The Dreadnoughts (w/ Second-rate Rejects), The Balmoral Pub/Hotel, Vancouver, BC

I have never really been a big fan of pirates. This probably has something to do with my kindergarten class, in which, the children who needed special help were known as “The Pirates’ Club.” To this day, I still equate pirates with short buses and blunt-nosed scissors (needless to say, the movie, “The Goonies”, didn’t do much to revert these feelings). Tonight, however, I am looking to change these old prejudices.
Where else would one expect to find a band of pirates but in a charming dive, located firmly in the underbelly of a beautiful port city? I am at The Balmoral Hotel on East Hastings tonight and I am here to see The Dreadnoughts play.
The Dreadnoughts first sailed on to my radar in October of 2007 when I saw their fiddle player, Seamus O’Flanahan, playing with The Town Pants at The Cambie Pub. His skill and style really put the hooks in me that night and I promised myself I’d go see The Dreadnoughts play the first chance I got.
To say that the pub in The Balmoral Hotel is “interesting” isn’t quite sufficient. The bartender had me pegged the second I walked in. Despite my best efforts to not look like I had just come from tutoring in the British Properties, in a bar with 12 customers, it isn’t difficult to pick out someone who isn’t a regular.
“You’re here for the show?” she asks, the owner eyeing me sceptically from his chair behind the bar.
“Um… yeah.” I order “anything that looks and tastes like a beer” and settle in.
The pre-show consists of an overweight girl doing a clothed (I use that term loosely though her clothes were anything but) strip routine on the dancer floor. It is strangely titillating though some people really shouldn’t do cartwheels.
I run into the owner again in the smoking room. He’s an unhappy man. He strikes me as a bachelor, allergic to cats, who has just moved in with his two unmarried aunts. He may have bought this bed but I am fairly certain he doesn’t like to sleep in it.
The first band up is Second-rate Rejects from Maple Ridge. Their music isn’t for everybody, but you won’t catch the Roxy crowd down here anyways. People go to the Roxy to get it in. People listen to bands like Second-rate Rejects to get it out. Besides, angst will never go out of style.
After their set, I talk to Fuzzy Roes, the lead guitarist, in the smoking room. We chat about bands that need to be seen (Athica, Ninja Spy, Likely Rads, and Alien Nation) and about 30 seconds into our conversation, I am guessing that “Fuzzy” might just be a gig-night, neurological statement as opposed to a physical one.
The Dreadnoughts climb up on stage (literally) and kick into their set. Their MySpace profile describes them as “Rancid’s tour bus […] hijacked by a horde of drunken gypsies” and it’s a description not far from the mark. After a couple of songs, their lead singer, Nicky Dread, proclaims that “Celtic music is okay but I sure love this punk stuff.” The crowd loves it too. They bounce in front of the stage like they’re standing on a seizure-wracked trampoline, complete with the Mohawk sporting members roaming the mass with elbows and knees uplifted in that “walk” common to all mosh pit veterans.
The music is a tight hybrid of classic punk and Celtic seafaring songs. And, like many bands of their genre, the music and stage show are imbued with a real sense of humour and honest fun. Despite the fact that some of the saddest songs ever penned can be played on a fiddle and mandolin, their inclusion in a punk band seems to quell any nihilism that may be lurking. Any band that titles a song “Mary, the One-Eyed Prostitute, Who Fought the Colossal Squid and Saved Us from Certain Death on the High Seas, God Rest Her One-Eyed Soul” doesn’t take themselves too seriously and are, therefore, a joy to watch on stage.
Though many of their fans admitted to missing the show due to its location, The Dreadnoughts and The Balmoral have a certain zeitgeist when combined. Graffiti above the urinal in The Balmoral’s washroom reads: Laugh now - pay later. Sounds like a pirate motto if I ever heard one…yar!

