Gone M.I.A. and Fearing D.T.s

Hello Children,

Our dear friend Tully Kinch, that guy with the strange obsession with Octopi (or perhaps, as I suspect, irregular plural nouns) has gone missing, disappeared, been replaced by a thick sphere of present absence.

If anyone has any information as to his whereabouts, please email, post a comment, or take out an add in the back pages of your favourite free weekly newspaper.

If anyone is directly responsible for his disappearance, as in kidnapping or eloping, or have been incidentally been broadcasting Psychedelic Furs, Ultravox or Magazine albums at super high frequencies, well, watch your fucking backs, we have hounds and many samples of Mr. Kinch's intimate articles of under-clothing, and we are hungry and desperate.

Until his return, I bid you refrain from giving directions to strangers and consuming any kirsch, as Tully is known to impersonate both to disastrous ends.

I presumptively thank you for your concern, prayers and potted jam,

Mikhail Poshlost Borginsky

Find Tully Kinch Now and Associates Enterprise.

Founder, Director and Assistant Craft Services

Strange Animals from Planet Toronto

Bantered about here:
Anagram
The Creeping Nobodies

Let's pretend money is no object, and do the make-believe thing as if concerts tickets never sold out (or that Tully here has a permanent privilege guest pass for any show he damn well wants to attend). Then Saturday night may have proved a curious quagmire for the live rock n roll heat seeking party zombie/corner lurker that I am (with wimpy digi-cam to boot). Let's see, Blonde Redhead, Arcade Fire, Peaches… Fuck it, said I, and went straight to the Zoobizarre for some of Toronto's finest and noisiest (and had oh-so much extra cash to spend on beer).

I made the right choice, and the bruises prove it.

Anagram came on like the drunken, coked up, older brother of a June bride at her wedding to some plaid-panted square working as an investment cranker (and whom the bride thought was a total piss-headed loser back in high school when he picked his nose and played Seinfeld trivia at lunch). Read: 'in your face' literally, with lead man's circling antics and mock poses as he chanted on a drone of commands somewhere between Ian Curtis and a Buddhist on speed. There was that cold disdain for key changes and chord progression that sends any radio whore to the STD clinic in a throb. Was that a fucking Saxophone? Like Stooges/Birthday Party saxophone, Fucking A yeah! This gig was so hoped up on incessantly repetitive euphoria and anti-pop attitude I had to cry in the bathroom afterwards for like, two minutes, as I shamelessly stickered it up to cheaply boost my ego.

Having recovered with the help of buying shots for two Aussie dive-bar twins (anything for a smile), the procession banged on punctually with The Creeping Nobodies. At first I was apprehensive about getting too close to the stage. While drawn forth by nuclear build-ups of dissonance, not to mention a cut-cute keyboardist whom I was checking out all night, unbeknownst to me she was in the fucking band (oh shame Tully), something about the singer's Columbine-esque style of looming and leering kept me to the wall like I was at some sort of Nazi spin-the-bottle party. But, I now know this to be just the nervous reaction they sucked up, for before long the fear turned to frenzy, bordered on frolic, and u-turned into no-shit seizure-ly phantasmal-fun, like crack fun. How to turn freak lines of guitar, bass, keys and voice into the equivalent of being sexually assaulted in an Ontario sewer? How to have a heart attack in anticipation experinecing mass, condemned architectural ejeaculations? Shit, don't ask me, it's just a metaphor kids (and quite non-sense at that). Review: good, like sucker-punching somebody in the gut good, like great.

Today I breath well, feeling generally coddled for being able to gush sincerely about one of the awesomest ten-buck-or-less rock parties in a while. But don't get too cocky T-Dot, lest I may have to clear some space in my kitchen and turn it into a co-op living share for your exiled under-grounders to come reside and keep me air-guitaring. A Co-op? Ha! The profit would be all mine.

Blink Blinkblink: (a)Rousing Digital Unease

Sit down, anywhere, and listen. When I tell you to, look. Tully was out, and wants to share with you a priveliged experinece called "Primary Colours" scored and tweeked by the seemingly elusive, yet actually amiable, Blink Blinkblink.

