The CD release party is on October 22nd in Montreal, and believe me, you want to be a part of this!
Here are the infos:
4848 St-Laurent, Montreal
It’s at 8pm and it’s $8! There will be fire performers, fetish acrobats, complimentary wine and a lot more kick-ass stuff! Be there! :)
Self-loathing or just loathing in general? I can’t make up my mind. Yeah, my ambivalence. It’s like that sometimes.
Today makes the second time I’m reading an insipid review on my record by someone who is clearly not a music critic but just a moron with attention deficit syndrome. Now, first let me establish something…
If you’re a critic and hate the music – I have no problem with this… go ahead. Seriously, if most people loved it (and I think I’ve been pretty clear how I feel about most people) I’d shoot myself for sure. Like one of my favorite pretend writers says, “I hate you all.”
However, this isn’t the problem that is so evident with these “critiques”. The problem is, THE FUCKERS CLEARLY DIDN’T LISTEN TO THE GODDAMN RECORD. They didn’t even read the lyrics!
Come on, a real music critic wouldn’t just read the PR firm’s tear sheet and then do a review based on that and song titles, would they? Maybe I’m being too optimistic about alleged music lovers. But really, to have to say the number one rule of a music critic: Put the fucking record on! Jesus Christos! It’s their job! They’re supposed to listen to it from beginning to end and make an informed judgment on it. The key word there is “informed”. Know what you’re listening to. If you don’t, find out. Don’t like doing that? THEN DON’T BE A GODDAMN MUSIC CRITIC.
But that’s the problem isn’t it? Most of us are all jerks, lazy and just plain narrow-minded. We don’t want to be good at something – we just want to get it over with. [Read more →]
Life is balance. Half of the time I’m wondering what the hell is wrong with me and the other half I’m amazed at how much I love your fucking ass.
But right now – the rain has pulled all the dust from the air. It smells like the first kiss you ever had with the coolest person you’ve ever met.
And then it’s all down hill from there.
The hate of winter is near.
And speaking of hate I went to the Liberal Party of Canada fund raiser at the PUSH Art Gallery on St. Laurent. No I don’t hate the Liberal Party or any party (maybe the Yogic Flyers but that’s just cuz their too damn happy to be alive). I just hate people. And this isn’t good for social situations like this. It makes me stand by myself. A little cloud of self loathing for even being there swirling above my head.
Justin Trudeau was the guest of honor – he showed up in cell-phone form because he was on the Campaign trail in North Bay – understandable – but a little bit funny too. His lovely wife held him up for all to hear (Pregnant women are so goddamn hot don’t you think?). I was drinking down as much free wine as I could. I wondered if the people there ‘d ask me to stop. I kind of wanted them to. I would have said “It’s alright, I’m an artist. It’s my job.”
But there were Cultural Industrialists there that could have easily claimed the same thing. But really how can a 84 Billion dollar a year business have anything to do with art? Someone is making money somewhere – but it sure as fuck isn’t the artists.
And if you ever thought about voting – try this shit jacket on for size. This 84 billion dollar a year business of culture is supposedly going to be funded, in some fucked up Conservative Party theory, by 24 million dollars per year. Oh but it gets better – they’ll only give that 24 million (which is about the same amount as Stephen Harper spends on his summer cottage) to those few who are conforming to party standards and values of art. Let’s all sing together “Deutschland, Deutschland Uber Alas!” [Read more →]
Full-on, September eye fuck. Wakes you up twice.
We’ll get out of town and then eat.
We are all in remarkably great moods. One show to go and then it’s back home. Yesterday was hard just because we got it into our heads that we might be able to go home today. But since the show is on, the show is ON! So we’re pumped and ready.
We talk about everything. It’s a long way. We talk about the Movie. Everyone has The Movie of The Story of Their Lives. Ours has it all – sex, drugs, rock and roll – Gods, Goddesses, minions, magic, delusion, murder, adultery, fornication, a dictionary, Germans, Russians, Italians – THE FRENCH! Fucking international appeal, this is the real fucking shit! Murder???
