Though lady luck says I'm trying a little too hard with this lonely drummer character of mine, there's something endearing and compelling about him that I can't give up on. So as chronologically fucked-up as it may be, here's another installment. This is him leaving for the tour.
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My last lucid memory is of what a mess things were. The things in my apartment of course. I don’t usually like remembering things like that, or using words like “Lucid” either. But I was unprepared for our departure today. I didn’t give a shit anymore. The rancid state of my apartment didn’t help matters either. Rotting food had sat atop a pile of dishes for the past two weeks. I was beginning to get comfortable to the thought of constant “Road food” again. I hadn’t emptied an ashtray in over a month either. Preparation is key.
This tour already felt different. Rushed. I’d been smoking more lately but growing increasingly lazy at the same time. I couldn’t force anything down my stomach but olives. The only effort I’d put into my day to day life during this six week break was introducing myself to a new type of olives. (Kalamata, if any of you give a shit) I felt like asking Bassist Luke if a portable fridge was a possibility on our van this time around. But I quickly ditched that notion. Like I said, I was growing lazy.
I’d wanted to pack last night but a “Charlie’s Angel’s” marathon had me a little pre-occupied. It was all I could do to wake up this morning to begin with. I’d committed so many injustices on Farah Fawcett’s body throughout sleep that reality didn’t seem like much of an option. But a text-message from my cable company reminding me of my long-overdue bill reminded me that there was work to be done. Bills to pay. I might have been able to seduce Farah into marriage had I slept a few minutes longer.
Luckily packing didn’t cut into my standard 8 minute morning routine. Only owning 3 t-shirts will do that to a drummer. Bassist Luke didn’t like the looks of the last photo shoot and pulled the plug early on. While the photographer was way too fucked on coke for his own good and wanted us to be a band we most certainly were not, I could have used a crack at that wardrobe. Fuck knows both my credit cards have been red-flagged everywhere from Macy’s to 7-Eleven.
Red Brookswood High t-shirt? Check. Blue wool sweater, for smoke breaks? Check. Carton of Winstons, a gift from my resilient, chain-smoking landlord? Double check. I told that old bag I’d do her proud when we played her hometown of Duluth. Though I’d had three whiskey cokes by that point, if I remember correctly. I’m quite sure I was askng for an extension on the rent. I know for a fact I got one.
So this is our eighth North American tour, wrapped into a shitty old gym bag. I don’t have a goddamned clue where I got this gym bag. Sometimes I wake up not having a goddamned clue what I have to do that day. That’s only when I’m off the road of course. I drank half a litre of Kalamata olives straight from the jar and lit up a Winston. I wondered for a brief moment why I was leaving this paradise. Then I heard the cab honking one floor beneath me. The road beckons. Slammed the door on the filth I call home.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Back in a dark shade.
I realize I haven't updated this bad boy in awhile. I've been busying trying to avoid Christmas shopping and being asked to cover the ultimate bar band, AC/DC. The Vancouver Sun asked me to cover this gig just a few hours before it went down.
Rest assured after being given my reviewer ticket, it took every ounce of my conscience not to sell that ticket for 3 times its face value. (Somewhere around $300)
Anyway, here it is. Pretty surreal catching AC/DC live. I think I have to mention that this entire article was first printed in the Sun. So there you have it. I've got big balls.
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Besides a certain ever-present curse word, rarely do four letters stir up as much emotion as AC/DC.
Their music isn't just a style of hard rock; it has defined the genre for over 30 years.
They are the band that entices many to pick up a guitar for the first time and, likewise, the band that entices many hesitant men onto the dance floor for the first time.
On the heels of their recently released Black Ice, their 15th full-length album, the tour de force from Sydney, Australia, brought their powerhouse live set to GM Place Friday night.
Expectations were high pre-set, as this was something of a homecoming for AC/DC. Black Ice was recorded at the Warehouse Studios in Vancouver and there was no shortage of hype surrounding GM Place.
Young and old alike beat the rain with the kind of elation most people pray to feel on a Friday night. Opening with the impatiently catchy Rock 'N Roll Train from Black Ice, the band wasted no time bringing the sell-out crowd not only to their feet, but as tall as they could get.
If AC/DC are pioneers of hard rock, then they're also the inventors of "fist-pumping" rock and roll. And the fist-pumping faithful showed their true colours during the beat-stomping Back In Black.
By this time, the crowd had begun to drown out AC/DC. And the band's response? Rock louder.
Sixty-one-year-old lead singer Brian Johnson left little hope for the future of his vocal chords, emitting a howl that would put both Roger Daltry and Mariah Carey to shame.
