Death of The Cool (Or, Why it’s becoming more likely to spot Caribous on the trans-Canada highway and less likely to spot a dude with a guitar)

Could this dude really fuck Neil Young up?

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With Caribou’s tripped and looped-out foray into psychedelic dance entitled “Andorra” taking the third annual Polaris Prize for the best full-length Canadian album of the year, you might assume that there’s a hint of “Canadian-ness” within “Andorra.” This is a fair assumption only because along with the Aussies, Canadian music fans (And the majority of the jury on the Polaris Prize panel are indeed Canadian) wear their hearts on their sleeves. Though they are often even reluctant to do so, for that’d cover their bitchin’ maple leaf tattoos they winced through after first making love in a canoe.

The Canadian music scene as a whole (A big whole, mind you) is in a funny position. The “Local” scene in cities like Toronto and Vancouver has become a tad irrelevant. Touring throughout Canada is such a grand gesture and a feat of rock and roll itself that if the brakes don’t falter and the van actually makes it across the country, you’ll probably be welcomed at the same size of a club as you would in your home town. Canadian hospitality? Maybe. Perpetually having our backs up against the wall and bearing a chip on our shoulder in the shape of some stars and stripes? Maybe even more.

It’s more than likely that the idea behind the Polaris Prize wasn’t to celebrate Canadiana. After all, it’s rather difficult to find Neil Young, or any town in North Ontario in “Andorra.” The album is thick with hyper-meditation; it beats the head-nodding rhythms of the Beta Band into submission with a presence that sneaks up on you and grabs you by the sub-cockles all at once. “Andorra” actually makes psychedelic sound “Subtle” (Or subtle enough to have influenced Sgt. Peppers, had it been released 42 years earlier. Ha!) that it’s best listened to at half-volume with the stars of a clear night cranked as loud as they can get. (There might be some Northern Ontario in “Andorra” after all)

So is the idea behind Polaris to separate the Canada from the great emerging Canadian pop artists? Is that why The Weakerthans didn’t get the nod? Are tunes like “Elegy For Gump Worsley,” the sluggish, overweight eccentric of a goalie from my father’s time just not cool enough? Does being a valid Canadian indie artist in 2008 mean letting old-school influences fall by the wayside?

There’s nothing inherently Canadian about “Andorra” which might not bother too many people. But I fail to believe the mission statement listed on the Polaris website: “The operation of a not-for-profit organization that annually honours, celebrates and rewards creativity and diversity in Canadian recorded music by recognizing, then marketing the albums of the highest artistic integrity, without regard to musical genre, professional affiliation, or sales history, as judged by a panel of selected critics and experts.”

To me, that translates roughly into “Let’s celebrate Canadian artists by separating them from the rest of the indie music world. And therefore, let’s separate Canadian music from everything else. Let’s give it a pedestal. And somewhere down the line, let’s celebrate Canada.” And there, at the end of that line, with a Moosehead in tow is where you’ll find me, begging for the honest aesthetics that real Canadian music has to offer. The Polaris Prize can only scratch the surface on a good day.

That’s the womb that Canadian music was earthed from; the idea that barely scratching the surface is all anyone can do in this vast land. While it seems to be a rite of passage for many indie bands to play the Canmore Hotel in Canmore, Alberta or the Black Sheep Inn in Wakefield, Quebec, most of the artists that roll through these venues would likely agree they couldn’t possibly know much about Canmore or Wakefield. But the scrape or the “Dig” itself is reason enough to keep going.

Real, soulful Canadian music ought to be full of the same grit that the vans travel over, going as Ronnie Hawkins once famously dubbed it “Ten times as far to make it a tenth of the way.” Sure, being an independent musician in Canada is not easy. It probably never was. Maybe I’m just a purist, or a hoser. (Is that term still cool? Was it ever?) But as the Polaris Prize attempts to celebrate Canadian music, they ought to recognize that not every Canadian music fan thinks band that sound remotely like the Arcade Fire are walking deities. Some don’t even think they’re all that good.

Some Canadian music fans know that the only way to beat a tough industry is to sound tough. This isn’t meant to mythologize the gritty, countryesque-rock that small town radio stations purvey with a heightened frequency, although Tom Cochrane is and will be cool as shit. It’s meant to remind all the fans of the Polaris Prize that if you dig deep enough, you might be able to connect the dots between Young Neil and Caribou, from Dundas, Ontario. And if you do manage to do so, then you’ll realize there’s still bands out there (Likely spending the night trying to fix the brakes in the goddamned van!) that aren’t trying to emulate Neil per se, but are just influenced enough by Canada’s honest aesthetic that it bleeds through in their tunes. Hosers of the world, unite and take over. And don’t feel so helpless, helpless, helpless. (Oh, I had to)

Constantines released “Kensington Heights,” their debut for Arts and Crafts in 2007 and though it was placed on the 40-album long list, it was overlooked for the shortlist. The album itself sounds like a tattered old hunter’s jacket. Though the album is a bold and mature step for the band but it still hints at the fact that there is much more to find. Songs like “Trans-Canada” sound desperate but at the same time, full of hope. In fact, albums like “Asking For Flowers” by Kathleen Edwards and “Reunion Tour” by The Weakerthans all bear a certain resilience and belief and are damn good too. But they all walk the fine line of being featured on Pitchfork and Country Music Television.

