NXNE has always been the bastard sibling of Austin's SXSW, but things are beginning to change.
- THURSDAY
Black Lips (pictured) opened the festival with a free outdoor show at Young Dundas Square, Toronto's ominous and obnoxious version of Times Square. Overflowing with the ripe commercialism of five-story neon billboards, mammoth video screens, and a Hard Rock Café, the venue didn't seem fitting for Atlanta's psychedelic garage brats.
The sound of the outdoor stage was highly compressed, but seemed to complement Black Lips rather than hinder. Twangy guitar riffs, surfy bass lines, and popping snare rolls ricocheted off LCD screens as the band ran through recognizable favorites “Dirty Hands,” “O Katrina,” and “Drugs.” The crowd exploded in a thrashing, body-surfing mass, ignoring the corporate sensory distraction and converting the public square into a debaucherous cesspool.
Attempted to egg on the crowd Cole Alexander shouted “We work hard and get paid, security guards get paid, so make them work too.” But needless to say, Black Lips' set lacked any of the notorious antics they have become known for: no bodily fluids were exchanged, no nudity, and no homoeroticism. The closest thing to on-stage controversy occurred when two drunk girls rushed the band awkwardly dancing and engaging in a brief making-out session while bassist Jared Swilley blocked security from pulling them down... Oh pubescence.
Late in the short set, the band was joined by King Khan & BBQ to form the quasi-super group Almighty Defenders. Playing “Too Much in Love” from their forthcoming Vice Records LP, BBQ yelped falsetto Nyeah, Nyeah, Nyeah, Nyeahs and doo-wopy ooh, ooh, oohs and King Khan's scratchy vocals belted out the neo-50s love stomper. Black Lips acted as backup to the two vocalists, shifting from southern garage to Motown noise.
As their set neared the end and the band broke into “Cold Hands,” the stage was once again commandeered by dancing fans. Not wanting to risk expulsion from the country so early in the festival, the band kept things tame and ended the set to a thundering ovation.
I moved from the neon wasteland to the stuffy upstairs bar at Sneaky Dee's to catch These Are Powers. Fronted by a one-piece-spandex clad Anna Barie, the Chicago via Brooklyn threesome played nearly undanceable dance music. Primarily working electronic drum pads, in addition to a small kit, Bill Salas laid down echo-y "tribal" beats creating an atmosphere of snapping bones in an abandoned sanatorium basement. The 8-bit looping and contrasting shrill and melodic vocals of Barie were simultaneously terror-inducing and warmly comforting. Pat Noecker's steady pulsating bass grounded their sound and brought it into the land of the living. “Easy Answers” had everyone dancing and “Adams Turtle” hiding for cover.
By the time Japanther's set was poised to begin, Sneaky Dees was packed. While the New York drum and bass duo strung a banner between their amps and plugged in their reverb-drenched telephone mics, the crowd flooded the front of the stage jostling for positions that they wouldn't be able to maintain once the band kicked in. Knocking out upbeat bangers “River Phoenix” and “Cable Babies,” Japanther brought a layer of artistic intellectualism to lo-fi garage rock. Between songs, bassist Matt Reilly played cassette-taped samples of found sounds and cult pop-culture clips -- including Arbrham Lincoln's police confrontation from Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure -- while Ian Vanek rambled encouraging maxims. Anthemic choruses were shouted and frantic drumming created sharp driving beats over grumbling bass pulses. The uber-posi “Opportunity” spurred the audience into a sweat-dripping fury of throbbing, tangled bodies. They became active participants in the conceptual experience that is a Japanther show. This set reaffirmed my belief that Toronto crowds can do more than cross their arms and nod their heads.
----
- FRIDAY
When Spiral Beach took the stage at the Whippersnapper Gallery, it became immediately clear that the throngs of fans waiting outside were not there to see followers Matt and Kim (pictured) as I had assumed, but rather to support the local horror-dance-punk band. Unfortunately for the vibe of the show, "support" meant shooting video and watching the band though LCD screens and cell phones than actual engaging in any form of material experience. The four-piece definitely had talent, but performed with an ironic distance between themselves and their music. The show came across as more of a musical theatre performance than the expression of any genuine feeling, yet not exaggerated enough to be camp. Maddy Wild peered at the crowd with a coy glare, sang in vampiric swirls, and played spooky keyboard melodies. The rhythm section was unadventurous but dance-inducing. Crispy guitar riffs added flourishes of alternate dimensionalty to the songs but were not enough to save them from contrivance.
