Saturday was a glorious day here
in the city, so I decided to take my camera downtown and creep on people. And do
other things.
I also bought asparagus.
I don’t have one of those fancy
zoom lens things, so in order to properly creep I had to get pretty close to my
subjects. I kept expecting someone to yell at me, or some law enforcement
professional to get up in my grill about privacy, but I guess I’m stealthy
enough to avoid such inconveniences.
But as an aside, does anyone know what the laws are regarding taking
photos of people in public places? In San Jose I was taking photos of some
pretty buildings and a cop stopped me, since apparently people live in those
buildings and there’s a chance I could catch a shot of exposed hiney in a
window or something. It’s a good thing he said something, since that was the
shot I was looking for. Additionally, a pool I worked at prohibited photos
because unconsenting bystanders could be caught in the background. So. Anyone?
There are a few things I actually
love about living in Edmonton, and the 104th Street market is one of
them. Farmers’ markets in general are pretty great for their selection of
locally produced goods and weird people to watch, but the 104th
Street market has the added appeal of being outside, downtown, on a street with
several restored historic buildings. The mixture of urban and rural, modern and
historic is downright nifty.
See? Urban - rural, today - yesterday.
A bit overblown... the sky was blue, FYI.
I think he wanted watermelon.
I like it when things hold still.
Meet.
Greet.
Later I headed over to the Works
festival, where I encountered another Edmonton thing I like: the
fountain/wading pool in front of City Hall. There, I discovered my camera has
the shutter speed capacity to catch water droplets in motion!
A bit dark, but you get the idea.
Probably my favourite of the day.
Feel free to leave comments—good
or bad—especially if you know something about photography. I changed my
settings so you can now comment anonymously without logging in, AND you don’t
have to prove you’re human by repeating wonky non-words. I’m desperate for
validation, people!
Hey
Heaviside. 1971 called. They want their record back.
If that
sounds like an insult, it’s not. Think back to 1971. It was a glorious time:
people strutted around in mismatched plaids, cars were as long as city blocks,
and pop lyrics were more along the lines of “There’s a lady who’s sure
all that glitters is gold / And she’s buying a stairway to heaven” than “You a
stupid ho.”
Yes,
Heaviside’s debut Wasted Generation
is loud, it’s riff-driven, and it’s retro. If you’re into solid block chords
and in-depth lyrics about plugging that special lady, you’ll be disappointed
here; this is a band that puts the music first, and all the other stuff a
distant second. In a day and age when music is as much a product as a drain
cleaner or an antidepressant, it’s nothing short of inspiring to find a band
who puts their values before the prospect of cash and commercial glory.
Nowadays,
perfect pitch is just a mouse click away, but Heaviside decided to take an
alternate route: actually playing their own instruments. Rest assured that
everything that hits your ears on this record, from every thunderous drumbeat
to each full-bodied vocal howl, is the real deal. This is the auditory
equivalent of good hearty whole-wheat bread from Grandma’s oven; no acetylated
distarch adipate or butylated hydroxyanisole here.
The album
starts off strong with the noisy, energetic “War Machine,” a tune that seems
tailor-made for a Michael Bay movie. The explosions! The frantic excitement!
The track practically begs to be cranked up and blasted out of the windows of a
car that may or may not actually be a Transformer.
And the
energy doesn’t taper from there. Track after track the adrenaline builds,
peaking with the singalong debut single “Lady.” With its steady bass groove and
easy-to-learn chorus, this is a track just made for the arena.
In fact,
this whole band is made for the arena. The kind of energy they bring to the
stage can’t be contained in small clubs. If you’re in the Edmonton area, check
out a live show. You may think you’ve seen sweaty, but until you’ve seen
Heaviside in action, you haven’t. The band is all over the stage, throwing in
the odd high leap or behind-the-head solo, and their audience is always equally
engaged.
The band’s
influences are far-flung. There’s a distinct similarity to Wolfmother, and “Aurora”
echoes Priestess. Singer Mitchell Reynaud’s vocals compare to shrieking majesty
of Chris Cornell, guitarist Johno Hermary’s nimble picking (and onstage attire)
are reminiscent of a certain man in a hat, and the overall Zeppelin-esque
impression is undeniable.