Dear Tully found himself at The Mile End Cultural Center/Main Hall. The ground was forested with chairs, not locked, but in-strategically positioned in a curious theater motif: early signals of unconventionality? (considering the first set was supposed to take place in pitch black). Us children sat edged forward and square shouldered, staring at the stage, where Blink Blinkblink loomed like a cross between a dystopian fascist god and paranoid circuit-switchboard operator channeling amphetamine devotion and chocolate wired nightmares.

Translating an audio/visual experience into a linguistic one is always a highly metaphorical activity. In the case of last night's experience, technically accurate descriptions would look like a binary code representation of a Barely Legal centerfold: sure there are erected Ones and womb-like Zeros, but no hint of dewy flesh--a discreet corner or conspiring crevice that inexplicably becomes the focal point of attention and arousal. Speaking of rousing and arousing, time to put away the porn.

Blink Blinkblink's audio-scape was a short-circuit super-charged metaphore. Imagine a zoo, but instead of animals, this zoo housed computers, electronics, stereo equipment, printers, circuit breakers, and maybe even some primitive robots (now there's a moronic ox). During the daytime, parents push their little offshoots around, watching the caged beasts do their thing ("Look dear, it's scanning, feed it a page of daddy's Barely Legal"). But this show is not the family tour--the bright, gaping, enthused gush of of turnstile-happy visitors. No, I am a lone night-watchmen, with suspiciously cute cap and uniform, extended flashlight, and caffeinated vibrations. The zoo at night is not quite silent, it breathes, and dreams (especially the scanner). Here is an old PC drooling bits of giga-liva (drop, clank). There, a mixing board arching its toggle switches, cracking its wire (rrrrr...). There is an unease as I am on my own but not quite alone. Something is stirring, and every step or breath I take I fear the sounding alarm of digital revolutions, and my own vainglorious demise in a grumpy old shredder. This is how I can describe the first part of the show.

The second part saved the crowd's impending doom and awkward glances by throwing up some colour on the wall: primarily primary, but I am no artist. Needless to say this solved the paranoid enigma of whom to ogle and where to stare. Soundwise, think of a desperate house beat so muffled it seemed like an entire island rave had been kidnapped, beaten, bagged, boxed and thrown into an attic where it must feed on its own sweat and vibrations to remain vital (oh so vital). As the sounds broke through, so did the disjointed voices, just maybe preempting the uneasy attempt so many like myself would have in describing what we just experienced. If sight and sound can never be directly transformed into words, Blink Blinkblink just sucks up language into his program--a de-evolutionary trip from symbols into the imagination, where meaning becomes just another space-jet for effect.

(shit, this is way too long, sorry kids)

Upping the Frequency With Broadcast Radio

Montreal has bands, yes, and we have venues, and we have condensed hordes of twitching kids who don't need big heaving radio stations dictating what band to see at what venue. Another thing we have is independent record labels, and now one more of those with the recent genesis of Upp Records. On a privileged behest, Tully left his kitchen to head over to Club Lambi for a show with The Coloured Lights, Holler, Wild Rose!, and Broadcast Radio. The first and last of the aforementioned outfits also include founders of the label itself. How fitting, considering my strange attraction to all forms of vanity (this blog, anyone?). But forget not, children, that indy is short for independent, and not, as most think, indecent.

Ok, so first, let me confess that I did not expect the first band, The Coloured Lights, to come on at like 9:30 (It's Friday, Come On!). So I missed them--too bad since some other little reviewer compared them to The Magnetic Fields, gods of Cabaret Rock. Well, their tracks on MySpace sound cool. Some other time perhaps?

New York's Holler, Wild Rose! took the stage to a sadly vacant arena. I suppose the awkwardness was emphasized by the singer's mid-songs banter ('singing' is not the species of the genus 'talking'). But I must say, it always takes guts to be unknown, in a foreign (and sometimes harshly pretentious and judgmental) city, and to play a set of moody, slow-scape tracks, with guitar and keyboards melting together like Sambuca ice drops, and Jeff Buckley channeled vocals, supported by some truly awesome singer-gasm faces. If I was a better photographer you would have an idea.

