Story for Adrian Belew, re BEAT and the King Crimson / Riverview Hospital anecdote

Hello, members of BEAT. I had been thinking I might try to interview Adrian Belew apropos of the tour, but really, the point of it was just to tell him a funny story about a song, "Indiscipline," that you'll be playing. I secured a home for the story, maybe with an eye on getting comped into the upcoming Vancouver show, but the truth is, I don't have any great questions to ask. Actually the stuff I'm most curious about is either already known or has nothing to do with 80's King Crimson ("Did Bob Dylan ever react to your impersonation of him on Zappa's 'Flakes'? How, exactly, did that come about -- did Zappa know you did a good Bob Dylan and write the lyric for you, or did he approach the band and say, 'I need a Dylan impersonation' and do, like, tryouts, which you won, or...?" ...Hell, I bet that's already known, too... just not by me!). 

I think I've given up. My initial attempts to reach out didn't go anywhere, and I have other writing to do, so rather than trying to figure out what channels to go through and trying to come up with intelligent questions about some of the more daunting rock guitar out there, it's easier just to buy a ticket and tell the story here, in case I can get your attention. It's funny, I promise! (But I may take too long getting to it; bear with me, I'm verbose, and some context is required).   

(General readers who do not know that song should go here before proceeding. Note that the inspiration for most of the lyrics -- by Belew, who also does the vocals -- was based on a letter Belew got from his then-wife, talking about a sculpture she had done. There's a fun interview where that comes up, here; it is also mentioned here. Those with a sharp eye who clicked the first link will notice that the Youtube channel for the song mis-identifies the authorship, not mentioning that the lyrics are Belew's, despite it being the official page; what's with that? [That could be another question, actually: "Did you feel there was sufficient respect for your lyrical contributions, or were they regarded an ancillary to the music?" Or, like, "Did Margaret ever get any credit for those lyrics? Was that a bone of contention between you?" [There is apparently a fan-made film that credits her, "following a disturbed artist's personal satisfaction with her painting"]. ANYTHING so that I don't have to try to ask something intelligent about your guitar playing. Vancouver has Alex Varty for that; I know when I'm outclassed). 

Anyhow, the story involves this guy, beknownst to all King Crimson fans: 

So in the late 1990s, we still had a functional psychiatric hospital in the lower mainland, Riverview. It was already downsizing; many wards had been emptied, following a model of putting the mentally ill back into the community, in smaller group homes or even just on their own (ideally with some sort of supports, but there did seem to be a connection between that policy move and the number of mentally ill people one started seeing walking around Vancouver, probably homeless...). There have been some particularly nasty crimes in Vancouver of late that have led to discussion about returning to a model of incarceration for the seriously mentally ill -- the sort of people who were still on locked wards, back in 1996 or so, when this story takes place -- but even then, they were filming The X-Files and the odd Hollywood movie in wings that had been cleared out (you've probably unknowingly seen some Riverview interiors). Which I think had something to do with keeping the hospital open, because funding was being cut: Hollywood helped keep the place open for longer than the government would have.

I digress. Back then, I was making a slow transition from being a confused, marginally employed acidhead (I spent a few years of my early 20s exploring psychedelics, mostly whilst listening to out-there music, including King Crimson) and devoting myself to finishing some sort of degree (I'd been in and out of university for several years, unsure of a direction) and trying for a career of some sort. For awhile, before I decided that I would get certification to become an ESL teacher, I considered a career in psychiatric nursing; but the academic advisor at the college where I was considering taking the training suggested that before I do that, I volunteer at Riverview to get a feeling for what life was like on the wards and figure out if I had the aptitude or interest or psychic stamina for the job. Seemed like fair advice! So I looked into volunteer positions available, and decided to help with the art therapy program, to see if I liked the work. (I thought that my experience with psychedelics might give me some insight into what it was like to be mentally ill; I figured that maybe I'd explore that as a career, too, as a more creative variant on psychiatric nursing). 

