High points of Bowie Ball X, 2025, at the Rickshaw

Erika Lax and David M. of NO FUN, outside the Bowie Ball, by Allan MacInnis

My wife and I had some fun times misunderstanding each other tonight at Bowie Ball X. At one point she said a girl's hair reminded her of Amy Winehouse; I thought she'd said it reminded her of a baby rhino. What? At another point, she asked me what song Mel's Rock Pile was doing, and I observed, "I'm Afraid of Americans," which she misheard as "I'm Afraid of a Parakeet;" later, when she repeated that back to me, laughing -- "I thought you said..." --  I, in turn, heard her say the even funnier, "I'm Afraid of Asparagus." (Because, you know, it makes your pee smell funny). 

Mellow, of Mel's Rock Pile, was by far the strongest performer tonight, her band the most potent, especially that song and "Return of the Thin White Duke" (actually called "Station to Station," David Hathaway tells me!). She has a sinewy, muscular intensity and grace to her movements that is very compelling to watch (and a backup band that includes the Hathaway brothers of Roots Roundup; an apology is due to David Hathaway that I could not place him when we chatted!). Sadly, I did not get any photos of Mel onstage, but I got several of her doing Bowie makeup on me (and a couple of her doing makeup on others). 

It was my first time getting any makeup done at the Ball. My doing so was about putting as much money into the event as I could. I'd gotten comped in, see -- because I hadn't planned to go, initially; when Erika told me she wanted to, tickets had already sold out. But getting comped into a charity event is kind of bullshit, so I made sure to spend as much money on merch and such as I could: $20 to Mel, $30 to 50/50 tickets, $40 to a Richard Katynski t-shirt.  It was nice introducing him to my wife and one of my editors as "the man who made the batshirts" (courtesy of his company Future Ink Traditions, highly recommended if you're wanting shirts made -- that's Rich in the glasses below).  

Having been comped in puts me in a compromised position as a reviewer: I don't feel like it would be very good form to be too cranky about things that made Bowie Ball X a little less spectacular than a couple of its past permutations. But I must say that the sound was not great last night; it may have had something to do with being seated in back with Erika, but the bass was almost always way too loud, giving everything a murky cast... though the mix of instruments for the 11-piece Asian Persuasion All-Stars was wonky, too, which had nothing to do with by being in back, because by that point in the evening, I was right up front. 

The ska-inflected "Sound and Vision" that Asian Persuasion kicked off with was maybe the hardest song of theirs to enjoy, due to the wonky mix, but they were, however, just under Mel's Rock Pile as one of the evening's finest bands, also doing "TVC 15," "Fame," and "Young Americans," with the last song being one of the evening's highest points, a real delight, with Tony Lee connecting it conceptually to Mel's Rock Pile's reading of "I'm Afraid of Americans" -- since young Americans are maybe the exception to that.  

I was glad to be right up front for that song: even if the mix wasn't perfect -- and with eleven people onstage, I can imagine it's a challenge, especially with such tight changeovers -- the band has such charisma, such personality that they're delightful to experience. 

Weirdly, one of the other stronger bands was 20 Explosive Hits. I've said some cranky things about them on social media, having watched them on a couple of occasions at the Princeton, when I'd been there to see other bands; their musicianship is great -- especially "that guitarist from Swank," whose name I now forget -- and the covers they do are definitely, shall we say, crowd pleasers, but the crowd they please is not the one I generally choose to run with, if you see what I mean ("Stuck in the Middle With You" should be forever relegated to suburban karaoke and/or any other place I would never go near, but it's nails-on-a-chalkboard irritating at the Princeton, when you just want to see the Bad Beats, next on the bill). I wasn't taking notes as to what songs they did -- it was mostly off Ziggy Stardust, I think, including "Moonage Daydream." But they were up there in terms of quality of performance, as was Cherry Maraschino, the first band of the night, which was some sort of Preston/ Fletcher permutation. 

Of course, I enjoyed seeing my friend David, doing a solo NO FUN set, which kicked off with two of Bowie's lesser-known songs, "The Laughing Gnome" and "When I'm Five," followed by one I did not know (David tells me it's "Growing Up and I'm Fine"), then a reading of "Kooks." People wishing to experience these songs and many, many more can catch David doing his full Bowie set at the all-ages Bowie Ball Pit today at LanaLou's, starting at about 5pm. 

But there were nay-sayers about David's set. A friend thought it was somehow incorrect of David to choose two songs that Bowie himself had left behind ("The Laughing Gnome," especially, is an obscurity, a pre-fame single that caused Bowie some embarrassment later on, though there's no indication in the Wiki that he repudiated it). Personally I appreciated David's deep-dive into Bowie's back catalogue and find the song delightful -- with M's version being even more enjoyable than Bowie's -- but I like a good novelty tune, and I like learning things I did not know. This certainly counts.

Other people were overheard griping about David's set that it wasn't danceable, however, and there's nothing much I can say to that. The Bowie Ball has become (or maybe always was) as much about audience expressivity and participation as it is about Bowie's music. While I actually thought a couple of the bands were godawful last night -- I'm deliberately not mentioning five of the acts, two of whom I took no issue with, so as not to single out anyone for blame --  both Erika and I missed some of the more talented vets of the Ball who, for one reason or other, were not on the bill last night: there was no Danny Echo, no Daddy Issues, no Beau Wheeler, no Bad Beats, no Vanrays, no Pointed Sticks, no Ford Pier, no Orchard Pinkish, no Cass King. 

Note: I am being told I really should give credit to Rat Silo, another strong band, but to do so would make it easier to narrow down the evening's stinkers (one of whom another friend thought was a high point, so like, all this stuff is subjective, anyhow). I'm trying to be politic here, folks! Let's put it this way: I'd go see Rat Silo again!  

But even if I thought the performances were not quite to the high watermark set by past Bowie Balls, I delighted in seeing so many people in the audience decked out in their finest, and saved just enough battery to take a couple of snaps of the costume contest, as the evening entered it's final quarter.  

The four finalists were Talesha, the blonde at the right; the blue-suited, orange-haired person in the centre; the person that the blue-suit is interacting with in the last photo, above; and the stripy gal beside them to the left. I gave some biased cheering for Talesha but thought that the blue-suited-one was most deserving of the grand prize (never did get clear on what that was); the stripy one was my second pick, and ultimately the judge's first (though I thought the crowd cheered louder for blue). It's still fun to see so many people dressing so creatively -- not really something one sees in public, short of screenings of The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Who but David Bowie could inspire such a range of audience expression? I'm sure he'd have been touched, pleased, delighted to know that his legacy includes such things. 