The cities go by one by one until their mother, Toronto finally shows up. She screams at us to get going so we pass right by. We head on down to Brantford. This is the scene of one of the craziest shows I ever played (this was a long time before now). There was a bar owner named God who had my band play two nights – three shows (one was an afternoon show for street punks). It was outta control. He taught me and my bass player how to drink. He put the bottle of JD on the counter and said “Just keep your head above the bar and your eyes on me – you’ll be fine”. I can’t remember anything after that.
To me you have to really fuck up to fuck up in this town – my memories assured me of this.
We get there and check into the hotel and then head over to the bar. We see the big truck there in the front of the place unloading the PA gear. Well see… isn’t that totally promising!?
Mike, the very cordial soundman and current mover of said gear, says that the show is on. But there is ominous news… [Read more →]
Are we prophets just before we open to the world each day? Do we know what will happen for the rest of our lives inside the nanoseconds before we wake. Fucked.
I’m feeling like the world is mine. I can take her. And she’s no push over. She’s a wild woman. A vampire. A hot librarian who doesn’t wear panties of any kind. But right now I can make her do anything I want. She tells me she will as she looks up at me from down there on her knees. Goddamn, why do I need adoration? Why do I need acceptance? Approval? We all do, don’t we? We all need to matter, don’t we? You’re everything to me baby, no matter what stupid shit I do.
No, nothing I do could or will make me happy. And music isn’t happiness, conditional, non-conditional or otherwise. It’s simply what we make. “We” are who is happy or miserable. And Happiness is unqualified. You either are or you are not. If you are then you are – with or without external qualifiers. If you’re not then you’re fucked. I’m fucked. Most of us are. Just weak situational happiness addicts going from one fix to another. Comparing our hardened veins and looking for new ways to score. Fucked.
But I’m not up to real happiness yet. Don’t think I’d be able to cope with it anyway. I’m working on honesty right now. Honesty sucks man ass. And that’s The Gods Of Now honest truth.
And no I’m not talking about appeasing your own sense of guilt by confession thus making you feel better while the result kills the other person’s spirit – that’s fucking weak. You do that and you’re just a pansy who needs more help than me. Nor is honesty assuaging your own moral code on the ticket of someone else – believe this or you’re going to hell you bastard! That’s Fucked too.
My eyes open and I’m dizzy. I’m sure these thoughts are somehow coming to me from the future. Time is completely gone now. It’s simply measured in how much gas is in the Banyion and what show it is tonight.
Alex says Ottawa.
Ott-a-wa. I say it slowly. What a fucking life.
We all get up and get ready. Check out is at 11 but we have to drive 5 or so hours to get to the capital of Canada. We want to leave ASAP. But we need breakfast.
We stow our luggage in the Banyion and walk over to the Golden Griddle. We all have normal breakfasts. It’s alright. Not great. There’s sort of a pattern of meal-times emerging to me. In the West, breakfast is ALWAYS essential and amazing. And as the day wears on things get sucky. It’s the opposite here in the East. Breakfast isn’t near as good. But lunch, dinner and beyond are a grade A cut above.
We all wonder about the gig in Brantford. We’re tired and with no confidence in the booking guy – yeesh. Do we really want to do it. It’s 5 hours from here to Ottawa and that means it’s 7 hours or so from Ottawa to Brantford.
Sigh. We’re here to play so if it’s scheduled we’ll be there but we’ll double check with AMP before we go to make sure it’s a necessary trip. Yes, of course, we all see that the booking should have been Brantford, Toronto and THEN Ottawa. A 6 year old would have seen that. But this is our first tour – often, and affectionately called the shit tour. So this is to be expected – but certainly not wanted. But to play for people is what we’re here for and a drive is what gets us there.
We go out – ARGH! The Banyion won’t start again. She’s tired. She’s given up! Fucked! A mirror of my psyche.
Gawd damn it! I call CAA again. 47 min.
So now we’re all sitting here contemplating… things. The cast of characters that have joined us on this tour. Cities that have become havens for these characters. Winnipeg, Edmonton, Calgary, Kamloops. Regina, Thunder Bay, Toronto, Montreal.
