CMW 2010* (Friday) (feat. Julie Fader, Brian Borcherdt, Giant Hand, Gemma Ray, Dexateens, Sydney Wayser, Phantogram, Fergus Brown)
Friday, March 12, 2010.
8 P.M.-ish: Julie Fader @ The Music Gallery
Leaving the in-store at Criminal Records there was a cold wind to go with the persistent rain. Looking for the quickest path to shelter, trudged up to The Music Gallery with young T. to catch what we could of Julie Fader's set. This was one of those "limited wristband" events functioning more as a regular gig (for Wintersleep side-project Postdata) than a showcase, so we were mildly worried about getting in, especially as by the time we got there a warm and dry sanctuary was much needed. But the place wasn't too crowded — perhaps more of a "we're coming for the headliner" mentality was keeping the early numbers down, so we slipped in and managed to catch about five songs or so of Fader's set.
Long known for her support work to other artists (including Great Lake Swimmers and Chad VanGaalen), I'd been digging Fader's solo debut Outside In and waiting on a chance to see her playing some of this stuff live. This was certainly the right environment for it, with the loosely-packed crowd mostly sitting on the floor taking the drum-less combo in under the churchy arches. A stripped-down sort of sound, but rich in little touches from Randy Lee (violin) and Graham Walsh of Holy Fuck — Fader's producer and former band-mate. It was a pleasant surprise — but not a big shock — when "my friend Tony" that Fader called up to the stage was Tony Dekker of Great Lake Swimmers, adding some backing vox in a reversal of the situation I've probably seen Fader most frequently in. Pleasantly low-key and lovely — I could definitely stand to see a full set, and hope we get another chance in such fitting surroundings.
8:30 P.M.: Brian Borcherdt @ The Music Gallery
With time to kill before the next stop on the itinerary, stuck around to catch the first few songs from Brian Borcherdt, with the Holy Fuck-er working his singer/songwriter side. Although some of the songs — including the Kim Mitchell cover — were familiar to me from his solo set at the ALL CAPS Island show, what I heard this time 'round was a bit more filled-out and engaging, especially when he was joined by Walsh and Lee. Perhaps his solo stuff was growing on me — however, after a handful of songs it was back out into the rain to trudge down toward Spadina and King.
9 P.M.: Giant Hand @ Global Village Backpackers
A large festival sometimes plunks venues in somewhat unlikely places, so I guess it's not on the face of it absurd for acts to be playing at a "Hostel Party" stage. But there was a sort of weird disconnect for that to be the site of an acoustic singer-songwriter gathering. Even as I headed in to the venue, which turned out to be in the lounge/poolroom part of the hostel, I was worried that I was going to be feeling like an old man surrounded by dreadlocked/drunken young backpackers, busily out seeing the world. And, indeed, the long wall of the narrow room where the musicians were playing was adorned by a gigantic Jägermeister banner, and there were clearly more people using the space in its usual function than there were wristband-wearing masses out hoping for peace and quiet to hear the music. But, still, I've been in worse. Set off to one side in a semi-separate room, the "stage" was at least somewhat unique, a loosely-demarcated zone at one end of the room with a red wall behind the performers covered with a grid of white xmas tree-type lights.
"Hey everyone, I heard it's karaoke night, so I'm going to sing some Giant Hand songs," said Ottawa's Kirk Ramsay, who operates as a solo performer under that bandonym. Blessed with an attention-grabbing back story1 and, more importantly, a solid debut album, Ramsay has been building up an audience through the time-tested tools of good tunes and DIY persistence. A guy and a guitar, the songs often unwound as two-chord vamps behind his quavery voice, all serving his persistent imagery of monsters and caves and dark places, decidedly non-metaphysical tussles with God and Satan, and an overwhelming fear of death and/or being forgotten.
Besides some of those Daniel Johnston songs that sent him off on this whole adventure, the artist that Ramsay brings most to mind is cartoonist Charles Burns — and not only in how the spareness of his music is along the same lines of Burns' stark monochromism. "Books", a new song, mines the same childhood fascination and dread as Big Baby while Ramsay's treatment of mythic themes — an extended metaphor connecting monster-dread to existential terror — aren't too far from, say, Black Hole.