For more info and concert listings, check out The Dreadnoughts’ MySpace site @ www.myspace.com/vancitydreadnoughts

Parlour Steps - Pat’s Pub/Patricia Hotel, Vancouver, BC

Though the main drag (Hastings) looks a little like a demilitarized zone, there is inherently nothing truly frightening about walking these streets. My greatest concern tonight is figuring out how I’m going to find my way back to the car, safely parked in the maze that is Strathcona.

I get to Pat’s Pub (405 East Hastings) a little too early, accidentally avoiding the evening’s cover charge, and find a suitable table. It’s a nice place, probably not the best, but full of its own charm. Patrons sit and watch the Keno board as if it were the Superbowl game but they mind their business if you mind yours. Looking around the room, I see a lot of Carharts and tooques, the calling cards of the working man. I like these places. There’s the occassional fraud looking for a mark but his is an honest lie, often far better than those told by the owners of BMWs and Mercs that fill my neighbourhood.

The stage is empty and it looks as though it will be soundcheck on the fly tonight. Around 8:30, some guitar cases start showing up and the soundgirl (PC alert?) starts to set up. I retire to the smoking room and walk straight into a conversation that can’t be avoided: drunk working man vs. the too-cool-for-school “little punks” (working man’s words).

I’ve known Rees Haynes (Parlour Steps’ guitar player) since my days as a burgeoning rock star and didn’t know about Parlour Steps until I was invited to join their “group” on Facebook. I checked out their MySpace and decided I needed to hear them live. I was not disappointed.

To talk with them, they are a friendly bunch and not inflicted with the pious disaffection that accompanies some indie bands. Their bass player, Julie Bavalis, proudly wears an old A&W Rootbeer shirt she purchsed on Ebay for $6 (she admits later that she may have a bit of an Ebay problem) and is genuinely charming.

To see them on stage, they look/feel a bit like the Dandy Warhols, except their lead singer, Caleb Stull, doesn’t come across as a pretentious fuckhead.

To hear them on stage is a long-awaited delight. Parlour Steps are tight and expertly driven by the nonchalant, yet intense, drumming of Ron Linton. They have added (officially tonight) Alison Mara on keyboards. The set is great. Probably more “artsy” than rebellious, the songs are arranged in such a way that Stull could be singing about teddy bear genocide and you’d still have to tap your foot in time. Bavalis’ backing vocals add warm, floating feeling to their sound.

The band moves together but aren’t choreographed in any strict manner; they feel the music they play and pass it along nicely. The intersong chat is friendly and light and the band doesn’t seem to take offense when I ask that they don’t play my favourite song until  I get back from the bathroom. Not an unreasonable request I suppose, but still best not yelled over the crowd as I manage to do with all my grace and charm. Before ending their set with “Thieves of Memory,” Rees checks the audience to ensure that I have returned so they can finish their set.

All in all, it was a great night of fun and music and I am glad that I dragged myself down to watch. You should too, should you get the chance.

 For more info and concert listings, check out Parlour Steps’ MySpace page @ www.myspace.com/parloursteps

The “Hot or Cold?” Coffee Conversation

My fingers are freezing as I write this.

With that being said, I would still rather be too cold than too hot. It has always been my belief that if you are too cold (within reason; I’m not talking Antarctica here) there is something you can do about it: put on a coat, run around in circles, etc. Whereas, if you are too hot, unless you have a conveniently placed lake at your disposal, you’re fucked.

I am currently sitting outside at a favourite coffee joint and it is cold. Granted, it’s Vancouver cold, but the reason they call it “Vancouver cold” is it freezes Vancouverites. Hovering around zero degrees centrigrade may seem like a brisk chill to some in the world but for those of us out here in Lotus Land, it’s cold.

A conversation with a pretty, young blonde just ended. She wants to clear up all her debt and move to Honduras. She doesn’t want a closet or dresser. All she needs, so she says, is a bikini, a tank top, and a sarong. Personally, I can’t think of anything worse; cooking things makes them soft. Perhaps that is why New Yorkers have their trademark tough skin and the denizens of the City of Angels throw a temper tamtrum and threaten to sue someone if their latte isn’t the perfect temperature.

