm was equally unhelpful. However, for the cheap-at-the-cost price of $24, I snagged a ticket and flew solo, given that Strenua bailed on me.
I arrived about an hour and a half after doors opened, and I rather expected to be stuck near the back of the crowd, but apparently everyone there was too scene to take the front row yet, so I grabbed a drink and snagged a spot against the stage, attaching myself to a random who also had a spot there. We chatted for an hour or so before Ghostland took the stage.
Then, it happened. The boys took the stage. Somehow, they were everything but what I’d expected. There were only two of them; I’d somehow imagined it’d either be a one-man act or a full band, but the DJ (Thomas Ross Turner) was also the drummer, and the singer (Aaron Behrens) did guitar for the tracks that needed it. I don’t have a good photo of Thomas from that show, but he reminds me of the penultimate giant basement dweller, with a stage presence that has that unique awkward charisma sometimes found in that demographic. And he was wearing a giant, baby-blue cape, apparently his signature gimmick. (An interview I read after the fact had him quoted as having asked his wife for something so unfashionable that no one else could mistake it for irony, and so odd that no one else would be doing it.) Aaron was dressed in skintight jeans, some of the most effeminate cowboy boots I’ve ever seen, an odd blouse, and a pair of av’s, capped off with a pair of braided pigtails.
He’s also one of the most phenominal dancers I’ve ever seen on stage as a performer; apparently having a background in dance as well as singing. Whenever he wasn’t singing or playing guitar, he was dancing onstage, and doing it very, very well. The only photo I have that come close to capturing this doesn’t really show him, but seems to have had me and my new friend in the focus, framed by the legs of Aaron as he was dancing mid-track.
They are one of the highest energy acts I’ve ever seen on stage - with two guys managing to equal both Gogol Bordello and Kaiser Chiefs in terms of out-and-out best shows to attend; while I was stoked to get them in the intimacy of Richards, I’m a little choked that they didn’t warrant a show at Commodore - the floor there is better for dancing, and they certainly deserved the attention that that would have garnered them. (Apparently, their last show in Vancouver had 30 people, tops. They completely packed Richards, this time.)
They play a stikingly unusual (I couldn’t lower myself to call them unique, but in all fairness, I still can’t think of anyone else they’re similar to, so…) dance-electronic-punk-pop, akin to an unholy union between a top-shelf Industrial/Rave DJ and 80’s Glam, with a few helpings of Elvis and punk rock thrown in for good measure. But even that long-winded and imprecise description cheapens the odd captivating quality of the band’s music. I don’t love it so much in spite of it’s grating, obnoxious sound, but because of it. It’s highly energetic, tense music that seems to have been carefully crafted and scripted to be the perfect middle ground for dancing, whether you prefer a punk show’s mosh pit or raving or grinding it out to a club DJ, it all seems to work perfectly to this stuff. Here’s their Wikipedia entry, just for good measure: Ghostland Observatory.
If you can’t already tell, I’m a huge fan. In short, I wish these boys were local, just so I could see more shows from them. They’re fantastic, if somewhat obnoxious, party music, and the world needs more fun acts like this.
Edit - Another photo I found, which manages to sort of show off Thomas’ cape, while also capturing a dancing Aaron. This is pretty awesome, though not quite reaching the awesome factor of the previous two. It also comes close to showing how high energy the shows tend to be.
