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? 

A gig I missed, and two I hope not to

That was somewhat idiotic. I want to blame Robbie Robertson. Y'see, on the way from work (leaving on Friday at 4:30 last week), en route to BC Ferries, I pitstopped at a bookstore and noticed that they had a signed copy of Robbie Robertson's Testimony on their shelf for $6.

I considered it. Clearly they did not realize what they had. I have no particular interest in Robertson -- I'm more of a Levon Helm or Rick Danko guy, when it comes to the Band -- but, I reasoned, I could always find something to do with such an item, were I to buy it. 

Alternately, I could appraise them of their mistake.

It's not that I felt especially considerate of their interests. "Snooze and lose" is a maxim I am comfortable with, generally. But I was already carrying a bag full of stuff to the island, and didn't want to lug a hardcover book, so I chose the latter path. Virtuous, but due to this, I lingered a minute, informing them of their error, and because of this -- or at least this is how I would like to tell the story, truth notwithstanding -- I missed the bus that would have gotten to me the ferry on time, and thus ended up missing the gig (Earthball) that I was going to see.

Really Robbie Robertson had nothing to do with it, though. The bus leaving Bridgeport was half an hour late, anyhow -- it left within minutes of my arriving at Bridgeport, and I was on it. All Robbie kept me from doing was waiting in line longer than I needed to; bus-wise, the transit situation worked out just fine. Really it was BC Ferries' fault. If they did not cut off ticket sales fifteen minutes before the sailing, or if they did something to inform people of this practice... if on arriving in the nick of time at the terminal, I had not broken right to use the ticket machines; if I had broken left and gotten in line to buy a ticket off the tellers -- I would have been fine. The people who knew well enough to do that got on the 6 PM ferry. But I was busy trying a second ticket machine, then talking with a staff member, and by the time I realized that I should have just gotten in the other line from the start, that line was too long for me to have a hope (I know -- I was standing in it when the cutoff was announced). I ended up, along with 20 other hopefuls, on the 7pm ferry instead of the 6, which then, although it arrived at 8:35 (on time) did not unload til 8:55, five minutes before Earthball were supposed to go on.... but they were playing in downtown Victoria, not at the ferry terminal. The bus from the terminal then took an hour, so even though I had a ride to the venue from where the bus let me off (thanks, Bob!), I arrived fifteen minutes AFTER the band I wanted to see had finished playing. Earthball was nowhere to be seen as I bought tickets for Bob and myself and took a seat.

There may have been a hidden cosmic purpose in this, however. Because as the bus was closing in on Mayfair Mall, I saw someone approach the exit who I recognized, but had not expected to see: Murray Acton! I commiserated with the ongling Dayglos' Visa woes -- a SNAFU with their documents caused a weeks-long delay on a US tour, which would then prove to be a terminal condition; they've been ripped off, their tour cancelled, and are currently in a slough of despond about it. Not much I could do, but I gave him a pot lozenge, and thought to tell him that Saccharine Trust guitarist Joe Baiza was playing gigs in Victoria and Nanaimo in October with Mike Watt and Chris Corsano! 

Sure, Watt's a living legend, and Corsano is a heavy-hitter, too, but I figure the people who are going to shit themselves for this show are the Joe Baiza fans out there, because he doesn't play here often. I think Saccharine Trust opened for Black Flag here once around 1982... not sure if he's been back since. Anyhow, the Dayglo Abortions have shared a bill with Saccharine Trust, I learned from Murray, there in the bus aisle. Maybe the universe (and BC Ferries) had screwed with my trip just for the purpose of putting word of this gig in Murray's ear?

Oh: they're playing Vancouver, too. 

Anyhoo, I met my friend Bob and got to see a set of pretty stellar free jazz (Cosmic Foam, who I think are opening for one of the Watt/ Baiza/ Corsano gigs); with both electric guitar and horns (I think that was a baritone sax, and then maybe a soprano, that the leader was playing?), and driving rock drums and, uh, bassy electric basslines, they created a very tasty "alternate" form of - bear with me - "fusion" between rock and jazz...