Plus, what was it, $16,000 raised towards cancer research last night? Someone from the BC Cancer Agency presented Mo with some sort of plaque for all the money Bowie Balls have generated to this cause -- think they said something about it totaling $85,000 so far, over ten balls? 

That's nothing to sneeze at, nor is packing the Rickshaw to see strictly local bands. Be fun to see what the Bowie Ball Pit looks like, later today... the only performer I know for sure will be there is David M.! (will there be any actual five year olds in the audience, I wonder? A kid might respond a bit differently to "When I'm Five" than an adult). 

Maybe I'll see some of you there?

(photo by Erika Lax)

Black Flag again: Rickshaw 2025 (sorry, Ron!)

Billy Hopeless chides me on Facebook, when he sees me commenting in a post on how much I'm enjoying the Black Flag show: "Do you type about Ronfest with the same hand lol." 

Which, really, is fair enough: with Ron's wife facing down cancer and Ron Reyes -- the original vocalist on Black Flag's Jealous Again EP -- having been treated pretty shoddily by Ginn and singer Mike Vallely, I would not have paid to be at this show, even though I did pay the last time I went to see Black Flag, a year ago this week (written about here).  I had qualms that night, too, but the Reyes' were doing fine then, and the band was showcasing My War, one of the most important punk albums of my youth, so, "just this once" I figured. Then it transpired that I was posting something about the band earlier tonight, watching my Facebook friends scroll through a litany of "the sins of Greg Ginn," which range from allegations of child abuse to playing 13- minute long versions of "Louie Louie," neverminding his tendency to litigiousness (see here, re: suing FLAG, or here, about his history with Negativland, who were briefly signed to his label, SST Records). There is a whole Reddit thread devoted to the topic of why Ginn is so hated. I have not read through it all, but other bands once signed to his label have also complained about him. So, you know, I won't invite him to dinner anytime -- I'm not going to ask him to be my buddy -- and I had decided that, having made ONE EXCEPTION so I could see a Black Flag show ONE TIME, last year -- that I wouldn't do it again. 

Then Chris Walter was giving away tickets on Facebook, and people were turning them down, talking about how awful Black Flag are now (that's where I heard about the 13 minute "Louie Louie": note that the "Louie Louie" we got last night -- actually part of the band's early repertoire -- was only five minutes long at best). So the tickets were available still, and it turned out that my wife wanted to do some work on her computer anyhow, and kinda encouraged me to go out... So I called Chris, and he sent me a Stub Hub link that didn't ultimately work, because -- well, getting tickets has become a pain in the ass; he didn't have the Stub Hub app, I didn't have the Stub Hub app, so no one had actually downloaded the tickets, and it would have taken him and me half an hour, me standing at the doorway of the Rickshaw, to jump all the hoops needed to actually transfer the tickets to me. But I am confident that someone somewhere paid for these tickets. It all finally got sorted out...

So there I was, at the Rickshaw, waiting for Black Flag to suck badly, because that is what everyone seems to say about this band now, so much so that the discrepancy between what you hear and what you experience at their shows actually only makes you more intrigued. Was last year an anomaly? Would they shit the bed THIS time? Would Ginn whip out a Theremin and noodle insufferably with it for half an hour? Would he play a 13 minute long version of "Louie Louie?" Would I be forced to endure a set of Good for You, the allegedly terrible band that Ginn and Vallely are in together, so they can sometimes open for themselves under a different name? Would I leave the Rickshaw, having borne witness, going, "Ahh, so this is what everyone was talking about, they really ARE terrible?" 

Well lemme tell ya: Shit the bed they did not. I don't know what to make of Greg Ginn -- I've never seen anyone get so much shit get talked about them, really ("and you know what they said/ some of it was true," probably!) -- but I totally enjoy his guitar playing, and he and Vallely and Black Flag rock just fine, thanks. They may benefit from the fact that I never saw them in their prime, but the room packed full of 20somethings at the Rickshaw tonight were beneficiaries of that same ignorance, because I haven't seen that many young people having that much fun at a punk show since... well, the last time I saw Black Flag. 

A First Four Years show or not -- based on a compilation album that covers the period between 1978 and 1981 -- there was plenty of material in the set from later on: two songs off 1984s Slip It In, the title track (extended to a 10-minute plus opus that devolved into a blues jam) and "Black Coffee" and four songs off 1983's My War ("Can't Decide"; "Nothing Left Inside," which I shot a clip of; "Forever Time"; and the weirdest tune of the night, "Swinging Man," which started with such an off-kilter opening I turned off my phone, which I later regretted, since it was hilarious to see kids trying to mosh to such a strangely structured song and since Ginn's guitar solos were particularly and enjoyably insane). There was also one new song, which surfaced twice, from Good for You, "Fucked Up," which was actually a great tune (I am the guy in the audience who was hoping that Good for You was going to do an opening set; they're the band, I think, Ginn and Vallely would WANT to be touring, if brand recognition wasn't so much stronger with Black Flag).  

And let me tell you, there were a lot of kids moshing last night. The average age of the audience seemed like it was maybe 25 -- people too young to have had heard shitty stories about Ginn, too young to have seen the band in previous incarnations, drawn by their reputation no less. They seemed to have a great time. My favourite mosher was a blonde girl with large boobs, 75% sticking out of her dress, who stayed in the pit the whole night, mixing it up -- youthful pits are also gender-rich and inclusive, these days. I blurted at her on the stairway at one point, "You must have gotten so many elbows to those, and yet you kept moshing! You're my new hero," which she maybe didn't know how to take at first -- she started to smile at the end when it was clear there was no lechery in what I was saying -- but a dude with her on the stairs was chuckling, enjoying my jest. No lechery intended, folks: it's almost fatherly love I feel for the Kids of the Pit these days, who mosh so much more joyfully than the aggro, all-male meatheads in the pits of my youth. 