Soon after, to slightly less a sparsity, Broadcast Radio stationed themselves up high, handsomely led by front man Nick Backovic (pictured right). These guys play with the confident ease of a band who does not expend all their energy on simply standing out like a gangrened thumb. I see them in their first jam session making lists of bands who either inspire, or nauseate them, then just saying 'fuck it', light the list on fire, and go with what sounds right and feels fuzzy. There is a certain timelessness if one's conception of time begins in 1992. As an alt-pop-rock outfit, it fits loose around the waist and tight around the shoulders. For sum's sake, I'll say these guys are first and foremost authentic songsters, which means exactly what it sounds like: it is not an act or a show as much as a succession of well-hooked verse to versity. Forthright Huzzahs to them for scoring a gig in ol' Albion (London, England). I am sure they will there be mistaken for home-towners as long as they speak solely through their song.

How To Pet Your Pet Japanther

In this attempt at writing:
dd/mm/yyy,
Matt & Kim,
Japanther

Montrealers feel a strange seduction for the Canidae family, especially the wolf (evidenced by such monikers as Wolf Parade, Aids Wolf, We Are Wolves). So when Brooklyn, NYC exports north the Feline duo, Japanther, I decided to hit the zoo (wow Tully, that was a lame opener, how are the career applications going?).

Wednesday night I fed and read to my octopi (some Mark Twain, some Cracked Magazine), polished my shoes and social skills, collected some spare change from underneath my neighbor's bed (she's a heavy sleeper and I had a spare oxygen tank) and headed over to Club Lambi to get a little rock n' roll out of my system, thickening the air. The lineup was oh so generous, the crowd: blood-ready for the take.

dd/mm/yyyy (pronounced 'Day Month Year' according to some of the more literary types) got things a-startin' to a dance floor that was more like a screen for some kind of gaping mouth machine. Perhaps it was early, more likely we just didn't know when to start our headbanging, when to switch to foot-stomping, and whether to hug or shiv our neighbors. It was that kind of frenetic post-baroque dyst-operetta which I am sure an upping of nocturnal drunkenness would turn things all noise-a-rama insanity. Below is the weakest of my petty pic-taking (but it doesn't get that much better, so enjoy the writing kids).

Question: what puts an awkward smile on Tully's stretched mug? Is it cute girls with bigger smiles and wildly expansive stick swinging tattooed arms? Is it endearingly nerdy pitched and overwhelmed keyboard talky-talky singers who perpetually act like they are a guest over for afternoon tea?
The Answer is one part each and a good dash of hopscotch synth tunes beaten down by thick and unequivocally confident battery bashing. This is Matt & Kim (poorly pictured below). Chase it down with shocky-hand robot dancing and grab somebody's love handles until they bruise (in a good way). I told Kim, whose name I knew personally, to come back and do another show and that she and Matt can have my apartment as long as they pull their weight and learn to use my Swiffer. But seriously, I love them both, oh so much.

Following the Brooklyn twosome routine was the main event, the Yes Cats, Japanther. Whereas M & K's sound of drums and keyboard fit the description, these two guys managed to exude a samurai trickery of attack, and I kept looking over my shoulder for another guitar or bass player hiding in the crowd, ready beat someone over the head with pure dissonant madness. They were definitely not the "we are just doing what we are told" types, but the kind of mad scientists who watch with grinding glee as their subject's writhe in jerky orgasmic pain. (I should add, again, that I mean everything in a good way, a very good way). They paused not, questioned naught, and went straight for the jugular. Picture taking can be a real pain in the fucking colon when you just have to dance and thrash. If you don't keep moving, you will suffocate. It was that kind of show, and today, the bruises prove it.

Wordless, Worldless, Payless

Hi, how are you, I am fine, well, not really. I have been wordless since my attempted recovery from the weekend's debaucheries. I would have liked to share some dixie tales with you, dear children, but alas, my memory must have been left in the girl's bathroom stall with my pride and sack of drugs. I also wanted to do a write up on the Modest Mouse show with Man Man opening from last Wednesday, but have been unmotivated, and besides, I was unable to score some super cool dig-images, thanks to girly girl cameras and jerk-off, cross-armed sheep blocking my (and my viewfinder's) view. So I shall just say that MoMo rocked, as usual, with Isaac Brock's foot-stomping anger scratching over otherwise jolly good dance-time melodies.

A very special note goes out to Man Man, they rocked my world and dampened my undergarments, they fed the poor and fondled the livestock, they bled the leeches and sutured the pot holes, they (more absurd blabla) etc. Here is a very cropped and brightened attempt at my rock photography. Cheers, and perhaps I shall see some of you at the Japanther show tomorrow night. Please, say hi and I will buy you a shot of vodka.

