His name is Lionel Flairs - or so he claims. He's French (the real deal, the 'from France' type), but seems to work in England.
He's clever, and ballsy; he's released a 7'' titled Better Than Prince.
Now, he asked Jérémie Perin to direct a video for his song 'Truckers Delight'... in 8-bit Nintendo style.
Pretty damn entertaining, if somewhat 'wtf' and graphic and totally un-PC.
Oh, and not to be confused with the NYC-by-way-of-Vancouver band The Flairs...
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
The Stinkiest Alley In Montréal
I guess when they got the cleaning the City, they cleaned up that alleyway, too, because when you pass by it, the stench no longer causes you to want to vomit, but having been there in the early-to-mid-90s, I still won't venture into it.
It's situated on Ste-Catherine West, right behind a Burger King that been there for ages and what is now the downtown core's biggest Future Shop, although we used to know it more as the block that housed Labyrinth (rock t-shirts and posters galore, knives and lighters and motorcycle stuff too) and Mars (a dusty asthma-inducing basement - even though it was on the second floor - where they would sell bootleg CDs for almost $100 and one-off collector's show posters from the 60s to the 90s) - still, it's an area that most Montrealers passed by on a daily basis.
You could smell it from almost a block away, putrid, like decomposing homeless bodies that had shat themselves prior to dying there. When you'd see a hobo walk in there, you just knew he'd never come out - you had probably witnessed someone's final moments in the World Of The Living. Whether it was summer or winter, there was an acidic steam coming out of it that would burn the eyes, a somewhat transparent cloudiness of stench that stood from the ground to about twelve feet high - and it stank so much that most people who would walk past it would just hold their breath to not be subjected to it in the pit of their lungs and settle for teary eyes and temporary burns to the face and hands; it's a surprise a fast-food joint could survive and thrive there, considering.
A few friends and I entered it once, as a dare, the one time that it didn't smell like the pits of Hell had thrown up a sack of shit and sweat - we must have been 14 years old, three or four of us. It was a Sunday. We saw it to the end, it lead to a parking lot where the cars that were closest to the alley were rotting, like its extension into the world of mechanics, like they had caught a mutated version of whatever virus lurks in the air of the alley.
We didn't want to stay too long to not catch it too, so we quickly fucked off to Labyrinth, but we were uneasy being there despite it only smelling like decayed garbage and stale urine that time. You should have seen the look on people's faces when they saw relatively healthy teenage boys come out of there: shock and - not awe, maybe mistrust. They even stayed clear of our way until we entered the store, it was weird and pleasant at once, like we were Ghost Riders or something.
It's situated on Ste-Catherine West, right behind a Burger King that been there for ages and what is now the downtown core's biggest Future Shop, although we used to know it more as the block that housed Labyrinth (rock t-shirts and posters galore, knives and lighters and motorcycle stuff too) and Mars (a dusty asthma-inducing basement - even though it was on the second floor - where they would sell bootleg CDs for almost $100 and one-off collector's show posters from the 60s to the 90s) - still, it's an area that most Montrealers passed by on a daily basis.
You could smell it from almost a block away, putrid, like decomposing homeless bodies that had shat themselves prior to dying there. When you'd see a hobo walk in there, you just knew he'd never come out - you had probably witnessed someone's final moments in the World Of The Living. Whether it was summer or winter, there was an acidic steam coming out of it that would burn the eyes, a somewhat transparent cloudiness of stench that stood from the ground to about twelve feet high - and it stank so much that most people who would walk past it would just hold their breath to not be subjected to it in the pit of their lungs and settle for teary eyes and temporary burns to the face and hands; it's a surprise a fast-food joint could survive and thrive there, considering.
A few friends and I entered it once, as a dare, the one time that it didn't smell like the pits of Hell had thrown up a sack of shit and sweat - we must have been 14 years old, three or four of us. It was a Sunday. We saw it to the end, it lead to a parking lot where the cars that were closest to the alley were rotting, like its extension into the world of mechanics, like they had caught a mutated version of whatever virus lurks in the air of the alley.
We didn't want to stay too long to not catch it too, so we quickly fucked off to Labyrinth, but we were uneasy being there despite it only smelling like decayed garbage and stale urine that time. You should have seen the look on people's faces when they saw relatively healthy teenage boys come out of there: shock and - not awe, maybe mistrust. They even stayed clear of our way until we entered the store, it was weird and pleasant at once, like we were Ghost Riders or something.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Stéphanie: Girl Of My Dreams
Because you never know how or when a chapter of your life might end, it's always tricky to get started writing about it. But it never pays to wait too long, because you might forget crucial details or its termination might bring a sour taste in your mouth that will melt the good times from your brain forever.
This one though, was a big piece: my quest and obsession of the late 90s, my luck and love of the 2000s.
It's hard to pinpoint an exact date at which it started, because it seems we were often in the same area at the same time - even in the same building often enough - from the late 80s onwards, when I played a handful of shows at local dive La Brique despite being well underage. But that one's unlikely, if only because I was so young and she wasn't even legal yet either, and girls on the verge of adulthood in bars tend to hang around with older men, not younger ones.
So that brings me to the late 90s when I moved to the Plateau. The closest and best supermarket was only a few blocks away, a mid-sized Provigo where we'd both shop. I was single and enjoying life, at school during the day, rocking out in bars and hanging with a large group of friends at night, and working at my first dream job (L'Échange) the rest of the time; she was dating Fernando, a body-building jobless ape who apparently cheated on her all the time.
I don't remember when - but I sure remember how and why it was that she caught my eye; she had everything I ever wanted in a girl, the best of them all; top-notch quality everything. Long, flowing curly brown locks, a piercing stare from blue-green eyes, curves that would make a TV car commercial highway jealous - and breasts bigger than my hands can handle.
