NORTH BY NORTHEAST: A Primer For The Far South (VOL. 2)

  • NORTH BY NORTHEAST: A Primer For The Far South (VOL. 2)
    POSTED


     

    LIGHTING: DIM, PAST: LUMINOUS

    There’s a sign behind the bar hung against a chintzy bolt of silver cloth which reads: ‘Horseshoe Tavern, Est. 1947’. There’s another sign, embroidered by hand and hung in the toilet that reads: ‘Please Don’t Do Drugs in the Washroom’. The Horseshoe Tavern’s clientele has undoubtedly shifted some over the years. The décor, maybe not so much. A black linoleum floor is colonised by checkerboard around the bar and the stage and despite the arid connotations of it’s name, the Horseshoe Tavern’s insides—its galley-like wooden bar and shrunken ceiling—make it seem like the bar was assembled inside a scuttled ship. Posters from now-celebrated past shows have been hoarded and spread of the front bar walls under glass. Neko Case, Wilco, a very early Foo Fighters show. It’s true winning feature, however, would have to be the hot nuts dispenser by the front bar.

     

     

    APPEAL BANDWIDTH

    The first bands of NXNE—Toronto’s Several Futures and Effens—are democratically arranged across generations, although maybe not as comprehensively as the first of festival’s photographers. The bands are divided into the conspicuously young (Effens) and the conspicuously older (Several Futures) whereas the four photographers range from the perceptibly young right through to the undeniably elderly. Which I guess speaks to the bandwidth of NXNE’s appeal.

     

    Several Futures shuffle black shirts, jeans and scuffed, square-toed dress shoes across the stage, announcing suddenly that they “have two songs left…but they’re long ones though.” The singer throttles the neck of his guitar like he’s trying to rob a throat of air. Their most primal instrumental moments are by far their best, their sound choked suddenly into silence and the singer’s parting words, entirely apt for the start of NXNE 2016: “You’re most likely to find your favourite band in your own backyard”

     

     

    ALL AT ONCE AND NOT AT ALL

    Effens’ lead singer’s feathery frame is draped in a red, gleaming sweater. It’s a thing of a past age, a pearly triangle sewn into its front to approximate the appearance of a combination shirt/cardigan situation. Its lapels are drizzled with the same pearly fabric as the sweater’s faux-shirt to resplendent Lonely Hearts Club effect. The whole thing gives him an appearance that triangulates Bowie, Sid Vicious and Scott Weiland all at once, but also, kind of, not at all. And their sound is nothing akin to any of these three, apart from faint strains of later Weiland. It’s closer to Pablo Honey era Radiohead, with the bonafide high-point being the heroic saviour of the set from technical difficulty by Effens’ bleached-haired guitarist skidding across the stage on his knees to plug in a sampler for a solo. Interestingly the sampler seemed to stammer out distorted guitar tones—dissonance and feedback—which a few people seemed to think could have just been made on the guitar he put down. But it was worth it to witness his headbanging though, which only really occured during his electronic excursions and fell nail-bitingly close (like mm) from his microphone. The drummer’s Pixies shirt was a clue as to the sonic palette, with songs given to the parabola of noise—the quintessential mid-90s structure of loud and quiet. Even the singer’s posture seemed to correspond—supplicant to the microphone, as if he’d been poured out of it.

     

     

    ENJOY THE SILENCE


    There’s dichotomies in Eagulls. It’s not unlike that very particular ephemeral grace that occurs while being entranced by wind-gusted trash. There’s something of the industrial, but also urges from singer George Mitchell between songs to “enjoy the silence”. I attempt humour with the bartender, saying they sound like Iceage slow-dancing with The Smiths. “Do you want a drink?” she replies. Eagulls are by no means for everyone—but there’s a kind of pre-matriculation anger seething through it which is so alluringly potent—as if the older kids at school had wagged school to read Schopenhauer and smoke instead of hanging out at the back of the shops. Mitchell’s cough-like sibilance rolls of the sonorous wall of guitars, creating a beautiful unbalance, something precarious. As if to confirm, Tom Kelly (bass) ominously thanks the crowd for “the best gig in a long time.” But then I think it could have been my favourite gig in some time too.

