Archives : all posts by Sean

Plants and Animals - "Jeans Jeans Jeans". His past was littered with defeats; here was one more. He told himself he had never given a fuck and he wasn't going to start now. The road followed the dry riverbed. Telephone poles raced past, like mile-markers. It was nine o'clock in the morning. He'd have still been in bed. The kids'd be on the way to school. Now he turned off the a/c so he could feel all the dry heat on his face. There are wolves out, he thought, squinting into the savannah. He was mistaken. No canis lupus had stalked this land since the suburbs materialized, half a century before. This was a land of dogs. [buy La La Land, a rough, hazed, funny album by Plants and Animals]

Aby Ngana Diop - "LIITAL". Major Kill had always wondered if he could beat twenty 8-year-olds in a fight. The question, he had always thought, was one of strategy: could the 8-year-olds strategize? could they strategize better than he? As he stood by the chainlink fence, watching the kids make his pyramid; as he sent their parents to be killed by firing squad, or to die in the mines; as he shot down the Federation's helicopters with his energized shock-rifle ... he considered this question. He would take out the smallest ones first, he thought. With kicks. He would push them into each-other. He would slam their skulls together. He imagined all this as he swivelled the toothpick across his perfect white teeth. Whenever one of the children looked at him, he tried to evaluate its skill in battle: its tenacity, its wickedness, its metal. One day he stared at a little boy and the little boy stared back. His name was Geoffrey. Major Kill showed Geoffrey his teeth. Geoffrey did not drop his gaze. Geoffrey spat on the dirt. He actually spat. Major Kill began to laugh. Then his laughing slowed. He flexed his knuckles. "Janus," he called to his lieutenant, "I want to fight twenty children." Janus knew not to question his master's wishes. 50 minutes later, they were all gathered in the sand-lot. Major Kill tied up his boots. He took off his titanium watch. He left his rifle behind the fence. He strolled out into the dust.

As twenty fists rained down on Major Kill's legs, pelvis and head, it was difficult to think. It was difficult to understand where his strategy had gone wrong. The children were shrieking as they beat him. They were hammering his ears, his knees. By concentrating on maneuvers he had overlooked damage. A child's fist is a painless thing. Like a single hailstone. Twenty children are forty fists. They are a hailstorm. Major Kill's face was pressed into the grit. His legs went numb. left eye went dark. He wondered when Janus would stop them. [download from - of course! - Awesome Tapes From Africa]

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For Montrealers, two very interesting concerts this week. (I can, agonizingly, attend neither.) First, Thursday night, the reclusive Bill Fox, formerly of the Mice, is playing Cagibi. This is a very rare performance. Support from the burgeoning and strange Beaver Sheppard. Next, on Saturday at 2pm, there is a killer benefit at the Mile End Mission. North, My Love (desperately sad songs by Mussaver's Katherine Peacock & co), the returning treasure Abigail Lapell (one of my favourite departed Montreal songwriters), and Carlo Spidla and his Golden Ladies, the jubilant electric holy shit that is Carl Spidla's new project. I am jealous of any who can attend. (Abigail has two more Montreal gigs, at Centre St-Ambroise on Friday, and Casa on Sunday, before skulking back to Toronto.)

KenLo Craqnuques - "Tidal Herbs". Underwater, we hang out. We pull dimes from the sand, send quarters skimming into angelfish. We crack open mussels and admire them like holograms. Underwater, we smoke grass. (This isn't as tricky as it sounds; you just need to have the knack.) We bathe in vague sunlight. We dream of fruit-trees and ginger bears. Underwater, we live in treasure-chests and lobster-shells. We soak in salt. We hold our breaths until nighttime.

[baffled and mesmerized by Kenlo Craqnuques, a new discovery, Montreal's kind-of J Dilla. Every hat-tip to Olivier Lalande. / purchase/free download]

Land of Kush's Egyptian Light Orchestra - "Tunnel Visions". In the leaves, we hang out. The air is heavy. We feel worms in the soil beneath our bodies. In the leaves, it is dark. It is as if we are not where we are, but in another place, soft and wet, surrounded by birdcalls. It is as if we are in a place with no trees. We hear things moving in the grass. Through breaks in the canopy, we see the stars. In the leaves, we smoke hash. We imagine the fortunes in the lines of our hands. We coax nests into homes. We find almonds. We breathe until it's morning.

[Monogamy is alive. It's out May 31. (Pre-order from Constellation.) As always, Land of Kush are led by Sam Shalabi, with a large cast of Montreal musicians. "Tunnel Visions" includes vocals by Katie Moore.]

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I forgot to mention it on Monday, but my new article for McSweeney's, about the exceptional Montreal band the Luyas, is now online.