Matt and Kim were late, and there was fear the drum-keyboard duo wouldn't show at all. In the end, they arrived and drummer Kim Schifino explained the delay. Apparently upon arriving at the airport, she ate some cheap Thai food that led to food poising -- or as she put it “I shit five times in 20 minutes.” The band opened with “It's a Fact (Printed Stained)” and continued to play predominately from their debut record. With hyper sincere enthusiasm, Kim banged out minimalist beats in a frenzy while Matt's quavering giddy vocals and catchy synthesizer melodies created an air of jubilance. The gallery was throbbing as they pounded through a brief set, which included “Yeah Yeah,” “Grand,” and “Cinders.” Announcing they had 1.5 more songs to pay, Matt instructed the crowd to raise their hands as he played the opening riff to Europe's “Final Countdown.” Flowing straight into “Daylight,” a sea of fists pumped the air and gleeful smiles dominated the crowd.
I headed to Sneaky Dee's for the second straight night to check out the Panasche showcase. I arrived a few moments before Montreal manifesto-driven noise band AIDS Wolf's set. Chloe Lum commanded the stage, yelping through a half-swallowed mic, while dueling Danelectros played screeching dissonance channeled rusty chainsaws grinding against the rebar foundations of modern optimism. Drummer Yannick Desranleau pounded wild flourish with quick time changes and crashing cymbals, creating an auditory genocide. As their set reached its cathartic conclusion, Lum became increasingly aggressive, jumping into the crowd convulsing on the floor in a shrieking, growling fit.
A more physically restrained Pterodactyl were next on the bill and opened with the manic “Polio.” They juxtaposed flowing cascades of mid-range noise with high-pitched vocals and squealing guitars that cut through the smoggy hum. Appearing tranquil and unassuming, their sound was not. The dexterous guitar work was repetitive and spazzy, soaring over the robotically furious drumming. Jarring, mathy, and inconspicuous, Pterodactyl emerged as one of the festivals highlights.
As Mika Miko approached the stage, they looked as if they would rather be anywhere than where they were. Having played earlier in the evening with No Age at Lee's Palace, they were sluggish and confused. Taking long breaks between songs, the apathy with which they approached the set carried over to the crowd. Their brand of youthful punk seemed outdated and stale. Playing for only 25 minutes – including the recesses between songs – this was a true phone-it-in performance.
A man like Bruno Wizard could only have emerged from a specific time and place. At 59 years old, he is the only remaining original member of the British post-punk deities The Homosexuals, and one of the last true representative of a dying breed. He's got a worldview that is too little heard today, and he's going to tell you about it. Taking the stage alone, pacing back and forth in a ripped t-shirt and short shorts, the crowd was left to wonder where the rest of The Homosexuals were. Wizard grabbed the mic and began a tirade, criticizing rock musicians for their lack of appreciation for the African influence of Western music. He then proceeded to sit behind the kit and bang out a dance-y punk beat, being sure to play on the ones and threes as opposed to the bastardizing two and fours he disparaged others for. After a minute or so on the drums, he picked up a guitar and performed two Homosexuals tracks solo. Between songs he lambasted his more recent bandmates -- who comprised the Homosexuals at SXSW -- calling them out for joining the band to secure a record contract of their own off the merits of his work and reputation. Wizard then called out SXSW itself as a shill of a corporate event disguised in DIY robes.
After he had finished his two songs, Jonathan Edelstein and Julian Bennett Holmes, the drummer and guitarist of Fiasco, joined him on stage. Those who remained past Wizard's opening proselytizing were treated to whipsmart lyrics and a meticulously crushing two-piece that brought new life to the “Astral Glamour” and “Neutron Lover.” The legendary front main spewed hatred for the Catholic church, showing boyhood scars of beatings from the Christian brothers, and hopped across the stage shouting snotty poetry. He claimed to be first and foremost a writer. Slowing it down for “3am,” Wizard dropped his guard and showed genuine appreciatioin for the crowd. The night wasn't going to end with such vulnerable softness. The band kicked out a few more angular gems before thanking the crowd and scratching another notch into their post of converted crowds.
