Colin Linden @ London Music Club (Wednesday, August 18, 2010)

Before I get into anything, I should say that I got Colin Linden's permission to do this review. I say this for three reasons

1) I have heard tell of relatively new blogging laws that dictate that one needs to inform the public of any influences that may sway the words coming out of their fingers (like press junkets, favours from studios, reach-arounds, that sort of thing) and I am far too lazy to actually look up these laws, so instead, I am erring on the side of caution.

2) It gives me great pleasure to think of myself as a blogger who is important enough to be worth suing, so I'm pretending to take myself seriously by including that little warning. For this reason, you should also know that the picture I have included is also stolen right from CBC (by way of Google Images). Proper citation or deletion pending the ferocity of their legal repercussions.

3) It was fun to play real-critic long enough to walk up to Colin Linden, shake his hand, ask his permission, and receive a "yes" response that nonetheless left me feeling like I had just taken 12 seconds out of someone far more important than me's life that they would never get back. So, I thank Mr. Linden for those twelve seconds, his permission, and unknowingly, his enabling of my self-indulgence.

*

Colin Linden's name is not a stranger to this blog. Back in February, I reviewed his most recent album, From The Water, a very solid record that would not have been undeserving of a win at this year's Juno Awards. Although, as great as From The Water is, I would argue that Colin Linden live is a different, and ultimately, better experience.

The London Music Club is probably my favourite live venue, and, if stage banter can be believed, it's one of Linden's too. It's a small, intimate setting where, on a packed night like this one, unless you come with a van full of people, you're going to make new friends at your table. And in this comfortable, beer-sipping kind of place, you really get to understand the process of what it takes to create the kind of smooth, professional virtuosity that comes out of Linden's body.

Everything that Linden does exudes comfort and professionalism. My father, who was at the show with me, probably described it best when he observed that (and I'm paraphrasing) "you know he's been doing this for awhile, he flies from four feet back from the mic right up to it, stopping half an inch away after going about 50 miles an hour." And it's true; Linden is so far beyond the trivialities of musicianship that even in making a couple of mistakes (which he freely admitted to) and having patch cable fall out, the recovery seemed as well-practiced as the songs themselves.

And that's nothing to say of Linden's relationship with his instrument. Generally, when I'm watching a musician do something, there's a thought lingering in the back of my mind that "if I wanted to, I could do that." That voice was silent from the second Linden started playing. I will freely admit that I will never play guitar as well as that man does. I wouldn't go so hard as to say that he makes it look easy, because, considering the trickiness of some of what he was doing, no one could, and you'd be wasting valuable brain space trying. However, there is a trust there. Linden seems to have an agreement with whatever guitar in his hands, that together, they will make great music. Linden is determined to hold up his end of the bargain, showing a flash of frustration with himself when he didn't, and knows that he, and the audience, will benefit from the arrangement.

Colin Linden has spent thousands of hours in recording studios, for himself, but also, in great part, in collaboration with others. And it's no small wonder why. Being in the same room, you get a deeper appreciation for what it means to spend one's life in music, and I can't imagine how someone would be able to record with Linden and not be inspired.

Michael Bublé @ John Labatt Centre (Monday, August 9, 2010)

I want to be Michael Bublé. That's the one thought that kept coming back to mind, from the opening notes to his final bow. This man is just. plain. cool. But, before Bublé ever took the stage, there was opener Naturally 7.

Naturally 7 is a group of seven a cappella singers who distinguish themselves by performing what they call "vocal play": the use of voices to closely simulate the sounds of real instruments. There was a "bass player" (who from the upper bowl looked kind of like the love child of Barack Obama and Shia LeBoeuf), a "DJ", a "drummer", and "harmonica-ist", a "guitarist" and probably a few that I'm missing. At its best, the group members were given the opportunity to showcase their individual talents; the "guitarist" was especially astounding in his ability to sound like a guitar solo. At its not-so-best, with all the sounds coming together, the focus shifted to the singing vocalists, who I'm not going to say aren't great singers, but there's a reason that these guys are supported by a large group. Whether you consider it kitsch or simply a different branch of musicianship, it's the instrumental replication that gives this band its appeal. It's the kind of thing you'd expect to see the judges and crowd of America's Got Talent get all slack-jawed and applause-happy about, before they eventually lose to a tap-dancing orphan. Regardless, it was a decent way to warm up the show, and the crowd was loving it.

Then, after a none-too-long break, he arrived. Up until the song started, I was starting to worry. I was thinking things like "What am I doing here? I've know maybe four of this guy's songs." But, I couldn't back out now, and within moments, I was feeling greatly relieved. To be honest, this all happened about a week ago and a half ago, so I don't really remember what song he started off with, but I do recall that it was jazzy but still had enough kick that he somehow got away with a big fireworks explosion at the end. Initial reaction: Was that really necessary? Immediate secondary reaction: No, but I loved it.