    -Paul Cumming for Cool Accidents

     

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LIGHTING: DIM, PAST: LUMINOUS

There’s a sign behind the bar hung against a chintzy bolt of silver cloth which reads: ‘Horseshoe Tavern, Est. 1947’. There’s another sign, embroidered by hand and hung in the toilet that reads: ‘Please Don’t Do Drugs in the Washroom’. The Horseshoe Tavern’s clientele has undoubtedly shifted some over the years. The décor, maybe not so much. A black linoleum floor is colonised by checkerboard around the bar and the stage and despite the arid connotations of it’s name, the Horseshoe Tavern’s insides—its galley-like wooden bar and shrunken ceiling—make it seem like the bar was assembled inside a scuttled ship. Posters from now-celebrated past shows have been hoarded and spread of the front bar walls under glass. Neko Case, Wilco, a very early Foo Fighters show. It’s true winning feature, however, would have to be the hot nuts dispenser by the front bar.

 

 

APPEAL BANDWIDTH

The first bands of NXNE—Toronto’s Several Futures and Effens—are democratically arranged across generations, although maybe not as comprehensively as the first of festival’s photographers. The bands are divided into the conspicuously young (Effens) and the conspicuously older (Several Futures) whereas the four photographers range from the perceptibly young right through to the undeniably elderly. Which I guess speaks to the bandwidth of NXNE’s appeal.

 

Several Futures shuffle black shirts, jeans and scuffed, square-toed dress shoes across the stage, announcing suddenly that they “have two songs left…but they’re long ones though.” The singer throttles the neck of his guitar like he’s trying to rob a throat of air. Their most primal instrumental moments are by far their best, their sound choked suddenly into silence and the singer’s parting words, entirely apt for the start of NXNE 2016: “You’re most likely to find your favourite band in your own backyard”

 

 

ALL AT ONCE AND NOT AT ALL

Effens’ lead singer’s feathery frame is draped in a red, gleaming sweater. It’s a thing of a past age, a pearly triangle sewn into its front to approximate the appearance of a combination shirt/cardigan situation. Its lapels are drizzled with the same pearly fabric as the sweater’s faux-shirt to resplendent Lonely Hearts Club effect. The whole thing gives him an appearance that triangulates Bowie, Sid Vicious and Scott Weiland all at once, but also, kind of, not at all. And their sound is nothing akin to any of these three, apart from faint strains of later Weiland. It’s closer to Pablo Honey era Radiohead, with the bonafide high-point being the heroic saviour of the set from technical difficulty by Effens’ bleached-haired guitarist skidding across the stage on his knees to plug in a sampler for a solo. Interestingly the sampler seemed to stammer out distorted guitar tones—dissonance and feedback—which a few people seemed to think could have just been made on the guitar he put down. But it was worth it to witness his headbanging though, which only really occured during his electronic excursions and fell nail-bitingly close (like mm) from his microphone. The drummer’s Pixies shirt was a clue as to the sonic palette, with songs given to the parabola of noise—the quintessential mid-90s structure of loud and quiet. Even the singer’s posture seemed to correspond—supplicant to the microphone, as if he’d been poured out of it.

 

 

ENJOY THE SILENCE


There’s dichotomies in Eagulls. It’s not unlike that very particular ephemeral grace that occurs while being entranced by wind-gusted trash. There’s something of the industrial, but also urges from singer George Mitchell between songs to “enjoy the silence”. I attempt humour with the bartender, saying they sound like Iceage slow-dancing with The Smiths. “Do you want a drink?” she replies. Eagulls are by no means for everyone—but there’s a kind of pre-matriculation anger seething through it which is so alluringly potent—as if the older kids at school had wagged school to read Schopenhauer and smoke instead of hanging out at the back of the shops. Mitchell’s cough-like sibilance rolls of the sonorous wall of guitars, creating a beautiful unbalance, something precarious. As if to confirm, Tom Kelly (bass) ominously thanks the crowd for “the best gig in a long time.” But then I think it could have been my favourite gig in some time too.

-Paul Cumming for Cool Accidents

 

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