----
- SATURDAY
The mid-afternoon gray, drizzly sky cleared as Long Beach's progy psych-pop band Crystal Antlers (pictured) burst into “Dust.” Fluttering organs whirled in restrained chaos, and piercing guitar-shredding filled the Saturday-shopper heavy Yonge Dundas Square -- yet their energy wasn't sustained. Seeming neither impressed with the location nor the quality of the sound system, the band trudged though their set with waning enthusiasm and mild contempt. Their bluesy psychedelic soundscapes floated away in the breeze, and hype-man Sexual Chocolate's accented bongos and cymbal crashes were near inaudible. All that was left to their sound were overindulgent organs and throaty yelps. Having played under two large “Amp Energy” sponsorship banners, Johnny Bell announced their last song was called “Energy Drinks Give You Diabeties” and kicked into “Andrew,” complete with an attempted sonic assault that was more of a mild slap on the wrist.
The Sonics reaped tons of praise throughout the festival with nearly every garage-esque band claiming them as quintessential influence. Deemed by most as the forebears to early punk, the Seattle rockers had their heyday in the mid 60s, but showed they can still play hard and fast. Skronky saxophone leads were intercut with howling vocals, as the band played standards “Louie Louie” and “Money.” Wining over the diverse crowd was an easy feat; however, they never quite lived up to their mythical reputation. The elderly five-piece showed definite signs of aging. Their vocals didn't hit the shrieking velocity of their recorded albums, and Andy Parypa's guitar was too low in the mix and lacked fuzz-ridden crunch. The set came across more pop than the boundary-annihilating pre-punk. That being said, its The Fucking Sonics. “Psycho” and “Strychnine” were cruder than anything else written in their era, and even when played softer and less aggressively, they still maintain their rebellious ethos. Closing with the still disobedient “Witch,” I was left feeling a bizarre mixture of nostalgia and nihilism.
Leaving a bustling Young Dundas Square, I headed to the Horseshoe Tavern to check out CBC Radio 3's showcase. Being fully aware of the public broadcaster's reputation for praising mundane Canadian rock, I shouldn't have been surprise to be underwhelmed.
Ruby Coast were in the middle of their set when I entered the Shoe. These guys are young and from the suburbs, and unfortunately they sound like it. Vocalist Justice McLellan brought range to the band's quiet verses and epic choruses, but unfortunately added screamo flourishes that are so popular with the kids these days. They played jangly indie rock that wasn't without it merits, but that added nothing new. Two horns accented ballooning builds, and four-on-the-floor drums dragged the songs forward. These guys are the stuff MTV reality shows dream of.
Next on the bill was Jason Collett. For all of the impressive songs that Broken Social Scene have delivered over the years, the solo efforts of the comprising artists has always seemed lacking to me. Collett reaffirmed this. Had his backing band been given room to experiment instead of being trapped inside the restraints of Collett's songs, the set may have been interesting. The tinges of twang and noise they played seemed intent on lifting the songs out of convention, but they were instead confined by the straightforward folk-pop structure. With lyrics referencing Ontario landmarks and allusions to rural Canadiana, the populism with which he played treaded safely on well-worn territory. The crowd exploded when the band ended the set “Out of Time,” a sentimental ballad about driving in the rain to meet a former lover. Collett's falsetto coos had the capacity Horseshoe singing along, but not me.
Having been unsurprisingly disappointed by the CBC Radio3 live to air showcase, I headed to The Silver Dollar Room in attempts to end NXNE on a high note.
Led by two tambourine-wielding female vocalists, Golden Triangle were yet another garage revivalist band from the NYC area playing the festival. Setting aside vocal distortion, they sang in variation between crisp, synchronized melodies and barky call-and-response shouts. Their contrasting, clanging, and droning guitars filled out the sound over sparing beats. With earnest fervor and joy, they snidely paid tribute to malt shop singles and no-wave's more accessible tendencies. King Khan rushed to the front of the stage in full support of his former tour mates, enticing all to join in. The venue's floor and attendees bodies nearly collapsed, and the tightly-packed venue reeked of enthusiasm, spilled beer, and a weekend's worth of sweat-stained shirts. Capping off the set with grandeur, Golden Triangles' diminutive guitarist leaped into the crowd and was held high in the air, playing a blistering solo. My NXNE was redeemed.