I applied, was accepted, and for about nine months, I would turn up on (I think) a weekly basis and go sit on the wards with the art therapist, where we would make art of our own, and set out materials on the tables and encourage other people to come and make art, which -- if people wanted to -- we could then talk about with them. The actual "therapy" aspect of it was less a part of my role; the art therapist, if I recall, did one-on-one sessions with people, going into depth, but I didn't have that much involvement in that side of things. Mostly I think the idea that the art itself was therapeutic, and it gave something productive and fun for the patients to do, you know? There was a bit more to it than that -- I also helped with a patient "Outsider Art" show, and I got to know a couple of the patients who were on part of the committee to make that happen, but mostly the position involved making art on the wards.  I only have one piece of art I did from that time, a self-portrait in a kettle, inspired by Escher, that I did while waiting for a meeting to begin:

Commence story! ...so one day, I'm sitting on a ward with the art therapist; we have art supplies spread out on the table, and I'm in a mood, feeling like stirring the pot a bit -- because things generally happened pretty slowly, at an "institutional" pace, at that hospital -- so I'm drawing a giant, weird, screaming face on a piece of paper, thinking it might inspire some reactions, get things going, inspire people to make art or at least react. And a tall, skinny guy who looked to be in his 20s wanders over, who I immediately figured was a fellow psychonaut -- he had Christopher Lloyd hair, a beard, a big grin, and an affable demeanor; I had no idea what his story (or diagnosis) was, but I'd seen him on ward breaking up conflicts, keeping things peaceful between people, being generally friendly (but not entirely coherent; his thought processes were kind of hard to follow). And he checks out my drawing and goes, "Heyyy, King Crimson!" 

I looked at the screaming face and could see what he meant; I mean, it hadn't been what I was trying for, but sure, why not? And suddenly -- I'm guessing it was him who started the chant, but I don't remember exactly; I joined in pretty quickly, though -- and this guy and I are chanting together, rather loudly, in the middle of the ward of a psychiatric hospital:

I repeat myself when under stress

I repeat myself when under stress

I repeat myself when under stress

I...

And, like, the other patients are looking over at us "like we're crazy," so to speak. The art therapist (who doesn't know the song) is looking a bit concerned. But the guy and I are both grinning and pleased as punch to be bonding on the lyric. 

A few weeks later, I guess he was out on the street again, because I saw him wandering around on Robson Street. I said hi, and tried to follow his conversation a bit (I couldn't; his mind zipped this way and that, dots in space with no lines between them, impossible to see what the picture was). But I bought him a slice of pizza and have carried that moment with me for almost thirty years -- by far the happiest/ most favourite/ most entertaining moment from my time as a volunteer. 

I guess that could be another question for Adrian Belew: has that line drawn any fun or unexpected reactions? Do you vary the number of times you repeat it, when you play it live? Are there any other variants?

But I guess I'll just go to the concert and see. 

Bunchofuckingoofs in the Straight (and at the Waldorf), Bev Davies in Montecristo, and Cousin Harley at the Rickshaw

Crazy Steve Goof by Cat Ashbee, not to be reused without permission

Wrote a piece about Bunchofuckingoofs for the Georgia Straight that I did NOT expect to be doing. I had put out a request months ago to talk to Crazy Steve Goof, the singer and only original member, but nothing came of it, then somehow stumbled across the guitarist's Facebook account. I wrote him, put in a friend request, then never heard back; I assumed he was just blowing me off, as a couple other people had seemingly done, so I gave up on the piece. Then I just happened to check the message status the other day:  Facebook hadn't sent it because we weren't friends yet. I re-sent it. He replied. Here we are.

Adam Kates did tell a story, mind you, that didn't make it into the article, writing that "The only memory I have of the goods was fear! I saw them at Ildiko's in '87, they used cheap instruments... I felt that by seeing this band I not only felt as a hardcore spectator, but one of the true scenesters. I was initiated!"

The rest of y'all can get initiated on Saturday, unless you're in Nanaimo, in which case, it's tonight. Ancillary note: I got a chuckle out of reading in the Dirty, Drunk and Punk book that Crazy Steve's fear in life is ending up fat and bald in the suburbs (I check all three boxes). 

bev davies and her cat vincent, by allan macinnis, not to be reused without permission

 

 Also newly published, both in line and in print: a new feature on the great Bev Davies (happy birthday!). We talk about some of her best-known photos and I introduce an error to the print version by thinking Roy of Friends Records must be Wimpy Roy. I figured I was having a Vancouver Magazine moment where I was just failing to recognize what Brian looked like at a much lower weight and younger age than I was used to seeing him at; it never even occurred to me that it might be that other Roy, who I never met (it doesn't help that "the other Roy" has cake on his face, either). Hey, wait a sec, didn't that Roy-from-Friends-Records guy sell the Subhumans master tapes to those reprobates at CD Presents? Maybe this is poetic justice! He has been replaced with the only Roy in Vancouver punk worth talking about! 