After the first song (maybe two? Like I said, it's been awhile), Bublé started talking to crowd and here was where I really got hooked. Michael Bublé is very aware of and concerned with how he is perceived. He's also very open about this process, as he quipped "Now, I know what all you guys here with your girlfriends are thinking... This guy is SO gay." But, he does everything he can to dismantle these perceptions, making himself accessible to a more universal crowd (or as universal you can get in London, Ontario). One of the very first things he did was to take the time to read the signs that people had made for the show. He responded to each "we love you" with an "I love you, too," and had the first of his many great one-liners when he read a sign that said "I DROVE 1000KM TO SEE YOU" and responded "why would you do that, you crazy bitch?" Any other banter was along the same lines, pushing the envelope of what you would expect a guy in a tuxedo to be saying and doing. Anytime that Bublé was talking and NOT convincing us he was a potty-mouthed guy we'd love to be having a few brews with, he was being insanely gracious to the crowd for coming out. He was honest, and almost apologetic, for the price these people were willing to pay to see him perform. At $90/ticket for our upper bowl seats, he knew and acknowledged the kind of money that people were throwing down and repeatedly and sincerely thanked the crowd repeatedly.

And, there was also some great music. I've never been into jazz or big band swing, and the concert didn't do a whole lot to change my mind, but it did make me feel a little uncultured. Here is a guy whose career is indebted to dozens of other singers, performers, and song-writers, all of whom he graciously acknowledges. Bublé is aware of the history of the art he performs and is respectful of it, even with his own little pyrotechnic twists. The music also did occasionally deviate from what you'd expect, as small spats of Michael Jackson, Stompin' Tom Connors, and The Beatles, provided the opportunity for the less-jazzy in the audience to enjoy familiarity, instead of just Bublé's impeccable voice.

Backing Bublé was a large, and wicked good band, who seemed to share a fraternal bond with each other. Instead of simply introducing each band member as "so and so on alto sax," each guy got a special introduction, often describing the gentleman's sexual prowess. None of the names stuck, but I will likely never forget that one guy was described as "a dirty, dirty, slut. I wish there was some other way to tell you this." And, at every opportunity, the performers responded throughout the concert with incredible solos, with particular mind-blowingness coming from the two trumpet solos.

So that's pretty much it. It was a great show, led by one of the best entertainers I've ever seen, filled with mostly unfamiliar but incredibly performed music, and lots of laughs. The lucky men in the audience went home with their wives and went straight to sleep. The unfortunate ones went home, and had confusing sex during which their wives refused to look them in the eye. Me, I went home and dreamed of being as cool as Michael Bublé.

Buck 65 @ Aeolian Hall (Thursday, July 15, 2010)

No, that's not my picture, but it's the closest one that I could find, on Google images, that looks like Buck did when he played the opening concert of London's Home County Folk Festival. "Wha wha whaaaaa?" you might say, "What is this rapper doing befouling our banjo-laden clusterfolk?" Before the show began, the Festival's artistic director, Catherine McInnes came out to explain just that by quoting (and I'm now paraphrasing but might have gotten it right) Louis Armstrong: "All music is folk music. I ain't never met a horse that could sing." That line was charming enough to relax a few of the older folky folks in the crowd, but most of the house was filled with people who knew exactly what they were getting into.

I want to focus on those few who didn't for awhile, though. I consider myself to be among them, but I don't quite fit into the ignorant demographic that I noticed so readily. There were people in attendance, mostly in the first three rows, who I would guess (rather safely) were only there because they always go to every Home County show. Unlike those up in the balcony and in the back who had already decided that they were going to love everything that happened on stage, cheering, shouting requests, and even giving Buck 65 instructions on the balance of his sound equipment, these people had likely never heard of Buck 65, never been to a hip hop show, and invariably left liking the genre a little better.

Buck 65 may be the ideal ambassador for getting hip hop to middle aged white folks. He's an attractive 30-something Nova Scotian with a penchant for self-deprication, plaid shirts, and the tossing of sparkly confetti (which he calls razzle dazzle). He plays the banter game, providing insight into the music that he is playing. He took the time to explain how scratching works, making the process all that much more real and impressive to the layman. His performed-to-perfection awkward dancing spits in the face of the shyness that generally keeps white dudes off of the dance floor. His less-than-serious songs; like the ones about Hallowe'en, Zombies, and his own attractiveness; open up a world of discovery to those who assumed that rapping was all about shooting up ho's and whatnot. And the heavier, serious stuff affirms itself with simply great backing music, so that even if the lyrics aren't getting across, you desperately want to believe that the words are as incredible as you think they are.

