Geoff Berner, COVID, last night's show at LanaLou's... and Jack Reacher

So first off, let me clarify something about COVID. I do actually think Geoff Berner's views about COVID are a bit extreme. We talked about COVID in our recent feature for the Straight. Actually, we talked quite a bit more about it than made the final article. For instance, there's this paragraph that got cut (I guess Mike felt there was too much COVID in the piece?). 

"The government has pretty brutally misled people about the nature of the disease", Berner says on a Zoom call with the Straight. He cites things like emphasizing handwashing over the need for masks, despite COVID being spread through airborne transmission. "It's great to wash your hands and all, but that has nothing to do with COVID. And they're still pretending that it doesn't affect kids! That was the scariest thing, when they opened everything up without giving the vaccine to the kids yet, because they claimed it didn't do anything to them; now long COVID is topping asthma as the number one childhood illness. It would be nice to get this information out to folks, but generally there's been an abandonment of public health, to a large extent. That's why they've got measles coming back..."

Now some things Geoff says make good sense to me -- like, it was fuckin' stupid to go stand in the basement at Alf House with 50 other punks for that Night Court show (the show I reference in the article, as the last time I caught COVID: cramped, poor air quality, not much ventilation: bad fuckin' idea to pack 50+ people into that space). But there are other considerations at play, and if we reason backwards from my actual practices, we can sort of uncover the principles at work; they're clearly different from Geoff's.   

I mean, I don't wear COVID masks on public transportation unless I think, as today, that I'm actually coming down with something. Basement of ALF House aside, I do still go to concerts and stand around unmasked (...unless, again, I'm actually sick). I mostly don't think about COVID that much, and to the extent that I do, it's more about being afraid of giving it to others than its potential impacts on myself (my body seems to be able to handle it okay: it has been pretty mild the last few times I've had it. The first time round with it was a doozy but it's hard to be that afraid of something that seems no worse than a mild cold).  

Perhaps I have been swayed by misinformation, perhaps I don't know who to trust, but I can kind of understand why Canadian public health is in the state it is in (...a state of denial, say), and am not as accusatory about it as Geoff is. Like, I am not advocating for a world where governments issue masks to all people free of charge, to be worn in all public spaces at all times until... when? I'm actually not entirely clear what Geoff thinks the endgame is there: "This is how we live now?" That we mask up at all times in public in the same way that, like, we wear shoes and pants and so forth? That we not do things indoors unless we're all masked and/ or fast-tested? That's going to be expensive and it's going to be wasteful as hell and even bad for the environment: I have no yearning to return for a time when there were discarded used COVID masks clogging up every gutter!). 

On the other hand, I just had an older friend come out of a scary two week experience of COVID -- someone with enough "comorbidities" (easily my least favourite word of the pandemic) that I was afraid for them. I know people with long COVID. There are definitely things out there online, seemingly reputable journals and, um, government studies (I dedicate that last "um" to Murray Acton), that suggest that each new exposure to COVID carries the potential for long COVID and/ or unpredictably serious, poorly understood health consequences, possibly permanent.

And though, like I say, I worry more about transmitting it than catching it, I've had COVID six times now. We might say I am also at high risk, since I teeter on the line of diabetes as a way of life. Maybe even though the last five infections have been no worse than the common cold, one does not want to discover that it is infection seven that fucks me up for life, you know? 

I'm also not as convinced about COVID vaccines as Geoff is, given that three of the people I know who have not been vaccinated also (perhaps coincidentally) have all apparently not had the disease yet. Anecdotal, sure, but kinda weird!

Mostly I don't know what to believe. One thing I know, though: if I develop a sore throat and feel a cold coming on, I do not perform non-essential tasks in public. I might still go to work, with a mask on, or even buy groceries, if they're essential. Once I even went to a concert (but I had committed to write about it, and wore a mask the whole night). But strictly for pleasure, let's-go-to-a-show nights out? If I feel like something is coming on? No. It's irresponsible. 

So I did not go see the show at LanaLou's last night. I very much wanted to, wrote about it, etc, and I'm glad to hear the turnout was good, but I've got a rasp in my respiratory system and a tickle in my throat and I actually did feel worried that I was going to spread something if I went. It remains to be seen how bad this is, and I'm still going to go to work today -- in fact, am editing this on the bus --and I'm not going to give up my Stick Men ticket yet (for Sunday--I wrote about that show, too). But I distinctly felt like I was coming down with something last night, and Erika and I bailed.

I hope people went and had fun. We ended up here at Chez Lax-MacInnis watching Season IV of Jack Reacher Reacher. There is a whole lot to be ceitical of, if that is your bent. I'm not a fan of Alan Ritchson, for one, find his acting and line-delivery only a bit more nuanced than vintage Schwarzenegger and his physicality a bit odd (he kinda walks like he has a plunger shoved up his ass), even though he's obviously a better match for the role than, say, Tom Cruise. I also find the show lacks a flair for dialogue, which is basically just read flat from the books. But I have read an embarrassing number of those books. They are very compelling, and some of that definitely carries over to the show, and especially the new season...

I must say, Gone Tomorrow is a fun book for them to adapt. Like my favourite in the series, The Hard Way, it has a narrative predicated on Reacher making mistake after mistake. Unlike The Hard Way's story, however, the underlying structure is a very implausible/ silly/ paranoid one, more convoluted than The Big Sleep and less progressive than your average episode of 24. (There are mild spoilers that follow so if you don't recall the plot of the book or haven't seen the season yet, skip the rest of this paragraph?). It manages to dodge accusations of Islamophobia simply because most people in its viewing audience likely don't realize that Indonesia is predominantly Muslim. It even manages to have a suicide-bombing scene in it without ever once getting explicit about its character's background or motivation; religion is briefly hinted at but even then obliquely. (Did the book also sanitize this element so heavily?). The conspiracy at the heart of both the novel and the season ultimately proves so bloody idiotic and chance-dependent that the mind reels, with each new surprise forcing you to revise your interpretations of what has gone before until you no longer trust the narrators at all. Also, if we delve into the actual political subtext of things, this particular season is about as progressive and nuanced as your average Charles Bronson film. Even the most dubious characters, the ones who seem the most likely villains, from a liberal POV, will prove to be heroes after all... if they are white men. (Brown women don't fare so well). Cops, politicians... however corrupt they may seem early on, almost all of them get redeemed (and if not, Reacher kills them flat out).

That said, the action sequences are among the most gripping I've seen (especially episode V). It's by far the best-made of the four seasons that are out there. In lieu of going out, we binged three episodes last night and now have to wait six days for the final one to air on Prime on the 18th.  