Actually there are a total of TWO mistakes in the article, but that one is 100% mine. It is fixed online, but people who want to know what else went wrong will have to buy the print copy to find it!!!! The last issue was super cheap at Indigo (it has my tongue cancer story in it).  

I now must convince myself that I will have fun if I go to the Rickshaw and see Cousin Harley and the Stephen Nikleva band do a tribute to Ray Condo. In point of fact, I'm a bit burned out and just want to stay home under the covers and see if I can find a horror movie that will terrify my wife. On the other hand, there is a finite number of times I will get to dance to Paul Pigat playing the "Hadicillin Boogie," so I better make the most of the opportunity.  

Hey, by the way, Facebookers, you can't share the Georgia Straight link to the Bunchofuckingoofs interview in Canada (because it's "news;" seriously, could we fix that shit?). But you can share the link to this blogpiece! Yay! 

The link is this, if you're not sure how to make it happen:

https://alienatedinvancouver.blogspot.com/2024/09/bunchofuckingoofs-in-straight-and-at.html

I am now off shift. 

Ray Condo Forever! (And Paul Pigat this Friday)

 

Sometimes I got nothin' new to say, but this is a must-see show. Glad to see Stephen has been added to the bill! 

Should I do a 20th anniversary show?

If I can still find a room, should I do a 20th anniversary show for Alienated in Vancouver?

It's 20 years this October, ad-free (I've occasionally put up gig posters and such to plug a show, and OCCASIONALLY gotten comps as a result of my writing... but I've never been paid to run an ad or written a piece here BECAUSE of an ad). 

I'm also thinking I'd be better off quitting -- too many pains in the ass, not enough recompense -- but also thinking of marking the anniversary, one way or the other. Even if I quit, I'd at least be going out with a bang (a small one, mind you, appropriate to the Alienated mandate). 

Maybe I shouldn't bother...

Of Cherry Pick, Shearing Pinx, Tranzmitors, and attempted Oi!

Notice: The Tranzmitors (above) All photos by me.

The issue spoken about in the original blogpost has been resolved. Went to see an Oi! show. Left before the main band went on. Had some complaints. They seem to have been dealt with, so why leave them up? But here are some photos:

Ultra Sect

Part Two: Shearing Pinx, Cherry Pick

[I just left the second half of this blogpost mostly unchanged]:

Luckily, I DID have a great time at a show last night, but it was at (sorry, Wendy) the Cobalt, which is being booked by new people (Gang of Three -- not sure who they are, exactly, but I hope some of the bad karma that place has will be washed away by the change; last night's was only the second show I've paid to see there since Wendy's heartbreaking and underhanded ouster circa 2010 -- tho' I've been comped in a couple times). There are never problems with sound there! My understanding is that -- besides the building owners, who I assume have not changed -- there was a single character behind-the-scenes that made people think twice about putting on or going to shows there, but I have no idea if this person is still involved somewhere -- I hope not, because it's a venue I'd like to feel able to go back to without guilt.  I didn't get to see the headliner there (Tamaryn), either, in fact, but I was really going for Shearing Pinx, anyhow, who I have not seen in ages, and never as a four piece (now with Izzy of Earthball and Crotch, and Nyssa, I think it is, of Hag Face). I am not sure how often they have played in this incarnation, and thought some things they did last night worked better than others -- they seem to be in a period of transformation, maybe? I have seen them tighter, but also looser -- but I was really glad to see them again, one way or another, and shot video of their song "Love Jesse," which is supposed to have a heart icon instead of the word "love;" I have no idea how to make my keyboard do that. If the Jesse they're loving is the guy from Twin Crystals, who was on at least one of their albums (Rituals), I actually think I saw him on the Skytrain home last night, by amazing coincidence. Maybe he'd been there, too?

But the truth is, through their set, I was distracted by thoughts of a band I enjoyed even more, whom I'd had no expectations of at all, having never heard previously: the evening's openers, Cherry Pick, who, against the odds, turned out to have been the high point of the night, both venues combined (I mean, the Tranzmitors are way more seasoned and sharper, the best band overall, but I'm taking in the sound, here...). Cherry Pick is quite young, female-fronted, and their debt to Sonic Youth is quite pronounced -- they even did a cover of "Kool Thing" -- but though one senses that they're a unit in their early days of playing live, who are going to only get better with experience and encouragement -- they were totally delightful and engaging. 

