Weird Load: American Music

NXNE – Day 3
NXNE
Toronto, ON
June 12-15th

Day three, Friday, was another one of those, late nights/hard to rise affairs and seeing as this was the real start of the whole festival (i.e. the weekend), I anticipated this evening to be another one of those rowdy affairs filled with regrets and perhaps a drink or two. Especially after the fiasco of last night and the resounding success of the very first SKUNK promoted show, it would only make sense to prepare properly for tonight and not allow expectations of SKUNK show number 2 to achieve anything remotely close to my wildest dreams. Hell, at this point, success beyond all expectations would be as simple as, oh, I don’t know, not having the place double booked? I guess that’s the secret, bomb the first night so that the ensuing evenings have nowhere to go but up. Fortunately, things ran much more smoothly, despite Mother Nature’s best attempts at playing the role of pain in the ass.

Again, after hearing of the theatrics and flare for dramatics from yesterday, I was both excited and fearful of what the workshop du jour had up its sleeve. Again though, fatigued and having a general dislike for such corporate bullshit was enough to repel me away from the Holiday Inn downtown (a multi-billion dollar industry, and all they can muster up is a shoddy, glorified motel [no offence Holiday Inn, I’ve stayed in your wonderful establishments numerous times and have been treated with nothing but respect]). As I found out later in the evening, I wasn’t the only one with the same thought process as apparently the audience was a mere fraction of the size as the day before, despite some pretty reputable industry peeps on the panel. Different shit, different day, same inability to care. All I know is that I’m doing my part to keep the bills paid, and it’s not that difficult… really.

The SKUNK show was all set to feature Sleek Louch, formerly of the mega-selling NYC troop (and former Bad Boy Records stars) Tha Lox. For those who don’t remember, Tha Lox had a good run back in the day when everything Puffy touched seem to hit platinum (remember Ma$e?). In reality, Lox had some real talent, but were unfortunately grouped into the mediocrity of the time and momentum from that whole East Coast/West Coast tiff. Sleek was one of those who could have been something much bigger, but had to settle for an underground following accompanied by 30-dollar tickets. The show was complete with about a dozen opening acts including a break-dancing competition (it was like a hip-hop amusement park!) meaning that there was no way I was going to be able to stay for even half of the show, which was too bad because I was really interested in checking out Leech and, you know, witnessing an actual SKUNK show. With a late start (ever heard of a hip-hop show starting early?), I was able to wander down to a couple of other venues first. Hell, those all-access wristbands are a godsend so it would be blasphemous not to take full advantage. First stop was down at the Bovine Sex Club where a whole evening of punk-rawk and straight-up rock n roll was set to go down. If anyone has ever had the pleasure of checking this place out, you can fully understand how joyous an occasion this was for me. A small, shithole of a venue with various undergarments hanging from the roof, some new, some with a little more “mileage”. The place can fit maybe 100, max, and came complete with a shitty sound system, a crabby bartender, and a clientele brimming with attitude. I felt right at home amongst my new friends. I fell into a drunken lust for a 3-foot midget punk with a Mohawk and, of course, no arms. The hair made her twice as tall as she really was and watching her drink her drink without the use of limbs made me naughtily wonder what other dirty tricks she’s learned to compensate for a lack of digits. I’ve never had an issue with self-confidence, but I just couldn’t muster up the courage to chat this pint-sized maiden up so I was left with erotic images of carrying her piggyback back to my place and using her like a… well I’ll try to keep this civil.

The drinks were cheap and flowing freely to help compensate for the blistering humidity outside and of course in such a small place. The sweat poured liberally down the faces of the faithful who still couldn’t bear being in public without the comfort of their patch-infested leather jackets and boots. It just wouldn’t have been complete without that musky odor of either the rush of out-of-towners, completely not knowing what to expect the moment they stepped in the joint, or the scent of a place that has been home to a history of blue-collar anarchy (Fuck you Right Guard, you fascist pigs!). Regardless, the comfort of being uncomfortable was both welcoming and uneasy. My friend, Esther and I only had time for one band and two drinks before we had to trek off to the Sleek Louch bonanza. We were fortunate enough to catch Montrealers The Nymphetes belt out about 10 straight-up old-school punk slabs, giving the crowd a nice prelude as to what was to come for the rest of their Bovine experience. I would have loved to stay to check out follow Montrealers Trigger Effect give Toronto a serious dosage of brutal Montreal metal, but I was eager for a successful SKUNK show and I would be damned if I was gonna miss it – despite the best attempts by the weather to prevent anyone from going anywhere, so by 9:30, we were outta the Bovine, and into the car, on our way to the Phoenix.

And then the rain started.

The old saying “raining cats and dogs” doesn’t do justice to the severity of the downpour. Hell, even raining amputee midgets wouldn’t be a fair assessment. It was a fog-like shower that prevented vision beyond 2 arm-lengths in front. This was the kind of rain built up from an ungodly amount of humidity in the air over the last couple of days that you knew would inevitably lead to this kind of flooding. Lighting flashed through the sky while the booming thunder rang louder than any band I had seen so far that week. This was the kind of storm you wish to witness in the warm confines of your home, with your sweetie using you for protection. This certainly wasn’t the kind of storm you wanted to be stuck in traveling from place to place. No siree.