The musical simplicity — at some level his songs might sound like stripped-down variations on America's "A Horse With No Name" — is an effective companion rather than a limitation, but it was also good to see him reaching a little further, using a looping pedal and some basic beats on his final track. It's worth noting that a third of his set was stuff not on his album, suggesting that he's writing new songs and advancing quickly.2 An interesting guy, and worth checking out.
Listen to a track from this set here.
10 P.M.: Gemma Ray @ The Silver Dollar Room
With nothing strongly suggesting itself to me in this slot, I went with Bobby B.'s recommendation to check out Gemma Ray, over from London, and a completely unknown entity to me. Playing solo with electric guitar, the set started with a less-than-rosy opening, the artiste informing us, "my voice is completely gone, so I'll try and do one or two songs... maybe three". As she played her opening track, it was apparent she was struggling to reach the higher notes. But, though sounding somewhat froggy, she did work around it, dropping into a lower register and even a dramatic whisper at a couple points.3 And too bad, as it sounded like she was on to something interesting here — a pop sensibility shining through noirish twangy tunes. Visibly disappointed with losing her voice, Gemma Ray took shelter in — or, perhaps, revenge on — the music, turning in a roiling set that reflected her unhappy state. The heart of what she did play — and in the end, by stretching out her songs, we got something close to a full set's worth — was a series of covers4, starting with Etta James' "I'd Rather Go Blind".
It turned out that knife tucked into her guitar wasn't just for protection, as by the second tune she pulled it out to saw on the strings, adding loops of their howls to the songs. She was, in fact, equipped with a solid stock of pedals and gear to complicate her sound, including an entire second set at a second mic to add effects to her voice. The peak of it all was the finale, a run through Mudhoney's "Touch Me, I'm Sick" stretching out past seven minutes, the song turning into a deconstructed blues dirge over a drum loop. Obviously venting some frustration, the song ended in a haze of backwards vocal loops slipping into noise, with some gear getting pulled down along the way. I definitely felt for her, fighting her way through the set — and if there was an element of disappointment in that it only hinted at what she is capable of, it was tempered by being witness to a raw experience, and hopefully a set like no other for Gemma Ray. Let's hope she comes back this way to demonstrate her full range.
11:30 P.M.: Dexateens @ Comfort Zone
With the set ending early, I had a bit of extra time on my hands to play with. Looking at the schedule, I decided to switch things up and make a longer run afield, heading over to The Drake to check out Vancouver's Brasstronaut. So, hop on the streetcar, change at Queen and poke along westward to get there in decent time to catch the start of the set... only to be told at the door that the room is at capacity. Ugh. Well — no way I was going to wait around for people to leave, and there wasn't anything immediately scintillating nearby, so, minutes after arriving, I was retracting my steps almost right back to where I started.
Fortunately, Comfort Zone was starting its sets on the half-hour, so I got back there just in time as Dexateens were about to start. Hailing from Tuscaloosa, Alabama, the five-piece featured a three-guitar attack, but delivered with ferocious energy that suggested their roots included as much punk as Southern Rock. As a live unit, the focus was on the energy and rockin' more than the words and songcraft — they might be penning anthemic, well-spoken lyrics, but in this environment it was all full-speed ahead, no-bullshit rock, snarling guitars played with a grin.
The bandmembers were certainly wearing their roots on their sleeve, and everything about them said, "damn right I'm Southern", whether it was their overalls or switching gears mid-song for a mini hoedown. Bracing stuff, and though I didn't stick around for the end of the set, it gave me my second wind to keep going on the night.
Listen to a track from this set here.
Midnight: Sydney Wayser @ Global Village Backpackers
With my rock quota fulfilled, made my way back down to the hostel to try my luck there again. A few hours on, the ambiance of the place was, unsurprisingly, boozier and blearier — less crowded, but those that remained were louder and drunker. Taking a gamble on an act whose myspace samples sounded a cut more interesting than anything else going on, hit the venue a bit late as Sydney Wayser was still getting ready to play. I must admit I was a bit worried about the singer/songwriter fungibility problem5 but the point of the wristband was to push myself a little — generically this was a sort of music that I have an interest in, but that I'd usually not go out and see.
