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By Michelle Ayoub - Ravenous Medicine - 05/30/2008

As I sit to write this review, I realize that it will be quite the task, because following last Friday’s performance at Club Soda, I am just a tad bit giddy. Considering how many shows yours truly has seen over the years, going from itsy-bitsy productions to big-budget extravaganzas, from mellow indie rock concerts to the most obscure metal shows featuring bands from parts of Europe no one knew existed, I think that’s really saying something for Matthew Good and his band.

I arrived at the venue to see that it was ready to burst. As with the previous times I have seen Matt Good, backed by a band or solo, I was surprised that there were still tickets available at the door. It was the crowd, I believe, that really made the show. Old and young, male and female, this crowd was one of the most energetic I have seen in a while. Every single song had most, if not everyone, in the venue singing along, amplifying the already great delivery of several of the songs, especially those of the Matthew Good Band era such as “Load Me Up” and “Hello Time Bomb”, both off Beautiful Midnight.

However, an energetic crowd is nothing without a strong performance to feed off of. While I have heard many people say that Matt Good is a boring frontman, I have to strongly disagree.  Whether he’s performing solo acoustic sets or shows with a band backing him (as was the case at this show), Good has such charisma and strong stage presence that he does not need to make any great effort to get the crowd going. He topped it off with what I find to be an exemplary case of a great performer/audience relationship -- the Vancouver native came on stage with a Montreal Canadians T-shirt, stating that everyone back home hates him because he is a die-hard Habs fan. 

If you are anything like me, you go into shows with a list of songs you just have to hear or the world will stop spinning. The set list did not disappoint. It covered the majority of Matt Good’s career, focusing mostly on his solo works but not forgetting to give Matthew Good Band fans their fill with songs such as “Everything is Automatic,” and “Apparitions.” Many tracks from Good’s most recent album, Hospital Music, were covered and again, each song was well-received by the audience.

Having worked on and seen quite few tours and shows, I always appreciate a good set-up. Keeping it simple with a few extra touches seems to be often overlooked. The lighting, which comprised of a series of lines of lights on ceiling high pillars behind the band, really stood out for me, accompanying each song well. From the first song, I found this lighting choice to be very effective, and it was confirmed during “Alert Status Red,” when the lights all flashed red during the chorus. Cheesy? Perhaps. Effective and awesome? Totally. Sound-wise, I unfortunately have no good things to say. Considering the fact that despite a nice layout for the venue, Club Soda does not have the best acoustics in the world, I cannot say it was the worst live sound I have ever heard. While it did manage to get on my nerves at some times (God bless earplugs), it never threatened the overall experience of the show. In fact, I would be willing to bet a fair sum of money that if you asked most people in the crowd, they probably did not noticed much.     

Overall, my only real disappointment of the evening was not getting to hear “Strange Days,” but believe you me, although I spent a good portion of the set hoping it would be next, it did not come anywhere near ruining my experience. As I said, this was not the first time I have seen Matt Good live, and to summarize, I think it just about says it all that next time around, I will be first in line to grab tickets.

By Georgia Wisdom-Kuhns - MoonRocks - 05/29/2008

For the past year, I have been trying to convince my fellow CJLO-ians to give The Trews a chance. "They're really good live!" I keep saying. But claiming that a band's studio albums don't do justice to their live sets is a lot like saying, "she's really pretty in person, she just doesn't photograph well," which is more often than not, a lie. So, despite my best efforts, I arrived at the Trews show at Le Cabaret this past weekend, alone.  But it turned out that my coworkers were not the only Montrealers that needed convincing on merits of this east coast outfit.  I arrived just as The Trews were coming on, and was shocked at the minuscule size of the crowd.  No more than 75 fans had showed up that night to see the band play. Even after the release of their most recent and most commercially successful album, No Time For Later, this city wasn't buying, and I think the band knew it. When they got out on stage, the four boys (and their mysterious new keyboard player) didn't seem like the easy going Canadian rockers I had seem so many times before. They seemed...drunk.

For the majority of band's contrived hour and a half long performance, lead singer, Colin MacDonald, and brother/ lead guitarist, John-Angus, wailed around on stage, stumbling into each other looking bloodshot and sweaty. In between songs, where there should have been banter, Colin only managed to slur various versions of "thaaaanksMontrealforhavingus." I think I even caught him saying, "It's great to be back in Ontario." And so often, where there should have been actual songs, John-Angus seemed only to manage masturbatory solos. What happened to the band that I had been defending to no avail for the past year?  Where were those riff rocking Nova Scotians I loved so dearly?