I had the chance to interview Caribou via email back in March. While he seemed like a cool enough dude, (And blessed with foresight) I wondered if the grit that put Canada on the map musically was evident in any of his tunes. With the Polaris Prize seemingly ignoring rock and roll for the third year (Remember, the thing’s only as old as...Post-NHL lock out flashbacks???) I’m beginning to wonder if the prize isn’t just free of genres but free of historical recognition. Clearly, the Prize is working hard to break free from the idea that Neil Young is still relevant to Canadian music.

In 2006, the inaugural Polaris Prize was awarded to Final Fantasy before (Apparently) trying to avert a sophomore slump by awarding the prize to Patrick Wilson’s ambient “Close To Paradise.” It’s possible that the Polaris Prize is trying to create a new aesthetic in Canadian independent music. Albums that in scope stretch as far as the country itself, though void of the standard drunken blue-collar tales of loss and redemption. (I’ve just reviewed every Matt Mays album to be released in the next six years. Just there. Just did it.) But what separates Canada from the horde is not only an appreciation for diversity but an appreciation of the past.

Is this the death of rock and roll as a “Cool” sound in Canada? Seeing as how the selected members of the jury are the who’s who of cool in Canadian music, one might think so. If this is the case, I fear first for places like the Canmore Hotel which has long housed every Canadian touring band worth its salt. This paradigm shift has implications as big as the country itself; quiet, husky rock songs to whisper along too will be replaced by tripped out jams on long drives home during the Monday of a long weekend. The amount of pot smoked on long weekends in Canada will inevitably stay the same, I’m sure.

Furthermore, I fear for this new aesthetic. Hear me out, my tripped out brothers and sisters. Prime Minister Stephen Harper has come under fire as of late for axing the $4.7-million “PromArt” program, which gives Canadian artists grants to go abroad and promote Canadian culture. In cutting the program, the Harper government stated that the recipients were "not exactly the foot that most Canadians would want to see put forward" and because "the money was going to fringe arts groups that, in many cases, would be at best, unrepresentative, and at worst, offensive."

Now, it’s out in the open that the Harper government was referring to Toronto-based math rock outfit Holy Fuck with that “Offensive” comment. But what’s really telling about that statement is the fact that groups like Holy Fuck (Who were nominated themselves for the Polaris Prize this year) are now considered to be the type of act that most Canadians feel ashamed of, according to the Harper government. So now we know Harper isn’t a math rock fan. Shock and awe are ringing through my ears.

In the wake of Harper’s decision, the jury for the Polaris Prize could have taken a bold step and given Holy Fuck’s “LP” the prize. But subtlety was the order of the day, instead opting for “Andorra.” Dan Snaith, the man behind the Caribou moniker doesn’t even reside in Canada. Awarding him the Polaris Prize is just as weighty a statement as Harper’s and it won’t be long before those in the Harper government (Who are sure to win the next election, majority or not) continue to cut funding for Canadian artists.

Awarding the Polaris Prize to grit-rockers Constantines “Kensington Heights” for example wouldn’t have necessarily solved everything, but it gets extremely difficult to compare artists when they’re simply not working under the same aesthetic. Or why even award the prize altogether? Holy Fuck claims that they only juiced the PromArt program for $3000. Haggling a few extra thousand out of Rogers, the main sponsor of the Polaris Prize couldn’t be too difficult. Splitting the $20,000 a few ways seems a lot more “Canadian” and would be yet another timely middle-finger to Harper’s government. Let them recognize and fund the new Guess Who’s of Canada. And let private interest fund the new, well, let’s call it the new maybe.

I’m all for evolution, but there’s something about Canadian rock and roll which doesn’t sound like it has the capacity to adapt. Simply put, this curmudgeonly ol’ bastard of a genre doesn’t have to. If there’s anything rock and roll in Canada doesn’t want to do, it’s compete. To personify it, I’m sure they wouldn’t care about competing either way as long as there’s a place to crash at the end of the night.

But $20,000 can buy a fair amount of plush hotel rooms that would make touring a little easier. What $20,000 can’t always buy is a sense of respect at the Canmore Hotel or the Black Sheep Inn. It can’t buy a legacy either. And if gritty rock and roll doesn’t start getting the respect it deserves in indie circles soon enough, I doubt it’ll be able to buy enough gas to get back to Northern Ontario. Not so cool at all.