Problem is, the Ice Storm happened (bet you can't wait until that one's explained - as with my stint at L'Échange, it'll be in later posts) and created a shit storm in my life that led me to move to NYC and, later, move in with my mom at l'Île Perrot, then with my new-found dad and grandma in Pointe-Aux-Trembles for a summer - all while straddling one College and two universities in two languages.
Time passed and I ended up living in the Centre-Sud district in time for New Year's 2000, attending Université De Montréal. It turns out that a few fellow Cinema students also lived in my neighbourhood - and they all worked at Vidéo 20/20, two blocks from my place, open 24/7. I'd rent stuff there all the time, mostly at night as per my lifestyle (and because I was at school during the day) and eventually made friends with the night worker. He wouldn't give me free movies, but we'd drink beer and order pizza and eat it there during his shift, using the ice cream fridge as a table.
And because karma has a way of making things go full circle before spinning a complete 180, I started a habit of returning the films during the day, on my way to school and, lo and behold, who was the assistant manager? The afore-mentioned Girl Of My Dreams. She was going through changes in her life and they were reflected in her physical appearance: weight loss, sudden blondness (meh) and an eventual short-haired blondness (doh!)...
There was also one instance where a movie I had returned ('It', the TV miniseries based on the Stephen King book, in double-VHS format) hadn't registered in the computer (something you have to expect when the worker is a drinking buddy - during his shifts!), and she didn't believe that I had returned it, so she actually went downstairs to verify that it was, indeed, there. She thought I was ripping her off!
In any event, time passes, and one of the friends I'd made there, Norm, becomes my flatmate. It's early July 2000, and since many of the store's staff are celebrating moving into new apartments, they decided to celebrate at a local dive - L'Astral 2000 (no, they haven't updated their name to keep up with the times). Being one's roommate, I'm also invited. As luck would have it, the seating arrangements have me positioned between Norm and Stéphanie, as he would introduce her to me - the Girl Of My... you get the idea.
I think I recall there was a ''singer'' performing, the type of fucker who sings cover songs and is backed by a terrible Casio keyboard, but thankfully not loud enough to drown out our conversations or make us want to drink elsewhere. There was, however, this one dude, much older (think late 50s, early 60s), looking like a much older Jimmy from South Park, who wouldn't stop hitting on her - he was also a video store customer; she pretended I was her boyfriend (classic) to make him go away, and from then on, to help the story stick, she made sure to pay more attention to me than anyone else at our table.
When 3AM came around, two girls invited themselves to my place so we could continue the party - Stéphanie and her roommate and employee Mélanie; additionally, Norm brought a chick over, our friend (also in film school with us) Louis' ex-girlfriend, nicknamed ''The Star'' for her knack for lying on her back and not moving an inch during sex. Norm and The Star promptly went to his room, while me and the prettier ladies moved into mine, a luxurious double-length room with adjoined living room that made for a nice suite all to myself.
As we drank more and talked, time flew by, and Mélanie decided to go home to sleep. Eventually, Stéphanie and I made our way into my bed, and at least one of us was in it for the next 96 hours - that's 4 days, genius.
The rest of the summer was more of the same: if we weren't at work (and, most of the time, I wasn't), out drinking, or eating, we were fucking. My birthday - and September, i.e. Fall - came along, and we realized we were, pretty much, dating.
I had bagged my Dream Girl, and she had stayed; she was mine.
And, of course, all dreams end.
This one though, was a big piece: my quest and obsession of the late 90s, my luck and love of the 2000s.
It's hard to pinpoint an exact date at which it started, because it seems we were often in the same area at the same time - even in the same building often enough - from the late 80s onwards, when I played a handful of shows at local dive La Brique despite being well underage. But that one's unlikely, if only because I was so young and she wasn't even legal yet either, and girls on the verge of adulthood in bars tend to hang around with older men, not younger ones.
So that brings me to the late 90s when I moved to the Plateau. The closest and best supermarket was only a few blocks away, a mid-sized Provigo where we'd both shop. I was single and enjoying life, at school during the day, rocking out in bars and hanging with a large group of friends at night, and working at my first dream job (L'Échange) the rest of the time; she was dating Fernando, a body-building jobless ape who apparently cheated on her all the time.
I don't remember when - but I sure remember how and why it was that she caught my eye; she had everything I ever wanted in a girl, the best of them all; top-notch quality everything. Long, flowing curly brown locks, a piercing stare from blue-green eyes, curves that would make a TV car commercial highway jealous - and breasts bigger than my hands can handle.
Problem is, the Ice Storm happened (bet you can't wait until that one's explained - as with my stint at L'Échange, it'll be in later posts) and created a shit storm in my life that led me to move to NYC and, later, move in with my mom at l'Île Perrot, then with my new-found dad and grandma in Pointe-Aux-Trembles for a summer - all while straddling one College and two universities in two languages.
Time passed and I ended up living in the Centre-Sud district in time for New Year's 2000, attending Université De Montréal. It turns out that a few fellow Cinema students also lived in my neighbourhood - and they all worked at Vidéo 20/20, two blocks from my place, open 24/7. I'd rent stuff there all the time, mostly at night as per my lifestyle (and because I was at school during the day) and eventually made friends with the night worker. He wouldn't give me free movies, but we'd drink beer and order pizza and eat it there during his shift, using the ice cream fridge as a table.
And because karma has a way of making things go full circle before spinning a complete 180, I started a habit of returning the films during the day, on my way to school and, lo and behold, who was the assistant manager? The afore-mentioned Girl Of My Dreams. She was going through changes in her life and they were reflected in her physical appearance: weight loss, sudden blondness (meh) and an eventual short-haired blondness (doh!)...
There was also one instance where a movie I had returned ('It', the TV miniseries based on the Stephen King book, in double-VHS format) hadn't registered in the computer (something you have to expect when the worker is a drinking buddy - during his shifts!), and she didn't believe that I had returned it, so she actually went downstairs to verify that it was, indeed, there. She thought I was ripping her off!