I visited the merch table after the singer said she had three t-shirts left for sale, and said hello, blurted something enthusiastic, and asked if she'd been able to catch Kim Gordon last week (she had not, which makes me sad, but I didn't ask why...). I found out that the name of the song I shot was "Pretty Thing," an original which you can also hear in demo form here, and noticed to my amazement that they had exactly one t-shirt left and it was my size (and has a snake on it, albeit in skeletal form, done with bleach -- a handmade work of art for a mere $20, which I simply could not resist and have worn all day).

I hope that Cherry Pick keep going, they're onto something (and now that the Winks are gone from this coast, we NEED a band who brings some Sonic Youthfulness into play). I don't know when Cherry Pick plays next, but incidentally, there is another chance coming up to see Shearing Pinx at the Cobalt as part of a mini-festival celebrating the change of operators. I will definitely be considering that show, if my schedule allows it...

Last Night's Gig: Pit Props, Night Court, Invasives, and Rong

Okay, so it isn't Rampage Over O'Hara's but Byron sure can catch air when he wants to. Sometimes the content saves a shitty picture (thank God). All photos by Allan MacInnis

So I went to a gig last night. It was great! I shot vid of Night Court and of Invasives but had neither storage nor battery to do everyone. Favourite moments of the night:

1. Pit Props -- Calgary folk-punks with a pinch of street punk to their sound and a gift for the anthemic, doing an Indigenous land-back revision of "This Land Is Your Land" (given as "This land ain't your land" with a final choral line of "This land was stole for you and me"), as one of their many politically-minded crowd-pleasers in their set. They also did a song about punching transphobes in the face ("Devils in the Bathroom:" great title), a queer pride tune (title now forgotten but fun at the time), and another that I didn't catch the name of about the toxic drug crisis. They know their audience! They had some tuning challenges early on but the longer they played the faster and defter they got and people who I'm sure did not know them at all before last night could be seen singing along with their choruses. Nice to know such a band can come out of Alberta (whose culture I suspect is better repped, generally, by Jerry Jerry and the Sons of Rhythm Orchestra, say -- a sort of Randian rockabilly/ surf gospel... who I also love, mind you, but like the man says, I contain multitudes.)

2. Night Court saving me a 3XL t-shirt that was apparently partially inspired by my interview with Emilor for the Straight about her busted finger; the X-ray imagery plainly depicts her injury -- zoom in if you dare and examine her pinky! -- as well as Jiffy's busted tooth (which was the victim of both a microphone and a skateboard fall, and is now apparently under repair). It was nice to see Emilor dancing in the pit, too, doing high-kicks to Invasives songs (none of which did I document).

3. Invasives -- who I have not seen in far too long -- doing "Animal Skin," my second favourite song off Desk Job at Castle Dracula, as well as a deep cut off Robot Stink that I obviously have to get to know better. Got some great photos of the Slack brothers and fished a bit in Byron's pond for deets about Dead Bob plans (I got no actual bites but I saw a big fish moving under the surface, if you see what I mean. Not quite sure what sort of fish or if I'll ever catch it but it looked sizeable). 

Damn I hope the rising tide of Dead Bob lifts the boat for Invasives, Rong, Ford Pier and -- well, Pigment Vehicle aren't exactly active but who else would like to see a vinyl reissue of that stuff? (Start here? They probably have played a bigger role than any other band in my descent into prog). 

4. Rong, restored to their full line-up (= without Emilor on bass), doing a toughened cover of Lisa Lougheed's "Run With Us," which I probably knew in the 1980s and never would have imagined myself loving quite so much as I did last night --- to say nothing of their sludgy "The Ships," which somehow I hadn't paid as much attention to on the record. Fun to note that they apparently have some sort of "Hollow Weenie Pee" (say it for the double meaning) coming out this October, and played a song about being a monster for us ("No Humans Allowed" might be the title; I wonder if they're also fans of Nightbreed?).

It was fun being greeted at the gate by Kristy-Lee, too! 

Also fun chatting with James of Bison, Brock of the SLIP~ons, Jeffrey of Tranzmitors (playing an Oi! show at the Waldorf tomorrow), and Ford Pier (who has been providing some guidance on my tentative forays into the music of Rush). I also really liked some of the graffiti on the Green Auto bathroom wall, but my favourite scrawled slogan ("Be Gay Do Crimes") was not as photogenic as some of the other scribbles and stickers: 

Tomorrow it's a peek into see Shearing Pinx at the Cobalt, an early show that seems like it will let me get to said Oi! show. In fact, it's early enough (= a real smart move) that you could probably see most of Tamaryn's set and still make it to the Waldorf in time for at least the Tranzmitors. That's the plan, anyhow. 