That still doesn't mean I want to be among them, and alas, that's where I found myself, when, after an eight-minute "Can't Decide" that kicked off the night, I decided that, since the band hadn't broken out the fast stuff yet, it was safe to go into the mosh zone and try to shoot the next song. This, unfortunately, turned out to be "Nervous Breakdown," and the pit went wild, which means the video suddenly gets shakey, with one person falling back into me with such force that, as you will see, I rapidly stumble backwards, trying not to flat-out fall on my back and to hold onto my fucking cellphone at the same time. It was only by the grace of the people standing behind me (sorry to anyone whose feet I stepped on) that I remained upright. Happily, I kept filming.  

Anyhow, a few more recent songs aside, most of the set (same as one they played recently at the Whiskey, I think) was, indeed, drawn from the First Four Years years. I'd seen none of it performed by any previous version of Black Flag; the closest I came was seeing Ginn and Reyes at Ron's 50th birthday. The Ron Reyes band smoked that night, and the versions of "Jealous Again" and "Revenge" that we heard last night had nothing on seeing Ron lay into them, even if Ginn was under-amplified that earlier evening (you could barely hear him then; no such problem was had last night). It's possible that my enjoyment last night benefitted greatly from having few points of comparison -- it I'd seen these songs performed by other folks, like an earlier incarnation of Black Flag, or FLAG, or so forth, I might have been less impressed last night. But for the most part I haven't, and, sorry, it seemed like a pretty fucking great punk show to me, folks, maybe even better, if you like Ginn's solos, than the one last year.   

Interestingly, at least some of the people in the show were there for Mike V., it was clear -- there is some sort of draw for skaters. I recognized a couple of Jaks, and there were several calls of "Mike V." from the audience; he seemed, to a certain segment, to be a bigger celebrity than Greg Ginn. I've heard people talk shit about Mike, as well, some of which, again, might be true, who knows? "He likes to punch people in the face," was one comment someone made, the other being that he just imitates Rollins. He does sing in a Rollins-like way, I guess, without seeming quite as jockish in appearance (no pecs were seen, and the only six pack was the song). But if you looked in his face during the evening's second set -- we got two hour-long sets, with no encore -- you could see in his eyes that he was definitely feeling the songs -- he had an evil, manic intensity that was quite convincing. 

Anyhow, I can't presume to seriously evaluate any claims that these guys (Ginn, Vallely) are arseholes. Ginn was perfectly friendly and obliging when I spoke to him last year and signed stuff for anyone who asked; I saw him handing down a signed Everything Went Black to someone in the audience last night, too. Vallely was friendly with the audience between songs, promising they'd come back. The lack of an encore was a bit surprising but we'd gotten nearly two full hours of music out of them, so it's not like anyone felt cheated. As for musicianship, I can confirm that their drummer, Charles Wiley, AKA Corn Man, is not as interesting on the kit as Bill Stevenson, another gripe I've heard, but few drummers are, and he did fine last night, albeit in a fairly straightforward way. Matt Baxter, as well -- he's at least as good a bassist as Dale Nixon, haw, haw. And while I've heard people say they can't stand how Ginn plays guitar now -- to my mind, he's always been a weird-ass guitarist, and his having gotten a bit weirder and more Greg-Ginn like is a fine thing, by me. His solos were crazy. And very enjoyable. 

Oh, and the cellphone-era update of "TV Party" was fucking hilarious: thanks for that. The wi-fi is broken, and everyone has nothing better to do than stare at their phones. A timely update! 

So Ginn may not be a very ethical dude -- he certainly hasn't done a great job of convincing the world otherwise -- but I'm sure he has a point of view there, as well. His litigiousness with FLAG was flat-out stupid, in that it made him look like a dweeb: one of the least punk rock things anyone can possibly say is "I'll see you in court!" But I'm not going to try to evaluate or investigate any of that shit. He's someone not many people have love for, but he is one fuck of a guitarist, and if you hear people making claims that this is not REALLY Black Flag, that the band is boring and not worth seeing now -- this is all false. Last night was great, like I say maybe even better than the My War anniversary gig, which turns out to not have been an anomaly at all. To loop in an analogy with someone who is allegedly even less nice a person than Greg Ginn, Roman Polanski -- you can boycott Polanski's films all you like, because of the (now multiple) allegations of underage rape against him. There might be some reason to not want him to have your money, or to sit in positions of honour and esteem -- I am all for that, punish him where he will feel it, if that's what you want to do. But there is no way in hell you can say that his movies are bad. Bad people can make good art. You might not want to collaborate in it, but you can't deny the art. Or, well, at least I can't. 

(If you want to give money to an old punk rocker, by the way, the Reyes' Gofundme is still active, though I am happy to see they reached their goal. Maybe I'll send Ron the cost of a Black Flag ticket once I get paid? Least I can do -- I never donated!).

The funniest comment of the night came later on, as I was leaving the venue: I eavesdropped on two of the 20-something girls who had been at the show. "So was that as good as you expected?" one asked the other -- having established earlier that it was her first time seeing Black Flag.

"It was better, actually. One thing I'll say for these old punks: they sure can play their instruments!"

Her friend laughed in agreement: "They've had enough practice!" 

They continued down Hastings towards the bus stop, and I whipped out my phone and texted a note to myself about their conversation. 

From Hell I Rise review: Kerry King's "Toxic" triumph

I saw Slayer once. It was the first time I really felt sonically pummeled at a rock concert; my notes for the show included the phrase, "Fuck earplugs, I need body armour." And by far, the member who was most compelling to watch was guitarist Kerry King, a tightly-coiled, intensely energetic performer, with the charisma of a warrior, passionately committed to delivering the goods. By contrast, Tom Araya mostly just stood there, having been told by his doctors, because of back/ neck issues, not to headbang; I mean, I was glad to see him do what he does, and he did it well from a musical point of view, but he was not the most exciting guy to watch, especially with Kerry pacing like a trapped tiger next to him.  