Kings Of Leon-"Only By The Night"

Two of my best friends are named Adam. Growing up, one was reserved yet mysterious and had every girl he knew at his whim. The other lived and died by his classic rock and had no time for trends or ironically enough, growing old. Both of them have a serious distaste for the Kings of Leon. Yet these two remind me of the Kings in some twisted, symbolic manner. As these two struggle with getting old and the realized monotony of the lives they’ve created for themselves, I find it remarkably easy to liken these two to “Only By The Night,” the fourth full-length release from the Tennessean once-rockers. It’s easy to drop the same confession for “Only By The Night” as I would when referring to those friends; I wonder where it all went wrong.

Reviews of the leaked record pegged it as a “Slow burner” and “Mellowed out.” Phrases like that when referring to the Kings roughly translate into “The shit sucks. I’m really searching to say something halfway positive about the record, because I don’t wanna be the one dude who doesn’t dig on the Kings.” If “OBTN” teaches us anything, it’s that honesty really isn’t easy on the ears.

2007’s “Because of The Times” broke new ground for the band. They expanded their sound without falling victim to slow or mellowed tunes. Even the seven minute opener “On Call” sounded as urgent as an approaching freight train. But in comparison to the ninth track “I Want You,” (Which might as well be a Sugar Ray B-side) the song sounds like a Concord breaking the sound barrier. It’s just that boring.

“I Want You” as a track sums up the album quite well. The entire band sounds as if they’re just turning up and in a sense, holding back on their potential. Each of the Followills wait dutifully to be counted in. And when they do, it’s clear they’re just as bored as the listener. The solo is lifted from any number of Death Cab For Cutie tunes and the repetitive cowbell is a disgrace to any instrument, anywhere.

It’s also been said that “Hardcore” Kings of Leon fans will take awhile to warm to the album. Calling this an understatement would be like calling the album’s opener “Crawl” mysterious and brooding. When The Matrix deteriorates into a weekly program on the Space Network, the wanna-be trip-rock of “Closer” will serve as the opening theme without a hint of irony.

Is this the sound of the true Kings? Have they been fooling us all along?

“What a night for a dance/You know I’m a dancing machine” howls lead singer Caleb Followill in “Revelry.” Prove it Caleb. Do something shocking. If you’ve got the dance in you, why are you writing songs that make me want to take a nap on the bus, with guitars that croon? In searching for a new sound, the band sounds bland, unoriginal and in a sense, afraid. Afraid of being pigeonholed as dirty rockers? Maybe. Afraid of denying their true sound, a washed up ode to the women who’ve stuck by you while the rest of them have seen through your shtick? Likely so.

“17” doesn’t contain any of the personal angst a dude might encounter when considering fornicating with a youngster. Instead, Followill sounds whiny atop obvious guitars and chiming bells (Misuse of a possible cowbell again? Has the cowbell has become uncool? Not bloody likely) that on a good day, might even annoy a 17 year old.

What makes the Kings Of Leon a remarkable band is their ability to make you drum the shit out of the space in front of you with outright elation and never really be sure what you’re drumming along to or why you’re doing it.

There are moments of mystery on “OBTN” such as the swagger of “Manhattan” when the guitars linger for long enough in the background that they begin to blaze their own trail. You get the sneaking suspicion that Caleb Followill might have actually crept through some alleys himself instead of fawning over his good fortunes.

“OBTN” leads me to wonder if this is the sound of growing up and growing old? Is this the sound of the death of contemporary raunchy rock and roll once and for all? Is adult contemporary really the best chaser to a whiskey sour? This album would have you believe so.

The Kings sound like they’ve fallen over that fine line they always swaggered on; a shitty band full of old boys playing casinos, trying to get a piece of ass that followed them “back in the day.” For the Kings Of Leon “The day” was only 3 years ago. “Cool” sounded like “Slow Night, So Long” (2005’s “Aha Shake Heartbreak”) and “Revelry” sounds like Brian Wilson waking up from a bunch of cocktails served by a 90-year old John Fogerty. From here on in, they’re doomed to suffer from the worst fate in rock and roll discussion; “They’re alright I guess. The older stuff is way better.”

Admittedly, it’s Caleb Followill’s lyrics which drag “OBTN” down. They’ve become less of a night viewed through a haze of dope and whiskey and more of a morning void of regret. This is ironic and disappointing all at once, considering the band claims they consumed more alcohol during the recording of “OBTN” than any other record. Sadly, we just don’t believe you anymore.

But what is equally disappointing is how blatantly his bandmates have followed his lead. His sappy lyrics throughout the album prove fodder enough for the album’s closer, “Cold Desert”

“Jesus don’t love me/No one ever carried my load.”

If this is the record that is supposed to finally break Kings Of Leon into America and turn them into the next arena band a la U2, they’ll have no trouble doing so with lyrics like that. And true to form, the Followills are playing down to their ultimately estranged brother/cousin much like the rest of U2 does to Bono.