The whole time, there were heads bobbing and toes tapping. These are people who didn't know the rules for how to respond to what they were seeing except for universal polite applause. These people were enjoying what they were seeing with fresh, uncontaminated eyes, in a way that even those 20-somethings who had discovered Buck 65 back in the early 90's likely couldn't have. These are men and women who have spent their lives listening to a certain kind of music, and, thanks to their devotion to a festival were seeing something that was both new and wonderful.

I know all of this because it happened to me too. For the three hours I spent at this show, and about two hours after that, Buck 65 was the greatest musician I had ever seen live. It might still be the case, but I'm not as fanatically certain as I was while the live-music aura was still surrounding me.

Assisted by Valery Gore, who sings like Feist but plays piano like Owen Pallett, Buck, quite possibly without meaning to, planted a seed inside of a lot of people. I wouldn't be surprised if many people in those first three rows went home, decided to find out what this Youtube thing was about, in order to keep the rush going. This show was an experience, it was a newness that had nothing to do with novelty, and it definitely made Buck 65 a new fanbase inside the London Folk community.

Our Lady Peace @ Centennial Hall (March 15, 2010)

*As a note: this is what OLP looked like when I saw them last night, but I like to have pictures. Duncan had hair, Jeremy wasn't wearing glasses, Raine lost the beard, and Steve's hair looked a bit more like Jackson Rathbone's.

So here's the scoop with Our Lady Peace; they are my favourite band. "What?" you cry, knowing full well, due to your near-religious reading of this blog, that the band is currently only ranked at #46 on the Death By Hippopotamus "50 Greatest Artists Of All Time" list. But there is a difference. Being entirely objective, there are tons of albums and songs that I have thought were better than most of Our Lady Peace's, but once I allow subjectivity to come into things, I have, for the last ten years, when asked who my favourite band is, always answered that it is Our Lady Peace.

I, by no means, am suggesting that OLP is not a good band, as they certainly are. They epitomize, for me, everything that a four-piece band should be. They have
-a drummer who is competent and gracious,
-a bass player who connects with the audience, and sings along just because he loves the music he's playing
-a solid lead guitarist who is showy enough to grab your attention, but not going so far as to upstage
-a lead singer with a recognizable voice, who can nonetheless provide rhythm guitar (suggesting a deeper musical competence), the ability to connect to a crowd without resorting to too many shortcuts and easy pops, and an honest self-consciousness about his band.

If that last part sounds a little like a man-crush, you're not wrong. It's safe to say that frontman Raine Maida is a big reason for my fascination with this band. He is part of a trinity of men I wouldn't mind being. If I were an actor, I would want to be Nathan Fillion. If I were a (real) writer, I would want to be Chuck Klosterman. And, if I were a singer, I would want to be Raine Maida. He has an unstoppable, unique voice, and, assuming you don't hate the sound of it, is otherwise not too much of anything to turn anyone off.

Which brings us to the concert itself. For only the second time in my life, I was going to a show where I was intimately familiar with at least 80% of the music. The first such an occurrence was when I saw the Backstreet Boys last year, but even then, most of the material post-Black & Blue was new to me. On a personal level, this concert was a whole other experience, but I'll try to be objective for a moment.

The show began 20 minutes late, possibly due to thronging masses at the sorely understaffed merch table. As advertised, the show began with the band playing their second album, Clumsy in its entirety. Before the band took the stage, a video of Saul Fox (the guy from most of their album covers) played on a backdrop, wherein he recited poetry. This led into the album's opener (and one of their biggest hits), "Superman's Dead," which the crowd got into immediately.

Then came "Automatic Flowers," including an extra couple of bars of guitar solo. Throughout the rest of the show, most of the deviation from the recorded versions of songs came from Steve Mazur's guitar. As the only member who wasn't part of the band during its Clumsy era, Mazur has crafted his own idea of what the lead should sound like, still following the structure that Mike Turner had laid out, allowing for a slightly new experience of the songs. The only time it sounded unrecognizable was during the intro to "Hello Oskar," when I couldn't figure out what song was being played.

The band kept up what, at that point, seemed like a high amount of energy for hits and non-hits alike with the real high point coming when Maida gave some backstory for his inspiration for "4 A.M." After that introduction, the song itself gave me literal chills all the way through.

After the 50-odd minutes was up, Maida simply stated "and that's Clumsy, thank you" and left the stage. For a few minutes, I panicked that this was it. I wouldn't have been disappointed by the act itself, more that I had spent the equivalent of a dollar per minute of entertainment. Thankfully, this was simply a lengthy intermission, after which the band came back out in swanky new duds, with fog and strobe lights to spare.

