Forgery League

Rediscovering a bit of my electronic/ambient side lately. We caught part of the night’s set at the Ambient Ping the other night and snagged a copy of their latest comp.

Also, there is new I Am Robot And Proud. Yay!

All this, and the work I’ve done so far for the play has reminded me I really want to do more Geometerish music. Gotta get over this whole “I’ll get to it as soon as I finish this project for somebody else” thing. Make time for the music!

We caught most of the parade: the lead float, carrying this year’s Grand Marshal Salah Bachir, was blasting Arabic pop, which struck me as a pretty cool thing. Plenty of warm fuzzy feelings about the community groups and such - the rest was nothing terribly special, though.

At the Buddies stage, Gentleman Reg was good - he’s got a lovely voice, and I like the clever little touches, like the interlocking guitar and bass parts here and there, or the inventive sorts of grooves his drummer played. And we danced like mad to Kelly and the Kellygirls’ set. Gonna be sore and blistered tomorrow. Damn me and my choice in shoes.

On the way up to Bloor later on, we happened to pass by the stage where the Kinsey Sicks were performing: gorgeous four-part harmonies, clever songs and wicked satire (the premise tonight was that they were a gathering of Republican housewives). Must keep an eye out for them next time.

Once again, I felt myself wanting to make music that could play at Pride - either with a band/ensemble or as part of a DJ set. More on this soon… got lots of ideas that have to be organized.

We saw Camper Van Beethoven at Lee’s Palace tonight. It was great to finally see them, since they’ve been such a big influence on us as songwriters and instrumentalists. They broke up just before I discovered them, back in high school, so I never thought I’d actually get to catch them live.

Eszter Balint was the opening act. Both she and Camper pulled off a terrific show despite having lost their entire trailer full of touring instruments to thieves in Montreal the night before. They didn’t get the trailer itself, as it was parked in front of Lee’s earlier in the evening, with bumper stickers such as “WE ARE MAKING ENEMIES FASTER THAN WE CAN KILL THEM” and “I WOULD DIE FOR HIPPY CHICKS.”

Yes, with the election looming they’ve become more political than ever. Their new album, New Roman Times, is rife with a peculiarly twisted sort of Americana (in part, a concept album about a soldier from the Christian Republic of Texas and his travels in California).

It’s damn good to have them back.

(Prelude / Sons of the NGW / 51-7 / All Her Favourite Fruit / Sweethearts / O Death / Eye of Fatima (Pts. 1 & 2) / White Riot / Balalaika Gap / Wasted / Shut Us Down / Skinhead Stomp / Take The Skinheads Bowling / Payed Vacation: Greece / Militia Song / RnR Uzbekistan / Might Makes Right / Lassie / Club Med Sucks / Interstellar Overdrive / Civil Disobedience / Matchstick Men / Sad Lovers Waltz / One Of These Days / Life Is Grand / The Long Plastic Hallway // Encore: L’Aguardiente / Hippy Chix)

Went out and caught a friend’s video art piece at 401 Richmond, before seeing the Sigur Rós concert at Massey Hall. Wow.

Sean, who loved their album Ágætis Byrjun, was startled to find out 1) that the band were so young, 2) that they played everything live, and 3) that the singer was male.

Jónsi’s voice alone (a pure, keen-edged falsetto) is stunning… and so alien, even if he weren’t singing in a language of his own creation. (Aside: whereas fellow Icelander Björk’s voice is about as otherworldly, hers is essentially earth while his is air.) Bowed guitar galore - I was quite amazed there were any hairs left on his bow by the end of it - and brilliant but not over-elaborate lighting and projections. Chills.

The snow is melting off the roofs outside… leaves are starting to go, too. I think I’d better go up on the roof soon and take that 360-degree panoramic shot I’ve been wanting of the skyline.

Friday we went out to the Beaches (or the Beach, if you’re an old-timer in this town) for the Jazz Festival. We’d never been there before, and were blown away - they close about a mile and a half of Queen St, and musicians perform on every block. The music was a mixed bag, but there was always something different around the corner. Samba Squad in particular rocked like mad.

Yesterday we caught Dusk Dances at Dufferin Grove Park. Corpus Dance Projects puts it on every year, staging a number of short dance pieces, each at a different site in the park; the parks themselves change from year to year. Sean and I - not exactly fans of dance - never miss it. This time, there was a set from a Maori group from New Zealand (ahh, so that’s what poi look like!), a lovely aerial duet with live cello, a fun little number that mocked the recent municipal strike, and to cap it off, Corpus themselves performed their signature “A Flock Of Flyers”. Five dancers represent a Canadian Air Force squadron who have been grounded by budget cuts (their motto: “We may not have planes, but we have ideas!”) and perform various manoeuvres under the orders of their leader, Commander Hup.

On the way home, Sean and I spent a long time discussing the purpose of art, and the difficulties of getting a message across in a work - and passing on knowledge in general. Much philosophizing followed… I’ll have to devote another entry to this some time.

Right now I’m just stalling - gotta head out to the bank and it’s pouring outside. Cool lightning tho. :D

The phone was ringing and I tried to answer it. The phone, a new cordless, would not pick up properly. (This is a normal occurrence for us. I have bad phone-answering juju, no matter what we have for a phone.) Fine. A bit later, my pager went off, showing a number I didn’t recognize.

I pick up the phone and try to call the number. Six digits in (we have big-city 10 digit dialling here), I hear a click and a friend’s voice mail kicks in. “Hi! This is Elizabeth…” then the connection turns staticky. I hang up and try again. Was that the right number? I start dialling. Again, before I’ve finished, it kicks over, and craps out before I can leave a message. I dial again, and again, and keys are rearranging themselves. What’s the 9 doing down there on the left? Argh! I hang up, try again, get as far as the 2 and it comes out as an exclamation point.

Now, this isn’t something our phone normally does. At this point I remember something I’ve read about dreaming: you can often tell you’re dreaming because machines malfunction in strange ways. Aha. I must be dreaming, I reason. I look at the phone, and think: I bet I could fit that in my mouth. And as it turns out, I can.

Moral: Even if you have a lucid dream, it doesn’t mean you’ll be in a frame of mind to think of anything worthwhile to do.

Saw Bullfrog and Medeski Martin & Wood last night. Phenomenal. :D The stage at Harbourfront Centre is a crap venue, particularly when it rains, but it was a fine, fine show.