Lots of stuff going on this weekend (Accordion Noir festival on Sunday, too, admission by donation). I don't know if any of it will top Thursday, though (that was a pretty great Thursday). 

Attention Dead Bob Fans! Rong and Invasives share a bill with Night Court!

Okay, so the Dead Bob show at the Commodore was too brief and therefore not as satisfying as the full-meal-deal at the Pearl a few months ago, but I hope some of you got a sense of how magnificent a unit this band is. This is, of course, the new project of John Wright of Nomeansno and the Hanson Brothers, a supergroup of sorts, surprisingly cohesive, made up of Wright, Ford Pier, Colin MacRae of Pigment Vehicle, Kristy-Lee Audette of Rong and Byron Slack of Invasives. TWO of those bands, Invasives and Rong, will be playing Green Auto, with one of my other favourite local small-p punk bands, Night Court, this Thursday! 

I have nothing much to say at present -- swamped with other stuff, but if you want a great show to go to on Thursday, you can't beat this. If you haven't checked out Invasives or Rong before, there's a lot of catching up to do, but both are great bands. I wonder if Emilor (also of Pet Blessings, and formerly a member of Rong herself) is still doing double-duty with Rong and Night Court? 

There's lots I could be linking here -- interviews I've done, Youtube clips, etc. -- but heck, you know how to look things up. Trust me: going to be a great night. I have no idea who Pit Props are, so I might look them up myself... or I might just go and be surprised. 

See you there?

Wrong Turn 2: Dead End: Henry Rollins' (second?)-best film?

NOTE: I have added a comment at the end of this with some final reflections.

Like many of you, I suspect, I have seen a couple of not-so-good movies starring Henry Rollins, like, say, Johnny Mnemonic, The Devil's Tomb, or Morgan's Ferry (reviewed by me here; I state categorically that "Hank can't act" in that review but bear in mind I had not yet seen him well-used in a movie, at that point. He Never Died was yet to come). There are definitely some good films he is in (Lost Highway, Heat) but they're basically just cameos, not particularly satisfying from the point of view of your average Black Flag fan: "Hey, look, it's Henry!" ...then you go back to watching the film, which neither lives nor dies by Hank's presence, especially since he's only on screen for a few minutes.

Occasionally, however, you get a film that not only is well-made and original but knows what to do with Rollins and COMMITS to the idea of putting him in a lead role, and creates a character he can fully inhabit. He Never Died may still be the best of them, but it now has competition: I'm finally catching up with Wrong Turn 2; Dead End (on pause as I write this: I am taking a break to blurt enthusiasm at you before I finish the film).

For the record, you don't need to worry before sitting down to this film about not having seen Wrong Turn, the first film in the franchise -- it is a thoroughly average West Virginia Hills Have Eyes variant, competent but undistinguished, with your usual in-bred, dentally-deficient backwoods caricatures (grossly sculpted by Stan Winston) killing passers-by and butchering them, grunting incoherently at each other, as they have devolved to sub-linguistic depths. It's actually a peeve of mine when these films deprive their cannibal characters of spoken dialogue -- as with The Colony or Tooth and Nail; it's just a cheat, a workaround around the issue of putting believable words in their mouths. Why shouldn't a cannibal, even an in-bred rural mutant, be able to speak? I'm always fonder of films where the cannibals are given voice (The Hills Have Eyes is a fine example, but see also Texas Chainsaw -- I guess Leatherface is a bit inarticulate, but some of his family members are quite chatty -- which is to say nothing of Ravenous or We Are What We Are, or... actually, Rollins is a cannibal of sorts in He Never Died...). I'm hoping the backwoods characters in Wrong Turn 2 get to speak for themselves a little... Looks like they might...

I'm trying to think of things that make the first Wrong Turn stand out and besides one memorable (but not very well-executed) kill, the only real one I can come up with is that one of the film's characters quips, "You've seen Deliverance, right?" That's about as meta as the first film gets; it's mostly content to just do things you've seen before, in slightly different locations, like it thinks you can acknowledge genre tropes  and still employ them without raising things to a new level...