This is a
band that’s well-read when it comes to classic rock. They know what’s good. So
it’s no accident that the band went with the title Wasted Generation. You can hear it in the closing track—“Oh wasted
youth, lost in time, lost in the basement.” That’s where most of today’s youth
are, at least in terms of music.
Let’s hope
that Heaviside makes it big and today’s wasted youth, who have cut their teeth
on Rihanna and Nickelback, will learn that music is not limited to inane drum
beats, strobe lights and one-liners deriding female sexuality.
On day two of our vacation, we
took the train from Davis to San Jose. What a fine way to travel! Smooth,
inexpensive and energy efficient. Too bad Canada hasn’t caught the wave. While
I’m on the topic, the public transit in California was cleaner and cheaper than
Edmonton’s, and the light rail ran directly on the street. This suggests that
the transit-riding population is sharper than that in Edmonton as well… maybe
just because their brains aren’t addled with cold.
Anyway, we got to San Jose,
walked to our hotel, had a look around, took Mitch out for some birthday pub
food and beer, marveled at the comprehensive Happy Hour (ALL drinks on special,
not just whatever the bar overstocked!), and took off for HP Pavilion and the
Boss!
BROOOOOOOCE!
Everyone we talked to in San Jose,
including a kindly vagrant, asked if we were there to see Bruce, and that’s one
reason I was excited to see him in the States. He’s a much bigger deal there.
And this is the same reason I was stoked to hear him play “Born in the USA,”
which he didn’t (spoiler).
Bruce was fashionably late—nearly
an hour—taking the stage, but he made up for it with a THREE HOUR SET. I must
say, I was impressed. When I’m his age I hope to be breathing on my own, never
mind crowd surfing and doing wicked back bends.
He really puts the "sex" in "sexegenarian."
During my pre-Mitch party years,
I knew very little about the Boss. I knew he had a song called “Glory Days”—it’s
the only Springsteen song my hometown radio station seemed to have in their
catalogue. And that’s about all I knew. Growing up in small-town Saskatchewan
pre-MySpace could really limit your musical knowledge.
Oh man these guys are my fave!
I’ve tried not to let Mitch have
too much influence on my musical taste, and he hasn’t. Mitch loves music in a
broad sense, a quality that leads him to listen to a lot of crap.
Including but certainly not limited to this. AGGGGHHHHH.
But Bruce is his all-time
favourite, and fortunately this is something I can really get behind. Springsteen
is like the personification of the Olympics or September 11: he has the power
to speak to a zeitgeist (assuming I used the word “zeitgeist” correctly) and
unite a culture through the good and the bad.
There are times when I really don’t like people—they can be such messes,
with all their insecurities and conceits. But Bruce’s music can really make me
happy to be one of them, stumbling along from point A to point B, with all the
joy and misery that may fall in between. It's easy to forget our differences to a soundtrack of Boss tunes.
For example, in the merch line I
really bonded with a gentleman with a heavy tan and a sleeveless t-shirt from
Reno. We got along swimmingly, at least until he found out I was Canadian. Then
he looked at me like he suspected I was trying to sneak gay married people and
free healthcare into his country. The humanity!
But back to the show.
At the show. As you can tell by my face, the wine and the Red Bull are really fighting it out in my system.
The sustained energy! The sheer
entertainment value! Bruce was accompanied by most of the E Street Band, with
the notable omission of Clarence Clemons—the legendary Big Man behind the similarly
legendary E Street sax, who died last year. Filling his size 98 (or so) shoes
was the Little Big Man, his nephew Jake Clemons, who led a horn section with a sax sound
almost as big as that of his predecessor.
Big sax sound.
But there is a definite reason
for Springsteen’s sustained popularity, and the live show he consistently puts
on, even after 40 years in the biz, is only one reason. As world-weary as his
tunes have always been, Bruce clearly loves performing.
The set consisted of plenty of
material from Wrecking Ball and other
works from the past decade, particularly the similarly dark The Rising. He skipped over the
E-Street-less misstep that was the 1990s, opting instead for a hearty helping
of classics including a few deep tracks, a soul medley and fully half of Born to Run.
