The Last [Hu]Man Standing

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.

TV has all the answers

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.

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.