Bow To Your Priestess

Secret shows make one feel special. So when headquarters contacted me about a secret Priestess show going down at The Barfly, I put all considerations of personal health (indigestion) and security (anonymous threats to my leather jacket) in my toaster oven, set to keep warm, and braved my way to a remote Duluth depanneur to meet my contact for the procurement of my secret access key, cleverly disguised as a guitar pic.

Priestess is already a favourite of the Montreal metal/hard core/ brass tacks-fuck you rock, whatever, and it would be pointless for me to whip up some show-review jargon when all I want to say is that it was loud, fast and dreamy (if you dream of devil orgies and giant man-eating rib steaks terrorizing New Jersey or Caracas). I caught a few tracks of the opener, The Binges, more old school than the Priestess, but not quite Slaughter, in a good way. Got to mention how they do have the sexiest axe section ever. The crowd, contrary to popular belief (but not surprising considering Montreal is always a loyal opposition to popular imagination) was not a uniform of tight jeans and long hair, and so Tully went unnoticed and unscathed. Whether hipster, metal head, or creepy loner, every lucky freak was part of the clandestine ceremonies on this rarest of Tuesday nights.Until next time,
I shall forever remain,
Tully Kinch

Think About Life: Straight from the Horses Mouth

What do you do when you’re overtaken by flu, bronchitis or Victorian consumption fever? You freak out a Sala Rosa crowd with serious, unforgiving pound-rock until they’ve fallen fever-frenzied (alliteration, ha!). Think About Life’s gig on Sunday certainly did not feel like hot lemon tea and teddybear-pelt blankets, let alone hallucinatory vomit sessions, even though singer Dishwahser’s super-horse voice testified to illness warranting cuddling sessions with Standard American and Tim Leary. What lacked in vocals was paid for generously in love, and sweat, and guttural beats.

A bit on the openers. Entered the scene during Bold Saber, a soda-fizz trio of quirky ironic non-rock, tv-ad jingle beat with that Raf guy from The Mirror/Vice on drums. The keyboardist cuted me out with her lazy, rolled-eyed and tossed-head backup vocals (not to mention the outfit), and in all, their silly songs were the ones we liked the best.



Crystal Clyffs next. I think the singer once coldly served me an over-topped pizza and pricey pitchers at some joint on deMaisonneuve near ConU. Listening, I thought Siouxsie Sioux, but the Banshees has been beat up by a pretty top 90s raw punk outfit. For me, the drummer's hyperbolic style overshadowed the singer's sporadic dance attempts, but a solid step towards the main event.







I am not gone spin more rock-review banter about Think About Life, just say, after seeing their name about and finally heading out to hear them, well,l I want to them to play again soon, in full vocal force, and me twice as drunk, and without having to be an obnoxious digi-photo-taker. There was some of the hardest dancing I have ever witnessed in the first six rows of Sala Rosa. Hope you like the shots and footage anyhow, and appreciate my sacrifices; I am especially pleased with the crowd-surfing money shot.

Gone The Way of MySpace

Quick word ere I post my review of last night's rawk show at Sala:

Tully has gone to MySpace and set up a little tent where he hopes some friends will come on in and listen to his stories and shuffle through his photo albums, and hopefully, generate more interest back here, in the Octopus Kitchen.

Check it out and drop a line, here.

Plastik Swank and Hot Patrol

Good Sunday children,

I feel my writing is slightly unhinged today, and that my comical non-sense may expire if I don't keep things curt. You, my dear friends, were all very beautiful this weekend, as I commented to a chum of mine named Scissor Boy, "It's like they put up checkpoints at the borders of the Plateau to check for valid attractive passports and keep out rippled flesh and equine mugs", but not in those words.

Plastik Patrick: aside from his swank mix-ups of new wave, retro rock, 90s dorm-room jams and contem-pop dance-distortion foot-stomping sweetness, he is also really sexy, no matter what your proclivity. He let one of my ambassadors, named Bea Leroux, snap some photos at his Friday night gig at Saphire on the Main.

Stay tuned for more of the party when I feel like it, but not before.

