Lately, I’ve rediscovered my collection of seven-inch singles and EPs. It’s a too-often neglected compact format that is admittedly less conducive to getting a party going than the LP. Playing one song at a time makes it rather a challenge to establish much in the way of flow, doncha know. Yet, thanks to a pair of recent DJ gigs for which I brought only 45s, I’ve gained a new appreciation for platters that would seem to be ideal for today’s short-attention-span music scene. In the era of the download, the 45 could well rule again. Continue reading
Category Archives: Music
sounds from the street
He appears to be neither hungry nor homeless. Some have claimed he is a music student. His playing suggests otherwise.
And the fact that he has chosen to inflict his lack of performing skill on people outside the LCBO store at Shoppers City — sorry, College Square — also points to an acceptance that he is not yet ready for bigtime busking.
Yet, in recent weeks as the sometimes-shirtless young busker has put his heart into his erratic live performances, I have become a fan. There is something compelling about an individual willing to learn an instrument — several instruments, even — in public. But hey, it worked for George Harrison. Scotty Moore, too. Hence, I say we thirsty westenders owe it to this budding musician to play the waiting game. And, I suspect, we’re in for a long wait. Continue reading
a bad rap
Some years ago, at an outdoor festival on Randall Island in New York City, I had the misfortune of observing Bo Diddley’s attempt at rapping. Now, as the ads demonstrated, Bo Diddley was capable of a great many things. Hiphop, it turns out, was not one of them. This, despite the fact that Bo’s classic 1955 recording I’m a Man is pretty much a rap number.
Well, yesterday, a rather fun piece in the Huffington Post began to make the rounds on the Facebook and elsewhere. “Worst Rap Songs by White Non-Rappers,” it’s called, a supposedly ‘definitive’ list from Ottawa expat Joshua Ostroff in response to recent rapping missteps by Miley Cyrus and Justin Bieber. (Surprising, really, that media are not willing to take those two artists seriously as rappers.) Said list, we’re told, was assembled via the sort of intrepid research that is a few minutes’ worth of combing YouTube. And yes, there are some pretty awful examples of rap among its 30 entries. Continue reading
murdering the classics
Music. I’ve had people tell me I love everything. And that I hate everything.
Both camps are of course correct.
As a former colleague once pointed out to me, I seem to have rather a lot of “favourite” bands and singers. On the other hand, thanks to the ubiquitous presence of classic rock in all our lives, it’s not uncommon for me to become (mildly) enraged when confronted by a “classic” during an otherwise uneventful shopping excursion or dentist appointment. (The latter can make for an uncomfortable situation.) I am aware that these are songs beloved by one and all, and that they are for the most part pretty harmless. Hell, I’ll even concede that each boasts a relatively catchy tune. How else could it qualify for classic status? But sometimes it takes only one — perhaps minor — detail to turn a song from a joyful to a torturous experience. And given that we’re talking pop music here, that minor detail is invariably repeated. Repetition, after all, is a pop singer’s job. And a pop singer’s job is repetition. Continue reading
Filed under Music
you are there: Polaris 2013
The Polaris Music Prize has never had so much press. Smirking, artists-are-nutty press. Calls-for-revolution press. And from thin-skinned music critics, cries of “Hypocrites!” toward the victorious musical ensemble celebrated Monday evening.
The eight-year-old award for outstanding achievement in the field of musical excellence has arrived.
But then, that is obvious the moment I find my way to The Carlu for the swank gala on a mild Monday evening in September. And let me tell you, gaining entrance to The Carlu is not as easy as it sounds. Or, at least, not for visitors to Toronto. Follow all signs to the venue and you’re liable to be dismissed — held at bay by a velvet rope — and told to try to find another way in. You know how Jeopardy is happy to welcome Canadians to its panel, only to put them in their place by ensuring the Final Jeopardy category is Vice Presidents or The Civil War or Recipes for Grits or something? To an outsider, that’s what it feels like trying to make a gallant entrance to The Carlu. Continue reading
Filed under Music
Wig Bubbles 