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Even though faint rumblings of the band’s reunion had been creeping down the grapevine from Hamilton, never did I think I would be fortunate enough to see Simply Saucer LIVE in concert. So many proto-punk heroes and trailblazers from the golden age of wild and weird rock ‘n roll are either six feet under, or scattered ashes. Lou Reed is dead. Jimi Hendrix is dead. The Asheton brothers are dead. Rob Tyner, Fred ‘Sonic’ smith, and Michael Davis—all dead. But Edgar Breau and Simply Saucer are very much alive, and after their performance at Le Ritz PDB back in February, I can personally attest to this fact.

Soon after a pleasant Q&A with Edgar and biographer/drummer Jesse Locke hosted by CKUT’s Joni Sadler, No Negative took the stage to deliver their hard-edged space punk. Harsh and loud but retaining a hypnotic groove, their set slowly spiraled into extreme noise and dissonance by the last few numbers. Guitarist/vocalist Matt sternly surveyed the room, like a severe knight overlooking a desolate battlefield, wielding a well-worn ax and mounted on a steed of blistering distortion. The sound system served them well at the Ritz, being the first time I could clearly perceive their vocal howl over the abrasive cacophony of the powerful riffs.

Next up was the infamous Red Mass. Roy ‘Choyce’ Vucino began with lyrical invocations that seemed to have the intent of starting a boisterous satanic ritual. With echoing vocals and mysterious proclamations, the strange music began as electronic drum beats took precedence over the live kit, and a puzzling style emerged. At times the largely spoken and shouted vocal delivery resembled an aggressive hip-hop characteristic, and walls of electronic noise periodically washed over the danceable, repetitive rhythms.

And then—the main event. Simply Saucer triumphantly took the stage and wasted no time launching into a sonic salvo that drew broadly from Breau’s oeuvre, seemingly divided into three phases. The first portion was dedicated to material that my eager ears were less familiar with, drawing much from the 2016 release of unearthed rarities, Saucerland. To blast-off however, the room was struck with an instrumental intro, after which we were poised for a scorching, soulful rendition of “Low Profile.” This first portion of the set ultimately felt like a dose of pure rock’ n roll in a way that I didn’t expect for some reason. In my mind, I have always placed Simply Saucer in a realm of rather extreme eccentricity, if not just for the force of otherworldly creativity behind them, perhaps simply because of the time and place from which these vagabonds erupted. But though Hamilton in the 70s may have been relatively isolated from like-minded freaks; these tunes did not occur in a vacuum, instead drawing from the best and boldest sounds available. All this not to say that there was any sort of derivative quality in the songs performed during this first portion of the set, but that with their fusion of heritage and unicity, they situated themselves among the most iconic of the rock ‘n roll pantheon—the eternal shit. Numbers like “You’re the One Girl,” “Almost Ready Betty,” and of course the brilliant “Bullet Proof Nothing” shimmered like classic rock hits that would-have-been, in a fair world. One song which I did not recognize was reminiscent of Highway 61 Revisited-era Bob Dylan, genuinely channelling the lyrical fluency and reverent mutation of tradition, while steering clear of cliché.

Phase 2 of the set eased away from the rock aesthetic as Edgar picked up the acoustic guitar to partition the tumultuous sonic sea to either side. The aching, reflective sentiments of “Loretta in the Rain” wound their way through my brain, but before the crowd could get too comfortable in this contemplative state, phase 3 arrived like crackling lightning. “Mole Machine” signaled the coming of the frantic, sci-fi steeped onslaught that the group is most notorious for; that legendary post-psych proto-punk which is chronicled on the hallowed Cyborgs Revisited LP. The Saucer only continued to gain momentum, with intensity and velocity steadily increasing as they pierced the limits of the stratosphere. Edgar displayed his talent as a commanding and charismatic frontman throughout, retaining both raw power and playfulness. His potent vocals were in top form as were his raging, unfettered guitar solos. His compelling presence was undeniable, laying down his instrument to “Dance the Mutation” as the cyborgs rushed in. Saucer veteran Kevin Christoff stood close behind him, effortlessly summoning deep groovy bass lines, distorting time and space with dextrous fluidity. To stage right, Colina Phillips was a joy to watch, providing rich vocals, tantalizing synth, and percussive embellishments that injected energy and excitement into the performance with each thrust of the tambourine. Mike Trebilcock graced the stage with guitar moves and the skillful manipulation of “Skully” the Theremin, not far from Ed Roth, who, obscured by the glint of his glasses, headlamp, and weathered ballcap, manned a slab of keys and electronics from the back left-corner like a stoic psychedelic surgeon. Jesse Locke, biographer and skinsman extraordinaire, rooted the cosmic outburst in beats that balanced fury with exactitude.