Yours forever,
Tully

McGill, Higher Education, and a Sunny 420 Day

Tully has a headache, and he must have swallowed the trapeze act of a flea circus on hormone pills, for he has taken to writing in the third person. Last night's dance party must have been something for he awoke wearing ballet slippers, snug and protected in the great paws of a polar bear reading Mark Twain stories out loud.

Yesterday was 420 day, its like V-Day for dreadlocked McGillians on break from Rule The World 101 class. Engineering talent was put to the test with a supposed gravity bong so heavy it took the McGill Red Men Rugby team to hoist up the chamber and some unlucky sod to suck up a semester's worth of grants and remain trapped inside a bag of Doritos for the remainder of the weekend. Sorry, nonsense just seems to flow on this too-bright morning.Hope everyone has plans to spend some part of this weekend outdoors, because like the title of this post says, it is sunny, oh so sunny, and the rays are like telegrams from the Soviets asking for Perestroikan swaps of hot dogs, malted milk machines, and loads of great green smoking grass.

Self-Clit-Stim Part Deux

Ok, Friday night and I am waiting for an invitation to a party. It's not too late if you would like a guest Tully cameo in your living room, provided you have copious booze and drugs and rated NC 17 conversation to keep me stimulated.

Speaking of stimulated, I just wanted to add a follow up to my Films with Female Masturbation Scenes post by letting you know that IMDb (god praise) has a 'key word' option, and "Female Masturbation' is just one of those keys. Check out the list here.

And why the Polar Bear tongue shot you may ask? Use your imaginations children, they have yet to be corrupted by prime-time rationality.

"Shower Nozzle Masturbation Material"

Good eve,

I compile lists for fun; sometimes alone in my head when I should be concentrating on what my shrink is saying, sometimes when I am volunteering at the Neurological Institute. There are rare occasions where I find random 'others' to help me. The other day, or month, whatever, I was compiling a list with a sexy 'other' I had met in a coat check closet at some swanky massage club. The topic of the list was: Films with Female Masturbation Scenes. We didn't get too far, so I thought I would let you, my friends, help flesh out this bare bone lust- I mean list.

1) Mulholland Drive
2) The Draughtsman's Contract
3) Even Cowgirls Get the Blues
4) Haute Tension
5) Secretary
6) Shortbus

7) Being There

If you can add to the list, do so, or not, whatever. For anyone that can contribute, and lives in the Montreal vicinity, and has a copy of said DVD with specific scene, and would like to make Tully here a copy, I will buy them a shot of vodka at the Miami bar on Tuesday between midnight and closing. Anyways, hooray for circular thumb pressing and random direction reversals. And as always, huzzah to the shower head; feels as good in one's hand as my peace.

Lets hope this weekend brings much scandal,

Tully

I am - Imitating My Drunken Stepfather in Order to Get his Attention

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, well, this one could get me at least 1500. The Rogue Sticker Campaign continues, stay tuned children.

Feel My Pulse

For those worried about my absence, let me assure, I am alive and well, and thank you for your concern. I don't have much to say, and am running out of time before I appear in front of the firing squad. I include here a random picture for the sake of imagery. Let us all regress back from the symbolic order into the hall of mirrors. I think the above picture accurately portrays my overall sense of persecution. It was drawn by Kafka, the eternal symbol of waiting in endless lines in front of closed doors.

Rogue Sticker Campaigning

Good After,

The first weekend of my rogue sticker campaign has ended. A couple of bathrooms, smoke boxes, Vagrant's shopping carts, baby's foreheads, etc. They are actually labels and not stickers, but that distinction is moot for all but industry insiders and other paper enthusiasts (see Dan Kennedy's advice column). If you saw one, you may have been in the same place as me, lucky you. Some fortunately beautiful women may have been approached by one of my ambassadors to label up a ladies room, you know who you are. I am much obliged to the good folks at Datamark Systems for turning a blind eye while I snuck in and illegally used their Zebra printing machine (and helped myself to free coffee and stole a few rolls of toilet paper, etc.). All for now, keep your eyes open and your palms up.Yours,

Tully

The Underground Metropolis

How do? Hopefully not too late, I here attempt to do the whole 'concert review thing' whatever that is supposed to be, and to tell a tale of restricted access and exclusionary privilege. Here we go:

I eschewed my parents invitation for a real dinner (with courses and sides) to get to the Metropolis early enough to see Elvis Perkins in Deerland, the opening act. A good friend of mine named Telo Luck told me to wait in the lobby of the venue where we would meet and he would casually walk me past security for free. Now you know Tully to be quite modest and humble, sometimes to the point of a schoolgirl blushy-ness, so any special treatment in front of gushing young hipsters is sure to stroke my ego bone. Ya, it felt cool, and admitting that is cathartic, especially in the face of predominant too-cool-to-care emotional ground tones. Fuck it; and I saved the cash to boot.