In any event, time passes, and one of the friends I'd made there, Norm, becomes my flatmate. It's early July 2000, and since many of the store's staff are celebrating moving into new apartments, they decided to celebrate at a local dive - L'Astral 2000 (no, they haven't updated their name to keep up with the times). Being one's roommate, I'm also invited. As luck would have it, the seating arrangements have me positioned between Norm and Stéphanie, as he would introduce her to me - the Girl Of My... you get the idea.
I think I recall there was a ''singer'' performing, the type of fucker who sings cover songs and is backed by a terrible Casio keyboard, but thankfully not loud enough to drown out our conversations or make us want to drink elsewhere. There was, however, this one dude, much older (think late 50s, early 60s), looking like a much older Jimmy from South Park, who wouldn't stop hitting on her - he was also a video store customer; she pretended I was her boyfriend (classic) to make him go away, and from then on, to help the story stick, she made sure to pay more attention to me than anyone else at our table.
When 3AM came around, two girls invited themselves to my place so we could continue the party - Stéphanie and her roommate and employee Mélanie; additionally, Norm brought a chick over, our friend (also in film school with us) Louis' ex-girlfriend, nicknamed ''The Star'' for her knack for lying on her back and not moving an inch during sex. Norm and The Star promptly went to his room, while me and the prettier ladies moved into mine, a luxurious double-length room with adjoined living room that made for a nice suite all to myself.
As we drank more and talked, time flew by, and Mélanie decided to go home to sleep. Eventually, Stéphanie and I made our way into my bed, and at least one of us was in it for the next 96 hours - that's 4 days, genius.
The rest of the summer was more of the same: if we weren't at work (and, most of the time, I wasn't), out drinking, or eating, we were fucking. My birthday - and September, i.e. Fall - came along, and we realized we were, pretty much, dating.
I had bagged my Dream Girl, and she had stayed; she was mine.
And, of course, all dreams end.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Another Day, Another Armed Conflict
It's Rememberance Day here, Veterans' Day in the U.S. of A. As per every year, my thoughts are scattered; since 2003, of course, it's between Iraq - and a hard place.
Like Edwin Starr, I think war is fucked up, rarely benefits average humans, always profits those who are in no danger of getting into the line of fire.
On the other hand, though, I do feel having an army is necessary, and I do feel the need to think of our soldiers, help them any way we can, take care of them as a country, as people, as some of the bravest citizens we have.
But their duty is to defend the homeland. Against potential assaults (for now), against the eventual assaults of our enemies, and our now-allies, should they become enemies.
They have to defend us against invasion, but also protect our lives, our infrastructures, our resources, our water, our melting Northern territories that will soon unveil water passages and be rich in minerals.
And in times when none of that is happening, they can also help out in other respects - clearing the snow off Toronto's streets (ha!), or when they helped out the whole province during the Ice Storm of '98.
It's as important to have them here as it is to support them; having them elsewhere should always only be for a limited time, never more than 6 or 9 months at a time (per mission, for the whole country, not per person) - because their main duty is to the homeland.
While half of my uncles are cops, my grandfather was in the military; he didn't lose any limbs, and only came back from a war with alcoholism, which wasn't all that new in his case, just more severe. But as he came here, October 1970 came along and he followed orders: he was forced to confront people he shared opinions with and arrest them, then lock them up.
And he did it because it was his job; he didn't agree with his boss (the Prime Minister), and he almost fully agreed with the protesters (maybe not with the most extreme of them planting bombs in mailboxes, though), but he felt that if he did his job to the letter like a stand-up man, that if those he supported politically ever came to power, it would serve as proof that he would do everything he could to stand by them as well. It was a show of civil duty and civic pride.
It's people like him we have to celebrate our military for, not the wars they were in, the politicians who forced them to be there, the targets they destroyed, or the fuckers who act liek animals and ruin the rest's reputations.
Proud, stand-up people respectful of the authority figures on our home soil; strong, dedicated people who will stand in the line of fire to protect the rest of us even if one order they're following makes them tick; professionals trained to defend us with whatever they have on hand.
Like Edwin Starr, I think war is fucked up, rarely benefits average humans, always profits those who are in no danger of getting into the line of fire.
On the other hand, though, I do feel having an army is necessary, and I do feel the need to think of our soldiers, help them any way we can, take care of them as a country, as people, as some of the bravest citizens we have.
But their duty is to defend the homeland. Against potential assaults (for now), against the eventual assaults of our enemies, and our now-allies, should they become enemies.
They have to defend us against invasion, but also protect our lives, our infrastructures, our resources, our water, our melting Northern territories that will soon unveil water passages and be rich in minerals.
And in times when none of that is happening, they can also help out in other respects - clearing the snow off Toronto's streets (ha!), or when they helped out the whole province during the Ice Storm of '98.
It's as important to have them here as it is to support them; having them elsewhere should always only be for a limited time, never more than 6 or 9 months at a time (per mission, for the whole country, not per person) - because their main duty is to the homeland.
While half of my uncles are cops, my grandfather was in the military; he didn't lose any limbs, and only came back from a war with alcoholism, which wasn't all that new in his case, just more severe. But as he came here, October 1970 came along and he followed orders: he was forced to confront people he shared opinions with and arrest them, then lock them up.
And he did it because it was his job; he didn't agree with his boss (the Prime Minister), and he almost fully agreed with the protesters (maybe not with the most extreme of them planting bombs in mailboxes, though), but he felt that if he did his job to the letter like a stand-up man, that if those he supported politically ever came to power, it would serve as proof that he would do everything he could to stand by them as well. It was a show of civil duty and civic pride.
It's people like him we have to celebrate our military for, not the wars they were in, the politicians who forced them to be there, the targets they destroyed, or the fuckers who act liek animals and ruin the rest's reputations.