The second Wrong Turn, however (Wrong Turn 2: Dead End, from 2007) looks to be as brilliant as the first is average, taking the "outdoor ordeal" the protagonists must endure and going very meta with it, making them contestants in a reality show ("Survive the Apocalypse!" or something; one character even has a Battle Royale t-shirt on). Rollins -- who is so free to just blast full-on Rollins at the screen that you almost expect him to be playing himself, like he's going to say, "I'm Henry Rollins!" into the camera when his character introduces himself* -- plays the ex-Marine host joining them in the woods. No one realizes that there are actual murderous in-breds out there (though we do, as we've seen one character get split neatly in half and carried off by the arms... one killer dragging half of her by the left wrist, the second dragging the other half by the right; it's right up there with Ichi the Killer in terms of gory excess).

I think by the end of it I'm going to emerge still preferring He Never Died, because it's such a fresh, creative premise (and has a bingo scene in it; I have an inexplicable fondness for bingo in cinema -- Rampage, Highway 61, He Never Died...). But Wrong Turn 2 is a vast improvement on the first film. Seek it out if you haven't! 

POST-VIEWING POST-SCRIPT:

Just to affirm, indeed, the film runs out of fresh ideas at about the mid-point and becomes just the good guys versus the bad guys in the woods (and in an abandoned paper mill), but there is some pretty demented gore, some pretty twisted sexual stuff, and a few entertaining lines of dialogue (Rollins, shot with two arrows, growls at the killers, "Is that all you've got, fuckers?" or words to that effect; he's fun throughout, a perfect bit of casting, and I only just realized that his co-star was my favourite actor in Blair Witch 2, Erica Leerhsen ). Plus (I had not realized before) the film is shot in Vancouver. I still recommend it, but I don't think I'm going to ever sit down to it twice. 

Addendum: What the hell, Julian Richings is in one of these films! 

*Someone should do this, make a meta-level horror movie where Rollins plays himself. Give the man his JCVD moment, you know? I'd watch that. 

Of Cryptyds, Deaf Dogs, and the Punk Rock Demographic Divide

The Cryptyds: so-so cellphone photos by Allan MacInnis, April 25th, 2024

Dear Fellow Punks Over 50,

Friendly advice: You have to start going to shows by punks under 30. Or, well, you really should consider it. You've been missing out!  

Cryptyds

It grows increasingly apparent that there are some terrific young bands in this town, terrific scenes happening -- at Red Gate, at Green Auto, and no doubt other locales that I don't know about. Somehow there seems to be very little overlap between these shows, however, and the ones at LanaLou's or the Princeton, for example... which is a bit strange. Punk rock is meant to be youth culture, after all, not clinging-to-your-youth culture; only going to shows by bands that were, in the most cases, around in the window between 1977 and 1988 (when you were making your first forays into the scene) cuts you off from what the kids are doing NOW -- from experiencing their first forays -- which, trust me, will actually give you hope and (vaguely parental) joy and a cause for optimism (we should drag Bert Man to one of these gigs!): 

More Cryptyds

Because comfortable as you may be in your peer group, agewise, there are some very energetic, very proficient, very creative and committed young bands out there, almost entirely unbeknownst to us old fuckers, who are being given an enthusiastic reception by people in their own demographic, whom I suspect have way better taste at a young age than I did (they are also, generally better-looking than we are; who wants to watch someone who looks like me trying to mosh?).

More Cryptyds

It's got to be a healthy thing to mix it up a little, even if it goes somewhat against the tide. You can't just mill around in your own increasingly decrepit age group; it's depressing. It may also be natural that people of a certain age will gravitate towards people of the same age, but there's no rule where that behaviour has to apply to concert-going; I bet the kids last night have seen a few of "our" bands, y'know? So we should see some of theirs: Instead of celebrating your past, you can go celebrate their future. You do have to brave the slight self consciousness you might feel, being the oldest person in the room, but trust me, once you do it a few times, you'll get over that, and besides - it's worth it. You'll be very grateful. (And so will I, because if a few of you were there in the room, too, I wouldn't feel quite so out of place!). 

More Cryptyds, plus enthusiastic mosher

I write this just having got in from a night at Green Auto.  Adam and I were the oldest two people in the room, I am sure, probably by a margin of about 20 years. The next youngest person seemed to be about 35. I would imagine 80% of the crowd moshing happily and peacefully in the pit were in their 20s, as were the bands onstage. 