The set concluded with an even more frenzied, riotous version of “Illegal Bodies,” than what is immortalized on the Cyborgs LP, with Edgar swaying wildly as he raced around the fretboard, mop of hair hovering over his face. He introduced the ultimate rocker by stating it was “just variations on the chord of E,” and this demystifying honesty, this unpretentiousness is exactly what gave the pandemonium a joyful and infectious aura. In the context of the early 70’s, such a display would have been utterly shocking—raw, fantastical, and deranged—but now that they have found a keen audience, the simple excellence of the songs and virile alchemy of the band is what shines through the blaring din of the Saucer. Their music was performed with a palpable love, and I left the Ritz with a certain charged inspiration, a subtle yet distinctly elevating state that slowly manifested over the course of the following days. Even in the salty slop of the Montreal winter, amongst the marching metalloids, in the dreariness of the downtown core, “what a fantastic movie I’m in.”

Hosted by Patricia Petit Liang

Stories by Jeremiah Ho, Michael Foldvari & Patricia Petit Liang

Produced by Patricia Petit Liang

So you might be wondering why I’m participating in this year’s Metal March, even if I’m not listed under CJLO’s metal shows. Isn’t Sewer Spewer primarily a punk show? (Follow-up question: what the hell is a Sewer Spewer?) Well, if you ever bothered to listen to my radio show, you would realize that the lines between the punk and metal tunes I play on the air are quite blurred.

Is Nails hardcore punk? Or is it death metal? Who cares! Metal borrowed from punk and punk borrowed from metal to the point where the differences are very subtle (and I’m talking about true punk and metal, none of that poppy crap). It’s all thanks to the efforts of some brave musicians who broke down musical barriers, more than 30 years ago.

Now, before I launch into the history of how punk and metal became one, I need to tell you that I’m not an absolute authority on this subject. I wasn’t even born in the golden era of punk and metal. All I know comes from what I’ve read from Wikipedia pages and rockstar memoirs. You shouldn’t quote me on anything I say.

The only evidence I have of punk and metal being separate entities is on a VHS tape I somehow acquired at a record swap. On this tape, the first part is footage from a Dead Kennedys concert from 1984. The other half is a taping of MuchMusic Pepsi Power Hour from the same era, when glam metal was at the top of the charts (heavy metal’s cringiest period, in my opinion). The segment also included videos from Sammy Hagar’s and Ozzy Osbourne’s solo projects (though Ozzy looked like he had no idea what he was doing). If you compared the look of the members of Dead Kennedys to the members of Poison, you would agree that punk and metal could not be more different. Punks were shaving their heads and rocking ripped jeans, while metalheads were keeping their wavy locks and squeezing into tight spandex pants. Heavy metal bands kept trying to one-up each other in their guitar solos, whereas punks were satisfied with same four-chord structure. Metal bands were singing about cocaine and strippers, with the occasional reference to Satan. Punks were yelling about cops busting them for skateboarding.

But around the same time, bands started looking into each other’s camps and started stealing each other’s ideas. The granddaddies of thrash metal known as Metallica, Slayer and Anthrax were ditching the melodic vocals of heavy metal in favour of the aggressive bark of punk vocals. On the other side, bands like Corrosion of Conformity, Dirty Rotten Imbeciles and Suicidal Tendencies started off punk, but got tired of its simplicity and then mastered the art of shredding solos, thus creating crossover thrash. Very soon, these bands went from playing basement shows to sharing the stage with the thrash metal titans. Later on in the 90’s, Corrosion of Conformity’s Pepper Keenan went down south to become part of the sludge metal family, a swampy blend of Rollins-era Black Flag, grunge fuzz and heavy blues inspired by Black Sabbath.

