Brown is the new Black

Please donate.

2006-03-29T09:37:00.000-08:00

Musique Plus

2006-03-13T18:54:00.000-08:00

I "directed" this video for the Q12 using footage that I found on Youtube. I've been telling people that it's part of a video installation dealing with contemporary Internet practices of teenaged girls and the changing identity of sexually, and people seem to be convinced that I'm a real artist. Acting is being, belief is truth and so that makes me a video artist.

Beautiful, beautiful (Fuck you, you're a dick)

2006-03-13T18:36:00.000-08:00

Come see me at the Syphilitic Mermaids launch party, I'll be the one dressed like an idiot. Not to be confused with a Queen West douche bag.

Saturday March 18,
In the back (enter through the front) gallery of It's Not A Deli, (not the Drake Hotel)
986 Queen Street West, (Toronto, just beyond the boutiques)
At 7pm (you can show up later, but the magazines will be gone by then)

Oh yes, bands will be performing (Ryan Masters, the Q12 and some dude from Manitoba) and there will be artwork as well. Buy me a Steamwhistle and I'll let you verbally abuse me until I've finished the beer.

2006-03-07T12:04:00.000-08:00

With some reluctance, I present another MP3 post. I guess that this makes me a hipster.

Australian "synth-punks" Sekiden have just released a new single from a forthcoming release -- most likely an EP, I would assume.

"Up In the Air"

Sackville to Dildo

2006-03-06T21:31:00.000-08:00

Despite my reservations about the 'mp3 blog' concept, a friend of mine tipped me off to the fact that a new Julie Doiron track, entitled 'Me and My Friend', has been posted on her official Myspace site. Other than that, I can't be bothered with further research. If you are in need of (s)hallow analysis and other such information concering Ms. Doiron's forecoming release, please visit your MP3 blog of choice because I can't be bothered with such nonsense.

Am I the only one who is troubled by that fact that Myspace has gone from colonizing cool to monopolizing it? The potential for abuse exists and needs to be considered.

File sharing is communism, and that's why I love it: Ballad Of The Broken Seas

2006-03-01T22:47:00.000-08:00

A thrift store find piqued my curiousity in the whereabouts of former Screaming Tree, and sometime Kurt Cobain stand-in, Mark Lanegan. My Googling told me that he recently teamed up with cumly Gentle Waves whisperer, Isobel Campbell. I've only given the album the ADHD treatment, but I recommend checking out the duo's Myspace because finding this album on Soulseek was pretty trying. It's in the same vain as Iron and Wine and Isobel Campbell will be performing in Toronto this Saturday, so it should be filling the iPods of Queen West hipsters by next Friday.

"You're a professional writer? You don't look like one"

2006-02-23T22:47:00.000-08:00

As of late, I've been writing for a new Toronto-based paper/on-line magazine called SM2. Early reviews have described it as "Vice Magazine's astute and sarcastic, but ugly, sister" and "a demanding read, but worth the effort." This reviews are coming from people who sell 'alternative' ad space for a living, so I refuse to read into this statements.

I've contributed three articles, however only potential advertisers have been given access to the entire site and only a limited number of print copies are out there (I haven't seen one). Regardless, I'm given loose deadlines and the freedom to write about topics of my choosing. This is the first bit of regular work that I've come into that offers perks. For example, the editor sold me a considerably battered, albeit functioning, laptop for $50. I had been without a laptop for roughly a year, so this was a deal that I simply could not resist.

Despite the newest addition to my arsenal of tech, I'm not at all pleased with the fact that some of my work has been festering behind the garden wall. While I retain the moral rights and copyright to my articles, SM2 controls the publishing rights. Foregoing the temporal legal details, this means that I cannot post my work on this blog without permission. But according to the editor, the website will be given its public launch on March 1. From what I've managed to wean, the website will be free of ads until the hosting costs become unmanagable. So all those who are interested need only wait two weeks.

Two weeks is approximately six months in "Internet time", but I'm certain that you'll keep yourselves contained until then.

Trendspotting: Emo-morons.