If there was any silver lining, it was the fact that the Phoenix was in a run-down part of town, so to speak, so parking wasn’t that much of an issue. There was no driving around for a spot or parking 2 suburbs over and walking the remaining 4 miles. We were there, in front, with no sign of the rain letting up.

The phoenix is a nice little venue that looks half like some 18th century European theatre, half like my old high-school gym/assembly hall. This was all quite ironic considering the crowd was just as diverse. A number of old-timers (as in my age) melded with a bunch of youngsters not old enough to buy the 40s needed to tip their cups for their homies. Most were still in Kindergarten or less when the West Coast/East Coast war was at its pinnacle, an even greater tribute to Sleek for that reason alone. Altogether the crowd must have topped off around 300-350 – a good showing considering the plethora of other happenings throughout Toronto, not to mention the brutal, brutal weather. That probably kept a good number of “on-the-fencers” from making the commitment.

It was clear that we weren’t going to get an opportunity to check out any of the “main eventers” of the evening before having to check out, but we were lucky enough to check out my boy Alex Dimez do his thang on the mic, to get the crowd warmed up. Alex is both a rapper but also one of Brent’s loyal co-workers. By the time the break-dancing event started (complete with surprise guest Statik Selektah, being clearly ignored by the break-dancing gawkers), the clock was ticking dangerously close to 11:00. We needed to be gone from there no later than 11:45 to reach our next destination at the right time, and with this contest clearly en-route for longer than an hour, it was suffice to say we wouldn’t get to check out anymore Hip-hop for the evening. All in all though, I can’t really complain about how the show turned out, capacity-wise, especially after last night’s disaster. Hey, one of out two ain’t bad. In baseball, I would be in the hall of fame with that kinda average!

From the Phoenix, it was time to make our way to the familiar confines of the El Mocambo, where I knew there would be a gaggle of acquaintances lingering aound, anticipating the joyous rock-nature of the legendary Brant Bjork. For those unfamiliar, look out for my upcoming story on the former Kyuss beat-keeper in the 4.6 issue of SKUNK (on newsstands, oh sometime in September or October). As much as I like the rap the kids keep talking about these days, I had an itch to scratch this night that only balls to the wall, rock n roll would be able to satisfy. El Mocambo is another one of those venues that doubles for a sauna on evenings like this, despite the presence of an oversized fan located right next to the stage (turning it on probably would have helped, but its mere presence was enough to give people the impression that a nice breeze was just a circuit-breaker away). The place, as expected, was jam-packed. On the bright side, it wasn’t nearly as packed as one would have expected by seeing the animal-house ludicrousness outside. Fortunately, this was the result of a late-night performance by the “great” (hence the sarcasm) Bedouin Soundclash, who were to play in the upstairs area. The place was still a crowded mess in the downstairs area for Bjork, but the downstairs area was meant for larger crowds so the accommodations were much more acceptable. Brant and the boys were in fine form this night, proving to the world that stoner rock does not start and stop with Queens of the Stone Age. Brant has managed to carve out quite a cool niche for himself and his appreciation for his few faithful followers is evident. He played for a solid hour, breaking out a bunch of new tunes from his new album “Punk Rock Guilt”, before turning the evening over to a bunch of bar-band sounding hopefuls who didn’t have much of a chance to leave an impression on me once the liquor started flowing and the familiar associates began to come out of the woods. Sadly, it was my copious booze consumption that prompted me to have a good 5-minute conversation with someone who I thought was someone else. The confusion on his face was priceless, but not pride-dissolving enough for me to run away, abashed over my inability to remember faces.

Before long, the floor, along with a good area of my clothes, was covered with the sweet stickiness of one exotic drink after another (at least I hope that’s what it was). Friends and acquaintances poured in, stories and legends were made. One such colleague left with a woman only to call an hour later in a panic, not realizing that the girl had wanted to sleep with him. No one ever said stupidity wasn’t in abundance at these kinds of festivals. The evening was a scattering of drunks and suck-ups, moochers and flaunters, jocks scrounging up wads of money because hey bought rounds of drinks only to be caught with empty pockets and nowhere to turn. The music became little more than sound-filler for those awkward introductions to people I had no interest in speaking to (yes, I can be that obnoxious considering the circumstances, but at least I’m not rude about it!). I never even realized it when the bands stopped playing and the place emptied out as I was by now so oblivious to anything that wasn’t in my immediate peripheral vision.

By the time I left at 3, I realized that I was fast removing myself from the real reason I came to Toronto – to listen to music. I‘ve been all over and back, yet have actually heard very little music. I vowed to prioritize for the last night in town and soak in what music I wanted to hear. Fuck all those who wanted me to go here or there. I knew what I wanted to see and I was gonna be damned if I didn’t get the opportunity to appease my ears with sweet, blissful, indie rock.