While this was all happening in the States, across the pond in the UK, a new hybrid was taking form: crust punk. It mixed the anarchistic politics of Crass and Discharge with the bleakness of black metal. Amebix in particular used the war imagery commonly found in black metal. The frontman Rob Miller is now a full-time swordsmith, which Is probably the most metal job anyone can have. Then there was Napalm Death, challenging the concepts of time structure with two-second masterpieces. Extreme Noise Terror were just a bunch of punks who wanted to yell as loud as humanly possible. Their guttural bellows inadvertently gave birth to the grindcore movement. To this day, they deny the accusations of being anything but punk.

If you’ve ever watched Heavy Metal Parking Lot, you might remember that Judas fan wearing zebra print from head to toe, yammering on about how “all that punk shit sucks, it belongs on fucking Mars, man!” I wonder if he’d be at all horrified by the way things turned out (unlikely though, since he probably lives in a safe bubble where he jerks off to the same Iron Maiden record every night). But to those of us actually paying attention, punk and metal eventually crossing over was inevitable, because of the common desire to become faster, louder and harder. Only by dropping the petty squabble between punks and metalheads can we truly achieve what really matters: rocking hard.

“F*** the Real McKenzies!”

Not many groups can simultaneously be as kickass and self-deprecating—all while maintaining such a sense of humour that feels lacking in today’s age of far-too-serious punk—as the Real McKenzies.

One of Canada’s most iconic punk bands returns with their next offering to their already impressive catalog. The Real McKenzies kicked off 2017 with the release of Two Devils Will Talk, an album that continues their trend of Atlantic-infused Celtic punk. From the moment the bagpipes start playing, Two Devils works to reaffirms the ongoing legend status of the group.

The record kicks off with a fast-paced vocal chorus from “Due West,” reassuring listeners that they’ll “never die.” The declaration sets the tone for the rest of the album; the McKenzies should not be underestimated. There’s just something about the way that it’s expertly layered on top of hard hitting guitar riffs and unrelenting drums lines, as well as lead singer Paul McKenzie’s Scottish accent, that gives the McKenzies an edge.

The trademark Celtic twinge to their music has always been the magnet that attracted fans. Most of the 14 tracks of the album do feature that sound; but save for a few songs, they do not possess the same heart that appeared on previous records. It might be a departure from their previous winning formula, but you have to acknowledge the courage of the group to change up their sound.

Immaculate storytelling is the one of the many driving forces behind the record, as it has been for the group since their debut in 1995. While “Due West” reassures audiences that they will never die, “Sail Again” offers a little bleaker outlook, declaring “I’ll never sail again” and “Madness fills my head.”

“And as he reached, for his whiskey / Unaware it was his last / His head shook / from a faded hourglass.” “The Town” is one of the album's best songs—not only because of the lyrics, from the poet that is Mr. McKenzie, but because of its implications for the group. Few groups manage to plant themselves so firmly into Canadian lore and culture. After 25 years, the McKenzies continue to be one of the most active live bands in the country, with their passion seemingly unfazed by the grind of travel. This feat of consistency is made more impressive when you learn that Paul McKenzie is the only original member of the group still touring.

While this album doesn’t dig any deeper into the sub-genre of Celtic punk—a sub-genre that they did not invent, but one that they have helped grow and popularize—it displays the versatility and talent of the Real McKenzies. Each track radiates an infectious energy; an energy that makes one begin to frantically tap his foot in order to keep up. The album is never boring, but never truly ascends into the same ranks of other McKenzies records. That doesn’t mean that it’s completely devoid of great punk moments though. The two strongest songs, “Due West” and “Sail Again,” can rank among some of the group’s best. It’s impossible to wonder if this album is a sending-off, or simply the springboard to bigger and better things for the next quarter century.