...but not that sucky pastel Return to Forever/ "1977 Wayne Shorter" fusion shit. The relevant artists from a jazz point of view would be early 70s Miles Davis or Mahavishnu Orchestra at their most rockin' (Between Eternity and Nothingness, I mean, not -- what was it Gerhard used to call that later album, Visions Up the Emerald Behind?), or maybe some of the more rock-oriented early 70's Impulse stuff: and not the funky stuff, either -- we're not talking "The Creator Has a Master Plan" here, but say the noisier jams (sans vocals) off Music Is the Healing Force of the Universe, if you feel me; I don't know how well you know your early 70s free jazz, when rock was creeping in, but there's all sorts of potential for creative expression that existed at that time that did not really end up getting developed, that sort of dead-ended around 1973 as things went the way of smooth fusion or funk. Bitches Brew, in particular, is something the culture simply never caught up with, a milestone that Miles threw down that not even Miles himself ever quite equaled. That seems to be where Cosmic Foam begins, but one of the exciting things about seeing them was that there was plenty of potential to digress from there, to veer into straight-up psychedelic rock or into a recognizable jazz cover; they could have as easily swung into a take on "Time Has Come Today" by the Chambers Brothers as they could Coltrane's "A Love Supreme." There were even passages that seemed familiar to me, guitar riffs that might have come from, say, the first Sabbath album, but which were hard to recognize when subordinated to an overall jazz aesthetic. They blasted forth for about 45 minutes, with one composition bleeding into the next. As with the brief check in with Murray, it took the bite off missing Earthball entirely. Well worth keeping an ear out for!

Also had fun chatting with members of Earthball after the gig. Shearing Pinx (now a four piece, including a member of prairie band Hag Face, who I confess to not knowing, as well as Nic and Jeremy and Izzy) will be opening for Tamaryn on September 7th at the Cobalt. Talked other things with Jeremy, but it's been a long week. 

Anyhow, nice to have a couple new gigs to look forward to: Baiza/ Watt/ Corsano is another must see. 

I haven't had much time to write -- I'm working on a new feature for Montecristo Magazine, which will be in their next print issue, and by the way, I have a piece on the back page (I think) of their current print issue as well. I'm gonna chew a pot gummy, finish a so-so film noir I've been slogging through, and maybe get an early night's sleep. 

Might not write for a bit... at least not here. 

Tamaryn/ Shearing Pinx/ Cherry Pick gig: https://www.instagram.com/thecobaltvancouver/p/C-auJ2Ov0Rv/

Vancouver date for Watt/ Baiza/ Corsano: https://www.eventbrite.com/e/infidels-presents-chris-corsano-joe-baiza-mike-watt-at-heros-welcome-tickets-980354455567 

Thursday punk gig: Lambrini Girls!

Thursday at the Fox with Alien Boys and WAIT//LESS, Brighton (queer?) female punks Lambrini Girls on their first tour. Okay! 

Mama Too Tight: Of Cup-chucking, Mama-swapping, the Filberg Festival, and Being Recognized by Willie Thrasher

Oh Mama! (thanks to the Cats Coffee girl for taking this picture! I didn't ask her name. Most other pics this post by me)

This past weekend was almost entirely family-related, and since it's Erika's family, not mine -- I don't really have any family out here! -- I'm not going to be posting much about that. But there were three notable events, personal Al-centric high points that bear repeating: 

up the stairs to Wyrd Wealth

1. On the way to visit Erika's great uncle up island, we popped in at Wyrd Wealth in Nanaimo, where I planned to just say hi to Jeremy (and maybe get a signed Earthball album?), but ended up instead meeting his collaborator Izzy, of Earthball, Crotch, and apparently the newest lineup of Shearing Pinx (and maybe other projects?) as well as co-owner of the store, who it turns out knew me and (somewhat to my surprise and relief) seemed genuinely pleased to meet me. 