Speaking of COVID, I do also have friends who talk about "the Great Reset" and all that, and they have a point, too: due to fear of spreading the virus, we eschewed going out and being social and community-oriented and instead stayed safely indoors watching a show on fuckin' Amazon Prime, of all places. That's not a great future for humanity, you know? (You imagine a THX-1138-style broadcast instructing people to not go out, but to "stay home and interact with your devices"). Those fascist evildoers at the base of COVID conspiracy theories couldn't have wished for a better outcome...

...and speaking of which, here's the new Doug Andrew song that I mentioned, which Doug sent to me this morning by way of accepting my apology that I didn't make the show. Doug tells me it was a great night! 

Doug Andrew, Tony Walker, Graham Brown and more this weekend...

Tony by me!

Okay, so it's a bit arbitrary to pick this Friday to write a story about Vancouver music scene veterans playing at LanaLou's, I do admit. Like, which nights DON'T have Vancouver music scene veterans playing there? But ya figure that the point of a piece like the one I just did for the Straight is to turn people on to the show that aren't already in the know, right? Who haven't seen Doug, Tony, or Graham before, don't know who they are or why they matter. 

So that's the angle -- a soft introduction to people who, if you've been paying attention to the local scene, don't really need it. But not everyone does that! 

The Circus in Flames by Gord McCaw

I have not, as I acknowledge, done justice to Graham Brown, there or elsewhere, and someday I will, but not today; hell, not only do I not have any past pics I can run of him, I can't even find a photo I can download on his website. (I woulda done this one but you right click and downloading isn't an option!). 

I'll have a bit more to come on the Straight website this week, about Stick Men on Sunday at the Rickshaw and the Butthole Surfers documentary on Monday. If anyone isn't aware, if you find an article that I've written there and click my name, you'll get a whole list of what I've been doing. It's been a busy year! I do plan to slow down again, but I also really wanted to do this piece, so... there it is. Seeya at LanaLou's!

Onslaught: Adam Wingard's welcome return to the minor leagues

You've all seen The Gambler, I hope? No, no, not the Mark Wahlberg film: the 1974 James Caan/ Paul Sorvino one, one of the darker films to come out of American  cinema at that (already cinematically pretty dark) time, directed by Karel Reisz and written by now-#MeToo-tainted filmmaker James Toback, loosely adapted from Dostoevsky. It's about a college professor (Caan) whose gambling takes on the mien of compulsive self-destruction that impacts everyone around him. It's a fascinating, unpleasant, wallowing-in-it kind of film with a grim-as-hell ending (unlike that of the bizarrely feelgood Wahlberg version), but it contains what for me is one of the most memorable lines in American cinema history: Paul Sorvino -- you know him from Goodfellas, at the very least -- is a mob-affiliated friend of Caan's who is delighted that Caan talks one of his students into throwing a basketball game. Caan has promised it will be just the one time, but Sorvino laughs in his face, in a "what are you talking about" manner, and quips, "Once you ain't a virgin, you're a whore." Or words to that effect. 

I think of this line every time a small-time horror filmmaker is recruited into the big leagues. They almost never come back: time and again, original independent filmmakers in America end up making big Hollywood genre productions never to make an original independent film again. It's not always horror, either: Justin Lin and Doug Liman are two filmmakers who made very fun early films (Better Luck Tomorrow and Go!, for instance, though there were others) then got sucked into the machine and spent the majority of their subsequent careers making big budget Hollywood shlock (though they may have since emerged on the other side and done smaller more personal projects; I don't pretend to have followed either of their careers closely, but if they "picked up where they left off" at some point, I haven't heard about it). Occasionally you get someone like Sam Raimi, who retains some element of his voice even in his bigger films and does stay fairly close to his roots with his smaller ones, but more often, you get people like Gareth Edwards, who make a genuinely interesting and unusual smaller-scale film (Monsters, in his case) then end up making Godzilla movies or Star Wars movies or Jurassic World movies or.... I do often see those films, and sometimes even enjoy them, but I also feel acutely aware that something has gotten lost. Like, imagine if David Lynch had scored a massive hit with his version of Dune, which was definitely his deal with the devil, and then went on to work for Marvel or such, never making Blue Velvet or any of his other later films? You end up almost grateful Dune failed. 

Maybe I'm the only film enthusiast who thinks this way. I like those little independent films, though: small-scale genre cinema that takes risks and caters to a small audience who understand rather than the widest audience imaginable, using cinema to express something genuine and personal. Fast and Furious: Tokyo Drift is a very entertaining, well-crafted movie, but Better Luck Tomorrow is a movie you can actually care about, a film that is personal and unique and idiosyncratic and loveable in a way that none of the later Lin work I've seen is. There are dozens of similar mainstream Hollywood filmmakers like this, who command respect and budgets and wide-scale distribution (Kathryn Bigelow, anyone?), the only films of whose I truly love & care about were made early on, before the mainstream noticed them. 

I mean, I guess it's not very nice to be implying that many of the most successful filmmakers in America are "whores", but... they have millions of dollars (and in some cases Oscars) with which to console themselves... and the point stands: once you're working on that level, it isn't very likely you'll decide mid-career to go back to the world of genre from whence you came. We're never going to get a Near Dark or Blue Steel out of Bigelow again, no matter how many Oscars she wins...

So when I've been following a filmmaker with interest, and they suddenly switch to the big leagues, I feel some measure of despair. In recent years, the biggest case in point has been Adam Wingard. I liked and respected all the early films of his I got to see: A Horrible Way to Die, You're Next, The Guest, and his contributions to the V/H/S franchise. The best of them is probably The Guest, made in 2015 on a budget of $5 million, earning half that back, seen by very few people when it came out: a small, effective genre film about a soldier with secrets who shows up at the door of the widow of a platoon mate. It sure got him noticed by someone, small or not, because then came his Blair Witch reboot, a massively-distributed commercial movie which seemed to me at the time also to be a wholly unncessary career-move mediocrity, which (though also made relatively cheaply) was much more widely distro'd than anything he'd done before and made $45 million dollars, sounding the alarm that he was going to disappear into the majors, like so many other indy filmmakers before him. Maybe it holds up better to second viewings but I have absolutely no interest in finding out: it was the "ah fuck, we've lost him" moment. 

I skipped Death Note, but it's no surprise that it had a budget of $40 million dollars, eight times what he'd made his previous two films on. Then his next two movies were Godzilla Vs. Kong films with estimated budgets (saith Wikipedia) between $130 and $200 million. I actually enjoyed both of those movies, when I got around to seeing them, but what about the Adam Wingard who made those three fresh, interesting indy films I'd learned his name with? ...What was it Quint sang about the Spanish ladies? "Never no more shall we see you again?" Maybe he'd end up helming a Marvel movie, or working with Spielberg, or...? 