Now, Slayer is not entirely my cup of tea, understand. Musically, I've always been able to get into the band's sound; I like things tight and fast and proficient and hooky, and they deliver on all those fronts. I just don't necessarily care for their lyrical content, which seems equally divided between antitheism -- not just rejection of religion, but hatred of it -- and misanthropy. For instance, the riffing on a song like "Disciple," AKA "God Hates Us All," is awesome, the solo a fascinatingly twisted, deliciously evil thing that feels like it's being played backwards and upside-down, but lyrically, as punchy a phrase as "God hates us all" is, it seems the philosophical equivalent of a dick pic: "See how tough I am? I have no God and I hate you all and I'm going to scream about it until the world falls into line!" It's not that I'm offended or anything -- it's just that I don't personally need that much catharsis (and don't really agree that "hate heals"). Even people like Richard Dawkins and Christopher Hitchens fail to impress me when they get into religion-bashing -- it's ultimately just another variant on the same in-group/ out-group tribalism that informs most religious behaviour, "my God is better than your God" stuff, except now it's "having no God is better than having any God." I mean, sure; but it's a conclusion I reached when I was 12, and don't still need pummeled into me now that I'm 56.   

Plus there's Araya in that Sam Dunn film telling us all he's a Christian and doesn't really mean any of it, so, like, what are we doing here, guys? (The lyrics are actually Kerry's, mind you...).  

The thing that caught me off guard about Kerry King's new solo album is, to my surprise and delight, there are moments I can connect with topically, which change the whole landscape. There's still plenty of hate and rage and self-assertion via anti-religious outpouring -- songs like "Crucifixation" are still more-or-less on-brand -- but the main thing that was missing for me in Slayer (lyrical content I could connect with) is now present, in a few songs, in a way that actually pushes the album close to hardcore punk. Try the song "Toxic," here (lyrics here). It's still not exactly "Fucked Up Donald" -- he's careful enough in his phrasing to not alienate potential buyers, I guess (or, how does he put it, "to make it vague enough so that anyone in any country can relate to it" -- though it's not clear what song he's referring to exactly, there). Perhaps a Trump supporter could still have use for the song, imagining it to be about "the other tribe." But King has explicitly connected the song in interviews with the overturning of Roe vs. Wade:

"Toxic" was written right after the Roe vs Wade decision went down in America [the controversial ruling to overturn US abortion laws]. Every Supreme Court justice Trump appointed lied to get the job. I can’t understand how that happened. I can’t understand how the American people are okay with that. Trump divided the country, and it’s still divided. I don’t know what needs to happen to make that change.

Or as expressed in song:

To your face they lie, unleash and overthrow
Legal rights denied and fall like dominoes
Hide behind the cloak to change your way of life
Liberty revoked, a target for all time

Too many people spend too much time
Forcing their opinion
On other people's lives

Toxic rhetoric
Toxic government
Toxic politics
Toxic hypocrites

Now these are lyrics I can get behind. Like, take a minute on that, Kerry King of Slayer has written what is essential a protest song about a feminist issue, about the rolling back of women's reproductive freedoms. Whoa! (And it still sounds like a Slayer song -- I've even seen some people online complaining that  the singer, Death Angel's Mark Osegueda, sounds too much like Tom Araya, but I do not mind that at all; Araya -- and Osegueda -- have mastered the trick of raging in a tough, growly way without going full Cookie Monster, so you can still make out most of the lyrics. In a world of metal vocals that are too clean, at one extreme, or incomprehensible gurgles on the other, they find the happy medium). "Toxic" was the fulcrum on which my appreciation of the album changed. With an impending concert later this month, the truth is, I was more excited, initially, in one of the opening acts, Alien Weaponry, who are from New Zealand and sing anti-colonial metal from a Maori point of view, with lyrics in Maori. I like them a lot, and am keen to see them, but actually checked out King's album sort of out of politeness, since he's the headliner. I wasn't expecting to care -- I'd go see him one way or the other, I figured; it was the Maori who were the draw. And the first couple tracks, which are mostly standard ragey anti-Christian stuff, I wasn't caring, tbh: "more of the same." It was hearing "Toxic," noticing those lyrics, and realizing that King was actually writing about stuff that matters that got me intrigued in the rest of the album, and while it's still that song that is the strongest political gesture, it's MORE than enough to make me a fan of the record. 

And jeez, there is a lot of fun metal riffing all over this record. Check out "Trophies of the Tyrant," in this regard; there's a bit of a groovy swagger to these songs that will work real well on the Commodore dance floor. The leads are mostly Phil Demmel of Machine Head, but some of them are King's, as well; mostly it's the writing and riffing he's behind. But it's good writing and great riffing, and...

...truth is, I'm enjoying it more than I ever enjoyed Slayer. (I'm also enjoying having learned that Kerry in his spare time is a snake breeder. What a fun, exquisitely metal dayjob!). Never had Slayer on "repeat" before -- they're always one of those bands I dip into for a few songs once or maybe twice a year. In contrast, I've listened to Kerry King's debut solo album over a dozen times in the week since I acquired it, twice of them full spins of the vinyl just this afternoon (and I may put it on one more time yet, today). 

So count me as mildly surprised, here. I'm still a bit more excited about the Maori metal openers, because I care about Indigenous issues, love the idea of overt tribal elements in metal -- I wonder if Max Cavalera is aware of them? -- and have learned in my readings of late that the Maori were at one point in fact, in their distant past, headhunting cannibals, which, whatever else you might want to say about it, is truly metal as fuck and kind of delightful to contemplate as a cultural norm. I mean, I don't think Alien Weaponry SING about that ("I will kill you and eat you and make you into feces!") -- they're more a thrash metal band with a bit of a groove to their music, reminding me a bit of Sepultura or Soulfly, than they are a grindcore or death metal band (the most cannibalism-friendly metal genres), so I'm guessing NOT, in fact, but the logic of cannibalism as a way of doing your enemy the maximum indigity is way more appealing to me than any of the brutalities offered by Cannibal Corpse at their most intense. Mind you, I haven't delved deeply into Alien Weaponry's lyrics yet (translations are available for the songs not in English), and I realize that that's all probably an aspect of their culture they're happy enough to put behind them -- if they intend to be Indigenous Ambassadors, that's probably not something you want to put on your CV -- but that thought process, of exacting punishment on your enemies so extreme that they are reduced to poop, just, uh, tickles my fancy endlessly. Sorry to harp on it: I do mean this in a positive way! 

I'm curious about crossover revivalists Municipal Waste as well -- haven't spent much time on them yet, realize they have a stellar rep but just haven't fit them in at length. Still, I'm really enjoying From Hell I Rise. Mostly my listening these days otherwise has involved King Crimson, Rush, the Police, and the Andrew Jackson Jihad -- I wasn't expecting to make room for metal, again -- but what do you know, I love this record. 