2006-02-18T23:58:00.000-08:00

If this Myspace Music profile serves as any indication -- Suburban City Tragedy -- oxymorons will soon dominate the clumsy poetics of Emo band naming. Now, Suburban Centre Tragedy would be correct because, as those with the patiences for municipal politics will know, suburbs are only cities in title. Suburbs are merely satellites to urban centres, which are cities proper. But perhaps I'm showing my age, because as I can recall, Emo kids write their own rules. I'll let the Emos have their suburban cities, as long as they promise to stop writing inconsolable, 'boy pines for girl' poetry.

Are you confused yet? That makes too of us.

2006-02-18T23:48:00.000-08:00

Despite what little remains and how much is left to fancy, there's nothing that I can say that this clip does not say for itself.

Stephen Harper: Punk rock legend in the making?

2006-02-09T18:37:00.000-08:00

If I could pick the brain of pundit and former Liberal strategist, Warren Kinsella, I wouldn't ask him about the efficacy of the Martin Liberals campaign, the future of parliament, the precarious situation that Ontario has found itself in or even his pick for the Liberal leadership (please don't be Bob Rae). No, nothing of that sort, instead I would ask him a question that I hope he would respect and graciously examine. In addition to being one of Canada's most sought after political minds, Kinsella is an old-time punk rocker who grew up, but never lost his connection to punk. So it's only fitting that I would ask him if Prime Minister Stephen Harper will be good for Canadian punk rock? Not having access to Kinsella, I would answer my won query with an emphatic yes. In fact, if this government lasts long enough and exacts enough callousness on this nation, I think that a punk rock renaissance could depose the current 'Canadian Indie™ renaissance' in terms of cultural currency.

Punk music is nothing without villains. This is why memorable punk comes in waves and it is what saved Green Day from becoming VH1 certified has-beens. Stephen Harper has the potential to become a certified villain and not just a Liberal cast one at that. A campaign of duplicity could do this for him, as demonstrated by right-wing leaders of the past and present. Nearly a decade of worry-free domestic affairs under Jean Chrétien and Bill Clinton resulted in the rise of boy bands, rap-metal and the ghastly emo-core genre. Despite my leftist leanings, I can see the utility of the Harper-led Reformed-Conservative Alliance. At the very least, it'll get the kids thinking about the world more than the number of Myspace friends that they've accrued.

When I was a rebellious teen, we had, then Ontario premier Mike Harris, to influence our homegrown mosh anthems. The Grunge era had Reagan and Bush senior, and of course Green Day, every shitty Fat Wreck Chords band and their derivatives, have Bush junior. A good villain can serve as the creative catalyst for a whole movement of vital and challenging music. Think of all the tedious Vietnam-inspired ballads that are still played on classic rock radio. If Harper can achieve the ultimate neo-liberal dream of dismantling the welfare state and making those irrational leftist pussies pay for their sloth, it can be guaranteed that there will more than three chords with his name on them. But there are more expedient ways to ensure that Harper is lambasted by every kid whose understanding of federal politics is just as cursory as their grasp of music theory. Just send them to public school.

If there is one union that I'm willing to see busted, it is the ill-tempered, impatience and greedy Ontario Secondary School Teachers Federation. If they can successfully use their power over malleable teenagers, as they has done in regards to every federal and provincial leader in recent memory, lackluster anti-Harper theme songs will be flooding high school talent shows in no time. No wonder the right is so in favour of private schools and privatization of the public system.

Harper has been around for a number of years, so why has the punk community been so slow in turning their attention to him? To put it quite simply, most punk rockers are either stupid or lack the presence of mind to expand their thoughts beyond substance use and idle, symbolic attacks on 'conformity', 'the government' and 'sheep'-- the tired perennial domain of angry youth the world over. 'Anarchy, man! Fuck the system.' In opposition, Harper was only on the radar of the political savvy; which explains why I can only name two songs about Stockwell Day.

If the thought of thousands of Misfits songs about Steven Harper strikes you as something that isn't conducive to political change, let alone a welcome renaissance, consider this. Punk rock is a doorway and not an exit, both artistically and intellectually. It gets young, increasingly apolitical, adults to reflect upon how politics affects them. That's something that a thousand, 8 Mile imitating, Elections Canada ads could never achieve. So bring on the corporate tax cuts, privatization and currency unification. Even though punk rock will never be able to combat these policy moves, at the very least it will infect listeners with the intellect germ to resistance such actions. Even if the kids don't know what they're fighting for or against. But perhaps at this very moment, the next Warren Kinsella is in a friends garage bashing out a pro-Kyoto sing-along. 'Hey ho, let's Kyo-to!'