Proud, stand-up people respectful of the authority figures on our home soil; strong, dedicated people who will stand in the line of fire to protect the rest of us even if one order they're following makes them tick; professionals trained to defend us with whatever they have on hand.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Animal Planet
I was watching TV the other day, maybe last week, I'm not sure anymore, but it showed people swimming with dolphins. Just humans swimming with marine mammals. Mammals, together. Animals, all.
Then I thought to myself: hey, that's nice. As one species who likes to get along with other species sometimes, we really should do this more often.
Then: where did we go wrong? When did our existence begin to be all about working our asses off to make someone else richer, when we're the only animal on the planet that gives a fuck about money?
Shouldn't we just... live? Hang around, fuck around, walk around, run around...
Not: be treated like crap by a smart-ass teenager from the phone company telling us we asked for a long-distance plan last month when we haven't even called them in two years.
Not: getting shit on by our bosses for giving a customer what he rightfully deserved instead of what the company wants to give out.
Not pay half our hard-earned cash to the government and see it be wasted on giving it to their friends.
A German friend had an expression (in German) that sounded great, something along the lines of ''verfluchte scheize something something sheize something''... and it sort of meant ''fucking shit these fucking shitty fuckers have fucking shit for brains''.
That's us, as a species.
Then I thought to myself: hey, that's nice. As one species who likes to get along with other species sometimes, we really should do this more often.
Then: where did we go wrong? When did our existence begin to be all about working our asses off to make someone else richer, when we're the only animal on the planet that gives a fuck about money?
Shouldn't we just... live? Hang around, fuck around, walk around, run around...
Not: be treated like crap by a smart-ass teenager from the phone company telling us we asked for a long-distance plan last month when we haven't even called them in two years.
Not: getting shit on by our bosses for giving a customer what he rightfully deserved instead of what the company wants to give out.
Not pay half our hard-earned cash to the government and see it be wasted on giving it to their friends.
A German friend had an expression (in German) that sounded great, something along the lines of ''verfluchte scheize something something sheize something''... and it sort of meant ''fucking shit these fucking shitty fuckers have fucking shit for brains''.
That's us, as a species.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Fairytale Of New York... Ends In Tragedy
I've been listening to The Pogues' Fairytale Of New York today, over 10 times. It was cold out, bitter weather trying to bring the whole City down along with it. The sun looked grey, discoloured rays of discontent descended upon the streets, dull and unpolished, bleak. It smelled like winter, three months early.
The only thing that brought a smile to my face was the song - the saddest Christmas song ever written, ringing in my headphones.
It's a bittersweet time in the History Of Me, things are seemingly falling apart and I never know how to react to the blows that keep coming - so I just stand there and take them, like the strongest-jawed fighter in the history of boxing. And I keep standing, because it's how I was raised, even though it doesn't really make any sense to.
And the song... a duet bwteen Shane MacGowan and Kirsty MacColl - and I usually hate fucking duets!
The song was released as a single in late 1987, having appeared on the seminal Pogues record ''If I Should Fall From Grace With God'' and was an instant hit, going to #2 at the time; in years since, it has been voted Britain's 84th best song of all time, the best Christmas song ever - and even been re-released a bunch of times, all with chart success.
And yet, each time, with every listen, the spectre of Kirsty MacColl's useless death looms above it. For those who don't know, she died in 2000, in Mexico, while vacationning with her family. They had gone diving in an area where speed boats weren't allowed to venture, yet one came racing at her son as the family and their guide were surfacing. Her reflexes got the better of her, and she threw her son, Jamie, out of its path, but was hit herself and died instantly.
To this day, uncertainty looms regarding certain facts in her death, namely who was actually driving it (it was millionnaire Guillermo González Nova's boat, but he claims boathand José Cen Yam was actually manning the commands), and punishment for the accident - under Mexican law, Cen Yam took the blame and got to choose between almost three years in jail or a fine of 1034 pesos ($90 in U.S. funds). It would, technically, be conceivable for a millionnaire to give his employee the money to pay the ridiculous fine and walk away scott-free without even a blemish to his name, which led to MacColl's family launched the Justice For Kirsty campaign in response to the events surrounding her death.
So there you have it: the City has such a gloomy air nowadays that a sad Christmas song in which long-time lovers share bitterness and tenderness at once, sung by a drunken waste of talent (MacGowan) and a woman who died a horrible death that could easily have been avoided is the only thing turning the edges of my lips upwards even a little bit.
The only thing that brought a smile to my face was the song - the saddest Christmas song ever written, ringing in my headphones.
It's a bittersweet time in the History Of Me, things are seemingly falling apart and I never know how to react to the blows that keep coming - so I just stand there and take them, like the strongest-jawed fighter in the history of boxing. And I keep standing, because it's how I was raised, even though it doesn't really make any sense to.
And the song... a duet bwteen Shane MacGowan and Kirsty MacColl - and I usually hate fucking duets!
Shane: It was Christmas eve babe, In the drunk tankAnd if the lyrics weren't sad enough, there's the whole story-after-the-story...
An old man said to me: won't see another one
And then they sang a song, The rare old mountain dew
I turned my face away and dreamed about you
Got on a lucky one
Came in eighteen to one
I´ve got a feeling
This year's for me and you
So happy Christmas
I love you baby
I can see a better time
Where all our dreams come true.
Kirsty: They got cars big as bars, They got rivers of gold
But the wind goes right through you, It's no place for the old
When you first took my hand on a cold Christmas eve
You promised me Broadway was waiting for me
Shane: You were handsome, you were pretty
Queen of New York City, when the band finished playing they yelled out for more
Sinatra was swinging, all the drunks they were singing
We kissed on a corner - Then danced through the night.
Both: And the boys from the NYPD choir were singing Galway Bay
And the bells were ringing out for Christmas day.
Kirsty: You're a bum, you're a punk
Shane: You're an old slut on junk
Kirsty: Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed
You scumbag, you maggot
You cheap lousy faggot
Happy Christmas your arse, I pray God it's our last.
