Recap

So I'm back from Calgary's second annual Sled Island music festival. Due to lack of funds, I was only able to purchase a single-day wristband instead of staying for the whole event. What a trip it was though... I suppose I'll just recap the whole thing from the beginning. If you just we want to get to the bands I saw, skip ahead about three paragraphs, most of this is narrative for my own benefit.

I left on a bus at 12:30 on Wednesday night, a mode of transportation that guarantees a healthy mix of itinerant labourers, homeless alcoholics and haggard-looking teen moms. Somehow I managed to stay sane over the 18 hour journey, though I suppose I owe my survival to a mix of Irvine Welsh's novel Porno and a contraband bottle of rye. Arriving Thursday evening, I immediately had to orient myself in a city I haven't visited since I was 12. Luckily, with typical Albertan pragmatism, Calgary is laid out in a grid system with numbered streets and avenues and divided into quadrants. Without too much trouble I was able to meet up with my good friend Noah the White, and negotiate access to a show he was doing sound for as his assistant.

The fact that the band playing was none other than my dear friends Red Cedar did not hurt my chances at getting in. The Vancouver boys gave a typically strong performance to a rather sparse crowd, with their hazy roots-rock shuffles and rustic country twang going over well with the locals. The performance was somewhat subdued by their standards, but it fit the intimate room they played in and the relaxed atmosphere of a beautiful summer evening. Lead guitarist J.P. Doucet ripped out his gritty Neil Young-isms over a gorgeous bed of Leslie organ laid down by Bruce Ledingham. Their sunny, expansive jams were a perfect antidote to a long trip in a sweaty, confined bus. The group's harmonies were as tight and tuneful as I have yet heard, although gonzo drummer Colin Jones didn't wield the mighty hammer of Thor quite so heavily as I am accustomed to seeing him do. I suppose his trademark thunderblitzes would not have fit the mood of this particularly quixotic evening, but I am looking forward to seeing them make a triumphant return to Vancouver's finest venue, the Biltmore. That place always seems to bring out the heaviness in those boys. They are in the middle of a tour of Western Canada right now, getting tight and road-tested like all good bands must. Look for a new record from them some time this year.

The Cedar boys and I adjourned to our hotel room to drop off gear after the show.They were kind enough to let my crash there for free... their room at the Fairmont was being sprung for by none other than mister Chad Kroeger's 604 records. They were being paid to back an artist on that labels roster for a few shows at the festival, and a posh hotel was part of the deal. We were sure to raid the minibar. An unexpected bonus was the fact that many other musicians were staying in the same hotel, so I enjoyed chance encounters various musicians throughout our stay. Although my buddies were out to party, I was too exhausted to do much. I spent a little while walking around the city on my own to get familiar with my surroundings and picked up a case of beer, from which I proceeded to donate refreshments to a couple thirsty members of Oakland fuzz rockers Drunk Horse as they hung out in the lobby. I also managed to make a fool out of myself by accosting Lee Ronaldo on the street. I rarely get star-struck, but he's just so freaking cool. I probably could have reunited with my buddies in Red Cedar and joined them in getting trashed with members of the defunct Vancouver bong-thrashers Bogus Tokus who had curated the festival, as well as Matt Pike and Al Cisneros of Sleep, (and High On Fire and Om respectively) who happen to be two of my personal heroes. But instead I showered and went to bed. Drag.

Friday morning saw us longhairs out in the hotel in force. We were harassed by security for taking advantage of the spa options available to us. Bunch of dirtbags we are!

Ah yes, the shows. We began with a workshop on unconventional guitar techniques led by Sonic Youth godhead Lee Ronaldo at an art speace down town. I suppose if you spend decades dedicating your life to expanding the vocabulary of an instrument you'll pick up a few tricks along the way, but what I witnessed was still astonishing. He began by playing some videos of various performances, then proceeded to unleash a 25 minute storm of sound that peeled paint from the walls, all the while never fretting a single note. Here is an example of the kind of stuff he was doing. It simply consisted of him exploring the properties of the instrument in every way except playing it normally. He bowed the strings, hit it body with his fists, played cell phone messages through the pickups, created feedback loops and fed everything through an array of warping devices only he could comprehend, the whole time coaxing unimaginable sounds from his instrument. It was a magnificent performance from one of the instrument's most idiosyncratic and daring practitioners.

