Monthly Archives: January 2012

Don’t Spend It Honey by Corin Raymond and the Sundowners

I witnessed something strange, heartwarming, and uniquely Canadian at the Tranzac on Wednesday night. I was there with friends from out-of-town to see night two of a two night engagement by Cameron House legends Corin Raymond and the Sundowners.
Corin played almost exclusively covers of unknown, little-known, and near-forgotten folk artists and was recording the concerts to make a live album as a preservation effort of sorts.
The concert was great, Corin is a born storyteller, weaving stories from the road and stories about the songs in and around the music. He kept us engaged for the whole three hours and twenty-one songs that the band played that evening.
Highlights included “Little Byrd”, “Change”, and the Ragho Lokanathan-penned “I’m a Fucking Genius” and “Caledonia”. Then there’s the song that makes the whole thing worth writing about, “Don’t Spend it Honey”.

Don’t Spend it Honey!
Not the Canadian Tire Money!
We’ve Saved It So Long! x2
Jolly Scotch Bonnet,
It’s Got the Cute little Scotsman on it,
We’ve Saved It So Long! x2

…Goes the chorus. Apparently, when Raymond and Co. would play this song at the Cameron house, regulars would throw the individually worthless paper bills at the band, which is kind of a fun gimmick. The game changer came when Corin found out that the studio at which he was going to record his covers album accepted Canadian Tire money at par. This provoked the singer to set up a website,, and encouraged fans to pay for their concert tickets, in part at least, with Canadian Tire money. He started receiving donations from across the country, from young and old, from fans, and from people who heard about the project from the Globe and Mail or This Hour Has 22 Minutes. He managed to raise a staggering $1500 by the end of the second concert in Canadian Tire money alone: not bad, considering that the largest denomination is two dollars.
So now the song itself. It’s a typically folky three-chorder, with clever but forgettable verses. The chorus is killer though, the kind of sticky pop melody that worms its way through your brain for days. For me, I’ll always remember it as the last song that a Toronto mainstay played at a celebratory and vindicating concert. Give it a listen. It’s not for everyone – you kinda had to be there.

Watch it here courtesy of Now Toronto.


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Dawned On Me by Wilco

The Whole Love is not the best record that Wilco have put out. However, for almost any other band, this late career collection would be a great achievement – the kind of singular sound that signals a newfound maturity and vision. With past albums like Yankee Hotel Foxtrot (a pitchfork 10.0), it’s hard to accept anything short of genius from this hardworking band.
When I saw Wilco on their tour to support Wilco (The Album), I recall that the band was still getting used to its new incarnation as a six-piece. When they played some of the sparser songs from older records like Being There and Summerteeth, their attempts at finding things for all the members to do sometimes resulted in clunky arrangements and just too much going on. Not that it wasn’t an impressive concert. New songs like Impossible Germany, with a five or six-minute guitar freak-out interlude by the sorcerer Nels Cline stuck in the middle, and Bull Black Nova as well as the title track really shone.
Some have complained that Wilco are sounding too comfortable, that they’ve lost some of their edge. I disagree, I think on The Whole Love  the band has really locked into its six-piece sound, and are producing some of the best pop songs of their career. The record on the whole does feel less groundbreaking than some of their earlier work, but this is partly due to the brood of imitators that now compete with Wilco for our alt-country attention. The standout tracks are many: Art of Almost, I Might, Born Alone, and this one Dawned On Me.
This is a classic Wilco song, a twisted pop song that explores darker themes with a sunny melody. “I’m taken by the sound of my own voice/Voices in my Head” Jeff Tweedy croons in the first verse. Later, he  admits that “I regret letting you go/ Sometimes I can’t believe how dark it can be.” This tension between a dark topic and traditional pop song structure is classic Wilco. They let this tension inform the music as well – the song begins with the quiet whine of guitar feedback, and the organ plays a little dark-circus riff intermittently. This tension is most effectively encapsulated two minutes into the song when a wild, overdriven guitar solo by Cline is interrupted and cut off by Tweedy whistling the verse melody. This little musical joke reenforces the feeling that the protagonist of the song is making a conscious effort to keep the crazy inside, to keep the song a sunny pop number, but he’s failing. It’s beginning to fall apart at the seams.

Bonus: For the video, Wilco partnered with king features to produce the first hand-drawn Popeye cartoon in 30 years! With Wilco as characters! It’s a real gem.