Tully Kinch: You want a beer?
Telo Luck: Ya, sure.
Tully: God damn Molson products. We should spare our constitutions and splurge the extra buck for Heineken. At least it's in a green bottle.
Telo: Mmmmm, green bottle.
[Telo and Tully shift awkwardly by the bar waiting for attention like good little children]
Telo: Let's go backstage. We can grab our own green bottles for free.

And so me and Telo crossed into the underground passage on our way to seek green bottles in green rooms. Here is the testament to our journey:











We made it, praise the powers that be. And I got the treat of seeing Elvis Perkins from the side of the stage, catching uncanny glimpses of Norman Bates (on whom I am supposed to be writing a paper today) rock soulfully sweet with a subtly textured voice. Telo was already a fan, and I think I may have to get the album, Ash Wednesday, quite soon. Noteworthy is Elvis' band: an eclectic composite of individual circles colliding and rupturing with the wax and wane of whatever particular intensity the song enlivens in the moment. I have a soft spot (somewhere on my hip) for upright basses, and especially gush over the giant marching bass drum dance routine.

And Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. Well, for this one I wanted to get back into the crowd, do a little dancing, bump into some cute girls (unintentionally, of course) and take some pictures. Some of the better ones I have already posted. My sissy digital camera doesn't really cut it, and I did not how to zoom. Midnight Poutine has got two great shots of the show (but not of the hory trio, see my pic below), and their blogger goes gonzo in highlighting the picture taking as central to the concert review itself. I guess we are all a little self-indulgent.

I danced, I hit the high notes on the top songs, I marvelled at how the singer, Alec Ounsworth kept the singing voice on when he talked (when, after hearing him chat backstage, I know to be part of the show, not that there is anything wrong with that). Though some mentioned the band seemed a little lacking in the enthusiasm sector, as compared with their Osheaga performance last year, the tunes themselves did not drag their tails across the stage. With equal attention paid to their super hot first album and their still-finding-its-bearings second album, nobody felt gypped of their hits. The surprise masked horn section song came like one of those unexpected, repetitive crescendos of a sound scape rock-a-thon, meaning it was awesome.

I have gone on too long, so I sum up in haste.
Show=rocked,
Elvis Perkins=keep your ears out for him,
Backstage Access=a strange place for a socially awkward anonymous blogger with no real reason to hang around except smoke cigarettes and act too cool to join any conversation but is, in truth, happy to not get booted out on the street.

Clap Your Hands Now, I Won't Rant

I have no time to write, and so I provide some pics to wet thine appetite. Believe thee me, there's a story here to tell, one that must wait until I am drunk enough to disregard fact from fiction.

Camera Obscura and Slow Irony

Morning children,

Did you know the word 'camera' comes from the Greek word 'kamara' which means 'chamber' or more plainly 'room'. 'Tis the the little room in which we enter to see the world through undying eyes--hidden, cold, and upside down. No worry however, a little mirror sets everything right. The mirror is the door out of the dark chamber and back into the world.

And a little irony: After my last rant on the excess of clapping one's hands, last night I attended the Clap Your Hands Say Yeah show at the Metropolis in Montreal. While I wanted to do a review, I realized it would be pointless without pictures, So I borrowed my sister's girly little digital Elph and set to it. Unfortunately, my computer does not have the necessary IN for the camera's memory OUT. The metaphor is sadly universal for me, same form, different content.

But hold on to your mother's hips and I shall get the goods up soon. Less Words, More Pictures. I give you my solemn vow (but please take good care of it).

À bientôt

Tully

Shut Your Vulgar Clap-Trap

Sad truth, but so: we are vulgar and uncouth. "Who are we Tully?" you ask, dear children. I don't know, Montrealers, Canadians, North Americans, Continental Americans, the sons and daughters of the old world, etc.