Both: And the boys of the NYPD choir's still singing Galway Bay
And the bells were ringing out
For Christmas day.
Shane: I could have been someone
Kirsty: Well so could anyone
You took my dreams from me, When I first found you
Shane: I kept them with me babe
I put them with my own
Can't make it out alone
I've built my dreams around you
Both: And the boys of the NYPD choir's still singing Galway Bay
And the bells were ringing out
For Christmas day.
The song was released as a single in late 1987, having appeared on the seminal Pogues record ''If I Should Fall From Grace With God'' and was an instant hit, going to #2 at the time; in years since, it has been voted Britain's 84th best song of all time, the best Christmas song ever - and even been re-released a bunch of times, all with chart success.
And yet, each time, with every listen, the spectre of Kirsty MacColl's useless death looms above it. For those who don't know, she died in 2000, in Mexico, while vacationning with her family. They had gone diving in an area where speed boats weren't allowed to venture, yet one came racing at her son as the family and their guide were surfacing. Her reflexes got the better of her, and she threw her son, Jamie, out of its path, but was hit herself and died instantly.
To this day, uncertainty looms regarding certain facts in her death, namely who was actually driving it (it was millionnaire Guillermo González Nova's boat, but he claims boathand José Cen Yam was actually manning the commands), and punishment for the accident - under Mexican law, Cen Yam took the blame and got to choose between almost three years in jail or a fine of 1034 pesos ($90 in U.S. funds). It would, technically, be conceivable for a millionnaire to give his employee the money to pay the ridiculous fine and walk away scott-free without even a blemish to his name, which led to MacColl's family launched the Justice For Kirsty campaign in response to the events surrounding her death.
So there you have it: the City has such a gloomy air nowadays that a sad Christmas song in which long-time lovers share bitterness and tenderness at once, sung by a drunken waste of talent (MacGowan) and a woman who died a horrible death that could easily have been avoided is the only thing turning the edges of my lips upwards even a little bit.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Dreams
Dreams are good to have, but are they good to strive to attain?
There are two schools of thought on the matter, one that tells you you can do or become anything you want to, if you put your mind, effort and energy to it. Many philosophers and politicians came up with terrific quotes on the matter, like the one below (click ont he pic for the full thing):
Others, who tend to call themselves realists but are often more like negativists, or just plain bummers, will tell you to live your life setting realistic goals to achieve, such as getting through the day alive, and be satisfied with that.
But what of the greater picture?
Many people mistake 'dreams' with 'aspirations'. For those idiots, it's usually a 'lifelong dream' to appear on a TV show that has been in existence for less than five years, which, obviously, makes no sense at all.
Then there are those who are so focused on their goals that they do, in fact, dream about them at times. Those people are obsessed, and other people make pills to remedy the situation (those poeple are called scientists, pharmacists, thieves and general assholes - which doesn't make them entirely wrong, by the way).
Where do I stand?
Well, I have aspirations in my everyday life, and I have dreams when I sleep. And throughout my life, it has happened that I have dreamed about my aspirations once in a while, but never so that it would rule my life.
The problem with me is that I'm a tad too cerebral: I control my dreams - 100% of the time. I direct the action, create the dialogues, and when what I come up with doesn't make sense or is just downright stupid, I tell myself, in my dream, that it's stupid and that I had better come up with something better soon or risk having wasted my time all night.
That's not the best way to recuperate, but it's how I deal with sleep. I screenwrite and direct the whole damn thing, which, while it is my aspiration, isn't about it, which doesn't make me clinically insane, according to Dr. Myself.
However, of late, I've been going to bed forcing myself to dream about a situation I would rather never happen but nonetheless think about every day. And many times, not only does it make it seem more real, but it leads me to act towards that goal in real life - and many times Life answers back that it would, indeed, be possible for it to happen.
And every time it almost does, it creates a warm, fuzzy feeling inside me, quickly followed by shame and resentment. I guess that's how it feels to be religious, to some extent.
And that's when I know I'm fucked.
There are two schools of thought on the matter, one that tells you you can do or become anything you want to, if you put your mind, effort and energy to it. Many philosophers and politicians came up with terrific quotes on the matter, like the one below (click ont he pic for the full thing):
Others, who tend to call themselves realists but are often more like negativists, or just plain bummers, will tell you to live your life setting realistic goals to achieve, such as getting through the day alive, and be satisfied with that.
But what of the greater picture?
Many people mistake 'dreams' with 'aspirations'. For those idiots, it's usually a 'lifelong dream' to appear on a TV show that has been in existence for less than five years, which, obviously, makes no sense at all.
Then there are those who are so focused on their goals that they do, in fact, dream about them at times. Those people are obsessed, and other people make pills to remedy the situation (those poeple are called scientists, pharmacists, thieves and general assholes - which doesn't make them entirely wrong, by the way).
Where do I stand?
Well, I have aspirations in my everyday life, and I have dreams when I sleep. And throughout my life, it has happened that I have dreamed about my aspirations once in a while, but never so that it would rule my life.
The problem with me is that I'm a tad too cerebral: I control my dreams - 100% of the time. I direct the action, create the dialogues, and when what I come up with doesn't make sense or is just downright stupid, I tell myself, in my dream, that it's stupid and that I had better come up with something better soon or risk having wasted my time all night.
That's not the best way to recuperate, but it's how I deal with sleep. I screenwrite and direct the whole damn thing, which, while it is my aspiration, isn't about it, which doesn't make me clinically insane, according to Dr. Myself.
However, of late, I've been going to bed forcing myself to dream about a situation I would rather never happen but nonetheless think about every day. And many times, not only does it make it seem more real, but it leads me to act towards that goal in real life - and many times Life answers back that it would, indeed, be possible for it to happen.