Jackson By Craig Finn

I’m just ten posts in, and I’ve already evoked Bruce Springsteen in about a third of them. While this may seem excessive (or just lazy) I would say that I’m refering to him because he is the most easily identifiable in a slew of artistists that attempt to capture an American heartland sensibility that, while I’m certain doesn’t really exist anymore, may never have existed at all. I say Springsteen, and you think immediately of character-driven narrative songs about small towns, the allure of the city, and the period in your life where youth slips into adulthood, sometimes without notice, sometimes painfully. He’s a storyteller trying to encapsulate some of the angst and uncertainty of his own generation and of young adulthood generally. His goal is narrative with an emotional connection – and this sets him apart from the crowd. His goal is not rock for the sake of it, or introspection-as-art, or experimental noodling. He lacks the self-conscious irony that so often just marrs my enjoyment of what might otherwise be a good rock n’ roll song.

He’s got contemporaries – Tom Petty, The Band, Steve Earle. And boy, does he have followers. Social Distortion, The Gaslight Anthem, The Constantines, and (now I’m getting to it) The Hold Steady.

The Hold Steady rose to prominance a few years after The Strokes “saved” guitar rock back in 2001. This is just speculation, but I think indie rock listeners had gotten tired of the wave of bands that followed in the footsteps of The Strokes – bands like Franz Ferdinand, Ima Robot, Interpol, etc, who were all haircuts and outfits and New York cool. The Hold Steady come from the midwest, and proudly. They mine the narrative song, but they do it a little differently. “There are nights when I think that Sal Paradise was right,” Craig Finn laments at the beginning of Stuck Between Stations from their record Boys and Girls in America, “Boys and Girls in America are so sad together.” besides beat literature, their songs are full of references to New American Cinema, national landmarks, and legendary musicians. They stitch these images into worlds that appeal to the consciously cultured youth, the sideways references making listeners feel as if they belong in the America that The Hold Steady sings about, and not the more depressing real one. However, other than being a little self-conscious, these songs brim with an honesty and optimism that was totally lacking in the New York rock revivial of the early oughts.

Later this month, Craig Finn is releasing his first solo record. In interviews, he’s commented that the songs are overall more personal, which is certainly a change for the songwriter who is renowned for telling complex character stories. Contrary to this claim though, Jackson off of Clear Heart Full Eyes (a reference to the show Friday Night Lights) tells the story of Jackson, Stephanie, and the narrator getting into hot water while staying in a hotel from August to November. This version is stripped down and acoustic, recorded in Craig Finn’s own house by The A.V. Club. The ominous repetative chords and the drone strings echo the foreboding in the lyrics. The song is both a confession and a denial of involvement, which is sort of evocative of the way people deal with “incidents” in a small town. In between verses that paint stark and vivid pictures( i.e., “Jackson was an actor, ‘least he was when he was well, Stephanie was good to me, not so much to herself”), Craig questions the listener in the chorus, “So why’re you asking ’bout Jackson? It was a long time ago, nothing really happened.” Without the full rock band of the hold steady behind him, it’s just Finn’s lyrics that get to shine, and they more than stand on their own.

There. I wrote the whole thing without mentioning Nebraska.
Craig Finn discusses and performs “Jackson”

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Ledged Up by Odonis Odonis

How do you feel about really grimy rock? These sweaty, loud, propulsive songs that can only be appreciated in dark basements, punctuated by strobe light flashes synched with snare drums and accidental run-ins with entranced strangers gyrating haphazardly to some band someone likened to Joy Division. Have you listened to Bela Legosi’s Dead all the way through? On repeat?

Try Odonis Odonis. Ledged up from Hollandaze captures this pretty neatly. They play garage and surf filtered through 80s goth and noise. It’s music to mosh to.

They play Feb 16th at the Shop as part of Wavelength 12.

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Josie by The Darcys

“I liked the film, but the book is better,” is a phrase so often repeated it’s almost a truism. It makes intuitive sense: a 90 minute film cannot possibly capture the richness and depth that exists in a novel. And no one is arguing that Troy sums up the Iliad in a satisfactory way. The reasons seem logical enough: in a novel you can capture multiple perspectives and an ongoing internal monologue that would be distracting and unrealistic in a movie. Novelists are also unburdened by format – novels are meant to be read in multiple sittings, and so are unrestricted by length. Movies longer than a couple of hours (looking at you, Peter Jackson) are tests of patience and bladder control. So the handicaps are obvious.
However, and this feels self-evident, there are things that film adaptations can and do accomplish more handily than a novel. Beyond the obvious sensory elements, films capture moments of nuanced emotion with greater economy. They are more effective at triggering empathy. And I’ll argue that in at least one case, they can improve the story.
The best example (and one thematically related to the blog) is the John Cusack vehicle High Fidelity, based on the novel by Nick Hornby. Hornby is a great storyteller, and the plot that drives both the film and the novel are his. However, it’s how the actors play the record store employees and the influence of director Stephen Frears that makes the film so compelling. And Catherine Zeta-Jones as Charlie makes you understand instantly what kind of woman she is. Hornby spends pages describing her; but in the film, you understand so much about her because of what you know already about Catherine Zeta-Jones.