The Boss worked all kinds of
crowd participation into the show. He seems to genuinely love his fans, and God
knows the crowd loves him. At several points, he left the stage and walked
through the crowd—not on a catwalk, but actually through the fans on the floor,
at their level. And then he crowd surfed back to the stage. Way more humility,
trust and respect than I would expect from a star of his caliber.
It was really a family show too—he
worked ballads into his high-energy set, giving the boomers a chance to sit
down and take a load off. You could almost hear a sigh of relief as the band
struck up the melancholy “Jack Of All Trades.”
And things were fine at the other
end of the age spectrum too—a little E-Streeter joined the Boss onstage for “Waiting
on a Sunny Day.” He knew all the words too, which just warms my heart. And a
girl of about 12 took Courtney Cox’s place onstage for “Dancing in the Dark”—although
I think her dad was more thrilled about her moment in the limelight than she
was.
The high point for me came with “Thunder
Road,” my favourite Boss tune and the main set closer. Thanks to the magic of
YouTube, you too can enjoy it:
We left the arena aching and
stimulated from head to toe, just as Bruce said we would. And that was the
night it was. But just like a photo can’t compare to an amazing view, a blog
post sure won’t do the Boss justice. Some things are just meant to be
experienced.
We began our journey at the
bracing hour of 4 a.m., when we set off for the scenic Edmonton
International Airport. We started the day by knocking back a few buffalo wings, just like we do every morning.
Breakfast of champions.
Two layovers, three flights and a
bus ride later we were in sunny Davis, California, a Lethbridge-sized college
town just outside of Sacramento. One of my favourite things about traveling is
the first few breaths you take in a new place: the feel and smell of the air
lets you know you’re far from home, better than scenery or language barriers
can.
Compared to Edmonton’s dry
continental air, Davis was humid. I had been checking the Weather Network obsessively
in the days leading up to our departure, and I was not thrilled about what I
saw: a high of 23 degrees on Monday was the highest the temperature would get
while we were in California. But I was thinking an Edmonton 23, when you still
need long pants, a jacket and closed-toed shoes since the gust of a north wind
or a moment of cloud cover bring recurring shivers. But no—this was a
California 23, sunny and humid.
Davis would be a great place to
live. It was just my style, and just my pace. It was green, clean, well-treed
and well-maintained, and according to Wikipedia, it holds the title of most
bicycle-friendly city in the United States. Environmentalism? Garbage-free
streets? Pretty flowers? I’m in.
Davis, California: pleasant.
Edmonton, Alberta: unpleasant.
The college students probably accounted for a large number of the bikes. And since they're so educated (if not as educated as the good folks in Arlington, Virginia... see joke set up below), they also know that eating and shopping local is the way to go; hence the abundance of
independent businesses that lined the lush green streets. Unless they were just
weird American chains that I, sans cable TV, had never heard of.
Unique, small-town character.
Oddly enough, even though they
have the weather to enjoy them for more than three weeks each year, the city
was lacking in patios. This made me nervous. As many of you know, I love
nothing more than a good patio, and a holiday without one is like Alberta without environmental exploitation: it's just not what you came for. But don’t worry—we found one!
Doesn't look like rain, does it? Yeah, we didn't think so either.
Davis is also supposed to be the
second most educated city in the country (after Arlington, Virginia; see punchline above), which is surprising considering the
number of people we saw biking around without helmets. For a country that's dragging its feet towards universal health care, they're surprisingly laissez-faire about head injuries.
At the centre of the city is the
large UC Davis campus on which Mitch and I got lost trying to find our first
reason for being in California: The Shins, in the flesh. Gather around, and let me tell you what it was like.
I’m not even going to tell you
about the pretentious hipster opening band. Their music was sorta okay, but the
lead singer stored his collection of wooden flutes in a buckskin quiver thing
slung casually over his shoulder. Enough said.
The Shins opened with “The Rifle’s
Spiral” (which I so accurately predicted), and I immediately knew that I was
going to like them live. As you may recall from my review of Port of Morrow, the tune was too Broken
Bells-y for my taste. Not so in real life. It was more rock and more real
without the production. It could have been the Shins from ten years ago.