I hope the tickets don't sell out before payday! 

Movie lovers, mark your calendars!

This will be an exhausting but amazing double bill -- the original and the remake! Both stunning, essential films. February 1st at the Cinematheque!!!!

Keeping a record: 2025 at the start

 Well, the world is going to hell, might as well get my own life in order?

Not sure what I will actually get accomplished this year but for the purposes of record keeping: 

I have $23,000 in credit card debt and an overdraft I'm perpetually at the bottom of until payday.

I weigh, at the moment, 300lbs (actually I took a poop and I'm down to 299, but we like nice even numbers).

I have enough records and movies and books, really I do. 

Not making promises or resolutions, but let's see where the New Year leads...

Winning at 2048

So this is a fun, simple, but challenging game that a student showed me: the aim is to slide numbers around on a grid, doubling them -- crashing 2s into 2s, which thus become 4s, which you then must crash together into 8s, etc. Every time you make a move, a random "2" (or on some versions, the occasional 4) will materialize elsewhere on the board, sometimes filling a space you meant to move back into. To move, you can only use the directional arrows (or whatever keys work on your phone; I haven't tried it there) -- which means moving the whole row to the left or right or up or down; there are only the four possibilities. The game ends when no further moves are possible. It's fun enough to try to figure it out without any tips -- there's a bit of an adventure to be had just trying to figure out how to get a decent score, and I remember that without assistance, I was able to get as high as 512 soon enough. But if you want a heads up on how to proceed -- which will rapidly take you to the next level, the key is that you want to keep all the high numbers in one full row at the margin, restricting the movement to the remaining rows, pairing up numbers until you can add them to the bigger ones up at the top; you'll be tempted, sometimes, to take risks and break up the row of high numbers, but more often than not, you'll find you won't be able to recover the pattern and soon thereafter you'll lose. Just don't let small numbers get trapped behind big numbers, restrict your movements to only a portion of the board, and soon enough your 512s will turn in 1024s -- I only broke the pattern tonight because I could see victory three moves away. Tonight was my first 2048! Apparently it is possible to go beyond that target, but not on this website; this is the first time I've actually won the game. 

Robert Eggers' Nosferatu, Impending Doom, and Misogyny: some almost-organized thoughts

Short version: Nosferatu is terrific, ignore the reviews, ignore me, just go see it. I'll see it again theatrically soon. It's a magnificent accomplishment; people worried after The Northman that Eggers had lost his way should be reassured --  he's found it again, successfully working on a large scale. You will doubtlessly like some things about it more than others -- I certainly did -- but overall, you will appreciate the experience. Why are you even reading this, if you haven't seen it? Go see it, then come back to this. Then go see it again. If you haven't seen it at least once, and your instinct is to have a fresh experience, you are excused from reading what follows -- it's not very spoilery (and it's not like you don't know the story), but there's nothing here you need to put between yourself and your entry into the film; hell, reading this might even interfere?  

Long version (brace yourselves):

Truth is, devoted horror fan that I am, I have never really cared much about Dracula, or, by extension, Nosferatu.  (I am not italicizing them here, treating them as characters, centerpoints to the many adaptations; I'll italicize the individual film titles, but "Dracula" is a cultural phenomenon as much as that word is a title of a film or three.)

It might come down to my not having read the novel. With each film adaptation I have taken in, I have always felt like I'm one of those blind men groping a disparate part of an elephant, trying to arrive at a sense of the original text. But maybe it wouldn't help? After all, I have read Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, and don't really feel like it aided or subtracted from my enjoyment of any of the many Frankenstein films I've seen; and while I did read and love Wells' The Island of Dr. Moreau, the film adaptations of that really do stand alone, all of them departing substantially from the source material; the book is simply one more text to take in. Still, I can't really speak to the issue of faithfulness to Bram Stoker, can't really discuss the original text, to weigh in on whether my problems with the Dracula story start with Stoker himself, or if they are more problems with the films. No comment on Stoker's text is truly possible from me, except speculatively... 

But adaptations of it, I have seen many, and while I've enjoyed bits of all, there are none I really love. I won't count, here, things like the Paul Morrissey (Andy Warhol) Blood for Dracula or, say, my favourite Hammer takes on the character (like Taste the Blood of Dracula), since they use the conceit of Dracula to do things NOT, I presume, in Stoker -- to poke vulgar, softcore Marxist fun at the decadence of the aristocracy, in the former case, and to skewer Victorian sexual hypocrisy and sexism in the second (insofar as I remember it; it's been awhile). There are non-Dracula vampire tales that I do enjoy (Let the Right One In, Near Dark, 30 Days of Night, Martin, Habit, Ganja and Hess, and many others), but they all reinvent the vampire for their own purposes, taking us so far from the source that they're basically their own thing -- vampire movies, not Dracula movies. 

But versions of the actual Dracula story I've seen have seldom resonated strongly, and when they do connect, it's usually not because of the actual "Dracula" elements in them, if that makes sense. I was fascinated by how the original Nosferatu, for instance, served as an unsubtle, anti-Semitic shudder of horror at immigration: it really plays up fears of hooked-nose foreigners bringing their weird diseases and customs with them -- a cautionary tale about doing business with people from elsewhere. I don't approve of that messaging, of course, but it makes the film very interesting to watch and think about! (Enjoyment of a film for me often has more to do with the thoughts it provokes than my agreement with its content; I also think King Kong is a fundamentally racist narrative, say, but that's not meant as a condemnation; regarding it in that light makes it much more interesting). 

Or let's consider the Werner Herzog remake. I love, also, how Klaus Kinski -- a monster of a man, in real life, to be sure -- brings such pathos and humanity to the character of Nosferatu, or Orlok, or what-have-you. Herzog does a few things in that film to somewhat sabotage it, to make it ridiculous, as I recall -- weird little smirks and giggles he interrupts his text with -- but Kinski really makes you feel just how lonely and isolated the character is; there's something really remarkable in his performance. You feel sorry for the monster, as he portrays him, though again, this seems to move us away from the original purpose of the source story -- I guess. I wouldn't really know: do you feel sorry for Dracula in Stoker? You feel sorry for him (Orlok, Nosferatu, whatever) in the Herzog film. It's maybe the tenderest treatment of the story, the gentlest.