New York-based Wayser — dressed in what appeared to be pyjamas — turned out to have a warm, inviting voice. Playing mostly on keybs, she was joined by Adam Tressler on guitar and backing vox, but the sound was generally spare throughout — "I keep it on the quiet side, usually," she commented to the sound man as she turned her volume down between songs. Showing some variety, she switched over to ukulele to sing an adequately dreamy song inspired by Before Sunrise, and on the next one added some glockenspiel (which required a jury-rigged sound setup, the mic dangling over the back of a chair). Singing over the background chatter and the occasional loud shout from the players at the pool table in the next room, it was generally a pleasant set. Perhaps not necessarily at the thin end of the fungibility bell curve, but solidly entertaining. Plus, Wayser was engaging enough on stage, getting some of her personality across, to make it a worthy live set.
1 A.M.: Phantogram @ Supermarket
Wayser's set ran a little long, and I was enjoying enough that I didn't feel any need to bolt before the end. As such, when my made my way down to a crowded Supermarket — where apparently no-one was working at the door, for I walked in without anybody wanting to see my wristband — to check out the next band on my "hey, why not?" list, their set was already underway. This was Phantogram, from Saratoga Springs NY — another band I knew pretty much nothing about, but had been twigged to by something on their myspace, or perhaps a stray mention I'd caught somewhere.
Whatever it was that's sent me this way, oh goodness but I wasn't feeling it. The duo were playing a synth-heavy kind of downer dance-pop, and it just wasn't something I was in the mood for. To be sure, I stuck around for about two-and-a-half songs before I bailed, walking over to the convenience store for some orange juice. On this night, electrolytes > Phantogram, though I am willing to affirm that might just have been my mood at the moment.
2 A.M.: Fergus Brown @ Rivoli
But I did feel like I had one more set in me, so I headed down Spadina one last time to Queen, and popped into the Rivoli. By this time of the night, it was pretty quiet in what had been a night-long Australian showcase. Many of the remaining patrons looked like they might have been playing earlier and were now mostly hanging at the back and enjoying the facility's extended licence hours. Which is to say there wasn't a large crowd on hand that looked like they'd dropped in just to hear Fergus Brown play. But Brown took to the stage as if intent to gain a few converts regardless. Starting off backed only with bass, he was joined by various members of fellow Australians Dead Letter Chorus, who were also from Sydney, Australia, but whom he met in an airport in Nova Scotia. The addition of a rhythm section and Gabrielle Huber's harmony vox brought "Nerds in Love" to life, but the songs done solo (such as "Little Pinks or Blues") worked nicely as well.
Once again, there was that problem of singer-songwriter fungibility, as I sat listening for that one little thing that separated this guy from the horde of guys doing music like this. And I actually found it, to some extent, with "John, She Was Never Only Dancing", a sly sort of much-after-the-fact answer song with some crafty references ("She talks like Susie Sontag / she walks like Siouxsie Sioux"). And though a couple of his songs sort of felt a bit too much like typical fare, on the whole Brown pulled it off with an undercurrent of slightly-subversive/slightly goofy wit.
Listen to a track from this set here.
* A note on nomenclature: for years both the industry showcase and music festival components were known as Canadian Music Week. But as of 2009, this was deemed to be too simple and straightforward, and the music portion was "rebranded" as Canadian Music Fest, under the aegis of the larger Canadian Music Week. I see no reason to put up with this and will simply refer to everything as CMW — although there was a part of me that also considered using the slightly cumbersome "Canadian Music Fest presented by Canadian Music Week" throughout.
1 In short: man watches The Devil and Daniel Johnston, decides to get a guitar and make up a few songs, and within months is playing shows.
2 I'm guessing some of these will surface on a new EP being recorded with Rolf Klausener of the Acorn.
3 It would turn out that what she referred to as her "man voice" wasn't just a product of a bad cold, but the onset of laryngitis, which would cause her to cancel her other CMW appearance.
4 She has apparently just recorded an album's worth of covers, charmingly titled It's a Shame About Gemma Ray.
5 Which is to say, I guess, that like light-hitting left fielders that cover a lot of ground, there's a massive oversupply of singer-songwriters, and it's hard sometimes to work up the enthusiasm to try and separate the merely good-enough from the excitingly engaging ones. When a loud rock band isn't quite doing anything original, they can still captivate with volume and performance, but when it's more on the words and performer, there's a lot less to hide behind — so, one might conclude, other things being equal, a marginally interesting singer-songwriter is less entertaining than a marginally interesting band rocking out.
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