And every time it almost does, it creates a warm, fuzzy feeling inside me, quickly followed by shame and resentment. I guess that's how it feels to be religious, to some extent.
And that's when I know I'm fucked.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Daniel Johnston Live: A Nice Dose Of Humanity
I attended the Daniel Johnston concert at the Ukrainian Federation, basically a church, this weekend (Friday, October 16th, 2009, to be exact).
I did everything to see this show: I applied to be the opening act (and was declined because he didn't require a local opener, seeing as he's touring with his own openers who also work as his backing band for the second half of his set); then I purchased tickets - which I ended up giving away when, finally, I was hired to work security for the show.
They didn't know where to park me for this, though: they started by putting me out front to make sure the doors to the place were shut at all times, and to keep the conversation levels low for the people outside, so they don't disturb the neighbours of this residential area, who aren't used to having concerts be held at their local church.
But an acoustic/semi-rock show held in a church isn't the place where you require security in front of the stage to prevent moshing, body-surfing or injuries...
Eventually (and to my satisfaction), I was put in front of the backstage area, and my job was to make sure no one who shouldn't be allowed in to wander there. A really easy task that kept me in contact with everyone who was performing that night, from openers The Capitol Years to Mr. Johnston himself.
As a member of the staff, I was allowed free beer - and the show was co-organized my my 'arch-enemies' Pop Montreal, so - while I did remain in total control - I wasn't going to shy out on the free beverages. I likely ended up having a dozen Griffons - quality local microbrew.
Saving $80 on beer, though, I did spend cash on merchandise; I bought a vinyl from the opener, and a Daniel Johnston double-CD (one record a compilation of his songs, the second one the same songs, but by current idie musicians like the Flaming Lips, Beck and Eels), aDVD of The Devil And Daniel Johnston (a superb documentary), and was given a recyclable hand-made knit bag to stuff everything in it.
I really wanted Mr. Johnston's autograph, and two fellow fans wanted to have his picture taken with him after the show. But Johnston was just walking around everywhere, avoiding eye contact with anyone, turning around as soon as anyone would open their mouths in his direction. Like a shy child, you could say. Which, you know, fits with the character we've come to love from the documentary.
I ended up asking a member of his entourage, who said it'd be easier if we got a girl to pose with us, because he ''loves the ladies'' (can't blame him, really!), so I did manage to find one, a very friendly Pop Montreal volunteer from Brazil, but it took so long to get the star close enough for a picture that she'd left by then. But we got it made anyhow, it's the one right below, and you can see how thrilled he was... (hint: he's the one who is not looking at the camera...)
As soon as the flash came on, he was ready to just up and leave - he made a 180-degree turn and was just going to walk into the wall right behind us when I asked him if he could sign my CD. He was gracious enough to say yes, grabbing a marker from the table right next to us, signing the inside jacket of the double-digipak I mentioned earlier, then proceeded to hand me the marker back as if it was mine.
- Uh, no, sir that's yours.
- Oh, it's mine?
- Yes.
- Huh.
Then he put it back on the table and left the scene quickly.
You probably can't tell from looking at the picture of seeing him in person, but that man is quick on his feet - I'm talking Olympian Speed Walker-type speed.
What a night. It was good, it was weird, it was short and definitely sweet. Everything I expected it to be, and I got souvenirs- and saw it for free from a terrific angle.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Pearl Jam's Backspacer
It took me a month to digest it, to make sure I wasn't making a terrible judgment, a month of listening to it almost every day (and many times in a row each time).
It's a damn good record, probably their best one in a decade.
Pearl Jam usually start their records (and their live sets) with a slow song, but I guess they were in a hurry to get this one started, as Gonna See My Friend is a relatively fast-paced garage-rocker, smarter and groovier than Vitalogy's Spin The Black Circle, on par with Yield's Brain Of J. 7.5/10
Then they get into Get Some, a song they premiered on the Tonight Show with Conan O'Brien a few months ago. The album version (the mix between instruments, probably) sounds way better than the broadcast version; the guitars aren't always present and belong in the background, and NBC didn't seem to understand that, so they put them up front rather than give thema supporting role. The bass, drums and vocals should have top billing here, and they do on the CD. 8/10
The Fixer was the record's leading sigle and video (yes! they made an actual video, where they perform the song!) - not my choice as best track on the record, not even close, not even the rocking-est track on it either. But it follows the long line of PJ first singles that are made to make people not want to buy the record... but not a bad song in any way either. 7.5/10
Johnny Guitar just might be the best song on the record - the one that, years from now, will not have gotten on anyone's nerves and retain its listenability. Its premise is relatively easy - and only delivers half the story it tells, that of one girl hanging with Johnny Guitar Watson. It has (much appreciated) accents of new wave - think Elvis Costello, The Cars, The Knack... Original. And the lyrics really get to me - perfect for this summer. 9/10
Just Breathe seem staken straight from Eddie Vedder's Into The Wild soundtrack, a slow song with clear and pretty picking and no band members playing on it... 8/10
And now... Amongst The Waves. When I first saw the track list for the record, 6 months ago, way before the release of the album, I immediately thought to myself ''oh, fuck, no, not another song about the fucking ocean''. I'm all for preserving the waters, all for making music about it, but Vedder has a tendency to write his most boring songs when referring to his #1 passion - surfing. The worst of these 'water' songs has got to be Big Wave - what a waste of a riff. Well, I'm glad to say this one isn't a total failure, despite cheesy, uninspired lyrics that start the song (''what used to be a house of cards / has turned into a reservoir''). Not so bad, though, but amongst the two worst tracks of the record, despite Vedder's voice being in fine form. 6.5/10
Unthought Known sounds like a tribute to the Yield record: it starts off sounding like Wishlist and evolves into Given To Fly - improving on both at the same time. Maybe now we can have this one during live shows instead of the other two - and get an extra song to pump our fists to. 9/10
Supersonic brings me back to Mankind, the Stone Gossard-penned-and-sung track I didn't like from No Code. Except that now, I don't mind it so much. 7/10
Speed Of Sound is another one I was scared of by the title alone - would it be a cover of Coldplay's boring epic, or even just in the same vein? It starts off with keys, so that's not a good sign. At least it builds a bit to the first chorus, but then it lets you down again with a complete break before the verse starts again - and you're reminded that it isn't over yet. ''Waiting on a word that never comes'', Vedder sings. You know what? I'll wait for it in the next song. 5/10
Force Of Nature sounds like a 70s throwback, mixed with subdued new wave effects, but Vedder's delivery transcends it - despite ''one man stands at the edge of the ocean'' and other nature-and-water-inspired themes. 7/10
The End - not a cover of the Jim Morrison epic about incest and death. The third slow song on the record, the most original of all - with a strings section, a plaintive vocal melody, typical Vedder lyrics (without the water theme) - and it ends, fittingly, with the cryptic words ''I'm here, but not for much longer'', leaving you to wonder if it's the band's (long rumoured) farewell, or just a break before the next release. 8/10
I don't know if you're a math genius, that that makes a total of 11 songs, clocking in barly over a half hour, with an average rating of 7.5...