Bah.  

I was really, really happy to learn of Onslaught, a return to small-scale horror filmmaking (budget is $15 million) set in the same fictional universe, he says, that The Guest and You're Next are in. He had had a successful dalliance with the big time and RETURNED HOME to make his own kind of movie again: a gory, comic-bookish, kinda-disreputable genre film about psycho super-soldiers laying siege to a small town. Yay! 

If this makes sense: I loved the film, and must confess that it is not that great, which only makes me love it more. Its comic book aspects are kinda wacky (the film's mad doctor wears the most ridiculous costumes imaginable! The mad doctor in The Human Centipede dresses more conservatively!); it doesn't make great use of Michael Biehn (though it's sure nice to see him working again); its characters could be developed more, so we care about them, rather than just wondering how and when they'll get killed; it squanders a very interesting setup where a character discovers she knows one of the film's, uh, "monsters", which you really think will prove a much bigger plot point than it turns out to be; and it leaves a vast number of doors open for sequels (there are no post-credit scenes, but the narrative of the film does continue, in the form of visual elements on the screen while the credits roll; stay and attend to them). Also, the super soldiers, while cool, are also ridiculous, looking kinda like a cross between the leper ghost pirates of The Fog and particularly buff, heavily-armed CHUDs. (In the sense of Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dwellers; I think the term has since taken on other meanings online?). The film does actually provide an entertaining backstory for some of its super-soldiers, like, one of them is nicknamed "Crybaby" because he wept when murdering civilians; but then it does nothing with that backstory, never mentions it again. As small films go, in terms of what it accomplishes, this one is small indeed. It's like something you might rent on VHS from the Rogers, one of those horror movies the store has exactly one copy of on the New Arrivals wall: a small, silly, cheesy little movie that's going to top no-ones best-of lists for 2026.  

But this ends up meaning I love it more. I actually hope there's a sequel. I hope it's enough of a hit that Wingard will be able to continue on this trajectory, eschewing the big budgets and huge exposure and making dozens of other fresh, original little films, cheesy genre fare or not. Which might actually happen: even though Onslaught isn't great, it is still totally enjoyable and effective if you take it on its own terms. I guess I can also live with it if Wingard's next film is a $200 million dollar blockbuster, as he has proven that he has the capacity to come back from those, and his Godzilla stuff is at least kinda fun (compared to Gareth Edwards, say), but he can make, what, 13.333 Onslaughts for the cost of a Godzilla vs. Kong?  Do it! 

Welcome back to the little leagues, Adam! I missed you, and Erika and I both had lots of fun tonight. 

... and as for my readers: go see Onslaught! If you want more fresh little original films than megabudget mass appeal franchise ones, this is an opportunity to cast your vote. And you WILL have fun, even if you note some of the missed opportunities and find yourself chuckling at how silly it all is: there are a couple nice kills, some imaginative gore, and an enjoyable central relationship between an ex-mililitary female soldier and her daughter, trying to survive the onslaught of the title. 

Oh, and remember Reginald VelJohnson, the black cop in Die Hard? He's in it, too! 

And one of the maybe-good guys is on MDMA for the whole film, which is pretty fun: there's a scene where he enters the aftermath of a massacre at a convenience store and heads straight for the smashed cooler so he can chug a bottle of water amidst the carnage. Ha! 

Never seen that in a movie before.  

Deep Purple Live, Godzilla coincidences, and the frustrations of seeing live music

Ian Gillan last night in Abbotsford; all photos by me

It's amazing I managed to have a great time at the Deep Purple show in Abbotsford last night. There were so many miscues to the buildup, starting months ago when I got turned down when I offered to do a Deep Purple interview in part because the band wasn't playing Vancouver. Of course, 4/5ths of the audience for last night's show was from somewhere in the GVRD, which I did point out in my reply, but the band's people didn't write back after that.  There were apparently still a few empty seats at the venue, it seemed, but would a Straight feature have helped? 

I would have had no trouble being flattering. Deep Purple is the equal, historically, of Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath -- the three reasonable candidates for the origins of heavy metal, and especially in the Mach II format with Gillan on lead vocals, by far the most fun of them; they're also the most productive, having put out a whopping 24 albums, including new ones every couple of years with at least 4/5ths of the band we saw last night. I'd take any of their last half-dozen albums after the lame-duck late-phase Sabbath stuff (13, I mean), and Gillan's voice is way better than latter-year Ozzy's (which was painful even for him, at times; I still vividly remember Ozzy to apologizing to the crowd, the last time I saw them, for "singing like an asshole"; compare that to Gillan's spectacular singing on "Into the Fire" last night. He even outdoes Plant, methinks...).

Of course, with tunes like "Highway Star" and "Space Truckin'," Deep Purple is also at least arguably the silliest of those three bands. Or should I say the least pretentious? But I personally like my rock and roll playful (it was especially fun to see how much Roger Glover got into "Space Truckin'" last night, singing along off-mic as he trekked about the stage, shades off, grinning).

So to be clear before I return to some gripes, I'm totally delighted to have seen Deep Purple, hold them blameless of the irritations I enumerate, and kinda feel like they deserved an even more packed house than what they got, even if the turnout was not at all terrible...

...but I am not quite done griping about the miscues encountered on the way to the show. For instance, there was the question of the ticket that I bought back in May. I vivdly remember being startled to discover the seat I wanted was (allegedly) "Meet and Greet", according to the Ticketmaster website, when I hovered my mouse cursor over it. I just wanted a good seat, but Meet and Greet would have been a nice bonus: I don't care much about getting selfies taken with bands, and singer Ian Gillan was supposedly not involved in it (which I found out later and would have felt a bit raw about), but an autographed poster and a chance to get a record signed would have been nice. Maybe, I thought, if I forsook the selfie option they would sign more than one? Paid over $400 of my now-spent buyout from VCC for the privilege, which I think is the most I've paid, ever, for any single concert ticket. (And that's not even counting the seat I bought for Erika!). 