Y'see, I have always felt sheepish about my cup-chucking article (which got me roundly condemned by one person I knew and caused, perhaps, some trouble for its key subject, Jeremy, who -- sorry, Buzzo -- was the real injured party that night, by me), but whattaya know, Izzy actually appreciated it (if she had any mixed or negative feelings she did not voice'm) and seemed excited to meet me (!). Even though my wife had stayed in the car, she gave her a... what do you call it? The note she wrote to identify it is wrapped with a rubber band around the object, which is in Erika's car on the island as I type this, back in Burnaby: "a rock" sounds too boring, "a crystal" sounds too new-agey, "a gem" sounds too valuable and "a mineral" sounds dietary. It was none of those, but resembled a flintstone or something volcanic; it was naturally formed and quite beautiful. They have other ones in the shop, too! I will add an identifying note at the bottom of this post when I figure it out.* 

Earthball at the jazzfest

2. Having left Nanaimo, still en route to see Erika's great uncle, Erika, a friend of hers, and I stopped in the Filberg festival, where I shot video of Claire Coupland (official site here), who inspired some very intent listening from a rather packed audience and has already gotten 93 views in the day or so since I posted the clip). She must have found it and shared it, or else is way more famous than I realized! (She sounded great -- not really  my thing, as they say, but her guitar rang out beautifully in the woods; she got a really good tone out of it, and I liked her last song, "Find Your Way Home," the best, about the thoughts of a parent wishing well for their estranged, wayward child). 

The real draw for me, however, was Thrasher/ Saddleback -- that is, Willie Thrasher and his partner, Linda Saddleback; those of you who have followed the Native North America series will know Willie's name. I was disappointed by how few people stuck around for Willie, but delighted to hear his powerful strumming and hear "Odeyak" again, which I didn't much expect I'd get to do. I haven't tracked down the CD it's on, though it is up on this very useful website (what is this? Who is this Citizen Freak? I love this site, though note -- I am taking the spelling off Willie's setlist). My clip was of "Eskimo Named Johnny" and "Wolves Don't Play by the Rules," but if I'd had the storage space I would have shot it all...  

Even more surprising than my getting to see Willie again, he actually recognized me -- probably not so much from our Straight conversation, which was done over the phone (when I had a very different voice, for that matter) but from one of Kevin James Howes' events here in Vancouver (Willie directed me that day, maybe ten years ago, at this link of one of his early rock bands, the Chordells, whose name seems to appear in a few different spellings out there, too! Willie is on drums on that clip, from back in 1969, makin' rock and roll before he embraced his own cultural heritage. Also in terms of Thrasher news, he's been inducted into the Studio Bell Museum, Linda tells me). I figured I'd just be one more face in the audience, but almost as soon as he sat down, Willie looked out at the front row and pointed directly at me, his face lighting up, and later said something on mike about seeing people he knew in the audience -- which I presume meant me. It made me want to become a Thrasher groupie or something and pop up at more of his gigs, but he mostly plays on Vancouver Island lately, I think, so... it's a bit challenging.

Overall the vibe of the festival -- celebrating its 40th anniversary -- was fun and the pierogi truck great, and it was terrific that the organizers had set out seats for people. They also had a convenient shuttle bus to take people from the parking area, and dozens of artisans and artists on site, some of whom I recognized from the Vancouver Folk Music Festival just a few weeks ago. It seemed a really well-organized event (and the prices were really reasonable). 

But it was only a short stopoff;  with a destination further north (miles to go before we slept, poorly, on an an air mattress), we left before the main act of the night (I guess now that I'm never going to see the Grapes of Wrath, who we cut out on, but it's not like I haven't had plenty of chances... I would have stayed, but we did have a long drive ahead of us). Our friend Laurie, who had suggested Filberg to us, made a fun faux pas on the bus back to the car and mis-identified the band as the Grateful Dead... those guys, I woulda insisted we stay for...

The main stage

My wife! 

Oh, and I did catch one other act, a guy named Tall Mark, who was very funny, quite eccentric, and made me think of the times that Rowan Lipkovitz of the Creaking Planks has told stories about his band being asked to play kid's birthday parties; Tall Mark seemed like someone Rowan Lipkovitz might call to play HIS kid's birthday party. I mean, he had a song with a chorus about a party named for Benedict Cumberbatch, which he dubbed the "Benedict Cumber-bash," which name he got us all singing along with as he played... guitar? Uke? Mini-piano? I forget what he was playing at that point. It was pleasingly absurd and impossible to not enjoy; I'm sure any children in earshot got a great kick out of his song about strategically shitting your pants to get out of work (I wish Erika had been around for that but she was exploring the grounds with Laurie). 

