A “Hanger-On” in Paradise

A sad fact of my life is that many of my happiest years are just a blur to me and I rely on people who were there to remind me of what they were like.

I got my job as a DJ at The Sandy Cove Cabaret during an unexpected Boxing Day rush. I just started spinning tunes when the bartender was unable to do so. What I didn’t know at that time was that being the club’s DJ also meant I had to mix the bands as well. I managed.

Thinking back on my “entrance” to the bar music scene I often wonder what the hell was I doing DJing on Boxing Day? Surely there was family about, other close ones to be with. The rush that night also meant that there were a lot of other people like me who wanted to be “out” that night. They became fellow travellers in a dark world.

I half-mananged to climb out of the hole that began developing back then. Today, I look back fondly at the music I heard in those days, the bands, the comraderie the bands felt…

Today, I seek not to re-capture the old feelings those old memories release, but to create new memories with a new crowd amongst old faces. I am The Aging Rockstar and I love every new minute of it.

Black Betty @ The Railway Club, April 5, 2008

Black Betty @ The Railway Club – April 5, 2008

 

There is an ancient myth that tells us that man and woman were originally one being: four legs, four arms, two heads, two hearts. But the gods witnessed the great strength of men and women together and severed them forever. Now, we walk the Earth, seeking our “other half” to regain the strength the gods feared so greatly. Let this stand as a warning to the gods: Jonas and Ana have found each other and they make the Earth rumble.

Jonas Fairley and Ana Serena, collectively known as Black Betty, started the rumble in the fall of 2005. She was an avid metal fan and he had some musical ideas that never made it into the repertoire of his previous band, Sir Hedgehog.

I’ve known Jonas for about 17 years, having met him during the glory days of West Vancouver’s (now defunct) Sandy Cove Cabaret. I was fronting Drag the River and Jonas was keeping the beat for Upper Levels (Jonas would later join up with Paul Slater, Drag the River’s guitar player, and the rhythm section from The Binge to form Sir Hedgehog). Those were the days.  We were old enough to know, too young to care, and completely indifferent to terrible clichés in music reviews.

I’m excited about going to The Railway Club tonight. I haven’t been in a while and I always enjoy myself. Everyone goes to The Railway Club. Tonight the bar is packed with the crowd I suppose I’d expected: those with a feeling of what “cool” is without being told. There are girls with sleeve tattoos, men and women with spikes on their wrists and heads, and university type aesthetes with a sense of garage chic that might be the only thing that keeps them going. Out on the deck, I have a smoke beside a fashion original who wears a black bandana and what appears to be a sniper’s gilly suit designed by Betsy Johnson.

I sit and have a couple drinks with Jonas before his set. He is searching for the “fire in the gut” before he plays. I figure this is both literal and metaphorical. I have seen Jonas play many times and he uses his drums like a spelunker uses a karabiner - he takes them to deep dark places then treats them like shit, always trusting that they will bring him home again. The literal gut fire is stoked by Mark Tompkins, the one-time singer of Upper Levels, and a round of tequila shots. The three of us discuss the pros and cons of the upcoming Pemberton Music Festival (Jonas, Mark, and I share the distinction of having played a show where someone died, not too far from the Pemberton Festival site).  

Jonas and Ana take the stage. After a quick glance and a smile, Jonas announces that this is their first gig in “5 years,” garnering a good chuckle from the assembled audience. I notice that ex- Sandy Cover, Ian Ferguson, has arrived. He has lost his 90s hair and hands me a real estate business card but as soon as Black Betty kicks in, I see his head begin to bounce and I know that Ian can still mix live, off-the-floor with the best of them.

Black Betty pound through an impressive set. Ana’s guitar plays like a poor man’s pipe bomb – it is cold, hard, dirty metal that rips through you at the speed of sound. I am constantly pleasantly surprised at the amount of sound that today’s 2-pieces are generating. It is as though they have found the secret recipe to strip away all the garbage the late 70s and 80s added to music. It is stripped down and fast, an avalanche that lasts for forty-five minutes.

Jonas wails into the mic from behind his drums. He manages to combine Ozzy, Bruce Dickinson, and an odd dash of Roger Hodgeson. Halfway through the set his shirt disappears, normal for Jonas. He’s not necessarily a nudist, but definitely a naturalist behind the kit. After the set, he laments that he is not as ripped as he was in the days when he first started playing but for my two-cents worth, he’s still looking pretty good.

As for looking good, there is nothing sexier than a woman who knows how to handle an SG and, after the set, the smoking deck is filled with wide-eyed metal fans gushing about “that girl rocking out!”