"Why the hostility, Tully?" Wellywellywell, sit down-no, not there, closer to me, yes, that's right, and I shall spin forth a web a tale of my week's doings, filled with the promise of enlightened culture, wrought with pathetic recognition of my fellow man and woman's primitive glee.

Harold Pinter recently won the Nobel Prize for literature, but trust me, I have been a fan long before the publicity train got-a-rollin-on. Nevertheless, there has been a resurgence of interest in his work (early work, that is, before he turned axe-wielding lefty pundit, not that there's anything wring with that) and us Montrealers bought our tickets for the train wreck of drama known as The Caretaker. I will not comment on the fact that the lead actor was replaced by a on-stage-script-reading understudy (more on that here), but would rather critique the behaviour of our dear audience.

Who the hell applauds between the acts? Is everyone so damn eager for intermission, smokes, drinks, pretentious banter, their hunched neighbor's senile interpretations, their powdered accomplices humble admittance of total ignorance of the menacing world of Pinteria, etc. People here just want to clap. Maybe they think that it demonstrates the fact that they aren't completely lost and unsettled ("It's nothing like Mambo Italiano, I don't understand"). If you do not know how the circle closes, don't swing the hoola-hoop, keep your hands to your sides or in your pockets (or through the holes therein). Oh for shame.

Part 2: Last night I went to the 'Big Concert Series' at the Place des Arts for some even deeper European tradition. Nagano conducts with simple enthusiasm, no Furtwangler, no Toscanini, and definitely not a Boulez (let alone Sir Neville Mariner), but capable and apt. The evening began with Rossini's 'William Tell Overture', always a crowd-pleaser, and calls to mind Alex rip-romping two teeny devochkas in super fast motion, enough to get any viewer short of breath and blood. But what should transpire during the main event, Wiggy Beethoven's Seventh? Well, guess it, entre les movements, more applause. Should we offer pre-concert workshops for the culturally impaired to prevent this rape and sacrilege? I remember during a performance of Tchaikovsky's 'Pathetic', some simian boor ripping open a clap attack in media movement, simply because the music had reached a serene and dusky interlude. In my petty fascist ideal state, he would be stripped, tarred and feathered--Old world charm at its best, nicht wahr?

Ok, so I admit to being a bit of a Europhile, easily seduced by cobblestone, sausage and arrogance. Chide me all you like, but please, save your comments (or applause) until after I speak my peace.

May Brings the Empire

Tully here,

First off, I have decided to forgo the entire reverse caps-lock charade in my titles. 'Twas novel till it was not, ho hum.

More importantly, I just received word from headquarters about the Montreal Premiere of David Lynch's newest mind-fucking-celluloid breakdown, INLAND EMPIRE. I have been reading with teeming envy all the message board posts at IMDb, avoiding spoilers like tofu burgers or syphilis, all those American big city brats who have had the pleasure of being torn apart by Herr Lynch-Mob. Finally, the madness is coming to the Cinema du Parc.I have been a huge fan of Lynch since I pretended to know things about obscure cinema and rented THE LOST HIGHWAY and watched alone in my parents' basement, and knew, just knew, that as much as I had no idea what the fuck just transpired on the screen of my tv box and retina, that I was forever deformed and tainted. Straight forward narratives were never the same, and I even caught myself trying to compose movie plots in my head that purposely made no sense. Needless to say, sophisticated as I have become, I now have learnt all kinds of hip and smart words like 'meta-narrative' and 'postmodernism' that keep Lynch's films paying off anew with every re-watch.

Alongside the new film, Cinema du Parc will also be showing a good slew of other Lynch masterpieces, as well as THE PERVERT'S GUIDE TO CINEMA, a documentary about Film and psychoanalysis hosted by the Monster of Pop Theory, and one of my personal favourites, Slavoj Žižek, the Giant from Ljubljana, the Marxist who loves shopping in Times Square, the man who brings Karl Marx and Groucho together, Bertolt Brecht and Mighty Mouse. This film is also scored by none other than Brian Eno, just piling on the pros and plusses , nicht wahr?Žižek loves Lynch, I love them both, point finale. Check out his books The Sublime Object of Ideology, and Enjoy Your Symptom, among others.

I am psyched and spent, see you in line, but leave the children at home.