The steaming jungles of Africa and Central America may be filled with “hardened” killers, but if you check the labels on their gear, it invariably originates in the frozen climates of the Warsaw Pact countries. In other words, heat brings passion but cold, hard steel is required for any job to be done properly.  

Wouldn’t be nice to just lounge around in the sun all day like so many raisins? Perhaps, but I think there is an inherent freedom in those of us who thrive in the cold. We are forced to create our own heat; therefore, we never sink into the true duldrums that a real paradise would most certainly spawn.

New Rules for “Cool”

The next person who uses “random” as a buzz word will be shot at dawn with a ball of their own shit. Here beginneth the rant.

When did “cool” cease to be a subjective thing? What ever happened to self assurance and personal style? When did a logo and a price tag take over as the means to being “cool”? It all happened a long time ago. I happened, in fact, on the very day I ceased to be “cool.”

In high school, I was the rebel leading his own pack. I was the front man for a hard rock band and had a lot of sex while doing so. My writing has been published, my screenplays produced, and my overly biased opinion taken for law in more bars than I can count. Now it seems as if my Chuck Taylors are either too new or too dirty, depending on which “never tell anyone my age” party girl happens to comment.

A 15 year-old kid accused me of killing Kurt Cobain. What the fuck? How could a kid who wasn’t even sperm when I was buying “Bleach” possilby know what I did or didn’t have to do with Cobain’s demise?

I think it comes down to the erasure of history. Every snot-nosed, little fucker in a Black Sabbath shirt is, as far as he is concerned, doing it “for the first time.” By comparison, I look like a geek because I’m some “old dude” acting like him (*Note: Check the date on your birth certificate there bub and you’ll note that I never stopped doing what you’re attempting). If he’d pick up a book (another of my old-man-at-35, geek habits) once in a while, he might come across The Genealogy of Morals and realize that only the vulgar need to tell or be told how cool they are.

The Town Pants: Ten Year Anniversary Show - November 24th, 2007 @ The Commodore Ballroom

“The Last Waltz” is considered by many to be the best concert film of all time (unless, of course, your name is Levon and Robbie Robertson picks your ass). Beyond that, the film enjoys a deserved spot on my short list of  “Great Films of All Time” (Of course, I write all of this before seeing the DVD The Town Pants are shooting tonight so that list could radically change with its release). Scorsese is a technically adept and passionate director. Likewise, The Pants are technically adept and passionate musicians. As with Scorsese, this allows them to do almost anything they choose – anything.

Tonight a thousand people and I are going to try to cram ourselves into Vancouver’s Commodore Ballroom to celebrate the 10 Year Anniversary of The Town Pants and the release party for their new CD, “Coming Home.”

Ten years is a very long time, at least it has been for me. In those 10 years, I pulled myself out of the criminal streets and went to university. In those 10 years I wrote tens of tens of thousands of words for good or ill. In those 10 years I met the love of my life. After those 10 years, I figured it was about time to pay to see The Town Pants play.

I haven’t been in The Commodore Ballroom since my After-Grad party, 17 years ago. Eek. It is exactly what you would expect a “ballroom” to look like, though it seemed a lot bigger back then. Generally, a “ballroom” is where drink and dance meet. Tonight, they will meet with a passion.

As is seemingly always the case, I run into Aaron Chapman (mandolin, tin whistle, vocals) first. He wears a Pogues shirt and jeans (not his usual stage style which is, more often than not, impeccable classic punk chic) but I figure after ten years the guy deserves to wear what he wants. We chat briefly before he disappears into the crowd to deliver a backstage pass to one of their photographers. His only concern seemed to be that The Pants have bitten off more than they can chew by booking the 990 seat Commodore for their party.

A little before 9:00 o’clock, I go outside for a smoke and see that a line up is forming and the doormen are becoming doormen. The girlfriend of one of the band members (I think he was RUN GMC’s bass player) is stuck outside without a ticket. As is often the case with some band girlfriends, she spent the evening helping out and then gets stuck outside because she went for a smoke right before the band started playing. She gets back in after a few “important sounding,” walkie-talkie conversations.