Photobuckets: inthisissue

2006-01-30T22:09:00.000-08:00

For reasons beyond my understanding, I find myself taken by the exploits of twenty-something hussies from affluent Toronto suburbs. Perhaps it's nothing more than a case of subculture-exoticism, or something closer to lust. Regardless of whether you're a curious outsider or a club-hopper fetishist, this photo album is worth a minute or two.

Photobucket: inthisissue

Cahiers du cinéma

2006-01-26T22:44:00.000-08:00

Nouvelle vague? Nouvelle Ordre? Nonetheless, this new [to me] music video for 'Temptation' has presented me with a problem. While it is one of my all-time favourite New Order songs, the visual esthetic of the video is somewhat appealing -- evoking ghosts of the New Wave and the Italian neo-realists -- and, needless to say, the lead is very cute. But something about this video leaves me anxious and my interest wanes just before the halfway mark. I find this particular recording of 'Temptation' to be wanting, especially the vocals. Bernard Sumner gives, what sounds like, a deliberately breathy but lifeless performance of the song. Specifically the refrains, which sound as if they would be at home in a lounge reworking of the song. By comparison, the original recording is much more enjoyable and, arguably, honest.

Download (MP4)

Moreover, the concept evades me. Is it a comment on downloading? Or does the record symbolize something else? Is the world dull without that particular album, and it must be liberate in order to restore pleasure, beauty, whatever you wish, to the world? Why does return to the lilac's first? Why is last cut in black and white? Is this a complete concept?

Now that you have seen the video and have gained some insight into my problem, I would appreciate some feedback; or not.

It's class, stupid.

2006-01-19T23:48:00.000-08:00

In the run-up to this Monday's federal election, I urge you to pay close attention to how the candidates refer to the working class, but more specifically their references to "the poor" and "lower-income families."

Let it be known that Conservative leader Stephen Harper and Liberal leader Paul Martin have made considerable use of the term 'low-income families', but neither candidates have offered a clear definition of this disadvantaged minority that they claim to feel for. Could it be that this group is so marginal, perhaps even temporal, that it cannot be defined? The two mass parties would like to have you believe that low-income families are of two varieties; uneducated welfare recipients who are unwilling to work and 'beer-and-popcorn' dining slothes who enjoy such a brutish lifestyle. I can recall the Mike Harris-era 'Workfare' program -- now the 'mandatory opportunity' program, under the Ontario Liberals -- and the firing rhetoric that surrounded the program's introduction. Alledgedly, all of Ontario's problems could be attributed to lazy welfare cheats, individuals who needed to be in the workforce. In the end, 'the poor' is the faceless enemy of the 'working people.'

Seeing this video has me wondering if the dominate conception and opinion of the poor is formed by media, or if the media is reflecting the ruling class construction of the working class.

"I invented Google": How I learned to get over myself and go to my high school reunion

2005-12-24T17:30:00.000-08:00

The high school reunion occupies a privileged space in our popular culture and consciousness. Most often, it is used as a stock plot device in sitcoms that have continued on past their prime [refer back to Dawson's Creek, I know you can] or worst. Other times the high school reunion serves as the venue of retribution in underdog stories -- most notably the innumerable Simpsons episodes that revolve around the recurring character of Arty Ziff. And judging by the totality of weight-lose commercials, reality television and sitcom episodes that are pieced together from slivers of new material, the reunion is a rite of passage that we've been conditioned to both loathe and anticipate. Perhaps this is would explain the mix of thoughts that I experienced when a bulk e-mail informed me of my graduating class' unofficial five-year reunion.