I probably know the Shins’
catalogue better than that of any other artist, and as such I was probably more
excited than I’ve been at any other show, ever. What song would they play
next?!? Would it be better or worse than the recorded version, or just
different? As the band cruised through its set, it became clear that the answer
would never be “worse.”
The band was high energy, James
Mercer was far less depressive than I expected, and the crowd was nothing but
enthusiastic. Some stood throughout the set, but when the band struck up “Caring
is Creepy” mid-way through, nobody sat down again.
The crowd was great, too—just the
right combination of enthusiasm and respect, showing the band ample love but
not letting their own show overwhelm the one on stage. With the exception of
one person: the young gent right in front of me.
He was a real special guy. Even
his girlfriend couldn’t stand his hoots and whistles and requests for songs recorded
by other bands. But enough about him. This show had so many pros, this single
con isn’t even worth mentioning.
The venue wasn’t huge—about the
size of Edmonton’s Jubilee Theatre—and it was well-selected, catering to the
band’s college-aged fan base. Less convenient for me, being 2500 km from home
and in the middle of a labyrinthine campus. Even Google Maps couldn't find this venue.
The highlight of the evening was “New
Slang,” my fave Shins song. It was a quiet tune but the whole band was
involved, and the vocals of Jessica Dobson (who wasn’t with the band when the
song was recorded… just like everyone else in this lineup except Mercer) were
just lovely indeed. Also its cool that the lead guitarist of an (otherwise)
all-male band is a girl. Estrogen power!
Like this... but with class. And talent. Actually, nothing like this.
The set closed with a great
rendition of “Sleeping Lessons,” which, like the rest of their set, was more
energetic than its recorded counterpart. The only complaint I have about the
show (besides the guy in front of me) is that, at just an hour and a half, it
was too short! Granted, they don’t have a huge catalogue to work with, but I
was left wanting much much more. Fortunately, the Boss made up for that the
very next night. (Spoiler!)
I’ll leave you now the way the
Shins left me: with “Sleeping Lessons.” This video pretty much sums up the
performance. The energy! The dynamics! The appropriately-timed
woos of the crowd!
I really wish the band would come
to Canada. I could certainly handle seeing them again.
For those
of you who don’t know, I spent most of last week in the slightly sunnier climes
of California. I’m currently working on a couple of posts about the trip and I
hope to post the first tomorrow.
But in the
mean time, I’m inviting you guys to check out my online portfolio! It has all
kinds of goodies from my illustrious writing career, along with a pretty sad
photography section. Conspicuously absent is material from my current place of
work; that’s because I haven’t yet figured out how to mention the company I
work for without falling victim to Google Alerts. They truly are watching us,
people.
There was a time when I chose
wine based on two things: price, and the level of hilarity represented by the
label.
Sometimes I still regress
to that point. I bought this just two weeks ago:
Only $12!
But as a sophisticated woman of
the world, and one who now proudly owns a copy of Wine for Dummies, I’m working on developing a taste and knowledge
of wine. Words like “bouquet,” “tannins” and “palate” are working their way
into my lexicon. One day I feel I’ll be able to discuss a bottle with equally
pretentious people without adopting an affected English accent and donning an
imaginary monocle.
Beyond its taste and intoxicating
quality, here are three things I love about wine:
-it’s historical
-it’s international
-it allows me to turn drinking into a hobby
I love history, I love travel,
and I love spending my days in a nauseous haze. I’ve found my true passion in
life.
1. Historical
Wine is one of the world’s oldest
beverages. At certain times and places throughout history it has even been more
popular than water—such as in the margin of time after we developed the
technology to pollute our waterways with sewage, but hadn’t yet developed the
means to render that same water palatable.
Like really old buildings or
really old people, wine has remained constant while everything around it has
changed. Certainly wine production has evolved over time, but the basic
operation, particularly in many old-world wineries, has been handed down from
generation to generation independent of development outside the vineyard walls.
Leonardo da Vinci drank wine.
Machiavelli drank wine. Mussolini drank wine. I drink wine! It provides a
connection with the past that Pepsi Next lacks.
2. International
Wine is made all over the world.