I come back inside and a quick look around the room belies that the number of people sitting at tables wouldn’t fill the dance floor. I shoot back what’s left of my beer and make a short prayer to the gods of music that Chapman’s fears are unfounded.

RUN GMC take the stage and they look exactly as I’d expected. It’s wonderful. I visited their MySpace site earlier today and loved what I heard. I am not a huge fan of Country music but figure that any band that can play “Will the Circle Be Unbroken” the way that they do is worthy of my respect.

The set is tight and fun although the crowd could have used a bit more time to drink. By the middle of the set, the crowd has joined in and the band is joined onstage by a hillbilly “cousin.” He reminds me of Bez (except with moonshine instead of ecstasy) from The Happy Mondays, or more recently, Whitestarr’s male go-go dancer, Tony Potato. All in all, they are an amazing and well-chosen opening act for The Pants but could easily of held that stage for their own. While they played, I was tempted to put a bit more of a bend in the brim of my cap and was deeply impressed by their showmanship, honesty, and faith in everything that made real Country music good.

At 9:55, I go outside for some fresh air and another smoke. The line-up is growing and I am now certain that any reservations about filling The Commodore are rightfully dust. There’s also a couple of guys wearing kilts out here and I wonder for a moment whether or not The Dropkick Murhpys or The Real MacKenzies have sent ambassadors to show their support.

Walking back up the stairs, one of the girls on their way out comments, “All this hillbilly music is tiring me out.” I crack a smile but restrain myself from replying that she is sure in the wrong fucking building tonight.

The line-up for the ladies’ room is so long that some of the braver ones have resorted to using the men’s room. I am greeted with a warm “Hello” from a tall brunette that I am fairly certain was, in fact, a woman.

Swank takes the stage. I must embarrassingly admit that I spent the vast majority of their set drinking heavily and chain smoking, but a quick review of my notes finds the following entry:

   Swank are good, REALLY good. The crowd loves them.

That can’t be all bad.

I go in search of The Pants for a quick pre-show chat but get stopped cold by the security guard who is minding the door to backstage. Earlier in the evening, Chapman mentioned an email he’d sent me about getting a press pass for the event. I don’t remember the email but after 10 years of Town Pants shows, there’s a lot I don’t remember anymore. Besides, press passes are for people who need them. I am a friend of the band! A quick glance around the room, however, and I realized that, so far, about 900 of The Pants “friends” have showed up tonight. Despite my booze fueled weight gain, my boobs just aren’t going to cut it with this doorman. I pass him a note for Chapman and continue on to find another beer and, perhaps, a plastic surgeon.

On my travels, my path is crossed by a beautiful blonde in a sexy, little, white number and a black cap that could have easily come from Twiggy’s closet. Vancouver is filled with non-descript, beautiful, blonde women but as this one turns and smiles, it is unmistakably Virginia Swartz, the very unique fiddle player extraordinaire. She gives me a genuine and warm “Hello. How are you?” and I am smitten all over again, so much so, in fact, that I forget to ask her if she can get me backstage. Damn it.

After a few more drinks and a slightly unpleasant cougar attack, I go outside for another smoke. The line-up outside is still showing its girth. About halfway through my cigarette, I hear the band strike up. Fuck, they have started without me. I butt out and stagger up the stairs. Before wading into the now massive crowd, I stop and get a refill. This was a bad idea. I take a large swig of beer and them promptly choke on it and spit it on the floor when my eyes look towards to the stage and I catch a glimpse of Chapman. The Pogues shirt is gone and he’s taken to the stage in a white suit and looks a little bit like Colonel Sanders fronting The Clash – anything.

The Town Pants are in full force tonight with Dave (banjo, vocals) and Duane Keogh (Guitar, vocals) leading their gang through the set, Aaron and his suit, with Kyle Taylor on fiddle. Dino DiNicolo plays bass tonight, and Tony Raybould keeps time from behind a full drum kit. The sound is large and fills The Commodore from wall to wall with ease. So does the crowd at this point.