Then when I finally get the tickets I am told that I had instead bought the "VIP merch package" with no meet and greet option available. I swear Ticketmaster's website described the seats as Meet and Greet back in May. (Here's a helpful tip: before buying ANY expensive tickets to a show via Ticketmaster, thoroughly investigate what is being offered and what it costs through the band's own official website, so you know exactly what you're getting and what you are not). To be honest, I couldn't care less about VIP merch -- which arrived shortly after I wrote the first draft of this, and included an unsigned poster, some guitar picks in a joint box, a fridge magnet, a tote bag, and a silly branded keychain-hanging thing in the shape of a Deep Purple amp (a "Jack Rack", which would be just great if I were the type to hang my keys on the wall; who actually does that?). It's all fun I guess, if not what I wanted to buy. Trying to right what I still think was a wrong, I spent 40 minutes of navigating officious, scripted conversations with two tiers of Ticketmaster customer service (which required explaining myself four times, doing an MFA four times and waiting on hold as they transfered calls up the ladder ), complaining about being misled, but it did not sway anyone. 

In fact, it turns out the Meet and Greet package would have cost another $200 more (which I was told by someone from the company handling the VIP options, who I also contacted before the show; the Ticketmaster "human bots" were not smart enough or informed enough to go there, to just demonstrate that I had not paid the Meet and Greet rate, which would have shut me up). But that still leaves me feeling like what I was buying was mis-described; it makes the band and the company handling their promotions blameless, but not Ticketmaster... I can't go back to May, didn't save any screenshots, etc, but I swear their website said one thing and I was sold another... grr...

Anyhow, so much for getting a record signed. I was probably going to go with Whoosh!, with apologies to guitarist Simon McBride, who isn't on it; but it's got the best cover of any of their recent albums and also a terrific centrepiece song in "Nothing At All", which is by far my favourite DP song since they started working with Bob Ezrin around 2012. The title makes a nice companion to SPLAT!, too. I wonder who is coming up with these?

Of course, none of the stuff from the Steve Morse years is included on the current Deep Purple setlist, which in terms of their last dozen albums only went back to =1; there were two songs off that, "A Bit on the Side" and "Lazy Sod". The almost entirely blank cover for that oddly-titled album would also be ideal for signatures, and you could get the whole band, since Simon is on that one (As you can see, I thought plenty of this when preparing for the Meet and Greet that wasn't). Alas, my favourite song off it is "Portable Door", but it was not on the setlist (see here for that; it's been tweaked from the early dates of the tour to replace "Scrib'lin Gib'rish" with "Perfect Strangers", which is just fine by me. Believe that was the sole 80's Purple material represented?). 

Also, Rob Frith had passed on a cool item pertaining to Jon Lord, an archival audio interview, apparently recorded in Vancouver in the 1960s, sourced from his collection, which I did still try to get to the band via what channels were open to me at the venue. It sure would have been easier to put it into Ian Paice's hand, for instance. (Paice, the drummer, was the only member from last night's show to be in the original, Mach I lineup of the band, alongside the late Lord). 

The hassles persisted even into the drive out there, with Erika realizing she was low on gas en route to Abbotsford, and getting ridiculous directions from Siri to an ESSO fifteen minutes back the way we'd come (when there was a Chevron on the way! Does Siri take payola? One wonders). We ended up late for Jefferson Starship, which I didn't really care about, with their one not-even-original member, but Erika was bummed that they were playing "White Rabbit" while we were still outside the auditorium. She likes that song!  

There were two entertaining bits of Jefferson Starship trivia, both linked, weirdly, to Godzilla, who I was just drawing with my nephew Rumi, over on Vancouver Island; Rumi has become quite the Godzilla and King Kong enthusiast, though a) he has not yet seen a full film of either, just clips off my phone and b) he persistently calls King Kong Donkey Kong. I beg Toho not to get litigious:

Godzilla's pose there, by the way, is modeled on an early Youtube favourite that I know as Dramatic Look Gopher; remember him? (Also sometimes called Dramatic Chipmunk, but it's not a chipmunk; in fact it's not a gopher, either, but a prairie dog). 

The first oblique connection to Godzilla involved a Bev Davies story, which, since there was actually one member of the Airplane playing last night, I related to Erika in the car, supplementing the tale, which I didn't quite recall correctly, with a call to Bev, whom I put on speaker. Back in her young-hippie days, Bev had been given acid before a concert by Jefferson Airplane's Jorma Kaukonen and told to sit in a particular place off the side of the stage. But then the Grateful Dead walked past her, taking the stage, and she ended up sneaking over to the side of the stage to watch the band, where she was accosted by a man who had pink and -- what was it, Bev, orange spikes? -- shooting off him, yelling at her to get off the fucking stage; she did, returning to her chair. When her friends in the Airplane came back, Bev related to them what had happened, emphasizing the spiky colours, whereupon they responded unanimously with ""Oh, that's Bill Graham." 

Graham was a legendary promoter, also known for his associations with the Grateful Dead, who has featured in a few stories I've had a hand in; if I recall correctly, Eric Bloom, when I asked him about the Godzilla head that rose above the drum riser during the early 1980s Coliseum shows I saw by the Blue Öyster Cult, told me that Graham was behind its construction (I'd have to check my Big Takeover interview to confirm that, which would mean either finding the drive that it's on or finding the issue, which is no easy ask, but I think that's right. I'm going to run with this). 

And this wasn't just ANY Godzilla head: this head turned left and right, had a mouth that opened, and it blew smoke and maybe even spouted a little flame? (Actually maybe not? I do not recall flame, but we are talking about a show from 1982, here). Like I say, there's a Big Takeover feature on the band from the time of The Symbol Remains where Eric Bloom and I talk about it. It is entirely possible I saw the band twice back in the 1980s, coming through town on both the Fire of Unknown Origin and Extraterrestrial Live tours, and they had that Godzilla head with them on both tours, but Bev's is the only picture of it I have ever seen. 

Godzilla vs. Albert Bouchard, August 22nd 1982, by bev davies (the first show Bev and I were at at the same time...? Did I even know who she was back then?). 

I played Rumi the Blue Öyster Cult's "Godzilla" as we drew, by the way. His first time with that song; may it not be his last. 

The second weird coincidence involving Godzilla -- a bit more tenuously -- has to do with David Freiberg's song "Jane", which I think is kinda his big claim-to-fame song in the Jefferson Starship repertoire. Freiberg has definitely been around (I contemplated, when I thought I was meeting and greeting people, maybe even bringing that first Quicksilver Messenger Service album to the show, since he played bass for them early on; it would have been a fun thing to get signed). But his tenure in Jefferson Airplane began after the hits, circa 1970, and he wasn't even on the best-known 80's Starship album, Knee Deep in the Hoopla, we gather (though the band, of course, do play "We Built This City", which I've never really had a taste for, though as with most things from the 1980s, it's gotten less annoying with the passage of time).. On the drive to Abbotsford, I played Erika "Jane" and we both had a deep moment of confusion. Take a minute and click that link and tell me that when the opening riffs start, about 20 seconds in, they're not deeply familiar? We both did a double-take, hearing it: "Wait a sec, I know this song!"  