Contrary to appearances, Adam enjoyed the music, too

And it was great, as usual. Since I've been exploring some of these spaces, repeatedly seeing bands whom it would have been biologically possible for me to be the grandparent of, if I'd had offspring in my late teens, who in turn themselves had offspring in their late teens, I have seen pretty much zero bad music being made. BY KIDS! I'm pretty sure some of the members of Leroy's Garage (now, alas, broken up) might have still been high school students when I saw them at the Black Lab a couple years ago. You owe it to yourselves to go to a show by a band like Gadfly or Kidz Help Fone or Die Job or (as I discover tonight) Deaf Dogs or Cryptyds (see also here) and SEE WHAT THE 20 SOMETHINGS are doing on the stage and in the pit. Appreciate that in terms of their tastes and cultural reference points, these kids have dug way deeper than we ever could, when we were their age -- that because of the internet, they have grown up with resources and guidance and opportunities denied to us, when we were stuck in the suburbs, armed with only a shitty local record store, a weak CFRO signal, and a copy of Discorder and maybe, if we were lucky, Creem. 

Deaf Dogs (or is it Deaf-Dogs?)

Ain't like that no more: the internet is making a difference where it counts. There are, I bet, 17 year olds in some of these bands with copies of Sonics albums, I feel sure of it. I didn't even know who the Sonics were until I heard the Pointed Sticks cover them! These kids must have superb bullshit detectors and/ or parents with killer record collections, and they must be digging really deep in their explorations, because you can hear it in their music. The Cryptyds -- who are young enough and new enough that their CD is a CDr with a handwritten label, and who, note, do not spell their name with an "i" (don't spell it wrong or you'll be dealing with articles about bigfoot) - played energetic, garagey punk that brought to mind, depending on the song, the Count Five, the Stooges, the Original Sins, the Black Lips, the Undertones, (early) Devo and (early) Damned, all of whom they have probably listened to (like I say, I don't think they've been avoiding crossing the age-barrier like we do). Their bandcamp is here, their album is on Spotify, the title track off it is on Youtube, and their Instagram is here; they have a gig coming soon that you can check out, if you like (gig poster below; it's on August 31st and also features Deaf Dogs, who also rocked last night, and touched on some of the same reference points, even incorporating a bit of the Beatles and -- I thought -- lifting a bit of "Holiday in Cambodia" for a song that I think was about not wanting to be American. Or was that by the Cryptyds? Now I forget. I mean, I'm almost 60, sonny. I'm lucky I have all my teeth. 

Well, most of them. 

...And back to Cryptyds

Anyhow, think about it: you can go see people young enough to be your grandkids, or you can go see people old enough to be your brothers and sisters. Who needs your support more? Your brothers and sisters won't miss you for one night. Get out of your comfort zone and go fly your greying freak flag for the 20 year olds to see. Let the kids wonder if you're someone's parent (or grandparent). Don't be embarrassed to realize that these kids are way cooler now than you (or,  uh, "we") ever were, then, and that they may be in fact hipper and cooler than you are now. Just don't worry about that stuff -- open your ears and take it in. You might be as pleasantly surprised as I've been! Let them show you how its done, and don't even try to keep up with them in the pit. 

Just a friendly suggestion! 

Allan

PS. Sorry to have missed you, Doom Cocoon! I'll catch up eventually. 

Mama gets recognized, plus: I help a drunk

Looks like since I last had a Mama t-shirt I could fit into -- see here for backstory on that -- the cultural currency of Nomeansno has changed a bit. I had three bits of feedback on my new (used) Mama shirt yesterday: walking the streets of Vancouver, a guy in a Voivod t-shirt pointed at me and said, "That's a fucking awesome shirt!" On Granville, a quirky-looking young guy rounded a corner and gave a start: "Mama!" And a fellow sitting on a bench at Metrotown as I walked up to meet my wife for dinner called across and said, "Yo! Is that a Mama shirt?"

I said nothing, just turned and saluted. 

It's nice, and yet also kind of weird, to get called out for your t-shirt, but I'm much happier with reactions to Mama than I was to my Kill Everyone Now t-shirt, which caused me nothing but weirdness, and as far as I know is still in the possession of Adam Slack (I just gave it to him as a gesture of fan support for Invasives; it seems like a fine shirt idea until you wear it out, y'know?). But it wasn't the strangest thing that happened to me yesterday: I had a moment right out of a Chris Walter novel. 

To put you in the moment, I had had some time to kill before seeing Children of Men at the VIFF Centre, and indulged my passion for thrifting. There wasn't much at Value Village Boutique (though I got a sealed Iron Gypsy EP that I'll be able to trade for some fun stuff; their second album has a very intriguing lineup, besides the main guy, of Rampage-Pinhead-Donut. Also found a Robert Mitchum calypso record: what?). From there, with fifteen minutes before the show was to start, I beelined for Wildlife Thrift: just enough time for a quick peek.  