Good guys and villains (in my case, both to everyone), gorgeous girls and hot dames making us hard as a rock. Lost minds, crazy nights, snow-boarding baseball bat junkies. Mountain high spirituality needing cunt and ass so bad it makes us scream night after night in endless lust of finding connections that are thirsty for what we have and in terror of it. Closing seedy joint and finding love in the putrid, filthy kiss of a hotel bed. Head pounding, cock pounding, fists pounding, heart pounding and all for rock and roll. Fucked up and down the road.
The guy from CAA shows up in about 15 minutes. He works at a radio station so I give him an EP so he can spin it. Nice.
He boosts the battery of the Banyion and nothing. He grabs a pipe and crawls under the belly of the beast and hits her G spot. The Banyion fires to life.
Wha?
He smacked the starter – and it’s now our new trick. (Jon points out that he told us to do this ages ago – what the fuck? Was he a fucking paratrooper too?) If we shut down the Banyion, one of us – usually Jon or Zasta goes under and hits the starter with a pair of pliers.
We’re on our way.
But we’re behind schedule so we burn to Ottawa. We get there at around 8 o’clock. That’s late but we figure we’ll go to the club, check out when we’re playing and then head over to the hotel to shower and then change into our stage gear.
We stop to plead with Moonbabe Records, our record company, to let us off of the last show. But the word is in. It’s been double checked. The show is on and it sounds like it’s gonna be a good one. And like I’ve said before – “The show must go fucking on!” so we’re going. None of us want to but if there is a promise of new fans we’re there.
So now I’m standing with the Banyion cuz we can’t turn her off. So Alex, Zasta and Jon are inside checking things out. I can see as soon as they walk out there’s something wrong.
We’re considered amateurs who don’t know what they’re doing. Um. Okay. We’re told to bring in our stuff NOW and set up in front of the stage. I shrug. I don’t blame these Ottawa guys for thinking we’re nothings. If they had to deal with our booker to get us on this show they can’t be blamed at all.
I walk up the stairs and Knives For Kids are sound checking. They sound good and glam. They have a huge set up. Can’t help but say out loud, “They must be from around here”. I can’t imagine going on tour with so much gear without roadies. Cabs on cabs, stacks of crap to the ceiling! Wow. We bring in our scaled down Marshall cab and Vox cab and Mesa bass cab. They’re small but they’ll rip your heart out. That’s all that counts.
So we’re not even given a hello or anything. We can’t even change into our stage gear. All good tho. We just want to play and then leave. We have a fucking long road to our next and last show in Brantford.
I go and park the Banyion around the block. I turned it off – so she’s there till we’re done.
On the way back on Rideau street I find myself enter a déjà vu, like looking through a video camera suddenly where everything becomes pristine and crystal clear. Bathed in shadow which is light.
I go back inside the club and wait. Jon’s parents show up. It’s always so nice to see them. They love their sonny that’s for sure, and he’s right lucky. Jon’s V is here too.
So now I’m walking out – I feel like a split personality at this point. There’s no room for me. No room for us. No room at all. And then I see my old school friend Dr. John Clearwater (he’s an author of books on Nuclear Weapons, Canada and the whole damn Ka-Boom thing). He saw my very first live show and now after all this time here he is with his wonderful wife Pam along for the ride. Great!
I’m falling in and out of some parallel universe. The one where Spock and Kirk have beards and are butchers respectively. Yeoman Rand – everyone knows she’s his bitch. Come on! Nothing changes in the parallel universe except her costume. Now we play.
We play and kill. Poor kids – it’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye.
We pack up and leave – the guy from Knives for Kids helps us out. And it is GREATLY appreciated. He was the only person there attached to the show that showed us any form of hospitality. When you’re on the road this is the only currency – other than money, cuz that’s, like, real currency, but you get my meaning. We’d work with them again without question because of this.
However, we leave feeling not exactly welcomed, but like we exploded a bomb and no one quite knew what the hell happened.
We say good-bye to Jon’s parants and Dr. John Clearwater and his wife Pam and drive back to the hotel… We do a U-turn at the big CPR castle hotel Chateau Laurier. We all look at it and know that on the next tour..,
Psycho Fantasy – Free For All!