Which is all to bolster my argument that interpretation is an art in itself. The song I’ve chosen is a cover song, originally by Steely Dan. Josie is one of Steely Dan’s best known tunes, but that band was never really all that popular. They’re often called musician’s musicians, appealing to jazz geeks and people who don’t balk at odd time signatures and syncopated horn lines for hooks. I’ve got a soft spot for them. In fact, I’ve gone once or twice to see Pretzel Logic – a faithful Dan cover band who play monthly at the Orbit Room here in Toronto. So I heard this cover by The Darcys and was immediately intrigued. Add to this the fact that I’m fascinated by covers – Johnny Cash’s American Recordings, Peter Gabriel’s Scratch My Back, etc, meant that I couldn’t pass this up.

The Darcys interpretation here is organ heavy, and lacks entirely the disco feel of the original. They sing about an octave lower too, but it really works. This version of Josie amps up the melancholy and ambient noise, giving the tune a skittish, anxious feel.

Try it, you’ll like it. The Darcys cover of the Aja album in its entirety (!) drops January 24th. They’re touring North America for the next couple months. They’re in Guelph on the 19th, and will be back in Toronto March 1.

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Turn A Light On by Kathryn Calder

In anticipation of the snow we’re supposed to have on Friday, everyone should watch this lovely video and remember how beautiful and wonderful it can be.


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Darkness by Leonard Cohen

Darkness is the second advance track from Old Ideas, which is set to be released later in the month on Columbia. Old Ideas is Cohen’s first record of new material since 2004’s Dear Heather. At 77, it’s a bit of a surprise that the living legend is recording new material at all, but damn, I’m glad he is. Darkness finds Cohen at his best, his voice an intoxicating growl, his lyrics biting, funny, and bleak. Musically, his strength has always been his restraint, his ability to simmer and cook without coming to a boil – and on Darkness he uses this tension to maximum effect. Out of all the Woodstock Generation singer-songwriters, Cohen alone continues to progress and produce work that is not only consistent with his best, but also contemporary and relevant 45 years into the singer’s career. Astonishing.

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Lightshow by Plants and Animals

photo credit: Caroline Desilets

I first saw (and heard of) Plants and Animals as part of a Pop Montreal Showcase at Guelph’s Hillside Festival in 2007. I remember them being a mostly instrumental guitar band. They were a very musical three-piece, and had lots of countermelody and acoustic noodling. They fleshed out these ideas out on their first full length Parc Avenue, which was a sparse affair. The seeds of their new sound was planted in songs like Faerie Dance, which built from softer beginnings into full on rave-ups by song’s end. Plants and Animals followed that record up with La La Land, an album startlingly full of songs ready for the dance floor. Extensive touring tends to turn even bedroom artists into party starters, and these guys are no exception. La La land was one of my favourite records to drive to of 2010. Standout tracks like American Idol, Kon Tiki, and The Mama Papa are still part of my rotation.
Lightshow is the first advance single from The End Of That, set to hit a record store near you on February 28. Immediately apparent is Warren Spencer’s increasing vocal confidence and range. His plaintive timber isn’t for everyone, but I find it really works. Lyrically, the song explores more sophisticated images and ideas than on previous records, though there are a few awkward platitudes: “it’s desperation for everybody/ it’s wishful thinking for the whole human race”. However, Lightshow is also more immediately accessible than the songs on La La Land save perhaps The Mama Papa.
The guitar playing is fantastic, in turns restrained and spastic. The lyrics allude to natural disasters like earthquakes, and the song itself builds like an avalanche. It’s almost chorusless, and there’s the obligatory wordless melody in the coda which I still can’t seem to get enough of in Canadian rock. I’ll be spinning this one pretty constantly, and eagerly awaiting the rest of the record.