Across town we dropped into a pub so crowded I could only stand in the doorway with the stage out of my line of sight. Fortunately, Dead Meadow are loud enough that I could have heard them playing from the Saddledome. The power trio's heady stomp can transport listeners to fantasy realms like few else, and guitarist Jason Simon is the wah-pedal's foremost practitioner today. Dude uses two... don't ask me why. Steve Kille meanwhile worked his bass aggressively in and out of Simon's clouds of sound, but was always right there when it was time to hammer the riff home. People have referred to their sound as being similar to shoegaze, and though their dense wall of fuzz owes much to volume abusers like the Spacemen 3 and My Bloody Valentine Dead Meadow's jams are too hot and aggressively psychedelic to sink into stoned lethargy, despite what the band's detractor's often claim. The many layers of sound that the listener must penetrate are a sonic signifier for the band, but the musicianship here is top notch. Simon and Kille are master jammers, constantly exploring every colour suggested by their deceptively simple phrases and while pummeling the heaviest of riffs. They did a set loaded with old favourites, probably because they've recently been rejoined by original drummer Mark McLaughlin, and were in peak form throughout. Those guys bring it on stage all the time, every time.

I saw C'mon later in the afternoon on the main stage, and though I am not familiar with them, I was impressed. The power trio did a raging take on biker rock that served as a good accompaniment for beers in the afternoon. They were raw, powerful and sludgy, although perhaps they betrayed a bit of a lack of melodic inspiration. The songs did become samey after a while, but their set was short, powerful and enjoyable, ending before there was time for monotony to become apparent. A good, rockin' take on hard boogie that is seldom re-visited in this day and age.

Vancouver metal gods Bison hit the stage to entertain a small but enthusiastic crowd that happily lapped up the band's sludgy thrash. As usual, this band proved themselves a force of nature onstage, and is truly in a league with any metal band going right now. This is my first time seeing them since they got a new drummer, (they remain on friendly terms with the original skin-basher, who could be seen happily watching the set from the side of the stage) and there has been a noticeable tightening-up of their sound. The new guy looks completely psychotic while playing, another bonus. Where once these heshers added a good dose of groove to their metal, they now employ a more rigid and straight forward metallic attack. If anything, they've become more brutal, but they have not lost the crushing hyper riff attack and ability to downshift into gutpunching chugging rhythms that has always been their trademark. The solos from both lead guitarists were creative and intense, and the hardcore-influenced gang vocals full-throated and powerful. The set was comprised of songs from their last 2 excellent albums, Quiet Earth and Dark Ages, and the superiority of their material was immediately apparent. An excellent band that continues to develop its singular voice organically, these guys should continue to rupture ear drums for many years to come.

I'm not exactly a huge fan of the Buzzcocks, but they do have a handful of songs I enjoy. It's cool that such a legendary punk band would come to Calgary, but truth be told they seemed a little out of place amid all the heavies on the bill. Still, the crowd seemed happy to pogo along to crunchy pop-punk classics like "What Do I Get" and "Ever Fallen In Love." There were a few missteps in the set, making the band come off as under-rehearsed. Sharing a stage with so many younger, hungrier and more technically accomplished bands threw these mishaps into sharper relief, but the guys got over on enthusiasm and seemed to really be enjoying themselves. Aside from Pete Shelley, I have no idea how many members were from the classic late '70s lineup, so its possible there were some new members still getting comfortable with the set. Still, they did all the songs I had hoped to hear from them and delivered a totally satisfactory and enjoyable performance.

Texan myth-metal warriors The Sword hit the stage next, and their bludgeoning attack prompted a violent moshpit reaction from some members of the crowd. Unfortunately, their set was heavy on material from their most recent album, the disappointing Warp Riders. The disparity in quality between it and their first two albums was made even more apparent onstage. The set therefore came across as disjointed, as excellent fantasy themed sludge metal classics like "Freya", "Iron Swan" and "Black River" were interspersed with completely unmemorable dross. The performances were tight though, so even poor songs were somewhat enjoyable, and I must note that the bassist was intensely eye-fucking every member of the audience like vintage Nikki Sixx. Here's hoping these guys come through with some better songs on their next go-around.

