Review: Cursed Arrows' Telepathic High Five

When I first saw Cursed Arrows in the summer of 2009, I was blown away by their thunderous drums and loud guitar. Not only does their music inspire an overwhelming guttural reaction, but they tore through a cover of Nirvana’s “Tourettes” and did it more than just justice. Their garage, post-punk sound may not fit in with their techno-synth contemporaries in the Ontario independent music realm, but I always thought there was something to say about sounding different.

The band consists of two members, Ryan and Jackie Stanley. They’re set up like a White Stripes outfit, but they actually embrace that they’re married. Ryan was in the well-loved Brantford, ON band, The Vermicious Knid, before recording a number of solo albums. “Our telepathic connection and combined artistic frustrations lead us to start writing loud songs in our basement apartment, armed simply with a tiny amp and an awful drum kit,” Jackie outlines on the band’s blog.

Ryan’s guitar playing is intricate and embraces the effects board (the crunchier and often weirder, the better), while Jackie’s drumming is precise and dainty, matched with a violence fit for any heroine. Sharing vocals and harmonies, the pair at times, often reminds me of a heavier and to-the- point, Sonic Youth, but can get as melodic as the Pixies and as soulful as Nirvana.

Their first album, “Knives Are Falling From The Sky,” mostly garnered attention in south western Ontario. The band acknowledges it as a shot in the dark, but fans quickly embraced it as something more. The duo, now on Noyes Records, recently released their second full-length album, “Telepathic High Five,” which is more identifiable, more melodic, and most importantly – loud.

The two wear their alternative rock influences on their sleeve, and I’m not talking about their impressive tattoo sleeves. The lyrics are often tragically personal and introverted. The first track, “Run Forever,” features challenging lyrics like, “They’ll always tell you what’s right/comes down to will and to might/or you can run forever.”

The album times in at 43 minutes and displays a constant complexity of melodies, raw emotion and is rooted in thunderous rock and roll. The album’s title track is delightfully distorted over peaceful harmonies. Other earth-shakers include, “Gate Crasher,” and “Chop You Up.” Another notable track is the emotionally-charged, “Deep Wound.” But nothing is as intimately potent as, “Oubliette,” the album’s memorable final song.

Please listen to this album, your ears will thank you.

Published by NxEW

Review: James and Blackburn EP

James and Blackburn’s first EP shows promise for a mellow, introspective indie pop band.

The band’s founding members and cousins, guitar and vocalist, Owen, and bassist, Landon, “have grown up writing and playing music together.” It wasn’t until a little under a year that they formed J&B with the addition of drummer, Sebastien and recorded their first EP in the summer of 2009. “I met Sebastien while working in an Italian restaurant [in] downtown Ottawa,” said Landon.

Any veteran can hear the well-placed shoegaze influence in J&B's EP, but it's the unique tempos and intricate sound that steps these young lads into the realm of bands like Wintersleep. The album's first track, 'In My Head,' is the heaviest and yet calmingly mellow track, with lyrics that throttle you into a moment of soul searching.

The album’s best and most promising track, ‘Loose Leaf,’ is cleverly interworks influences such as Modest Mouse, Tokyo Police Club and, dare I say it, Radiohead.
The Ottawa based three-piece will be playing Zaphod Beeblebrox, in Ottawa on December 21st and The Blacksheep Inn Wakefield in Wakefield, Quebec on the 27th. Taking in one of the shows

If this sounds like your thing, any and all news can be found at their Myspace: www.myspace.com/jamesandblackburn

Published by NxEW

Review: Noah and the Whale’s The First Days of Spring

2009 has been a good year for Noah and the Whale, having played the main stage at both the Reading and Leeds Festivals, respectively, and marking the release of their second LP, The First Days of Spring in late August.

Citing both punk and folk as influences, the English quintet have taken a step away from previous recordings adopting a more narrative style of music writing – a style oriented around film. The band’s name is taken from Academy Award-nominated American writer, director and independent filmmaker, Noah Baumback, and his 2006 film, The Squid and the Whale, and have also proclaimed their love of Wes Anderson films. It comes as no surprise that the singer/guitarist, Charlie Fink, has adapted an accompanying film in conjuncture to the album (the film runs the same length of the album and shares the same name).

The album itself displays sophisticated and emotional craftsmanship. It has been documented that the album is, in part, about Fink’s breakup with Laura Marling – a former member - and is why the album possesses no female vocals. The album’s opening and title track, displays an unbridled melancholy, backed by intricate harmonies. Other notable tunes, “My Broken Heart” and the first official single, “Blue Skies,” showcases the bands pleasing, sombre and dramatic writing style.

This album is bound to stick around in your stereo pile for some time – a definitive break up album that can be fun to make out to.

Published by themusicslut.com

Food For Thought

I’m called upon and asked to continue slicing up a pineapple. In the dimly lit classroom I stand up and approach the task at hand, feeling the piercing glare from the rest of my peers. I take a squirt from the hand sanitizer that accompanies my spread out newspaper, a plastic cutting board, an array of sharp knives and of course, the focal point of the project: a pineapple. It’s time to slice and dice.