There was a guy on the corner, lying on the sidewalk, struggling to right himself. 

Understand: I have become adept at walking past people slumped, possibly dead, in doorways. The last time I tried to intervene in a possible case of opioid toxicity, I was on the way to the Rickshaw and there was a guy with his eyes rolled back in his head, mouth open, froth on his lips, twitching on the sidewalk. I reluctantly shouted down, "Are you okay?" to his non-responsive form. Another passerby intervened and got more hands-on, making me feel a bit ashamed at my sheepishnes. With hands on his chest, shaking him, the guy on the sidewalk sputtered and woke up. 

He was just sleeping, he explained (in the middle of the sidewalk!). 

"But your eyes were rolled back in your head," I said.

"That's just how I do."

That was a few months ago, and with toxic drugs still claiming lives at an alarming rate (and no shortage of people who are willing to take their chances), I have probably walked past 100 slumped figures in doorways since then -- people who might just be nodding, or sleeping, who might not want a stranger to disturb them. I might have asked one or two particularly dire-seeming cases if they were all right (a common element of which is that no one ever does seem to want help), but mostly I just walk by, feeling a bit sick about it. 

Yesterday, walking by was not an option. Turns out someone who might be dead does not in fact scream for help in an immediate way, since if they're dead you can do nothing, but seeing someone trying to get to his feet and failing has a certain pathos to it you -- well, I -- cannot but be drawn into. I watched this fellow ahead of me, flailing on the sidewalk, as I approached on Granville, and it was like watching a tortoise on its back: what are you going to do, NOT turn it rightside up?  

As I drew closer, the guy gave a heroic push on his arms, rose to his knees, tried to get a foot under him, and -- plop, back on his ass. 

"Do you need help?" 

"Yes!" he said. He seemed polite, a bit sheepish. I took his arm -- the two handed grip at elbow and armpit -- and gave him the support he needed to rise to his feet. 

At which point his legs buckled and he went down again -- I was able to slow his fall (he wasn't injured) but I couldn't hold him up. 

"Fuck, buddy, I don't know that I can help you. You can't walk and I can't carry you... Where are you trying to go?"

He gestured at the Yale. "I live over there! I just want to go home."

I looked around at people passing us on the sidewalk. This seemed a two-man job, beyond my abilities to manage. Should I call 911? Ask the Wildlife Security Guard to help? Try to harangue some passerby into helping? (Good luck there: a guy with a gimped voice advocating for a guy with gimped legs is a surefire recipe for failure: who is going to want to get involved with that?). I was on the verge of just crying randomly, "Could we have some help here?" and seeing what happened, when some streetwise passerby walked up: "What's the trouble, buddy? Too much or not enough?"

"He can't stand up on his own," I explained. "And I can't carry him." 

"No problem," the dude says (or something like that; this is a mere reconstruction). He and I took an arm each and we got the dude to his feet. I felt very relieved -- I had help in helping! Decent people exist!  

"Where ya goin' to, pal?" the new guy asked.

"Over there," gesturing at the Yale. 

"Ah, too far for me." The guy detached himself and walked away down Granville Street. 

"Hey, where you going?" I shouted, my new ward leaning against me. "I need help! I can't get him there on my own!"

"I've got things to do!" 

"Fuck you, man!" I shouted indignantly, imagining the dude grinning to himself. He didn't slow or look back.

But there we were, now standing. What to do now? "Here, put your arm around my shoulders."

"Man, this is embarrassing." 

"Ah, don't worry about it. I can't believe that guy. So what's the trouble anyway? You've been drinking?" 

"Yeah." (Which actually came as good news: there are worse reasons someone's legs might stop working).

"Do you think you can make it?" 

"I can try."

And like that, his left arm around my shoulder, my left hand gripping his wrist, and my right arm around his shoulder, we hobbled across the street, which luckily, due to construction, was mostly blocked off to traffic. We staggered a few times but remained upright, and once he was safely in his doorway -- "thanks man, I can make it from here" -- I was still able to get a quick thrift fix in and make the movie, thanks to a larger number of previews than average. 

Still holds up as a film. Ever notice how many animals there are in it? The scene where the girl gives birth, the soundtrack is almost all barking dogs. What's up with that?