I'll deal with Sleep's set in another essay. It was the best show I've ever seen.

Quest For Fire had the unenviable task of playing right after Sleep at a cramped underground venue across the street from the main stage. It was apparent that the band was doubly disappointed with their slot, because they clearly would have liked to have been at the Sleep show themselves. Nonetheless, they worked hard to put on a solid show, and their hazy psych builds served as a good come down from the relentless heaviness of Sleep. The crowd grooved as the band's crescendo-laden set ebbed and flowed. At times their fuzzy atmospherics did get a little faceless, a problem the Toronto quartet has on record, but for the most part an enjoyable show.

A friend and I ducked out of the venue to grab some air and a slice of pizza, but when we got back the venue was full, so we missed out on seeing Portland booze rockers Red Fang. That didn't really bother me, as I met up with some good friends, and we spent the rest of the night swigging red wine and reflecting on Sleep's astonishing set. A perfect end to what might be the greatest day of my life.

I left for home the following day, but not before paying a visit to Sloth Records, a great little store with a whole bunch of 80s underground and alternative rock, plus a pretty healthy selection of Hawkwind vinyl to boot.

Departure

I'm going to the Sled Island music festival in Calgary. Gonna catch a bunch of wicked bands, including a reformed Sleep and the Buzzcocks. Updates when I return.

Memorial

June 6, 1944. D-Day. Here is a small musical tribute in the form of Iron Maiden's "The Longest Day" dedicated to the brave men who charged into the grey mists that fateful morning 67 years ago today.

Film

"What's wrong with a mom on acid?"
- Hippie girl in line for a Stones show wondering why the state took her baby away

I'm watching the Stones' long-lost documentary "Cocksucker Blues." I say long-lost because the thing has been the subject of a bizarre ruling which only makes it legal for a person to view the film if the director is actually present. There's some tasty live sequences and a bit of interesting footage of the traveling circus that was the Stones' life around the release of Exile On Mainstreet. For the most part the footage just hangs together without much context or narrative to hold it together. As a behind-the-scenes look at the debauchery of the Stones, it has its uses. Personally it seems to me like the film pulls some punches though... I mean I think the Stones' life off camera would have been similar, just with more blowjobs and shooting up.

The copy I downloaded cuts to a TV performance of Blue Cheer doing Albert King's "The Hunter" after the movie is over. Cool.

Anthropology

Sonic's Rendezvous Band are the great "should have been" of the mid 70s. The were the best band in America at a time when their former neighbors and tourmates like Grand Funk, Alice Cooper and Ted Nugent were all either burnt out or sinking into sad self parody (Well, the Nuge at least was still rocking it despite the silliness of the loincloth). Led by the MC5's mighty lead guitarist Fred "Sonic" Smith, the band was a haven for veterans of Detroit's burnt out rock scene of a few years earlier. With an unstoppable secret weapon in the form of the Stooges' "Rock Action" Scott Asheton holding down the kit and members of Michigan also-rans the Up and the Rationals rounding out the lineup, SRB pounded out a furious uptempo brand of rock n' roll that was equal parts motor city traditionalism and boundless proto-punk energy. Their whiplash raveups served as a launching pad for Smith's serrated guitar histrionics, and damned if the man didn't take every opportunity to remind a dwindling rock audience of the sheer power and excitement of the electric guitar.