I picture at once a herbaceous perennial plant baring a fruit wrapped in rigid bark locking in a tender, ripe fruit. A fleshy inside. Layered, resembling the sedimentary rock of the Canadian Shield, that easily tears and as you eat it, the moist nectar drips around the fingers and lips, running down the chin revealing a unique tang. I have no choice but to taste it, and the tang accentuates the taste buds, reminding me of summer. I forget there’s snow outside.

It reminds me of scorching summer days and how my father would cut up chunks of the fruit and bring it into the backyard for my friends and me to eat while we guzzle copious amounts of beer. We share the fruit and celebrate vacation and drunken debauchery, and it brings us closer together; a topper to the alcohol – a chaser in some instances. I can’t help but remember my father having chunks of pineapple stuck in his moustache and failing to realize it from the numbing effects of the ice cold drink.

I slice another slab and toss it on the plate, like dad does. I cut out the core, the dead left behinds. “Sometimes you just have to cut away the dead flesh,” as my father would often remind me.

“Like a coyote in a bear trap, in order to survive they eat off their own paw; you’ve seen three-legged dogs haven’t you?”

I can picture the stump now actually, and the memory fades.

I plop down another piece. I feel the power of the knife, the gliding motion of the razor sharp blade penetrating and slicing through the yellow, tangy fruit. I can smell the pineapple – the unique smell of the juice – a juice which is easily mixed with rum to great appeal. Try a “Pineapple Spritzer”:

Pour rum over pineapple chunk in a tall glass
Add pineapple juice and sweet and sour.
Top with Sprite.
Stir and serve.

The smell associated with a pineapple isn’t easy to describe; a tang that reminds me of summer, a sensory trigger that makes sense because of pineapple’s association to the tropics.

People say pineapples remind them of Hawaii, but I think of my own personal Hawaii, how the accompaniment of the fruit mixed with heat, rum, friends and family by the pool is no different than Hawaii- with addition of the occasional lei for good measure.

We played football with one once, it tore apart my nipples because I bit the bullet and was on “Team Skins.” There’s nothing more rewarding than catching a pineapple Hail Mary only to have its crown leaves penetrate your eyes, ears and nose. My grandmother told me once she would feed me cantaloupe and pineapple when I was teething which amazes me because she’s always been off her rocker. Knowing her, she would probably have bought a pineapple infested with mealybugs. Mealybugs vector wilt disease and I could picture my fruit sticky body wilting like a rose and looking something like a young/old Benjamin Button (thank you F. Scott Fitzgerald).

Remaining at the desk, I continue to chizzle out the core of the ripe fruit. They say the core can’t be eaten without effect, but I’m sure it has been done. People act like the core is Plan 9 or something, but really it’s no different than a peach pit: both will apparently make you extremely constipated.

The amount of congeries my professor will come across in these proceedings crosses my mind and my stomach begins to rumble. Naturally, I begin to see food in my near future. I ingest another slab of pineapple and think of pizza; cheesy, gooey, Hawaiian pizza. You know that feeling you get stepping into a pizza parlour, and that smell of baking dough punches you in the face, that bell rings signaling your arrival and the entire staff peers over like Linda Blair in The Exorcist? Or Pineapple glazed ham, glistening in the oven with toothpicks holding bits of ham in place all around the moist slab of meat. I’m a long ways from class at this moment. Did you know that Chicago is a slang term for pineapple? “One Chicago sundae please.”

The movie, Little Nicky, starring Adam Sandler as Lucifer’s son makes clever usage of the pineapple. There is a scene in which Hitler, in a maid’s uniform (dust feather and all), enters to choose a pineapple out of a cabinet only to have it inserted rectally by none other than Satan himself. And with that I suddenly have no desire to eat anymore.

“Alright, who’s next?” shouts my professor.

“Phew.”

Published in Blueprint Magazine

Concert Review: ‘Fucked Up Weekend’ Begins With a Bang

Fucked Up's annual 'Fucked Up Weekend,' kicked off Friday night at the Kathedral, with the band playing a high energy, 45 minute show to an enthusiastic crowd of 250 plus. The band used the show to showcase their Polaris Music Prize winning album, 'The Chemistry of Common Life' to a hometown crowd.

The band opened with the album's first track, 'Son the Father,' and continued the trend with songs like, 'Black Albino Bones' and 'Twice Born.' The band also indulged in older material, like the high powered, 'Crusades,' which had fans leaping, every which way, off the stage.

Amongst the swirl of media, beer and limbs, Fucked Up delivered, showcasing the reason for their recent acclaim. However, the band still remains grounded, unaffected by the recent attention. Damian Abraham, AKA Pink Eyes, was seen in the washroom before the show splashing water in his armpits; the band has yet to loose its nerves.
Pink Eyes also took time in between songs to scorn Metric, which is becoming commonplace since Metric responded to Fucked Up's, Polaris victory on their Twitter page, stating, "Wow, Pop-Core takes the Polaris prize! Surprise!"