By contrast, I have never cared for Bela Lugosi and find the Tod Browning film overblown and impossible to enter, the last few times I've tried; I barely remember the Hammer Horror of Dracula, the one that actually does adapt Stoker, which is probably my least favourite Hammer vampire movie, of the ones I've seen. And the Francis Ford Coppola one is so risibly over-the-top that I couldn't get through a half hour of it the last time I attempted it. It's just a piece of crap, a bad joke of a film (note: I also was so put off by the first half hour or so of the Badham/ Langella Dracula that I just turned that one off. There may be other versions of the story that I've seen that I'm forgetting!). 

So Dracula has never entirely been a monster I've dug. And I do think part of the problem might come from the Stoker text. See -- there's a part of the elephant that feels very much like, oh, what shall we call it, Victorian misogyny? The idea that the female is the key to the evil -- that her connection to the vampire is drawing him -- a connection that at least sometimes is framed in terms of her own sexuality, as with the Eggers film, which I'll get to presently -- and that she must sacrifice herself to atone for that sexual sin, which lets, even invites, evil into the film's world... it's the same rationale that had church fathers proclaiming that Eve was the Devil's Gateway, a horror at female sexuality and female hysteria that ultimately necessitates the death of the female (even if this is framed heroically, it's still misogynist, because it is a necessary aspect of the film: if, to assert virtue, a character must destroy themselves, well, what is that saying about that character? "I'm so much a part of this problem that I must die to right it?" Cf. Carol Clover on Pumpkinhead, here). Maybe Stoker's source material is richer and deeper than all that, and maybe there are female, or even feminist, viewers of these films that find these elements rewarding or enriching, whether or no they agree that they are problematic (as I do about the original Nosferatu's anti-Semitism). But framing femininity as the ultimate source of evil, innate and biological, which must ultimately, to retain virtue, sacrifice itself -- which must be destroyed to defeat the monster -- is, uh, just a bit problematic, and runs throughout all versions of the film, to some extent (maybe not the Herzog? I'd have to see it again).  

No: what I do connect with, however, is a sort of latent criticism of capitalism and the, uh, real estate business, which also does surface in some versions of the film. The whole journey of -- I think of him as Harker -- into Transylvania; his ambition -- which he justifies in terms of trying to provide for his wife, but which, ironically enough, will put her at jeopardy; his traumatizing encounter with deep evil; and his journey back, to try to set right the wrongs he puts in motion, as a sense of overpowering menace grows... that's the stuff that I always gravitate towards, in any adaptation I see, which has moral and political meaning that I can get inside (further enhanced by the evil insanity of "Harker's" boss, usually called Renfield, but not in the Eggers film, where he's Knock, pronounced Kuhnock). The folk horror/ folk-tale-ish elements grab me, too -- surely Dracula is the birth of the trope in horror where the main character is warned to turn back by locals? But by the time that Mina (in the original -- in Eggers, she's Ellen or something) becomes the central focus, it doesn't matter what version I'm watching, I start to tune out, to lose my way; only the Kinski adaptation really holds my interest after the midpoint, because Herzog brings us inside the character in ways no other adaptation does... 

My reaction to Eggers' new Nosferatu is perhaps somewhat predictable, then. I loved and deeply felt the first half of the film, up to the point when the Demeter, or whatever it's being called, spills its rats onto the shores. (There are more rats than in Herzog, like that might have been Eggers' ambition; let's hope they were treated better than Herzog's rats -- there's an essay out there about that, in a Granta, or maybe  a Projections). But the subplot involving Frederick and Lucy (is she still Lucy? I'm lost) and their daughters, and the central action of the second half of the film, which revolves around "Mina"/ Ellen's decision to give herself to the monster, that she can betray and destroy him... it just doesn't do much for me, just like it never does much for me: Eggers has taken a text that I usually only really enjoy the first half of, and made of it a movie that I only really enjoyed the first half of.

But what a first half it is! It's brilliantly conceived -- the performances, the production design, the period detail, the costumes, the photography... actually, I'm always a bit weirded out by Eggers' taste for filming people square-on, center-frame, which there's a lot of at the start, but that one eccentricity aside, every element of Nicholas Hoult's character's journey -- I forget what they're calling him, in lieu of Harker -- is perfectly realized, a real pleasure to behold. The half-full theatre seemed as gripped as I was; I can't recall a quieter, better-behaved audience outside of an arthouse screening, actually -- I couldn't even hear the rustle of popcorn. I don't recall having enjoyed a sense of impending doom as much as this. Once Lily Rose-Depp becomes the center of the story, though, it all becomes much less interesting. Maybe this is my failing? I don't understand where the character is coming from, can't connect with her as a representation of femininity, don't feel compelled by the drama. Isabelle Adjani, in the Herzog, at least has this powerfully tragic aspect, in a doomed, Gothy way. I wanted to care more about Mina/ Ellen, wanted to feel more connection with her hysteria, her dread, her sense of responsibility, but I just didn't. 

I didn't much care for Willem Dafoe, either, to be honest, who is just a bit too Willem Dafoe for this role (the van Helsing one); he does things we've all seen him do before, that are nowhere near as fun to watch as in, say, his performance in Poor Things, where the goofy Willem-Dafoeishness of him is perfectly suited. I like Dafoe, but he was just distracting in this role.  

And while it's really interesting to see Orlok interpreted by Bill Skarsgard as a powerful, masculine, Slavic warrior with a Nietzsche moustache, glaring eyes, a powerful bellow and really bad skin -- a very different kind of Dracula than we've seen elsewise -- I have to say, good as he is in the role, Skarsgard is no Kinski, and Eggers is no Herzog. Sure, Orlok makes a commanding presence, but the film seems to remain on the outside of him. Is he in love? Is he just horny? Or is "Mina" mostly food and a future slave? You suspect the first of those reasons, but unlike the Kinski or even the Oldman interpretations of the character, you never really feel or care about his character's desires or backstory. He's just a monster with a big moustache and a thick Slavic accent (when he's not speaking in what I presume is Romanian). He's powerful enough in his bearing to be sexually intimidating, not a revolting little ratlike creature (like Kinski) -- so you can understand why women are compelled by him, despite what he is -- but interesting as he is, do you feel for him? I, myself, did not.