Then the vocals start, and -- wait, no, we don't know this song! Turns out a certain Canadian artist who I will not name here TOTALLY RIPPED OFF those riffs, which you can hear just about a minute in (I am not naming the artist so you can spend a few minutes listening to "Jane" and torturing yourself: CAN YOU FIGURE OUT WHO STOLE THE RIFF? Once you give up, go here and, like I say, skip the first minute).  

Which brings us back to Godzilla, because that very artist toured with, yep, the Blue Öyster Cult, and I saw him play that very show with the Godzilla head. He would later appear as a guest on their album The Revolution By Night, if memory serves...

But enough digression. Erika and I eventually found our seats (separate, because we'd thought she was going to be on the island this week). We missed "White Rabbit" but caught the tail end of "Jane". 

I was still feeling at least some annoyance at that point, especially since the person sitting next to me was munching on fries and my nose was filled with the stink of his ketchup. But soon enough, even Jefferson Starship had my attention, and I could find things in their set to enjoy. 

While I didn't especially need to hear the band covering "Somebody to Love", I did appreciate the singer, Cathy Richardson, making a couple of anti-Trump comments from the stage, I think by way of introducing their new song "Jet Pack". (Richardson is a singer-songwriter in her own right, by the way). Their music is a throwback to a kind of arena-rock I barely listen to these days, but as long as you approach it for what it was -- basically a boomer cover band with a very tenuous connection to a moment in rock history to which we will never return -- it wasn't at all bad. In fact, all things considered, their set was weirdly brief. 

Which we cannot say about Kansas. Their set lasted over an hour and their fans were very vocal and appreciative, even though as with Jefferson Starship, the connection between what we saw last night and the original band is somewhat tenuous (I think keyboardist/ lead vocalist Ronnie Platt is the longest-serving member on the stage last night, and his tenure with the band only goes back to 2014). The most impressive players were Scott Bernard (who has also played with Kenny Loggins and Michael McDonald) and fiddler Joe Deninzon, who I'd actually probably pay to see if he played here with Stratospheerius (there doing a King Crimson cover). 

The progginess of Kansas, despite being pretty hard to detect on their hits, was very evident last night, and they had a few songs that were ambitiously-structured enough that they actually kinda held my attention, like "Portrait (He Knew)" and "Song for America". But Platt's persona (to say nothing of his pants) is on the offputtingly cheesy side, and (even though the latter song ends up actually critical of the American project, with talk of "rape and plunder" of the land), he seemed kind of tone deaf in proudly announcing the song title. Former Zamboni Drivers bandmember and journalist, Eric Von Schlippen, in attendance, griped at the daftness of booming that title in the current climate, as well as Platt's boastfully describing it as the most complicated song they play, like that's something to announce. But Eric is crankier than I am, less of a pluralist, and less inclined to be politic in his reviews of things. 

I will merely say that though Kansas were not my cuppa (and "Dust in the Wind" really isn't made for arenas), they were not horrible to sit through, and the proggy passages and solos were pretty consistently welcome and enjoyable. . 

It finally came to pass that we weren't in Kansas anymore, and (with ample video support, including an introductory clip that took us through visuals referencing all their album covers, set to Holst), Deep Purple took the stage. Granted, it was my first and will surely be my only time seeing them, but for a band that has been around SINCE I WAS FUCKING BORN, back in 1968, I thought they were utterly great. 

I mean, ideally you want to take a time machine back to 1973 (when Erika was born) and see them then, but mine is in the shop, you know?

I wish I had recorded more of Ian Gillan's between-song raps. When he gets going, it turns out he has the capacity to be every bit as weird in his spontaneous storytelling as Robyn Hitchcock. At one point, if I've got this right, he had himself and his pet puma being devoured by piranha in the Fraser River. What? Which got conflated with some actual factual stuff, as Gillan told us how he had actually visited the Vancouver Police Museum earlier in the day, seeing the ping pong ball of stripper Mitzi Dupree, who was the subject of a song on Deep Purple's The House of Blue Light (not included in the concert). 

I knew none of this but kinda absolutely adore that Gillan's main interest in visiting Vancouver was checking out Mitzi's formerly envaginated ping pong ball. He's a funny fella. (And as I mentioned before, "Mary Long" trumps both Pink Floyd and the Adicts for being the funniest thing I've ever heard written about Mary Whitehouse. Another song they did not play, however!). 

What else? Simon McBride and Don Airey both performed spectacular solos, with Airey ending the second with a glass of red wine (and I think he threw in a riff on "O Canada" in there somewhere, between "Diablo" and "Perfect Strangers"). On the other hand, Ian Paice did not offer a drum solo (there was a second during "Space Truckin'" where you thought he might take off like he does on Made in Japan, but it's probably for the best that he didn't -- I'm sure it would have been great, but even great drum solos almost always are something you wait through, you know? I remember feeling that way watching Neal Peart himself. As my late friend Thomas Ziorjen used to observe, "I hate drum solos for the same reasons I hate car chases in movies." Or maybe he said that the other way around?). 

I also really enjoyed "When a Blind Man Cries", which seems the deepest of the Deep Purple deep dives that they played. I heard someone in the audience observing that it must be from the Coverdale era of the band, presumably because he'd never heard it before and thought they knew all the Mach II output, but in fact it's a Machine Head outtake. (I don't think any Coverdale stuff got covered); Gillan has said of the song, "If you think of the phrase 'if a blind man cries' then it's pretty sad, those who are disadvantaged tend to be less complaining than those who are able-bodied." (Which, as someone with a mild disability, I can say is true; having had half my tongue removed due to cancer gave me a lot of perspective on life, and note that if you think my complaining about my Ticketmaster experience is excessive, above, note that I used to be far worse!). 

And like I say, anyone dubious about how well an 81 year old rocker can sing should have been there for "Into the Fire." This clip is from a few years ago in Wacken, with Steve Morse on guitar, but no one seems to have uploaded that song from last night, and Gillan's delivery was every bit as impressive as you see there. (Actually there are clips from this tour that do show both the power and the strain, when viewed on Youtube -- it probably helped me enjoy things that I was right the fuck up front, where the power was what I noticed. There are people out there being vastly more negative out there -- that's a review of the show I just posted a clip from, in fact; but I'm standing by what I've written. Hell, that reviewer didn't enjoy the solos or the weird between-song patter!). 