Strangely enough, even before I was interested in wine, I’ve found myself drawn
to countries where wine is prominent—Italy, France, Germany and Greece to name
a few. What a happy coincidence! My affection for Baroque architecture and my
sparse knowledge of French dovetail nicely with this new interest.
I actually visited a winery a
number of years ago on a tour of Greece, long before I had any taste for wine
whatsoever. It was very scenic; as I recall I nearly crashed a wedding as I was
trying to get a picture of the view. As far as the wine itself goes, I don’t
remember much about it besides the fact that I didn’t like it, and one was made
from oranges. Although maybe the fact that I don’t remember it actually
recommends it; we did do a tasting.
A view worth ruining anyone's special day for.
I figured while I was there I might as well paparazzo them. Nothing but class.
Last summer Mitch and I visited
the Okanagan, launching my true interest in wine, perhaps in efforts to
reconnect with that carefree vacation lifestyle. The pace in the Okanagan is
nothing like the pace in Edmonton… it might have something to do with the sheer
amount of energy required to stay alive there, i.e. not much, in contrast to
here in Edmonton (see this
post).
Elephant Island winery, Naramata, BC. Pleasant.
Edmonton, AB. Unpleasant.
Wine represents a way of life that
is different from my way of life. It represents a life that is full of
pleasure, not one that is spent trudging to work at a utility company each day,
as the snow piles ever higher.
3. As for calling drinking a
hobby… well, it's nice to have an excuse for these:
So, in summary, a glass of wine
can be an escape into a different time, a different place, a different level of
consciousness. Drink up!
Some years ago I downloaded a
free iTunes single by a little-known band from the Queen City called Rah Rah.
The song was “Duet for Emmylou and the Grievous Angel.”
“Wow,” said I. Very little music
has had the immediate impact on me like that track did. There was so much I
liked about it: the six-eight lilt, the fact that they reference Regina (I was
born in a town two hours down the trans-Canada; I can practically see the city
from my backyard), the plaintive fiddle work, and most of all, the gentle croon
of Erin Passmore.
I later picked up the album, Going Steady, and was suitably
impressed. I had only one beef with that album, and with the band’s follow-up, Breaking Hearts: there wasn’t enough
Erin.
I’m ashamed to say I’ve never
seen the band live, but from what I’ve read, Passmore, who also serves as the
band’s drummer, prefers to minimize the time she spends in the spotlight. She
steps out from behind the drums just once per set—for “Grievous Angel.” And you
can hear the modesty in her voice. It’s a subtle sort of greatness, unwilling
to call too much attention to itself.
So imagine my delight when I
heard about Downtown EP—all Erin, all
the time! With eight tracks all to herself, there was room for Passmore to
better explore her musical capacity.
It turns out that Passmore is a
multi-instrumentalist and a very capable songwriter, but the thing that still
gets me is her voice: it’s gentle as a cooing dove on a strong sedative, but
just as you’re being lulled to sleep a her powerful high register will blast
you from your reverie like a very melodious alarm clock.
The opening track, “Into the
Woods,” is arresting, and it’s everything I love about Passmore. It has the
melody and rich instrumentation of Rah Rah (I also read that several of the
band’s musicians helped her out on the record), but with a more ominous mood.
The title itself conjures up visions of Red Riding Hood venturing into the dark
unknown.
“Downtown” is the most upbeat
track on the album, and the most surprising: the distorted guitar-driven
instrumentation is at odds with Passmore’s vocals, but it’s a successful
effort. No track blends into the next—whether it be an aching ode to a love
that can never be (“Married”) or a should-I-shouldn’t-I lounge ballad on a
friend that could be more (“Rock the Boat”), Passmore tackles even stock
subject matter with an earnestness that makes it much more than a pop song.
But the momentum wanes in the
second half of the EP. If I’d bought the vinyl instead of the digital album I probably
would have worn out side one while rarely even listening to side two. It’s not
that the final four tracks are bad; I’m just an instant-gratification type of
person. “Monster” has a fun picking pattern and folky feel, but “Fall,” “Sad
Song” and “Captain” kind of meld together in a slippery slope of unhappiness.
But at least this depressing turn
makes me eager to return to the beginning of the album for a second listen.
There’s still some hope there.