The whole sound of “OBTN” reeks of a montage on a prime-time hospital drama. It may seem like the most important thing in the world while it’s happening, but nothing is in fact happening at all. There’s the sound of someone striving for something grand, though it’s something we could have all had long ago. It’s the same reason I don’t really want to listen to both Adams long for the days gone by. Simply put, we just don’t want it anymore.

Plumbers and Integrity.

Schmoozing.And boozing.

And never the two shall meet.

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Or, "Why Conor Oberst and Eddie Vedder Should Never Be Introduced To Barack Obama"

A plumber in small-town America probably doesn’t give a shit about artistic integrity. If there’s a meals to be eaten, it’s likely he doesn’t give a shit how it was prepared. And if his children are safe at the end of another long day, there isn’t a real concern about who’s at the top of the political food chain. Whoever reigns supreme may have had a hand in keeping those children safe but odds are the plumber will have to dig deep to find something in common with his fearless leader. And artistic integrity certainly won’t help matters.

Yet somehow, a few months before the entire western world (Or everyone with a high-speed internet connection and a propensity to download music, regardless of their geographical proximity to Washington) will make proverbial love to either John McCain or Barack Obama, artistic integrity seems to matter. People are not so concerned with right or wrong, or right or left. Those with an affinity for popular culture are becoming concerned about where their favourite artist stands on the election. This isn’t a rarity in the slightest; it’s just overwhelmingly important in 2008. “Hope for Change” isn’t just an idea anymore. That idea has evolved into a polarizing force. Artists like Conor Oberst, the Decemberists and Eddie Vedder aren’t a reason to rush to your local record store on new release Tuesdays; they’ve become a reason to run head-first towards a polling station this coming November.

Now of course, there’s nothing wrong with an artist making you want to get off your ass and do something radical anytime of the year. Yet there might be something hazardous about ol’ Eddie making you want to dash to said polling station sometime around dinner in November.

It’s inevitable that all art lends itself to politics in some form. But the idea of an artist lending itself to a politician in a transparent and obvious form is where the honey gets real sticky. More importantly, when that happens, indie kids everywhere ought not to lend themselves to that politician as well but ditch their headphones and actually listen to (And realize) what’s happening.

Bob Dylan might have been the most overtly influential political singer-songwriter, ever. (I should stress, he MIGHT have been) But it’s also impossible to associate and assimilate Bob with any politician of past or present. Artists make a drastic mistake in campaigning for Barack Obama. (As so many musicians with indie cred have or will soon do) The fundamentals of democracy and politics should not be overlooked, regardless how high a rating your last record scored on Pitchfork. Don’t tour in support of Barack Obama (Or anyone for that matter) and associate yourself and your fans with that vote; real artistic integrity means questioning politicians and making them work for you by earning your vote.

I am nowhere near eligible to vote in the upcoming presidential election. But I was blown away earlier this year in New York City upon hearing Eddie Vedder voice muffled support for Barack Obama. I’m sure many Pearl Jam fans were. (Not for getting political in New York City of all places but for backing a politician as likeable and popular as Obama) Naturally, as an impressionable Pearl Jam fan (And one at the will of months of built-up adrenaline, waiting for the gig) I became engrossed with the creation of Obama’s myth while not totally lending an ear to his politics.

Soon enough, I became aware of a slew of like-minded, left-leaning artists with oceans of indie cred between them who have bought a first-class ticket on the Obama train. Again, this isn’t out of place or uncommon in the slightest. But it’s fair to have an ocean of wonder as to where these artists will stand if Obama fucks up on the job. (Dude’s already admitted to smoking dope, after all)

It’s more than fair for an artist to campaign for a change in the politics which dictate how she or he lives. Or is it? Would it actually be that beneficial for Eddie Vedder if Obama was elected President? Though every band this side of Amsterdam jumping on the “We hate ol’ Georgie boy” bandwagon certainly seems like a bit of a trend, at least it’s polarizing and at least there’s a muse that forces them to sing about something meaningful. It pains me to think about the rise of the collective egos of these leftist artists if Obama is elected. God knows how many terrible noise-rock records could be released in the wake of Obama’s inauguration.

When Conor Oberst of Bright Eyes fame releases songs like “When The President Talks To God,” it’s obvious he’s damn pissed. And when Eddie snarls on “World Wide Suicide” it’s blatant that he shares Conor’s fervour. But what about when Canadian lyrical hero Gordon Downie snarled about “Things to kill and eat” on “Gus: The Polar Bear From Central Park?” That one didn’t bat too many listeners over the head as a protest song on first listen. Yet it’s just as poignant if not more poignant, simply because of that reason: it doesn’t bat you over the head. The listener must strive to realize the metaphor. Then and only then is the realization that much more gratifying. And if we’ve learned anything about the indie kids that artists like Oberst and the Decemberists are trying to reach, it’s that they don’t eat things served to them on an obvious silver platter. But many of these kids are going to be voting for the first time in November and already the artists they look upto are serving them their choice on something similar to a silver fucking platter.