(photo source)

Pat Jordache - "Radio". Patrick was a mechanic; Patrick was a carpenter; Patrick was a virtuoso engineer. He spent the month of May turning furniture into radios. He hid tuning dials in freezer cabinets, slid antennas under seat cushions, smoothed speaker grilles to the underside of coffee-tables. Armchairs were tuned to CBC Radio 2, chaises-longues to BBC Radio 3, La-Z-Boys to local top 40. Floor-lamps were adjusted until they picked up a perfect storm of static. It was a marvel of magpie components and wasteful expertise. Patrick finished his work. He went out of the house. When he came back, it was June. It was raining; there were no stars. He descended into the basement. He went to the fuse-box. He turned on the breaker, sent electricity into the system. The breaker was a radio. The stairwell was a radio. The doorbell was a radio. The marital bed was a radio. Everything was a radio, jubilantly howling. The whole house rang and spoke. It seemed to say, YOU WIN.

Pat Jordache - "Ukuu". Pat Jordache is Pat G, a founder of my beloved, departed Sister Suvi, a former member of Islands, a bass-sax-toting tour companion of Tune-Yards. He is one of Montreal's champions and cauldron-stirrers. Songs About The Future is his debut solo album, full of shimmering strum, baritone drawl, birdsong and smoke. Rumour has it, Pat lost the masters last week. Also, his passport. Are these MP3s the only things left? Are these jewels our inheritance? Songs About The Future is a noisy, blushing triumph; it better not be going anywhere.

[MySpace]

(bear photo source)

Mixylodian - "Make Me". For his debut LP, Mike Wray has reined in Mixylodian's maximalism. He surveys his resources like he is in a stables, admiring the reindeer. Finally one gets saddled up, dressed in silver, clap-flat horsehoes on the hooves. For "Make Me", Wray lets someone else sing his words. He doesn't need them; he has everything else. This is synth-pop without irony, without cutesy, straight as a trail. The solos are knots pulled tight. The final racket is note-perfect, gorgeous unglued, hammered out gold. A song to pin up over your bed.

[buy Wild In Church / MySpace / the album is formally released this Saturday, at Montreal's Divan Orange, as part of a gobsmacking line-up: Eleanor Thompson (aka Caila from Shapes & Sizes/Think About Life), Cotton Mouth, Jessie Stein (of the Luyas) solo, and Mixylodian. Tickets are only $5 in advance, $10 at the door. / See Mixylodian also at Toronto's The Boat, May 4; and London's EVAC, May 9.]


Reiko Kudo - "Mihoko". Put away the snow and the rain. Put away the sun. Give me your hand. Come closer. Don't start. I will.

[buy]

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Elsewhere:

The Plug Five is a new non-profit mailing list that raises money to clear landmines by giving you hotttt musical tippps. Musicians and journalists (like me) recommend bands and albums, while canvassing for the Mines Advisory Group. Issue 01, to be released this Friday, includes recs from Woods, Hawk and a Hacksaw and King Creosote. There's no website - the only way to keep up to date is by registering for the mailing list. It's a very good cause.

This weekend is Montreal's Portes Ouvertes. Dozens of designers, architects and fashion studios open their doors to show the public their work, and their work-spaces. It's a great chance to learn about the process of Montreal's best design, as well as some of the city's hidden treasures. Nightlife Magazine commissioned me for an itinerary of some of my picks, and I'm looking forward to exploring on Saturday and Sunday. Highlights include a look into the studio of Sid Lee collective, responsible for the new STM/Metro redesign, a collection of vintage matchbooks at Dynamo, and a really exciting podcast audio-tour, looking at drones & hidden noises in the subway system. See my itinerary (with map) here, or make your own.

(photo of Frances Densmore and Mountain Chief)

Robyn - "Dancing On My Own". Robyn's tremendous new track, seething and crystal-clear. It's a song about being alone at a club, watching you kiss her, and as with the bridge of "Be Mine" (still the Swedish singer's finest hour), this watching is mixed-up, bittersweet, alive. She's alive in the moment, but more powerfully, her voice keeps nothing hidden. Pop stars do not hide in their songs - she is bare before us, showing us everything of her heart. NB: the only difference between the first verse and the first chorus is a bass-note, an extra rhythmic subdivision. You make beauty out of what's at hand. [Body Talk Pt 1 is out in June - website]

Greg MacPherson - "Smoke Ring". It's not the same thing as 2002's Good Times Coming Back Again, the last MacPherson album I heard, and one of the best Canadian albums of the decade. But Mr Invitation has a similar appetite and snapping jaws, the handsome combination of snarl and hook. MacPherson would back you up in a fight, would give you the money to buy London Calling, would burn himself to catch the falling star. "Broken Dreams" is rock'n'roll that never rolls away; it rocks back and forth, hard, until the wood begins to splinter. [buy]

(photo source)