It's definitely a fresh take on the monster, though, I'll give it that. And whether the whole drive of the film is misogynist or not, there's no denying that Eggers foregrounds the issue of sexuality, makes it central to the film, not as subtext but text. It begins with Depp waking from a nightmare to which she will inexorably return. What's this about Mina/ Ellen/ whatever having been sexually seduced by the evil as a young woman? Maybe the alleged director's cut will shed more light on this aspect of the film: it's seemingly central, but a bit mysterious! 

So that's where we're at, ultimately: I adored the first half of Eggers' Nosferatu -- thought it gorgeous and gripping, the most cinematically vivid, gorgeous-to-watch, fully-realized spectacle of a film I've seen in a commercial movie theatre since Poor Things. But the things I liked in the second half were just incidental bits, shots of scurrying rats, or, say, the "Renfield/ Knock" character doing mean things in his cell to small animals, or... The film remained gorgeous to look at throughout, but in its final acts, won me no more than any other Dracula adaptation I've seen; Eggers' set up is much, much better than his resolution, which might just ultimately be down to a problem with the source text. (I've read people say that Eggers is too faithful to the original; maybe that is so). 

I still recommend it, though. Beats the hell out of The Northman! Go see the film. And then go see it again. And then come explain to me what it ultimately is, what it's saying about the female, about sexuality, about sex, because, I guess the truth is, I don't entirely get it. Is it profound and moving? Or is it a faithful adaptation of a fundamentally problematic, Victorian, prudishly misogynist tale? (It seems like there are plenty of viewers of it out there describing it as "feminist," but... that was not my takeaway). 

What the hell is this story, anyhow? I really do need to see it again...

Note: though I have made no mention of the film above, Jonny Bones will be hosting a rare theatrical screening of Shadow of the Vampire, with an unrecognizable Willem Defoe as the actor who played the title vampire in the original silent film, Max Schreck, with the conceit being, he really is a vampire! A curious film for Nosferatu enthusiasts; see here for more. 

This Sunday! NO FUN after Christmas! Again!

Did you miss NO FUN at Christmas this year? A ridiculously entertaining, entertainingly ridiculous festival of inspired seasonal idiocy, now with extra Wenceslas! Have you never heard "Elf Toymaker" performed live? (David Bowie's "Moonage Daydream" as re-interpreted by overworked, union-minded elves?). Are you hipped to the alternate uses of an uncooked turkey? Fear not, friends, if you've missed out to date, because THIS SUNDAY AT LANALOU's, David M. and the NO FUN gang take to the stage again, including possibly yours truly, to deliver NO FUN After Christmas, a seasonal event like none other (except for the pre-Christmas one that took place a couple of weeks ago, also at LanaLou's, from which my video evidence derives). More background here, if you want it, but really, no homework is required: there will be stuff that goes over your head no matter what you do ("Mommy, why is that man dangling a bat?"). Also see here, about the recent spate of NO FUN reissues happening in the US-of-M, or here, for audio evidence of a classic NO FUN at Christmas set from 1987, or, like, here, for my first disparaging review of this NO FUN at Christmas phenomenon, written in 2004, forgotten about, then discovered by David sometime around 2016, long after we had become friends. To be read live onstage while I am flogged with strands of Gorgo! 

I mean, what the hell ELSE are you gonna do this Sunday? Come to LanaLou's! (And come for dinner! The poutine is real good -- or have a quesadilla!).  

Alienated top 12 blogposts for 2024

Curious about what people care about on my blog, dear reader? Here are my top twelve stories of the year. All posts are given with the minimum number of reads, as reported by Blogger -- some regulars might have read it just at the top of my blog, without having clicked on it or such, so who knows if Blogger keeps track of that. These are not huge numbers but at least they're all at least triple digits, eh?

Anyhoo, Happy New Year, and congrats to you if you were in one of these stories, presented in sequential order.  

 Live review of Black Flag, last January: 243 reads

Dead Bob with Colin MacRae, last February: 491 reads.

Powerclown live review, March, 283 reads. 

Selina Martin, Tony Bardach, and the Minimalist Jug Band: also March, 245 reads. 

Reverend Horton Heat live review, also March. Someone must have shared this bad boy because it's at 1940 reads. 

Jon Card obituary and archival interview, April: 466 reads. Not bad for a Canadian punk drummer, eh?

LanaLou's folk punk night with Jonny Bones, Jesse LeBourdais, Matt Earle, and Spencer Jo: July, 210 reads. 

Alejandro Escovedo primer, July, 202 reads.

Why bats? About "If I Was a Bat" and more, a very personal post from October, but it got 189 reads. 

Ty Stranglehold interview, December: 207 reads. 

Live review of Dead Bob, Victims Family and Invasives, December, 269 reads.

Pre-Ronfest article focusing on Chris Crud: 190 reads!

Honorable mention: Tony Walker, at 182 reads, last June.  

Steve Albini in memoriam

Just something I posted on Facebook earlier today that I figured I would also put here, because it really just seemed to merit my psychic energy. Ford Pier tells me in the comments there that the right way to do Shellac is to start with the first album and then follow their development: I might do that. He also thinks, with Mr. Yow, that Two Nuns and a Pack Mule is peak Albini. I'm bearing this in mind, but man that band name makes me squeamish. All the same, I'm glad he matured, glad he grew up: this is why it makes no sense to crucify people for things they did 20 or 30 years ago, because sometimes they aren't that person anymore. 

Excited to have Mr. Albini back in my life, musically, even if it has come at some cost. Commence FB post:

I hope this is not insensitive, but in terms of musical events of 2024, something really personally valuable to me, as a music fan, came out of Steve Albini's passing. I already had both Vic Bondi (who was most definitely not always on this page) and David Yow say good things about him in interviews, over the last few years -- Yow seemed particularly in awe of him, described him as a genius, while Bondi, who was on the record disparaging Albini in the past, gave him lots of credit for his later work and growth and was quite amelioratory, which I was glad to help put into the world. But it wasn't until Albini's unexpected passing this past May that I went back and read Albini himself reflecting on his own early work, which I had liked at the time when I too was young(er) and dumb(er), then decided was off-putting and problematic and swore off by the time I was 30. "Fists of Love," screw dat: I tried at various points to keep some of Albini's music in the house but there were always things that grossed me out, "immature edgelord horseshit, who needs it, meh." When he died, I had a bunch of albums he had produced, but maybe only one CD by a band I won't even name here, which I only bought (Two Nuns and a Pack Mule, we mean) because Yow loved it so much. Good record, but horrible band name -- I mostly kept it for the ZZ Top cover (which I had to admit ruled, but I never had a problem with how Albini SOUNDED, you know? Just what he said and wrote and his posturing).