Unfortunately, thanks to a series of bad breaks that left them with a virtually invisible historical profile and a scant recorded legacy, the band met an ignominious end some time in the early '80s amid drug abuse and critical as well as popular indifference. Their only commercial release during their lifetime was the astonishing "City Slang" single, which was pressed with the same song on both sides because the band only had enough cash to mix one track. But what a legacy! This song is an absolute barn-burner. The unstoppable momentum of the track comes courtesy of the aforementioned mister Asheton, who it must be said knew a thing or two about making a rock song move. Meanwhile, Smith goes head over ass soloing throughout the whole thing. The breakdown in the middle is so perfectly placed that it would simply be a crime against sound not to milk it for all it's worth and take off on an incendiary jam section in the song's second half. In concert they were known to push it to upwards of nine minutes in length, pretty incredible for the energy level sustained throughout. Tragically, the few bits of recorded music that do exist have been tied up in legal battles between various partners, including the now-deceased Smith's estate and they never legitimately saw the light of day.

Fortunately for us, this is the 21st Century, and you can download an extensive collection of bootlegs and studio outtakes recorded between 1975 and 1980 that has mysteriously made its way onto the cyberweb. I believe it was an unlicensed boxed set compiled by who knows in 2006, but the details are sketchy, and good luck ever finding it in an HMV. So really we are left with one option, those of us who require a mainline of the most potent Detroit rock n' roll. If you always thought the MC5's Kick Out The Jams was the only proper way of hearing the 'Five and that their studio albums were pale attempts at FM gold by burnt-out radicals high on the politics of the day, you'll be pleasantly surprised to know that the collection of SRB recordings available to you far surpasses Smith's more heralded band in quality and quantity. Imagine if you will about a dozen sides that not only kick out the jams, but permanently revoke their membership, roughly heave them out the door, and beat them up in the alley with a sock full of pennies. Go and download it all now. Don't worry, I'll wait.

Now I don't condone theft of people's intellectual property or copyright infringement. But, I do condone incredible rock n' roll. Come on guys, get your shit together. Clean up the masters, press 'em to vinyl and slap a price tag on it.

It makes me wonder just how many other great, unrecorded bands there could be out there. Food for thought. How many songs have been recorded for record companies who, for one reason or another, left their young charges twisting in the wind. How many face-melting live performances never went recorded? How many bands never even saw the inside of a studio? Record companies -- Open the vaults please! Come on, you're not going to use this shit. Stick it on the web and make it free. Ha ha, I know, I know. But seriously, get the SRB stuff out there at least. Us junkies will happily part with our hard-earned dollars.

Waves

Radio has failed music fans utterly. It should be the most important medium for exposing listeners to new music. Unlike listening to records or mp3 players, radio is not a closed medium. It is free, and accessible to virtually anyone. As a transmitter of culture, it is irreplaceable.

Unfortunately radio has spent the last half century dissolving into a vile steaming puddle of toxic afterbith. Radio stations do not sell music, but air time. The more time they can sell to advertisers (which they make money off of) and the less time they spend playing music (which they must pay for) the more successful they will become. Radio stations want to attract the largest possible share of the marketplace, and therefore will attempt to play things that will attract the largest amount of listeners. In many cases this means getting a hold of a few well-liked radio personalities who then make prank calls, donate prizes and shoot the shit into a microphone during rush hour to basically eat up airtime and do anything they can to avoid playing any music at all.

Many people who love and care about music get into radio stations with the best of intentions. The problem is that the machine is so big, these people don't have the power to change anything. They get jobs handling stations in backwater outposts with limited listenership until they land a gig with a major station and get to sit at a console and listen to music that is played automatically by a robotic playlist that is compiled by a pre-determined radio format that has been market researched to appeal to a core demographic in the local market. Very few musical decisions are made at all. The real decisions are made by the bean-counters who have an eye on the bottom line, and no one that I know has ever asked an accountant about good music. Gone are the days of a pioneering DJ like a John Peel who had the freedom to play whatever he wished and still be guaranteed an audience.

Radio has become more homogenized than ever before. In the 60's there were regional hits from obscure groups that could get picked up and go national with the support of local stations. Virtually unknown and stridently uncommercial groups like Blue Cheer, the Barbarians, The Sonics, the 13th Floor Elevators and The Monks had hits very early in their careers. Now there is almost no chance of a local group of unknowns getting airtime without getting the backing of known management and distribution. At one time, radio stations were independently owned, and thus only needed to respond to the needs of their local listenership. Today, there is no law against a private entity buying up as many radio stations as it wants. In the U.S., Clear Channel now owns the majority of commerical radio stations and also holds a staggering 99.9% if the stations in the top 250 markets. This means that we are hearing the same songs over and over again. There is no diversity, no outside voices, no alternatives. Oh wait, yes there are... you just have to turn away from radio to find them.