I say my good-byes and catch the last bus home. The last bus “home,” however, doesn’t get me all the way there and I find myself walking along the most dangerous strip of West Vancouver’s Marine Drive at two in the morning. As I approach another blind corner, I feel no fear. I think back to Black Betty’s set: a madman drummer and stoic guitarist who plays her Gibson like a loaded AK-47. After surviving that, there’s not much left to rattle you on a dark, empty street.

10 Reasons Why The Hotel Lobbyists Don’t Suck

1) Their live show kicks ass.

2) “Dalia” starts as a heart-wrenching ballad and ends with the best rawk ‘n’ roll “Woo Hoo” of the last 40 years.

3) The bass player plays with Shiloh Lindsey.

4) The Hotel Lobbyists is a wicked name for a band.

5) They like animals (well, animals on t-shirts but that’s got to count for something).

6) “Line Red” should be on the Easy Rider soundtrack.

7) They’re contemplating a gig on the same weekend as the Pemberton Music Festival (This means two things: that they know that music is about music and not booze, drugs, and sex with strangers, and they know what after-parties are for).

8 ) Lyrics like: “This city is full of B-Movie kings / pawn shop diamonds and promise rings.”

9) They look good naked (This one I am just assuming but I’ll ask around and get back to you on this one.)

10) They are really good guys who care about the scene.

 

The Hotel Lobbyists:

April 18, 2008 @ Pat’s Pub w/ Owl Drugs and TBA

May 30, 2008 @ The Railway Club w/ The Smokes and Parlour Steps

July 25, 2008 @ The Bilmore w/ Cadaver Dogs and The Zip Guns

Paint w/ Dawntreader, Cinderpop, and The Hermit (The Media Club) & Raised by Apes (The Cobalt), March 28, 2008

          I started the evening at The Media Club. Actually, that’s not true. I started the evening at The Square Rigger Pub watching the Canucks get their asses handed to them, again. After a short bus ride, I arrived downtown and as I was about to cross Hamilton Street, I spied Greg Williams of Hinterland at the corner. Greg and I were both heading to The Media Club. He’s sitting in on bass with Paint tonight. Arriving at The Media Club, I managed to skirt the cover charge again (oops) and started chatting with the boys from The Hermit.

Hamish, Duane, Jon, Robb, and I talk about the “old” days (The Sandy Cove, Big Tall Garden, Gonch Messiah, Drag The River), the “new” days (Hermit gigs on CBC Radio 2, The Black Door, The Pack A.D.(April 11, The Biltmore)), and the possibility of a Sandy Cove reunion. Apparently, Hamish and Ian Ferguson, The Cove’s old soundman and my predecessor, are in the same “Mommy, er, Daddy” group and they have been chatting with some of the guys from Mushroom Trail about getting together for a one-off. I suggested we use it as a fundraiser to fly Paul (the guitarist from Drag the River, my old outfit) in from back east for a one-night, Drag the River Reunion Tour. The high point of the conversation for me is finding out that Big Tall Garden are going back into the studio. This is like telling a little kid that everyday will be Christmas from now on. Sweet.

The Hermit takes the stage for the first time sans Alison (Paper Moon (May 22, The Park Theatre, Winnipeg)) and Red takes up the mantle easily. She’s a little nervous (though she needn’t be) and gives herself a smack in the kisser with the mic but shrugs it off with a smile and a raised eyebrow without missing a note. I mention it only as one of those split second awkward moments that are endearing and make you smile. She isn’t filling anyone’s shoes tonight: she is standing gracefully in her own.

I really enjoy watching this band play. Jon is an amazing bass player whose on-stage persona is not unlike his off-stage self except that, when playing, he looks as though he is getting a wicked back massage (This description reads slightly different in my notes but this is a family publication after all…). Duane looks a little bit like the combination of a hip scarecrow and a funky bowl of Jell-O with a current running through it. Watching him play, I often wonder if he is playing the music or if the music is playing him.  Robb masters his keyboards, moving easily from instrument to instrument, including a little melodica, the likes of which has been used by generations of children to annoy parents and turn babysitters suicidal. In this case, however, it adds beautifully to the mix. Phil Spectre can eat his heart out: there are no holes in this wall of sound. And Hamish? Well, Hamish is the quintessential drummer. ‘Nuff said.

I duck out of The Media Club about 3/4 of the way through The Hermit’s set for a brisk, 10 minute walk to The Cobalt to catch a bit of Raised By Apes’ set.