At this point, I don't think anyone was disappointed by what they had just seen: a masterclass of a great rock album. Maida, apparently, thought differently, and, disappointingly, acted as though he was relieved that it was over, since he was ready to rock. Maybe it was merely out of showmanship, but his comments to that effect had an undermining effect on the intimacy of the first act. Nonetheless, he wasn't kidding about the mood changing, including his invitation for everyone to swarm to the front. Being 5'6", this was a move that I nearly immediately regretted, as tall folk, and drunk girls standing up on their seats in order to see over tall folk, hindered my view for a good 60% of the rest of the show.

With Clumsy over, the show truly became a rock concert, and the set took the form of hits, band favourites, and (a little too much) focus on their latest album, Burn Burn. During these more recent songs, the band, Maida, especially, was rocking harder than ever, determined to get their newest music heard. Whether this was overcompensation for the general weakness of the album, or an earnest appeal against its misunderstood reception remains to be seen.

As this second act went on, I started to get an idea of why I love Our Lady Peace as much as I do. During any song, I could look around me (since I couldn't see anything anyway) and see a multitude of reactions to the music. There were couples holding each other intimately, as though the band was the soundtrack to their relationship. There were older men who were rocking out hard enough to be practicing for the next Metallica show. There were older women who were moved by the music's lyricism, but seemed uncomfortable in the concert setting. It seemed that every person in the crowd had a different reason for being there and, the girlfriend sitting behind me whose boyfriend had brought her against her will aside (quote of the night: "I wouldn't buy you tickets to a band you hated, like Weezer"), none of those reasons were wrong or inappropriate. Simultaneously, the band was able to provide a unique meaning and enjoyment to nearly every member of the audience.

And maybe that's what went wrong with Burn Burn. As a simply laid-out series of songs, the band stripped itself of most of its vagueness and ambiguity, creating an album that, while deeply personal to the band, was unengaging to nearly everyone else. With this tour (which also features a second show, highlighting Spiritual Machines, Maida has claimed that in practicing older songs, the band has gotten in touch with something they have lost, and hope to regain. While recreation was the theme of the production of Burn Burn, I haven't given up hope that this time, the "back to our roots" direction is the real deal, and that Our Lady Peace remembers how to be competently undefinable.

Bread Envy @ London Music Club (February 11, 2010)

Generally, when I get a Facebook event invitation, I throw a "Maybe Attending" onto it, and forget all about it. In this case, I figured that I was due for a night out, and headed out to the show.

The venue has three different rooms, this one being the "cellar lounge," next to the bathrooms, with enough room to comfortably seat around 80 people. Most of the space was available for coats or footstools, as the crowd hit its peak at about 30 (including the 7 performers).

The opener, River Wild, is a three-piece group, where each singer also carried an instrument: Jeff McClellan on guitar, Shane Davis on tambourine, and Ian Morris on bongos and shaker. Together, they create rich vocal harmonies, led, and kept in line by the guitar. At times, the strain of the higher voices took away from from the unity of the well-practiced harmonies. It's hard to describe what the band sounds like, it's kind of like Sounds Of Silence-era Simon & Garfunkel meets Renaissance chant, but it works. The choir/band also showed a refinement and control whenever they made musical decisions. At one point, the otherwise chatty crowd was completely transfixed as they guys expertly swelled in volume and intensity to climax one song.

As Bread Envy took the stage, half the room emptied. I worried that I had picked the wrong night to come out of my social hibernation. But, as soon as they started playing, it became clear how they won London's "Break Your Band" contest. Even playing an ammended set, due to the non-presence of guitarist Justin Bisaillon, the band took the stage and simply played good music. Frontman Blair Miskie not only demonstrated natural vocal skill, he took on the task of playing both rhythm and lead guitar; to his credit, I couldn't tell that anything was missing. Adrian Martin, on keys, performed backing vocals, which blended perfectly with Miskie's lead. Bassist James Beaver, and drummer Chris Nicoloff, were absolutely comfortable in their own skin, playing their parts dutifully, and often joking around with each other while doing their thing.

What really struck me about Bread Envy (a name they hope to replace by the time they head to the recording studio in two days's time) was their competence. These are a group of guys who each know exactly what they're doing, and, at this point, are just figuring out the best way to do it. Each member is an unquestionably talented musician, and everything they do on stage seems effortless. Even when performing covers, like The Hives' "Hate To Say I Told You So" or the ballsy move of doing Radiohead's "Karma Police," the result is near-lift recreation. The danger of a band so good at covers is that it can be hard to find a voice for oneself. If the last two songs of the set (originals that will be be released on their upcoming EP) are any indication, this isn't going to be a problem. The band seems to thrive when performing their own work, taking even more enjoyment out of the experience. As with any young band, there's still some refinement to be made, but there's no question that Bread Envy is good. Too good, I'd say, to be playing in front of eight people in a basement.