Moreover, payola still exists. All the major labels do it, but they are more clever about it than in the days of Alan Freed. Major label artists get the most airtime not because they are the best, but because they have the largest promotional budgets behind them. In fact, all the major labels have at one time or another been forced to pay significant fines due to violations of the current broadcasting laws. Of course, they can (or could) afford it, and it boosted their sales enough to cover their expenditures. Major labels also spend exorbitant amounts of cash and influence to convince lawmakers to altar government policy in order to make such activity legal. That was before then internet allowed musicians and fans to circumvent not only the major labels, but also the technological barricade that radio had artificially created in the past several decades.

It should come as no surprise that a generation of kids are turning off the radio. When I was young I listened to the radio constantly, beginning with the local top 40 station (and I still have an enormous database of 1994-1997 dance pop hits stored away in my memory banks) and then moving on to rock stations and later college stations as I grew older and my music tastes changed. But once it became possible to download music, I turned away from the dull, formulaic pablum of the radio industry. I got tired of hearing the same songs by the same bands at all times. I also got tired of the digitally frosted, ultra-compressed sound of modern radio rock, wherein musicianship is made secondary to the auto-tuned chorus and vocal effects that are pushed way up in the mix. I suspect I'm not the only one.

Lately I've been considering a career in Radio. Maybe its naive of me to think I can affect change. I'm not really that idealistic anyways though, I think I could make a living while having a good time. Maybe I can be a sports broadcaster or something. I mean, I might love music, but I doubt very much a job at a radio station will allow me to convey what I like to listeners.

Jerusalem - Jerusalem

Band: Jerusalem
Album: Jerusalem
Label: Deram
Year: 1972

Say, do you supernauts like heavy, overdriven riffage roaring out of vintage '70s stacks with balls-out soloing all over it? Do you think that nobody has ever truly done justice to the creeping dread of early Sabbath? Do you frequently get disappointed by supposed "lost treasures" of seventies hard rock when they turn out to be high fantasy prog-flute suites in the manner of Jethro Tull? Do you like music that sounds like it was recorded in a cathedral cemetary? Should a lead singer ever wear a shirt?

Give Jerusalem's "Primitive Man" a listen. This melting soundscape of brutally fuzzed-out bass and harsh, bellowing rock god vocals is less funky than Grand Funk and gets more medieval on your ass than Argus-era Wishbone Ash.

Now rendered little more than a footnote in proto-doom history thanks to a few dudes from California, Jerusalem crawled out of the primordial muck of the early '70s and laid one platter of arcane sludge on us grateful acolytes and promptly sank back in. If they can be said to have a claim to fame, it is that Ian Gillam produced the record. I admire his taste, because this record trumps Tony Iommi's similar pet project, Necromandus. Orexis of Death and many other albums that I have come across in my search for holy truth carry legends that are often much heavier than their riffs.

Thankfully, Jerusalem delivers a good dose of gothic atmosphere along with its miles of heavy droning crunch, as that crusader cover indicates. "Hooded Eagle" is a nimble crusher with enough instrumental twists and turns to pull in prog rock enthusiasts but never wimps out. Deeply indepted to the devastating power of Sabbath and the stark tension of ofter British rockers, Jerusalem would point the way towards future magickal chyldren like Pagan Altar and Witchfinder General, as well as the over the top myth metal of the NWOBHM variety as demonstrated by Maiden and Priest. Nothing here ever gets overly polished or technical, the sound is raw, and the musicians are naive enough to try and fail to pull off moves they've swiped from better bands. Their boundless energy and sheer dedication to tearing down cathedral spires elevates the material, and occasionally as on the stomping "She Came Like A Bat From Hell," they catch a shot of divine inspiration with a memorable hook too. Give this a listen and you'll be riding off on a charmed steed to Antioch to slay infidels on the morrow.