Art is inherently political, regardless of the creator or the message. Leave the academic assumptions aside, because when the message is steeped in obvious rhetoric it becomes the stuff of laughable protest. (Re: Green Day leading off “Rock Against Bush, Volume Two” with a tune called “Favourite Son”) Put two protest songs together and the more subversive number is the one that usually grows a legacy. Or at the very least it becomes a more effective vehicle for political change. When the Decemberists play a show solely in support of Barack Obama, it’s more than easy to see through (And lose a little faith in) their obtuse lyrics that tell a translucent story.

Politics being that proverbial white elephant in rock and roll’s bedroom, it was genuinely surprising to hear Ed mention Obama in New York City. When the remaining four members of Pearl Jam released a marginally lame knockoff of the Bill Haley and The Comets tune entitled “Rock round Barack,” Vedder held out. What does it take for a politician to gain the support of a rock and roll band? What exactly is Obama telling them that he hasn’t told the general public? I’m all for secrecy and illusion in rock and roll, but when you mix politics into any drink, it better turn out to be a transparent one. “Hope for change” would be an insulting tagline for a rock writer to attach to a new record review; why would a band want to attach themselves to a moniker as simple as that?

The possibilities of art and politics in a mixed drink get me thirsty. But only when the idea of artists getting behind issues is raised. I wonder about the size of Colin Meloy’s (Or any artist’s) ego (Lead singer of the Decemberists) when he decides to bypass issues that are locally relevant to him and his band and throw all his philanthropic weight behind ol’ Obama. (I found no charity links on Conor’s site or the Decemeberists. And it’s 2008 dudes. If it’s easy enough for me to check it out, it should be easy enough for you to post a few links as well)

Bands with just as much indie pull as Conor and the Decemberists throw their support behind issues and keep their artistic integrity in tact. It’s easy to laugh at Elton John because he threw his support behind a loser (And a drama queen) though the joke would still be funny regardless of who gained the Democratic nomination. If indie rock is as humble as it was once meant to be (Re: college radio, the only medium for indie rock besides your fingertips and headphones) then Colin’s efforts might be best served with an organization like “Yellow Bird Project,” a non-profit organization that asks bands to design obscure and unique t-shirts made for indie rock fans. All the profits go to the charity of the band’s choice. There, The Shins back The Nature Conservatory and Wolfmother throw their support behind The Teenage Cancer Trust. Advocacy, helping folks who don’t get millions of dollars of support a month and fuckin’ swag, all mixed into one easily accessible drink. Sounds like what indie rock ought to sound like, yeah?

All that being said, I don’t know Colin Meloy personally, nor do I know much about the size of his ego or the size of his t-shirt. But by publicly backing Obama, he won’t achieve much. Art cannot and should not save the world, but the interpretation can and should. Bob Dylan didn’t really lend a finger to civil rights. He just sang folk songs. (Which sounds like a gross understatement, but history and Martin Scorcese have a way of hyping the inevitable) But the way in which hippies interpreted his obtuse lyrics gave a voice to a generation. It wasn’t Bob and his guitar that helped get Obama on the ticket, but those who listened and voiced their opinion. How would history remember Bob Dylan had he staunchly backed JFK?

It wasn’t just Bob that helped bring civil rights to the forefront. It wasn’t just Reagan that brought down the Berlin Wall. It wasn’t only Leon Trotsky that brought Communism to Russia either, despite how cool his name was. Likewise, Barack Obama won’t end the war in Iraq alone. One person wasn’t responsible for social change, many were at the grassroots level. This is a glaring omission in Colin Meloy’s social justice resume.

I’ve just thrown “Chimes of Freedom” on, auspiciously of course. Naturally, everyone has a right to voice whatever they’d like to, regardless of social stature. (Or how much play you get in Rolling Stone) But it occurs to me how much louder I’d sing along if Conor and Colin were beside me in the crowd at an Obama rally instead of singing at me from what can be considered nothing less than a pulpit. Stop worrying about what happens when the President talks to God and start considering the plumber you may have ended up like had you not listened to a Dylan record all those years ago.

Update: Here I was thinking Jim James was a cut above. Even though their latest record sucked, I still had hopes for the future. I may have spoke too soon.

Of Montreal and Piano Magic, Babylon, Istanbul, sometime in December '07

Kevin Barnes doing his best...fuck, I don't think this was an impersonation of anything.