During the band's hit, "Tired of Waiting," John-Angus pressed his Les Paul-ladened crotch into the faces of the band's newest market, the slightly-too-old-to-be-slutty slut.  The screaming women stretched out their arms to get hold of MacDonald's piece while he perversely licked his lips at them and raised a pair of horns into the air. Seriously, was this a joke?

As the show went on, I feared that The Trews were taking a turn for the Nickelback -- something that happens all too often in the world of Canadian rock. First, you're winning radio talent search contests, next stop Jack.Fm and the Much Music Countdown. And then despite the fact that no one really knows who you are outside our borders, you're writing songs about the trials and tribulations of being a "rock star."  From what I was seeing on stage, it seemed like only a matter of time before one of the MacDonald boys would be making local papers for crashing a Lamborghini into a lamp post in some backwater borough. 

Okay deep breath... the show was not the total disaster that I'm making it out to be. My claim that The Trews albums do not do their musical talents justice still stands, and to the casual listener, their show probably did not suck. There were at least two excellent performances that night. The first being "Paranoid Freak" off their latest album which is full of loud power chords, harmonies and ballsy -- albeit cheeseball -- lyrics that were just meant to be played in front of an audience. The second standout was a cover of The Band's most famous track, “The Weight.”  Each Trew got involved and sang a different verse which was great so see, since I was beginning to think that silent bassist, Jack Syperek, in his skinny jeans and sparkly vest wasn't actually part of the band and had just taken a wrong turn on the way to the Pete Wentz and Ashlee Simpson wedding.   

After a hasty encore and an even hastier exit from the band, I left Le Cabaret feeling pretty let down, and hurt by the band that I often labeled as my favourite. I joined their street team, man! Granted, I never contributed, but I don't willingly agree to spam mail from just anyone. But in the end I could never stay mad. After milling over the show for a few days, calling the band sellouts on my show and vowing never to play them again, I just gave in and decided to chock their basement jam session quality performance up to the fact that Montreal is just not a Trews town. It’s nothing personal, but this city has its own musical direction, and it doesn't include the resurrection of classic rock. 

There's no doubt in my mind that this band will continue to rock throughout our home and native land, baring any returns to this fair isle, and that their real fans will follow them. Yes, their show at Le Cabaret was upsetting, but really, how can I stay angry?  I love The Trews, and as everyone knows, trew love is blind.

Tune in to MoonRocks with Georgia  every Wednesday  from 1pm – 3pm

By Jackie Hall - Bridge the Gap - 05/13/2008

It is rare that I embark on the task of writing album reviews…or any kind of review for that matter. My mother raised me with the saying, “if you have nothing nice to say then say nothing at all.” While anyone who has listened to BridgetheGap before knows that I don’t follow these wise words so well when speaking, I do try when writing -- it is a time to be more reflective. Anyways, I’ve finally heard a new album worth writing about, and the best part is that the band in question is from Montreal.

Yes, the Gutter Demons, a local psychobilly outfit have release their third full-length album, independently of any label. This most recent installment, Misery, Madness & Murder Lullabies, is a gem. There is no other word that better describes the record.  I warn you now though, if you feel the need to go out and buy it tomorrow, expect that it will not sound like their previous two albums, Enter the Demons (2003) or Room 209 (2005). Misery, Madness & Murder Lullabies has touched more on the Gutter Demons’ country influence; it is much more smooth, relaxed and mature than their previously ghoulish, slapping punk-rockabilly style.

This seems to be a trend among many psychobilly bands that are slowly either getting tired or too old to be playing the traditional formulas of the genre (i.e.: Tiger Army and Mad Sin). However, the Gutter Demons seem to have made the transition much more naturally while not disappointing existing fans in the process. But don’t worry, not every tune is a ballad. They still have stuck with dark and dreary subjects in their lyrics, as implied by the title -- they just don’t sound as overtly demonic. Doesn’t mean they sound like angels either.