As the set progresses, various musical friends and well-wishers join The Pants on stage. Ryan Robbins, who fronted “Hellenkeller” in the 90s, appears on stage with a didgeridoo (did you know they’re making them in Nova Scotia now? God bless the CBC for Canadian music trivia) and a bodhran. The incomparable Virginia Swartz takes to the stage and gives Taylor a well-deserved break. Later in the evening, she reappears to play alongside Taylor and the two of them rip into the crowd with consummate skill.

Saxophonist, Gene Hardy, enters from the wings dressed in the same white suit as Chapman, providing the crowd with a good giggle and receiving a loud cheer in return. His sax playing is a wonderful compliment to The Pants’ music and gives it a “circa ‘Hell’s Ditch’” Pogues feeling.

Johnny Leroux, possessor of the quintessential Canadian voice, receives a warm and well-deserved introduction and the band kicks into Woody Guthrie’s “Pay Me My Money Down.” Hardy blows in a riff or two of “Yakety Sax” (more commonly known as the Benny Hill Theme). It seems a strange but perfect fit. Eventually, every musician in the building is up on the stage and The Pants slowly move into the “Saturday Night Live” ending, made picture perfect with Hardy’s sax.

An encore at 1:20 AM sends the crowd home with a bang. It was an evening worthy of 10 years.

After the show, the Keogh brothers emerge from backstage to mingle with their adoring fans. Duane is always good for a post game quote but unlike the lazy, millionaire whores who pass themselves off as athletes these days, every word out of his mouth is heartfelt and genuine. We talk about the 10 years and how important the people who come to his shows are and I know he means it. The Town Pants truly love what they do.

Every once in a while, you can catch a happy but puzzled look on Dave Keogh’s face and you wonder if he’s having a quick reality check to ensure his life on stage isn’t all a weird dream. He gives me a smile and a nod as I chat with his brother. I leave Duane and Dave to a gaggle of young ladies who are all seeking an audience. The Town Pants certainly love their fans but it is readily apparent that their fans love them.It’s 2:00 AM on Granville Street. A panhandler tells me he’ll do “50, one-armed push ups for spare change.” He obviously doesn’t know me or he’d never offer to put his face that close to my boots at this time in the morning. I give him a handful of change and tell him he can skip the push-ups. After watching The Pants play, one-armed push-ups just don’t cut it as paid entertainment.The kilts I spotted earlier in the evening are out on the sidewalk and I amble over and ask how they liked they show. They loved it. They are long time Pants fans and figured the kilts were the proper attire. I stop Gene Hardy as he leaves with a friend and compliment him on his playing and wardrobe. It came as little surprise that he and Chapman had set up their attire beforehand. Imagine how embarrassing it would be to show up for your 10 Year Anniversary performance wearing the same suit as the sax player… and Matlock. Hardy explains that he met Chapman a while back through musical publican, Kevin Quain. We talk about the amazing show tonight; Quain’s new album, “Winter in Babylon”; and The Pipsqueek Orchestra before parting ways.Tonight had all the feeling of The Band’s “Last Waltz” except for the “Last” part. The Town Pants still have enough inherent kick in them to put Barry Bond’s mule to shame. And they sure proved it tonight. Over 1100 people came to see them play. That’s more than Kid Rock got. Apparently they didn’t sell as much booze, but I imagine most of the booze consumed at the Kid Rock show was on Kid’s rider.All three bands played well together tonight in both the musical and playground sense. It is nice to see the egos disappearing from the Vancouver music scene again and tonight was a testament to the musical prowess this city still possesses.

As I walk down Granville, I think back to a smoky little hole on Lonsdale that was “The Brit.” One night, ten years ago, I met a girl there. She loved to take the elevator from the penthouse to the basement, yet never flew the Irish national airline, despite their cunning. I got her phone number that night. I wonder if it’s too late to give her a call.

That night, a band called The Town Pants played. They were good, REALLY good.