'Fucked Up Weekend' continues tonight (Halloween) at Sneaky D's with the band headlining - they're slated to go on at 11:30 (the band is never late).
For a complete list of shows and 'Fucked Up Weekend' news and happenings, go here.

Photo courtesy of coast.ca

Published by NxEW

All Your Fault, Catherine of Aragon

I decide to skip the shower
Because your stale sweat coats my body
Reminding me of precious memories
That fails to abscond

You are the paragon
I am the grey hound
Now bite the bullet, Catherine of Aragon
Now, put the whiskey down

Steal and thieve, aboard the ghost ship
Mother, oh Mother, drive faster
Faster down the strip
Quickly, avoided upon disaster

I breathe, and I teethe
What hold me gone, but my sweet Demaree?
Dipped the hand for a seethe
What’s lost is memory

In the Basement Chapter 1

These are the times I find fugacious – by myself, but surrounded by others – in my own world. I flip through records in a begrimed and decrepit cardboard box.
Flip. Flip.
Black Flag, Slip it In. Flip.
Beck, Mellow Gold. Flip.
Jay Reatard. Fugazi. Big Black. Replacements.
Flip. Flip. Flip. “Ah, Pavement. This alright?” I ask, holding the record up for approval.
No one answers.
“Randle, when do your parents get home?” someone says.
I take a sip of beer and exhale my satisfaction. “Hello, Randle, when do your parents get home, we want to spark this,” my friend asks, igniting his lighter and holding it up to the joint in his mouth.
“Nah, outside,” I reply.
A chosen few get up fitting their arms into the sleeves of their jackets. John, his jacket is flannel - blue and yellow and lined with wool. His shoulder length hair tucked back behind his ears and secured by a white, backwards trucker hat with the slogan, ‘Grim City Super Rat.’ “Well I’m having a cigarette,” he says taking out another beer from the fridge.
John followed Eric, a leather jacket clad fellow with tight black jeans – his hair gelled into the same position since elementary school. Reggie was amongst this pack as well, supporting short blond hair with mutton chops and glasses. The cigarette hanging out of his mouth accentuates his flannel jacket and ripped jeans.
As they go outside, I lie on my back and listen to the music. Vinyl sounds like ecstasy in my basement. I have it all worked out – the speakers are tilted just slightly as to face me for the ultimate in home music experience. I’m lying; my speakers are from, ‘Mike’s,’ the local thrift store. I can only picture myself having something worth stealing.
I turn to this music because my friends came over on this rainy Saturday evening, ready for cigarettes and beer. I don’t mind the beer, it’s the cigarette, I’ve recently quit and I was sick of waiting for a good time to do it. The problem is - there is never a good time to quit smoking, only now, and cold turkey no less. Saturday nights are lonely in our small suburb just outside of Toronto. Your typical small town boredom haunted us relentlessly, so much as to take baseball bats to mailboxes, egg cars, light garbage cans on fire, but we had outgrown these mischieves many years previous. We were now young men, angry, unemployed, and raised by spoiled, free-spirited parents who had for the most part, forgotten we existed. Too self absorbed and in denial to the possibility anything had gone to shit. Oblivious.
Here, the days were long and the nights even longer. But oddly, I seemed to be the only one wanting to get out. Get away from it all. But for now, I’ll drink to that.

Stale

The smell of stale, dry sweat lines her smooth flesh. Lightly pale, she smells of me. I was one of the lucky ones; lucky enough to sleep with her. In death, sex becomes futile. There is a point in ones life where sex’s only meaning is life. Necrophilia comes to mind as an unorthodox way to venture. As I inhale another breath of dry sweat I cannot help but embrace the warmth. “Don’t ever get cold, okay?” I say to her.
“What do you mean?”
I realize I have dug myself yet another witless hole I so often find myself in with her. “I don’t know, never mind,” I answer.
“Would you be surprised if I hadn’t asked what the fuck you’re talking about?”
“Necrophilia,” I answer.
“Why?”
I sit up letting the sheets drape off me as I turn my legs out and over the side of the bed reaching the flat, grey coloured carpet. I reach to the night stand and grab my cigarettes, removing one and lighting it quiet fluently. I have been smoking for eleven years, nine months and twenty-one days. I remember my first, my fathers Benson and Hedges. I never looked back.
“Well, do you mind why something so crude would come up at a time like this?” she asks again.
“I don’t know, my mind was just wandering.”
I stand up and stretch my legs, which are cramped from such a passionate romp. I exhale the sweet carbon monoxide, taking in the formaldehyde and benzene because I need it in such a moment. I ignore her as I walk towards the washroom and listen to her sigh and get out of bed distend for the kitchen.
I stare at myself in the mirror. This is often not the greatest idea. Looking deep into my empty eyes the cigarette burns slowly. The smoke travels upwards, canvassing the contours of my face and into my eye, stinging it horribly, breaking me out of my trance. One last drag and I flick the cigarette butt into the toilet.
A farrago of hostility lingers throughout the room. “I’m getting out of here for awhile,” I yell, “need to clear my head.”
“I’m making you food you inconsiderate!” she replies.