I have always felt that punk is truly the working man’s music and my belief is buttressed by the Raised By Apes’ van parked outside The Cobalt. The back of the van is adorned with stickers from bands like Bad Religion and Pennywise and a decal advertising “Nelson Automatic Lawn Sprinklers.”

The set is tight. Perhaps too tight for a punk band, but punk has evolved from the days when some people played it because it was all they could play (Stooges, Sex Pistols, I’m looking at you here…), to the point where it is a viable music genre that talented musicians choose to play. For my money at least, every good punk band has had (Oh my God. Is he going to say it?) a good pop sensibility.

Raised By Apes are breaking in a new guitar player, Mike, tonight and he seems to be fitting in nicely. They power through a great set, including “Snaggletooth,” my fav, and a number of politically charged future-anthems. Feeling I’ve had enough exercise for one day, I flag down a cab and hightail it back to The Media Club.

I arrive as Cinderpop are starting their set. It is straight out rawk ‘n’ roll and a joy to partake. They are the first outfit I’ve seen in a while with two Telecasters out front. Strats and Les Pauls seem to float from genre to genre but the Telecaster is one of those guitars, like a Flying V or Rickenbacker, that say a lot about a band before a note is plucked. Their set is one of those prolonged moments where the beer tastes colder and you’re glad that you’re among friends. It is shaping up to be a great evening.

During the break, I plug the upcoming The Pack A.D. show to anyone who’ll listen and a couple who don’t.

I knew I was going to like Dawntreader when, after a couple songs into their set, an audience member yells out that they’re “pretty good” and front man, Matthew Thomas, replies, “Heh, we’re alright.” Watching him on-stage reminded me of a pre-Krall Elvis Costello, stiff-legged and on tip-toes. Their guitar player had a pedal box the size of a medium Korg at his feet between his guitar and his tube-driven Fender Deluxe amp, but unlike a lot of guitarists, he doesn’t hide behind his pedals. There are moments when his guitar is an audio picture of a little kid, gazing out the window while the teacher talks about boring shit, only to come railing back to cut you, hard. He reminds me of The Edge; however, like The Edge, his sound is distinctive. I buy one of their CDs from the merch table and score a freebie of the new album from the lead singer. You’ve got to love business cards.

Paint were supposed to go on around twelve but this world runs on rock ‘n’ roll time, a strange cosmic paradox where everything moves faster but nothing  ever happens on time. The crowd has thinned when they take the stage and the band thanks us for “sticking around.” I, for one, am very glad that I did. It’s a good set and a great sound. For some reason I still can’t place, they kind of remind me of The Northern Pikes. This is strange and a little bit troubling seeing as how Paint have talent and reasonable haircuts. Still, there is something in the sound that is reminiscent, perhaps, of style. I am certain, however, that any of the deserved success enjoyed by Paint will be the result of talent and good hair, not a mad rush to sign anyone with a maple leaf on their guitar case because of impending CanCon legislation.

I finished the night with another brisk jog, to the bus stop this time. I managed to catch the last bus with seconds to spare after running into a creepy old lady with one eye. I secretly worried that she was going to tell me I’d be King of Scotland one day but that never came to pass.

A beautiful blonde sat beside me on the bus. She smelled wonderful (no small feat for anyone at this time of the night/morning). I was just about to say hello until she took out a pair of scissors and started cleaning her fingernails. No great loss anyway. I had a review to write and the beautiful women of this city would just have to wait until I am done.

There.

Bring on the ladies.

  

The Long Haul to Wellness

My doctors have decided that they don’t want me to die. I concur. My health isn’t really all that bad but I am reaching that point where if I don’t start caring about my health, a few years from now it will be way too late to do anything about it.

Apparently this means that I have to stop drinking Coca-Cola, cut down on my beer intake, and quit smoking. Shit. One at a time those’d be hard enough but all at once? Never happen. I’m going to start with exercise, get off this ass of mine and start a scheduled workout. My doctor figures that 30 minutes, three times a week will be good to start. Easy for him to say.

With the impending start to a scheduled exercise program, I have decided that it might be time to get back into a mental regimen as well. This basically means writing everyday. Only problem with this is that I don’t have anything terribly interesting to say all the time (this blog entry being the evidence of that). I have always taken issue with the general state of blogs: so much self-absorbed logorrhoea about pets and trips to the doctor, er, trips to the mall, ahem.

So, if I do keep up the writing, I endeavour to make it interesting and topical, not that anyone actually reads these things anyway.

 Baron S. Cameron,

The Aging Rockstar