So there: multiple hurdles got placed in my way, but last night was the best $411 I ever spent on a concert. I may give up big-ticket shows from here on in, but in the end, against the odds, I came out of the Forum with absolutely zero regrets. 

Except that I don't own this shirt (which was very much NOT on the merch table, which also had no vinyl; I managed to emerge unmerched). 

...and that's all I have to say about that, but I did snap a couple of other good photos, so here: 

Nothin'

 Got nothin'. 

Wrote pieces on the Bad Beats and the East Vandals on the Straight website the other week, didn't bother to post about it here. Ditto my wife's 53rd birthday. 

Online increasingly feels like somewhere I don't want to be. 

Geoff Berner in the Straight, and in the park!

I wonder if, in terms of wildfires, the torrential downpour was a net gain last night, or if it was cancelled out by all the lightning? I'm guessing a gain, unless there are parts of the province that got lightning WITHOUT rain... hmm.

But we got both in Vancouver and Burnaby, so I WAS assuming the Accordion Noir show was going to get cancelled, which would have been a shame, because I was really looking forward to Geoff Berner's show, and wrote about it here.Think this was the last time I saw him, in November 2017: 

But I have been told the show is a go!!! (The show was a go!). 

Indigo vs the Mysterious Brown Stains

CUT AND PASTED OFF FACEBOOK, because what the hell, let's keep social media evil:

Boy Indigo Metrotown sucks.

So I have time to kill before meeting Erika at the mall. I'm interested in this novel Angel Down -- a horror novel that won the Pulitzer. So I go to the Metrotown Indigo. But where is the horror section? For years it was to the back left, but now it has been moved, and it's been moved at least twice, because it's not where it last was, either. But I can't find it, then I can't find a staff member; the only ones in store seem to be at the till, so finally, having looped the store twice, I go to the till and bug someone. She first suggests she will call someone to help me, but then breaks down and gives me fast directions and I'm able to find it: unlike every other section in the store, which are labeled by genre (Fantasy, Romance, etc), Horror is tucked under the descriptor Fiction, with "horror" in small print, like they're embarrassed by it, and it's kind of hidden between the teen fiction and the romance novels, rather than next to Science Fiction and Mystery, which is where it belongs. Which is a bizarre place to put it, and a bizarre way to put signage up. Best yet, turns out the book is not in the section, but rather under fiction. Anyhow, I find it.

But in looping past the music section, I see they still have the book Keep Music Evil, about the Brian Jonestown Massacre, with my friend Bev's cover on the photo -- a somewhat infamous image, which I already have on a pin, but I would buy the book for the cover alone... EXCEPT, I open it and see a brown stain on the first page. Then I flip through it and there are brown stains throughout. Someone with a substance on their fingers -- WE HOPE CHOCOLATE -- has looked through the book and left smears everywhere. There is also a texturally lumpy big brown stain on the back cover and brown stains on the page ends. We can see why it is still on the shelf!

I was going to buy the book, but not at full price in this condition, so I bring it to the till. The staff member I show it to inspects it and says she will get a manager, because she has to get approval for a more-than-20-percent-off discount, which is something SHE brings up, not me. But I'm now not leaving the store with that book unless there is a more than 20 percent off discount. The young manager who comes over, however, shown the stains, sticks on 20%. So now I find myself in the undignified position of HAGGLING over a book that literally looks shit-smeared (I mean, yes, probably chocolate, but...).

I only realize after I walk away (with the book I came for, but not the brown-smeared BJM one) that I should have said, "Okay, if you are so sure that's just chocolate, tell you what: if you press your tongue to the big patch on the back cover, I'll pay full price."

At least it would be entertaining to see her hesitate.

Which idea I should probably not have mentioned in the "How Satisfied With Your Experience" email I just wrote, but fuckit, what would Anton do? I mention on the way out to the original clerk, who I think was embarrassed by her cheap-ass supervisor, that my friend took the cover photo. I wonder if they just put it back on the shelf?

Vancouver Metal Cruise 5: notes and photes

All photos for this post by Allan MacInnis

My first Metal Cruise last night. A fun experience! Wrote an advance article about it here, focusing on Egregore, the middle band of the night, who will soon be playing the Covenant festival at the Rickshaw. 

It was a very chill, pro-social event. I was mildly jealous of how many people I saw running into friends and how warmly and sincerely they hugged each other. Everyone knew everyone, it seemed, except me: I knew only Sonny Dean (of Little Guitar Army and Elf  fame). and Mayo and the members of the bands I'd interviewed (I'd also spoken to Space Queen a few months previous, which they did remember). None of the dozen familiar faces at the Invasives gig the night before, mentioned in my previous post, were present on board the Abitibi last night -- it's a different scene from the one I travel in, for the most part. But the social element of the experience was obviously a huge part of the draw for those that came. Metalheads are very welcoming and tolerant of each other; I felt a bit like a spy from the punk clubhouse next door, peeking through the slats, taking notes.

There are differences in style, demeanour and attitude from one subculture to the next, but not all of them were significant. In terms of fashion, there was everything from fishnet stockings with pentagrams sewn into them to metal-studded spiky dog collars to both homemade and storebought vests and jackets with dozens, maybe even hundreds of band names represented in some manner or other. I don't think I've seen the storebought variety at punk shows quite as often, where the vests have more of a sewed-the-patches-on-yourself variety, but punk is all around a bit lower-budget than metal, maybe?). A friend of Sonny's did a "you're never gonna guess where I got this" with me when I complimented his shirt, which was one such storebought multi-band extravaganza: turns out he was given it free by a guy at a show when he remarked in passing, "Nice shirt". The person wearing it stopped and said, "You like it, I'll give it to you, my girlfriend can't stand it." The guy then took the shirt off his back and handed it over! 

Indeed, I would not have guessed that. 

There was also a dude in an Orca costume, but seeing only black and white patches (and missing the fins) I at first wondered if he was dressed as a cow, which made no fucking sense at all. 

The T-shirts ranged from newly-minted AC/DC shirts to a somewhat out-of-place Lynyrd Skynyrd shirt to many Christophe Szpajdel-style black metal designs, mostly unreadable to me. There were plenty of familiar names represented, though: Sepultura, Cannibal Corpse, Bolt Thrower, System of a Down; almost everyone had a metal shirt on, making me regret that I hadn't taken the time to dig out my Auroch t-shirt. (I actually reviewed their debut in the Straight back in 2012). 

There was a sole girl sporting punk patches, including one for Clit .45, who I looked up later; I was disappointed to learn were not all women, as well as a t-shirt for Cheap Sex (also unknown to me). She definitely stood out as being someone I might have seen once at Funkys. 