Tune in to BridgetheGap with Jackie every Tuesday  from 8pm – 10pm

By Simon Howell - A Listening Ear - 05/13/2008

2008 appears to be the year Canada goes prog. Seemingly, no major Canadian indie-rock release can get by without at least one ten-minute opus: we’ve already had Ladyhawk’s incendiary “Ghost Blues” (Shots) and Black Mountain’s 17-minute “Bright Lights” (In the Future). Not to be outdone, Wolf Parade’s forthcoming At Mount Zoomer caps off in spectacular fashion with a “Kissing the Beehive.” Before long we’ll be seeing a return to side-long epics that characterized album rock in the late '70s.

The first to try that on for size will doubtlessly be Islands’ Nick Thorburn, whose latest opus is entitled Arm’s Way -- and make no mistake, it’s an opus. It runs sixty-eight minutes, and boasts expansive orchestral arrangements on most of its tracks. It’s also almost impossible to traverse from beginning to end -- a fact that is undoubtedly lost on Thorburn, old-school champion of The Album that he is. Even if you can make it past the incredibly bloated opener, “The Arm” (which lies somewhere between a theme song for a late-90s Xena-esque TV show and a Vampire Weekend reject), you’ll be subjected to a cavalcade of sonic blunders on an epic scale. “Pieces of You” relies on its empty titular phrase like a hollow pirate leg ready to snap (the sort of cartoon metaphor Thorburn could get behind) even as its grandiose-yet-predictable string arrangement tries in vain to embiggen the track. Briefer pop tunes like “Creeper” and “J’aime Vous Voire Quitter” fare better largely due to their, well, brevity, but of course they take up less than a tenth of the total runtime, and even “J’aime” manages to squeeze in an awful, kitschy Graceland breakdown.

Besides the bloat (which only grows worse over the course of the record, with its last seven tracks all meandering past the five-minute mark), Arm’s Way isn’t aided by Thorburn’s bizarre insistence on loading his prog-lite tunes with lyrical references to physical trauma and tough-guy dilemmas. He’s plagued by attacking/invading forces (the “Arm” and the “Creeper”) and mentions being stabbed on at least two tracks, as well as pondering a “Life In Jail.” On the latter track, Thorburn complains that he’s “lost his way.” He seems intent on countering his aimlessness by throwing around random images of violence, but they ring false given the weightless nature of the arrangements. If the listener manages to make it all the way to the cloying Godspeed build of the 11-minute closer “Vertigo (If It’s A Crime)” and still feel convinced of Thorburn’s genius, then he’s precisely the auteur they deserve.

There’s more than one way to meander, though, a fact Vancouver’s Young And Sexy seem privy to. Their third full-length, Panic When You Find It, featured three-minute pop songs that seemed to float effortlessly through their thick harmonies and mellow guitar tones, with quick reprises and perfect sequencing making for one of the best indie-pop records to come out of Canada in the last decade. With The Arc, they take a turn away from the tangible pleasures of that record into an altogether different realm, not entirely unlike the one explored on sophomore album Life Through One Speaker’s more expansive tracks, but without the sense of punctuation provided on that album with songs like “Herculean Bellboy” and “Ella.” Instead, The Arc spends the entirety of its 42 minutes inhabiting a hallucinatory space, often employing unpredictable melodic turns, off-the-cuff vocal lines, and fluid guitar lines.

At first the approach is entirely successful -- the first four tracks effectively define the album’s mood and pace, while packing enough memorable progressions to maintain our interest. “The Poisoned Cup” boasts a great chorus that reflects the track’s hazy atmospherics (“I stole through the garden and fell to my knees / the air is thick, my time it’s gone to shit”), and opener “Saucerful of Fire” takes full advantage of the group’s trademark vocal harmonies. They let themselves drift a little too far, however, with a shapeless middle section characterized by songs that elude memory even after multiple listens (particularly the “Ella” sound-alike “Step Inside” and the pretty but shapeless “The Fog”). “Demon Dreaming” briefly resuscitates the record with its attractive rush, but ultimately “The Echo” and closer “Up in the Rafters” are little more than great bedtime music, which might be charming if they weren’t separated by a tuneless, half-speed Comets on Fire psych dirge called “Spill the Sky.” The Arc, appropriately enough, carries a certain narrative weight in its leaden movements, but can’t help feeling like a disappointment considering the group’s unerring focus in the past.

Tune in to A Listening Ear with Simon every Friday from 2pm - 4pm