But Pearl Jam being Pearl Jam, that's nowhere close to the grade I give this record: 8.5. All the songs fit with one another, they mesh into each other so well, and the overall result is greater than the sum of its parts.
Backspacer fits right up there in the band's Top 5 records:
1. No Code
2. Vs
3. Yield
4. Ten (Redux)
5. Backspacer
It's a damn good record, probably their best one in a decade.
Pearl Jam usually start their records (and their live sets) with a slow song, but I guess they were in a hurry to get this one started, as Gonna See My Friend is a relatively fast-paced garage-rocker, smarter and groovier than Vitalogy's Spin The Black Circle, on par with Yield's Brain Of J. 7.5/10
Then they get into Get Some, a song they premiered on the Tonight Show with Conan O'Brien a few months ago. The album version (the mix between instruments, probably) sounds way better than the broadcast version; the guitars aren't always present and belong in the background, and NBC didn't seem to understand that, so they put them up front rather than give thema supporting role. The bass, drums and vocals should have top billing here, and they do on the CD. 8/10
The Fixer was the record's leading sigle and video (yes! they made an actual video, where they perform the song!) - not my choice as best track on the record, not even close, not even the rocking-est track on it either. But it follows the long line of PJ first singles that are made to make people not want to buy the record... but not a bad song in any way either. 7.5/10
Johnny Guitar just might be the best song on the record - the one that, years from now, will not have gotten on anyone's nerves and retain its listenability. Its premise is relatively easy - and only delivers half the story it tells, that of one girl hanging with Johnny Guitar Watson. It has (much appreciated) accents of new wave - think Elvis Costello, The Cars, The Knack... Original. And the lyrics really get to me - perfect for this summer. 9/10
Just Breathe seem staken straight from Eddie Vedder's Into The Wild soundtrack, a slow song with clear and pretty picking and no band members playing on it... 8/10
And now... Amongst The Waves. When I first saw the track list for the record, 6 months ago, way before the release of the album, I immediately thought to myself ''oh, fuck, no, not another song about the fucking ocean''. I'm all for preserving the waters, all for making music about it, but Vedder has a tendency to write his most boring songs when referring to his #1 passion - surfing. The worst of these 'water' songs has got to be Big Wave - what a waste of a riff. Well, I'm glad to say this one isn't a total failure, despite cheesy, uninspired lyrics that start the song (''what used to be a house of cards / has turned into a reservoir''). Not so bad, though, but amongst the two worst tracks of the record, despite Vedder's voice being in fine form. 6.5/10
Unthought Known sounds like a tribute to the Yield record: it starts off sounding like Wishlist and evolves into Given To Fly - improving on both at the same time. Maybe now we can have this one during live shows instead of the other two - and get an extra song to pump our fists to. 9/10
Supersonic brings me back to Mankind, the Stone Gossard-penned-and-sung track I didn't like from No Code. Except that now, I don't mind it so much. 7/10
Speed Of Sound is another one I was scared of by the title alone - would it be a cover of Coldplay's boring epic, or even just in the same vein? It starts off with keys, so that's not a good sign. At least it builds a bit to the first chorus, but then it lets you down again with a complete break before the verse starts again - and you're reminded that it isn't over yet. ''Waiting on a word that never comes'', Vedder sings. You know what? I'll wait for it in the next song. 5/10
Force Of Nature sounds like a 70s throwback, mixed with subdued new wave effects, but Vedder's delivery transcends it - despite ''one man stands at the edge of the ocean'' and other nature-and-water-inspired themes. 7/10
The End - not a cover of the Jim Morrison epic about incest and death. The third slow song on the record, the most original of all - with a strings section, a plaintive vocal melody, typical Vedder lyrics (without the water theme) - and it ends, fittingly, with the cryptic words ''I'm here, but not for much longer'', leaving you to wonder if it's the band's (long rumoured) farewell, or just a break before the next release. 8/10
I don't know if you're a math genius, that that makes a total of 11 songs, clocking in barly over a half hour, with an average rating of 7.5...
But Pearl Jam being Pearl Jam, that's nowhere close to the grade I give this record: 8.5. All the songs fit with one another, they mesh into each other so well, and the overall result is greater than the sum of its parts.
Backspacer fits right up there in the band's Top 5 records:
1. No Code
2. Vs
3. Yield
4. Ten (Redux)
5. Backspacer
Monday, October 5, 2009
I Hate Moving
I hate fucking moving. Everything about it. Yet I can't escape it, it's been with me all my life. By the time I was a year old, ONE, I had already moved, probably more than once. By the time I was three, I'd moved again. Five? Moved. Six was fine, but seven? Moved. Twice.