It is hard to put one's finger on exactly where the boundaries between fashion choices lie, but another notable one, offered for what it is worth: I don't think many women on the punk scene would sport a hat as confrontational as one that read Black Out With Your Rack Out, for example. Eek! 

Another significant difference: there was a guy -- dude maybe a couple years older than I am, with long grey hair and a Bat Child t-shirt, and pretty drunk -- who had a very unusual moshing style, which was essentially careening in a stagger backwards around the pit, colliding into people, trusting that they would break his fall or propel him forward. It was kinda like that "I trust you" bonding exercise you see in team-building contexts, where you fall backwards into people's arms, except he was falling backwards into whatever unexpecting part of their body was in his path, and doing it multiple times per minute, with the aim not of being caught but of being bounced back forward so he could continue (and not crack his head on the deck). It was clear from the odd grimace he received that not everyone wanted to play that game, but most people still just smiled indulgently and pushed him back into the pit, and a couple of other people actively moshed theatrically back into him. He also clapped along to some songs, slightly outa synch with the band: what can ya do about a guy like that?

I think at a punk show the guy's behaviour would have drawn commentary from the others, some stiff-necked "cool it" or worse: punks are maybe a bit more inclined to play cop on others fun than headbangers? But if that happened last night, I did not see it.  You could see that the guy was having the time of his life, that however bonkers his pit manner was, he was a die-hard enthusiast (he even had the doorpeople stamp him for admission on his forehead instead of his inner wrist). So, uh, the more power to him, I guess: if he ever actually fell on his ass, it didn't happen while I was looking. 

I got to dance right up front for Space Queen, though, which, as Mayo predicted in the Straight preview https://www.straight.com/music/egregore-that-is-egregore-brings-its-evil-to-high-seas-for-vancouver-metal-cruise-5 for the cruise, was kind of the high point of the show, as we were departing Vancouver by daylight-- coming down False Creek from the Plaza of Nations, past various West End beaches and under the Granville and Burrard bridges -- spirits were highest. Shot some video, though didn't get the name of the track and can't find it on their bandcamp. Space Queen is more polished and confident since I first saw them a couple of years ago at Green Auto, and have multiple recordings under their belt, including one on vinyl that they had on their merch table. It was only the second time I'd seen them doing originals (my last experience of them, they were covering Black Sabbath stuff); it seemed like had moved a more towards Om territory, a bit more drony and Spartan than that dimly-remembered early set, though of course with abundant guitar solos. They ended their set with the drummer coming to front-of-stage to do a folky tune involving pirates that had a sea-shanty-like chorus, which they dedicated to Mayo, who was right up front in an Anciients shirt; he'd recently celebrated his birthday.  

As the sun started to set, things got darker musically, too, with Egregore leading us deeper into the serious "cult" of metal. I had enjoyed chatting with Egregore below decks and got them to sign their vinyl, but actually missed much of both of Egregore's and Mvlgrave's sets, as I had grown tired of being jostled, no longer had a good view--the space at the stern, where the stage was set, was kind of narrow; I didn't get an overhead shot of it, but you can extrapolate from the shot of the bow above. Plus I had gotten peckish: contrary to my own advance reports, there was food, in the form of mediocre Jamaican patties and superb potato salad (I tried a my-compliments-to-the-chef thing but the guy thought it might have come from Cotsco), which together were $8 a plate. I hung out in the green room, which was the ship's dining area, also being used for gear storage and merch tables; I could still close my eyes and listen to Egregore, as the music was being piped in on speakers. 

As exciting as it was to depart from Vancouver through False Creek, the later views got a bit less exciting past sunset, since out in the waters past UBC, it started to feel not unlike a BC Ferries ride. But I'd also swigged a couple of (reasonably priced) beer, which, combined with a mix of edibles I'd noshed on before, had me more than happy to just hang out below decks for the last portion of the cruise. I chatted with the bassist of Space Queen and reaffirmed that their name comes not as a pun on Ice Queen or Drama Queen, to note excessively indulgent space-consuming behaviour (like you might say to someone hogging a Skytrain seat, "Shove over you space queen"), but from a strain of weed, which makes much more sense. They are working on a follow up to their album, apparently. Egregore tried real hard to just comp me a record, but I insisted ("I'm already being comped onto the cruise!").

It was interesting how lax people were, how chill. There were security people present, but had clearly been directed to stand down unless there was an actual problem. It was nice to see the scene being allowed to regulate itself a bit.  Apparently at a past cruise, maybe the one where the Dayglo Abortions headlined, things got a bit too rowdy and the captain made the decision to turn back early ("I don't blame him, people were acting like idiots" the woman in the black-out-with-your-rack-out hat commented). But there was none of that during this year's cruise: unlike what you'd get at most venues, I never had anyone tell me "you can't do that here." Someone who had had a drink too much, maybe, took a nap on one of the dining area benches; if that had happened at an actual venue, there would have been three security people telling her she couldn't sleep there, but no one disturbed her (though her friends hung out with her to make sure all was well). When a random moshpit incident led to someone's phone going flying during Mvlgrave, it was promptly retrieved and returned to the owner. 

Speaking of phones, I had forgotten to charge mine at work, so my battery died before I could shoot photos of anyone. I also missed out on the amazing, apocalyptic red sun that we could see after Space Queen finished--you can see hints of it in my later photos, but it only got redder as it got lower in the sky, so much so that you could see people pointing it out to their friends. Due to forest fire smoke, sure, but still amazing to see in the sky, and, y'know, metal as fuck. 

Invasives Against the Odds: Live at the Cobalt Last Night

Invasives by Allan MacInnis, Aug. 14, 2026

Invasives nearly prevented me from seeing Invasives tonight. 

I mean, it is not that I wasn't welcome. Hell, Byron gave me a free surveillance-themed tie-dyed t-shirt as thanks for my Straight piece (which you see here -- the piece that is, not the shirt, but see the last photo in this post. Apparently the child or children of Hans Anus made these. I wonder if his kids know his stage name?). 

No, Invasives were happy to see me. The problem is, the writing of the article very nearly sapped my will go out. I very nearly made excuses and begged off, because, y'see, at midnight last night, I discovered something I did not realize about Gmail drafts. 

I need a minute to lay this out:

1. Because Word is due for an update, it does not make sense for me to pay for Office (which I intend to do at some point) and buy a soon-to-be-obsolete version that I will need to upgrade anyhow, somewhere down the line. Nor do I care about using a free trial version. I can find other ways of getting by until the update is out; it's not like I'm Word-dependent or anything. 

