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

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.

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

          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.

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

Ever notice how people stopped writing folk songs about the I.R.A. when the Provos starting blowing up shopping malls? There is nothing heroic about being a bully. It would seem that the greatest number of folk songs and stories that deal with violence of any sort are usually about the proud few who stood, who refused to run in the face of overwhelming odds.

I feel that way sometimes. Looking out over the horizon of Western culture and seeing nothing but a wasteland of stunted potential.

In all but the rarest instances, the Ancient plays we study survived because they were popular, mass produced, thus increasing their odds of survival. Was Sophocles the Stephen King of his time? I sincerely hope not. But if history continues as it has, future civilizations will judge us as placing Dan Brown and Miley Ray Cyrus at the zenith of our cultural achievements. Argh…

So we fight.

Someday, while Dan Brown is held as high art, a singer will sing songs in a small cyber-cafe. On the wall behind them will be a poster of what trees and blue sky looked like and the customers will drink replicated coffee. The song will be about us, those who did not go gentle into that good night but cranked our tube amps up and kept the neighbours awake ’till dawn.

BSC.

If the battle between Senators Obama and Clinton will be fought on TV, maybe they should look to TV for viable strategies. American audiences seem more involved in voting for the next American Idol than they do choosing a president so it only makes sense.

I find myself watching the Scooby-Doo movie on TV and I have formulated a plan for the Democratic nomination race: run up and pull off the mask. James Carville and Paul Begala could slide nicely into the roles of Scooby and Scrappy Doo, with the one exception being that the Ragin’ Cajun is more of a Pit Bull than a Great Dane.

I can see it now. “That’s not Hillary Clinton! That’s Edgar Bergen in a pants suit!” Sen. Obama would end up being a boy scout on poorly constructed stilts.

Maybe we should send their staffers to Starfleet Academy. This way they would know how to react when they are called upon to write a memo, pen a Xerox joke, or make a phone call to the Canadian Consulate, the political equivalents of being the unknown ensign on an away mission.

Perhaps we could solve the problem of the unseated delegates from Florida (what is up with Florida anyway?) and Michigan by having Drew Carey mediate while Obama and Clinton try to guess the price of new primaries without going over. Come to think of it, The Price is Right could solve the whole thing and put the budget together at the same time: What’s the next item up for bid? It’s Universal Health Care!

I think the TV angle might really work. The public could watch the nominations the same way they already watch TV. As soon as it starts, they know how it’s going to end and their brains turn off until sweeps week.

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

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

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.