And guitarist Angus Young, clad in his infamous schoolboy outfit, swarmed the stage like a caged tiger.
Looks of disbelief swept the crowd. Not just at how vicious Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap came across but how a man of 53 years could move with that kind of fervour and lack of restraint.
Now, any fan of hard rock with a discerning ear will tell you that much of AC/DC's work is similar in sound and scope.
And while creative evolution ought to be at the forefront of any artist's thrust and heft, AC/DC have bested their peers and successors with a simple formula: play the hits.
While this reviewer heard very little difference between Big Jack and Highway To Hell, I was in the minority. Around me stood music lovers who had saved their paycheques and every ounce of hope for Friday night.
With tickets going for $100 and scalpers asking 10 times that amount, why wouldn't the band play what the fans who have kept them afloat for years want to hear? As the band plowed through Thunderstruck with the tenacity of a hungry pitbull, complete with a gigantic train in the background, the rabid crowd brought forth a painfully obvious realization.
AC/DC represents a sliver within everybody that lives for a night of singing at the top of their lungs and leaving their troubles at the door.
The mass sing-along of Shoot To Thrill proved that at their very core, the music lovers at GM Place just wanted to be part of a wholly benign and faceless movement.
Though there was a noticeable lack of beer at GM Place, there was another noticeable absence at this rockfest: needless violence. It was as if their harsh harmonies brought out a joy few in the crowd knew existed. There is nothing like discovering a new emotion inside yourself and as long as there are Friday nights, there will not be another band like AC/DC.
-
Full article can be found here.
Rest assured after being given my reviewer ticket, it took every ounce of my conscience not to sell that ticket for 3 times its face value. (Somewhere around $300)
Anyway, here it is. Pretty surreal catching AC/DC live. I think I have to mention that this entire article was first printed in the Sun. So there you have it. I've got big balls.
-
Besides a certain ever-present curse word, rarely do four letters stir up as much emotion as AC/DC.
Their music isn't just a style of hard rock; it has defined the genre for over 30 years.
They are the band that entices many to pick up a guitar for the first time and, likewise, the band that entices many hesitant men onto the dance floor for the first time.
On the heels of their recently released Black Ice, their 15th full-length album, the tour de force from Sydney, Australia, brought their powerhouse live set to GM Place Friday night.
Expectations were high pre-set, as this was something of a homecoming for AC/DC. Black Ice was recorded at the Warehouse Studios in Vancouver and there was no shortage of hype surrounding GM Place.
Young and old alike beat the rain with the kind of elation most people pray to feel on a Friday night. Opening with the impatiently catchy Rock 'N Roll Train from Black Ice, the band wasted no time bringing the sell-out crowd not only to their feet, but as tall as they could get.
If AC/DC are pioneers of hard rock, then they're also the inventors of "fist-pumping" rock and roll. And the fist-pumping faithful showed their true colours during the beat-stomping Back In Black.
By this time, the crowd had begun to drown out AC/DC. And the band's response? Rock louder.
Sixty-one-year-old lead singer Brian Johnson left little hope for the future of his vocal chords, emitting a howl that would put both Roger Daltry and Mariah Carey to shame.
And guitarist Angus Young, clad in his infamous schoolboy outfit, swarmed the stage like a caged tiger.
Looks of disbelief swept the crowd. Not just at how vicious Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap came across but how a man of 53 years could move with that kind of fervour and lack of restraint.
Now, any fan of hard rock with a discerning ear will tell you that much of AC/DC's work is similar in sound and scope.
And while creative evolution ought to be at the forefront of any artist's thrust and heft, AC/DC have bested their peers and successors with a simple formula: play the hits.
While this reviewer heard very little difference between Big Jack and Highway To Hell, I was in the minority. Around me stood music lovers who had saved their paycheques and every ounce of hope for Friday night.
With tickets going for $100 and scalpers asking 10 times that amount, why wouldn't the band play what the fans who have kept them afloat for years want to hear? As the band plowed through Thunderstruck with the tenacity of a hungry pitbull, complete with a gigantic train in the background, the rabid crowd brought forth a painfully obvious realization.
AC/DC represents a sliver within everybody that lives for a night of singing at the top of their lungs and leaving their troubles at the door.
The mass sing-along of Shoot To Thrill proved that at their very core, the music lovers at GM Place just wanted to be part of a wholly benign and faceless movement.
Though there was a noticeable lack of beer at GM Place, there was another noticeable absence at this rockfest: needless violence. It was as if their harsh harmonies brought out a joy few in the crowd knew existed. There is nothing like discovering a new emotion inside yourself and as long as there are Friday nights, there will not be another band like AC/DC.
-
Full article can be found here.
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