 
Anyhow, reading Albini in 21st century interviews, which I did a bunch of on his passing, made it very very clear that Albini had grown up tons, and got me to do something I had never done before: I bought a Shellac record, To All Trains, which came out just after he died in May. And holy cripes, it's great. It may turn into my favourite album of 2024 -- I haven't gotten to the bottom of yet, nowhere close, but it's one of those deep, solid listens that you know is going to be exciting for years to come, like, say, late-phase Fugazi or something; you're not going to spin it every day, but it's not going to get boring, ever. My only complaint is the best kind of complaint you can have about an album: it's too short, I want more! Plus, having deliberately ignored them while Albini was alive, I had no idea that Shellac was also the band of Bob Weston, formerly of the Volcano Suns (a band I dearly love, fronted by Peter Prescott of Mission of Burma, also now in another band, Minibeast), so that doubles my excitement.

 
Anyhow, I'm not sure that there's any single figure in popular music I read about, thought about, talked about more than Steve Albini while *not actually listening to them*, you know? I have spent far more of my life not listening to Steve Albini than I have doin' the other thing. That may change now -- I think I need to explore some more Shellac, though I'm going to restrict myself to their recent work for now. And though it comes late in the game, RIP, Mr. Albini -- man of the year, I guess, tho' I'm sorry you aren't around to take in my saying so. I hope when you were around, you read my Yow interview where we talked about you -- that was some pretty fun stuff he said about your freakish ability to name the chemicals in sperm, and he talked about your poker playing a little, which I had paid no attention to (it's in a back issue of Big Takeover, for those who are curious). If other people are like me, it might actually be time to give the man a break and give the album a listen. It's real good!!! (PS, I just finished writing you into a grammar worksheet I'm preparing for my dayjob, illustrating restrictive and non-restrictive appositives, asking students to add commas where necessary to these sentences: "The producer of Nirvana’s album In Utero Steve Albini was also a member of the band Shellac. He ran the studio Electrical Audio in Chicago the city where he lived." Furthering your legacy one ESL student at a time!).

AJJ -- an inspiring night with Sean Bonnette

It's nice to see kids -- I'm not entirely serious about that word, but when you're 56, anyone under 35 looks like a kid -- getting so enthusiastically into a band as artful and strange and naked as AJJ, who, in a very stripped down form, played a packed house at the Pearl earlier tonight (Ben, the bassist, had a family emergency so it was essentially a Sean Bonnette solo acoustic set). 

Truth is, the youthful audience -- I figure the median age was about 27, but if you removed a few dozen old fuckers like myself, the average would drop lower -- knew the band's catalogue better than I do; I could only sing semi-confidently along with a couple of songs, like "Getting Naked, Playing with Guns," but the gathered crowd seemed to know a lot more lyrics than I did, and generally got passionately into Bonnette's performance (which wasn't entirely solo: Jim of Pigeon Pit, the AJJish opener -- and also of Foot Ox, whose song "Lucky Strike" Bonnette covered -- joined him for a couple of songs). The songs were quiet enough that you could hear the rumble of the moshers' feet on the floor of the Pearl, like a small stampede was passing through. It was a very enjoyable and even inspiring night -- if you are old and jaded and not used to seeing young people behaving in such cool ways -- though jeepers, I've never seen people mosh to an acoustic Roger Miller cover before (there was even some crowd surfing!). In fact, Bonnette semi-chastened people for getting a bit too enthusiastic at times (pointing out for his performance of "White Ghosts," say, off their newest album, that the song works better if people don't stomp along; he also quipped something mid-set about playing a few bangers so that the people in the pit would burn off their energy, but they never did). He also fucked with us a bit, in a way that reminded me a bit, weirdly, of Jonathan Richman, playfully doing four sequential readings of "The Michael Jordan of Drunk Driving" (which is about a minute long) then a couple of other songs ("Body Terror Song" off Good Luck Everybody, and a cover of Neil Young's "Tell Me Why," noting that Neil is his favourite Canadian) before doing a fifth take, the audience tittering but maybe also wondering what was going on. After a few more other songs -- he did a final sixth take of it as an encore. Never quite seen it done that way before! He flubbed his lyrics a couple times, over the course of the night, and abandoned one song outright -- "shit, I don't know that one!" -- but they're complex, dense lyrics he's singing, and, I mean, heck, Phil Ochs used to forget lyrics all the time, and he's practically a saint, so fuggit). In fact, Bonnette played with incredible energy -- check out "Normalization Blues," a Trump-themed song from the previous album; it was amazing to hear live. I wish it wasn't relevant again! (There were a few references to the current political situation, which runs throughout Good Luck Everybody, previously linked. Bring on the mega-guillotine, indeed).  

Sean crosses off his setlist, which was based on requests made on a clipboard at the merch table (!)

I shot one other video, for "Kokopelli Face Tattoo," which, fittingly enough, was the song I recorded the last time I saw AJJ play, ten years ago at the Biltmore, when they were still using their full name (and had a full band. Sean's hair wasn't as good back then!). Unless you count a fairly bad Roky Erickson thing I shot on my wife's cellphone at the Electric Owl, then posted under her account, that song was the first video I ever put onto Youtube!

Anyhoo, I don't have much to say, but it was a great night, and I loved that there was at least one person there who came BECAUSE OF MY RECOMMENDATIONS on social media. One person! Who also really loved seeing the young'uns getting into such creative music, and bought an album off the merch table (this one, which features the fascinating "Bad Bad Things," probably their most horrifying song -- yet somehow a very moving one). At the end of the evening, Sean squatted at the front of the stage and signed things, and politely ignored a drunk girl who kept calling him "Andrew" (?!) and insisting he play "Skate Park," a song I barely even know, but that obviously runs deep with her. Me, I'd had "Bad Bad Things" on my brain all night, but it's so terrifying I didn't mind that he skipped it. Still, I sang it to myself as I walked down Granville Street -- "Do you remember me? I killed your family" -- amidst large numbers of 20somethings, also carrying AJJ records. 

Kids these days: I like'm.