We Live To Survive Our Paradoxes

Three concerts in three nights! I haven't done that since... hmn; actually, I've never done that. Three nights in a row, with three different guys. OK, so one was my cousin, but still.

Wednesday night was the CASBYs, the annual alternative Canadian music awards hosted by the only radio station in Toronto worth listening to, Edge 102. My karaoke buddies, to my surprise, weren't much interested, and my cousin D couldn't make it, but his brother, my cousin M, was thrilled. He understood that this wasn't an awards show, exactly. I mean, it's not the Emmies or the Oscars or anything like that. It's a concert, and a great one. Eight bands performed one or two songs each in the space of three hours. Boom boom boom — all using the same drum kit.

Too bad the weather sucked. It was a miserable, rainy, windy, cold night. The lineup at the Kool Haus was around the block, mostly kids waiting to pass the wristband test. I make it a rule never to stand in line, so we walked up to the door, I looked the bouncer right in the eye and said, "I'm a friend of one of the DJs."

We went right in.

Finger 11 opened the show, and were a great, tight band. Thornley sucked; the singer was clearly drunk, and sang like a bad karaoke act: every note flat, or otherwise off. Montreal's The Stills, the band I most wanted to see, were terrific, and Billy Talent closed the show with a bang.

I met Martin Streek in person, finally — thank goodness he survived his crazy stage dive — and I discussed single malt Scotch with Alan Cross, who knows more about music than anyone currently alive on the planet. In 1992, when the Blue Jays won the World Series for the first time, I was watching the game in a bar in Winnipeg (long story) with Alan. We were drinking Laphroaig, if I recall correctly. My cousin M was starstruck when I introduced him.

Alan told me about a Japanese Scotch he recently discovered while in France. Nikka, he says it's called. He spelled it for me, so as not to confuse it with the stock exchange.

Can they call it Scotch if it's made in Japan?

Dean Blundell and the rest of the morning crew were there, too. I'd met Dean, Todd, and Jason a couple of times at the station, but when they were on air, so they were sitting down. I didn't realize how tall Dean is. And he's a lot cuter than you might think. Too bad (for me, that is) he's married.

Have you ever noticed that the audience at a concert tends to resemble the bands onstage? Among the members of the eight bands performing at the CASBYs there was not one woman. Melissa Auf Der Maur had been nominated for Favourite New Album, but didn't win, and didn't perform.

(I voted for you, Melissa.)

The audience was about 90% male, average age 25, with a preponderance of baseball caps. The few women in attendance were either being dragged hither and yon by their boyfriends, bored looks on their faces, or else looked like they were hoping to find a boyfriend to drag them hither. Or yon.

Thursday night it was the Pixies at Arrow Hall. Where is Arrow Hall, you ask? It's up on Airport Road, in an airplane hangar. You might think that'd be a terrible place for a concert, but you'd be wrong. The sound was fantastic. When Kim Deal plucked that bass you felt it reverberate in your chest like your heart pounding after running up five flights of stairs, and you could forgive her for playing with a pick.

I wish I could sing like Kim Deal. I can sing, but I sing like singers who don't sing that well.

At this show, all the guys in the audience looked like Frank Black. Bald, and dressed in simple, dark clothing. Glasses were optional. Baseball caps were non-existant. There were more girls in the crowd this time, many in girl-girl couples, and more who looked like they belong in a girl-girl couple. Again, I was clearly the anti-demographic.

I wonder if Kim plays for the other team.

Sometimes the past screams from the rooftop. It was during Velouria that I saw the X, about ten metres to my left, deeper in the crowd.

The blues are still required.

Immediately, and equally, I wanted to know whether he was there with a woman, and I didn't want to know. I backed up a few feet to make sure I was well out of his peripheral vision, until I could size up the situation.

He was there with another guy. No one I recognized.

I was there with AC, one of my oldest and dearest friends; the man who introduced me to Joy Division and sex in the same year. We still go to concerts from time to time, and sleep together when we're bored.

For all his faults and for all the vicious and cruel tricks the X played on me, I had to give him credit for having made an equitable split of our CD collection. The fact that he did it on my birthday, while I was out, notwithstanding. But now I realized that I didn't get custody of the Pixies or Frank Black.

Fuck him.

We passed in upholstered silence.

Friday night was the Tragically Hip at the Air Canada Centre, and this time I had a different problem: everyone I know wanted to go, and I didn't know whether I'd have tickets until the last minute. My contact at the ACC is equally as likely to disappoint me as he is to pull a rabbit out of his hat. Last night he did the latter, though I didn't actually get tickets. What I got was escorted to the Air Canada Club, to a reserved, white linen tablecloth decked table right at the glass.

It's nice to have friends in high places.

My date for this concert was my friend Zee's brother, Bobby, who I met a few weeks ago at her place. He seemed like an interesting and intelligent guy, and, as an added bonus, was about 6'2". I called Zee and asked if she knew whether her brother liked the Hip, and whether, you know, he had said anything about me.

What am I, in high school?

She said he did, and had, and a couple of hours later the phone rang and it was Bobby, saying, "I heard a rumour you've got Hip tickets?"

We met at Gate 2 on Bay Street at 7:30, as per the instructions of my Friend In High Place. Why, why can't I run into the X when I'm at the VIP entrance to the Air Canada Centre on the arm of a tall blonde who looks like a hockey player? Why, god, why?

Since I don't have a ticket to add to my shoebox collection, I saved the Air Canada Club Tragically Hip Concert Dinner Menu. Bobby and I both ordered the shrimp cocktail, which was served on a triangular plate and looked spectacularly unlike any shrimp cocktail you've ever seen. Four pairs of intricately intertwined shrimp were arranged with fruit and remoulade, and topped with a plantain chip. I followed with the wild salmon, while B opted for the filet mignon.

Accompanying that meal with a Canadian was très trailer park, but I always feel obliged to drink Molson when I'm at the ACC.

Because my FIHP is their boss, and despite the fact that our meal was comp'd, the waiter and the maitre'd fawned politely over us. I didn't have the heart to tell them I wasn't a VIP.

During the show I was cursing myself for not having brought my notebook, though in retrospect, I guess it was a good thing. You don't want to alert a guy on a first date that you have obsessions. But this morning I discovered that the Hip have their own blog, and had posted their set list right after the show.

Have I mentioned that The Tragically Hip are one of my favourite bands? I've seen them about ten times since 1988, and I have all their albums. The last time I saw them I griped that they didn't do Little Bones. This time they did Little Bones, but I always have a gripe: How could they not perform Fifty Mission Cap, in the home of the Leafs, with dozens of fans wearing Barilko jerseys?

Ah, well. They did my favourite song, Boots or Hearts, as their penultimate number. And during Bobcaygeon the swaying lighters thing happened in the audience. I held up the small, crystal candleholder from our table. Just another perk that comes with not watching from the cheap seats.

Gord Downie introduced every song by speaking a sentence with its title: Do you want to hear the next song fully and completely? This is Toronto; it can't be Nashville every night. I wondered if he's been reading my blog.

They played for over an hour, then did three encores. All in all, an amazing show, an amazing evening, and well worth the price of admission!

Oh, and what about B, you ask? Well, I just might invite him to the Baby Leafs game next Wednesday. I already have the tickets.

In the next story Postmodern Sass meets Morticia the mortician.