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Brian Wilson is A.L.i.V.E. by Rich Aucoin

I feel like each year some publication declares the death of the hipster. Ironic detachment and slackerdom are no longer all the kids have to strive for, they say. Hope and compassion are in. Meta-cool is out. And every year, these publications are wrong.  The thing they keep forgetting is that it’s cool to be cool. And detachment is cool. James Dean perfected it in the fifties. Styles do change (some), but attitudes rarely do.
All of this comes down to power and age. Youth are, often by their own admission, pretty powerless. They have come of age, realized how fucked up the world is, and, seeing no way to positively engage, responded (appropriately) with cynicism and contempt. With no real way to change broader social structures and mores, young people instead take ownership of the only thing that they truly own: their youth. With no power and no responsibility, we become self-possessed and disaffected. We remain like this until we earn enough responsibility to warrant a reshuffling of our priorities.
Which is not to say that young people do not want to belong to communities. On the contrary, it is as youth that we tend to develop our closest friendships. We seek out communities of like minded people through new media, because again, we can own it. And we create. We collaborate. With so much time to think about ourselves, we have no choice but to contemplate a unique way that we see the world. Sometimes this is startling. Sometimes, it’s grotesque. The art we create as youth draws the generation closer together by being different than the art of the preceding generation. We define ourselves by this difference. Enter Rich Aucoin.

He’s not the first of his kind. Since his record We’re All Dying To Live was released in late October on sonic records, a quart of pixellated ink has been spilled about the similarity he has to the Arcade Fire (which is true, at least sonically). But the cycle is short. Arcade fire have graduated to a different echelon of pop music. The orchestral pop they perform is no longer in the bars and basements where independent rock is vetted, where Rich Aucoin has been making his mark. His situation is more akin to a band from the previous generation: The Flaming Lips. Both acts do this in a kind of musical short hand. The Flaming Lips were able to attract a huge following at the height of the nineties slacker culture by writing songs not about human disaffection, but instead about aliens and machines. They wrote songs about interplanetary travel and pink robots, but a million teenagers knew they were really singing about the kids. And Wayne Coyne the messiah figure was born. Aucoin is playing the same bars as the lo-fi barebones indie rockers, but he’s asking these fans to dance, and chant his life-affirming lyrics along with him. And the kids are doing it.

Live, Rich Aucoin delivers an interactive, multimedia marathon of cathartic belonging. Aucoin sings songs that are literally about life and death, but the larger message is about remembering that you are a person, with a body, and there are others like you. All the biggest bands in the world have been able to tap into this as well, but Aucoin does it with sonic arrangements that are best understood by this generation of listener, who has the whole history of pop at her fingertips.

Brian Wilson is A.L.i.V.E. begins with a wordless call-and response melody that evokes the titular Beach Boy before moving into a Micheal-Jackson-by-way-of-Justice verse replete with buzzsaw synths and a killer backbeat. Did I mention that this tune is a banger? The chorus, sung by children, of remember what you’ve been given harkens back to both You Can’t Always Get What You Want and Another Brick in the Wall Pt. II. Elsewhere on the record you can hear everything from Chris Martin crooning to Dirty Projectors-style math-y melodies and harmonies. Somehow it all works. And it had me singing along to my headphones while I rode the subway.

Rich Aucoin Plays the Drake in Toronto this Friday.

Also: Rich Aucoin has made a youtube series of videos that his songs apparently all sync up to out of found footage from public domain films. Check them out on his website!

(photo by brian banks)

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Future Active Kid Pts. I & II by Sandro Perri

The formula for indie rock in the last few years has become worryingly predictable. Since chillwave became first a word, then for some reason an acceptable subgenre, there’s been a trend even among garage punk and roots acts to incorporate icy synthesizers and way too much reverb into seventies AM radio style melodies. “Hazy” and “chill” have become shorthand for “in-vogue indie”.

While Sandro Perri is no stranger to 70s AM radio (having covered “Dreams” by Fleetwood Mac in 2007), he eschews most of the trappings of contemporary guitar music to create songs that feel like they were stitched together from his best experiments. Difficult or complexly arranged pop tunes are often (mis)labeled “tapestries”. While I’m tempted to use this term to describe Perri, I think it implies too much structure. The new record Impossible Spaces is more like something painted – sounds are incorporated for colour, texture, and mood. The result is a cohesive collection of songs that have impressive movement and trajectory. This music takes you places.

Future Active Kid parts one and two appear on the record after the exuberant and playful opener “Changes”. Pt. 1 starts out as a sparse 4 chord dirge as the protagonist describes his agoraphobic, possibly post-apocalyptic existence. It’s not until the second half of the song that we start to hear Perri’s trademark experimentation, A bass clarinet(?) enters, then quickly is replaced by a backwards guitar line. Both create a real sense of malaise as the song disintegrates before transitioning into Pt. 2.

The impressive but dense pt. 2 is bursting with ideas. Melodies enter, loop back on themselves, and leave abruptly. Found sounds mingle with guitar and synth punches. Perri’s voice floats delicately above the melee. Anxious but exhilarating, this song makes you feel like you’re getting away with something not allowed. Every moment in the song feels both deliberate and on the verge of collapse. I’m already excited to see this performed.

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