This piece (Can I actually call it that?) was supposed to be included in Time Out's "Sex" issue in March '08, or sometime around then. My flamboyant editor decided it wasn't sexy enough, or it didn't dig deep enough, or something. A new editor took over in May, took one look at the piece and told me she'd be on the phone with Rolling Stone Turkey, or at the very least, it'd find it's way into the next issue. It never saw the light of published day. Fucking chumps. I was actually proud of it, which is roughly translated into "I spent more than just half an hour working on it."

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Glen Johnson can’t look the crowd in the eyes. He keeps his eyes to the roof, pacing back and forth as if the secret to his brooding rock is wedged up there. Some might call it a rock and roll quirk, but I think he’s hiding something.

Regardless, Johnson and his band mates in Piano Magic worked a trance on the crowd with the sprawling opener, “You Can Hear The Room” from their 2005 effort “Disaffected.” The band’s return to Istanbul was a slightly sedated affair that began inauspiciously, as many long term relationships do.

Early in the set it was obvious the band lacked the necessary charm to win us over on appearance alone. (An obvious contradiction to the aesthetically rich city they were throwing it down in) That didn’t seem to matter to the crowd at the Babylon; the dedicated sang along as if choir auditions were in session. What Piano Magic lacked in shameless charm they made up for with an onslaught of sound. As the tunes swelled a piercing light would appear from the center of the kick drum, becoming inescapable. You were left standing beside yourself, feeling white hot with no trace of pretense.

The whole thing was so damn comfortable. But like everyone in Istanbul, I had something on my mind besides what was front of me. And I’ve been tempted on more than one occasion to mention their name. I know I shouldn’t be ashamed; it’s hardly likely that you have never given heed to temptation as well.

Of Montreal debuted in Istanbul just days before Piano Magic did, creating a dichotomy of guitar and keyboards. Each band rendered the tiny Babylon gasping for air.

It seems fitting to introduce Of Montreal, a poppy, eclectic five piece from Athens, Georgia as “Her”; their set was a “How to” in seducing the crowd. Everyone was getting off. Loud shrieks brought inevitable conclusions. It was a night of sweat and dance, but it was only temporary. But for that moment when everything seems permanent, it doesn’t matter. It was as if the crowd could have fucked Of Montreal for just one night and walked away from them. And though it lacked any sex, Piano Magic was as comfortable as a long-term relationship might be.

Foreign bands gigging in Istanbul remains a bit of a rarity. But wo bands gigging within four days and eliciting such varied responses is even more of a rarity.

When European cult icons Piano Magic returned to Istanbul for the second time within 6 months, the sound reminded me of the crowds I’d hear during radio broadcasts I’d listen to in my youth, often with the lights out for a bit of effect. So did marriage live up to expectations, in a sense? Sure, at times. There were points mid song when my bouts with transcendence were interrupted by spilled beer and any other hazards you might expect at a European rock show. Love will never be perfect.

And what’s a long term relationship without a serious lack of foreplay, or branching out on the sexual tree in any means? Most Piano Magic records sound like muffled optimism, and I wondered what a good headspace for making a Piano Magic record was. Johnson told me that “It’s usually a fast recording process. I find making records very boring.”

At least they were saving their good stuff. Is foreplay useless?

Anyway, to avoid a messy scene I ought to ward off confusion. Of Montreal are the type of band that leaves “Holier than thou” indie kids dripping wet. Spearheaded by Kevin Barnes, a master of hooks, the band’s latest record “Oh Hissing Fauna, Are You The Destroyer”, a dance rock and synth-laden pop fusion made nearly every “Best Of 2007” list. Their live shows have been renowned for their sheer visual delights. Their gigs remind you of a dream you’d keep to yourself.

My interview with Of Montreal had been set up rather smoothly. But already, I’d fallen for the bait. Believing that a long-term relationship can be fostered without knowing that much about your one night stand isn’t love at first sight; it’s just be blindsided. But sure enough, I was smitten. And it was effective; I was using words like “Smitten” to describe how I felt.

But Of Montreal have had that effect on indie music. What began with a failed relationship with a woman from Montreal, Barnes has become a poster child for DIY indie pop, walking that fine line between love and hate for the indie kids.

While he continued to release his own brand of uncompromising synth-pop, gaining critical acclaim with the insanely catchy 2005 record “The Sunlandic Twins,” he’s also managed to rattle the feathers of the same hipsters which brought him fame. He’s allowed his tunes to serve as soundtracks to television commercials for major American corporations, which forced him to label anyone who contributes to western society as a “Sell-out.”

I agreed with him. Damn that confidence. Of Montreal’s latest effort “Oh Hissing Fauna, Are You The Destroyer?” wreaks of urgency. There are suicidal undertones throughout the entire record. Though Barnes was going a rough patch while recording of “Hissing Fauna,” he told me that the way the record sounds “Just sort of happened.” I don’t know how anyone wouldn’t want to spend the night with someone who downplays his own misery with that kind of blasé-like charm.