Yura Yura Teikoku - "Ohayo Mada Yaro". The first half-dozen episodes of The Loose Gang, no one really realises what it is. It's a funny sitcom, okay it's hilarious, but that's all people are saying. "Check out this program. Loose Gang. 'Loose' like 'free.'" It's got Mark Pimms, the guy from Big Country, that hysterical kid from Funny People, and the chick from Friday Night Lights. Mostly people don't describe the plot because the plot doesn't sound very interesting: a group of friends in a city, and not-friends, just acquaintances, sort of like Friends but with all of the city as the cast. Some of the characters you see more often, but there's always new faces - the camera's always veering off into a new apartment window, lingering on a different corner diner. Anyway, at first it's just that slightly buzzy new show, the show you see mentioned on Facebook or Twitter and ignore, because what's The Loose Gang anyway?, until that cute friend of R's talks to you about it over a picnic table one night and you go home and stream it, stream all of it, the entire first season, in the space of 24 hours. This is how it was for most people, something shared but private, until some time during the second season. It wasn't long after the show won its first Emmy, for writing. One of the characters, Louis, finally told another, Stef, that he was in love. And another character, Hamid, died. And something in the way these events happened on the screen made them feel real. The events felt rough and beautiful and that dull shade of true. Then came episode s02e04, "Ripe Lemons", which was about the wedding of a minor character, a schoolteacher, and included none of the principal cast. The next day, America seemed to have dreamed a common dream. At work, at meals, "Ripe Lemons" was the only thing people wanted to discuss. They were emailing their friends, telling them to watch it, to watch the one episode even if they hadn't seen the rest of the show. Speaking at the Emmys the next year, show-runner I. Ella Ruskin said just that "we tapped into something". In the New Yorker, Wire creator David Simon suggested "they tapped into grace". It was as if The Loose Gang had invented a new kind of television. This wasn't "TV as novel", "TV as 50-hour movie"; it was TV as song, lighthouse, common mythology. Gorgeous, courageous, crooked and very funny. It felt like a good thing, such a good thing.

The Loose Gang ran for four seasons.

[buy this wonderful reissue of two Yura Yura Teikoku albums, reputedly classics, but new to me, scarcely heard of here; they are a Japanese indie band that has been active since the 1990s]

Nicki Minaj - "Still I Rise". When Nicki was a little girl, she thought "hustle" was a medallion. She thought it was something you bought at the jeweller's. At nine years old, she brought a piggy-bank into Don's Gold. "A little hustle," she said, "please." Don sold her a necklace with a little silver elephant. For a few years, Nicki treated this as an amulet. She wore it under her shirt. She clutched it when she was scared. She imagined herself stomping her enemies to dust. By the time she became a teenager she understood the elephant was not hustle. She knew that hustle was daring, guts, bravado, rhyme. It was MySpace friends, opening slots, A&R men at bars. It was lunch at The Oval and drinks at Tokyo. It was MCs' phone-numbers in her Blackberry. Mostly it was just hard work. One day Nicki Minaj went to Queensboro bridge and threw her elephant off the side. It was a symbolic gesture, loaded with meaning. Nicki watched it fall. She lit a cigarette. Years later she would remember the moment, and cry. [MySpace]

Labi Siffre - "I Got The". Horace Smith was rinsing his pincing irons when Sir Galahad walked in. "Hello Smith," said Sir Galahad. "Hail, knight," said Horace. "A fine day, yes?" "Oh yes." Steam swirled up from the wooden bucket. "How can I help you?" asked Horace. Sir Galahad was trying to lean against the blacksmithy's doorpost. This casual gesture was upset by his full suit of armour. It is difficult to lean in a full suit of armour. It mostly made Galahad look like his armour didn't fit. Galahad grinned from beneath his visor. "Copper plating," he said. "Of what?" asked Horace. "Of this armour." "Which armour?" asked Horace. "This armour," repeated Galahad. "But why?!" asked Horace. "It's steel already. A copper coating would be like painting a shield." Galahad sighed. He readjusted, leaning on his right instead of his left side. "That doesn't matter. How much would it cost?" Horace looked the knight up and down. "Fifty, sixty gold crowns?" Galahad frowned. He nodded. "Let's do it in pieces," he said. He tossed a pouch of coins to Horace's feet. Then he tossed one of his gauntlets. It clanged on the floor.

Horace copper-plated Sir Galahad's right gauntlet. Then he copper-plated the left gauntlet. And so on, and so forth, week to week, as Sir Galahad came in with a new pouch of coins. Sir Galahad killed the Dragon of Lucerne, copper-plated his wristguards. He slaughtered the Goliath of Musselburgh, copper-plated his buckler. After slaying the Three Wyvern Sisters of Smiths Falls, he copper-plated his entire breastplate. After two years of piecemeal, Horace dredged the last piece through the bullion pool. The knight had brought celebratory mead. He was grinning like a wild cat. "Perfect," he said. "Fine." He donned the helmet. He was a shining copper man. With a swagger and a strut, he strolled from the Smithy. "Lookout!" he yelled to the townsfolk. "Damn!" [buy]