That was the beginning of a sequence where we'd move either six times in five years or five in six, I'm not sure, but always in the same neighbourhood - all within a few blocks.
And then... all through high school... just one house. The house of my dreams, as it were, with a basement, a main floor that housed a living room (with a fireplace), a dining room, a kitchen, a toilet and a large vestibule (in addition to front and back porches), and a second floor that had three rooms, a front porch and a back veranda. Old, natural wood - everywhere.
But as soon as high school was over, more moving. A year across from NDG park where, younger, I'd spent most of my days playing hockey in the winter and baseball in the summer - and hanging with my dope-dealing friends. Then a year back on Melrose - across the street from my dream house - a tease, as it were.
Then my apartment in the Plateau - the one that good flooded when the Ice Storm hit, in January of '98.
Then came, more or less, a series of more-or-less crashing at people's places and couch-surfing that led me everywhere from Île Perrot to NYC to Pointe-Aux-Trembles to the Plateau again (with many a night in Ste-Julie), before settling in in the neighbourhood I am in now, just in time for New Year's 2000...
But, of course, staying in the same 'hood doesn't mean I didn't change apartments... De Rouen, Logan, Fullum, Joliette, Ontario...5 places in a little over 9 years. And unless something drastic and dramatic happens in the relatively near future, it looks like I'll have to move again in the next 6 months or so.
And moving's such a bitch on some many levels. Packing and unpacking (for a while, I just left most of my stuff in boxes 'cause I knew I'd be out of there before long), either getting people to help out or finding movers, who always happen to cost close to the same as the first month's rent.
And now, after years of alternating living on my own, with roommates, with girlfriends - I have more furniture than my cats and I need, and a whole floor of things I care more about than furniture packed in boxes because I have no room for them on the main floor. And, ironically, that's the stuff I'm trying to get rid of, to sell - everything I have that has some value and that doesn't fit as decoration on my walls and desks. And they're in boxes already, yeah, but I'm no longer sure if all the good stuff's in its own box or if it's mixed with the more common useless stuff, and the only way to find out is to open and empty the boxes...
A few years back, I tried to clear my head and be able to get rid of most of my material possessions. I had over 3000 CDs and 4 guitars, and was so proud of them; I couldn't imagine myself leaving them behind. Now, with the advent of 1TB hard drives, who needs CDs when a backsack of hard drives can house even more music than that? But then, what do I do with the CDs themselves, with the thousands of dollars I put in them?
But I can slip a few hard drives in a bag, and carry an electric and an acoustic guitar and be on my merry way, with little attachments, should the need arise. All I need to do, if I can, is get rid of my other electric and my bass - and my keyboard. That used to bother me, but no longer.
If I could sell my superfluous stuff, maybe I'd buy a laptop and move back to NYC, or couch-surf for a few months. Or head to Gaspésie and shack up for winter. But with a protable computer, portable music, and a couple of guitars, I think I could be happy and make do with anything that would arise.
I think.
I hope.
That was the beginning of a sequence where we'd move either six times in five years or five in six, I'm not sure, but always in the same neighbourhood - all within a few blocks.
And then... all through high school... just one house. The house of my dreams, as it were, with a basement, a main floor that housed a living room (with a fireplace), a dining room, a kitchen, a toilet and a large vestibule (in addition to front and back porches), and a second floor that had three rooms, a front porch and a back veranda. Old, natural wood - everywhere.
But as soon as high school was over, more moving. A year across from NDG park where, younger, I'd spent most of my days playing hockey in the winter and baseball in the summer - and hanging with my dope-dealing friends. Then a year back on Melrose - across the street from my dream house - a tease, as it were.
Then my apartment in the Plateau - the one that good flooded when the Ice Storm hit, in January of '98.
Then came, more or less, a series of more-or-less crashing at people's places and couch-surfing that led me everywhere from Île Perrot to NYC to Pointe-Aux-Trembles to the Plateau again (with many a night in Ste-Julie), before settling in in the neighbourhood I am in now, just in time for New Year's 2000...
But, of course, staying in the same 'hood doesn't mean I didn't change apartments... De Rouen, Logan, Fullum, Joliette, Ontario...5 places in a little over 9 years. And unless something drastic and dramatic happens in the relatively near future, it looks like I'll have to move again in the next 6 months or so.
And moving's such a bitch on some many levels. Packing and unpacking (for a while, I just left most of my stuff in boxes 'cause I knew I'd be out of there before long), either getting people to help out or finding movers, who always happen to cost close to the same as the first month's rent.
And now, after years of alternating living on my own, with roommates, with girlfriends - I have more furniture than my cats and I need, and a whole floor of things I care more about than furniture packed in boxes because I have no room for them on the main floor. And, ironically, that's the stuff I'm trying to get rid of, to sell - everything I have that has some value and that doesn't fit as decoration on my walls and desks. And they're in boxes already, yeah, but I'm no longer sure if all the good stuff's in its own box or if it's mixed with the more common useless stuff, and the only way to find out is to open and empty the boxes...
A few years back, I tried to clear my head and be able to get rid of most of my material possessions. I had over 3000 CDs and 4 guitars, and was so proud of them; I couldn't imagine myself leaving them behind. Now, with the advent of 1TB hard drives, who needs CDs when a backsack of hard drives can house even more music than that? But then, what do I do with the CDs themselves, with the thousands of dollars I put in them?
But I can slip a few hard drives in a bag, and carry an electric and an acoustic guitar and be on my merry way, with little attachments, should the need arise. All I need to do, if I can, is get rid of my other electric and my bass - and my keyboard. That used to bother me, but no longer.
If I could sell my superfluous stuff, maybe I'd buy a laptop and move back to NYC, or couch-surf for a few months. Or head to Gaspésie and shack up for winter. But with a protable computer, portable music, and a couple of guitars, I think I could be happy and make do with anything that would arise.
I think.
I hope.
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