We walk into the grand lobby. All for our own rooms. Our own curvy spiritual commitments with us. I walk down the hall next to beauty. Fitting in this luxury. Dark wood, shag carpet – tight pile that isn’t quiet soft but isn’t quiet hard. Perfect for the walk to our room. The long corridor – makes we want to speak in an English accent. Makes me want to shout that I have the secret to why the government sucks man ass! I have cracked the Enigma code!
But I’m tired and you’re hot and I want you. So we open the door and are ready to jump on the bed. But the place is fucking huge! Actually we don’t see the place yet. We have to walk down another shorter L shaped hallway. Then we see the room. The place is fucking huge! Did I already say that?
We throw down our luggage. There’s no stopping now. Look at that view – and I ain’t talking about the one through the windows there lass! Now I’m speaking in a Scottish accent – why? Why can’t I just be me? I pick you up and take you into the bathroom…
Why is fucking in a gorgeous bathroom so goddamn erotic? Or is that erotique? It is Ottawa for crying out loud. I make you pee in the sink. God, look at the fucking thing – I’m talking about the sink. King Henry the VIII never peed in anything as nice as that – and look at you all pretty and such sitting there. An old friend of mine told me once – “What are hotel rooms for if not for finding new and interesting ways to pee on things.”
I can hear TGON in the next room – I’m not sure who it is but they’re loud enough to wake animals! That’s okay – we’re not distracted we’re hungry. So we call and order the works. Gotta have the shrimp cocktail. That’s a staple of all psycho fantasy hotel stays. Then we make mad, passionate, wild love! No! We fuck! Hard. Like machines. Like we’ve just kissed Lucifer’s Ass and this is the next step to damnation!
BING BONG!
Room service – we dawn robes that one of us finds in the closet. Now we’re livin’ rich baby! Oh yeah! We’re fabulously wealthy! We’re comfortably well off. Nice.
I feed you the shrimp cocktail. It seems like the thing to do. Sitting on the edge of an overstuffed bed after a show with you. It just seems like…a fantasy. The only thing left to do is make love once more (a little anal action baby! Oh yeah! Zing!!!) and then fall asleep with you close up and tight in my arms.
I open my eyes…
Just a bed. Another bed in another cheap hotel. It’s stuffy in here. Smells like a band too. Jon! God damn it! What is wrong with you!
Awwww fuck! Close your eyes dumb ass and try to get it back! Close your goddamn eyes.
Just another bed – alone.
I open my eyes. It’s late. So I sleep in, is that so bad? No not really. Not after all we’ve done – yeah that’ll be my reasoning. I go for a shower. A long one. The hot water, like magic, effects me immediately. I’m somewhere else. A long time ago – when the road wasn’t hotels and three meals a day. When their was no tour support – when no one believed me – where each town was fight for survival to get you to the next one. Where you were desperate but couldn’t show it – they’d smell it – they’d hate you. The hot water pouring over me does the same magic tho. That’s all I needed then. I didn’t even need to sleep. I could do that at the club before we’d play. 5, 10, 15 minutes and that would be enough. But what I couldn’t live without, EVER, was a hot shower. I’d pimp out my old band mates for one. “Dude, yeah, go with her. Just ask her if we can shower at her place in the morning!” We always could. I’d be hanging outside a 24 hour convenience store someplace in New Jersey or New York or Illinois with the bass player or the drummer or whoever wandered up and wanted to talk. And that promise of a hot shower just kept me going… baptism. Didn’t matter what you did the night before – that shower would wash you clean again.
This water is exactly the same now. But everything else is different. Better.
Except for the fact that Alex, when he shaves leaves what looks like Woolly Mammoth clippings knee deep in the sink. We don’t live here for more than a day so we don’t care but we notice. I think it’s funny.
So we’re all up and one by one we go down to Shoeless Joe’s for breakfast. It’s good and our waitress behind the bar is a very exotic looking woman who at first seems stand-off-ish. But later she asks where we’re playing and what our story is.
