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.

Fiery Echoes and Bunny Arcades

Good day children,

I thought I would open our lesson with something that a foreign uncle wrote to me in an email concerning one of Montreal's supposed most popular bands, The Arcade Fire. Writing that he had heard

"from [his] friend Kevin (Toronto) one of your [read: mine] local bands, Arcade Fire (silly name): 'Apparently the hottest band from Montreal. Heard a few good tunes on the radio...' Kevin added that they remind him of Echo and the Bunnymen and based on the 1 track I heard, I understood the similarity. Echo was a pretty darn good bad."

Primo, The name is not much, but ok, better than the standard 'The (plural noun)' or fragmented sentences or mild imperatives or personal declarations like 'Fear Before the March of Flames', 'Clap your Hands Say Ya', 'Yous Say Party! We Say Die!', 'Think About Life', or 'We are Wolves' (Montreal has an unhealthy relationship with lupine imagery, 'Aids Wolf', 'Wolf Parade', 'Teen Wolf', go figure, and Wolf is one of my original Heeby names, say Ze'Ev).

Secundo, I always wonder at the distinction between meaning that a band is one of the hottest bands now, and from Montreal, vs. a band being one of the hottest in Montreal. Yes, they may be Montreal's hottest export for now, but for my kessef, a local gem by the name of The Besnard Lakes (now that's a cacophonous moniker, but whatever) really rock the pants off this town, in their demonically atmospheric and psycho-tropical-cocktail manners.

Thirdly (my Italian stops there), Echo and the Bunnymen do rock hard, as hard as mid 80s rock can do. Don't get bogged down Ian McCulloch's vocal uncanniness to Sir Bono (may his neo-Jesus complex devour him whole), think more The Modern Lovers, The Magnetic Fields, Robyn Hitchcock, etc. Then again, speaking of band names, ummm... Bunnymen... ok?

Some fun facts: That cover version of The Doors' 'People are Strange' from Joel Schumacher's THE LOST BOYS (I think one of my first favourite films as an ugly little Jewish boy, damn those Coreys used to rule!), that E and the B men. You may also know their killer song 'Killing Moon' from the DONNIE DARKO soundtrack.

Lesson summary and further research, check out Echo's first album CROCODILES (1980), picture featured above, and their fourth album OCEAN RAIN (1984).

I shall now close with some further fun facts on my person, so as to simmer our awkwardly budding relationship and get you to scooch over closer to me on the settee. Let' see: I am tall, thin, almost blind, hearing is beginning to go, excellent with universal remote controls (part of my overall consolidating tendencies), hate talking on the telephone, prefer walking to running, dance frequently alone in my apartment, admire micro-fibres and would rather be a Vampire than Werewolf or Zombie.

What kind of monster are you?

Some Morning Piece of So-Called Writing

My Neighbor's dog is a howler, I have a paper to write, I forgot to cancel my appointment with my shrink for tomorrow, which means I will have to see Him and my parents in the same day. Though I couldn't sleep properly, still managed to stay in bed until now (11:00 am). One more thing, what is the protocol to actually get this page to appear on Google search. Maybe I need to post more pictures. Let us see what we have.

I Found this one on somebody else's blog, through some banal image search. Is this all I can ask for? It appears to be part of a poster for some Serbian Film Festival. I think the dudes on the left look like Hermann Gromek from Hitchcock's TORN CURTAIN, with Groovin' Paully Newman.


The other image? Sleeping Beauty or was it Snow White? Fairy tales are cruel but Disney is a gleeful, leather-masked snuff star with studded nipple rods and well trained Pluto's and Goofys, who know just when to bark, but also when to nuzzle.

Berlin 1945: A Reich Naked

A German department store, in Berlin, after the war. This is civilization in the nude, but don't we all blush a little.
I have seen several movies recently that deal with the zoned and shady spy ridden city. What a time, checkpoints, brothels, propaganda, etc. Alain Robbe-Grillet hidden in Turkish opium dens with faceless young girls, Peter Lorre watching, me writing absolute nonsense--perhaps it would be business as usual. Still, to speak film-noiry and wear fedoras would be quite a trip.

Here is another picture that reminds one of the power of sharp dressing. Remember children, architecture is the wardrobe of cities. And Germany certainly had its fantasies of strutting down that global catwalk. But I, though of pyramid-builder descent, harvest no ill-will towards our Deutscher friends (I am, in fact, often accused of rampant Germanophilia, but aren't we all, nicht wahr?).

Well I spoke my peace for the final time this evening. Hold it, please.

mORE oN mY dISSOLVING pANIC

I pretty much do not like the look of my first post, and so shall spread some phrase across the screen, decorative nonsense, shrubbery of Roman characters, squid ink pint. (just words, I get carried away).

So, you ask, who-what-how are you? From whence, whereto and upon what hobby horse?

I, dear friends, am called Tully Kinch. Born into space-time Montreal-1981, do the math (25, for now). I am an execllent spellre but a daft typer (not that dexterity alludes me, mind you). I am currently uninspired, stoned, yet tired, but soar. I hate it when I am expected to raise my opinion of a film because it is 'based on a true story'. I can play all region DVDs on my laptop but would rather not. I occupy space in the Plateau, near a metro, mountain and French Fryery. I attend inexpensive rock shows and dance when drunk. I drink, almost anything, but prefer Campari on most social excursions when the beer is limited to Molson (first brewery in North America, ghastly brew) but would never turn down a gin/vodka/single malt/tequila or anything in a shot glass that is juice-free. I like dogs but prefer it when they are not mine; children, on the other hand, look nice in photographs (as long as said photos are not in my apartment).

Some fun facts for now, more to come children.

I have no idea how it is even supposed to possibly occur that anyone can stumble into this den, so if you have, drop a suggestion, comment, send me an email, invite me out this weekend, please.

For now, I remain,

Tully Kinch
(Think of me with tonight, with my octopus)

bY tHE wAY

My name is Tully Kinch, by the way.

sECOND tRY AT fOURTH pOST

Still having trouble getting the colouring, fonting, and whatnot-ing right. As if my friends are all waiting...

sPEAK fREELY, i yOU mAY

Post number 2, officially. Nothing to report, just dipping my feet in your bath.

i sPEAK, nOW!

I just wrote my first blog entry, inroducing myself--wit, charm, blood type--only to have the piece of shit desktop They provide me with at work perform an illegal operation (I swear I thought it was legal to look) and crashed. So here is attempt numero deux: less patient, and with a typed scowl If digits can grind (oh boy).

Needless to say I plan to become your friend. So here it goes...

Hello, My name is Tully Kinch. How are you? I am fine. (That went well, now, want to come home with me yet, or must I keep trying?).