2. So because most of my writing these days is done for articles that I've been emailing to my editors, and because Google docs never "took" for me, I've just been using Gmail, storing works in development in my "drafts" folder. I mean, why not? Whatever I do with a piece when it is done, odds are good that it will involve emailing it to someone, so all I have to do with a draft is add an address and subject line. Easy! 

3. However, there is no "save draft" button that I can see on the Gmail page, and what I discovered last night (which is not the big discovery; that one is yet pending) things getting saved in the drafts folder is not in fact a sure bet. About two hours of work I'd put in on my Invasives feature in the morning had not gotten saved to the draft folder, I discovered in sitting down last night. There were big chunks of transcription missing. Stuff I was going to have to re-do, which is annoying, because I'm a bit behind in general and... there were other things I wanted to do with my day. 

Maybe I'd left the draft open and the cat had walked across the keyboard or such and hit the "back" button or something. Multiple times? Or maybe the draft I was working on on my computer got synched to an earlier version on my Gmail phone app, instead of the other way round. No idea, just definitely there was material that got lost.  

4. So I had tthe bright idea that it would be wise to try to trigger a save by closing the file. 

5. But as I was tinkering with the draft at midnight, and moved to close it, I accidentally hit the "delete" button. The trash can, like. Oops!

6. Whereby (because I missed any brief Undo option that might have flickered), I discovered that Gmail DOES NOT PUT DELETED DRAFTS into the trash folder. It just scraps them, pretty much irreversably, especially if you are not immediately aware of what you've done (I honestly just went over to the Trash folder, expecting to find it, but by that point, the damage had been done). THIS is the big discovery. It gets described online as a known bug of Gmail's, but it was news to me. Delete a draft, however accidentally, and it takes the big sleep. 

Which means that because I'd lost two hours of work the night before, and made a mistake as to which key I hit, I lost all six hours I'd put in on the article thus far. I was back to square nearly-zero. 

Yes, folks, that Invasives feature you see is a REBUILD. Bits got lost, forgotten, or in some cases, deliberately left out, as I rewrote the ENTIRE FUCKING ARTICLE AGAIN, some of it from scratch and some from dim memories of how I'd put it together the first time, how I'd arranged Byron's quotes, etc, which I did from midnight to 4:30 AM. I was finally in bed by 4:40. Then I was up by nine, to get ready for work. Four hours sleep if I was lucky? Probably less, because Erika woke me to kiss me goodbye -- she was off on a jaunt (I have been flying solo). 

I worked a full shift, even did some heavy lifting sorting boxes, and as I told Byron's bandmate Ford, whose paths I crossed at Red Cat, I was very close to bailing on the show tonight, despite a guestlisting (thanks, Byron, for that and the shirt!). But when I saw Ford was clearly beginning to doubt my commitment to Sparkle Motion, I came upon a solution: I would come home after work, feed the cat, hang out with him a little, and take an hour long power nap before heading back out to the Cobalt.

Which is what I did. I also microdosed with some cubensis to help my brain along to a functional place (not enough to get high, that I noticed, though it was enough that Hans Anus' drumsticks had streamers the whole time. Or were other people seeing that, too?). It wasn't quite strong enough, in fact, hence the cannabis root beer (from just across the street!) that I added to the mix (and the Saturday morning dope hangover I now edit this in). But it probably helped me to get into dancing, too. 'Shrooms are good that way. Amusingly, my camera seemed to capture the streamer effect, but I was seeing this with my naked eye, too:

In any case: Invasives was/ were terrific. They played pert near every one of my favourite Invasives songs: "Living Your Life Like It's Somebody Else'", "Stop and Breathe," "Abstract World" "Just Another Under the Sun". I am also really fond of "Borderline Music", which they did not do, but they played what could become my next-favourite Invasives song, "Help Is On the Way", which is a song off Feel Good Live Forever that I kinda didn't remember but sure should (I have to listen to side two of that again a few more times, clearly). They're actually an odd band for me: their catalogue is evenly divided between songs I love and songs I find are a bit too Spartan and angular to properly grab onto, and I had a bad habit of putting the songs of theirs that I really like -- basically all the ones I mentioned -- onto mixed playlists, kinda greatest-hitsing them. Or else, like, opening Robot Stink on my phone and then going right to my two faves on it. Trivially, I do this with Ford Pier, too; like, I enjoy Huzzah! but 85% of the time I listen to anything off it, it's "Lions and Tigers and Bears", because it's just so fucking great, a song that totally belongs on a playlist adjacent to Nomeansno's "Victory".

Anyhow, because of my nap I missed Kettle Black, and because I am trying not to invest too much in new musics, lest I feel the need to nuy records, I kinda tried *not* to get into Wax Mannequin, though a couple of songs near the end made headway into me, regardless. It was a pretty good crowd, hip and sizeable, and I knew a half-dozen people to say hi to. Hamm, Russian Tim, Kristy-Lee, Ford, Mark Bignell, Noelle Chaos. I'm pretty sure Jodie Ponto was there, too! There was a guy in a cat/ pyramid/ UFO-themed t-shirt that I took to coveting, and many balloons bouncing around the dance area. Had my article helped get a few people out? Again, we think: maybe! 

I was reminded that live, one of my favourite things about an Invasives show is watching how happy Hans is to drum; I like an expressive drummer and he just has a very sincere smile while he's pounding away -- not in any deranged way, though; he's not Animal, he's not even Matt Wood, he's clearly just enjoying playing his instrument! 

I really enjoyed both of the Slacks' playing, too -- some killer basslines in there from Adam!

I shot two videos but am only posting one: "Abstract World". And I briefly got confused, thinking "Just Another Under the Sun", which Byron said made him always think of Ford Pier, was surely a Dead Bob cover... no? Nope, it's just an Invasives song I love from seeing live, but on a CD of theirs I barely know. 

I may have to do something about that. I have been too selective in my Invasives listening. I need to delve into the depths a bit; I am sure I will pull out a fish or two. Or possibly a geoduck. 

Obscure Nomeansno reference, there, for those who get it (actually, Hansons, but...). 

All told, a great set, and people who read my article seemed to enjoy it. I stole a setlist but not for a souvenir: I had to figure out a song title and it was easier than asking anybody! 

Ford tells me Byron had a whole bunch of moustache one liners he would resort to on the road, not just the ones he offered me. It was nice to see Ford having fun, dancing as much as anyone, but not quite as enthusiastically as he does onstage with Dead Bob, thank god! 

Me, I danced only to the songs I loved, and mostly just stood there watching and listening for the ones I don't know so well. So about 50/50 on the dancin'. I got my shroom caplet's worth out of it, anyhow. 

Great night! (And a cool shirt).