The interviews themselves were incredibly telling. Kevin Barnes was four hours late and had it not been for some dogged determination on my part, the whole thing wouldn’t have happened. But he gave me his time and then moved on. How poignant; the death of romance and the death of “What could have been.” Sort of sums up many attempts at a one-night stand in this city, yeah?

Johnson and Piano Magic however were waiting for me backstage before their Babylon gig with beer on ice. If your lover keeps the light on for you at the end of the night, you’ll be thankful.

But onto the gigs.

Of Montreal looked jubilant and dived into “Disconnect The Dots” winning the crowd over on first glance. We saw them from across a crowded room, admiring their fashion sense. It was flashy, frenzied and left the crowd twitching. The first few tunes blended into each other and the entire crowd blended into one mass. We couldn’t help but dance.

Once again substance was sacrificed for beauty. I’d asked Barnes how he transformed Of Montreal’s complicated songs into their live set. In having an extravagant live show, were any of the personal tunes lost amidst the frenzy of their live show? “Yeah, definitely,” he confessed. “While a record is certainly more personal, I think during every live set I’m sort of praying for intervention. You know, everyone’s dancing and you’re just looking for something to happen.”

As a pawn in their glam-rock game, I felt sexy though obsolete. Their set was varied enough, drawing hits and rarities from each of their eight records. I don’t doubt that this was Barnes’ decision; before the show each member from Of Montreal I spoke to referred to Barnes as the brainchild of the band. At least he’s charismatic; whenever he dropped his guitar he made time with that old adage and danced as if no one was watching. Like it or not, all eyes were fixated on Barnes throughout the entire performance.

And he reveled in the attention. The stage is a great home for Barnes. Through the high-energy first set he didn’t offer much in the way of pleasantries to the crowd but he did acknowledge how much fun he was having. “Thank you for letting me be myself, Istanbul.” Though they were rough around the edges and lacked the cohesiveness you’d show your parents, they certainly were confident. And though the sheer amount of make-up on stage gave the show a palpable androgyny, there was confidence. Pop culture dictates that women dig confidence; the looks on the crowd meant that Barnes’ confidence was easy to grasp and feed off of.

During a stop in Las Vegas earlier in their tour, Barnes appeared naked onstage. Whether that kind of exhibitionism would have worked at Babylon is besides the point; there was still a certain “Campy, cabaret” feeling to their live show, as Barnes dubbed it. “I’m drawn to pop music. Anything that is musically buoyant is good for me.” As buoyant as pop music is, it won’t keep your head above the skin of the Sea of Marmara for long; pop music might not be art only because the attraction is temporary at best.

And that’s what Of Montreal felt like on the December 15 at Babylon; fireworks exploding in the sky. The visual and auditory trip only lasted as long as the attention of a seemingly sober crowd allowed it to. Though they were brilliant, it couldn’t last. Barnes described an Of Montreal live show as an intervention. I wondered, was it little more than temporary insanity? And likewise, is a one night stand anything more than that?

Whereas Of Montreal begged the crowd to dance, Piano Magic seemed comfortable with requisite head-nodding. It was a different kind of energy. One thing was sure: Piano Magic’s drawn out harmonies could have lasted another hour while still keeping the crowd’s attention. Though lacking any and all sex in their performance Piano Magic was exactly the type of band to bring home to your parents. And though Of Montreal were a sexed up bunch that wrote tunes suitable for temporary escape, it was easy to become annoyed.

It could be the subtlety of Piano Magic which attracts fans in the first place, but it was their care-free attitude which made me realize this was a partnership to endure for the long haul. It wasn’t as if seeing through Of Montreal’s charm relegated Piano Magic to a back-up or anything. It was a search for something permanent in a constantly evolving city.

Despite releasing nine full length records Piano Magic has never toured outside of Europe. They remain a cult band. I asked Johnson if there was any part of him that wants a hit record?

“Well, it’s certainly not something that keeps me awake at night. I’m proud of a lot of our music. I’m sure all the extra drugs and stuff would be nice, but I’m not about to do anything different as a musician to achieve mainstream success.”

Mainstream success might have eluded Piano Magic in the past because of the nature of the band itself. For years there was nothing about a new Piano Magic record that resembled the last, besides the band’s primary influences like The Cure. Johnson told me that their “English” sound is merely subconscious.

It all made perfect sense. For years the music of Piano Magic was labeled as “Too weird” or even “Too European.” But as the band powered through their set, instruments became a well-oiled machine. Simple songs like “I Must Leave London” left the emotional impact there for the taking. Relationships take time to develop and nurture; while the sex might be boring, the opportunities to grow as a person within a relationship are rampant. Besides, everyone reaches that point when they realize being in a comfortable relationship is as cool as being a traipsing bachelor or bachelorette once was.