If the notion of a five-year reunion strikes you as premature, you are most correct. In June of 2000, most of us left the consistently suffocating bounds of our sprawling rural performing arts high school and set off in search of our own piece of salvation and significance. That was five years ago, and to perfectly honest, few of those in attendance have struck upon either. Most were in their final year of university, some had gone on to graduate studies and others had secured dead-end, yet full-time, employment with only their student loans and hope for an improved tomorrow to keep them grounded. Which given the current socioeconomic climate, is a noble achievement in several respects. However, given the affluent nature of our school, a number of trust fund brats boasted to me of their new lives as snow-bums in Vancouver. Without question, everyone in the increasingly cramped party hall had metaphysical rulers drawn. But instead of comparing handbags and shoes, it was clear that we had evolved from rudimentary competitive consumption -- if only for an elastic instant -- to competitive teleology. The only difficulty was that our dimensions, let alone our unit of measure, were disgracefully finite. It seems that none of those in attendance had risen to meteoric heights with bragging about, and conversely, none had fallen to the tragic depths that one might associate with an episode of Behind the Music. After all, only five years have past since we graduated, which is hardly enough time to get a marketable education and establish one's self. Still, few were willing to make mention of their tenure and place within the purgatory of the post-Commonsense Revolution job market. In other words, those with soul-destroying jobs in retail were sure to conceal their social immobility.

By midnight, the room was deluged with over five hundred former students from roughly the same graduating class, including every quintessential high school stereotype worth recalling. Old acquaintances, passing relations, girls who I wanted to fuck long before I knew the exact mechanics of the act, awkward moments with strangers, as well as one lone teacher. While the party atmosphere was high, all had coalesced into their former cliques. Each throng resembled a molecule, with the leaders reassuming the centre and their minions in electron orbit. With overpriced draft serving as the catalyst, there was some ironic bonding between cliques, but this could have easily been the cafeteria or the prom that I didn't attend. The only exception was that every girl was noticeably thinner, many guys had exchanged hair for fat and that each attendee carried on with intent.

My grade-eleven entrepreneurship teacher once told that high school so is so psychologically damning that very few students make a comfortable entrance into early adulthood. I always valued his wisdom, and evidently he was more than correct. The bottom-feeders sought validation, the bullies and screw-ups were begging for redemption and the popular students pined for the admiration that slipped away after that final dismissal bell was heard in June of 2000. So it was only fitting that this party was orchestrated by our class’ fashionista in chief and the class president, turned Ivy Leaguer. This compact was rife with popular culture cliché, but what was all of this for? ‘Consider the cultural studies perspective of this night’ urged one of my former classes, but I was too occupied with scanning the room in hopes of spotting a few wayward comrades. Perhaps Raymond Williams mused on high school reunions, but it is doubtful.

A short time later, the above fashionista came up to me and acted as if her and I were best friends throughout high school [“everyone was hoping that you would show up!”]. Other than a few sincere chats, our social spacing was mutually imposed and appreciated. So I was taken aback when she dragged her inebriated, but coherent and perfectly put together, waif-frame over to have a candid discussion with me. It was discovered that both of us ended up taking roughly the same career path. Only her daddy’s connections and money propelled her much further than myself and in a fraction of the time. During our conversation, I made sure not to let my ‘too cool’ front crack while sneaking glances at the ribs where cleavage should have been. To conclude our conversation, I passed her a business card – perhaps daddy’s money flows beyond the boutique – and she punctuated our meeting by giving me a phony Euro-kiss, nearly head-butting me. It was magic like accidentally drowning is magic. You never forget your first Euro-kiss from a public relations phony.

As the crowd began to lean and the party reduced into smaller, private, gatherings, a miffed frat-boy sat down beside me. Beer in hand and stubble along his jaw he asked, “did you go to school with these stuck-up bitches?” “Yeah”, I paused, “but they’re not so bad.” He barreled into a drunken tirade, and through it I came to a conclusion on what this night meant to everyone and why reunions are lauded in our media. This night wasn’t about reconnecting, but rather it was far more visceral than that. This night was about taking revenge upon and seeking reparations from the past. While the spoils were symbolic at best – a phone number, a drink from that boy you obsessed over for four years, an overdue and meaningless truce, or the order of a free beer from a drunken frat-boy who took an interest in your philosophy – all of it was emotional currency that one could use to pay the fare into a reasonably well-adjusted adulthood -- just like one on television.