We hang out and do some work and rest up. I go down to the terrace and have a JD in the sunshine. It’s a very pleasant moment. I watch the homeless guy way down at the bottom of the hill at the end of the off ramp of the 401. What a great day for being lonely. Writing infected songs down by the highway. Feeling each sip like a throbbing tattoo. Thinking if I had the money…
So we’re all a little slower than usual. Cathy Fudge contacts us and says she’s not feeling well and has no way to get back to her place, (it’s like 579 miles to where she lives out in Yakoupitzville, a little known suburb of Toronto.) so she may not be able to come to the show. I shake my head. She has a fucking tattoo of our logo on the side of her torso! I think we could drive her home.
We get into the Banyion and head to the Kathedral. The drive is fine and by now we know our way. Easy.
We get to the venue and Scott and Tasha from Awsum Ink are there to greet us. They are so friendly and we like them immediately. Scott gives off the air of being on top of all the details. He points out the postering (which is everywhere!) they’ve done in the area. We are going to be working with them for our Toronto record launch on OCTOBER 24th so this makes us feel very reassured. Great!
They are expecting the other acts so we have some time to go and eat. Jon really wants to go to the Hard Rock Café which is fine with me. I love all those rock star things on the wall. I think it’s great that they have the clothing that each of these amazing performers have worn during one show or another. What I don’t like – and neither do Alex, Zasta or Jon is the instruments, amps and equipment that are all up in their glass cases. These things are like horses or musicians – they’re happiest when they’re working.
We have hamburgers . Mine’s veggie. It’s good. And a chicken wrap. It is also good.
I have to go for a quick shop in the Eaton Center to buy two things for my two girls. I don’t have a lot of time so I choose two dolls very quickly. I don’t realize one of them is a special edition Barbie – Those Tartan Nights – The Pinup Collection. She’s wearing this tiny tartan nightie. Oops. Maybe a little too Scottish for a little girl?
So I go back to the Hard Rock Café and we pile in the Banyion and go back to the club. This time Rob Power the head guy from Awsum Ink is there. He is a straight up rock and roller who is all about the live music. He looks after us.
We set our gear as the other bands arrive. The stage layout is established and it’s all a go. We need some coffee so we let Scott know we’re leaving for 15. We walk down the street to a little coffee place. We look outside on the other side of the street and see Cathy Fudge walking along. We call to her but she doesn’t hear us.
We head back and each give Cathy a hug when we see her. She’s the girl that got the TGON tattoo on the side of her torso – “TGON torso Cathy!” We sing.
So we sit back and enjoy the show…
A 15 year old guitarist who is going to be a fucking power to be reckoned with in just a few short years opened it up.
Next Blood Runs Cold played. They had great energy and a really hard vibe. Nice.
Then West Memphis Suicide who slammed down the whiskey bottle and played Hard Greasy Rock until the dust was falling from the rafters.
Tasha’s camera has run out of batteries. So I grab my Nikon D70 which she takes to like that! She’s clicking away. I really want to take a photographer on the next tour. It’s so important to have a record in pix.
Then we played. Soon, when the expectations of what we do are as great and satisfied as the surprise and shock you feel when you first see us – we’ll be getting closer to our goals. We kick fucking ass.
So, sweaty as I am! And I sweat like Michael Jordan when I play! We hang with Rob, Scott and Tasha after the show. We make some plans. Gotta do an all ages show with Rob and Scott for sure. But as usual it’s time to book outta there.
Cathy comes with us in the Banyion. She’s sitting with me in the back and is also as hungry as we THE GODS OF NOW are. So we go for something to eat at Markham station.
We have breakfast and then it’s time for the long ride to Cathy’s place. I don’t think content matters at all as much as intent. Large grey spires that reflect no light. Deep, dark hidden things that are all just a Point Of View. Fog everywhere. I drop her off and head back.
I turn on a Classic Rock Station. What is it? Harlequin? Streethart? Strange Advance? The huge road is all mine. 7 or 8 lanes of room to breathe. 579 milles is a long way to drive someone home but I love to drive. It dawns on me – “That helps.” Of all the problems that I have just trying to get from birth to death the fact that I like to drive “helps.” The thought makes me happy.
I get back to the hotel and lay on the bed.
I close my eyes. Home is right around the corner.