Of course, Tall Mark have more of a chance of playing a Rowan Lipkovitz party if he self accompanied with an accordion, except an accordion would draw inevitable Weird Al comparisons, which he probably gets enough of without it...! I have never seen Weird Al live but I suspect Tall Mark is taller. 

3. Finally and most delightfully, the Ty Stranglehold Mama-swap took place. Which has a story behind it, which begins with how I met Ty: it was because Chris Walter mis-inscribed a book to me one night at the Cobalt, dedicating it "to Ty." I made him cross that out and write my name in Ty's place, so I could lord it over him later; Ty would remark to me after he and I actually  met that the funny part of it was that he and I had very little in common physically, except both being "white and large." Which is true, but I think Chris was mostly just looking in the internal file cabinet where he keeps the names of people who had written about him (he wasn't just mistaking me for Geoff Barton or Stephen Hamm or so forth, though I've gotten both of those, too). I ended up chatting with Ty at a couple shows at the Cobalt; somewhere I might have  Hoosegow coozie (however that is spelled?) that he gave me, maybe while the Subhumans were playing (we were both writing about them around the same period of time, as I recall; us Subhumans fans gotta stick together, and of course, I do mean the Vancouver Subhumans, not the British ones...

That all goes back to maybe 2006 or 2007, and I've since greatly enjoyed watching Ty front the Angry Snowmans, who I wrote about here; we became Facebook friends, and I followed with interest his posts about his bariatric surgery. He's still white (that doesn't change) and I guess technically a bit large, post-surgery, but a lot less large than he was or than I am these days (he credits the surgery with curing his diabetes, sleep apnea AND high blood pressure). It was was with GREAT INTEREST that I saw him post on Facebook that he had some 3XL punk shirts to get rid of, especially when I learned that one of them was  Nomeansno Mama shirt. You see, I had a Mama of my own, but the shirt had always been a bit snug on me. I'm guessing I bought it on the same Nomeansno tour where the photos below were taken, when I flew out to Toronto to catch them three times, and Jandek and Tony Conrad, too). I think it was a mere XL, which was probably the largest size they had back then...

Al and Jillo, 2006 (a fellow Nomeansno fan I crashed with in Toronto. Photo by T-Bone Forest?

Photo by Jillo? T-Bone? Also 2006, Toronto. 

Between 2006 and 2015 or so, I gained a fair bit of weight, maxing out around 380 lbs, which I think is bigger than Ty ever was -- it's certainly the biggest I've been -- but that was one of a few shirts I owned that I kept even when I stopped being able to squeeze into it, because Mama was the first Nomeansno album I ever owned, back when it was the only LP they had out (!) -- they're a rare example of a band I have followed pretty much from the outset of their career, in order. And though it is an outlier in the Nomeansno catalogue, I love it dearly. I had hoped when my surgical ordeals of 2021 brought my weight down to 290 LBs, that I'd be able to finally make that shirt work, but -- even though I'd lost enough weight that my wedding ring would spontaneously fly off my finger when I gesticulated -- but sadly, it was not to be. I asked Erika to snap a photo of the attempt. Sadly, I have gained back about 20lbs since this picture, but it was clear even then -- despite my being at the lowest weight in some years - that Mama was never going to fit me again. Anyone know the Archie Shepp tune "Mama Too Tight"...? 

Photos by Erika Lax

Anyhow, seeing his post, I proposed to Ty that we swap Mamas: the Mama that was too big for him and the Mama that was too small for me. On the way back from the island, we made that happen, and also had a fun conversation about Ty's new band, Knife Manual, which I will be posting closer to their debut Vancouver show ( I think I can safely leak without telling tales out of school that they WILL PLAY VANCOUVER someday; I mean, what Victoria band doesn't? By the way, speaking of Victoria punk, Hung Up will be gigging here with the Furniture, Toronto's Random Killing, and Calgarian headliners Forbidden Dimension on Saturday at LanaLou's; Forbidden Dimension will also play the Vault in Nanaimo on Friday!). 