So let’s reluctantly face facts. It’s a question of morals as it can be for any music fan (Or anyone for that matter) who leaves their priorities at the door when they enter a club. Do you give into the lures of good looking people and temporary escape? When I spoke to Kevin Barnes we thinking beyond each other, though I found myself waiting around for Piano Magic after the gig. Upstairs at Babylon, I opened my second pack of smokes of the night and began to wonder if waiting around was worth it. Just then, drummer Jerome Tcherneyan walked past and recognized me immediately. He handed me a drink and winked with purpose; there was still some romance left.

In 2008, music has become the most disposable form of art. The only way to make music permanent is to attach an emotion to it. And it’s not as if these emotions can be searched for, they usually come to you when you least expect it. When you look at a painting on a wall, it’s rare that you question how it looks so much as how it makes you feel. A song usually elicits the opposite response, however. You’re much more likely to have someone answer “What’s Piano Magic like?” with “They sound like The Cure” as opposed to, “Oh, they forced a sadness out of me that I never knew existed.”

But if something happens drastic happens to you with a tune in the background that song immediately becomes a bit of high art. And the whole thing happens very serendipitously. Which is why I was really struck by the associations I made to each band; after all, both bands played the same club on similar nights. I’d argue a bunch of the same Istanbulites were in the crowd for both nights.

And therein lies the righteousness, not the tragedy. There were probably lots of folks who became exited enough during Piano Magic to forget about a long-term relationship and likewise, just as many who saw something within Of Montreal that they could continue with, for a long time. That’s something the two bands had in common. They bridged that gap, and altered minds that were for taking. That’s worth the ticket price alone.

Against Me! at the Croatian Cultural Center, Vancouver, 09.15.08

Me and Tom Gabel, before I wisened up and passed him a bottle.

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My mother-in-law and I verge into oncoming traffic and a glaring sun. I could descend into slumber for a good eight years now, after what transpired for the past few days. Not only did I welcome company out to my new home for a few days, I welcomed a stark realization; a man is only as good as his army. And if it’s an army of sweaty pacifists, (The only punch they’d ever throw would be a right hook in the face of a bad time) then that man isn’t so hard done by. But he will certainly be tired at the end of the day.

I welcomed my strangely conformist yet anarchist sister out to Vancouver for four days of pleasant misfortunes, including a violent peanut fight in a bar that went our way and enough cheap slices of ‘za to force a revolution out of our stomachs. But it was all build-up for the main event Monday night. Punk folksters Against Me! closed out their Canadian tour with Japanther and Saint Alivia at the Croatian Cultural Center in Vancouver on September 15th. Though we’ve shared a tormented and honest love for the better part of 23 years, as the band dropped with fervor into “New Wave” seconds after appearing casually onstage, I failed to see my sister for the better part of the rest of the gig.

A mosh pit at an Against Me! gig has a way of transforming not into a ball of love and togetherness, but nothing less than a gigantic ball of honesty. There’s no room for pretense in any of their tunes, nor is there any need for it in the pit. If you’re down, someone gets you up again. While this is standard fare at any punk show, what sets an Against Me! show apart is how much higher you get thanks to the band when you’re supported up by a few hundred sweaty fists of passion and all things self-righteous.

The band has been touring their major label debut, “New Wave” for close to a year and a half. Their relentless touring makes ol’ Bob Dylan’s “Never Ending Tour” seem like a few hollow dates at a Vegas lounge. “This is my life,” muses lead singer Tom Gabel nonchalantly, pointing to the band’s tour bus between swilling a bottle of Sleeman’s we shared. “It’s the only life I know.” If that’s the case, then Against Me! are existing in the prime of their life. Blistering tunes like “White People For Peace” brought forth rousing approval from the pit (The band became only partially visible through a sea of raised, clenched fists) but also a rousing sentiment that’s inherently prevalent amongst punk bands with a shred of soul.

Their genre has become marginalized by bands who rely on the kind of sponsorship their forefathers decided to originally rebel against. And though Gabel insists that there’s nothing wrong with “Getting your music out to the masses” he didn’t seem so opposed to the idea of creating your own destiny.

Against Me! leaps across genres with the kind of gusto that doesn’t leave you confused but envigorated. The pit slowed down for the lovers to find each other during the swaying tale of summer lore, “Borne on the FM Waves of the Heart.” And the peppy new “Amuptations” rendered Gabel useless against the ill-timed clapping along. It brought a smile from his face, though it paled in comparison to the grins the entire band gave the crowd throughout the night.
It was as if Against Me! welcomed the entire Croatian Cultural Centre into the same basement in Florida where they had their humble beginnings. Major label success has not affected their live set, as evidenced in Vancouver.

Though we’d been drinking without moderation for three straight days before the gig, it was only when we both crashed over the barrier and into each other that we actually attained a sense of appreciation for each other again. And when Gabel threw us high fives on our way back into the fray, it became obvious he appreciated us, the fans, his army, as well.