Excuse my absence, mes amis. The last few weeks have been a trip. One foot off the merry-go-round and two eyes trying to connect with the smeared horizon.I'm currently on a train en route to Ottawa from Toronto, where I've spent the past three days. I traveled there on Saturday because I was presented with an incredible opportunity to meet some industry professionals in the big city. Long story short, I was in the right place at the right time and met the right person, who sent a few emails for me and got me meetings with music editors and journalists at Spinner.ca and The National Post. I also went to attend a friend's summer solstice costume party, Summerween. I met some amazing and beautiful people and had some incredible, eye-opening and sometimes bizarre experiences.
We arrived at the Summerween venue in Toronto's West end on Saturday around dinner hour. The news was on and showing images from that day's G20 protests downtown. An anarchist group had been vandalizing things in ill-willed protest of capitalism and such things. They had smashed most of the windows of store fronts on Queen St W -- Starbucks, American Apparel, jewelery stores, electronics stores, shoe stores. Some businesses had signs up in their windows that read "Please do not vandalize. We are a family business" but from what I heard they weren't all heeded.
My sister called me because she knew I was in the city. She told me how our other sister was standing on Queen and Spadina at that moment watching a police car go up in flames. "Apparently the group who are causing all the trouble are called the Black Block. They're wearing all black with black masks," she told me. Moments later, a guy walked in the house, an early party guest and one of the musicians performing that night. He came into the living room where I was and I saw he was wearing all black and had a black mask around his neck. His eyes were painted black. Racoon eyes. "I'll have to call you back."
Despite some of the guests' affiliation, the party was all sorts of cosmic fun. We danced and laughed and sweated, we scatted, rapped, sat on the roof smoking and howling at the moon. My friends and I settled on being Greek mythological figures. I was Dionysus, the god of intoxication. Needless to say it suited me that evening. I sat cross-legged with my best friends while we thought up crazy shit like we always do.
"We are going to write a ska rock opera. A skapra. To No Doubt's Tragic Kingdom."
"That's genius!"
"I know."
We stayed up until the rising sun threatened the end of the evening. We exhaled, admitted defeat and curled up on a few cushions on the floor to sleep.
Sunday was spent in recovery. We all lazed on the front porch all day long. At dusk, one of the neighbours saw us on his way home and stopped to chat. He had been detained for the past five hours after being trapped in a police blockade at Queen and Spadina. He told us the people were non-aggressive, singing Oh! Canada and waving peace signs. They waited for hours as the police arrested them one by one in the torrential rain. The rain lasted only about an hour, but it was the hardest I've ever seen it fall. At that time of the downpour I was getting off the subway after meeting my sister for dinner. Waiting outside the station I saw the sewer grates shooting out sewage as the pressure got too high for them to hold all the water in. I noted the situation's pathetic fallacy. The city appeared to be desperately overwhelmed, above and below ground.
The protesters were arrested one by one and detained for hours in cages in a film studio-turned detention center. Some people had been there since the protests the day before. Everyone looked exhausted and defeated. Seven hundred people had been arrested in that protest alone, and nine hundred throughout the whole day. What he told us made me cringe.
On Monday, I said goodbye to the actors, musicians, dancers and artists that live and lodge at the Summerween venue. I have never been in an environment with so many creative and free-spirited people coming and going or sleeping under that roof. It was a beautiful experience. I jumped in a cab and headed to the Drake Hotel an hour before I was supposed to meet Mr. Spinner to get a bit of work done. I had interviewed my neighbour Rolf Klausener, frontman of Ottawa's The Acorn, a few days before and was eager to get it transcribed.
After a chat with Spinner.ca's editor, I left the Drake and walked east towards downtown towards my sister's apartment, where I was staying that night. When I realized it was too far, I hopped on a streetcar, the first one I've ever taken in T.O I think. Three blocks down the road, a man began to seizure in the back and the car had to stop to wait for an ambulance. I got off and walked another ten blocks to my sister's apartment on the waterfront.
I spent the rest of the day meeting with friends and family who were available. At 4 pm, I went to the Common to meet Mr. National Post. As a result of some sort of miscommunication, he thought the meeting was the next day, when I would be on a train to Ottawa. He said I could come by his house anyway which was just around the corner. We chatted for only ten minutes because he was on his way out, but it was helpful and informative anyway.
After dinner with my father, I met three of my editors from Soundproof Magazine. After a year and a half of working together this was the first time we'd ever met in person. We got pitchers and nachos at Sneaky Dee's and discussed NXNE and the Polaris long list. It was great to talk with folks as submerged in Canadian music as I was.
One of the editors Adam said he had a contact at Warner Bros., the label that the Flaming Lips are on. My attempts to contact the Animal Wrangler have so far been unsuccessful, and I had no idea how to infiltrate a major label like Warner. Eleven more days before the Lips' show at Bluesfest and I gotta get on that stage.
V.R.
Police car photo courtesy of chris.huggins
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