There's not much else to say -- I have a Mama again! And it fits perfectly, which I guess might disturb me a bit, considering how huge it looks compared to the shirt that almost fit me back in 2006, but whether or not it motivates me to lose weight over the next while, I'm delighted to be wearing it.  

But there are four other photos I want to share, somewhat randomly. In the drive north from Filberg, we saw something haunting and meaningful along the roadside. It's not the actual Highway of Tears, but there were red dresses, both of a fabric kind and, I guess, wood, that someone had put up along the roads. 

There was also this strikingly beautiful young buck hanging out in Laurie's garden in Victoria, when we stopped by to pick her up:

And finally, when visiting Erika's uncle, I snapped these two bizarrely evocative selfies in his bathroom mirror. I have no idea why they are so haunting but I feel like I'm a character in Silent Hill or something. Truly surreal -- I was startled to see them:

But that's it. I may try to take a rest from posting for awhile. Life beckons (and my dayjob, which I must return to in about half an hour, as I write this). Take care. 

*Forest crystals. More info here! 

Movies of August (and early September)

Wow, that's a slim gig calendar for August. After the orgy of live music of the last few weeks, I guess I'm a bit glad for the break. August 8th, there's a chance to see some Saharan rock in the form of Tinariwen, but it seems to be sold out online. Art Bergmann was recommending them during my last interview with him, apparently the sound of Saharan guitars was an influence on his song "Mirage"... 

There's a punk show at LanaLou's on August 10th with two bands I've seen and enjoyed (Hung Up, Random Killing), a band I have yet to see (The Furniture) and a headliner I don't know (Forbidden Dimension). Gonna have to play that by ear! 

But nothing much else that I'm aware of. I don't think I'll see Steve Earle (August 13th). Not many good tickets left, and the ones that are there are $77. Blondie was going to be the big gig this month; I have some nostalgia for shows at the Coliseum. But it's cancelled. 

So what else to do?

The summer film noir programme is in effect at the Cinematheque, broken into two series -- international noir and domestic. A friend who knows I like Ida Lupino was just recommending The Man I Love, which is one I've never seen. Sam Fuller's Pickup on South Street is a favourite, but it only screens August 5th and 9th. I don't think I'll be able to be there for the 5th, which has it in a series with The Third Man (never seen that on the big screen) and To Have and Have Not. Shame I don't think I'll make it! Meantime on the 9th it's billed with Le Samourai. I've never seen a Melville on screen, but I've also always thought this a fairly slight film for Melville, a bit overrated. It's like Walter Hill's The Driver, or something, stripped down to naked archetypes; I prefer my archetypes dressed up a bit. 

But again, I've never seen Melville on screen. Maybe that will make a difference? 

There's also some great stuff coming up at the VIFF Centre. It's been closed for a variety of upgrades and has an ambitious series of heavy hitting "Total Cinema" coming up to show off their new equipment. A few big crowd pleasers that I've never really gotten (Lawrence of Arabia has never spoken to me) or that I'm worn out on, like Blade Runner, say -- I think I can throw that one, and its sequel, to the wolves, here, because they'll pack the house no matter what I say -- but I was almost thinking it was time to see the first Jurassic Park movie again, and lo, there it is on the big screen (ditto The Matrix). I was also just thinking I was nearly ready to see Children of Men again, too. Funny how that film, which I first saw in the context of the war in Iraq and the post-9/11 eruption of Islamophobia, has grown on me; it registered on first viewing as a political cheap shot, bound to the moment of its release, and as such mostly just annoyed me, but it has grown in my estimation with each subsequent viewing, so that if I had to list "greatest films of the 21st century" so far, it would be in the top 5... 

Plus Stop Making Sense? A cheap-seat National Cinema Day programme of Sunset Boulevard, The Player, and Final Cut: Ladies and Gentlemen? Amelie?  There's even a chance to see Mark Robson's 70s disaster film Earthquake on the big screen, a film I caught up with on home video not too long ago and quite enjoyed, grim as it is. 

There's more in the series, too.  I somehow expect I'll be seeing this guy at a couple of movies this summer... and I don't mean Phil Silvers...